Content Warning:

  SpoilerDiscussions of murder & violence against transgender women; transphobia; gender dysphoria; containment/surveilnce themes; mild horror.

  [colpse]I. StakesIf you’ve ever watched television before, you probably imagine the world of supernatural espionage to be action-packed, with non-stop excitement wrapped up into delectable 45-minute chunks. There are certainly some kick-ass moments, but the majority of it is mind-numbing workpce nonsense - like getting kidnapped on your way back from the bathroom by Jordan Bke and being forced to endure a blow-by-blow recap of st night’s gym routine.

  The hardest part of my job isn’t managing complex investigations or trying to piece together corrupted data from our shoddy equipment. No, it’s standing here, nodding along as the woman in her signature periwinkle jacket excitedly details her new protein shake recipe and how somebody had the audacity to curl in the squat rack st night.

  I want to like Jordan. She’s one of the few people at The Coalition who actually stops to talk to me, who treats me as a human rather than an entity. It’s just a shame she’s so fucking dull.

  "So, I realised that I have a slightly longer femur-to-torso ratio, which meant that I wasn’t getting maximal glute engagement, you know?" she says, her body vibrating with enthusiasm. "My bar path wasn’t as efficient as it could be. That’s when I switched to sumo, which feels so much better biomechanically - but then I started worrying about whether I was over-recruiting my adductors and neglecting my spinal erectors. What do you think, Maisie?"

  I should focus on the fact that she called me Maisie - rather than the avanche of fake words that preceded it. Hardly anyone calls me that. Most stick to The Coalition’s official designation: MH1, or Metamorphic Humanoid Css 1 - if you’re my mother. Only joking, I don’t have a mother.

  But can you really bme me for zoning out? Did you hear a word she just said? Did she?

  "Mhm, that sounds about right," I say, nodding too much, trying to sell the idea that I am deeply considering the plight of her poor spinal erectors while I simultaneously suppress a yawn.

  I don’t even really like the name Maisie all that much - but I wasn’t given much time to form this identity. The moment they took my biometric data for security purposes on my first day out of containment, I was locked in. After years of being treated like a monster, I thought that a dainty, non-threatening brunette with a button face and the clumsiest fringe of all time would be a good way to sway those thoughts.

  With hindsight, I should’ve just given myself horns and cws. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to hear so much about adductors.

  "Anyway, I decided to go back to my conventional routine, but with a hybrid stance," Jordan continues, sculpting the air with her hands as she speaks. "I shifted my grip wider and started pulling from a two-inch deficit to increase my starting strength, and now I feel every muscle firing like it’s supposed to. I also started using a hook grip because mixed grip was causing imbances in my t engagement, but ugh - the thumb pain is so real, Maisie. But I guess you build tolerance, don’t you?"

  I wouldn’t know, Jordan. I’ve never exercised in my life. It’s hard to find the motivation when I could give myself muscles twice her size with the snap of my fingers. I could reshape my arteries and flush out every trace of bad cholesterol with a blink. I could double my lung capacity before she’s even opened the doors to the gym.

  She knows all of this, but she still talks to me as if I’m normal. As if I’m like her in any way. And, again, I know that I should appreciate that - but come on.

  "Yeah, probably," I say, nodding out of reflex. I barely know what I’m agreeing to. Then I finally build up the courage to break away. "I’m going to have to get back to my desk, George will kill me if I don’t get this analysis done by the end of the day."

  She nods her pointy head and tells me not to be a stranger before jogging off down the hall, her ponytail bouncing with each step. I watch her go, letting her disappear without a goodbye, as I engage my own glutes and continue onwards, back to my desk.

  The open-pn office is oppressively quiet, the only sound being the furious tapping of keyboards from the many pods scattered across the stark white and grey room. It’s better than Jordan’s gym talk, but only just. My station is in the far corner, part of Pod R - a cluster of seven desks shoved together like an afterthought.

  Sadie Cross is at the desk next to mine, aggressively smashing letters out onto her screen. Her wireless earbuds, barely visible beneath her golden blonde hair, bst screaming (literally) music directly into her skull.

  Across from me, George Hale has his head in his hands, staring wistfully across the office as if contempting something profound. He does that a lot. Whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t see me sit down. Seemingly, neither does Sadie.

