The spacious warehouse took most of the compound, which had been reserved as the regional headquarters of the Geographic Survey. In neat rows, tools of exploration accompanied appropriated treasures. I kept a napkin to my nose to ward off the musk of the working men and the stench of their acrid cigarettes.

My reticent guide took me to the second floor and through a small collection of offices. His huge fist hammered on the door, which had been burned with the bold text 'Chief Intendant'.

"Piss off, Pitti", came the answer in a familiar voice. "You know I'm busy."

"Boss. Here's a trollop asking for you. Says she has a message from mister Ekku." Without waiting for a reply, Pitti pushed me into the door, which thankfully gave way before I was squeezed into nectar.

Motsa pounced up from behind his writing table. Out of the refined things decorating the office room, he was the most immaculate. Around him, the fashionable collection of archaic trinkets and whim-whams turned into a blur. Only Motsa himself kept my gaze.

The embroidered suit clung to his lithe frame. His jaw was defined as ever. Entropy showed its progress only in the peaked hairline. I barely heard him repeat his command to Pitti.

We were alone in the office. My hand reached to touch my aching chest. It had taken me a year after Motsa's departure to understand that it wasn't out of mere hatred my heart raged against its prison in his presence.

Motsa walked to me in no hurry, giving me plenty of time to break into flight; an opportunity I failed to utilise. His lips unfurled into a grin. "Hello, Lu. Finally given into this Conglo debauchery, I see."

I yelped back into my senses. "No! This is a disguise. I was pursued."

"Indeed. The letter from your mother said something about hiring henchmen to drive you forth." His chuckle was affected and genteel. "Apparently, I was supposed to make a man out of you. My work is certainly cut out for me."

I frowned. "Just give me my money. I'll buy tonics and get back to you in a week or two."

The man took a step closer. "Am I to let you ruin the hard work that must have gone to your visage? Undoubtedly that is a crime against all who relish the sight of beauty."

Among the mockery, the warmth of the compliment clung to my mind. Perhaps he truly considered me pretty for the moment, even if he knew what I was.

"Please, Motsa. I can't do my job if I'm stuck like this."

"We shall talk of your commission, once you are out of those rags." Motsa grabbed my hand. "Come now, third cousin."

I protested, voicelessly inside my mind. I squirmed to be free, by tightening my hold of his hand. That palm was huge in mine, even though my bones hadn't shrunk much. On our way out, the workers nodded at the intendant, who heeded them not.

"Rumours of your escapades have reached our periphery", he said. "Is it true that you were at the gunfight of Loissa post office?"

"I was present." Six men had died, and I stole all the infamy without shooting anywhere near a person.

"Figured as much." Motsa let go of my hand to open the door for me. "I take that you haven't let the Old Art rust?"

"Of course not."

"Good. You are a cute morsel now, but hunting blood remains in those veins." Motsa stopped and took a dramatic deep breath. "Take in that air, third cousin. Here our ancestors were forged into conquerors."

"According to one hypothesis."

He smiled. "I hope you have kept your intake of Conglo rubbish to bawdy pamphlets. Their archaeological research is notorious for being worth less than the pulp its printed on."

"Where are going?" I asked.

"To the only proper women's boutique in town." Motsa walked with slow strides. "Where else? Your dress is preposterous for your station, don't you think?"

"Weren't you supposed to be busy?"

"This is part of the business." His grin oozed easy confidence. "It's great to see you again, Lu."

"Unfortunately, I can't say I share the sentiment."

His arm shot to wrap around my shoulder and pull me against him. "Nonsense, third cousin. You always dragged yourself back to me, eventually."

My veins throbbed enough to cloud my brain. I tried to convince myself that he wasn't much bigger than me, but in truth he was massive in every way that counted.

"Your new look is a delight", he said. "It suits you."

"Thanks." The disdain in my voice was a feeble attempt. "Is it a long way still? I'm getting cold."

"Let me get your blood pumping." The man pulled me into a hug, which pressed his hips into me.

Intense shivers, not from the chill, rushed through me.

