Spectrum
Tell me a secret~
- Location
- Behind you~
Won't even make it to his college graduation, assuming he goes.
Companion Chronicles [Jumpchain/Multicross SI] [Currently visiting: INTERMISSION]
- Thread starter Tempestuous
- Start date
- Location
- Colorado
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Is it time to tell dave about magic? I think it's time to tell Dave about magic! Also as someone who got attached to the swapped version of her deadname as an egg and still holds onto it, I can't 100% relate to the difficulty of choosing a name that fits but glad to see it represented here. A lot of fics I read with trans elements tend to either have a name stick almost immediately or start after the char has picked a new name already, trans experiences are varied and seeing more examples of underrepresented elements is always a treat.
dhasenan
always lowercase
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Bah, she's not even seventy. Hardly one lifetime of experience!
Yeah, finding an appropriate-feeling name is hard. I'm on like my fourth, though weirdly enough it's one I chose before my egg fully cracked.
Tempestuous
Words are wind, so I write.
- Location
- CA
The Wards job was further complicated by being only a few years older than her chargers, putting her in the awkward spot between peer and authority figure.
I'm not sure what you mean by the last comment?
Some people just don't realize that their feelings simply shouldn't be expressed; or, in other words:
Cass would need Max's permission if she wanted to take Dave along, but he'll be 20 (21? I've been tracking his age by school year but having his birthday near the end of summer makes it weird) by the time they have to leave, and will probably inherit enough money that he'd never need to work, though given his upbringing I think he might enter a spiral of self-loathing if he ended up unemployed for no other reason than capitalist indoctrination.
Speaking from experience, there.
With regard to the emotional points, Cass went out of her way to convince Homura that forming bonds and leaving was better than not forging bonds at all, and I don't think anyone would argue that Cass should have stayed out of Dave's life just because she'd have to leave sooner than she might want. It's unfortunate, but maybe the brevity makes the fairy-tale.
Arguably true. And yeah, names are hard.
Chapter 114: Crossing the Threshold
Tempestuous
Words are wind, so I write.
- Location
- CA
AN: Beta-read by Carbohydratos, Did I?, Gaia, Linedoffice, Zephyrosis, and Mizu.
I took Dave to Colors and Canvas to get his mind off things, and to begin replacing his lost hoard of miniature-painting supplies. I knew hobbies like this were expensive—'plastic crack' was a joke for a reason—but I was still surprised by how far the budget I gave him, which I'd intended to be 'generous', went. Or rather, how far it didn't go.
Dave just seemed disappointed.
"Well, it's a start, right?" I asked as he frowned at the sandwich-sized paper bag his purchases fit into.
"Yeah, I guess."
We turned down the street and began the roughly mile-long walk home. I held out my hand to carry the stuff, but Dave shook his head and held onto the bag.
"A lot of this stuff lasts a long time," he said. "They look small, but there's a ton of paint in one of those bottles, and the brushes last forever if you take care of them. It's the start of a collection, right?"
"Sure," I agreed. It was fairly obvious I wasn't the one he was trying to convince.
Dave had focused on the basics this time: a bottle of primer, another of base coat, a seven-color pack of matte paint, and a pack of brushes. He didn't have anything to use them on yet; Colors and Canvas's selection of models hadn't passed muster.
"I still have that 3D printer somewhere," I said.
"The plastic stuff is really expensive, though, isn't it?"
"The filament? Nah. I wouldn't waste it, but it's there to be used. What do you think?"
Dave shrugged, which was a lot less enthusiasm than I'd expected. Something of that must have shown through.
"Sorry, it's just… I poured years of allowance into this stuff," he told me. "Dad thought it was weird but harmless until… you know."
So much for 'getting his mind off things', I thought.
"I said I bought them with my money," he continued, "but he said he paid my allowance, so…"
"So he told you that didn't count."
"Yeah."
We carried on down the street in silence. Strawfield was a town in grayscale at the moment: the sky overcast and the ground covered in a modest dusting of snow. The clearing of streets and sidewalks had more or less come to nothing by now, having turned half an inch of snowfall into piles that had already melted into slush and slumped back onto the places they'd been cleared from in the first place.
"I'm gonna have to go home, aren't I?" Dave asked.
It took me a moment to respond to the non sequitur.
"Not if you don't want to."
"But he said—Dad said if I didn't, you were gonna have to, like, adopt me or something."
Do you want us to? Was that too direct?
"We'll see," I said. "We made you a promise, though, remember?"
"What?"
"We're not sending you home unless you want to go home."
Dave scoffed. "What if Dad tells you to adopt me, then?"
"If it gets you what you want, that's what we'll do."
"You just met me."
I gave him an exasperated smile. "Dave, we're not strangers. I've known you for years. I've known your sister for even longer—she calls me Auntie Cassandra sometimes." Half the kids had at one point or another—mostly as a joke, but I had to admit I liked it. "You spent the last week sleeping in my spare bedroom, for goodness' sake."
"And you'd adopt me just like that?" he pressed.
"If it means you don't have to go back to the"—assholes—"people who sent that letter, then yes, I would."
Dave gave me a long, appraising look out of the corner of his eye.
"Don't get my hopes up," he said at last.
"I'm not sure if your parents would actually go through with it," I admitted, "but if that's what you want, I'm absolutely willing to try."
"What does Miss… um…" He floundered for a few seconds before biting the bullet and asking, "What's your sister's name again?"
"Akemi, and we agreed we were willing to take you in. If you want us to."
"Wow."
Neither of us spoke until we hit the next crosswalk.
"Bleh," Dave grumbled as he splashed through a puddle where the sidewalk met the street. "I hate snow."
"Wishing we hadn't walked yet?"
"Heck no. Like, yeah, it's cold and wet and stuff, but I will not be caught dead riding in that van."
"Some people," I proclaimed, "have no sense of style."
"Yeah, and the rest of us have to deal with you."
"As long as you're willing to put up with it."
He huffed and lengthened his pace, putting his back to me. I left him alone for a couple hundred feet of the trip.
"I've kind of danced around it," I began, breaking the silence again, "but I want to ask you straight out, just to be clear: would you like us to try to take guardianship of you? You don't have to answer immediately—"
"What would it change?" he interrupted.
"From your perspective? Compared to the last week, virtually nothing—well, hopefully. You'd still have the same room and all that." I paused as I considered the question further. "Actually, I think the biggest difference would be that you wouldn't have to worry about your parents demanding you come home."
"Why's that?"
"Because we'd have the right to determine where you live, not them."
Dave still wasn't looking at me, which made it hard to judge how he felt about the conversation.
"You know," he grumbled a few tens of feet further down the sidewalk, "when I mentioned Matilda, I wasn't trying to hint that you needed to suddenly adopt me."
"This isn't an impulsive decision."
