Chapter 23: Some things do change.

2024 March 25, Monday

Rabia sighed as she flopped into the driver seat of her car. Most of this year’s intake hadn’t been too bad for the orchis all things considered. But they had to strap Carl down before starting the anesthesia today, and it hadn’t been easy.

They’d wheeled him in on the bed, already partly restrained, and still in handcuffs, and transferring him to the OR table and getting him strapped to it took almost every sponsor on hand. Tabby swore at him and threatened him with being tased if he didn’t cooperate, and he got scared enough to let them get one arm strapped to the table. But getting the other arm and legs took all of them again, and even after that, he was still shouting and trying to move his head away from the vent mask. He managed to bite his tongue in his thrashing — not enough to even bleed, but enough he screamed even louder, forcing them to have to check him before they could actually put him under.

Rabia started to leave to break out the collar and dental retractors, but Tabby stepped up, slapped Carl and held his chin. “Open your mouth!” she commanded, and he did.

Rabia quickly took a tongue depressor and quickly checked his mouth for injury that would impact his airway, then looked him right in the eyes. “Carl, if you don’t behave for the anesthesia, I’ll have to put a cervical collar on you and that would be very uncomfortable for you because I might not let you take it off for quite a while.”

He nodded minutely, Tabby still holding his chin. Tabby released his chin, the anesthesiologist quickly put the mask back on, Rabia quickly pushed the propofol, and he was quickly unconscious. The whole room breathed a sigh of relief, and Rabia went to help Katherine with the already annoyingly delayed procedure.

She hated cases like Carl.

Even Randal hadn’t fought them, to her surprise. He’d come in cuffed and partially restrained to the bed, same as Carl. But he’d glared at them, called them uncouth names, but he didn’t actually struggle. Much. They did wind up strapping him down as a precaution, but he offered only token resistance, and he was quickly put under, to the relief of everyone in the room.

Tabby had planned for Carl to become aggressive — she had the extra girls in the room for it — but even she was surprised by his vitriol. As soon as he was under, she stomped out of the room, muttering something about needing to punch something. Rabia couldn’t blame her, and she knew that Tabby would be back in time for Carl to wake up — sweatier, perhaps, but calmed back down enough to deal with him without losing it at him.

But Carl’s struggle had brought up all her old persistent doubts. She believed in the programme and in Dorley; she knew it worked, and she would continue to be involved, if only to know that it’s being done by someone who cares about the boys. That it won’t wind up being someone like Karen ever again. But doing the orchis before they asked for it? It was mutilation, pure and simple. Mutilation with a purpose is still mutilation.

Getting them to the point they would ask for it had been tried early on, she had been told, and she’d read the files and watched some of the archived videos. It worked out badly, took forever, and the washout rate had been higher than they could conscience. The current programme (minus the self-aware trans girls) had been arrived at in an attempt to improve success, and it had — to the surprise of graduates from Grandmother’s Dorley. She knew it took a shock to the boys systems to get them to move forward, to be better, to become women, but she kept wishing for another way.

She had signed Stephanie’s letter to Aunt Bea a bit under four years ago without hesitation, and the programme had improved again, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet. She made a mental note to pop into the #dorley-evolution channel on the Consensus server after her shift, and see whether Stephanie or the others had any further ideas to improve things. Anything that might prevent another day like today.

She sighed and turned the key in the ignition, and her car quickly started up. Time to go to work and pretend that nothing is wrong, and I didn’t participate today in an unwilling orchi, she thought as she backed out of the space. Hopefully, Grant wouldn’t be so bad, and they could end this year’s orchis on a high note.

***

Carl awoke with a start that was abruptly cut short by the restraints on his chest and arms. His eyes went wide, and he searched the surrounding room rapidly. Various monitors beeped on a cart next to him, and Tabby was sitting in a chair nearby, calmly drinking something from a mug.

“Oh, you’re here,” he said quietly, his voice raspy. He was incredibly conflicted about whether he should be happy or angry about that… but… he found himself glad someone was here. Sophia would’ve been less scary, though.

“Hello, Carl,” Tabby said, smiling faintly. “Of course I’m here. I do care about you, even if I think you’ve still got things to work on.”

“Yeah, you got a fucking funny way of showing it,” he said quickly, tiredly. But he felt unsettled after he spoke and Tabby let the silence spiral horribly until he found words tumbling out of his mouth: “I… I want to apologize for earlier, though.”

“Oh?” Tabby asked, genuine interest in her voice, but not giving anything away about how she was feeling.

She was always so damn unflappable and it was unsettling. He’d barely ever gotten a raised voice out of her. She swore at him; she told him in no uncertain terms how awful he’d been to everyone in his life; she pushed him about his sister, his parents, his privilege — but never in anger. No matter how many times he pressed what he thought were her buttons.

He’d always been able to find people’s buttons. They were just there like blinking lights on them — easy to find and easy to press. And he knew his own buttons pretty well, or so he’d thought. When someone would try to press one of his, he’d find and press theirs in retaliation, and it worked remarkably well.

When he first met Tabby in the cells, he’d tried her height because tall girls are often sensitive about it. Nothing — no reaction. Within days of being introduced to the three others in the general population so far, he picked up that everyone around her called her ‘Tab’, or ‘Tabby’, or if they were really annoyed with her and willing to face her down, ‘Tabitha’. But never ‘Tabs’. Nothing — no reaction. And within a couple of weeks, he knew Tabby was strong — he’d seen her move things that he would’ve struggled with before the whole dick punch of goserelin and estradiol — so he’d tried calling her weak. Nothing — no reaction.

It was like she was a solid block of granite — no cracks, no weaknesses.

About the only thing that ever seemed to annoy her was when she was asking him to do something simple, and he pretended not to know how to do it. And she didn’t have even a hint of strain in her voice. Like the time he just stopped doing laundry about a month in, and she walked out without saying anything. The next time he saw her she was sweaty as all get out but smiling placidly and telling him to do his laundry or face consequences. He pretended again to not know how, and she simply pretended not to notice when he stank. He lost the battle of wills; there was only so much stink he could handle.

Carl tried at various points since then to feign ignorance in the feminism lessons or other activities. All it got him was reduced privileges for media and eventually an outright ban until he read his book and answered better. He never thought he could be so desperate for Christmas Switch and Taylor’s entire discography that he would attempt to do better at feminism lessons. He didn’t become a poster child for raising his hand, but he did try to answer the worksheets they assigned as best he could — glad that Grant wouldn’t see the graded ones Indira handed back privately.

As the seconds ticked by, he suddenly realized that Tabby was still patiently waiting. Waiting for him to explain what he was sorry about. What was he sorry about? He had a right to at least resist his balls being taken, didn’t he? He knew he had pushed people’s buttons deliberately a lot, but surely, for this, he had the right? But no, that had been her point all along — that he had lost some of his rights to boundaries because he couldn’t stop pushing other people’s buttons to hurt them.

A part of him was screaming to push her again. Surely something had to work! Maybe her boyfriend was a sore point? Or her hair? What about her fashion sense? He’d learned a few zings from those makeover shows. You’re grasping at straws, Carl, he thought, and she’s still waiting on you to answer.

She was a rock, and he was a wave crashing against it, and he didn’t have geologic timescales to work with. He had to change or be dashed against her, forever broken and washed out to sea. He shook his head, hoping it would clear his cobwebs. She was still waiting. He had to be better; he had to truly turn a corner. The thing with Randal and the skirt — what had she said? “Fucking stop it.”