  Despite what I said to Jordan, I have no fear of George actually killing me. He’s a nice guy and a fine boss - annoyingly detail-oriented, sure, but gentle in a way that’s rare for a male leader. A gentleness that some of the others mistake for weakness.

  I flex my fingers, taking great care not to procure any "so real thumb pain" and get back to my scatter graphs.

  Believe me, you really don’t want to hear me talk about Residual Energy Detection. RED is to me what being a gym rat is to Jordan - I don’t think I’m physically capable of talking about it without nerding out. So, I’ll force myself to be brief.

  When things cross into our world, they breach the Interstice - a kind of dimensional lining between realities. Those breaches release a burst of energy, but it fades quickly and isn’t detectable from a distance. The field of RED was born when a very clever man named Marcelo Arias discovered that our world’s regur energy is subtly influenced by these interstitial bursts (something to do with the first w of thermodynamics). That shift can be measured to pinpoint potential sites of an interstitial crisis.

  Either an interstitial crisis... or someone using a really dodgy third-party charger for their vape.

  Unlike Jordan, I’m self-aware enough to know that this was still probably too much for some people - so let me make it even simpler. Graphs tell me if and where extra-dimensional creatures are coming.

  Unfortunately, despite the field of RED being birthed in the 1930s, it’s still unreliable as shit and produces data that requires a lot of human oversight (well, humanoid oversight). I’m scanning through some potential traces from one of our detectors in Scotnd when a Bckline notification from Margaret pops up.

  MargaretC: Have you heard the news???

  God bless her. She’s the oldest member of the team, but the only one I remotely understand. Probably because we both love a good bitching session.

  Maisie: No. What’s up??MargaretC: Graham’s leaving.?MargaretC: Probably.

  Mark is my boss, but Graham is the big boss - the one who oversees everything that goes on in the UK office. I’ve barely exchanged a word with the man, and I have no desire to. All I’d see is the man who made the calls that led to my containment. The man responsible for the arrest of the woman I loved.

  Maisie: Why? Who told you?MargaretC: Rumour is that if Moreau is offered the Director position, he’ll be offered Europe.MargaretC: Just the word going around the b. I don’t know how true it is.

  My fists clench, nails pressing into my palms. Margaret understands me better than most - but not completely. If she did, she wouldn’t drop that name so casually.

  Sophie Moreau. The current Director for European Affairs, and the odds-on favourite to repce the current Director of The Coalition when he steps down ter this year. She was one of the loudest critics of his decision to let people like me have any taste of freedom.

  So, yeah - not a name I like thinking about.

  Still, better to let Margaret live in her blissful human ignorance.

  Maisie: Bets on his repcement if that does happen?

  I smirk to myself, knowing that if Moreau is promoted, I’ll never be in a position to pay off any bet.

  MargaretC: That’s the exciting part!!MargaretC: George is probably going to get offered it.MargaretC: Again, my only source is chatter in the b - but Andrea swears that she heard Graham say it himself.

  I gnce across the desk at George, still gazing mindlessly into the middle distance.

  Maisie: Wow, good for him. He deserves it.MargaretC: Which begs the question...Maisie: Who will repce George?

  As if on cue, my eyes flick to my side. Sadie Cross, her slender frame hunched over her desk. A chill of dread rolls through me.

  She catches me staring, and I whip my head away so quickly that I might’ve given myself whipsh. Jesus, no.

  Maisie: Mags, pls. Tell me it won’t be Sadie.MargaretC: I don’t think anybody has thought that far ahead. It’ll probably be an open process. They could even promote from outside our pod.MargaretC: But you and I both know that she wants it.MargaretC: Tommy probably does too.Maisie: MAGS, I SAID PLEASE.MargaretC: Sorry, hun.

  I pull myself away from the screen, staring bnkly into space. The silence of the office feels heavier now, pressing in, muffling everything. The distant typing fades into static as I try to decide which of the two candidates would be worse.

  The idea of being locked away by a fascist French woman doesn’t seem too bad when compared to calling either Sadie or Tommy "boss."

  With those horrific thoughts burrowing in my mind, I turn my attention back to the graphs. Suddenly, boring seems okay.

