New tasks for John - 2

The bathroom of a small but carefully furnished apartment was filled with steam and the sharp scent of rose perfume. The very perfume that drove Richard crazy — and that, in turn, infuriated her, Vivien, even more.

She stood sideways to the mirror, trying to put on a seductive expression, but all her face showed was irritation and petulance. Squinted eyes, furrowed brows, a faint blush on her cheeks, drops of sweat on her forehead — the picture was far from seductive. Yet, despite that, her gaze kept returning again and again to her belly. Fifth month.

The heavy, noticeably rounded belly jutted forward, creating a strange contrast with the lacy red lingerie she was pulling on. The sheer bra with lace cups covered her slightly swollen, yet still small breasts — the only thing she was grateful to this body for. She’d rather not have them at all. Though, still, that was better than her hips and... ass.

— Ugh... — Vivien snorted with annoyance, adjusting the patterned panties that cut into her skin. — Hope he likes this pathetic crap.

She looked at herself in the mirror again. A tall, curvy blonde with large hoop earrings. Her hand rested on her belly, feeling a weak but insistent movement beneath the skin. The child inside her stirred. Sometimes it was barely noticeable, but now... now it was reminding her of its presence, demanding attention, reminding her that she was a woman. A pregnant woman.

Vivien turned away from the mirror and sat on the edge of the bathtub.

'How the hell did you get to this point, John...' — flashed through her mind. — 'Seriously thinking about how to please your boss, while there’s someone’s child growing inside you — a child whose father you don’t even know? You’ve become exactly what you despised the most. A sweet, obedient thing, ready to do anything for a good life and a man’s whim...'

But despite all that, she didn’t have much of a choice. The “Alt Shift” law was strict and merciless: either you live by the rules of your new body, or you end up in a re-education camp. And those camps, as she’d seen on the news, were not for the faint-hearted.

The first few weeks after the Shift had been pure hell. She’d tried to fight it. On the very first day, when Richard called her Vivien after that humiliating first kiss, she was still sure it was all some kind of madness and tried to pressure him, the way John Cunningham used to. The result was pitiful. He simply laughed in her face, then suddenly grabbed her wrist, easily taking the initiative away. His strength was enormous compared to her new fragile build. He pinned her against the wall, and in his eyes flickered that cold fury she knew all too well — it was her own former fury.

— Listen to me, sweetheart, — he hissed in her face, squeezing her wrist so hard the bones felt like they might snap. — I don’t like your little show. I’m your boss. You’re my secretary. And you’ll do what I tell you. Got it?

That was the first time in her life she felt what so many of her former suspects had felt: helplessness. Pure, animal helplessness. He could’ve done anything to her, and she wouldn’t have been able to stop him. The only thing that stopped him was a call from his phone. He let her go, threw one last contemptuous look her way, and told her to get out of his office and think about her behavior.

That evening she spent in this very apartment, crying. She cried silently, fists clenched, hating her new body, that stupid voice coming from her throat, and the very fact that she couldn’t even control her own tears. She called “herself” — John Cunningham’s number. Of course, “his” voice answered. But inside Detective John Cunningham’s body now lived some stranger who was just as confused as she was. His name was Frank, and he used to be an accountant. Frank, being a decent man, listened to her breakdown and, as much as anyone could in a situation like that, tried to comfort her, talking through possible options.

Who could’ve known that just a few days later the government would promptly issue a decree requiring all “shifters” to immediately accept their new roles and start living according to their new bodies. Any resistance was punishable by law.

Vivien stood before the mirror again, adjusting her hair. She studied her face, trying to find at least something left of her old, stern, masculine self. Nothing. Only soft features, full lips that had to be constantly covered with lipstick to look “well-groomed,” and long eyelashes. She tried to make that same cruel, predatory grin that John Cunningham used to scare his suspects with so often. What came out was just a pouty grimace.

'That’s it, John. Enough self-pity,' — she told herself. — 'It won’t help. What you wear, what you feel, what you’ll do tonight — none of that is you. It’s a role. A role you have to play perfectly. You were always a damn good actor, John... or rather... Vivien.'

She took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to calm the nervous trembling in her hands. Opening her eyes, she looked at herself again. Her lips, pushed forward for some reason, as if testing how well the shiny red lipstick lay on them. But at that same moment they, almost instinctively, formed a kind of “o” and, blinking, Vivien suddenly phantomly imagined how those lips, soft and wet, wrapped around… something hard, big and hot. How her tongue slid over the vulnerable head, and her lips squeezed the shaft tight. Strong male hands gripping her long blonde hair, guiding her movements, forcing her to take it deeper, down to her throat…

Vivien shuddered and stepped away from the mirror sharply, as if scalded. Her face flared with shame and disgust. A lump of panic rose to her throat. But at the same time, between her legs spread that same warm pulse, that wet anticipation she hated so much and yet knew so well — the one she couldn’t control. Or maybe didn’t even want to anymore.

— Oh God… — she whispered, clutching the cold sink and trying to hold back the urge rising from somewhere deep inside, the urge to lower her hand down, to sink her fingers into that arousing wetness. 'No… No, no, no… I won’t give in to this again…'

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to think of anything else: the old job, the smoke-filled interrogations, the rough weight of a gun in her hand. Anything connected to who she used to be. John Cunningham.

But even memory betrayed her. She recalled the face of a suspect in that fateful moment, and instead of feeling the familiar rush of power, her body responded completely differently. She remembered his frightened eyes, and instead of contempt her belly clenched with a strange, pulling compassion. It wanted… to soothe. To comfort. It wanted her to hold him, press him to her breasts, whisper that everything would be fine.

'Fuck it!' — flashed through her head, and she sharply turned on the tap with icy water. The spray hit her face, making her shudder. The cold helped for a moment. She looked at her reflection. Pale, frightened, with wet strands of hair sticking to her forehead. But her belly still jutted out stubbornly, reminding her of the new, inevitable reality.