Transcovid

A normal, unremarkable day in the suburbs of Los Angeles was basically no different from so many others, except for the fact that autumn was

A normal, unremarkable day in the suburbs of Los Angeles was basically no different from so many others, except for the fact that autumn was slowly starting to take hold. Kristina Harrison — or at least that’s what her documents said — clumsily tried to gather her hair into something resembling a hairstyle, but her fingers, those foreign, delicate fingers, were trembling, and her head was buzzing.

Each step on the asphalt sent strange sensations through her body. Her breasts, playfully peeking out of the deep neckline of that damn mini dress, swayed with every step, and the light breeze blowing across her thin legs, creeping into the most inappropriate places, reminded her of just how short that piece of fabric was. Damn, how irritating.

“God, I can't walk like THIS!” — Kris gritted her teeth, yanked the hem of her dress down, but it helped only for a moment. The bag immediately slipped off her fragile shoulder, hitting her hip. Kristina irritably sucked in a breath and quickly tossed the strap back, trying to ignore the fact that now the thing swung around even more awkwardly. Every step felt humiliating. These uncomfortable shoes, that damn mini-dress clinging to her body, and most of all — the looks. They were there. Not direct, not bold, but clear, sticky, studying.

She wasn’t Kristina Harrison. She wasn’t a woman. She wasn’t that damn skinny girl with the deep neckline and the absurd feeling of air on her legs.

But her body — that was. Thanks to the “social adaptation” program, or whatever they called it. Seemed like a humane initiative — give those few people who suddenly changed their gender after the new “Transcovid” virus documents, even housing, and some chance to fit into society, but in essence, it was just a way to say, “Well, now you're a woman, figure it out yourself.”

She quickened her pace, trying to escape the thoughts of how ridiculous she looked. Her breasts swayed with every step, the dress betrayed her by riding up, exposing even more of her legs, and Kris panickedly yanked it down, but the fabric only stretched tighter across her chest.

— Damn you! — she hissed under her breath, clenching her fists.

— Hey, beautiful!

Kristina froze. Damn, not this. She didn’t turn around, pretending not to hear, but the feeling of sticky attention literally pierced her skin. Her heart began to race.

— I’m talking to you, baby! — The voice was persistent, with a note of self-satisfaction.

Kristina picked up her pace, feeling a chill run down her spine. These heels — god, who even invented this torture? It seemed like any wrong step could be her last if her foot twisted. But there was no choice. The main thing was to get away.

Behind her, there was a short laugh, but the guy, whoever he was, didn’t follow her. Apparently, he just wanted to have some fun.

— Well, screw you, bitch.

Kristina gritted her teeth, her fists clenched. This was how it was now? Just because they thought she was too proud to respond to some street asshole?

“Welcome to your new life, Kris.”

She made it to the bus stop, tried to steady her breathing, and sat down in a way that would at least partially cover her legs with that cursed dress. The bus came in a few minutes, and she had to jump inside in those damn stilettos.

Damn virus. Damn society that couldn’t properly accept those who were like her. Not long ago, she had been Kris Brown, a middle manager at a tech sales firm. She had never felt like this — like a target. Back then, she had a firm grip, a voice that people listened to, and no need to worry about whether her legs were too exposed or her dress might ride up too high.

But then came “Transcovid.” That stupid virus, that stupid mutation, which struck a small percentage of people, turning their bodies inside out, changing their DNA in a way that made it impossible to reverse. One day — and there he was, Kris Brown, a confident man, waking up in the morning and discovering that his body had completely changed.

At first, he thought it was just a nightmare and, not knowing what to do, locked himself inside. But a week passed, then two, three, several months. He had already faced the misunderstanding of society when he talked about his sudden transformation, but no one recognized it — everyone was sure that the virus only affected people who had doubts about their gender, and because of that, Kris had communication problems with everyone. Colleagues, friends, even random acquaintances — they all started looking at him differently. Some with pity, as if he had always been a woman, just too afraid to admit it. Others with contempt, saying that since “Transcovid” had picked him, it meant he’d always wanted it. A silly, absurd idea, but society eagerly embraced it.

And now, he — she — was Kristina Harrison, officially never having been a man. The social adaptation program took care of a new passport, a new biography, a new life. And of course, a new job. Or rather, the sad parody of a career they had thrown her way in the form of a receptionist position at a cosmetic company.

He no longer existed officially. Only this new, strange world remained, where even the mentors who were supposed to help remained silent when it came to real problems. Like, for example, work.