"Damn the ancestors", Motsa whispered. "For they should have made you into a girl. The world needs more of big pretty eyes to stare at me with such desire and fear."

A scowl twisted my face. "I'm here only because you have my own money."

He guffawed and let go off me. I collected my thoughts, only to notice we were already at the tall facade of the boutique. Motsa opened the door with a gentlemanly flourish. I accepted the assistance with a mock curtsey, which only widened his already head-splitting smirk.

Based on the extensive selection of merchandise, the boutique must have served the needs of ladies throughout the whole region. The tailor, a young woman with the dullest of expressions complimented by huge oculars, moved from her stitching with limited hurry.

"My cousin lost her wardrobe", Motsa said. "Get her something pretty and fashionable for the club."

I pulled the man's wrist and hissed: "What are you doing? I don't need any of that."

"Oh dear cousin, you can be so modest. But look what you are forced to wear." He leaned closer. "Be a good girl now, or you shan't see a chip of your allowance."

Though I wanted to complain, to pout would have been both childish and futile. Such petulance would only embarrass me in front of the tailor, even if she appeared not to pay attention.

Let Motsa waste his money, I thought. The excess clothes could always be pawned off. Some of the garments were rather exquisite even if a year or two behind fashions of the capital. I might as well try them on, while I had the suitable frame for it.

I gestured my compliance with a limp wrist, but Motsa had already moved on to speak with the tailor.

"The evening gown should be self-adjusting", he said. "We need it to be ready for today."

"What for?" I demanded.

"Your welcome-to-periphery dinner of course. Don't worry, 'The Aether Shriek' is a respectable establishment. Unless you'd want to visit a place more suitable to your current attire? In the lakeside saloon you wouldn't be out of place."

"Fine." I stepped closer. "But you shan't take the price off from my slivers."

If he was dead set on humiliating me, he should pay for his fun. The fact that he had the means to suffer such waste, while I was stuck waiting for his pity, was enough of an indignity.

The tailor placed three garments on the central table. "Here are the gowns that should suit her approximate measurements."

"Which one do you like?" Motsa asked me.

"Which is the most expensive?"

The tailor pointed at the one made from endless layers of white gauze. It was altogether unsuitable for the muddy environ, and besides would limit the options for underwear.

"That orange one", I said.

Floral lacework of thermal black veiled the main fabric. Dark gauze poured from the sleeves, hem and abundant cleavage like smoke. The gown gave the impression of suffocated fire. With the tight waistline, that was appropriate.

"You can try it in the boudoir." The tailor gave me the gown. She followed after me, but Motsa grabbed her arm.

"While my friend puts on the gown, let's look for complimenting hosiery", he said.

The 'boudoir' was a closet with a fainting chair and a huge nacre mirror. I shut the door. Regardless of Motsa's intentions, I was glad for the privacy.

Even without the hydroskeleton, the flame gown fit as if bespoke to me. Well, not quite. My squeezed bosom sought to spill out of the open cleavage. Before I could come up with a suitable metaphor for the unruly breastflesh, the door opened.

Motsa's wide eyes were entirely welded on mine. I was trapped, and he was the guardian chimera of my boudoir prison. With casual elegance, he kicked the door shut in front of the tailor and strode to me.

"Do you like it?"

I answered by dropping my jaw.

"You really went all the way with these changes." The man grinned like a canine predator. "So, shall you join me at the Shriek this evening?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Of course. But let's not pretend you don't ache to accompany me." His smile mellowed into haughty self-assurance, infuriating my heart. "Imagine the envy of those coots, when they see me with a proper Jaan dame in tow. Think of it as our private joke."

I too smiled wide, but not out of any humour, save the liquids which boiled in me.

Motsa had his rugged assault wagon stomp right into the herd of more graceful carriages, which had gathered around a slop well. He laughed, even though we failed to cause a proper collision. Place Motsa inside a fancy suit and give him a government commission, and he still remained the mad knave of capital streets. I grinned for old times sake.