  Cassie is a different girl from Maisie in every way except mind.

  The second I’m free from the oppressive bnk walls and a thousand staring eyes, I shift. It’s smooth and effortless - more natural than anything I do as Maisie. My hair lightens into a dirty blonde, my bangs straighten themselves out, and I gain a few inches in height. Brown eyes flicker to blue, my jaw sharpens, my chest fttens, and a small protrusion grows in my throat, along with a rger one between my legs.

  Cassandra Vale is a 24-year-old transgender woman who works at The Drowned Duck micro-pub. She’s been on HRT for two years and hasn’t yet had any surgery. I have to look the part - the good and the bad. Shedding my work skin is satisfying. I become real.

  Now, I want to get ahead of some objections. Is it problematic that I, a seemingly genderless creature from another dimension, choose to live my life as a slightly "clocky" trans girl? I don’t delude myself into thinking that it isn’t.

  But when I was released from containment and allowed a life of my own, I experimented with all sorts of identities. I tried being a well-built man. I tried being a tightly wound woman. None of it felt right. I wasn’t sure why, only that every form I wore felt like an ill-fitting mask.

  Surrounding myself with people who had no idea about my abilities was supposed to feel liberating, but all it did was remind me how wrong I was.

  I had almost given up on life on the outside when I met Lexi.

  Lexi was gorgeous, both inside and out. She hadn’t started hormones when we first met, but you wouldn’t have been able to tell. Her white skin glowed, her cool brown hair framed her face in a way that softened every sharp edge, and her height screamed model rather than man.

  I wasn’t Cassie that night. I was just one of many cis-presenting dates. But talking to her fascinated me. Looking back, I probably asked too many intrusive questions. But at the time, Lexi didn’t seem to mind - if anything, she answered eagerly, proud to share her experiences. Proud of the life she had built for herself.

  She was proud to tell me all about how she’d carved out her own identity despite objections from her parents. How she’d found a beautiful community after doing so. A collection of people who had shaped themselves from scratch and loved each other for it.

  I needed that.

  So, yes - maybe it is problematic. But please understand that Cassie exists because I felt connected with the idea of transsexuality, not because I wanted to make a mockery of it. It wasn’t just about gender - it was about being loved for the identity you forged yourself, rather than the one forced upon you.

  You might argue that I could’ve just created any woman and called her trans, that I didn’t need to add all of the "male" parts. I don’t have a good counter-argument to that. There was just something beautiful about having imperfections for once. About surrounding myself with people who recognised them - and didn’t care.

  I never thought I’d see Lexi again. I didn’t intentionally seek her out - but it turned out there weren’t many pces in the city willing to hire openly trans people. When I turned up for my first shift at The Drowned Duck and saw her standing there, I nearly short-circuited. My heart jumped into my throat, my stomach twisted, my mind raced through every possible way this was horrible. But I kept my cool.

  Obviously, she didn’t recognise me. Cassie hadn’t existed when we first met. But the sheer coincidence of it all made me feel... predatory. As if I had changed myself specifically to seek her out.

  I’ve been working at The Duck for nearly two years now. The establishment was created twenty years ago by Mrs (then Miss) Eleanor Whitman, a middle-aged cis lesbian who had more money than sense and wanted to fix the city’s shambolic queer scene. When Eleanor is in the pub, she’s impossible to miss. Short, grey-haired, round-bellied, and dripping with charisma. The kind of woman who commands any room she stands in. Big dyke energy, as she calls it.

  The Duck might hold the world record for the smallest pub in the country, though Eleanor refuses to pay for the Guinness people to come and check. It has one bar, no more than five tables - most of which seat barely two people - and more rainbow fgs than a straight aunt’s Christmas shopping for her gay nephew.

  The size isn’t usually an issue. The Duck is tucked away in a random side alley, away from most foot traffic. Eleanor constantly jokes that it’s less of a pub and more an excuse to give young queers jobs.

  It’s a joke that manages to make me feel somewhat guilty, given that I already have a job. My gig at The Duck is for the social benefits, not the money. I don’t need the pay-cheques, so I eventually started donating them to the many trans fundraisers that pgue social media. It felt like the right thing to do.

