Constant in All Other Things
by
Fakeminsk
Chapter Seven
Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent
-Much Ado About Nothing
A gentle night wind, laden with the smell of eucalyptus and wild thyme, tugged playfully at her long hair. Zephyrous fingers lifted her skirt and softly stroked the pale skin briefly revealed over the top of snowy-white stockings, and just as quickly withdrew with a sibilant snigger. The skirt settled in a cascade of pleats as Cindy absently brushed a few errant strands from her face back behind one ear. She walked confidently across the pavement towards the brilliantly lit entrance.
The building was a low-built piece of minimalist modernist design, all bleached concrete, odd angles and wide windows that glittered with captured outside light. A clean white walkway of cleverly interlocking stones, lined on either side by carefully trimmed hedges, led to the bright entrance. After the time spent driving through darkness, the effect was harsh and nearly blinding on the eyes of the two women. Cindy's mom wearily opened the door for her daughter. Dressed in sneakers, jogging pants and a baggy faded T-shirt emblazoned with "Florida: The Sunshine State", Wendy Jones seemed drab and just a little out of place.
The younger girl smiled gratefully to her mother. Her steps faltered slightly and she slowed her walk as she approached the rough-hewn stone desk at the far side of the room. The staccato sound of her heels clicking against the stone underfoot resonated crisply through the bare hall. The floor was slippery and polished to a brilliant, almost wet-looking sheen. Fine lettering set into the stone counter, lit softly from within in pink, welcomed newcomers to the 'Aklepios Clinic' and promised 'Cleanliness, Medicine, Healing'.
The lights at the far end of the hall were softer and subdued. An unremarkable but attractive young man stood behind the counter. His hair was short and his face clean-shaven, his crisp white shirt tucked into well-fitted grey slacks. He offered a somewhat bland smile at their approach.
"Welcome to the Asklepios clinic," he said, his eyes slowly looking over Cindy before passing to the mother. "How may I help you?"
Cindy smiled and leaned tiredly against the desk. It came to just above her waist, and the sign below felt warm against her bared thigh. "Hey there," she said, smiling brightly though her eyes looked tired. "How ya doin'--"her eyes danced across the boy's chest before settling on a small, gold nameplate pinned to his pocket--"Chris?"
"Very well," he answered, returning his attention to Cindy. "May I be of assistance?"
She leaned forward slightly, arms crossed beneath her bosom. "We--ll," she drawled, and grinned, "I think we're here to check in." Cindy glanced aside at her mom. "Yeah?"
Wendy nodded. She handed a manila folder tucked under her arm to the young man. "You'll find all our documents in order," she said curtly. Cindy was a little surprised by her mother's abruptness. "My name is Wendy Jones. This is my daughter Cindy Long."
The boy sat down behind the counter. A moment later they heard the tapping of his fingers dancing across an unseen keyboard. "This will just take a moment, Ms Jones," he said. "Thank you for having everything so well organized."
Cindy glanced aside at her mom before returning her attention to the boy. "So Chris," she asked, and the pink glow from the counter seemed to settle in glistening hues across her lips. "Do you like having things in order?"
"Yes," the boy answered without looking up.
"Has it been a busy night?"
"No"
She rolled her shoulder forwards, bringing her elbows closer together to accentuate the tight curves beneath her sweater. "You work here all night on your own?" she asked, her voice a suggestive purr. She licked her lips. "It must get awfully lonely."
"Not really," the boy answered. His eyes glanced up then dropped back to his work. "I'm sorry Miss Long, but I'll register you faster without further distractions."
Wendy chuckled.
Cindy glared at her mom. "What?"
She shook her head, grinning beneath innocent eyes. "Nothing, dear."
A few minutes passed in silence interrupted only by the sound of typing. Bored, Cindy played with her hair as her gaze swept across the long window-lined room. The contrast between the light within and the dark beyond the windows made it impossible to see outside, though the faint impression of branches could be seen swaying in the wind, clawing and clicking against the glass. Water trickled in some fountain unseen in a room beyond the reception desk. When she stepped away for a quick wander her mother held her back with a soft touch. The boy finally looked up.
"Welcome to the Asklepios Clinic, Ms Long," he repeated, eyes on Cindy. This time his smile seemed genuinely warm and welcoming. "We have you registered in a private room in the Hygieia Centre. Lisa here," he continued, gesturing to his side just as a young woman stepped into view, "will show you the way to your room." Her uniform, a short grey skirt over pale tights, and a white blouse identical to Chris', was equally crisp and professional.
"If you would follow me?" Lisa's voice was pleasantly soft and lilting.
Cindy looked to her mom for acquiescence. Wendy nodded and they fell into step behind the young girl.
"I hope you enjoy your stay, Cindy," the boy called out from behind them.