"A week is long enough to make adopting a kid 'not an impulsive decision'?"
"It is if you take the time to really sit and think about it," I replied. "You don't have to answer right now, but think about it, okay?"
"You think I'd rather go home?"
"I think 'family' and 'home' can be tricky subjects."
Dave harrumphed. "The only thing Dad ever did for me was make room for me in his budget."
I winced because as harsh as that was, it matched what I knew of Mr. Elwick perfectly.
"Well, he didn't spoil me, I guess," Dave allowed. "For whatever that's worth."
"If you don't mind me asking, how much allowance were you getting, exactly?"
"Uh… well…"
The number he named was a lot more reasonable than I'd expected.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"You were expecting him to flex on people by giving me a ton of money, weren't you?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "Guilty."
"That's not how he works. If he's gonna flex, it's not gonna be with generosity."
Having met the man more often than I'd've liked, I couldn't disagree.
"What else did you spend the money on?" I asked. "Or was it just miniatures and paint?"
"Splatbooks aren't cheap either."
"And your dad made you throw it all out?"
"Yeah," Dave muttered. "It's all gone."
"You saved some things."
"Yeah, I guess. In hindsight I kinda wish I'd saved the supplies and not the finished stuff, you know?"
"The supplies are a lot easier to replace," I pointed out.
"Easier for who? I don't have any spending money."
"We should start giving you an allowance, then."
Dave shot a curious glance over his shoulder. "You're actually serious about adopting me, aren't you?"
"Of course I am. I wouldn't offer if I wasn't."
"Why?"
That was an easy question to answer.
"I got lucky," I said. "My parents freaked out when I told them I was a woman, but that was just the surprise talking; once they settled down, they were supportive. My mom in particular; she was maybe a little too supportive at times—don't ask."
"You know that just makes me want to ask."
"I was lucky," I repeated, ignoring the interjection, "but I also knew a lot of people who weren't. People whose family reacted like yours, or who were in parts of the world where trans healthcare barely existed. I would've loved to be able to help, but there's only so much you can do for someone you only know as a username in a chatroom, you know?"
"Yeah."
"Well, now I can do something. Of course I'm going to try."
"And?" Dave insisted.
"And?"
"Come on," he whined. "You're really going to turn your life upside down for that? You're talking about it like it's as easy as… I dunno, feeding a stray cat or something, not raising a kid."
I worried my lower lip with a tooth as we trudged on.
"Maybe I am making it sound too easy," I admitted. "To be honest, you've slotted into our lives more easily than I'd have thought possible, so maybe I'm underestimating how difficult it would be, but that just means I'll work harder to make it work. I wouldn't have offered if I was going to give less than one hundred percent—but that's what this is: an offer. You don't have to accept it. Take your time and think it over."
Dave scrunched up his face as he did just that.
"It's like, 'heck yes I want out of that house', but this feels too easy, you know?"
"Too convenient?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"Sorta? Or maybe… too good to be true? Not like it's a trick or anything," he hurried to add, "but like something has to go wrong somewhere. It's too storybook."
"I'm tempted to say that's the goal," I said, only half joking. "There's nothing I'd like more than to whisk you away from all your problems, but I think we both know it's not that easy."
"Yeah."
Dave kicked at a clump of half-melted snow, which did nothing but dampen his boots with a wet squelching sound. "Of course, we still have to deal with my parents."
"We can put things off for a few days, at least."
"I don't want to deal with them at all," he whined. "Heck with it. If you can do that—let me not deal with them—then sure. I'm in."
Dave tossed his coat and boots aside and headed straight to his room to find somewhere to store his new collection of painting supplies. I doffed my winter clothes more sedately, and had just begun to head for the living room when he called me back.
"Cassandra?"
"Yes?"
I stuck my head through the doorway to see Dave lying on his stomach in bed, head facing the doorway and phone in hand. "You need something?"
"Is it okay if I give Vince your email?" he asked.
"Who's Vince?"
Dave blinked. "Did I never tell you about Vince?"
"No, I don't think you did."
"Right, well… uh, has Megan ever talked about our childhood?"
"Not in any detail," I replied.
He nodded and launched into Story Mode.
"By the time I could walk, Mom and Dad were way too focused on their careers to actually raise us, so we grew up with a nanny. Megan says they used to be better when I was real little, but… anyway, our nanny's name was Jamie, and she was… well, as far as I was concerned, she was 'Mom'. She took us to school, picked us up in the afternoon, and looked after us until it was time to drive us home for bed. We barely saw the castle my parents call a 'house' until I was in middle school, when Jamie stopped taking care of us on weekends.
"But then Mom found out Megan and I called Jamie 'Mom' while we were with her, and she reacted badly. Well, I say 'Mom found out', but really, I yelled it at her while we were arguing. Told her I should call her 'Mrs. Elwick' because I already called Jamie 'Mom', since she was the one who actually raised us."
I couldn't help but cringe in sympathetic pain for Karen 'Disaster-mom' Elwick, even if she deserved it. The story did answer my questions about how two terrible parents raised such nice kids, though.
"So it's my fault," he continued. "I think Megan still blames me for that."
"Your… fault?"
"Mom fired her."
Dave sighed and rolled onto his back, still looking at me but now upside down. "Aaanyway, I used to complain about how much I wished I was a man a lot. No one really questioned it—they probably just thought I was whining about misogyny. I think I did too, at the time, but… uh, anyway, Jamie's boyfriend Vince came around every so often. He was real nice to us, too: he'd help us with our homework, play boardgames, that kind of 'dad' stuff. I liked him because he never tried to get me to like 'girl' things. He'd let me play with trains and action figures and stuff, you know?"
I nodded.
"Well, uh, he heard me keep saying that I wanted to be a guy, and one day he sat me down and asked me why I kept saying that."
"And?"
"And he told me people who are born girls can grow up to be men if they want, and how it worked, and all that. I was… well, I was really confused, but it was also the best news ever, you know? No periods, no boobs… well, in theory…"
"And that's how you found out you were trans?"
"Pretty much."
That explained who Vince was but not why I needed to talk to him. "So why does your old nanny's boyfriend want to talk to me?"
"Husband, now," Dave corrected me absentmindedly. "They moved to southern California and got married."
"Oh, that's… nice? It's cool that you kept in contact. Why does he want my email?"
"Probably to make sure you're not gonna traffic me or anything."
"That's not funny," I said.
"Sorry." Dave rolled himself back to his stomach so he was facing me properly again. "Uh, I do think he wants to make sure you're on the level, though. I told him what we were talking about and he got real insistent."
I pursed my lips. "That's… reasonable, actually. Did you tell him I was trans?"
"What, you expect me to just out you to someone like that?"