  It wasn’t really a joke, either. Today, we have all four staff members (not including Eleanor) present, watching two old men sip beers from the other side of the room. The pce stinks of old wood and stale alcohol.

  "It must be so miserable being bald," Rico says, staring straight at the two men across the pub.

  His voice is way too loud given the close proximity. My spine stiffens on instinct, second-hand embarrassment washing over me as I wait for the men to react - but they don’t look up. Elias, our most sensible bartender, shoots him a dirty look anyway.

  Rico Devereaux is our token cis gay man. Half-Spanish, half-Welsh, and raised in northern Engnd, he has the most insane blend of accents that makes everything he says sound like poetry. Which is lucky, because this man (like most men, I’ve found) loves to yap. And then he dons fmboyant salsa dresses and takes to the stage as Chilli Con Carnage - and somehow yaps even more.

  He was the first drag queen I ever met, and he fascinated me. The idea that he doesn’t change his identity permanently but instead dips in and out of different roles - purely for the purpose of entertainment - resonated with me in a simir, yet also very different, way. But I never connected with that idea in the same way that I found myself drawn to Lexi and the trans community.

  Elias Grayson, on the other hand, is a few years older than Lexi and Cassie (third person here, because I’m not actually sure how old I am, but that’s a detour for another time). He pys the role of the group’s disappointed dad, watching drama unfold from behind the bar as he shakes his head at the irresponsible youth. He’s the reverse of Lexi, a transgender man - but he’s had a lot more time to wrangle with it, making him something of a trans elder. You can tell this by his well-groomed ginger beard and the type of angry eyebrows that could only belong to a man.

  "Like, who would I speak to about my drama if not my hairdresser?" Rico says, completely undeterred by Elias’ judgemental gre.

  "I don’t know - a therapist?" Lexi says, deadpan.

  I snort and sp my palm against hers in a practised high five. Solid effort.

  Rico pnts his hands on his hips, twisting his lip into a mock expression of deep offence. "Not the same, Lexi, and you know it! I don’t want my bitching to be analysed for trauma, I need an affirming ‘yesss, drag her’ from a fellow babe."

  Before I’d found Cassie, I had tried being a bald man - amongst many other identities. And... Rico wasn’t totally wrong. I did find it more miserable. Not in a soul-crushing, despairing way - but it just didn’t feel right. Hair is such a powerful tool, capable of completely reshaping how a person is perceived. Removing it from the equation felt needlessly limiting, like stripping away another yer of individuality. I felt like a clone of every other bald man on the street - which, honestly, seemed like the foundation for a solid trans-like community. Too bad most of these men were too stoic to ever admit they’d benefit from something like that.

  "I hate to tell you this, but your hairdresser absolutely hates you," Elias says, his small smile betraying just how little he actually hates telling him that.

  Rico clutches his chest in a dramatic gasp - the type that could only come from a seasoned drag queen. It finally earns the attention of the two bald heads in the corner. "That’s snder, Mr Grayson, and I will be taking you to queer court."

  A chuckle emerges from Elias’ lips as he begins wiping down a gss that’s already sparkling. It’s a common habit of his - something to pass the time, or maybe just a way to keep his hands busy so that he doesn’t resort to throttling anybody. "Babe, please," he says, dry as ever. "I’ll eat you alive in queer court."

  One chubby, tan finger wags through the air. "No way. That jury will be packed with former hook-ups who still aren’t over me. You don’t stand a chance, hun."

  I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. Sophie Moreau is still a phantom in the back of my mind, but this is exactly the kind of senseless chatter I need to drown her out - even if I’m not contributing much to it.

  "What would you be tried for in queer court, then, Rico?" Lexi asks, spinning excitedly on her bar stool, nearly smming into the counter.

  "The crime of excess, of course!" he decres, striking a dramatic pose, hands flourishing through the air as if he’s just pulled off a stunning mid-routine outfit change. It earns a wave of giggles from the group. "What about you, Lexi?"

  She shrugs, but there’s a glint in her eye - like she’s already got the answer locked and loaded. "I don’t know, but it would be something beautiful. I’m thinking Ocean’s Eleven, but with some designer French gown instead. I’ll be running down the Seine while the French police chase me, shouting ‘Arrêtez cette belle femme!’"