Yeah, I enjoyed the trip to the room, watching the sway of Lisa's rounded little ass beneath her skirt. I was only a little put off by the fact that my skirt was shorter, my heels taller, and my every step that much more feminine. It's hard not to lose some of your mojo when your tits are bigger than hers, yeah? I'm sure K, walking a few strides behind, was enjoying her own view of my panty-clad ass swaying with every bloody step. Still, if every chick working in this clinic was as hot as Lisa, it was going to be a long and hard couple of weeks.
Mom grabbed a couple of bags for the night and we clambered onto this swanky little golf-cart-type contraption. It hummed quietly as we drove across the clinic. The drive was smooth and the air cool and refreshing as it breathed across my legs. Low-powered headlights cut a hazy swath ahead of us, briefly illuminating empty benches, small cultivated gardens and darkened buildings. Only once did we glimpse other people, a man and a woman standing close together beneath a tree. Their startled faces loomed palely at us before the path we followed twisted away and left them behind. I thought I saw a guitar in the man's hands.
I looked up at the sky and was treated to a view unlike any I had seen in far too many years. Multitudinous stars infused the late-night dark with resplendent glory, scintillating in a wavering sparkling stream from horizon to horizon. The small gasp of joy and wonder that escaped my painted lips sounded far too feminine and I didn't give a fuck. All those years of living in the city, I had forgotten how much I missed the sight of a night sky untainted by the wash of city neon. I realized then how true the old saying really was: you can take the boy out of the country--I guess you can even stick that boy into panties and a bra--but you can never take the country out of the boy.
"That's Ophiuchus," Lisa said, pointing to a spread of stars over the horizon. "Our namesake." I looked where she directed but couldn't really make out any kind of shape or anything. Constellations have never really been my thing. Anything beyond the Big Dipper and the shiny one that shows the way north, and I'm hopeless. I've never been good at making shapes out of a random scattering of dots, yeah? "The legends say that Asklepios' skill at medicine grew to be so great he could cure even death. Eventually he drew the jealous anger of Zeus, who struck him down with a thunderbolt. Afterwards the thunder-god recognized the importance of the healer to mankind, and granted him immortality as a constellation."
"Why did Zeus, you know, kill him?" Sitting in the back, I had to lean forward to ask.
"According to legend, the goddess Athena asked him to bring Hippolytus back to life. He did as she asked and this so angered Zeus that he slew Asklepios."
Mom, sitting next to me, chuckled. "Another version says Zeus was angered by the fact that Asklepios accepted money in exchange for his skills."
The younger girl shrugged. "Here at the clinic, we prefer the first version."
"I'm sure you do," Mom said wryly.
The rest of the trip went by in silence. Before long we approached one of the large buildings at one end of the complex. There were a few windows lit up from within, but otherwise the building was quiet and dark, as were the many smaller structures clustered around it. Lisa brought the cart to a silent stop before a four-storied residence. "Welcome to the Hygieia Centre," she said. "And the Cos Residence, your home for the duration of your stay."
She led us through a small lobby and to an elevator that quickly brought us to my new home: Cos 402. Lisa had me rest my hand against a small ebony panel set next to the door before entering. It tingled warmly for a moment and then the lock clicked open.
"The door has been set to your fingerprints," she said. "It will only open for you." The door lacked any kind of knob or handle.
Lisa gave a quick and efficient tour of my new home. It was simple but well-furnished, with very modern amenities meeting just about any basic need I could imagine. Small kitchenette, bathroom, bed: check. From a decent-sized sitting room Lisa led us onto a small balcony that looked over a communal courtyard. Pale lights illuminated a quietly gurgling fountain and some benches. Across the way a single room was lit up, but otherwise everyone in Cos seemed asleep. Lisa demonstrated some basic electronics set into the wall and a list of numbers set next to the phone: doctors, help lines, that kind of thing. With a final helpful smile she asked if we had any questions.
"Nah, I think we're fine." I smoothed my hair back to one side and smiled. "Thanks for your help, Lisa."
She nodded. "Enjoy your stay at the Hygieia Centre," she said. I swear, the little flirt held eye contact with me for a moment longer than was strictly necessary or comfortable, and her smile twitched into something slightly more playful than professional. "Feel free to call me if you need any extra help, Cindy," she said, and a moment later the girl left the room.
With a weary sigh I collapsed on the sofa. I threw my head back and stared at the ceiling. "Oh, thank God!" I exclaimed. "My feet are killing me."
K dropped our night bags to the floor. "Congratulations, Mr Sanders," she said, slumping gratefully into a sofa chair opposite me. "Welcome to safety."
"Really?"
She nodded. "Really really."