She was still sitting there, as patient as ever, watching his face go through a wide range of emotions. A poker face he didn’t have — at least not in the face of having to do this, and after having his balls unceremoniously ripped off. He wondered briefly before slowly opening his mouth what she thought he must be thinking.

“I… I’m sorry. Lashing out like that, earlier, it didn’t do me or anyone any good,” he said quietly. He couldn’t just let them do it, but now it was done, and there was no turning back the clock. Might as well face up to some other hard truths. “And…” he said, his voice trailing off. Was he really going to say it?

“Yes, Carl?” Tabby said after a moment, still smiling at him. Ever patient and caring but as tough as diamonds.

Fuck it, he thought, in for a penny, I might as well say it all. “I’m sorry about the things I did, the people I hurt, pressing their buttons as a way to lash out,” Carl said slowly. “And you, I’m sorry for the way I’ve pushed your buttons, or tried to, since I got here. You were the first person I couldn’t get a rise out of, you’re… you’re one tough person.”

“Thank you, Carl,” Tabby said. “I’ve had a lot of practice at not letting the people we take in get to me. I admit curiosity at this sudden turn of yours; pardon if I seem a bit skeptical.”

“Yeah, that’s probably fair,” Carl said quietly, looking away from her. “I don’t know if I really believe it myself. I know that phrase ‘fake it ’til you make it’ works for some things, but can it work for reform? Not that I’m, uh, faking or anything, per se, but…”

Tabby laughed, not meanly, there was a warmth to her voice. “In my experience, yes, it does,” she said brightly. “But I take it you’re still unsure how serious you really are because this is still fresh for you?”

“Yeah, uh, that,” Carl said, stammering. “I, uh, I’ve not really apologized for anything in a long time. I’m uh, not even sure if I’m doing it right.”

“Well, you’ve expressed regret, acknowledged harm so far. It’s at least a start at a good apology, and we’ll start working together on the other elements of a good apology.”

Carl looked back up at her and nodded. “Other elements?”

“We’ll go over them another day,” Tabby said. “If that’s all you’ve got for right now, that’s still progress. Even wanting to improve is better than where you were when you arrived here — hell, better than where you were a few weeks ago.”

“Yeah. Not like there’s any turning back now anyway, not really,” he said quietly, looking down towards his groin and the restraints.

A knock came at the door and Indira came in smiling and carrying a tray. “I’ve got lunch here if you’re up for it, Carl?” she said brightly.

“Yeah, that would be good,” Carl said and glanced at the restraints. “Can I feed myself, though?”

“Sure, Carl,” Tabby said, standing and starting to undo the restraints on the side nearest her. Indira, meanwhile, sat the tray down on a rolling cart and brought it over to the bed, and started to undo the other side. “And apology provisionally accepted, provided you do continue to work on yourself.”

“Yeah, well,” Carl said, sitting up a bit as best he could with the waist restraint still in place. “Grant’s going to be upset that I’m trying to move forward, I bet.”

“You let Pamela worry about Grant,” Tabby said, helping Carl get some pillows behind him. “How he acts is purely on him.”

“Yeah, okay,” Carl said, picking up the spoon and carefully lifted a spoonful of soup to his mouth. “This is wonderful,” he said after tasting it.

“Thanks!” Indira said. “It’s my mum’s recipe. Albeit toned down a bit on the spice.”

Carl laughed. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” Carl said after another bite. “But it’s still good — thank you.”

“You’re welcome! Tabby, do you have a moment?” Indira asked.

“Yeah, sure,” she said, turning to Carl. “I’ll be right outside, okay?”

“Yeah, not like I’m going anywhere,” Carl said, taking a bite of the roll that had been with the soup.

The two of them stepped outside and around the corner a bit. He could hear them chatting about something outside of him. Whatever they were talking about didn’t really matter, though. Carl was, though, starting to feel a pit form in his stomach. He’d said it. He did bad. Every memory of every time came flooding back at once, and then he felt tears forming and his grip on the spoon faltered, dropping it back into the soup with a clatter.

Tabby immediately came back in. “Carl, are you okay?” she asked, genuine concern filling his voice.

He couldn’t find words, not right away, she scooted a chair over and sat beside him, taking one of his limp hands in hers and stroking it. “Carl, I’m here. What is it?”

“All those things I did,” he said quietly. “I really did them, didn’t I?”

Tabby nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid so, Carl.”

“And they… they’re gone now?”

“Yeah, Carl, I’m sorry. They’re gone,” Tabby said, and he could tell she was genuinely sorry about it.

“Probably fair,” he said quietly, unable to face her. “Better than I deserve, honestly.”

“Carl,” Tabby said firmly, catching his attention, and he turned back to her to look into her eyes. There was no anger or malice there, just a weirdly firm concern. “You did awful things, and you are paying a price for it — but you deserve a chance to be better, and this is your chance. Don’t waste it.”

He nodded slowly. “Sure, right,” he said slowly. “You’ll be here? To help? I don’t… I don’t even hardly know when I’m… when I push someone’s buttons. And I don’t know anything about being a, uh, a woman.”

Tabby smiled warmly. “Of course I’ll be here, Carl,” Tabby said, filling her voice with kindness. “I’ll be here with you for all of it, and I won’t let you fail. Now, eat some more of your soup before it gets cold.”

He nodded numbly and picked his spoon back up, taking another sip of it. She sat back but continued to hold his other hand gently, with a slight smile on her face, and she seemed content to let him eat in peace. “What did Indira want?” Carl asked between spoons after he’d made it through about half of the soup.

“Oh, you know, Dorley business,” Tabby said and rolled her eyes. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another around here, and someone was wanting something that can’t happen right now.”

“Oh?” Carl asked, surprised. “Did Sophia beg for a pony or something?”

Tabby laughed brightly at his deadpan joke. “No, actually, a girl upstairs was wanting to use our electro rig down here this afternoon, but to get to it, she would have to pass your room, and today is just about you. Not her.”

“Electro?” Carl asked.

“Electrolysis — hair removal. Stick a probe into the hair root — it’s like a needle — zap electricity into the follicle, and bam, dead hair. Stick, zap, pluck, repeat seemingly ad infinitum.”

Carl winced. “That sounds… painful.”

“It is, but I survived it. So will you,” Tabby said matter-of-factly.

“Wait…” Carl said slowly, confused. “You? What, like leg hair?”

Tabby laughed. “No, Carl. My face, for the hairs laser couldn’t get. And for… other things.”

“Why…” Carl said, his face knitting up trying to remember that article he’d read ages ago for a class. “Did you have, like, a glandular issue or something? What’s the word, polycys… something?”

Tabby smiled softly. “Sort of,” she said, giggling and taking one of his hands gently. “Carl, a long time ago, I was in a bed just like this, right after my orchi. And you? You’re doing fucking great.”

“Wait, you’re…” he couldn’t finish the thought. “You’re a—”

“I’m trans, Carl,” she interrupted him simply with a brief nod. Carl was thankful she cut him off; he’d been about to say something he quickly realized would’ve probably been a button for her. “That’s how I view myself. But back then, I still saw myself as a guy who was suddenly without what, I thought, was a defining characteristic of being a guy.”

“So you were… in the programme? Like me?”

“Exactly like you,” Tabby said, nodding with a grin on her face. “Why don’t you eat, and I’ll tell you the truth — the real truth.”