"I guess it'd depend on how much else you told him about me," I decided. "'I met a trans woman' isn't outing anyone, but 'I met Strawfield bakery owner Cassandra Kyogen, comma, a trans woman' would be… anyway, feel free to give him my email and cell number—or you can friend me, and he'll be able to message me as a friend-of-friend."
"Yeah, no," Dave said. "First rule of social media: do not friend your parents."
"You see me as a parent?"
He paled as he realized his mistake, but it was too late. I couldn't help myself; I put on a beaming smile, threw open my arms, and cried, "My son!"
Dave drove his face into the blankets in embarrassment.
Vince and I spoke the following evening. Dave had at some point relayed the fact I was trans, so if Vince had been suspicious before he didn't seem it by the time he called. We ended up having a nice, friendly chat that was more about our shared political views and general complaints about societal tolerance than anything else, so I'm sure he took my measure well enough.
The only surprise for me came near the end of the call, when I made a comment referring to Vince as an 'ally'; he'd laughed and informed me he wasn't an ally but a trans man himself. He was surprised Dave hadn't told me, actually.
Trans people are like magnets for each other, I swear.
Regardless, I recalled to him how Dave had hesitated to volunteer my status as a trans woman, and we had a sensible chuckle at the boy's well-meaning but in this case unnecessary caution with respect to people's secrets.
I gave Dave another day before I asked him about his guardianship again, just to confirm he meant what he'd said. He took it as hesitation on my part, which meant I had to spend a couple minutes reassuring him that, no, I just wanted to make sure he still felt the same way and wasn't regretting an impulsive decision.
He did, and he wasn't.
Homura handled the paperwork, as promised. I expected the Elwicks to drag their feet, but they signed over guardianship without issue, which offended me all over again.
Well, it wasn't quite that simple. I'm not a mind reader, but it seemed to me that Mr. Elwick didn't expect us to actually go through with it; that he expected us to balk and back down at any moment, all the way to the end. Maybe he'd been shocked speechless when he learned the paperwork went through, or maybe he cared as little as he'd let on. I wasn't there to see it.
Either way, two weeks to the day after that incredibly cringe-worthy letter, Dave officially became my ward.
The honeymoon period didn't even last a day. To my surprise, the sticking points wasn't chores or rules or any of the other domestic negotiables I'd expected pushback on, but something I'd assumed wouldn't be contentious.
"I don't need a therapist," Dave insisted. "I'm trans, not crazy."
I sighed and rubbed my forehead with one hand, elbow propped up on the kitchen table. "I don't think you're mentally ill. I just want to help you be happy and healthy."
"Mission accomplished. I'm fine." He would have crossed his arms if they weren't currently in use.
"Glad to hear it," I said. "I still think you could use someone to talk to who's not involved in your life in some way—and if they can offer advice, all the better."
Dave huffed, not looking up from where he was unpacking the weekend's homework. "I don't need it."
"Are you really going to fight me on this?"
"If you make me."
I shook my head in exasperation. "I'm not going to make you. I just think you should."
"But I'm not crazy."
"You don't need to have a mental illness to benefit from therapy. I'm not sending you to a doctor for a diagnosis, I'm—look, you like talking to people, right?"
"Some people," he allowed.
"Then think of your therapist as a professional conversationalist. You can talk about whatever you want—school, home life, TV shows, whatever, and they'll listen."
Dave finally looked up from his pile of books, eyebrows raised. "What's the point of that?"
"What's the point of talking to anyone?"
"You know, you're really making me wonder."
I groaned. "Dave, I'm serious."
"So am I! What good does that do?"
"There's nothing you'd want to get off your chest to someone who's trained to help with that kind of thing?"
"The only things I want to get off my chest are—"
"You know what I meant."
Dave set the book he'd been holding down with a thump, the sound speaking more to the weight of the text than his mild frustration. "Not to a stranger," he grumbled, "and especially not someone who's 'trained' to listen to it. Why are you so set on this?"
"Because finding a good therapist was one of the best things to happen to me in my life. Will you trust me?"
"Are you going to make me?"
I wished I could—I really thought therapy would be good for him—but I also knew it wouldn't work if he didn't want to cooperate. Therapy took commitment; 'just one session' wouldn't cut it even if he lucked out and found the right therapist for him on the first try.
Dave waited a few seconds to see if I was going to keep arguing, then buried his nose in his history textbook to escape my nagging.
It seemed pretty obvious to me that the best time to hit 'Craig'—'Dave' hadn't stuck, either, nor had 'Peter' or 'Jack'—with the reveal that magic really existed would be over the weekend, when he was fully rested and not tired from school. The question then was how long to wait, and that I had to play by ear. It took another two weeks before I judged that he'd made himself truly at home, so it was the last weekend in January when I followed up our pancake breakfast with a serving of anxiety.
"Hey, Craig," I said as we cleared our plates. "Can we have a quick talk?"
"Uh…"
"Don't worry, it's nothing bad," I assured him, jerking my head back towards the kitchen table. He sighed and took his seat across from me.
"Okay," I began. "First, to be clear, I'm asking this because I want to help you get what you want. I don't want to put any pressure on you; I'm just offering options."
"Okay…?"
I gave him a smile I hoped was reassuring, then stopped beating around the bush. "Do you want to transition?"
"Physically?" he asked. "You mean, like, surgery? Hormones? Can you even do that without Dad's approval?"
I was pretty sure the answer was 'yes' thanks to the paperwork we'd pushed through, but I was also pretty sure that it didn't matter. "Forget what your dad wants," I replied. "Would you want to?"
"Hmm."
Craig swallowed and tapped his fingers against the table. I waited as he worked his jaw back and forth, frowned, and blew out a breath in a long series of puffs. Chu-chu-chu-chu-chu-chu-chu-chu-chuuuu.
"That is the question, isn't it?" he asked.
"Well," I said, "yes."
He gave me an owlish blink, then let out a hum that was half consideration and half frustration.
"I always planned to," he said. "Once I moved out, I mean. It was something to look forward to, right?"
I nodded.
"So I feel like I should just say 'yes', but I'm scared to."
"Which parts are scary?"
Craig scoffed at the stupid question. "Well, I mean, it's surgery. That's always scary. And it's permanent, and I have no idea what I'll look like if I take hormones, and… ugh, it probably sounds really shallow, but I don't want to end up ugly, you know?" He swallowed again. "They say it's easier for trans men to pass, but I'm still nervous about how I'll look."
"That's very fair," I told him. "That said, if you had a button—"
"That magically changed my gender?" he finished for me, irritation in full view. "Yes, I know the question, and yes, I'd press the hypothetical magic button. That doesn't help me make up my mind here!"
I waited for him to go from 'annoyed' back to 'sullen' before I continued, "Well… I actually have a magic button for you, if you want."
Craig's response was a derisive snort. "Sure. Pull the other one."
"I'm serious."
"Bullsh—I mean, uh… come on."