"Huh," I grunted. A moment later I chuckled, and then laughed outright, my relief tempered only by exhaustion. "In your fucking face, Jeremiah Steele!" I reached down and unbuckled those damned torture devices that passed for footwear, and sank deeper into the sofa. "Shit, does that ever feel good," I sighed, shoes dangling from my toes. "I'm never gonna make fun of chicks for wearing these goddamn things again."
K chucked tiredly. "At least your ordeal has not been a complete waste, then."
"Yeah." I sank deeper into the comfort of the soda, not ready to drift off to sleep, enjoying the moment of tranquility. Was I really safe? K seemed to think so. As far as hiding places went, this was a hell of a lot more comfortable than anything I'd expected. It certainly beat the shitholes I hid in for the weeks leading up to the trial.
Except. . . . As I sat there, arms thrown wide across the back of the sofa and absently gazing down at the firm curves that now defined my chest, I just couldn't bring myself to relax. I'd been running and hiding and tensing at every suspicious sound for the last two months--it was going to take a hell of a lot longer than five minutes for me to calm down. But it was more than that. It was a hell of a lot more than that. If someone had asked me just then to define what was wrong I couldn't have done it. Something about this place, about the Asklepios Clinic as a whole, left me uneasy. Those two kids, Chris and Lisa, something about their bland pleasantness and neutral good-looks struck me as . . . off, somehow.
I didn't doubt K's assurance that this place was somehow safe from the long arm of that bastard Steele. At the same time, I had the feeling that the clinic was dangerous in its own way, a danger somehow separate from the one pursuing me.
It was a gut feeling. It was a crazy, paranoid feeling; obviously I'd been on edge for a little too long. Still, I knew better than to ignore my instincts. I wasn't about to let down my guard . . . yet.
"So . . . what now?" I asked K.
"Tonight?" she asked. "Or for the future?"
I shrugged. "You pick."
"For the next few weeks," K said, "you maintain the illusion of Cindy. Lay low, recuperate, and when Mr Steele's ire has abated or his attention turned elsewhere, you will be relocated into a new persona and life."
"A male one, yeah?"
She smiled. "Yes, Mr Sanders. A male one. Though I will be sad to see Cindy go."
I chuckled. "I'm sure. I might miss her a bit myself." I gave those tits of mine a little squeeze and shove, adjusting them into a more comfortable position within their cups. "Not gonna miss all this other crap, though. This corset? Yeah, not very comfortable."
"You have my sympathies," she said. "However, you will need its assistance a little while longer."
"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled.
"As for tonight," she continued, and sighed, "I am afraid that we are not quite finished."
"Why?"
"Because tonight, Mr Sanders, you have the singular honour of meeting Mr Jonathon Bridges."
Despite our exhaustion we soon roused ourselves and made a basic effort to settle in. Fifteen minutes after we started there was a short knock at the door. There was no one there when K answered, but she found all our luggage waiting in a compact pile in the hall. I noted that she checked the door without hesitation--no firearm held ready, no standing to the side when she opened the door. Her obvious trust in the place helped ease some of my concerns.
We quickly unpacked. K had brought a hell of a lot more stuff from the safe house than I'd thought. There were a few relaxed outfits for Wendy Jones, but Cindy seemed to have enough crap to ensure she didn't have to repeat an ensemble during her stay at the Clinic. When I travel I travel light, with a few concessions given to the nature of the trip. I get by on a few pairs of underwear and socks, one short-sleeve and one long-sleeve shirt; one long pair of trousers and some shorts. That's usually including the clothes on by back. And a toothbrush, of course. Can't forget that. I could go for weeks with just that, all rolled up small and tight in a backpack.
Cindy, on the other hand, seemed to have brought with her the greater part of a High Street boutique for a three-week stay. Five pairs of shoes --thank God this included a pair of sneakers--a regiment of skirts, a company of tops, a whole battalion of accessories and a goddamn army of lacy underthings; and they all needed putting away. Since they were technically mine, K was happy to watch me work as she relaxed on the side of the bed. I pulled out a 'modest'-cut bikini.
"Why the hell did you pack this away?" I demanded.
She shrugged. "I thought Cindy might like to take a swim."
I held up wispy nothing of seductive fabric.
"A peignoir?" I asked
"I am impressed that you know what it is called."
"In case that Fosters guy comes looking again?"
"Better safe than sorry, Mr Sanders."
Shaking my head I stowed away the rest of my wardrobe. Cosmetics went in the bathroom, a plethora of tubes and small bottles and jars of various colour and ineffable function. Everything in its place. K liked to be organized. The case with the handguns she stowed beneath the bed, locked. My new home only had one bed, a comfortable-looking double. K had very few clothes of her own with us. The conclusion seemed obvious.
"You're not going to be staying, are you?" I asked, smoothing a short-cropped top over a hanger.
