Lace Bra

— No way?! Seriously?! — the girl's voice rang out, trembling with outrage, with a surprisingly high and clear tone even to herself.

Akira was crouching in front of the open door of the washing machine, which was now empty—just a bare drum. Turning her head to the side, her eyes landed on this absurd thing, which, apparently, was now the only thing left to support her breasts.

— What is it this time, Akira? — the voice belonged to Jiro, her only companion and, ironically, the one she now depended on. Though “companion” was putting it nicely. After his transformation, he felt more and more like a fucking bastard wearing a mask of friendliness.

— Don’t call me that! — she snapped, rising to her feet and grabbing the poor bra so hard the underwire nearly popped out. — Where are my normal bras? Where’s the grey one? The sports one? Jiro, have you seen them?

— Uh... — came a suspiciously uncertain voice. — No.

— Get over here, Jiro. Right now. — Akira’s voice was as commanding as an officer fed up with deserters. She stood there, stubbornly holding the pink bra trimmed with little flowers like a piece of evidence from a crime scene. In that pose—barefoot, in short denim shorts, and a maroon tank top stretched tight over her overly sensitive tits—she looked damn striking.

Jiro, a 21-year-old guy, slowly appeared in the doorway, scratching the back of his head. His grey T-shirt hung loosely on his narrow shoulders, and both hands were shoved into the pockets of his cargo pants. But looks were deceiving. Jiro was incredibly strong, and with his mastery of martial arts, he was practically unbeatable. Still, at this moment, his face looked more like a guilty kid caught red-handed.

— What? — he asked, avoiding her gaze.

— One more time, — she raised the bra higher like it was a bloody knife. — Where. Are. My. Bras?

Jiro looked up, his eyes landing on the bra, then immediately shifting to Akira. A faint smirk crept across his face before he could even notice it.

— You’ve got one right there in your hand, — Jiro muttered, trying hard not to imagine how that bra would look on her, though it was nearly impossible. His mind was already flashing through imaginary scenes of Akira posing in that lingerie, and that, naturally, sent a rush of blood straight to his cock.

— You fucking pervert... — she hissed through her teeth, stepping closer. Her knees trembled slightly, not from fear, but from pure fury. She shook the bra right in front of his face. — This is your doing. You grabbed this horrible excuse of a bra from that supermarket and hid my normal ones!

— What? No, no-no, come on — Jiro waved his hands, backing away. — That’s... I... I didn’t do anything!

— Give me back my underwear, now! — she shouted so loud that Jiro stumbled and accidentally smashed his hand into the wall, misjudging his strength—and instantly punched a hole in it.

They both froze. Dust slowly drifted down from the fresh crack in the concrete, while Akira still held the pink bra like a prosecutor awaiting a confession. Only her eyes flickered slightly—not from fear, but from a brief, almost instinctive flash of realization: Jiro was dangerous.

Fucking dangerous.

Flashes of memory instantly shot through her mind—Jiro effortlessly taking down a group of raiders back in Sector 45. Those fuckers, covered in tattoos and reeking in their sweat-soaked leather jackets, had barely spotted a lone girl before exchanging glances and heading straight for her. Any one of them, if she’d been alone, could’ve easily knocked her to the ground and raped her—or worse.

But he was there—Jiro.

She didn’t even have time to feel fear before one of those bastards went flying into a wall, the second cracked his spine down the stairs, and the third just passed out from a single precise blow. And he did it all with this terrifying ease, like Jiro was just warming up.

At that point, she'd already spent a week wandering around in this body in Sector 45. Her name used to be Michael James Harrison.

Twenty-seven years old.

Software engineer with combat training from Bunker 95, USA, Arizona. Worked for NeuroGrid—one of the last remaining American contractors partnered with FunGPT, the global AI entertainment system that, after the war of 2123, had adapted and basically governed what was left of the technological zones. He was sent to Japan—or what was left of it—on orders from command.

The mission: retrieve a black module from a complex linked to the GPT core.

His team never made it. He was swallowed by the explosion.

And woke up—with tits.

There was no link to the base from the start. Everyone who knew about the mission was dead. She was alone. On the edge. Hungry, dehydrated, falling apart.

The way Jiro looked at her when he showed up—so open, so disarmingly innocent—made Michael cry for the first time in all those hellish days. Silent tears, while he handed her a flask of water, and she just dropped to her knees and let the hot, humiliating tears stream down her cheeks. They were a woman’s tears.

Just like the voice. Just like the body.

Just like the patience she had left—and whatever was still clinging to the scraps of masculinity.

Akira. That was the name Jiro gave her. And at first, it pissed her the fuck off—especially after realizing she didn’t just look like a Japanese woman now—she actually spoke Japanese.

But Jiro just couldn’t bring himself to call her “Michael.” Every time he tried, it ended in a fit of laughter from him—and a full-blown meltdown from Akira.

And now, here she stood, in this tiny post-apocalyptic corner of what used to be Japan, holding a pathetic pink bra with little flowers in her hand, seething as she stared at the awkward idiot in front of her. She could feel the veins pulsing at her temples and the tank top stretching tight again across her boobs as she took a deep breath, forcing herself to hold back another wave of rage.