Carl nodded numbly and picked his spoon back up to take another bite of his soup. He listened while she told him about her past self. How Black boys were treated for their misdeeds so much harsher. How she wound up under Dorley Hall, how she took the orchi. He sometimes forgot about his meal because it was all so terrible and absurd and also astonishing, and Tabby would pause briefly, and gently remind him to eat before continuing.

Before she finished, she reminded him that her past was her past. That it wasn’t for spreading around. It was also something that Grant and Randal didn’t know anything about yet. They would eventually, when their sponsors felt the time was right, and that they hoped to tell Grant after his orchi if he took it okay. Carl nodded and understood, and hoped Grant would know soon.

When she had finished, she helped him put on some clothes and walked him back downstairs. He requested to be left alone for the afternoon — he wanted to check in with Grant — and Tabby nodded, saying they could talk more after dinner. He gave her a faint smile and stepped into the common room, where Grant was watching TV alone, surprisingly.

***

Sophia was surprised to feel her phone vibrate repeatedly in her pocket while she was sitting on a couch in the common room next to Nerys. She pulled it out and glanced at the messages on Consensus from Stephanie.

basement dweller:

hey Soph

Pamela pinged me, and she had a request

would you and Nerys want to come upstairs?

also… could you maybe get Derek and Owen to leave as well?

she wants it to be just Grant and Carl when Carl gets back downstairs

She glanced around the common room, Derek and Owen were sitting next to each other on the other couch near the TV, only sort of watching the movie Sophia had put on. Grant was sitting at one of the tables, absently munching on some chips leftover from his lunch and flipping idly through one of the romance novels from the cabinet. Randal had retreated to his room after lunch to sulk.

Sophia:

You mean tabby wants it to be them?

Also, always happy to come upstairs

We’re just watching a movie from the approved list

But how do I get Grant and Carl to leave? Can’t Monica or Edy talk to them and get them to leave?

basement dweller:

nope, Pamela wants it

she thinks it will help deepen Carl and Grant’s bond positively

Tab approved with a quick thumbs up on Consensus

Tab’s disclosing Carl at the moment

and Derek and Owen still aren’t allowed their phones out there

Pamela wants it to be ‘natural’

they have both expressed increasing disgust with the reality programs

just say you have to stop the movie before leaving

that should be enough by itself

Sophia:

Wow, Carl being disclosed, that’s surprising!

And sure, I’ll try.

What if they don’t buy it and stay?

basement dweller:

that’s fine

all you can do is try

I’ll be waiting for you upstairs

Sophia leaned away from Nerys a bit and stretched. “Sorry, boys,” she said to Derek and Owen. “But Nerys and I have been requested upstairs apparently, and I have to stop the movie before I leave. Sponsor’s orders.”

“Oh, sure, that’s fine,” Derek said before standing. “This is an approved movie, so we can finish it in my room if you want to, Owen.”

Owen nodded, and stood and quickly left with Derek. Stephanie could just see them take each other’s hand as the common room doors closed behind them.

Sophia had to tamp down the urge to message Stephanie right there — that was way easier than it had any right to be. She stood and offered her hand to Nerys, who took it looking slightly confused, but followed Sophia out into the hallway without questioning a trip upstairs. “What’s this about?” she asked quietly when they were past the second set of doors to Sophia.

“Apparently Pam wants Carl and Grant to interact alone when he comes back down,” Sophia said, shrugging as she climbed the stairs. “Beats me why, their relationship always struck me as kind of awful.”

“Weird,” Nerys said as they exited the doors into the first basement main hallway. “So, just upstairs by ourselves? That’s still pretty rare.”

“Stephanie said she’d be waiting for us somewhere,” Sophia said, craning her neck around and not seeing her in the security room; it was just Monica watching the monitors. “Maybe up in the dining hall?”

Monica in the security room must’ve heard and turned towards Sophia. “Yup, she’s up in the dining hall,” she said, making shooing motions. “Hurry along! Tab is about done with Carl, and they don’t want any delay.”

“Sure,” Nerys said, confused. “This is weird, right?”

“A bit, but on a scale of one to Dorley Hall existing, it’s maybe a two,” Sophia said, giggling.

Nerys laughed as they started up the stairs to the dining hall. “Yeah — I still half-expect vampires or something to be lurking around one of these corners.” Sophia unlocked the doors at the top of the stairs, and they pushed them open together.

Stephanie was sitting at a table off to one side of the doors as Sophia and Nerys entered the dining hall. She looked up and smiled as they entered. “Hey, you two!” she said as she stood and came their way. “Apologies for the theatrics, but there’s also another reason I suggested upstairs besides Tabby wanting you out of Carl and Grant’s way.”

“Oh?” Sophia asked curious. “What are we going to be doing today?”

“Your Easter dresses arrived!” Stephanie said grinning. “Thought you two might like to try them on — make sure they fit okay before the big day.”

“Oh!” Nerys said, a mix of nerves and excitement filling her voice. “Right, I agreed to dress up nice for Easter.”

“You can back out,” Sophia said, squeezing Nerys’s hand and smiling. “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”

“No, it’s okay,” Nerys said, smiling brightly. “Besides, today’s just trying them on, not committing to anything final yet.”

“Right!” Stephanie said, grinning. “Come on, I’m excited to see how they look on you — they look gorgeous on their hangers. And this time yours is actually fitted properly, Nerys.” Stephanie started walking towards the internal stairs up to the first floor; Sophia looked at Nerys who nodded, and they quickly followed her, holding hands.

“Are you okay, Rainbow?” Sophia asked quietly as they approached the inner stairs.

“Yeah, Pinkie,” Nerys said, grinning bigger. “Just a minor bit of nerves. I do like the dresses we picked.”

“Same,” Sophia said, grinning. “Can’t wait to show them off to everyone, steal the show again!”

“So… something Mary mentioned about Easter lunch,” Nerys said as they caught up to Stephanie at the stairs. “‘Best behaviour?’ What’s that about?”

“Oh!” Stephanie said. “I would’ve thought she had explained everything to you by now, but it basically means there will be people at Easter who aren’t disclosed. Who don’t know about us. About you. About the programme. It means don’t go around making jokes about being kidnapped, or force-femmed, or your orchi not being entirely your choice.”

“I mean, she did,” Nerys said. “I’m just confused as to why, uh, people who don’t know would be invited, much less why any of them would even come to such a weird place.”

Stephanie laughed. “Because we put on a good spread at the holidays! And, believe it or not, you will find and make friends outside Dorley, and we don’t want you to try to hide your entire past. So we throw some events where undisclosed people are allowed to attend and bring their outside friends, partners, whatever. It also helps girls like you who are newer to the whole being-a-girl thing get used to being around others who don’t know about you in a more controlled setting than, say, out and about to the shops. If one of you slips up on Sunday, we can try to help you cover it up as a joke, but worst case, we’re all here to help deal with the aftermath.”

“Sure, okay,” Nerys said, smiling faintly. “Not like anyone I know will be there.”

“No, probably not,” Stephanie said, pausing briefly. “There’s a few though you might interact with just because of their ties direct or indirect to my intake. Uh, Belinda, Rachel’s wife, Melissa’s and Shy’s friend. Also, Persephone, Summer’s, uh, friend, and oh, right, Melissa’s daughter, Amelia. She’s absolutely adorable,by the way, and if she learns you’re trans she’ll be very excited.”