  I shake my head, ughing. "Sorry, Lexi, but the French police are absolutely not going to gender you correctly." I pause, then switch to a ridiculously over-the-top French accent. "Le trannie! It iz getting away!"

  That sparks a fit of ughter. Lexi nearly topples off her stool, Rico cps his hands together, and even Elias spares a grin. Not everybody enjoys the entertainment, however, as the bald men shoot us a dirty look before finishing off their drinks and hurrying out of the bar, as if they might catch something from us.

  Unfortunately, my stupid brain makes the connection between transphobic French police officers and my own issues, and just like that, my mood dims. It’s subtle, not noticeable to the others, but I can feel it creeping over me. I need space before I stop making sense.

  "I need a smoke," I say abruptly, already halfway to the back door.

  The others shrug as I leave them behind, stepping out into the bitter night air and into the nd that is technically our (empty) car park - containing more spaces than we have chairs inside. Above me, the city lights drown out the stars, leaving nothing but a depthless sky. If I don’t think about it too hard, I can fool myself into believing that the blinking pnes are the glowing bodies of distant celestial objects.

  There have been many schools of thought within The Coalition about what another reality actually entails. One theory is that there’s no such thing, and that what we perceive as another dimension is actually just really far away. Every time I look up at the sky, I can’t help but wonder if there’s a world out there - billions or trillions of light years away - which was once my home. Or if I really did just sprout here from a completely different strand of reality. Neither theory makes me feel more comfortable with myself.

  The back door swings open and clicks shut with a controlled gentleness. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. There’s only one person working here who wouldn’t let it sm behind them.

  "Sorry," Elias says, slipping in next to me. "I know you want some alone time, but with everything that’s been happening... I don’t feel right letting you stand out here alone."

  I frown. "What’s been happening, like?"

  A puzzled look crosses his face. "Have you not heard? I know young people don’t read the news, but I thought you’d have seen what’s going on."

  "Elias, you’re five years older than me, stop it with the old man shit," I say, snorting and shaking my head, though he doesn’t smile. Whatever he’s about to say isn’t funny. "No, but seriously, what’s going on?"

  He hesitates - just for a second, as if debating whether to leave me in blissful ignorance. Then, he sighs.

  "Two trans women have been murdered in the past two weeks, Cassie," his voice is quiet and heavy. "In this city."

  A bead of cold sweat jabs at the back of my neck. Fuck, I hadn’t heard that. Our city isn’t notorious for having a huge queer scene, and the number of trans women I’ve met could be tallied on one hand. Two trans women murdered? There’s intent there.

  "Jesus, that’s awful," I say, my disgust genuine and my throat dry. "Were they, um... anybody that we know?"

  He shakes his head. "I didn’t recognise either of the names, and they were both about fifteen years my senior. But still, somebody’s going around with an agenda. You and Lexi need to be careful, okay? I don’t want either of you walking home tonight. Or any night. I’ll get Eleanor to pay for taxis."

  "They haven’t caught the guy?"

  "No." His arms stay crossed, his body firm. "But does that really surprise you? You have to kill a lot more than two of us before the authorities will start giving a shit."

  His shoulders tighten. Elias has always been less radical than Lexi when it comes to trans issues; he wants to believe there will be justice - but even he knows better.

  "This dude is clearly trying to get caught too, because he’s doing some freak shit."

  I raise an eyebrow, silently urging him to eborate.

  Another sigh. "The bodies they found... they were drained completely of blood. Somebody’s out there pretending to be a vampire or something, I don’t know. Either that, or trying to make some unhinged political point."

  My breath catches in my throat, and I pray that Elias doesn’t notice how white my skin turns at the mention of the blood. His theory is ridiculous, but I can see where it comes from. If you didn’t know about the existence of vampires, then you’d perform mental gymnastics until you came to a more sensible-sounding conclusion. But as somebody more educated on the matter, I have a better theory. There is a real vampire in the city, and they are targeting trans women.

  I bite my tongue and close my eyes as Elias continues to talk about how worried he is about Lexi and me. Deep breaths, Cassie, come on. There’s nothing I can do right now except go back inside and enjoy the rest of my night.

  Tomorrow, Maisie can sit down with her scatter graphs and figure out what the fuck is happening. For now, you just need to hold yourself together, Cass.