"No, Mr Sanders, I can not."
I nodded, my feelings conflicted. In trusting K I'd allowed a certain dependency to form. For most of my life I've been in charge of what I do and how I do it--or at least lived within the illusion of being in control, which is pretty much the same thing. In becoming Cindy I had given up a lot of that control and I wasn't too happy about that. Thing is, I'm not a girl. I don't know how to be a girl, to act like Cindy and talk and dress like her. K was my teacher in this strange and confusing art and the thought of carrying on without her guidance gripped me with a sudden and embarrassing fear.
Far more difficult to deal with was an entirely unexpected sense of loss and sadness at the thought of her leaving. Sure, less than a day ago I'd been pointing a gun at her, but damn if I hadn't come to really like K. She was a friend--maybe the only friend I had now that Tom was gone and my previous life lay even further behind me than ever before. True, she preferred Cindy to David. And she was a total bitch and probably borderline psychotic. But for all that--maybe because of that--I felt comfortable around her in a way that I'd never been with a woman before.
Ultimately, though . . . I was looking forward to being on my own again. I truly was. Some habits are hard to break. When you get down to it, I've been alone for most of my life. Yeah, there were brief interludes spent in the company of others, but for the most part the great acts of my life have been a one-man play.
And I'm okay with that. I really am. Whenever I've spent a lot of time with another person, this need to just . . . escape, to break away and be on my own, has always built up. Even for just a few hours, a day or two sometimes; it's like I have this need to re-find myself, yeah?
Because I've known way too many people--usually chicks, sure, but like that's a surprise--who just can't deal with being alone. People like that usually annoy the shit out of me. You know, like the ones who always have another relationship lined up before they finish off the one they're in? I hate that, the whole swinging through the relationship jungle, still holding on to one vine while clutching desperately at the next. Yeah, that shit's just sad.
What are they so afraid of? Is it the idea of actually spending a Saturday night alone? Probably, because you know what happens when a person spends too many nights alone? They start looking inside themselves. They look inside and know what? They usually don't like what they see. People start to figure out what they're all about, and the thing is . . . most people don't want to do that. Because nobody wants to find out that there's a hell of a lot less to them than they thought. Confronting the fact that you're really a sad little fuck like everyone else is a soul-numbing experience.
And that's why everyone wants a secret little fetish or vice they can clutch to their bosom. Then they think they've got free license to slyly judge others, thinking, "if only you knew my wicked secret." God. I can totally respect the man who drinks to forget past horrors, but is there anything more pathetic than the alcoholic who drinks because he's fucking bored?
You better believe that I've spent quite a few nights on my own. Especially when I was growing up. And I won't lie: I discovered that there were a lot of dark and ugly places inside of me. Over time, they've just gotten darker and uglier, full of slimy and hateful things. Violent things. For the greater part of a decade I wrestled with what I found within me, tried to control the parts of me that left me capable of doing stuff . . . well, stuff I'm not proud of. Capable of doing the kind of things that brings you to the attention of a woman like Sakura.
I'm not a nice guy. But I'll be damned if I'll hide from that truth. Just as K clearly refuses to hide from her hateful things. I can respect that.
Cindy, on the other hand. . . . I had the feeling that she didn't like being on her own. She was exactly the kind of girl who holds on to the hand of one boy while picking up the phone to call the next. She couldn't spend time looking within herself, because there was nothing there to explore. Or so I thought.
"You will need this," K told me, handing me a thin folder.
It was the one she had shown me that very first day after I'd been shot. "Cindy Long. Age 20," typed in simple, small lettering across the label. Inside was everything there was to know about Cindy. There wasn't much, just the barest sketch of a small-town girl. A birth certificate. Primary and high school records, a few job listings. Childhood accomplishments and fears, teenage awards and failures.
"She's got a profile?"
"You have a profile," K said. "This is you now. For the next few weeks."
K explained to me that she had other responsibilities that had to be caught up on. She told me that she would return to check up on Cindy when possible. There were some basic instructions she wanted me to follow: places to go, places to avoid in the clinic; days to stay in the room and others when she wanted me out and about and visible. The spray for my throat couldn't be abused--once a day maximum, and preferably only every second day, unless I wanted to risk permanent damage to my voice box.
Then her watch beeped, and it was time to meet Dr Jonathon Bridges.
K proved almost annoyingly fussy as she had me touch up my Cindy disguise. She had me brush out the wig and take care of my makeup, and once again--under duress, believe me--I slipped on those fucking heels. Meanwhile she swapped Wendy's soccer-mom clothes for something more professional, slipping back into the outfit of K, secret agent. She seemed strangely nervous and fidgety as she made the finishing touches to both our 'costumes'--again, I found myself wondering how authentic the cool, severe appearance of my protector truly was. On the other hand, there was no denying the ease with which she pulled a weapon from the gun case, quickly checked and loaded the weapon, and finally slid it beneath her jacket.