“If?” Nerys asked confused. “I mean, I’m kind of obviously, uh, not, what’s the word, fooling anyone?”

Stephanie smiled. “Passing,” she said, nodding. “It’s a fraught term. But even if one of the undisclosed adults knew, they wouldn’t say anything. But Amelia is like, six — she doesn’t quite know how to filter well yet, and Melissa has said she loves meeting anyone who’s trans.”

“I don’t really know who any of those people are; I probably just won’t say much to anyone I don’t know,” Nerys said, smiling as they exited the stairs to the first floor.

“A solid plan,” Stephanie said. “And we’ll give you a reminder before you meet any of them,” Stephanie said as she unlocked Sophia’s room. They all stepped inside, and there hanging on the wardrobe were the dresses.

“Oh, wow,” Nerys said quickly. “Those are a lot prettier than their pictures, and the pictures were already very nice.”

“Oh em gee,” Sophia squealed and bounced. “They’re perfect! Thank you, Stephanie!”

“How about I step outside while you change, ladies?” Stephanie said, smiling at her enthusiasm. “Just knock when you’re changed — I want to grab a photo or two, and then I can give both of you a makeup lesson.”

“See you in a bit!” Sophia called as Stephanie stepped outside, while Sophia and Nerys both quickly bounced over to the wardrobe.

***

Grant didn’t know what had dragged Sophia and Nerys away, but it had meant he was left alone, which didn’t upset him in the slightest. He had moved over to one of the recently vacated couches near the TV, and settled in to watch a home remodeling program. It was better for what he was after than the saccharine comedy Sophia had put on. He knew by process of elimination that today was Carl’s turn under the knife, and he wanted to numb his brain with the most mindless content he could find.

Grant wasn’t watching long when he heard the doors open. He hesitated momentarily, hoping it wouldn’t be one of of the others, or worse, a sponsor. He turned to look and when he saw Carl walk in alone, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Carl had a faint, if pained smile on as he walked over, which deeply confused Grant. Who the fuck smiles after that? Besides Sophia, that is, and Nerys. God, they were both so insufferably cutesy together, it was nauseating. He’d told them to go get a room last week, and they had laughed at him before retreating to one of their rooms, but not before kissing each other again deeply. Ugh.

While it had been nice to have some damn quiet without the others around, he felt briefly relieved that Carl was back before pushing those thoughts away. Dangerously close to being too attached to another guy. “Oh, you’re back,” he grunted. “Sorry you survived, or whatever.”

“Yeah, uh, I am,” Carl said, looking at him funny. “And thanks, I guess.”

“And that smile when you were walking in? What the fuck, dude?” Grant asked glaring. “They chop off your balls, and you’re smiling afterward?”

“I don’t know, I feel like a massive weight has been lifted,” Carl said with a smirk. “And if I can survive this, I think I can survive whatever else they want us to do.”

“Wait, you’re not seriously thinking of giving in to these bitches?”

Carl’s eyes darted nervously to the cameras. “Hey, careful,” he said quietly. “I know Pam threatened you with a trip back to the cells if you didn’t stop using that word.”

“Oh, piss off, Carl,” Grant said, standing up quickly and walking past Carl to the doors. There was no way he was going to put up with this shit from Carl, of all people. “I’ll call these arseholes mutilating us whatever I god-damn well please.”

“Grant…” he heard Carl say behind him. Grant didn’t look back, that’s not what men did. His scowl deepened as he stepped into the hallway. He quickly walked back to his room, unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind him. Grant flopped on the bed and put on the least bad movie he could find — some teen drama about a sports team. All ‘Yay team!’ and ‘Hooray for the power of positive thinking!’ shit, but at least it had some sports in it, albeit some girl’s team playing some American sport.

And… he knew Carl was right about his language — he’d been on thin ice with Pamela lately, and he knew she must’ve been either watching or would watch it later. The whole room clearing out was just a bit too convenient, perhaps. Knowing the sponsors somewhat, they were probably hoping he’d bond a bit closer with his now family-jewel-less compatriot, but he was already as close to Carl as he was willing to ever get. Closer than he’d been with his mates at his local, or his classmates at Saints.

And in some ways, closer than any of the girls he’d dated — well, except for Annette. Like, he wasn’t about to fuck Carl, but Carl and he had spent at least a couple of hours together every day for the last six months. Inevitably, they had talked about way more than was on the acceptable guy friend topics list. And most of his girlfriends hadn’t even lasted that long. A few months, tops — nowhere near long enough for him to consider opening up to them about anything.

And none of them could understand his family dynamic — if they even got that far. He’d tried to get them to understand, to play the game, but eventually, each one failed him, and he cast them off. Well, again, except Annette; she’d lasted longer than any. But at the time he was picked up, he could already see it falling apart again with her.

Pamela had been badgering him about… DAVROS? DARVO? Whatever — a lot lately. How he supposedly made everything the other person’s fault, never took any responsibility for his part in things. Fuck her — it was their fault. But he knew there were limits to how far he could push back. He knew enough to know the threats about washing out weren’t hollow, but damned if he was going to be completely nice about things.

And Carl, fucking smiling after he had his balls ripped away! He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear Tabby and Pamela and the other sponsors limb from limb for mutilating Carl, but even more so, for whatever they’d done to make him smile after it!

Grant still wasn’t entirely sure why he was friends with Carl, but they both laughed a lot about past exploits early on, and they had similar tastes in music, movies, and had similar complaints about their sponsors. They had briefly associated with Randal, but however bad they were, he was disgusting. He had an actual fucking body count. Grant and Carl just had some girlfriends who got unreasonably upset about them standing up for themselves.

There had to be a way out of here besides washing out — before he lost his balls if possible, but he knew that his time was rapidly approaching and that escape plans take time. They were coming up on Easter though, Sophia and Nerys had both been chatting about it. With any luck, the sponsors would all be sufficiently distracted, and he could get him and Carl out. And the time between orchis had been no less than five days so far, and he knew they wouldn’t do him on Easter. He was hoping for them to delay him until after Easter.

About a half an hour later, there were a few knocks at his door. It wasn’t Pamela, she knocked once right before pressing her finger to the biometric lock. He wasn’t sure who it could or would be, the other sponsors barely bothered him unless he was being particularly stubborn of late, which he didn’t think he had been. And Carl usually knocked twice, more firmly, this was hesitant, slow.

“Who’s there?” he called, annoyed.

“It’s me,” Carl said tentatively through the door. “I just wanted to hang out with you, and it wasn’t too long after you left that the others all came back in, and they were too much for me.”

“Oh, fine,” Grant said, rolling his eyes and standing to walk over and unlock the door. He didn’t bother opening it, and immediately turned back around and flopped on his bed. Carl came in and sat down on the chair and propped his feet up and sat an ice pack down beside him on the vanity. “If I’d known you had brought that with you, I would’ve said no.”

“What? The ice bag?”

Grant rolled his eyes. “I don’t need a reminder of what’s happened.”

“As if I do?” Carl asked angrily. “Come on, man — this shit hurts, and I just want to ice it.”

“Oh, fine, whatever,” Grant said. “I’m trying to watch the movie, though, so be quiet.” He wasn’t really, but he would rather not think, much less talk about, that.Carl nodded and Grant leaned back against some pillows on his bed. The two sat mostly in silence for the next twenty minutes, laughing sometimes at one of the absolutely awful jokes in the movie.