"I know it sounds ridiculous, but… right, how about I just show you?"
"Show me what?"
"Magic."
The word hung in the air, undisturbed.
"Magic isn't real," Craig said.
"It is."
"Prove it."
I'd been waiting for just such an invitation. My telekinesis couldn't reach far enough to bring in the 'wand' Homura had made from my bedroom closet, but all I needed to do about that was to wave my faithful wand for a silent accio. The gender-changing wand flew straight into my waiting hands, and I set it down on the table in front of me.
The 'spell catalysts' could be made out of nearly anything, no matter how un-wand-like it was; Homura had, at my suggestion, made this one out of a button that looked to have once been an emergency stop switch on some sort of heavy machinery. Text that had once said STOP now read CHANGE, and a pair of dials screwed onto the face below allowed one to select the degree of masculinity or femininity and a duration from one hour to one day (which was really a minimum duration due to the way magic resistance worked, but that was neither here nor there).
Craig, predictably and rationally, looked like he'd just had the world turned on its head. "Holy shit."
I let the profanity slide… this time.
"Sorry," I said. "I know it's a shock to show off like this, but it always comes down to 'prove it' in the end, and I didn't want to go back and forth for five minutes before resorting to something like that anyway."
His mouth flapped soundless for a few seconds.
"That was magic?" he asked at last. "Real magic?"
"It was."
"Magic really exists. It really works."
"It does."
Craig stood up and leaned forward over the table, doing his best to project menacing anger.
"And you never told Megan—who visited you almost day, loves fantasy more than anything else, read about everything even slightly paranormal like it was the most important thing in the world, and even chose her first friend at college solely because her last name was 'Kitsune'—about any of it?"
"Well, I…"
I hesitated. I had told Megan, of course, but admitting that to Craig would mean explaining that she'd been the one to keep it from him.
He, naturally, took the hesitation as an admission of guilt and stalked off to his room with a huff.
'Luckily' for me, the decision of what to tell Craig quickly moved out of my hands.
"You knew?!"
His shout was clearly audible from the other end of the apartment, so I hurried down the hall and stuck my head in the partially-open door. Craig was still yelling as he paced back and forth in front of his bed. "—didn't trust me! I tell you everything, and you still didn't trust me!"
"Craig?"
"Ah!"
He jumped a foot in the air and half-hid his phone behind his back before he remembered he was allowed to have it. "I… sorry," he muttered, looking far guiltier than he had any need to feel. "I'll keep it down."
"Nevermind that," I told him. "A little noise isn't a big deal. Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, I was just, uh…" Craig raised the phone helplessly.
Context gave me a pretty good hint who was on the other end of the line. "That Megan?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. I'm gonna close the door, give you some privacy. Say hi for me, would you?"
"Uh… sure."
I did as I said I would and went back to the kitchen. No further shouting ensued.
I wasn't surprised that it was hunger that brought Craig out of his fortress of solitude.
"Sorry about the yelling, Mi—er, Cassandra," he mumbled as he took position hovering at the edge of the kitchen.
"Forgiven."
"Thanks." He fussed with his fingers for a moment, then asked, "What's for dinner?"
I felt like he could use a treat after the day he'd had. "Whatever you want."
"Can we order pizza?"
"We can order pizza."
So we did. I placed the order—delivery—then turned to see that Craig had sank into the chair opposite mine and propped his chin on his hands. I had no idea what to say, partly because I had no idea what Megan had said during their call, so I just sat back down and waited for him to speak.
"You closed the door," he said.
"Yes? Like I said, I thought you could use some privacy."
"I just… noticed, is all," Craig said. "Thanks."
"Did you not have much privacy at home?"
"No."
His answer didn't invite a response.
Seconds ticked by in silence.
"I can't believe she kept such an important secret from me," he grumbled. "She got an actual spell-casting class, and she didn't tell me!"
I bit back a reflexive excuse on Megan's behalf; she could defend herself, and probably had. Right now, Craig needed someone on his side.
"What did she say about it?"
"She said she wanted to tell me, but wasn't willing to risk Mom and Dad finding out. Which isn't fair! I trusted her with my stuff!" He paused for a moment to wipe moisture out of his eyes. "She told her friends, but not me! Because she doesn't trust that I can keep a secret!"
"I'm sorry, Craig."
"I get that she's scared of Mom and Dad finding out, but we're sisters—I mean, she's my sister. Ugh, I'm so used to thinking like… argh! This sucks! It all sucks, and it's all his fault!"
"I'm sorry," I repeated. "But I promise you, I will do everything I can to help you live your best life. Family ties are important—"
Craig fixed me with a glare.
"—but not as important as taking care of yourself," I continued, pivoting as soon as I realized what he was afraid I was implying. "If you need to be free of your parents, I'll do everything I can to make it happen."
"You had me in the first half."
"Yeah, sorry. What I'm trying to say is that… how should I put this?"
I had to stop and think for a good thirty seconds before I had a proper 'speech'.
"Dealing with family is messy and complicated even when you get along. I would never tell you that you ought to expose yourself to trauma just because 'family is important', but I also don't want to tell you that you should give up and cut ties if you're not ready for that—if you decide to, I'll support you, of course, but I know it's not that easy. And that is if you decide to, not when, so don't feel like I'm telling you it's got to happen. I… I want you to interact with your family exactly as much as is healthy for you, whatever amount that turns out to be. Does that make sense?"
He nodded.
"Good."
I held off on getting into what 'magic' meant until after we'd had our fill of pizza. Craig's questions were mostly centered on practical concerns: how long magical effects lasted, what they were capable of, how hard they were to do, and so on. He seemed disappointed by the idea that magic spells were 'all at-will abilities', as he put it. No incantations, spell formula, or reagents; just point and shoot.
He'd have liked Breath of Fire's magic more, I think.
I finished on what I hoped would be a high note: the Button itself. "Do you want to try it?" I offered, pushing it into the center of the table.
Craig responded by resting his forehead on the table and grunting, which was very much not the reaction I'd imagined.
"Is everything all right?"
"Yeah."
It was among the least convincing 'yeah's I had ever encountered.
"Are you sure?"
He didn't even bother responding this time.
"Craig—"
"Don't call me that."
"Okay. What should I call you?"
He harrumphed unhelpfully.
"Have I done something wrong?" I asked.
"No, it's… I dunno." He stood up and began wandering around the room the way he always did when he was upset, poking and prodding at whatever was easily accessible.
"You transitioned with magic, right?" he asked from near the stove.
"Yeah."
"Does that make you a cis woman?"
"I wouldn't say so, no."
He nodded like he expected that answer.
"Then, instead of making me into a boy… can magic make me into a cis girl instead?"
Had I heard that right? "What?"
