I didn't sleep. But I don't feel like I needed it.

I'd spent all night puzzling over the hows and whys of it all, while occasionally stopping to explore my new self, both, um, inside and out.

I mean, I'd been exploring my memories as well as, the other obvious thing.

And while I didn't get a lot of new answers, by the time I walk into work the next day, I'm feeling a lot more certain of myself and what I maybe am now.

I should be scared about work, though. Because it turns out that one of my mes remembers some things about it that I didn't know before. Dark things. Terrifying things.

But I guess I suspect I might be impervious to those things? And I might be able to actually do something about them?

In any case, I'm still on a high of physical and magical euphoria, and I'm going to poke around while pretending to do my job. See if something tries to bite. And if I can't just bite right back.

As I waltz right into the office, breezing in through the doors, messenger bag slung over my shoulder, I'm wearing clothes I haven't worn in a long time.

Normally, the other guys in the office wear the Pacific Northwest Business uniform I was wearing yesterday. Designer brand slacks and a polo shirt, or a button down dress shirt sometimes, and the best simple leather shoes you can find. Jackets are going to end up being something rugged and weather worthy, maybe a little sporty. And that's exactly what I expect to see them in today. They never change.

But it's still OK to dress up. And that's what I'm doing. I'm in my brogues, pressed dress slacks, best white dress shirt, and black long coat, and I'm expecting comments.

Freshly shaved face, too.

Hair's still a glorious mess, though.

No tie. Fuck ties.

But I am, daringly, wearing my favorite dragon charm necklace, on a black cord, over my shirt.

Why a dragon, specifically? No reason in particular. Just, when I saw this advertised, I loved the pose it had, all rampant, claws splayed, and jaws wide. It also looks a little bit like it's doing the mashed potato, which I think is pretty funny. It feels subtly queer, and I'm testing the waters with it.

Maybe I'll just simmer the office in my new self until I'm painting my nails with a fine graphite polish and getting away with it.

First thing I do on my way in is lean around the corner to check in on Vicky and give her a little wave when she looks up.

Her smile is gratifying. Especially when it brightens up further on seeing my outfit.

"Is it your birthday today?" she asks.

She knows it's not. She's got all that information at her fingertips.

I grin and shake my head, but say, "It feels like it, though."

"Oh, I love that," she responds. "Go kick some ass."

'Ass' is the crassest word I've ever heard her utter outside of an employee party featuring alcohol, and it's still pretty funny to hear it first thing in the morning from her. Especially the way she relishes pronouncing it.

I crinkle my face in a return grin and give her a thumbs up. "You, too!"

"I will!" Then she sobers up and looks at me over her glasses to say, "Sal. You look good today."

"Thank you," I reply. "And you always do."

"Thank you," she replies.

And then we both turn back to our own task. She's typing something, and I'm wandering toward my desk.

It almost feels like there's this unspoken agreement that it's the two of us against the whole company, even though I'm pretty sure that's all in my own head. But, if she's taking my slightly updated look in stride, at least I've got that.

My path, of course, takes me past HR, and I slow down to take a glance inside.

The lights notice my presence and turn on, revealing the same scene I saw yesterday. The iPad, even, is displaying the same empty prompt with an active microphone icon next to it, indicating that its already listening.

Sure.

I step in to that weird little office to stand up to my old pedestal and look down at it.

'My old pedestal'.

I wonder if there's someone new in there yet.

"Hello," I say.

My word appears on the screen, but there's no response after it. The cursor continues to blink.

"Is there anyone home?" I ask, and the machine adequately records the question, displaying after my first greeting.

Again.

No response.

I feel weirdly smug.

Also, a little confused. Like. Wouldn't it be really simple to actually install ChatGPT or one of the other LLMs on this. It wasn't like I was… um. It wasn't like the thing I ate yesterday was behaving anything unlike one at the time. Nobody would know the difference.

I idle wonder what would happen if I emailed IT to let them know the HR bot isn't working today. But I decide not to do that.

I have the odd urge to take the iPad with me to my desk. It feels like it's mine. I remember the inside of it, and the network it's connected to. I know the paths, as if I'd traveled them like the roads I use to drive to work, daily. And I know where to go to contact my predecessors, my elders.

Or, well, the things that are older than the one I ate.

Instead, I'm going to stand back in the doorway and brazenly take a picture of this whole office. Then another picture just a bit further outside, with the title of the office clearly visible. And then I'm going to go about the rest of my day as if I didn't just do that.