Eventually, after they started laughing, it was like having the old Carl was back — sort of. But there was still something odd about him. He seemed calmer, quieter, and he didn’t laugh at the same jokes as reliably as he used to. Almost as if his humour had been chipped away instead of his balls. It was unnerving Grant, but he would rather not cause a scene over it right now.

When the movie finished, Carl suggested Bring It On, which Grant grunted assent to; at least it had cheerleaders flipping about. Indira had used it as an example in one of her feminism lessons a month or so back, though, and that soured him on it some. Only Indira could take a movie about cheerleaders flipping about and make it into some bloody boring lesson on feminism and cultural appropriation. Well, Pamela probably could too. And Tabby and basically any of the killjoy sponsors.

When Bring It On ended, they both stood up and stretched and, by mutually unspoken agreement, headed towards the shower annexe for the toilet before dinner. Dinner was somewhat subdued, although Tabby was there, and she was positively glowing with a joy he couldn’t understand. How could she be happy about mutilating people? After dinner, Carl excused himself from Grant and Grant noticed Carl and Tabby retreat towards his room together, and he was smilingagain — just utterly unbelievable.

When he got back to his room, he found Carl’s melted ice bag sitting on the vanity, and he growled a bit. He’d make Carl deal with it in the morning. He flopped down on his bed and picked up his phone to start another sports drama movie playing. Maybe tomorrow the world would make sense again, but he doubted it ever would again.

2024 March 27, Wednesday

Jessica was quietly packing up various supplies at the end of the weekly meeting. It had been a good week; one of the other volunteers gave a talk about religious trauma that hit way closer to home than she would’ve liked, but it had given her a lot to think about. About her role in everything in her daughter’s life. The times she’d had to fight him — her — to get her to dress nice for church, the times she’d enforced Malcolm’s rules around music or TV.

“So, what are your plans for the weekend?” Rachel asked as she stacked chairs nearby. “Going to do anything for Easter?”

“No, no Easter-related plans for me,” Jessica said, smiling faintly. “Still unsure how to feel about religious holidays — especially after tonight. Will likely just watch some more of that series you linked me and relax, maybe unpack some more boxes.”

“Oh! How far in are you?” Belinda asked, coming back inside after having seen the last of the kids off.

“Only a couple of episodes. I’ve been busy unpacking finally and kept having to rewind — Sarah just met Allison,” Jessica said, putting the last bag aside and leaning over to fold the table up. “It’s remarkable how she can play such wholly different people.”

“Just amazing acting,” Rachel said, grinning. “Just wait until she’s playing like five characters in one scene, or is playing one character impersonating another and integrating things about how the character feels about the one she’s impersonating. Just wildly good acting.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it!” Belinda said, helping Jessica pick up the table and haul it to the edge of the room where its rack was.

“And what are you two up to this weekend?” Jessica asked, grinning. “Planning lots of bunny- and egg-related shenanigans?”

“Oh, my friend invited us to lunch at Dorley Hall down in Almsworth for Easter,” Rachel said, grinning. “She and her wives just adopted a daughter and wanted us to come and meet her in person.”

“Oh, congratulations to them!” Jessica said with just a moment’s hesitation. “I hope you have a lovely time.”

“Also, Dorley puts on quite a spread for the holidays,” Belinda said. “We’ve been down there a couple of times for various meals — and no cooking and cleaning mess for us! The girls can be a bit odd sometimes, but it’s a dormitory for disadvantaged girls. They’ve had a hard life — some oddness is to be expected.”

“It’s a several hour drive each way for me,” Rachel said, frowning briefly and gently punching Belinda in the shoulder. “But Amelia was so freaking adorable on the video chat, and we can’t wait to meet her in person. Plus we haven’t seen Melissa and Shy in ages it feels like; I think the last time they were up here was last summer. It’s been over a year since we last went down there to visit.”

“Well, say hi to Donna if you run into her, and thank her for me,” Jessica said, smiling faintly. “For putting me in touch with you. You’re my first real friends in a long time.”

“Absolutely!” Belinda said. “I’m just glad it’s worked out so well — the kids like you, and you’ve been learning a lot, I think.”

Jessica smiled faintly. “Yeah, I have,” she said quietly. “And… I guess if you should run into my daughter in Almsworth by some miracle, tell her… I don’t know, don’t tell her anything, it’s fine. Not that you will because she’s just gone.” Jessica chuckled nervously and started to turn to pick up one of the bags to take out to their car.

Rachel was suddenly beside Jessica and pulled her into a tight hug. “You’re trying,” she said firmly. “We can see that. If by some miracle I should run into her, I’ll tell her that much, okay?”

“Thanks, Rachel,” Jessica said, returning the hug.

“Of course!” Rachel said, releasing the hug. “Oh, pub tonight?”

“Can’t — my boss scheduled an ungodly early meeting tomorrow,” Jessica said, frowning. “Jerk.”

“Oof,” Belinda said. “Hate it when they do that. Drive safe, and sleep well! And in that order!”

“Will try anyway,” Jessica said, smiling as she got in her car and got it started. She drove across town to her small flat, walking up to it slowly. She collapsed on the couch and decided against unpacking a box tonight. It had been hard enough to hear the speaker talk tonight about how religious parents hurt their queer kids without another trip down memory lane.

But still, she was finally finding a life slowly. Rachel and Belinda had even introduced her to a few of their friends, and she’d been out with them a couple of times for drinks. And she still chatted with Donna several times a week. She wouldn’t let herself forget what she had done — but she could move on from it. She put on an episode of Orphan Black, and managed to get through it without drifting off before retiring to her bedroom and collapsing on the bed, asleep almost immediately.

2024 March 28, Thursday

Grant laid on his bed staring at the crappy ceiling in his crappy little concrete bedroom in this crappy concrete dungeon full of crappy women intent on turning him into one of them. Carl had sat up with him watching movies tonight, but after the last one, Grant just wanted to be fucking alone. Tail-End Charlie. The last of the boys to lose their balls. Whoop. De. Fucking. Do.

A tiny part of him was ecstatic about being last, about having retained them longer than any of the rest! But it was an entirely hollow victory because at the end of it, he would still be sans family jewels. Unable to have progeny, to continue the family line, like his parents, and especially his grandmother — theMarjorie Wilson — had all not-so-subtly been hinting at him about for a couple of years now. Continuing the family line was Important™, a core part of being a man. A subject his grandmother had a great many opinions on — ones he never quite seemed to live up to. Not that his grandmother cared that much about him, but so long as he bore her name, she controlled the pursestrings, and she had expectations for her descendants, but especially the men.

When he and his male cousins were little, she had pitted them against each other in feats of physical prowess and tests of knowledge for tastes of her favour: a treat, a gift, a privilege, or even just the nod. Grant had always been below her standards in every regard. As they got older, she selected their schools, critiqued their clothing and mannerisms any time they visited. Even her frowns were devastating to experience.

The others were in significantly higher favour: Greg was studying to be a doctor, not that Grant would ever let that dolt near him. George fancied himself a politician; he’d be lucky to ever make it to the back bench, but he had given grandmother two great grandkids so far, not that he was much of a father. Patricia’s clothing line was only expanding because grandmother was pushing on people behind the scenes, and Bill’s recent promotion was surely her influence at work as well.