With five hours of professional adjustment, my gown fit me without immediate risk of indecency. My pasty complexion wasn't the most fashionable, but I had leaned on it with a tasteful excess of alabaster powder. Even my bosom shared the milkiness, which hid the veins, though it did feel odd to hide my chest under a coat of makeup.

When my partner jumped off, I took a final glance at myself in the lady's nacre. Lips like a plump crimson fruit. Large eyes exaggerated with abundant antimony. Hair in a bun like present to be pulled open. Sickly pallor, which invited all men to revitalise my flesh with their passion.

When the elytron opened on my side, I needed the offered a hand to stay on my feet. Once I was on the pavement, Motsa pulled me as close as my voluminous hem allowed.

"What should I call you, third cousin?" he whispered.

"Nerutaara."

"Aren't you predictable." He pushed me towards the ancient stone building. The clubhouse of the Aether Shriek had been the stronghold of the post-Collapse hill fortress, but little of the original structure remained. Piling ancient coral just wasn't effective compared to grown walls. On the periphery, even the affluent had to make concessions. Nobody was going to install all the plumbing by hand.

In the foyer a solemn boy offered to take our excess clothes. Motsa dropped his coat on top of the lad's head and deigned not to tip. At the risk of faux pas, I took a few chips from my new reticule and pushed them into the tiny hand.

The confused look, which the boy gave me, indicated that I had misinterpreted the situation. I hurried after Motsa, my heels clacking away on the polished wooden floor. Motsa slowed his stride, and his arm welcomed me to his side.

How I hated him for allowing me this is act. The jest would end in mockery, but I couldn't stop myself from being the punchline. Through the bodice, gown, corset and underwear, his fingers caressed my spine. He had always known me, known that my brain was broken and unmendable. Motsa was clever and cruel that way.

The main hall was a cavern of purple crystal, which must have been all the rage a generation previously. A host took us to a central table. The heads of the guests turned, and I became the focus of a judgemental panopticon. Yet, though my cheeks were hot under the powder, I managed the decorous acting of my role.

Motsa was beyond polite, as he helped me sit without tangling up my hem. Utter arrogance filled his smirk. He was brisk with the waiter. Motsa knew that I didn't enjoy the buzz of intoxicants, so as aperitif I received a large glass of the headiest wine. I frowned but drank the sanguine liquid.

The food was more to my liking. After a long diet of train-food, my dish of fresh river shark filled me with a rare satisfaction. Shame that the corset kept me from finishing the meal.

"Give my deepest thanks to the kitchen", I said, when a waitress came to claim the remains of my modest feast. She nodded and hurried off.

"Digest quick", Motsa said. "I want to dance."

"I couldn't possibly. I don't know the steps of feminine side."

"It'll be just temikora, not anything technical. A bit of clumsiness shall only endear."

I pressed a napkin on my lips to clean them without smearing the paint. "How can you afford to patronise this place?"

Motsa gave me an amused look. "I'm sponsored. The high men of Tankai have immaculate reputations." He nodded towards someone behind me.

I didn't turn. "Old tricks. You have settled in well."

"Yes. I need to make most of my commission, lest I end up stuck as a paper-pusher forever."

Motsa ordered us both revitalising drinks of bubbles and bitter scent. Familiar energy poured into me, as we waited for the band to stretch out their instruments.

"Are you ready?" Motsa asked.

It was one thing to nibble and sip demurely, and altogether another to thrust into a formation and let men close enough to touch. Motsa offered me his hand, and I let him guide me to the dance floor.

Temikora was a stately dance, suitable for drunks and the elderly alike. The heels of my shoes were low, and I managed my part of the dance well-enough. Once I took a wrong turn and collided into a portly man. Instead of enraged sneer, I received a fatherly smile. However, his attempt to help me stay up involved an attempt to manhandle my buttock through the bustle.

Motsa stepped quick to pull me back to a firm hold. The rhythm moved him without flaw. Though slender, the strength of his body had no end. When he forced me close, my nose filled with the cocktail of pretentious perfume and virile scent.