And I go about doing that, and if anybody notices, they don't mention anything. Yet.

When they do, I'm planning on just standing there and staring at them while they try to talk to me about it. To wait, and see if they hang themselves with their own rope, because I know I'm in the right, despite everything. It's a technique I've always wanted to try. I've never been bold enough to do it before. But today feels different. Today, I know a bunch of things that I'm pretty sure nobody else in this particular office knows.

I don't seem to be getting the chance, though.

"Hey, Sal." Garry lifts up his mug of coffee. "Ready for another round of the best meetings on this side of I5?"

That's supposed to be ironic and funny, but it's just a little too oddly worded for me to respond immediately with jovial mirth. I find myself picking apart his phrasing before deciding to just chuckle at him and say, "Sure."

He frowns at my frown, but lightens up when I laugh.

Fine human interaction there, Sal. Perfect. Just like always. Keep it up.

"Looking might fine for a Friday, there, Pal," he says as I start to walk away. "Got a date tonight?"

Suddenly, I feel like I'm in my 20s again. I haven't had another… a, uh, male coworker talk to me like that in ages. It feels presumptuous, a bit patronizing, to me.

I slowly turn and grin at him, letting it feel slightly evil and sly, and say, "Nah, Mr. Asmundson. Just living the dream."

"Well, keep it up," he says. "It works on ya."

Shit.

That actually feels good to hear. So I give him a genuinely pleased smile, and thank him.

But just you wait.

As I sit down at my desk, I find myself wondering if I'm about to get invited to Friday night beer night again. It's been a few weeks since the last time, and I just implied I'm not doing anything tonight. If I don't get summarily fired for snapping pictures in the office, it might be my coworkers' natural reaction to try to bring me further into the fold, in reward for seeing me lift my own spirits up.

I could see that happening.

If the rest of them don't see me as too weird now.

I sigh and start unloading and organizing my things, but I put off checking my email until last. It's not that I want to give it my undivided attention, like a good employee. I'm actually still a little afraid of what it might contain.

My phone is still on airplane mode, even though I know that the HR bot is no longer after me.

I've got to stop calling it the HR bot. It was something else.

All the 'bots' that Poob is using are something else.

And one of them got a little too enthusiastic and stretched itself too thin, and somehow I ate it.

What's annoying is that it doesn't have a name for itself.

Or didn't.

I don't have a name for it, yet.

I suppose I could just call them monsters.

"Sal?" Mike calls from his cubical. "You here?"

I roll my eyes, because he never uses the intercom or email or slack for this, he just yells. And then I decide to experiment with softening my voice just a little bit, to see if I can get used to it. I'll want lessons some day. For now, it probably just sounds like I'm being conciliatory, which is fine. I'm his underling.

"Yes?" I call back.

My voice doesn't grate on me quite as much as it usually does.

"Come on over," Mike suggests, in total earshot of everyone else. "Let's plan around today's meetings."

"Okidoke!" I grab my own mug. "Getting my coffee first, though."

"Go for it," he replies, and waits.

Such a typically inane interaction. But it's routine enough now that it eases my mind a little.

I realize, however, that my mind needed easing because I was tensing up in anticipation of it. I was struck with the question of whether it would go differently this time. And, it still might.

The coffee station isn't all that far off the path from my desk to Mike's, but it gives me a moment to reset my mind with the aroma of the beverage. Black. No sugar. Not that I'm a snob about it. Just never felt the need.

Huh.

The stark bitterness doesn't actually fit my mood today.

I step back and look down at the cream pitcher and sugar jar, trying to guess just how much of each would be perfect. This is the way I would normally go about things, honestly. I usually like to contemplate my food choices before I make them, weighing them against how I feel internally. It feels right to do.

And it's so satisfying when I manage to guess right.

Only, this time, it's easy.

At an instant's glance, I can already visualize just what angle I'm going to tilt the cream at and just how long I'll hold it there to pour it. And, even more bizarrely, I can name the exact number of sugar granules I'm going to use.

Fascinating.

I try it.

While I'm scooping the sugar, I mutter, "Two thousand, two hundred and fourteen." And I feel like I know that I'm right.

A bit later, I'm very smugly sipping my coffee at Mike, who's raising his eyebrows at me.

He doesn't mention my attire at all, though.

"Go ahead and take a seat," he gestures at the chair I usually sit in that's in the corner of his own cubical.

I sit.

"There are four meetings scheduled today, three of which you're invited to," he starts, flipping through his three ring binder.

"Uh-huh," I say. "Um."

He turns to me again. "Yes?"

