Register the Ride

— André, are you okay? What are you thinking about? — said Angela, a very large and plump woman, who despite all that had a very sweet face and, at the moment, was also her mentor in client service at the auto shop's front desk.

André flinched slightly, pressing herself deeper into the blue leather couch in the staff break room, and immediately lowered her gaze, just now realizing how feminine she looked while sitting. One leg crossed over the other, thighs almost completely exposed beneath the short dress, as if on purpose, and her nipples clearly showing through the yellow fabric. She had put on that dress to spite everyone, but it had the exact opposite effect, and now people expected—no, demanded—her to always look like this.

André felt a wave of anger boil up inside. 'Why the hell am I sitting like this again?' — she howled inwardly and jerked her knees together, shifting her posture, but it only made things worse. Sitting with a straight back and closed legs had become almost instinctual. That damn virus didn’t just change her body—it rewired her brain, implanted reflexes, movements, even this bizarre need to sit "like a woman," to speak with certain tones, to blush when looking at herself in the mirror.

— Did something happen, sweetie? — Angela sat down beside her, and seeing how embarrassed André looked, she thought the girl might break down crying any second, like some high schooler before prom. So she decided, as the official "senior" here and definitely more experienced in women's matters, to take care of her.

— ¡Sí! Pasó... este vestido, esta pose... me hacen sentir como... ¡una chica! (Yes! It happened... this dress, this pose... they make me feel like... a damn chick!) — burst out of André, but she instantly caught herself when she saw Angela’s surprised look. She blinked, clearly not understanding what she'd just heard. Of course she didn’t understand Spanish. Of course she wasn’t supposed to. But the tone gave everything away—desperation, self-disgust… and pain.

— Um... I... sorry... — André mumbled in English now, with that damn Spanish accent she hated more than anything. It had replaced her native English, and now she had to strain just to form words in English. And it wasn’t easy, even after five months of English courses following her transformation—from a 43-year-old white man into this Latina-looking girl who was now officially 21. Still, it was all very difficult. And just as amusing—especially for those who had witnessed the transformation firsthand and had known André back when she was still Anders.

Angela burst out laughing at first, even slapped her knee:

— Oh my God, André! You just sounded like you were in some Mexican soap opera! Ha-ha… You little drama queen…

But after a couple of seconds, the laughter died down. Angela looked at the girl next to her—closely, almost studying her. Her lips twitched, and the old smile faded, replaced by a tired, almost motherly sigh.

— If it helps you feel better... you know, I always hated Anders.

André snapped her head around, eyes wide in shock.

— ¡¿Qué?! — she threw her hands up. — You mean… me?! You hated me?! Why should I… feel better?! Are you joking?! — her voice trembled, and her eyes flared with real rage, mixed with hurt.

— Hey, hey, calm down, you silly girl… — Angela placed a hand on her thigh. — That’s not what I meant. I meant… the way he behaved. You were always so… — she searched for the right word, — heavy. Like you didn’t give a damn about anyone. Cynical. Always with that greasy stain on your shirt and a cigarette in your mouth, like you were pissed off at the world 24/7. But now… you’re real.

— Real?! — André’s voice jumped half a tone higher, and she felt it again—those cursed intonations that made every word sound disgustingly girly. She clenched her fists, her soft little nails pressing into her palms, and that only made her angrier—everything she did, everything felt… weak. Delicate. Wrong.

— Yes! Exactly! You're a girl who's fighting for her "self." And if you want to know… I see you like a younger sister. Or even… almost like a daughter. Someone I just want to hug. And protect.

André froze. Like standing naked in a cold wind. Her heart clenched, and a lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed it, gritting her teeth. The auto shop had agreed to the government program for those affected by the virus and kept her on because of her past achievements. It was the one thing that still connected her to her old life. She couldn’t work on engines anymore—her body was too weak—so after many attempts, they moved her here, to "vehicle intake." But inside, she was still fighting. Refused to accept this new reality. And Angela’s words—Angela, who had trained her in this new craft—so maternal, so caring, only made it worse now.

— I'm not… not a kid… — she forced out. — I'm not a girl. I was a man. A man with grease on his hands, with a brain that knew every damn hose in the engine… — she coughed, tears welled up in her eyes, but she waved them off. — I'm not a "sweetie," not a "daughter," not a "sister," you hear me?! I...

Loud male laughter burst into the break room as the door swung open and three mechanics walked in. All three in greasy coveralls, with the swagger of guys used to hard labor and dick jokes. They strolled in, one shoving the other’s shoulder, trailed by the smell of gasoline and garage dust.

— Well, well! — shouted one of them. His gaze slid over André quickly, but sharply. — What’s this... tears?

André flinched like she’d been slapped. Felt naked, like she’d been caught doing something shameful. She immediately turned away from them and instinctively struck a pose—like a model on the cover of some cheap glossy magazine. Knees together, shoulders slightly forward, straight back, chin tilted… And then she realized it. Again. This damn body moved with instinctive femininity. And worst of all—it looked natural. Sexy.

— Oh, come on, chica — drawled one of the mechanics, the young one with eternally greasy hands. — Don’t freak out. We just… y'know, came to check things out. Your little... front desk.

They knew. All of them knew damn well who she used to be. Just half a year ago, before that cursed client puked all over Anders and before he started turning into André, they respected him—hell, even feared him a bit. How could they not? He was a whole head taller than most of them, and those arms looked like they could snap someone’s neck without trying. Now André barely reached the shoulder of the shortest mechanic, and half the time couldn’t even unscrew a bottle cap.

And it could’ve been any one of them!

— We were just messing around, chica — the mechanic went on with a smirk. — You mad?

— What the hell are you doing in here? — Angela cut in sharply, and something inside André twisted. Angela. She was standing up for her again. Like it had become normal.

André looked away. Not out of fear—more because she couldn’t stand their eyes. Their smirks. Their little winks. Their condescending "chica." And most of all—how they looked at her now. With interest. With lust. With that smug certainty that if they pressed the right buttons, she’d blush, smile, maybe even fuck one of them. She knew that look. Knew it well—because she used to wear it herself.

— Oh, come on, Ange — said one of them, the one who always picked his teeth with a screwdriver, spreading his arms. — We’re here on business. Client’s car is waiting, and she... — he jerked his chin toward André, — she’s just sitting here, warming that yellow dress.

— Seriously? — Angela stood up, her bulky figure blocking out half the light. — Maybe think about how much time you waste hanging around before pointing fingers.

The mechanics exchanged glances. Guilty, but not really scared. Just out of habit—Angela could raise her voice, but rarely went beyond that. Still, they began to back off.

— I’ll go out now and handle it — André said dully, not looking at anyone, jaw clenched so tight her cheekbones turned pale. The dress clung again—to her tits, her stomach, her thighs—and every step felt like betrayal. Even her walk, despite all her efforts, gave her away: the sway of her hips, the softness in her step, the gentle way her heel touched the ground. She hated every second of it. Hated how her body made choices for her. How she simply couldn’t walk like a man anymore. She just couldn’t.