All of him was a delight. His reassured grin. The suit-filling shoulders. The intense sharpshooter's stare. Even the imperfect hairline; after all, what was more manly than lack of vanity about hair loss? He could have been like me; fretful and weak. He hadn't applied lotion each morning to keep his hair, like a woman. Instead he was audacious, lusty, unapologetic. As a Jaan male should be.

The music ended with prim fanfare. My partner bowed, not like a commoner, but grand like true man of rank. A grin plastered my face through my curtsey, though I sobered on the way off the dance floor.

"That went well", Motsa said into my ear. "The legate was taken by your performance, I'm sure."

"Was he legate Hiurkko? But he's––"

"Master Temu!" the victim of my lacking grace grunted.

Motsa turned and gave sharp bow. "Legate Hiurkko. Always a pleasure."

"Yes, yes." Hiurkko's eyes lingered below my chin. "Who is this Jaan blossom? You must introduce us." He had no woman with him, and a faded grey band of a recent widower adorned his wrist.

"My cousin, miss Nerutaara. It is my pleasure to introduce you to the commander of all Jaan forces in Narshur."

Desire brightened Hiurkko's eyes. My throat failed to relax for any answer, and I merely curtsied.

"Master Temu, if you are in no hurry, you must join us for a drink." Hiurkko glance at me with obvious intent.

I pulled Motsa's hand, yet he nodded.

"Of course, legate." Motsa offered my hand to the officer, as if passing on merchandise.

Hiurkko smiled and leaned down to kiss my hand, though he was decorous enough not to press his lips home.

With my hand in tight grip of the legate, I was introduced to what must have been the foamy and thick cream of Jaan society in Narshur. Magnates and financiers, lusting to get their share of the untapped prize. Likely they too would join the generations, which had failed to tame Narshur.

Hiurkko kept me close. His moustache twitched, whenever my eyes lingered on him. Against all sense, I found it exhilarating, the power to influence a powerful man like the legate. That didn't stop me from being stiff with fear. If Hiurkko wanted me enough to be discourteous, Motsa ––a smug shadow among the notables–– couldn't protect me.

In such a company, I couldn't refuse the drinks. After the third shot of liquid hysterics, I didn't want to object any longer. In each sip came the loss of control, first as dread, then as inevitable, and in the end as a delight. Nobody cared what I was, not even I.

The drink loosened my shrill giggles, which stoked the vigour of the legate. The hand at my back descended into a hand on my rump. I pursed my lips at him. The old soldier wasn't all that aged, and a life-time of service must have left him muscular underneath the blubber. His behaviour certainly indicated he didn't lack the endurance to service women.

Hiurkko told me some amusing anecdote, which went through my ears like a high velocity needle. While I laughed, he pulled me away from the group.

"It is late." His big strong veiny hand rubbed mine. "What would you say, miss Nerutaara, if I took you to rest at my villa?"

Back in my mind, I knew I had to refuse. But perhaps he was as drunk as I, and wouldn't care about what I was. That would have been wonderful.

"The miss has obligations this evening." Motsa cut the haze of my glee. "I'm afraid I must take her off your hands, legate."

Hiurkko nodded, but presented his displeasure in his eyes, as he let go of my hand.

"Good night", Motsa said.

"Good night, legate." My smile again brightened the soldier's countenance.

"As to you, miss."

I had the presence of mind not to resist, as Motsa dragged me away. He had risked a trove of gained favour just for my sake. I was giddy beyond drunkenness. While the legate had been a choice piece of maleness, Motsa was infinitely more dashing. Especially with the grim determination plastered on his face.

"You still can't hold your liquor."

"No", I agreed.

"What do you think would have happened, if the legate had taken you along?"

"Are you jealous?"

"No."

I smirked; he was. My dear Motsa couldn't stand the thought of any other man entertaining me.

The wagon ride was long enough to clear the worst fumes out of my system. Motsa kneaded my thigh with compulsive intensity. I leaned my heavy head on his shoulder.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"To work."

Beyond the snores of the last overworking clerk, we had passed through a silent hallway on the way to Motsa's office. He slapped the lamp of his writing table. The ensuing warm glow cast deep shadows into his tipsy grin.