The hallway was quiet and softly lit when we left my new room. The elevator brought us to an atrium, and there into an underground passage connecting the residence to the main Hygieia Centre. Both the elevator and the door to the tunnel required the touch of my fingers to a small ebony panel before we could proceed. With each step the click of my heel reverberated and returned to us as we proceeded along the tunnel. Like the rest of Clinic I'd seen so far, the tunnel was immaculately clean and lit in soothing, diffuse lighting. Intermittent alcoves held colourful bursts of potted plants, or pieces of abstract art revealing swirls and blotches against broken backgrounds. The cameras, I noted, were very well hidden.
"It gets quite cold during the winters," K explained to me in a low voice. "And occasionally the snow gets quite deep. Most of the clinic is connected by underground passageways similar to this one."
I was dressed as Cindy but apparently it was David she was bringing to meet this Dr Bridges. We didn't meet anyone on the way, though we did pass through a junction that I assumed indicated the basement of another building above. Finally we stopped at a large glass sliding door with the words 'Hygieia Centre--S1' written in large red letters. The room on the other side was dark. When I touched my hand to the panel it released a soft buzz of denial.
"I'm sorry, Cindy," a pleasant male voice spoke. Obviously pre-recorded, 'Cindy' sounded only slightly disjointed from the rest of the sentence. "But the Hygieia Centre is closed. Please return during normal daytime hours. Do you require any other assistance?"
I turned to K. "Do I?"
"No." She stepped forward and touched the panel. There was a brief pause and then the audible click of a microphone being turned on.
"You're running late, Katherine." The voice was deep and spoke in a hurried, clipped pace.
"Well I'm here now, Jon."
The voice chuckled. "And this is the guy, eh?"
"No, Jon, it's an escaped transvestite hooker. What do you think?"
"I think this might just about make us even," the voice answered. The panel dimmed, and a moment late a small access door, previously perfectly hidden within the wall opposite, silently slid open.
I followed K into a medium-sized room. The door closed shut behind us. The floor jerked, and the room revealed itself to be an elevator. That same voice, now tinged with humour, reached us from a speaker hidden somewhere above:
"Welcome to the Asclepieion, Mister Sanders."
I've never read 'Alice in Wonderland' but that Alice girl, as she tumbled down the rabbit hole, must've felt a bit like I did now: apprehensive, slightly overwhelmed and, were she to admit it to herself, just a touch excited. However, I kept my attention on K. She seemed different somehow: a little less sure of herself, or maybe just softer around the edges, relaxed. Was this another disguise?
Doctor Jonathon Bridges waited for us when the elevator shuddered to a stop. He was short--just a little shorter than me in heels--but thickly built with broad features, thick lips, a flat nose and an amazing shock of wildly dishevelled red hair. His arms thrust out of a white lab coat that seemed two sizes too small for him. His fingers were short and stubby but twitched in constant motion, and presently he jabbed his hand at me in greeting.
"David, right? So you're Katherine's new project, eh?" he said, giving me a crushingly firm handshake. I met his grip with one of equal strength. His dark eyes glittered with amusement and pleasure. If he was at all put off at seeing me dressed like some sophomore tart, he gave no indication. Instead he stomped away down the passage, making a spastic arm gesture which I could only assume meant we should follow.
"I'm sure you're all tired." He spoke over his shoulder as he led the way. The passage showed none of the aesthetic design of the rest of the clinic: these tunnels were bare concrete, the ceiling writhing with exposed cabling and piping that snaked into the darkness ahead, and the walls bulged with electronic boxes and access paneling. "So we'll make this quick. This is the Asclepieion. Forget all that nonsense upstairs. Cleanliness! Medicine! Ha!
"This is our temple of knowledge and medicine--this is where the real stuff in the Clinic takes place. But you've never been here, got it, girlie? Never even heard of it. Yes?"
I shrugged. "Yeah, sure."
"Good. Next: I don't care why you're here. She--," again his arm jerked, this time in K's direction--"vouched for you, and that's good enough for me."
I glanced aside at her. "Katherine?"
"You can keep calling me K," she answered coolly.
"And if you like dressing in drag, that's your business," he continued. He stopped at a metal door set in the stone wall and quickly punched a code into a keypad. A red light turned green and the door gave a jerk. He pushed it open on creaky hinges.
"Hey waitasec," I protested. "I don't like. . . ."
"None of my business," he repeated, leading us into a small room. "Now strip."