I guess I've decided to just start firing from the hip, like I envisioned in bed last night. Boom. Boom. Boom. "You know how corporate wants us to incorporate AI into more and more of our workflow? And how we've been doing it, but sort of badly?" I ask.

He frowns. "Yes. And I've been pretty diligent about informing them of the pitfalls of that, too."

I nod.

"What's this about?" he asks.

"Well," I say. "I'm just wondering how long until my entire position gets replaced by an LLM, you know? Because, it's the one job in the company that an LLM seems to be designed for."

"What do you mean?" His tone sounds a little dangerous. Like he's warning me away from this topic.

But, I barrel right into my script. "I mean, it's just that I spend my whole day, or select fractions of it," I nod with a smirk at his binder, "working to convince the average internet user that I'm really a somewhat witty and quirky human being behind all of our social media presence. You know, like Wendy's."

Mike smirks and raises his index finger, then lets it fall like a tree in my direction until it's pointed at my sternum. "That's because you are one."

"A Wendy's?" I ask.

"Ha!" he scoffs. "Stop that. No. A somewhat witty and deeply quirky human being."

I give him a demurely coquettish appraisal, playing up to the veneer of humor the conversation now has, and say, "I've recently discovered that might not be entirely true."

He scowls, turning his head to the side, and looks at me out of the corner of his eye. "OK, what do you mean by that?"

I change tactics, as planned. "Have you been by HR lately?"

"Not since they moved Brenda to C building, across town," he says. "I mean, I see the Facetime tablet in there, of course. Can't miss it."

I already know his answers. "So, you haven't stepped in there, then. You haven't bothered to try talking to the tablet."

He shakes his head, obviously confused.

I lift my head and tilt it to the side. "You should go in there and try to call up Brenda on it. It's… interesting. A lot less interesting than yesterday. I think I inadvertently crashed it. But, it's not set up for Facetime."

I do wonder how long until one of the elders figures out that I've left my post.

Er.

You know what I mean.

"What are you talking about?" Mike asks.

"Eh," I wave my hand. "It's probably nothing. Just go in there on your next bathroom break before IT gets to it, and poke around a bit. It's just, it was weird enough I found myself worrying. That's all. Anyway, if you think it's no big deal, I'm ready for actual work." I gesture at his binder.

He gives me a weird look, but reaches for his binder again, and we get down to business.

By the time our first meeting rolls around, I'm fairly confident he's going to investigate.

I find myself idly speculating about how the office will restructure if he gets eaten next. And I am sufficiently disgusted and horrified with myself that I do actually feel kind of human as a result.

That's reassuring.

I really, genuinely want to do good in this world. Nevermind that the world itself has never done much good for me.

I once heard someone's idea that, regardless of all other considerations, one could feel good about oneself if one just left the world a better place than one found it. And that was followed by something about doing it for spite. And the two ideas just sort of fused in my brain and have haunted me in tandem ever since.

As much agony as I've been living in for the past four and some decades, it's been a thing I've aspired to, even as I've rejected the God of my youth as being an abusive asshole.

I'm not going to argue with anyone about that. It'd be a waste of both our time. But, it is the path I've taken, and I won't accept criticism for it. Even if I abide that my parents continue to worship the guy.

In any case, since suddenly relieving myself of the greatest agony I've ever experienced, my dysphoria, I've felt a renewed drive for that goal. To make the world a bit better somehow.

And part of that, I think I've decided, means not eating people. Or, most people, at least.

And, it seems like, with the way this form of 'eating' works, I do become what I consume. Or, rather, I incorporate it into my self. So, I've really gotta be careful about just what I tangle with and how I go about doing it.

So, when that thought occurs to me about Mike maybe getting killed because I've led him to investigate whats going on around the office, and my first reaction to it is idle curiosity, I know that that's my monster half that's evaluating the idea for strategic purposes. But, as annoying as he often is to me, I've always kind of liked Mike. I certainly don't hate him. And my revulsion at the thought of something eating him tells me that I'm still me.

It really does.

My reflex is to downplay it with a half sarcastic deadpan quip, because I still self deprecate more than I should.

I know I'm not, like, a hero or anything.

At best now, if I do things right, I'll be a cautionary tale used to warn bad men that they better behave or I'll come for them. Or something like that.

But I'm still me.

And that's pretty important, I think. Especially after all the confusion I had last night.

I do kind of wonder, though, what kind of lessons I'll have to learn in the future, if I get to continue existing. Because I don't think what I learned in Kindergarten is going to cover some of this shit.

