Chapter 27: Wicked SecretsYeah, I ehe trip to the room, watg the sway of Lisa’s rounded little ass beh 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-cd ass swaying with every bloody step. Still, if every chick w in this ic was as hot as Lisa, it was going to be a long and hard couple of weeks.

  Auntie grabbed a couple of bags for the night and we cmbered onto this swanky little golf-cart-type traption. It hummed quietly as we drove across the ibsp; The drive was smooth and the air cool and refreshing as it breathed ay legs. Low-powered headlights cut a hazy swath ahead of us, briefly illuminatiy benches, small cultivated gardens and darkened buildings. Only once did we glimpse other people, a man and a woman standing close together beh a tree. Their startled faces loomed palely at us before the path we followed twisted away ahem 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 ihe te-night dark with resple glory, stilting in a wavering sparkling stream from horizon to horizon. The small gasp of joy and wohat escaped my painted lips sounded very feminine and for once I didn’t care. All those years of living iy, I had fotten 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 take the boy out of the try--I guess you even stick that boy into panties and a bra--but you ever take the try 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. steltions have never really been my thing. Anything beyond the Big Dipper and the shiny ohat 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 medie grew to be so great he could cure eveh. Eventually he drew the jealous anger of Zeus, who struck him down with a thunderbolt. Afterwards the thunder-ghe importance of the healer to mankind, and granted him immortality as a steltion.”

  “Why did Zeus, you know, kill him?” Sitting in the back, I had to lean forward to ask.

  “Acc to legend, the goddess Athena asked him t Hippolytus back to life. He did as she asked and this so angered Zeus that he slew Asklepios.”

  Auntie, sittio me, chuckled. “Another version says Zeus was angered by the fact that Asklepios accepted money in exge for his skills.”

  The younger girl shrugged. “Here at the ic, we prefer the first version.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Auntie said wryly.

  The rest of the trip went by in silenbsp; Before long roached one of the rge buildings at one end of the plex. 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 residenbsp; “Wele to the Hygieia tre,” she said. “And the Cos Residence, your home for the duration of your stay.”

  She led us through a small lobby and to aor that quickly brought us to my new home: Cos 402. Lisa had me rest my hand against a small ebony panel set o the door before entering. It tingled warmly for a moment and then the lock clicked open.

  “The door has beeo your fingerprints,” she said. “It will only open for you.” The door cked any kind of knob or handle.

  Lisa gave a quid effit tour of my new home. It was simple but well-furnished, with very moderies meeting just about any basieed I could imagine. Small kitette, bathroom, bed: chebsp; From a det-sized sitting room Lisa led us onto a small baly that looked over a unal 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 of the basic smart funs embedded in room, light trols and that kind of thing, and how to tact key individuals: reception, room servive, doctors, help lihat 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 tre,” she said. I swear, the little flirt held eye tact with me for a moment lohan was strictly necessary or fortable, and her smile twitched into something slightly more pyful than professional. “Feel free to call me if you need ara help, dy,” she said, and a momehe girl left the room.

  With a weary sigh I colpsed on the sofa. I threw my head bad stared at the ceiling. “Oh, thank God!” I excimed. “My feet are killing me.”

  K dropped ht bags to the floor. “gratutions, Mr Saunders,” she said, slumping gratefully into a sofa chair opposite me. “Wele to safety.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “Really really.”

  “Huh,” I grunted. A moment ter I chuckled, and then ughed ht, my relief tempered only by exhaustion. “In your fug face, Jeremiah Steele!” I reached down and unbuckled those damorture 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 plete waste, then.”

  “Yeah.” I sank deeper into the fort 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 pces went, this was a hell of a lot more fortable 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 rex. I’d been running and hiding and tensing at every suspicious sound for the st two months--it was going to take a hell of a lot lohan five minutes for me to calm down.

  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 do. But once upon a time, I’d honed a fine instinct for pig up on the subtle hints that something wasn’t right. And something about this pce, about the Asklepios ic as a whole, left me uneasy. Those two kids, Chris and Lisa, something about their bnd pleasantness aral good-looks struck me as . . . off, somehow, as did the unnerving silence during our short drive across the grounds.

  I didn’t doubt K’s assurahat this pce was somehow safe from the long arm of that bastard Steele. At the same time, I had the feeling that the ic 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 few weeks,” K said, “you maintain the illusion of dy. Lay low, recuperate, and with Mr Steele’s attention looking for you elsewhere, you will be relocated into a new persona and life.”

  “A male one, yeah?”

  She smiled. “Yes, Mr Saunders. A male one. Though I will be sad to see dy 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 fortable position within their cups. “Not gonna miss all this other crap, though. This corset? Yeah, not very fortable.”

  “You have my sympathies,” she said. “However, you will s assistance a little while longer.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled.

  “As for tonight,” she tinued, and sighed, “I am afraid that we are not quite finished.”

  “Why?”

  “Because tonight, Mr Saunders, you have the singur honour of meeting Mr Jonathes.”

  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 ohere when K answered, but she found all gage waiting in a pact pile in the hall. I hat she checked the door without hesitation--no firearm held ready, no standing to the side when she opehe door. Her obvious trust in the pce helped ease some of my s.

  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 rexed outfits for Wendy Jones, but dy seemed to have enough crap to ensure she didn’t have to repeat an ensemble duriay at the ibsp; When I travel I travel light, with a few cessions 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 babsp; And a toothbrush, of course. I could go for weeks with just that, all rolled up small and tight in a backpack.

  dy, oher hand, seemed to have brought with her the greater part of a boutique for a three-week stay. Five pairs of shoes --thank God this included a pair of sneakers--a regiment of skirts, a pany of tops, a whole battalion of accessories and a goddamn army of derthings; and they all needed putting away. Sihey were teically mine, K was happy to watch me work as she rexed 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 dy 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 Fuy es looking again?”