"Hey . . . what?" The room was lit by a flickering florescent tube overhead. Sickly green paint flaked away in the corners. Every free piece of wall space seemed jammed and cluttered with equipment of all size and shapes, some jostling for room on a variety of tables and stands, others bolted to the wall by heavy steel studs. A medical examination bed sat centrally, and a desk overflowing with paper and charts stood shoved up against the nearest wall. A computer screen flickered to life as the doctor made a few twitchy pokes at the keyboard.
"Strip," he said without looking back. "As in 'take your clothes off.' You speak English, right? It's time for your check-up. Now this is the thing, David. And that's the last time I'm going to call you by that name, got it? Not that I expect we'll meet often. As long as you're at the Asklepios Clinic, you are Cindy Long. I don't care how, I don't care why. But you are Cindy.
"See here?" He pointed at the screen. I had a glimpse of a wire-frame map that I quickly recognized as the route K and I had taken through the Hygieia underground. Some highlighted red dots along the path pulsed slowly. A second window brought up an image of a fingerprint--presumably mine--and next to it a still-frame image of Cindy placing her hand against the panel.
"These are your prints, and the system registered you using them here, here, and here," he said, tapping each point on the screen. He hit a few keys, and the fingerprint image shifted. "These are your new prints. Every time you touch one of the biometric pads, the system will swap in these records instead of your real ones. If anyone raids the security logs looking for the prints of David Sanders, they'll find nothing.
"Cindy's been put up in a nice private room." His eyes flicked over to K. "She'll be catered to and taken care of for the duration of her stay, with the same quality of service we extend to all the other rich and sick idiots up there. The Asklepios Clinic will do everything it can to expedite her healing and assist in her departure." His voice sounded like he was repeating something by rote. "With the usual discretion, of course. Yeah? That'll do?"
"Yes, Jon, that will do."
"Good." His eyes flicked back to me. "What, you're not naked yet?"
"Easy, Chief," I said levelly. "Slow down."
"The name's Jonathon," he said. "She can call me Jon. You call me Doctor. Got it?"
"Yeah, sure, doc, whatever you say."
"Doctor," he repeated, eyes glittering. "Not Doc."
"Listen, buddy," I said. "I've had a rough coupla days. I'm wearing a fucking skirt and I've got a fake cunt glued over my cock. I'm bloody tired, my feet are killing me, and I've just been dragged into what looks like, near as I can tell, some kind of secret underground mad scientist lair, so if you don't mind I think I'll skip the goddamn formalities. I'll call you Scooter if the fucking mood takes me, got it? Especially if you think I'm gonna drop trou just because you tell me to."
The bastard laughed. "Mad scientist lair! I like that!" His eyes flicked over to K. "You were right, she does have quite the mouth on her, eh?" When he turned back to me his smile was gone. "Listen, I like you. You've got spunk. But I want you to be very, very clear on this very important point. This is my facility. You are here at my sufferance.
"If she's brought you here, dressed like that, it's because you're in a lot of trouble. And you better appreciate that she's cashed in some pretty hefty favours for me to take you in." I glanced aside at K but her eyes revealed nothing. "This facility is not some kind of lair. We are not mad scientists, nor is our work illegal. But it is secretive and hiding someone like you here puts our work in serious jeopardy. I will not have this facility or the people who work here unnecessarily placed in danger."
"Someone like me?"
"The kinds of people she brings us," he said, and jerked a thumb towards K. "Usually have very unpleasant people after them."
I couldn't disagree with him there.
"So this is the deal. You do what I say and you don't ask questions. You act like the best little Cindy you can and stay out of trouble. The clinic can help you with the first; you damn well better take care of the second.
"But most of all," he said, and jabbed one stubby finger hard in my chest, "you show me the respect I'm due. You understand, girlie?"
Believe me, I had to fight back the sudden temptation to grab that fucker's finger and show him a thing or two about respect. I've got a real problem with authority sometimes. I can deal with people telling me what to do. I honestly can. But lording their power over me? No way.
But I'm not stupid. My employment at NeoPharm would've been really bloody short if I hadn't held back every time some dipshit manager took on airs and told me to do something idiotic. And this Jonathon guy, he wasn't an idiot. I could tell that in an instant. I didn't pick up any kind of bad vibe from the guy, but a person would have to walk a very fine line with him. Back down too easily and you'd lose his respect and he'd walk all over you; push too hard and you'd have an enemy you wouldn't want to cross. Especially here, on his home turf.
I glanced aside at K and she seemed rather amused by the little discussion between the doctor and me. Again I wondered what she'd done to get a guy like this, running a place like this, in her pocket. There was no point in belabouring the point.
"Yeah, I understand," I said, and hopped up on the bed. I pulled the sweater off over my head, revealing the corseted glories beneath. "So where you wanna start, Scooter?"