"A cis girl!" he yelled, whirling around to face me. "I don't want to have to transition, magic or no magic! If magic can do anything, then just fix me so I'm not miserable like this!" He waved his arms up and down his current body. "Can you do that?"
"Uh." I tripped over my tongue twice before I managed to say, "I mean, it may well be possible, but—"
"You won't, then?"
"I'm not saying I won't, but—"
He/she stepped forward and slammed his/her hands on the countertop that separated the cooking area from the dining table. "Don't 'but' me! Why should I have to deal with all of this bullshit if you can just fix it? I don't want to have to deal with all of this crap! I want to feel okay in my body! I want to stop having to hide who I am! I want my parents to love me again!"
For a moment, the only sound was their heavy breathing.
"You have no right to tell me how I should live my life," they whined. "You have no idea what it's like to feel like this!"
"I know what you're—"
"No you don't! How could you, when you have magical solutions to all your problems?"
"I told you I transitioned late in life, right?" I asked. "Why do you think I spent thirty years of my life wishing for magical solutions in the first place?"
"Well, you got them!"
"Yes, I did, but that doesn't mean I don't remember what it's like. I know I'm lucky, but that doesn't mean I didn't have my share of problems on the way here." I stood up and reached out over the table to rest my hand on the Button. "Heck, you want to know what I looked like when I finally learned trans people even exist?"
I pushed down.
I'd tested the wand on myself before I'd offered it to them, of course, and the result had been exactly what I'd expected. The person now standing by the table looked the same as he had—as I had—when I'd met Max nearly forty years ago.
"You're right," I said in that nasal, pronunciation-impaired voice I'd once been so self-conscious of. "I might not know exactly how you feel, and I certainly don't have any right to tell you how to live. But I want to make sure you're making the right choice. I don't want you to do something just because it's what's your parents want, or what society wants—I want you to do what's best for you."
Yellow light from the streetlamps outside shone through the windows, casting shadows from the plant Max had given us years ago on the tile floor. The minutes on the microwave clock ticked over as the silence stretched, broken only by the steady background hum of small-town life intruding on our private drama.
They swallowed and scrubbed at their eyes with both hands.
"That's… you?" they asked.
"It's what I looked like," I admitted. "I wouldn't say it's 'me', but… well."
They kept staring. I wanted nothing more than to shrink away or fidget—more from the attention itself than the body I was admittedly a little less than comfortable in—but I forced myself to stand still and meet their eye. They blinked first, lowering their head to gaze a hole through the countertop tiles.
"I hate this," they whined. "I hate that I hate myself for feeling like this. I hate that I'm less comfortable with you now that you showed me this because seeing it makes it real. I hate it!"
I walked over and hugged them. They didn't fight or squirm—they hugged me back, as tightly as if holding on for dear life, face buried in my (flat, male) chest.
"Society is shit," I told them. "It doesn't matter what it is about you that doesn't fit; if you don't, won't, or can't conform, it's going to shit on you from great height even while it trains you to do the same to everyone else. But that doesn't mean we have to change ourselves to what they want us to be. Believe me, I understand you're tired of fighting. No one should have to justify their existence like this. Yes, maybe there is some magic spell somewhere that will turn you into the girl your dad wants, but is that really what you want?"
My rant trailed off into an awkward silence, but they didn't let go.
"I… I want…"
They paused, took a couple ragged breaths, and whispered:
"I want to go home."
Chapter 114: Crossing the Threshold
I took Dave to Colors and Canvas to get his mind off things, and to begin replacing his lost hoard of miniature-painting supplies. I knew hobbies like this were expensive—'plastic crack' was a joke for a reason—but I was still surprised by how far the budget I gave him, which I'd intended to be 'generous', went. Or rather, how far it didn't go.
Dave just seemed disappointed.
"Well, it's a start, right?" I asked as he frowned at the sandwich-sized paper bag his purchases fit into.
"Yeah, I guess."
We turned down the street and began the roughly mile-long walk home. I held out my hand to carry the stuff, but Dave shook his head and held onto the bag.
"A lot of this stuff lasts a long time," he said. "They look small, but there's a ton of paint in one of those bottles, and the brushes last forever if you take care of them. It's the start of a collection, right?"
"Sure," I agreed. It was fairly obvious I wasn't the one he was trying to convince.
Dave had focused on the basics this time: a bottle of primer, another of base coat, a seven-color pack of matte paint, and a pack of brushes. He didn't have anything to use them on yet; Colors and Canvas's selection of models hadn't passed muster.
"I still have that 3D printer somewhere," I said.
"The plastic stuff is really expensive, though, isn't it?"
"The filament? Nah. I wouldn't waste it, but it's there to be used. What do you think?"
Dave shrugged, which was a lot less enthusiasm than I'd expected. Something of that must have shown through.
"Sorry, it's just… I poured years of allowance into this stuff," he told me. "Dad thought it was weird but harmless until… you know."
So much for 'getting his mind off things', I thought.
"I said I bought them with my money," he continued, "but he said he paid my allowance, so…"
"So he told you that didn't count."
"Yeah."
We carried on down the street in silence. Strawfield was a town in grayscale at the moment: the sky overcast and the ground covered in a modest dusting of snow. The clearing of streets and sidewalks had more or less come to nothing by now, having turned half an inch of snowfall into piles that had already melted into slush and slumped back onto the places they'd been cleared from in the first place.
"I'm gonna have to go home, aren't I?" Dave asked.
It took me a moment to respond to the non sequitur.
"Not if you don't want to."
"But he said—Dad said if I didn't, you were gonna have to, like, adopt me or something."
Do you want us to? Was that too direct?
"We'll see," I said. "We made you a promise, though, remember?"
"What?"
"We're not sending you home unless you want to go home."
Dave scoffed. "What if Dad tells you to adopt me, then?"
"If it gets you what you want, that's what we'll do."
"You just met me."
I gave him an exasperated smile. "Dave, we're not strangers. I've known you for years. I've known your sister for even longer—she calls me Auntie Cassandra sometimes." Half the kids had at one point or another—mostly as a joke, but I had to admit I liked it. "You spent the last week sleeping in my spare bedroom, for goodness' sake."
"And you'd adopt me just like that?" he pressed.
"If it means you don't have to go back to the"—assholes—"people who sent that letter, then yes, I would."
Dave gave me a long, appraising look out of the corner of his eye.
"Don't get my hopes up," he said at last.
"I'm not sure if your parents would actually go through with it," I admitted, "but if that's what you want, I'm absolutely willing to try."
"What does Miss… um…" He floundered for a few seconds before biting the bullet and asking, "What's your sister's name again?"
"Akemi, and we agreed we were willing to take you in. If you want us to."
"Wow."
Neither of us spoke until we hit the next crosswalk.
"Bleh," Dave grumbled as he splashed through a puddle where the sidewalk met the street. "I hate snow."
"Wishing we hadn't walked yet?"