  “Better safe than sorry, Mr Saunders.”

  Shaking my head I stowed away the rest of my wardrobe. etics went ihroom, a plethora of tubes and small bottles and jars of various colour and ineffable fun. Everything in its pbsp; K liked to be anized. The case with the handguns she stowed beh the bed, locked. My new home only had one bed, a fortable-looking double. K had very few clothes of her own with us. The clusion seemed obvious.

  “You’re not going to be staying, are you?” I asked, smoothing a short-cropped top over a hanger.

  “No, Mr Saunders, I ot.”

  I nodded, feeling flicted. 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 trol, which is pretty much the same thing. In being dy I had given up a lot of that trol 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 dy and talk and dress like her. K was my teacher in this strange and fusing 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 airely ued 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 e to really like K. She was a friend--maybe the only friend I had now that Tom was gone and my previous life y even further behihan ever before. True, she preferred dy to David. And she was a total bitd probably borderline psychotibsp; But for all that--maybe because of that--I felt fortable around her in a way that I’m not sure I’d even known 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 pany of others, but for the most part the great ay life have been a one-man py.

  And I’m okay with that. I really am. Whenever I’ve spent a lot of time with another person, this o 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 o re-find myself, yeah?

  Because I’ve known way too many people--usually chicks, sure, but that’s hardly a surprise--who just ’t deal with being alone. People like that, needy and gy, they usually annoy the shit out of me. You know, like the ones who always have another retionship lined up before they finish off the ohey’re in? I hate that, the whole swinging through the retionship juill holding on to one vine while clutg desperately at the . 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 ihemselves. They look inside and 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 thahought. fronting 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 clutch to their bosom. Thehink they’ve got free lise to slyly judge others, thinking, “if only you knew my wicked secrets.” God. I totally respect the man who drinks tet past horrors, but is there anything more pathetic than the alcoholic who drinks because he’s fug bored?

  You better believe that I’ve spent quite a few nights on my own. When I was growing up; through my twenties; even in this final year approag forty. And I won’t lie: I discovered that there were a lot of dark and ugly pces 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 withiried to trol 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 respect that.

  dy, oher 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 pig up the phoo call the . She couldn’t spend time looking within herself, because there was nothing there to explore. Or so I thought.

  “You will his,” K told me, handing me a folder.

  It was the one she had showhat very first day after I’d been shot. “dy Belmy. Age 20,” typed in simple, small lettering across the bel. Inside was everything there was to know about dy. The folder was thicker than I expected. ON the one hand, the expected: the sketch of a small-town girl. Birth certificate. Primary and high school records, a few job listings. Childhood aplishments and fears, teenage awards and failures. But there was more there: medical records, legal dots, a yellowing neer clipping summarising tragedy. Fuck.

  “She’s got a profile?”

  “You have a profile,” K said. “This is you now. For the few weeks.”

  K expio me that she had other responsibilities that had to be caught up on. She told me that she would return to check up on dy if possible. There were some basistrus she wanted me to follow: pces to go, pces to avoid in the ic; 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 sed day, unless I wao risk perma damage to my voice box.

  Then her watch beeped, and it was time to meet Dr Jonathes.

  K proved almost annoyingly fussy as she had me touch up my dy 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 fug heels. Meanwhile she sed Wendy’s soccer-mom clothes for something more professional, slipping bato the outfit of K, secret agent. She seemed strangely nervous and fidgety as she made the finishing touches to both our ‘es’--again, I found myself w how authentic the cool, severe appearany protector truly was. Oher hand, there was no denying the ease with which she pulled a on from the gun case, quickly checked and loaded the on, and finally slid it beh her jacket.

  The hallway was quiet and softly lit when we left my new room. The elevatht us to an atrium, and there into an underground passage eg the resideo the main Hygieia tre. Both the elevator and the door to the tunnel required the touy fio a small ebony panel before we could proceed. With each step the cliy heel reverberated auro us as we proceeded along the tunnel. Like the rest of ic I’d seen so far, the tunnel was immacutely and lit in soothing, diffuse lighting. Itent alcoves held colourful bursts of potted pnts, 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 expio me in a low voibsp; “And occasionally the snow gets quite deep. Most of the ic is ected by underground passageways simir to this one.”

  I was dressed as dy but apparently it was David she was bringing to meet this Doctes. We didn’t meet anyone on the way, though we did pass through a jun that I assumed indicated the basement of another building above. Finally we stopped at a rge gss sliding door with the words ‘Hygieia tre--S1’ written in rge red letters. The room oher side was dark. When I touched my hand to the pa released a soft buzz of denial.

  “I’m sorry, dy,” a pleasant male voice spoke. Obviously pre-recorded, ‘dy’ sounded only slightly disjointed from the rest of the sentenbsp; “But the Hygieia tre is closed. Please return during normal daytime hours. Do you require any other assistance?”

  I turo 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 te, 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 crossdressing hooker. What do you think?”

  “I think this might just about make us even,” the voiswered. The panel dimmed, and a moment te 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 aor. That same voiow tinged with humour, reached us from a speaker hidden somewhere above:

  “Wele to the Asclepieion, Mister Saunders.”

  Author's Notes:

  If you're impatient to read on, you find ter chapters at FM S. You also find everything up to Book 3, Chapter 6 avaible on Patreon: patreon./fakeminsk, as well as fanart and a few side projects.