He glared at me, but the corner of his mouth twitched with a barely repressed smile. "Just strip, will ya?" he said, and walked away to have a few quiet words with K. I got to work on my clothes. Bloody hell, but escaping from those feminine confines on my own was a chore in itself. Women have a hell of a lot more buckles and straps and hard-to-reach clasps and zippers and buttons to contend with. Fashion was starting to feel like a minor form of bondage to me. At some point the doctor wandered back over, and his impatient mumbling, as I struggled to strip down to my panties, suddenly twisted into an appreciate whistle. His eyes widened as those massive parasites clinging to my chest swung free.
"Hey, they're not real," I insisted.
He barely seemed to hear me. "Amazing," he said, and before I knew it his hands were glued to my chest. He felt for a seam where those things met my flesh and found none. "Remarkable," he added, hefting one in his hand and finding the weight and feel almost indistinguishable from the real thing. "Responsive?" he queried, flicking a thumb across the nipple.
"Yes, fucking responsive," I snapped, slapping his hand away. Believe me, I wanted to do a hell of a lot more than just slap the pervert. Ever since those boobs were stuck on to me people seem to feel this incredible need to ogle and play with the goddamn things.
He glanced aside at K. "NeoPharm?"
She nodded. "A recent acquisition."
"Those bastards," he said, voice scored with grudging respect. He brought his head eye-level with the breasts and grabbed hold once again, this time kneading and squeezing. "The synthetic simulation is incredible." I looked over his mess of fiery hair and shot an angry glare at K. She grinned.
"Enjoying yourself?" she asked.
Bridges grunted an affirmative as I grumbled, "No!"
He looked up at me. "You can feel my touch?"
"Yes, I can feel your touch," I ground out through clenched teeth. His touch was doing nothing for me. K's tender ministrations the night before had brought those fuck-udders to life in a way that still had me a little apprehensive. The doctor's touch was rough and rude and embarrassing. He was starting to royally piss me off.
The man shook his head in disbelief as both nipples tightened beneath his gaze. "The response patterning is truly stunning." He glanced aside at K. "They finally got to Ghulam Khalid, didn't they?"
She nodded.
"I knew it. Those bastards. The man's a genius in his field. I wonder what they offered him." He looked up as I jerked beneath his touch. "You okay?"
"No, I'm not." A gentle prompt from K urged him to begin the examination proper. He quickly went through the usual routines, poking and prodding away as he maintained a quick and steady stream of verbal diarrhoea. When he went to listen with his stethoscope it took a few not-so-subtle reminders to keep him from returning to another examination of those goddamn breasts of mine.
Obviously we skipped the 'turn-and-cough' part of the check-up. Considering how he flipped out over the breasts, no way was I going to let him start prodding away at my synthetic pussy. Finally he focussed on the bruising localised on my right side. Over the last two days the bruising has settled into a nice, purpled blotch, yellowed at the centre and darkening and finally fading towards the edges. With gentle but constant pressure he pressed along my ribs, all of them, eventually reaching my damaged side.
"Does this hurt?" he asked, pressing lightly.
"Uh," I grunted. "Yeah."
He moved along and pressed again. I released a low hiss of pain.
Nodding, he had me stand and walk to one side of the room. I wasn't sure when K had stepped out of the room, but I can't deny I felt a little self-conscious, padding across a cool concrete floor wearing nothing but a pair of lacy panties, naked breasts bobbing gently with each step, left in the company of some pervert doctor I barely knew. He barely seemed to notice me, though, poking spasmodically at some buttons. Some of the equipment along the wall folded out and extended paneling and a module he assured me was for taking X-rays. A few chest-level clicks later and Bridges checked out the images on his computer.
He nodded at what he saw. "Minor fracture," he said. "Two ribs. Painful?"
"Only when I take a deep breath. Or lie on my back."
"Then don't lie on your back. Especially with that extra weight on your chest. Best you can do is sleep on your side--the hurt side. It might hurt a bit more but it's safer for your lungs." He rummaged around in a drawer and pulled out a small, nondescript brown plastic bottle. He flipped them my way and I snatched the bottle from the air. "Painkillers," he said. "Strong stuff, long-lasting. Take one every eight hours or so. There's enough there to last your stay."
I stared at the bottle dubiously. Like I said, I'm not big on drugs. "That's it?"
He shrugged. "Normally I'd bind your side for the next week, but if you're going to be wearing that bloody thing," he said, waving towards the discarded corset, "it'll do pretty much the same thing." He shook his head. "I really don't see why you types like wearing that stuff so much."
"I told you," I insisted, "I don't like. . . ."
"Not my business," he cut me off. "As for your ribs, all you can do is wait and heal. It should take four, five weeks before everything's knit up nice and solid again. Now . . . how about you get yourself dressed so we all can get some sleep, eh?"