"Heck no. Like, yeah, it's cold and wet and stuff, but I will not be caught dead riding in that van."
"Some people," I proclaimed, "have no sense of style."
"Yeah, and the rest of us have to deal with you."
"As long as you're willing to put up with it."
He huffed and lengthened his pace, putting his back to me. I left him alone for a couple hundred feet of the trip.
"I've kind of danced around it," I began, breaking the silence again, "but I want to ask you straight out, just to be clear: would you like us to try to take guardianship of you? You don't have to answer immediately—"
"What would it change?" he interrupted.
"From your perspective? Compared to the last week, virtually nothing—well, hopefully. You'd still have the same room and all that." I paused as I considered the question further. "Actually, I think the biggest difference would be that you wouldn't have to worry about your parents demanding you come home."
"Why's that?"
"Because we'd have the right to determine where you live, not them."
Dave still wasn't looking at me, which made it hard to judge how he felt about the conversation.
"You know," he grumbled a few tens of feet further down the sidewalk, "when I mentioned Matilda, I wasn't trying to hint that you needed to suddenly adopt me."
"This isn't an impulsive decision."
"A week is long enough to make adopting a kid 'not an impulsive decision'?"
"It is if you take the time to really sit and think about it," I replied. "You don't have to answer right now, but think about it, okay?"
"You think I'd rather go home?"
"I think 'family' and 'home' can be tricky subjects."
Dave harrumphed. "The only thing Dad ever did for me was make room for me in his budget."
I winced because as harsh as that was, it matched what I knew of Mr. Elwick perfectly.
"Well, he didn't spoil me, I guess," Dave allowed. "For whatever that's worth."
"If you don't mind me asking, how much allowance were you getting, exactly?"
"Uh… well…"
The number he named was a lot more reasonable than I'd expected.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"You were expecting him to flex on people by giving me a ton of money, weren't you?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "Guilty."
"That's not how he works. If he's gonna flex, it's not gonna be with generosity."
Having met the man more often than I'd've liked, I couldn't disagree.
"What else did you spend the money on?" I asked. "Or was it just miniatures and paint?"
"Splatbooks aren't cheap either."
"And your dad made you throw it all out?"
"Yeah," Dave muttered. "It's all gone."
"You saved some things."
"Yeah, I guess. In hindsight I kinda wish I'd saved the supplies and not the finished stuff, you know?"
"The supplies are a lot easier to replace," I pointed out.
"Easier for who? I don't have any spending money."
"We should start giving you an allowance, then."
Dave shot a curious glance over his shoulder. "You're actually serious about adopting me, aren't you?"
"Of course I am. I wouldn't offer if I wasn't."
"Why?"
That was an easy question to answer.
"I got lucky," I said. "My parents freaked out when I told them I was a woman, but that was just the surprise talking; once they settled down, they were supportive. My mom in particular; she was maybe a little too supportive at times—don't ask."
"You know that just makes me want to ask."
"I was lucky," I repeated, ignoring the interjection, "but I also knew a lot of people who weren't. People whose family reacted like yours, or who were in parts of the world where trans healthcare barely existed. I would've loved to be able to help, but there's only so much you can do for someone you only know as a username in a chatroom, you know?"
"Yeah."
"Well, now I can do something. Of course I'm going to try."
"And?" Dave insisted.
"And?"
"Come on," he whined. "You're really going to turn your life upside down for that? You're talking about it like it's as easy as… I dunno, feeding a stray cat or something, not raising a kid."
I worried my lower lip with a tooth as we trudged on.
"Maybe I am making it sound too easy," I admitted. "To be honest, you've slotted into our lives more easily than I'd have thought possible, so maybe I'm underestimating how difficult it would be, but that just means I'll work harder to make it work. I wouldn't have offered if I was going to give less than one hundred percent—but that's what this is: an offer. You don't have to accept it. Take your time and think it over."
Dave scrunched up his face as he did just that.
"It's like, 'heck yes I want out of that house', but this feels too easy, you know?"
"Too convenient?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"Sorta? Or maybe… too good to be true? Not like it's a trick or anything," he hurried to add, "but like something has to go wrong somewhere. It's too storybook."
"I'm tempted to say that's the goal," I said, only half joking. "There's nothing I'd like more than to whisk you away from all your problems, but I think we both know it's not that easy."
"Yeah."
Dave kicked at a clump of half-melted snow, which did nothing but dampen his boots with a wet squelching sound. "Of course, we still have to deal with my parents."
"We can put things off for a few days, at least."
"I don't want to deal with them at all," he whined. "Heck with it. If you can do that—let me not deal with them—then sure. I'm in."
———X==X==X———
Dave tossed his coat and boots aside and headed straight to his room to find somewhere to store his new collection of painting supplies. I doffed my winter clothes more sedately, and had just begun to head for the living room when he called me back.
"Cassandra?"
"Yes?"
I stuck my head through the doorway to see Dave lying on his stomach in bed, head facing the doorway and phone in hand. "You need something?"
"Is it okay if I give Vince your email?" he asked.
"Who's Vince?"
Dave blinked. "Did I never tell you about Vince?"
"No, I don't think you did."
"Right, well… uh, has Megan ever talked about our childhood?"
"Not in any detail," I replied.
He nodded and launched into Story Mode.
"By the time I could walk, Mom and Dad were way too focused on their careers to actually raise us, so we grew up with a nanny. Megan says they used to be better when I was real little, but… anyway, our nanny's name was Jamie, and she was… well, as far as I was concerned, she was 'Mom'. She took us to school, picked us up in the afternoon, and looked after us until it was time to drive us home for bed. We barely saw the castle my parents call a 'house' until I was in middle school, when Jamie stopped taking care of us on weekends.
"But then Mom found out Megan and I called Jamie 'Mom' while we were with her, and she reacted badly. Well, I say 'Mom found out', but really, I yelled it at her while we were arguing. Told her I should call her 'Mrs. Elwick' because I already called Jamie 'Mom', since she was the one who actually raised us."
I couldn't help but cringe in sympathetic pain for Karen 'Disaster-mom' Elwick, even if she deserved it. The story did answer my questions about how two terrible parents raised such nice kids, though.
"So it's my fault," he continued. "I think Megan still blames me for that."
"Your… fault?"
"Mom fired her."
Dave sighed and rolled onto his back, still looking at me but now upside down. "Aaanyway, I used to complain about how much I wished I was a man a lot. No one really questioned it—they probably just thought I was whining about misogyny. I think I did too, at the time, but… uh, anyway, Jamie's boyfriend Vince came around every so often. He was real nice to us, too: he'd help us with our homework, play boardgames, that kind of 'dad' stuff. I liked him because he never tried to get me to like 'girl' things. He'd let me play with trains and action figures and stuff, you know?"
I nodded.