Grandmother had planned for Grant to work towards becoming head of a prestigious university, to guide it in the right direction. But Public Administration was dull and full of little people living small lives, and Grant felt it was beneath him. Getting into Saints’ Public Administration programme hadn’t been much of an issue — his prep school was well respected, and it wasn’t like Public Administration was difficult. But unlike his conservative prep school’s teachers who understood that the role of an administrator was to reduce public spending, his leftist professors at Saints expected him to parrot their propaganda about ‘service to the greater good.’ Even with mounting pressure from his grandmother, they refused to give him the honours he deserved at graduation.

His middling class placement had only been enough to get him an entry-level position in Student Services at Saints, and advancement had been hindered by his ‘results.’ He got told at his first annual review that he wasn’t being ‘caring’ and ‘forgiving’ enough towards students. He’d more than earned his place when he’d been a student — what’s wrong with wanting them to put in the work like he did?

And then Frost had been intemperate enough to lay hands on a student! On camera! In front of numerous other students with their own cameras! He’d briefly tried to intervene quietly, but he was nowhere near high enough to have anyinfluence over what happened to her. Not that he could’ve done anything to stop that dolt of a woman from getting her arse fired eventually. You just couldn’t do that kind of blatant violence and hatred and get away with it! Even if Grant had thought she had a point about transgender women (and she did), she got what was going to happen to her. If he’d tried too loudly to stop it, he would’ve had a target painted on him for it.

His grandmother had been livid, though, and pointed both barrels of blame at him. And of course, she had liked to meddle in all her grandchildren’s relationships. They had to have good matches to wed, and to produce heirs, to grow the family’s power and influence. But he hated the women his grandmother had introduced him to, and he only ever had eyes for people she explicitly didn’t approve of. Women ’beneath his station.’ And he knew they were, but it was so much easier with them. They were lucky to be with him, a man of means who could care for them. All they had to do was shape up enough to get grandmother’s approval, but that hadn’t happened despite a dozen attempts. Eventually, he would leave them when he realized it wasn’t going to happen with this one either.

Every time he’d go to the family dinner down in the city without them after a breakup, his grandmother would call them awful names during dinner. Gold-digger. Trollop. Harlot. Over coffee and brandy after dinner, she would lecture him at length about how they hadn’t been good enough for him. And simultaneously, she would chastise him for not being enough of a man to turn the commoners he kept going after into someone suitable. Which inevitably led to her asking, why couldn’t he just settle down with one of the many fine young women she’d introduced him to? It always ended with comparing him to his awful cousins, who’d all settled down already with someone she approved of. Who were progressing along the path of her plan for them.

And then his grandmother — in exasperation with his predilections for the underprivileged — introduced him to Annette last spring. She was an artist from a disadvantaged background, but who had gained ties to a wealthy benefactor at the same university he had attended. She had the grace of someone born to a wealth far greater than even his family owned. Annette was gorgeous, and he was immediately taken with her, much to his grandmother’s approval.

Beneath that grace was a personality that was driven and self-assured, and her art was simply stunning. It was so easy, at first, to forget the realities of his life with her. But after they had moved in together, things got rockier, with his family and with her. His grandmother expressly disapproved of them living together before even an engagement — an incredibly old-fashioned opinion even by her standards. And Annette was a teetotaler and disapproved of him drinking around her when they were alone. She was fine with it so long as they were out with others, or at a family meal, provided he didn’t get too drunk.

There were some arguments, but all couples fight; these kidnappers were blowing it out of proportion. He never hit Annette — or any of his girlfriends — and he was very supportive of them! He’d paid for Annette’s studio space and supplies, and he hadn’t expected much in return. Loyalty, faithfulness, and a drink at the end of a long day dealing with whining students — that’s all. He’d met a few of her friends at meals, but they were all judgy assholes; one of them told him straight up that he wasn’t good enough for her in front of her! And she hadn’t leapt to his defense!

He’d even tried to get her to move on from her benefactor, who he thought had terrible taste in art, arguing that Annette would do better out from under her wing. But Annette had insisted on going forward with a show sponsored by her patron. It was in this awful little gallery in a dreadful part of town, and that, too, had set off a fight the night before the opening. He’d told her he wanted her in nothing but the best spaces in the best places, but she said this was how it goes for any new artist, and she would rather not be any different.

He’d gone out to his local to drink with his mates, and blow off some steam. By the end of the night, he was way too pissed to get home, and decided to crash on the couch of on his mates who lived closer. He spent the next day working at the university, wearing yesterday’s clothes, hung over, feeling like shit, and dealing with hurry-it-along gestures from his boss. God, he wouldn’t miss her either, the bleeding-heart blonde bimbo.

He’d debated all day whether to go, but decided he was going to make it up to her because that’s what men do. He left work, stopped off at home to quickly freshen up, and then decided to stop and pick up some flowers for her before heading over. Grant wasn’t sure what to get and let the florist pick, and he paid quickly with cash. He didn’t need grandmother’s accountant bugging him about the unexpected purchase.

While he walked there from the florists, he pulled his phone out and started researching local galleries. He made a reminder to message a couple of the nicer one’s owners to come check out Annette’s show in the near future; and maybe they could convince her that she belonged in posher places.

As he was walking down one of the alley’s one had to go through to get to the gallery, someone jumped him, dragged him into a van, and injected him with something. The next thing he knew, he was waking up in the cells here.

Pamela told him in one of their early one-on-one sessions that it was through Annette that they had become aware of him. That she’d told some exaggerated half-truths about their relationship to a friend who lived upstairs. That they had then easily found his string of exes, and decided that he was enough of a threat to women to justify kidnapping him.

After disclosure, after he knew he was likely stuck here, he despaired for quite a while. He couldn’t understand how he deserved this, of all things. Pamela, though, had kept poking at him. Every once in a while, she hit a bit too close to home. He got pissed off and shouted at her when she said his grandmother had been emotionally abusive and financially manipulative of him. Nothing had everbeen good enough for her, and her standards were unrealistic. Afterward, when he calmed down, he knew she had a point, but that didn’t mean he had to like it, or concede it to them. And it didn’t mean he’d done anything wrong himself.

He sighed; sleep wasn’t coming tonight either. It had been hit or miss lately, and increasingly more miss than hit. He knew his orchi was coming in the near future, although exactly when was still a mystery. He’d tried to pay attention to patterns of behaviour, but there simply wasn’t much to go on. Grant knew he would walk out of the shower or his room one day and find a half dozen sponsors with tasers aimed at him. He decided that he was going to confound them. Smile at them, take it well, and lure them into a false sense of security.

If it happened before Easter, it might even help make an escape attempt possible. With everyone upstairs, he just had to get one girl alone as a shield, hostage, and door opener. Cause a minor scuffle with one of the others, something that wouldn’t draw everyone, just one or maybe two max, and not focused on him. It wasn’t a good plan, but it was the best plan he had. Eventually, he fell in to a fitful sleep with dreams of bright blue skies and lush green grass interrupted by nightmares of glinting scalpels and cold concrete.

2023 March 29, Friday

Pamela sat beside Grant’s bed, a bit surprised at how he’d taken it. He’d gone in quietly, with a tired smile, and he wasn’t angry upon waking up, which had been honestly surprising. Faking being okay before the surgery is one thing, but continuing to fake it coming out of surgery was difficult at best. They hadn’t had to restrain him beforehand, but as a precaution, they had restrained him after surgery, but he didn’t buck them at all.