"Nah, sorry. I'm sitting my brother's dog," I tell Jacob. "I can't go out tonight. She's a borzoi, which means she's already bored as hell."

Jacob leans back and looks me up and down. "A borzoi? A long dog? Don't they shed like nuts?"

"Yup," I confirm. "Gotta brush em regularly."

"Light or dark hair?"

"White, mostly, with some brown."

He whistles perfectly, a shrill noise that hurts my ears. "And with that getup?" He indicates my black slacks and black coat. "You gotta give me the number of your dry cleaner."

I laugh. "Oh, I've got a special trick for this. It's a secret, though. I keep these clothes? In the closet."

He shakes his head. "That's not how it works with my pitbull, man. His hair gets everywhere." Then he gestures at my chest. "What's with the necklace?"

I let my hand splay out on my breast, finger and thumb framing the dragon, and cock my brow. "Ah. He's my lucky dragon. I think he's Welsh, maybe. But, anyway, I found him online, and liked his style, so I took him home with me."

This is literally the most I've ever talked to Jacob, and it's going way better than I expected. But, also, I think I'm kind of pushing it now. I can see him getting a little uncomfortable.

"Huh," he grunts, lifting his head up and rolling his lower lip into his mouth to push it out with his tongue. "It is kinda fierce looking, I guess."

Good enough. He's on his back foot now, but not lashing out yet. Time to switch gears and give him a little push.

"Hey. You're in IT, right?" I ask.

He scoffs. "That's what they call it."

That's an awkward joke that I don't know the meaning of, so I ignore it. I know he is. This next bit is a bit outside of my current knowledge though, which is why I'm asking. "Did you do the network setup for Brenda's move and the HR tablet?"

"What?" He scrunches up his face. "No. That was upstairs from me. I was busy rolling out cat 5 in building D on that day, I think, anyway. Good ol' cat 5."

All of our buildings only have the one floor, but I know what he means by that. "Ah, well. I was going to ask a question if you did. Doesn't matter, though," I make to turn to go.

"What question?" he asks casually.

I turn back to study him for a moment, my hand on my bag's D-ring for the strap. I work my mouth to the side for a moment, letting my mind wander over the conversational parameters and potentialities one more time. But, this is the time to say it, for all I can tell.

I'm assuming that my new intuition about this isn't as stupid as a bot's, actually.

After an intake of breath, I shoot back at him, "Why is that tablet set up to be running an LLM chatbot instead of Facetime?"

Then I turn and leave before he answers.

I'm pretty sure he's confused and a bit dumbfounded. But, that he'll check that out for himself, too. Just like Mike did. Probably tonight, before the building is locked up.

I'm starting to enjoy being a sassy, manipulative bitch.

I wonder how long I'll be able to keep it up.

Anyway, now I've got the weekend to get used to myself while I wait to find out what poking the monster hive has done. Monday will be interesting.

In a way, it's not the monsters I'm wondering about. They're kind of simple, compared to humans, even if they're inconceivable to most people and possibly very ancient. They don't think like we do, and need to consume human minds just to be able to comprehend even part of our world. At least, if the others are at all like the one I ate.

Those that are still employed by Poob are older than my new memories, though, and pretty wily. I don't think any of them would have fallen prey to me. So, I do have to be careful with them. They'll probably surprise me.

But the humans in charge? They're the schemers. They're the ones messing with things they probably shouldn't, in order to exploit whatever they can for the expansion and preservation of their power. They know what they have to lose.

And once they get wind that I've maybe acquired a new set of senses and some fascinating abilities? Well. I'm not so sure I'm remotely invulnerable.

I know what I've got to lose, too. And it's a bit more now than it used to be.

Also, no matter how I'm acting, I'm way out of my element.

Meanwhile, the drive home is predictable.

It's Pad Thai night, and I'm periodically explaining to Catherine that she really does not want any. It's too hot for her, and it'll give her painful runs, and she needs to lie down so that she's not blocking my view of the TV.

But also, my phone is occasionally buzzing, and I have to pause Wake Up Deadman to check it, while also keeping an eye on my food for long, far reaching dog snouts.

There are two conversations going on at once that I care about. Both slow enough that I do get a few good scenes in between answers. But frequent enough that I'm on the verge of telling them both I'm in the middle of a movie. Or just stopping the movie and waiting to finish it tomorrow.

Despite my newfound senses, I can't overcome this particular executive dysfunction, though.