Later that night I sat on the edge of my bed, lost in thought. The peignoir K and I joked about earlier settled in a lavender chiffon sigh over my body. I stared into the full-length mirror across from the bed. With the makeup cleaned away and the wig off, my face again looked incongruous atop my overly-muscular but undoubtedly feminine body. Through the sheer material those breasts were impressively and proudly rounded, sitting high and firm on my chest. The nipples thrust out against the slightly rough fabric and the feeling of those nubs drawing across the material with every movement I made was decidedly unsettling. The matching lavender panty stretched taut across my hips, still defined by the corset K insisted I wear at night.
My hands sat crossed in my lap, resting lightly over that impossible pussy. Every now and again it reminded me of its presence with an occasional twitch, a sensation that felt a bit like an itch that resonated lightly as a warm flush across those breasts. Lost in thought as I was, the sensation was easier to ignore than usual. I held a letter in my hands. It was from K. She must have written it as Doctor Scooter gave me my physical.
K was gone.
She had left about half an hour ago. Cindy and Wendy gave a teary farewell for the benefit of any watching cameras, and then K drove off into the night.
I found the letter as I was getting ready for bed. I'd happily stripped out of the day's clothes once again and then tiredly spent another thirty minutes in the washroom, washing the makeup from my face and moisturizing and taking care of all the other strange and unfamiliar things girls do before bed. K had taught me well. The wig required a quick brushing and my underwear couldn't simply be left strewn across the room. I was really growing to hate these goddamn feminine routines. I took some solace in knowing it was only for a few weeks. It was past midnight by the time I popped one of the doctor's pills and finally pulled the peignoir over my head. I gingerly slipped under the sheets. I found the letter beneath my pillow.
Cindy, she started, in a fine, angular scrawl that marched across the page with almost mechanical precision. Then she crossed out 'Cindy' and started again with 'David':
David,
I should not be writing this. I trust that you will destroy this letter once you have read it. Any evidence of your true identity could undo us both. However, I am sure my concerns are unnecessary as you have displayed an uncanny ability to immerse yourself in the character of Cindy. Sometimes it is easy to forget that she is only a creation of both our minds. Who will she be when next we meet?
Study the profile in detail. Memorize and destroy it afterwards.
No. This isn't what I wanted to write about. David, it is true that I have other responsibilities that require my attention, but they are not the only reason for my departure.
I believe that my presence has become a liability in your flight from Mr Steele. I have many enemies of my own. They should not become your enemies and the added pursuit of men like Fosters only places you in greater danger. I hope that by leaving I can draw away such hostilities.
But again, I shy away from what I want to say. Truthfully, you are safer at the Clinic than anywhere else I could bring you, especially in your current guise. No, if I am a danger and liability to you, David, I must accept that it is because I find myself losing the professional distance that my job demands.
You are a thoroughly dislikeable individual, Mr Sanders. Your attitude toward women is deplorable and your constant arrogance and abusive manner and aggressive nature have infuriated me constantly since our very first encounter. And yet despite this. . . .
You confuse me, David. Between you and Cindy I feel unbalanced, unsure of myself in a way I have not been . . . since Steven. You are very much like him in some ways and yet clearly so much more than he ever was. In our drive to the clinic you said that you thought I enjoyed dressing you up as Cindy, that I enjoyed making you act, in your words, 'all girly-like and shit'.
I still believe that a feminine disguise was your best chance at survival. However, your words struck far closer to the truth than perhaps you know, closer than I realized myself. You saw something within me, David, a dark and ugly place I have tried to ignore for far too long. Through you, I believe I may have begun to exact some form of revenge on Steven, inflicting on you a twisted version of what he did to me. And through Cindy I continued to indulge the same urges I discovered back then as well. In you I discovered a joint potential for revenge? release? wickedness? I could scarcely control.
Perhaps I would have continued in this way had I not discovered, much to my own surprise, that I quite liked Cindy. Even more surprisingly, I developed a respect for you, Mr Sanders . . . a grudging respect, I assure you. In many ways I suspect that you are a far stronger person than am I.
You will be safe at the Asklepios Clinic. Jon is a good man and can be trusted. I will return as soon as possible. Take care, David. Take care, Cindy.
The letter was signed Katherine.
I should have destroyed the letter immediately. Instead I slipped it inside my copy of 'Confessions of a Shopaholic' and placed it on the bookshelf. Now I sat at the edge of my bed, alone, in a darkened room lit only by a single bedside lamp, staring into a mirror and finding nothing there. Eventually I turned off the light and tried to sleep.
Outside, I thought I could hear the wind blow softly through the empty and silent spaces of the Asklepios Clinic. It was probably just my imagination as I slowly drifted into a dark and dreamless sleep.
To be continued. . .
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