When Tabby had brought lunch in a few minutes later, they undid his arm restraints without hesitation. He ate the sandwich quietly and then tossed the pillows a bit and said he was tired from lack of sleep and wanted a nap. She wasn’t entirely sure he was asleep, but she was sitting far enough away that even if he wasn’t, she could afford a bit of laxness with the other restraints still in place. She leaned her head back against the wall and took some slow deep breaths.

This year’s boys had honestly done fairly well. Owen and Derek were practically blossoming — she wouldn’t be surprised if at least one of them chose a name in the very near future, and the other would probably follow within a couple of weeks. Randal was like he was in a parking orbit, which wasn’t that unusual, but she had honestly expected him to try to injure himself. Nerys, too, was progressing, actualizing; she’d survived her surgery and her doubts and fears were getting smaller by the moment.

Carl had made a massive fuss going in, but Tabby was over the fucking moon with how he had been responding since it. She’d had several sessions with him without Grant around since then, and he was actually opening up about his past. Grant had been occasionally scowling since then, but this morning? Nothing but that tired little smile.

She didn’t think his scowls had been strictly about attachment to Carl; they didn’t have that kind of relationship. Seeing what was coming for him was part of it, as was being last to go. Which had been deliberate — his home life had all been about competition and being the best, and here he was, in last place for the worst possible prize. Him smiling through it hadn’t been the expected outcome, and she feared he’d have a setback before he could make progress.

Carl had been there in front of the mirror, just finishing up shaving his face closer than he used to do. He turned and smiled faintly at Pamela and shrugged as they let him leave quietly. Grant came out of the showers whistling and when they stopped him, he stopped walking forward and put that tired smile on. He didn’t shout or struggle, just kept smiling as they walked him up to the recovery room.

He’d put on the gown quickly and laid down and let Rabia prep him without so much as a snide remark. And when they wheeled him into the OR, he voluntarily and without being told, slid over onto the operating table and laid down. He smiled at Pamela standing by, watching from the window as the anesthesiologist and Rabia got him put under. She’d had others arranged for and in the room with tasers ready, but they were completely unneeded, and walked out after he was under just as surprised as she was.

Pamela had managed to get his orchi moved up a day, and she hoped it would be enough. She knew he was still going to be furious at some point soon. A brave face only lasts so long. She strongly hoped his outburst would be tomorrow or Monday. Easter would just be terribly inconvenient of him — not that she had any worries about containing him if needed, but she was rather looking forward to lunch. Unfortunately, Katherine and Rabia couldn’t both be free on the same day until like a week and a half after Easter. It would’ve been too far out from the other boys, and would’ve caused knock on effects across the entire intake.

Eventually, Grant stirred again, blinking his eyes. Maybe he really is asleep, she thought to herself. Annoying fucking boy, but at least he got past today, and she’d figure out how to get him the rest of the way. She had promised she would, and Pamela kept her promises.

***

Grant kept his smile on as he gently walked downstairs ahead of Pamela. He was surprised at the amount of pain honestly — Carl had said that it wasn’t thatpainful, but Grant had never been big on pain, and was glad for the pain meds and ice bag. He really had been tired earlier, but it also hopefully helped lure Pamela into thinking he was taking it okay. Grant worried he was laying it on a bitthick, so he let himself wince as she passed him, unlocked a door and held it for him.

She smiled apologetically at him, and he walked on into the hallway to the common room. He had to fight the urge back again to get notably angry now. For now, he needed them to think he was doing okay with it all. But that didn’t mean he was going to give in either — he wasn’t going to admit he’d done anything that deserved to get kidnapped by these bitches. He was pissed he’d lost his balls, and he was going to get out and bring a world of hell down on these people.

He thought briefly earlier about reaching out to Randal and coordinating an escape plan, but that fool was just about gone. Sure, he probably still believed he could outlast them, get out by going through, but Grant knew better. This kind of thing broke people, and Grant was going to get out while the getting was good.

Grant worried he was too late to get Carl out here before he broke, but if he happened to save Carl from further harm, well, that wouldn’t be the worst thing. Even if he was pretty sure Carl had confessed something to Tabby after his orchi, and was trying to be better — Grant suppressed his urge to shudder at that thought. Maybe Grant could arrange for a deprogrammer or something for Carl if it came to it.

Carl had been different ever since, and every time Grant was around him, it made Grant angrier. Grant tried to keep his anger under wraps, mostly, but it was getting harder the longer he waited. Occasionally, he knew it showed on his face, or a strain in his voice, but he couldn’t let them know too much about how he was feeling about everything — not yet anyway.

As they exited the doors into the main hallway, Grant saw Carl coming out of the common room doors. Grant waved weakly. “Hey Carl,” he said, trying to keep his voice even.

“Oh! You’re done — was beginning to wonder when you’d be back down,” Carl said, smiling again. How could Carl smile at him, knowing what these bitches had just done to him? “You were up there longer than anyone but Sophia and Nerys.”

“As if they should even really count,” Grant scoffed. “I was taking a nap.”

Carl smiled weakly. “Yeah, those two girls wanted it,” he said. “You want some company this afternoon?”

Grant paused ever so briefly before nodding. He didn’t particularly wantcompany, but he was trying to act as if he were okay with what had happened. “Yeah, sure, Carl,” he said and started walking towards the bedroom hall. Pamela took the hint and didn’t follow, and Grant didn’t look back but hoped she wasn’t smirking too big because she was in for a surprise still. When he got by Carl, they started walking together, but not close.

“So, how are you really doing?” Carl asked quietly as they turned the corner.

Grant grunted quietly. “Shitty,” he said shortly, quietly, looking down as he said it, still keeping his smile on. He knew the cameras and microphones had limits, but he had to be careful — he couldn’t have Carl blabbing about plans.

“And the creepy-ass smile?” Carl asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Putting up a front,” he said quietly. “Won’t have them thinking they’ve got power over me.”

“Yeah… okay,” Carl said, nodding. “Want to watch some TV and not talk for a bit?”

“That, Carl, sounds perfect,” he said as they approached his door. “‘Would you consider the cinema of the Ukraine?’”

Carl laughed. “God, I miss watching a mindless action flick,” he said, as Grant unlocked his door and pushed in. “I don’t want to think when a movie is playing — I want my body to be shaken by loud explosions.”

“Sammme…” Grant said, dragging it out as the lock cycled, and he let Carl go in first. He locked the door behind them lest someone decide to interrupt unexpectedly, then flopped on his bed, legs spread wide, immediately putting the ice bag he’d been carrying in the middle. “Mind finding something? Moving’s a pain.”

“Sure,” Carl said as Grant tossed him his phone to find something on. They settled on the She-Ra cartoon, the modern woke one. Which, okay, it’s a cartoon, and too many women, and woke, but at least there was some action in it.

They turned up the volume as high as the shitty little computer speakers would go and watched most of the first season straight through, and it wasn’t the worstthing ever, but it was merely mildly entertaining. Pamela did ping him on Consensus to see if he was coming to supper, and he had Carl respond he didn’t feel like moving and was just tired. Surprisingly, she sent down a nice enough lasagne — with real meat — for both of them via the dumbwaiter.

As they started the final episode of the first season, he noticed Carl was getting weirdly teary-eyed. “Dude, what the hell?” he asked. “You’re crying to this?”

“I can’t help it,” Carl said, wiping a tear away. “Sorry, just really fucking emotional since… yeah, that.”

