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Genevieve had the jitters. She hadn't felt this way since her intake for her first hormone prescription. Her yet-to-be named patron had left her alone in a waiting room that had the furniture of a parlor room but the warmth of a catalog. Bookshelves lined with titles like Existentialism is a Humanism, The Master and Margarita, A Dictionary of Symbols, Exordia. The last, Genevieve had remembered reading as a teenager. She didn't quite understand all of the academic terminology; Genevieve wouldn't be able to define ontology if you had a gun pointed to her head, but she felt the warmth hiding in the body horror and violence. It felt like it was written by someone who hoped things could get better even if the entire world fell apart, as long as someone wanted to try.
Genevieve wished she still felt that optimistic. Threatened violence was in rule and not enough people chose love to make up for it. She felt her eyes sink to the linoleum floor and ugly pink salt colored grout. She tried not to think about how that included her.
Genevieve let her attention wander again, seeing a row of cedar shelves and a shockingly youthful collection of toys in glass cases mounted on them. There was a robotic maid with a rifle, her apron pocket pouring over with round grenades and a butt-stock made out of the end of a broom. A soldier woman in a flight-suit who was smoking a cigarette while her foot was stomped centimeters deep into the dented armor of... was that a dragon? Huh. A knight with a feathered plume, bearing blue-green armor and medieval heraldry of a lion-rooster hybrid. A strangely androgynous cowboy wrapped entirely in black. A troubled female detective in a leather jacket who looked an awful lot like Genevieve. A masked mage robed in reflective obsidian. An ordinary looking woman with some strange form of greenish-taupe tendrils creeping themselves along her arm and torso.
"Good morning, my apprentice," the woman smiled as she walked into the room with a stack of papers and a paralegal in tow. Genevieve frowned. "Not an ereader?"
"Not on your life. I want you to be able to read each and every page, cross-reference them next to each other, and be able to tell me that you understand the details of your contracts." The redheaded businesswoman smiled. She was wearing a very, very tight crimson pantsuit today. Genevieve tried not to stare.
"Enjoying the view?" the woman asked. Genevieve almost flushed the color of the pantsuit, but knew she was referring to the windows of the sky-rise office building. "Hadn't gotten around to it yet. I was... captivated, by your collection of books."
The woman creeped a little closer to her employee, a bemused balding man in a white dress shirt and metallic red tie patterned with brown mandelas. "Oh? Not a lot of Nancy collections on there," he tittered. Genevieve felt her pulse begin to rise a hair. "Now, Stephen, that isn't a very nice thing to tell our prospective new hire."
"You're right, I should be kinder to those with sub-citizen intellec—" the paralegal snarked before finding himself lifted up by his collar and slammed against a wall next to the bookshelf. Genevieve grabbed a tome and started whaling it down on Stephen's head, pounding it down til blood started to draw itself to the surface. The businesswoman didn't interfere; she sat
crosslegged on a mahogany office desk with a black ink blotter mat next to her as she lit a cigarette.
"Please!" smash
"I was ju—" crush
The paralegal stopped talking. Sparks erupted from his face as Genevieve leaped backwards off of his prone form, knocking her broad-shouldered back into her boss. "Sorry," she muttered as her knuckles dripped with blood. "Don't be. I was shopping around for a new model anyway."
The blood dripped off of the brawler's fingers onto an open page of a yellow book whose cover bore snake scales and eyes. The blood beat emphatic dots next to a line from the book: "Hell can't have you until I'm through!"
Genevieve washed her hands in a sterile bathroom sink. She'd be surprised if this floor even got used outside of hiring arrangements. As she came out, the bloody body of the cyborg paralegal was gone. "Are we still on, then?" she asked. "We're on," the businesswoman affirmed. "But I'm not letting you get back on testosterone blockers."
"Why, are you one of those people who associates T with rage? You want to keep me hopped up on anger?" Genevieve asked quizzically. "No," the woman smirked sardonically. "I've been on spironolactone myself. I just want you to be able to keep up your muscle size."
"Just my muscle?" Genevieve ran her eyes up and down the woman. If Genevieve were younger, and more stupid... "Just your muscle. I strongly discourage dipping your pen in the company ink." The redhead stated plainly as she lit another cigarette. This one smelled like genuine nicotine, not an imitation blend. "Not forbid. Just discourage."
"I'll keep that in mind when I get my body back." "Oh, that's right. You didn't lose your virginity until after you transitioned. I admire that, a little," the woman said with the closest expression she'd ever gotten to wistfulness. "Regardless," she said with a hand wave, "I generally find sex to not be worth the difficulties that emerge. Eroticism, certainly a useful tool, especially if you want to keep a man distracted."
"I'd rather not make a man feel anything with my body. Maybe fear," Genevieve retorted. "Oh, my. A strict lesbian. Whoever heard of such a thing these days?" "Ma'am. My patience for you is a lot higher than for whatever peons you drag into the room. It isn't endless."
The redhead cackled. "You have such a spark, Genni. Very well, let's come to terms."
The pair looked over the stack of documents together. Stem cell cloning and grafting to restore the "bodyguard's" lost breasts. A permit for an estradiol valerate prescription. Unlimited needles and syringes. Access to the company's chain of gyms and a discount for protein bars when visiting. A tailored, armored uniform for when she was on the job. Weapon training. Optional muscle grafts and metallic alloy bone implants along with bulletproof skin-weave if it became necessary over the term of the contract. Enough money in an annual salary to move out of her dingy unit and start a mortgage for a private domicile and electric combat motorcycle. A retirement fund ...
Genevieve signed. Her nameless boss signed. "Now, my little Faust. Time for you to go earn your keep." The businesswoman unpeeled a photograph from an inside jacket pocket, and slammed it on the table. Genevieve jolted back a hair before picking up the photograph. She squinted, looking closer at the picture of her next victim. "That isn't..." "Oh, but it is, my dear. Your cell had a rat. He sold out years before you, and he has supp'd on the fruits of his treachery. Run along, pet. Show him that his ambitions have finally rotted on the vine."
"With pleasure," Genevieve growled as she stomped out the office door. She never did look out the window.