"Do you regret coming with me?" he asked.

"I had a wonderful time. Thank you. Truth be told, I feared you would humiliate me, as usual."

"Such a spectacle would have embarrassed me." Motsa took a wallet and tossed it at me.

I caught it, but the weight hurt my wrist. "My remittance, I presume?"

"Yes, and the first six week's pay. I took the liberty to draw the sum as a mix of notes and slivers, in case you need to deal with the savages."

"That's useful, I guess." I posited the wallet into safety and clutched my now much heavier reticule. "What's my job supposed to be?"

Motsa walked to me, which left his face in shadow. "Ethnogeographic survey."

"Spywork. I'm no intelligencers."

"Yet you have a disguise already."

"But––"

He lifted his hand to silence me. "I know you can manage the task I've chosen for you."

"And that is... exactly what?"

"The rebels have a network, spanning the continent, for dissemination of gathered information." Motsa's tone lost its usual snide cockiness. "Our analysts estimate that it's more effective than any courier system could be. I remain sceptical. We need more eyes on the prairie, so to speak. You, 'Nerutaara', shall tag along with one of the suspected entry points for stolen intelligence. A travelling quack-salver, by the name of Vesija Aamkena."

My muscles tensed, but the stiff corset kept me from making any obvious movements of alarm. "But what would I do in a medicine show?"

"It shall be your job to figure it out. For a start, you are handy with a gun. If that fails, itinerant women have their uses." The man-shaped shadow placed his very much corporeal hands on my hips.

I should have stepped from his reach. The memory of our kiss lingered fresh, even after the years. It hadn't been rare for Motsa to lay a hand on me, but that one slap ––barely harder than a caress–– burned my brain still like a brand.

My body leaned forward. His mouth assaulted my lips. It wasn't a performance, but an act of hunger. The delicious fright strained every tendon in me, yet my flesh yielded to the man's grasp. He deflated my gown and forced me around. Only his tight hold kept me from collapsing, for my knees were liquid.

"Tell me this is all a disguise", the man breathed in my ear. His forearm pushed into my breasts from below, until one mound broke free. A hand like a molten vice bit into my exposed skin.

My answer was a gasp.

"You didn't need these monstrous teats", Motsa growled. "But you craved to flaunt them." His hand piled my hem and intruded underneath. Both me and the silk of my stocking sighed with his sliding touch.

"At first..." His voice resonated inside my skull. "I thought you were pathetic to tolerate the abuse." His fingers crossed the garter to unguarded skin. "Then I realised what you are."

The rough fist grasped. The hold was no more painful than the dying desire in me.

"A damned pervert." Motsa's hands withdrew and shoved me forward. "Get out. You have work tomorrow."

I scurried out of the office. The empty hallway echoed the click of my heels, like a sharp laughter of the derision I deserved. I was an actor in a costume, a deviant who lusted to be taken by other men, a willing victim of Conglo-brainrot.

In the dark warehouse, I found a lightless corner, where I expelled the lake shark and expensive liquor. Because the cramps continued to pulse through my stomach, I opened my corset. The relief only worsened my situation, as it brought out how grotesque my torso was.

My legs failed to carry me far from the stench. I collapsed between racks, but the darkness didn't hide me from myself. To suppress the wretched wheezes, I pressed my sleeves into my nose and mouth. Had I carried a gun with me, it would have been put to work.

The flame of my anguish flashed and died, leaving behind a smoking hollow. I clambered into the backroom to wash my face and cleanse my mouth.

Proud footsteps passed through the warehouse. I jerked to the door. Motsa might have been uncomfortable with what I was, but perhaps passion could overpower the disgust.

I caught myself by staring into the mirror. The joke was finished. Nobody wanted me, not even myself. Freed from the feminine camouflage, the reflected face was a haggard ruin. Boyish, if you wanted to be tactful, but I had a more fitting term: a fraud.