“Ugggh,” Grant sighed. “Won’t see me getting all weepy about a cartoon. Me lacking balls isn’t going to turn me into some emo girl.”

“It didn’t start right away,” Carl said, frowning. “But Sophia put on Homeward Bound this morning while you were upstairs, and I was pretty much bawling when the old dog came walking into town.”

“Wow, okay,” Grant said, rolling his eyes. The idea of crying to a movie was so absurd. Much less, that movie. A girl cousin had loved it and insisted on watching it whenever he got banished to ‘go play with your cousins’ and he loathed it.

“So I’m more in touch with my feelings,” Carl said, putting his chin in the air and one hand on his chest. “Some chicks dig that!”

“Yeah, the kind that aren’t worth being with,” Grant grunted. “Maybe we should call it a night — I’ve got some things I want to think about before bed.”

“Oh, sure,” Carl said quietly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wreck the evening.”

“It was already pretty well wrecked after this morning,” Grant said, hoping the sound of the laptop would cover most of what he said. He’d experimented with saying things that might get a rise out of Pamela before during movies or shows, and it seemed to have been working.

Carl stood and went over to the door and tried it, realizing it was locked and out of habit tried his finger only for it to blink angrily at him. “Oh, right, can you unlock it?” he asked, turning around and stepping aside. Grant sighed and stood and walked over to the door and unlocked it. “Goodnight,” Carl said, and Grant merely grunted in response before closing and locking the door.

He laid down and positioned the latest ice pack Pamela had sent down carefully, took the pain meds she’d given him and tried to fall asleep to little success.

***

Maria slipped into the hair removal room where Summer was turned away from the door and was pressing a few buttons on the face of the autoclave carrying a manilla. “Hey, Summer,” Maria opened, keeping her expression friendly but neutral. “Is Persephone around?”

“In the bathroom across the hall cleaning up,” Summer said, pressing the Startbutton then turning around. “Why?”

“I thought you should know the service you did to the Hall — and, well, the trans community in general — by taking on Persephone.” She handed Summer the folder that was decently thick.

“‘Randal Stevenson,’” Summer read off the label before she opened it and read the first page. “Wait, that Randal Stevenson? The dox site guy? The one that got exposed, disappeared, then had his own mother turn stool pigeon?”

“My ‘boy’ this year,” Maria confirmed with a slight nod, not adding the finger quotes, she knew Summer understood.

“Ambitious,” Summer said, raising her eyebrows in a mix of surprise and admiration. “Did you know his little psychopath parade hounded one of my clients into hiding?”

“Really?” Maria said, surised.

“Name’s Z. Sweet little enby. Wanted zir eyebrows removed along with zir other facial hair — nice change of pace.”

“I’d heard of zim,” Maria said, “but I didn’t know how you knew zim.”

Summer shrugged. “Trans community’s a small world.” She kept reading, flipping back and forth occasionally, and as she did, Maria watched the emotions flicker across her face. Approval. Disappointment. Pride. Amusement. Concern. Relief.

And behind it all… was that nostalgia? Or even… yearning? Maria wasn’t entirely certain; it’d been years since Summer had visited, and she wasn’t entirely the same as she had been back then. She was more assured than she had been when she left. More how she had been before… him.

Then Summer hit the critical part — the last page. “Oh, shit,” Summer breathed, and she started reading more slowly, more carefully. Her concentration face was just like she remembered, a little furrow, not quite biting her lip.

When she finished, she looked up at Maria. “You’ve got him — her? Dead to rights. Three more months?”

“Two at the outside, I think,” Maria said, grinning. “Within a month with a bit of luck. Her rationalizations are already starting to sound mechanical; her heart’s not in them anymore. And when I hit her with that? She’ll crumple — she might be a bit slower at actualizing, but it won’t be long now.”

“Do you think she’ll stick with, uh —“ Summer leafed back a few pages, “— Ramona?”

“Probably. She finished the series,” Maria said with a slight smirk. “Twice, actually.”

“Well, this is a freaking work of art,” Summer said, breathing out, closing the file and handing it back to Maria. “Just fucking incredible. But what does it have to do with my girl?”

“We only take one trans girl per year,” Maria said evenly. “If it had been Persephone…”

“It wouldn’t have been Sophia,” Summer finished her thought, nodding, “and you wouldn’t have had Sophia’s history as a lever on her.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I’m glad I could be of service,” Summer said. “Really. Just getting that scumbag off the Internet was already helping my girls sleep easier last fall.”

Maria smiled gently. “‘Your girls,’” she repeated.

“Yeah,” Summer said quietly. “My, uh, my clients.”

“I figured. Did you know that Tabby reads your Yelp reviews sometimes?” Maria asked, enjoying Summer’s blush. “She shows us her favorites. ‘She helped me work through so many things!’ ‘Great advice and great hair removal; what’s not to love?’ Like a proud mum, she is with you.”

“I, um, wow,” Summer stammered. “I had no idea. Tabby’s never mentioned it.”

“We all recognize good sponsoring when we see it,” Maria said with a warm smile.

“It’s not really the same,” Summer said, her expression souring. “Fewer washouts, for one thing.” She turned to look at the autoclave’s timer instead of Maria.

Still a sore spot, then. Maria took a step forward and touched Summer’s arm, rubbed it gently. “It’s okay,” she said. “Most of us have had a washout; there’s no shame in it. And you’ve done excellent work since then. You’ve got the bond with your girl; everyone can see it.”

“She hardly needs it.” Summer’s face brightened immediately, turning back towards Maria. “She’s… she’s incredible, Maria. I’ve never met anyone like her — not here, not in Edinburgh, not anywhere. She’s so smart and so strong and sohas her shit together.”

It was more than a sponsor bond, then — Summer was in love.

“She does need you, though,” Maria said. “She wouldn’t be here now without you helping her. Not to mention that thing with the taser.”

“Jesus fuck,” Summer said, groaning. “Someone clipped that?”

“Someone clipped that,” Maria confirmed, grinning. “It’s almost disappointing — the second week of January, and you’ve already seen the best clip of the year!” She smirked at Summer’s huff. “Still, I know it’s not the same as sponsoring here. Do you ever… miss it?”

Summer opened her mouth to reply, but hesitated. She looked away from Maria—and her eyes widened. “Persephone!” she said, unable to completely keep the surprise out of her voice.

Maria whirled and saw the red-haired trans girl at the door, waving a hand sheepishly as she stepped in. “Hi,” she said in a voice that was pleasant but unpracticed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m Persephone Chase; I’m with her.”

“Maria,” she said, carefully not reacting to Persephone’s surname. “I’m a sort of professional big sister here at Dorley.”

“Like Tabby was for me,” Summer explained, “but Maria’s been doing it even longer.”

“Really?” Persephone asked.

“Nineteen years,” Maria said, grinning proudly. “I’m on my seventh girl now, although one of them —” her eyes met Summer’s briefly, “— dropped out before she finished.”

“That’s so cool,” Persephone said. “Are you trans too?”

“No — just a really good ally,” Maria deadpanned. “I should probably bring this up to Beatrice,” she said, lifting the folder. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Persephone. Summer, always a pleasure.”

Maria strode out of the room, up the stairs, through the dining hall and kitchen, out into the entrance hall, and straight up to Bea’s flat. She rapped on the doorframe, stepped inside, closed it behind her, and slumped into a chair. Then she looked at Bea with a frown. “This Persephone Chase we have upstairs — is she Dylan’s kid?”