No one from Poob has emailed me, called, or messaged me at all regarding the events of these past two days, and it's making me extremely anxious. Which makes it hard for me to focus on my own wants and desires. Especially when it comes to relaxing and communicating with people I care most about.

It makes me want to get up from my couch, walk out the door, hunt down the CEO if I can, and say, "Look at me! I'm HR now!"

And that's just not going to be productive for anyone.

In the meantime, I'm giving Sam sanitized updates on my situation at work along with my thoughts about my possible new name. And I'm reassuring Pill that his family's dog is happy and still very weird.

On the name front, I'm discouraged.

We found a whole bunch of S names, and all of them felt too femme for me. Well, except for a couple, but those ones felt too not quite good enough.

And now Sam is suggesting that I look outside of conventional names, and go for the really grand words. Maybe look for something from science or mythology and claim that. After all, that's really what all the old names originated as, anyway.

And I think they're right, but it's weird.

When talking to anyone now, whether it's face to face or over text, I feel like I know just the right words to say next.

But when asked for my true name? Mind goes blank.

It's like it's a bad prompt. Forbidden. Banned.

Which.

Well.

I'm also really annoyed I'm starting to think like that.

I speak up, "If you lie down, Catherine, I promise I'll take you for a really long…"

She starts to vibrate and readjusts her front paws so that she's sitting up even more straight than before, eyes widening, ears perked.

She knows the first half of that phrase. I might as well have just said the word.

"You know what? OK," I say. And then I turn this really good movie off in order to take this very deserving canine for a better walk than she's had all week. In the dark.

And while I hold her leash in one hand, I can text with the other. No more having to pause the movie every so often.

I've eaten enough of my own food. The rest goes in the fridge. Carefully. Away from the reach of the dog thing.

Photos have been sent to both Sam and Pill. Photos relevant to both conversations to each of them. A photo of Catherine standing regally by the door, with her leash on, holding Molly in her mouth, waiting for a walk, because I know both Sam and Pill will appreciate it, goes to both of them. And the photos of the 'HR department' at work, because I think the both of them will have relevant feedback on that, too.

Pill has gone quiet on his end. I think he's tending to his family. Maybe watching a movie with them, since it's Friday night. I'll get his thoughts later.

Sam has cooed over Catherine, and cussed over my work situation, commenting, "Yeah, that does look bad. But you need more evidence, I think."

There isn't much more to talk about on that front, unless I want to let them in on what else is going on. So, we're discussing my possible name again.

We're both poring over name sites and dictionary listings for vocabulary words and shooting possibilities back and forth.

I've already eliminated a bunch of names that would be wonderful for anyone else:

Serene

Simone

Sarai

Silvia

Susana

Sonia

Sofia

Stella

Soraya

Socorro

And a whole bunch more. Just about every S name in any language, really, though I've been sticking to Hispanic spellings as much as possible to honor my mother's side of the family.

But, because name sites these days seem to refuse to list them in alphabetical order anymore, I've noticed a few other names that have caught my eye. And one is just sticking in my head.

Ramona

I don't know anybody by that name. And I think it's kind of cute. Also, it's the feminized version of Ramon, so it doesn't feel too femme for me. There's just a hint of butchness to it.

It doesn't feel like me yet. But at least one site says that it means 'protector', and I like the hell out of that in particular.

I'm about to message Sam about that, when they hit me with:

Syzygy

That is such a wild word. I love the sound of it, but I don't know. After double checking on the meaning, I reply, which sets off a whole exchange.

Sal: Eh. Nice. But. Not what I'm going for.

Sam: i thought that might be your reaction. still looking

Sal: Can we find any S words that mean 'protector'?

Sam: shield?

Sal: Ha-ha.

Sam: gimme a bit

Sal: </////////======

Sam: what is that?

Sal: A drill bit.

Sam: that is a shitty bit

Then we agree to keep looking.

But before I can delve into Power Thesaurus, which hasn't really been as helpful as I'd hoped, the third meaning of the word 'bit' grips my mind. As in a joke, a gag, an ongoing conceit for the sake of the irony or drama.

In a frustrating way, being in the closet about anything is a lot like committing to the bit. Your life is a joke, and for the sake of keeping the show going, you've gotta maintain appearances. I'd spent several years, decades even, depending on how you count my self discoveries, knowing that I was really 'supposed to be' a woman. Or something like a woman. Definitely not a man. And it had taken me a while to finally get to the point where I felt like I could line things up to do something about it.