— You didn’t hide them. You threw them out, didn’t you? — she said quietly, almost in a whisper, and even though it sounded like a question, there was no doubt in her voice. — Tell me, Jiro. What the fuck made you think you had the right to mess with my stuff?

Jiro looked away. His brows furrowed, lips twitching like he wanted to argue but had no idea where to begin. His hands were still stuffed in his pockets, as if awkwardness could be hidden there.

Akira didn’t rush him.

— You… you don’t even wear them — Jiro finally muttered. — Well, except for this... one. The rest were just sitting there. You said yourself they were uncomfortable.

Akira squinted.

— Goddamn it, Jiro! — she snapped. — I’m sick of your dumbass shit. Half a year... Half a fucking year I’ve been stuck in this body, and every day is fucking torture! You think it’s fun for me to wear bras? You think I enjoy how everything jiggles, pulls, chafes?! — She lifted the bra higher, like she was about to strangle him with it. — I’m an engineer. I was a guy. Since I was sixteen I was crawling under car hoods and writing code, and now... I look at you, and I see you actually want me to put on this pink flowery crap you dragged back and handed to me like it’s some kind of gift!

Jiro, who had already backed off to a safe distance, suddenly smirked—a thin, nasty look that always made Akira’s fists itch.

— Oh, Michael, right — he said, barely holding back a grin. — Sorry, I forgot... forgot that real tough men never wear pink bras!

He couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Laughter—loud, like thunder—filled the small room.

His laughing bounced off the concrete walls, echoed off empty lockers, and scrambled her thoughts completely.

The worst part was that she smiled, too—just for a second—because his laugh was that contagious.

But it was a brief smile, automatic. She caught herself immediately and shot him a glare full of both fury and exhaustion.

— Fucking idiot, — she whispered, lowering her eyes to the pink bra like she was saying goodbye to her last shred of dignity.

Jiro, still wiping tears from his cheeks, took a step closer.

— Come on, Akira, — he said more gently now. — Is it really that bad? Honestly, I thought it would… you know, suit you. Back in the store, you even laughed, remember?

She looked up at him.

Cold.

Like that damn day in the store was just yesterday.

Moldy shelves. Headless mannequins. A sign that said “Lingerie” almost hanging off the ceiling.

They were hiding there from drones, and when it became clear the building was about to collapse, Jiro—completely out of nowhere—grabbed that exact pink bra with the flowers.

— I laughed because I thought you were joking — she hissed. — And then you seriously stuffed it in your backpack. Instead of water.

Water, Jiro.

And now — she shook the bra — this is all that’s left. The only one.

You threw the others out, didn’t you?

— I didn’t throw them out… — he rubbed his neck, like he always did when he was lying. — They just... weren’t like this one.

Akira bit her lip. Something deep inside told her that, in his own dumb way, he actually had wanted to help—even if he’d picked the stupidest way possible. Jiro was painfully simple-minded. But in a world where old supply chains were long gone, factories had fallen silent, and clothing was literally a treasure, the choice between lacy bullshit and nothing at all was brutally simple.

And then came a sound. Not loud—more like a click. Like something quickly darted under the metal locker.

Akira flinched, instinctively lunged toward Jiro, and in the next second was pressing herself into his chest, still clutching the cursed bra in her hands.

— Shit... — she whispered, feeling a tense ringing in the back of her head.

He stood still, surprised, not even fully grasping what had just happened when he felt her tremble.

— What was that? — she whispered, not moving.

— Probably a rat, — Jiro guessed, not moving either. — Or maybe a little scrapper. You know, those that crawl around, battery-powered. From old cleaning drones.

Akira jerked away like she’d been burned, suddenly aware of how close she had pressed against him. Her skin had touched his T-shirt—and that... that was way too close.

— I... — she started, then waved it off. — Forget it. This is all your fault. Yours and your dumbass choices.

— Honestly, — Jiro said, looking straight at her, — I picked it because... I thought it’d be comfortable. And... pretty. Maybe.

— He paused.

— I don’t believe you were a man. I’m sorry, but you... You don’t look like someone who used to crawl under car hoods. You look...

He trailed off.

— Like what? — she snapped, squinting.

— Like how you look now. A woman. Beautiful. Angry. Stubborn. With... — he trailed off again, realizing he’d gone too far.

— Forget it. Doesn’t matter.

She stared at him for a few seconds.

Her head buzzed—not from fear or anger, but from that fucking truth: he still didn’t take her seriously.

He thought she was just being moody. Like all of this wasn’t pain, wasn’t loss, just something she made up.

As if there weren’t her hands, trembling, the first time she struggled into a bra.

As if there wasn’t that silent scream in her soul the first time she heard her own voice sound so damn girly.

As if there wasn’t that night in Sector 32 when she almost...

She stared at him for a long time. Then sighed.

And pulled on that fucking pink bra, feeling it wrap tightly around her breasts, chafe her skin, squeeze something she still couldn’t fully accept.

She caught his gaze—even though he tried not to look, he was looking.

— There. Look. — she said flatly. — Your choice. Happy now?

Jiro said nothing. And whatever it was he’d imagined—there was no satisfaction on his face.

Just that weird, unreadable, embarrassed expression.

And of course, at that exact moment, something rustled again behind the locker.