"Well, uh, he heard me keep saying that I wanted to be a guy, and one day he sat me down and asked me why I kept saying that."
"And?"
"And he told me people who are born girls can grow up to be men if they want, and how it worked, and all that. I was… well, I was really confused, but it was also the best news ever, you know? No periods, no boobs… well, in theory…"
"And that's how you found out you were trans?"
"Pretty much."
That explained who Vince was but not why I needed to talk to him. "So why does your old nanny's boyfriend want to talk to me?"
"Husband, now," Dave corrected me absentmindedly. "They moved to southern California and got married."
"Oh, that's… nice? It's cool that you kept in contact. Why does he want my email?"
"Probably to make sure you're not gonna traffic me or anything."
"That's not funny," I said.
"Sorry." Dave rolled himself back to his stomach so he was facing me properly again. "Uh, I do think he wants to make sure you're on the level, though. I told him what we were talking about and he got real insistent."
I pursed my lips. "That's… reasonable, actually. Did you tell him I was trans?"
"What, you expect me to just out you to someone like that?"
"I guess it'd depend on how much else you told him about me," I decided. "'I met a trans woman' isn't outing anyone, but 'I met Strawfield bakery owner Cassandra Kyogen, comma, a trans woman' would be… anyway, feel free to give him my email and cell number—or you can friend me, and he'll be able to message me as a friend-of-friend."
"Yeah, no," Dave said. "First rule of social media: do not friend your parents."
"You see me as a parent?"
He paled as he realized his mistake, but it was too late. I couldn't help myself; I put on a beaming smile, threw open my arms, and cried, "My son!"
Dave drove his face into the blankets in embarrassment.
———X==X==X———
Vince and I spoke the following evening. Dave had at some point relayed the fact I was trans, so if Vince had been suspicious before he didn't seem it by the time he called. We ended up having a nice, friendly chat that was more about our shared political views and general complaints about societal tolerance than anything else, so I'm sure he took my measure well enough.
The only surprise for me came near the end of the call, when I made a comment referring to Vince as an 'ally'; he'd laughed and informed me he wasn't an ally but a trans man himself. He was surprised Dave hadn't told me, actually.
Trans people are like magnets for each other, I swear.
Regardless, I recalled to him how Dave had hesitated to volunteer my status as a trans woman, and we had a sensible chuckle at the boy's well-meaning but in this case unnecessary caution with respect to people's secrets.
I gave Dave another day before I asked him about his guardianship again, just to confirm he meant what he'd said. He took it as hesitation on my part, which meant I had to spend a couple minutes reassuring him that, no, I just wanted to make sure he still felt the same way and wasn't regretting an impulsive decision.
He did, and he wasn't.
Homura handled the paperwork, as promised. I expected the Elwicks to drag their feet, but they signed over guardianship without issue, which offended me all over again.
Well, it wasn't quite that simple. I'm not a mind reader, but it seemed to me that Mr. Elwick didn't expect us to actually go through with it; that he expected us to balk and back down at any moment, all the way to the end. Maybe he'd been shocked speechless when he learned the paperwork went through, or maybe he cared as little as he'd let on. I wasn't there to see it.
Either way, two weeks to the day after that incredibly cringe-worthy letter, Dave officially became my ward.
The honeymoon period didn't even last a day. To my surprise, the sticking points wasn't chores or rules or any of the other domestic negotiables I'd expected pushback on, but something I'd assumed wouldn't be contentious.
"I don't need a therapist," Dave insisted. "I'm trans, not crazy."
I sighed and rubbed my forehead with one hand, elbow propped up on the kitchen table. "I don't think you're mentally ill. I just want to help you be happy and healthy."
"Mission accomplished. I'm fine." He would have crossed his arms if they weren't currently in use.
"Glad to hear it," I said. "I still think you could use someone to talk to who's not involved in your life in some way—and if they can offer advice, all the better."
Dave huffed, not looking up from where he was unpacking the weekend's homework. "I don't need it."
"Are you really going to fight me on this?"
"If you make me."
I shook my head in exasperation. "I'm not going to make you. I just think you should."
"But I'm not crazy."
"You don't need to have a mental illness to benefit from therapy. I'm not sending you to a doctor for a diagnosis, I'm—look, you like talking to people, right?"
"Some people," he allowed.
"Then think of your therapist as a professional conversationalist. You can talk about whatever you want—school, home life, TV shows, whatever, and they'll listen."
Dave finally looked up from his pile of books, eyebrows raised. "What's the point of that?"
"What's the point of talking to anyone?"
"You know, you're really making me wonder."
I groaned. "Dave, I'm serious."
"So am I! What good does that do?"
"There's nothing you'd want to get off your chest to someone who's trained to help with that kind of thing?"
"The only things I want to get off my chest are—"
"You know what I meant."
Dave set the book he'd been holding down with a thump, the sound speaking more to the weight of the text than his mild frustration. "Not to a stranger," he grumbled, "and especially not someone who's 'trained' to listen to it. Why are you so set on this?"
"Because finding a good therapist was one of the best things to happen to me in my life. Will you trust me?"
"Are you going to make me?"
I wished I could—I really thought therapy would be good for him—but I also knew it wouldn't work if he didn't want to cooperate. Therapy took commitment; 'just one session' wouldn't cut it even if he lucked out and found the right therapist for him on the first try.
Dave waited a few seconds to see if I was going to keep arguing, then buried his nose in his history textbook to escape my nagging.
———X==X==X———
It seemed pretty obvious to me that the best time to hit 'Craig'—'Dave' hadn't stuck, either, nor had 'Peter' or 'Jack'—with the reveal that magic really existed would be over the weekend, when he was fully rested and not tired from school. The question then was how long to wait, and that I had to play by ear. It took another two weeks before I judged that he'd made himself truly at home, so it was the last weekend in January when I followed up our pancake breakfast with a serving of anxiety.
"Hey, Craig," I said as we cleared our plates. "Can we have a quick talk?"
"Uh…"
"Don't worry, it's nothing bad," I assured him, jerking my head back towards the kitchen table. He sighed and took his seat across from me.
"Okay," I began. "First, to be clear, I'm asking this because I want to help you get what you want. I don't want to put any pressure on you; I'm just offering options."
"Okay…?"
I gave him a smile I hoped was reassuring, then stopped beating around the bush. "Do you want to transition?"
"Physically?" he asked. "You mean, like, surgery? Hormones? Can you even do that without Dad's approval?"
I was pretty sure the answer was 'yes' thanks to the paperwork we'd pushed through, but I was also pretty sure that it didn't matter. "Forget what your dad wants," I replied. "Would you want to?"
"Hmm."
Craig swallowed and tapped his fingers against the table. I waited as he worked his jaw back and forth, frowned, and blew out a breath in a long series of puffs. Chu-chu-chu-chu-chu-chu-chu-chu-chuuuu.