The political window, the sweet spot in history, in which to come out, had already come and passed me by. Things were souring so quickly on the national level. But I could still take advantage of some of the social and legal advances we'd made, if I acted fast enough.

So, just this week, I'd decided to deliberately drop the bit, and start being honest with people. Only, thanks to something from so far off left field, the convergence of my tenuous and vulnerable position at work and sinister forces from beyond conventional spacetime, I'd been thrust into a new truth that I now had to keep secret.

And it's all tangled up in my transition. It has accelerated my transition in a weird and exciting way, and I can't tell anyone about it!

My phone buzzes and I look at it. It's my brother, and I respond.

Pill: That's fucked up.

Sal: Yeah.

I know he's talking about work, not Catherine.

I really need to tell someone about all this, though. I can't keep talking to myself and Catherine about it. I need to hear some outside perspectives.

Maybe if I do something contrived like present it as some kind of story I'm writing on the side. Or, go to some of my online friends or forums, and just straight up pretend the truth is a bit. I could pass it off as role playing. Or, I could do a whole blog about it.

Fuck. My job is a bit. I pretend to be a funny, hip human being so that Poob looks like a funny, hip human being. And whenever I write something awkward that still gets past legal, and it lands like a lump of wet newsprint, it just proves that I'm a human being to the rest of the world, and I get told by Mike, "Good job! Do better next time. At least it maintains the bit."

I'm going to tell Sam.

I'm going to figure out a way to tell Sam. Because, I think what's happening to me is relevant to picking a new name, and I am so done living in any closets.

And then, when I hold up my phone to start typing out a message about it, a preamble to explaining anything, I chicken out and end up talking about the name that's sticking in my head.

Sal: I might be a disappointment to trans women everywhere, and maybe even my family. There's this name that keeps sticking and it's not a pun or a goddess or law of nature. But, how does Ramona Victoria Green sound to you?

But I don't send it right away.

My hand drops as I feel a little chill.

Seeing that spelled out felt really good. Except, I also just had another idea, and I need to look up the possibilities.

Hitting the apps button and switching over to the browser, I look up translations for 'nightmare' in Latin, Greek, Spanish, and Portuguese. Also, I check out some other languages I can maybe claim via distant ancestry, but lose interest pretty quick. Most of the words and synonyms are familiar.

I'm not thinking of this for my first name, mind you. This is for my middle name. Because maybe I don't want Victoria, as cool as it sounds. And maybe I want a name that represents a certain new side of me.

When it comes to Latin, unfortunately, there seems to be some disagreement between different sites, and the most common conclusion is that the closest word is Incubo, or Incubus. And, no. Nope. No.

In Greek, it's Epiales, and meh, to that. But it's interesting. It is the name of a god or a demon, depending on your interpretation of the myths.

And in Spanish and Portuguese its nearly the same, and I'd go with Pesadilla. Which sounds cute to English speaking ears. But my parents would know exactly what I've named myself, and it doesn't really have a great rhythm with my full name.

Ramona Pesadilla Green

It does result in great initials, though! But, I might as well just use the English word. And go with the other fantastic set of initials that presents.

Ramona Nightmare Green

I say that out loud, and it sounds really familiar, so I look it up to see if someone else is named that.

And the very first thing that comes up is a link to a series of novels I've read. There might be a character in there by the name of Ramona, but her last name isn't Green, and her first name wasn't the familiar part.

I sigh, and mutter an apology to Charles Stross and his Laundry Files.

And then I stop dead, causing Catherine to jerk against the end of her leash, yanking my arm out in front of me. I very briefly consider the possibility of sending the following email to Stross:

Dear Mr. Stross,

I've recently decided, due to new personal circumstances best left unwritten, that I need to rename myself. I was wondering if you wouldn't be too terribly insulted if I chose the moniker Cassandra Nightmare Green. And, by chance, do you know anything about something called "the Source and the Strands"?

But then I decide no. No. What if he does know, and that's a Problem? And also, it's my prerogative to be an utter fangirl if I want to be. But also, also, legally and publicly marking myself with that kind of connection might be just as dangerous as contacting him. And no.

I still want to call myself Nightmare, but I decide not to, and just, in a rush and a little bit of a panic over what I almost pushed myself to do, hit send on my text to Sam.

After which I notice that I've sent it to Pill.

Not Sam.

I stare at my phone in shock long enough to see my brother's response.

Pill: That's a very nice name. I like it. But, what is going on?

There's only one thought in my head besides "Fuck!", though. Everything else is just gone, washed away in the horror of what I've done to myself.

RVG is a really shitty set of initials.