Yesterday, she had been asking the curator like the biggest idiot if there was anything she could do about the appearance requirements, but all she got was the usual:

"We don’t interfere with your integration, Miss Harrison. It’s your life."

Yeah, her life. Her new, fucking life.

The office of "Belle Visage" was located in the city center, a massive glass building that screamed its own pompousness.

She entered the lobby and immediately felt the glances slide over her. Women – with a slight squint, a mixture of approval and envy in their eyes. Men – with open interest. Especially the older ones.

God, this was disgusting.

— Christina, you’re late. — The voice of secretary Miss Lang made her jump.

— I... I’m only two minutes late, — she muttered, awkwardly adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

— Doesn’t matter. Management likes punctuality. — The woman gave her a once-over and slowly smiled. — But at least you finally look... appropriate.

— Of course, Miss Lang, — she ground out through her teeth, hurrying towards the reception desk, feeling how with each step her breasts bounced obnoxiously in time with her movements.

Christina swallowed and kept walking, still under the weight of those evaluating looks. Of course, they were looking. Today was her first day in this... nightmare. The bosses told her literally yesterday: if she wanted to stay, she had to “fit the company image.”

That meant no loose clothing, no minimalism. She had to be “presentable.” And here was the result: a mini-dress, uncomfortable underwear, those fucking heels that were a whole new kind of torture to walk in.

The reception desk was impressive — snow-white marble with golden accents, as if to remind that even those who greet the guests should look like part of the elite interior. And she looked the part. In this goddamn tight dress, in these stupid heels, with makeup she had to learn from YouTube tutorials because without it, they’d look at her even worse.

Her fingers reached into her bag, pulling out the badge with her new name and a stupid kiss silhouette next to the company logo.

Christina Harrison.

She sighed, attaching it to the neckline of her dress, trying not to think about how the fabric stretched even tighter over her chest. Damn dress code. Damn new life.

— Wow, Christina, I didn’t think you could look like that, — a mocking voice came from the side.

She flinched and turned, meeting the gaze of the skinny technician, who was casually carrying a ladder over his shoulder, grinning like he’d just seen something hilariously absurd.

— How long have you been working here? — he continued, not taking his eyes off her figure.

Christina gritted her teeth. Another one of those who thought they could just walk up and say anything because they didn’t see her as a person.

— You’re kidding, I’ve been here for a week already, Steve, right? — Christina crossed her arms over her chest, but then immediately cursed herself for the gesture — goddamn tits, they just stuck out even more, like that’s what she needed.

— Oh, come on, I’m just saying you’re a real beauty now, — Steve smirked, letting his gaze wander down and clearly lingering longer than was appropriate.

Christina felt her irritation rise. Yeah, of course. Exactly what she’d been expecting — for some greasy technician with dirty hands and an oily stare to “comment” on her looks. Like she hadn’t already had enough of the morning “Hey, gorgeous,” and now this.

She’d already opened her mouth to snap back, but then the phone at the reception suddenly vibrated sharply, pulling Christina out of her irritation. She flinched, swallowed her anger, and picked up the receiver.

— Belle Visage, how can I help you? — her voice sounded as calm as it could in that state.

— Harrison, stop flirting with the staff and get to work, — an annoyed voice came from the receiver.

Christina barely held herself back from groaning in frustration. Of course, flirting! That’s exactly what she was doing, standing in front of this fat, self-satisfied technician who was devouring her with his eyes like she was a display item.

— I’m not flirting! — Christina snapped into the receiver, but the voice on the other end had already hung up.

She exhaled loudly, replaced the phone, and clenched her fists. Fuck, this wasn’t even her first day on the job — it was an entire week, but it was the first time they’d made her come in like this. In this goddamn dress, in these uncomfortable heels, looking like this, where even the gaze of this fat technician felt like a slap in the face.

Christina hated this.

— Well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that, — Steve’s voice came from somewhere beside her.

Christina gritted her teeth.

— You’re still here? — she hissed, spinning toward the technician, lowering her brows in a way that made even her gently expressive face look threatening.

He threw his hands up in fake surrender, smirked, and finally backed off, not forgetting to throw in at the last second:

— Alright, alright, don’t bite, Harrison. Just a compliment.

Goddamn bastard.

She exhaled loudly, bracing her hands on the reception desk and closing her eyes for a second. Damn week. Damn day. Damn everyone around.