The reality sobered my brain, both from the delusion and the drink. I waited for Motsa to be gone and left into the night. In the freezing temperature, the scattered lampposts mustered a struggling glow. Though the old evening was now thoroughly dark, the small town tarried awake. Footsteps clattered over the woven-root pavement around me, even if little else than the bobbing lanterns could be seen.

Boisterous and agonised noise poured out of the saloon. My dishevelled state didn't bar my way, and I dived into the sea of vile smoke. Some fool saw the effeminate shape, and implored me for company with a vulgarity. I ignored the liquor-hoarse mating call and sought a free seat at a card table.

"This table is mighty high stakes, miss", said a man clad in the tasteless splendour of a lucky prospector.

The osmium slivers clattered from my wallet with heavy finality.

"I say we let the girl play", another man said. The upstart's eyes had missed the hideousness of my face by five inches downwards. "If we go easy on her, she can last a few rounds."

As always, I went in hard. The obstinacy earned me a few early wins, before the cards turned against me. My slivers dwindled, but it was worth the dizzying thrill. The anxiety drowned my simmering disgust.

"Neru?" Beside me towered a frowning Vesija. I was nearly overtaken by the instinct to shrink and disappear under the table.

"Are you alright?" His words boomed from a ringing distance.

I grew unpleasantly cognisant of the moisture on my cheeks. "Please..."

A huge hand pawed my shoulder. "How about you take a break, and we get that drink I offered?"

Wordless, I clung to the man in a sloppy attempt at a hug. Vesija scooped up what remained of my money and escorted me to a corner table. I didn't remember saying anything, but the drink was spiced nectar instead of anything intoxicating. I felt painfully sober, but perhaps the chirurgeon diagnosed otherwise.

"You have been crying", he stated the obvious.

"It's the smoke here."

"That gown is wonderful. Like the sunset."

Under his worried look, Vesija gloated at me. It had been his tonics that had ruined me and led to my humiliation.

"Why are you here?" I demanded.

He smiled more warmly than he had any right to. "It's nice to sleep in a proper bed once in a while, so I booked a room here instead of sleeping in my wagon."

The turmoil in my mind wouldn't let me sleep, but my body cried for rest. Tomorrow, I'd either end or do my duty to the motherland. I was no spy, and if Vesija was one, he'd catch me out. The corded arms would squeeze the worthless breath out of me. A quick end was more than I deserved.

"Thanks for the juice." My hand sought for support, as I stood up. "I'll go get a room for myself."

"Wait." Vesija moved to help me stay on my feet. "This place is booked near full. You'd probably save almost a sliver, if you shared my room."

Haggling was detestable, but my poor card luck had left me insufficiently solvent, again.

The man's hand lingered on my uncorseted torso.

"I hope you aren't planning on taking advantage of me?"

Vesija smiled, oblivious to the bitter bile-taste of my words.

"Of course not", he said. "I only thought you wouldn't mind sleeping in the same space with me, after our train voyage."

The man aided my languid frame out of the hall and up the circling stairs. The thick floor muffled the sounds of the saloon, or perhaps my ears had grown deaf to all but Vesija's breath. He let the old lock lick his key and guided me into the dingy room. The air was thick with the smell of cleaning incense.

My soul gravitated towards the bed and its brief oblivion. But Vesija still held me.

"Nerutaara."

Anger flared in me: still he mocked me with that obvious pseudonym. I should have told him the truth. That I was a male, that I was his enemy, that the Jaan officials were onto him. He would be sunk like the rest of the traitors. I frowned and pushed out of the thick arms.

"Oh..." Vesija's voice was thin. "I must have interpreted the situation wrong."

I spun to face him. My balance barely held. "You wanted to..." I swallowed as much as my bloated tongue allowed. "I'll go rent a room for myself."

Vesija moved to block the exit. "No, I can sleep in the wagon. You can stay here." He offered me the key.

"That would be overdramatic." I took the key. "You have shown yourself a gentleman. It's late. Let us sleep." I flicked the lamp to give myself privacy to undress into my undergown and collapsed on the already warm bed.

The man's weight shifted the mattress. My foolish brain lamented the lack of his embrace, as it shut down in weariness.