"That is the question, isn't it?" he asked.
"Well," I said, "yes."
He gave me an owlish blink, then let out a hum that was half consideration and half frustration.
"I always planned to," he said. "Once I moved out, I mean. It was something to look forward to, right?"
I nodded.
"So I feel like I should just say 'yes', but I'm scared to."
"Which parts are scary?"
Craig scoffed at the stupid question. "Well, I mean, it's surgery. That's always scary. And it's permanent, and I have no idea what I'll look like if I take hormones, and… ugh, it probably sounds really shallow, but I don't want to end up ugly, you know?" He swallowed again. "They say it's easier for trans men to pass, but I'm still nervous about how I'll look."
"That's very fair," I told him. "That said, if you had a button—"
"That magically changed my gender?" he finished for me, irritation in full view. "Yes, I know the question, and yes, I'd press the hypothetical magic button. That doesn't help me make up my mind here!"
I waited for him to go from 'annoyed' back to 'sullen' before I continued, "Well… I actually have a magic button for you, if you want."
Craig's response was a derisive snort. "Sure. Pull the other one."
"I'm serious."
"Bullsh—I mean, uh… come on."
"I know it sounds ridiculous, but… right, how about I just show you?"
"Show me what?"
"Magic."
The word hung in the air, undisturbed.
"Magic isn't real," Craig said.
"It is."
"Prove it."
I'd been waiting for just such an invitation. My telekinesis couldn't reach far enough to bring in the 'wand' Homura had made from my bedroom closet, but all I needed to do about that was to wave my faithful wand for a silent accio. The gender-changing wand flew straight into my waiting hands, and I set it down on the table in front of me.
The 'spell catalysts' could be made out of nearly anything, no matter how un-wand-like it was; Homura had, at my suggestion, made this one out of a button that looked to have once been an emergency stop switch on some sort of heavy machinery. Text that had once said STOP now read CHANGE, and a pair of dials screwed onto the face below allowed one to select the degree of masculinity or femininity and a duration from one hour to one day (which was really a minimum duration due to the way magic resistance worked, but that was neither here nor there).
Craig, predictably and rationally, looked like he'd just had the world turned on its head. "Holy shit."
I let the profanity slide… this time.
"Sorry," I said. "I know it's a shock to show off like this, but it always comes down to 'prove it' in the end, and I didn't want to go back and forth for five minutes before resorting to something like that anyway."
His mouth flapped soundless for a few seconds.
"That was magic?" he asked at last. "Real magic?"
"It was."
"Magic really exists. It really works."
"It does."
Craig stood up and leaned forward over the table, doing his best to project menacing anger.
"And you never told Megan—who visited you almost day, loves fantasy more than anything else, read about everything even slightly paranormal like it was the most important thing in the world, and even chose her first friend at college solely because her last name was 'Kitsune'—about any of it?"
"Well, I…"
I hesitated. I had told Megan, of course, but admitting that to Craig would mean explaining that she'd been the one to keep it from him.
He, naturally, took the hesitation as an admission of guilt and stalked off to his room with a huff.
———X==X==X———
'Luckily' for me, the decision of what to tell Craig quickly moved out of my hands.
"You knew?!"
His shout was clearly audible from the other end of the apartment, so I hurried down the hall and stuck my head in the partially-open door. Craig was still yelling as he paced back and forth in front of his bed. "—didn't trust me! I tell you everything, and you still didn't trust me!"
"Craig?"
"Ah!"
He jumped a foot in the air and half-hid his phone behind his back before he remembered he was allowed to have it. "I… sorry," he muttered, looking far guiltier than he had any need to feel. "I'll keep it down."
"Nevermind that," I told him. "A little noise isn't a big deal. Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, I was just, uh…" Craig raised the phone helplessly.
Context gave me a pretty good hint who was on the other end of the line. "That Megan?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. I'm gonna close the door, give you some privacy. Say hi for me, would you?"
"Uh… sure."
I did as I said I would and went back to the kitchen. No further shouting ensued.
———X==X==X———
I wasn't surprised that it was hunger that brought Craig out of his fortress of solitude.
"Sorry about the yelling, Mi—er, Cassandra," he mumbled as he took position hovering at the edge of the kitchen.
"Forgiven."
"Thanks." He fussed with his fingers for a moment, then asked, "What's for dinner?"
I felt like he could use a treat after the day he'd had. "Whatever you want."
"Can we order pizza?"
"We can order pizza."
So we did. I placed the order—delivery—then turned to see that Craig had sank into the chair opposite mine and propped his chin on his hands. I had no idea what to say, partly because I had no idea what Megan had said during their call, so I just sat back down and waited for him to speak.
"You closed the door," he said.
"Yes? Like I said, I thought you could use some privacy."
"I just… noticed, is all," Craig said. "Thanks."
"Did you not have much privacy at home?"
"No."
His answer didn't invite a response.
Seconds ticked by in silence.
"I can't believe she kept such an important secret from me," he grumbled. "She got an actual spell-casting class, and she didn't tell me!"
I bit back a reflexive excuse on Megan's behalf; she could defend herself, and probably had. Right now, Craig needed someone on his side.
"What did she say about it?"
"She said she wanted to tell me, but wasn't willing to risk Mom and Dad finding out. Which isn't fair! I trusted her with my stuff!" He paused for a moment to wipe moisture out of his eyes. "She told her friends, but not me! Because she doesn't trust that I can keep a secret!"
"I'm sorry, Craig."
"I get that she's scared of Mom and Dad finding out, but we're sisters—I mean, she's my sister. Ugh, I'm so used to thinking like… argh! This sucks! It all sucks, and it's all his fault!"
"I'm sorry," I repeated. "But I promise you, I will do everything I can to help you live your best life. Family ties are important—"
Craig fixed me with a glare.
"—but not as important as taking care of yourself," I continued, pivoting as soon as I realized what he was afraid I was implying. "If you need to be free of your parents, I'll do everything I can to make it happen."
"You had me in the first half."
"Yeah, sorry. What I'm trying to say is that… how should I put this?"
I had to stop and think for a good thirty seconds before I had a proper 'speech'.
"Dealing with family is messy and complicated even when you get along. I would never tell you that you ought to expose yourself to trauma just because 'family is important', but I also don't want to tell you that you should give up and cut ties if you're not ready for that—if you decide to, I'll support you, of course, but I know it's not that easy. And that is if you decide to, not when, so don't feel like I'm telling you it's got to happen. I… I want you to interact with your family exactly as much as is healthy for you, whatever amount that turns out to be. Does that make sense?"
He nodded.
"Good."
———X==X==X———
I held off on getting into what 'magic' meant until after we'd had our fill of pizza. Craig's questions were mostly centered on practical concerns: how long magical effects lasted, what they were capable of, how hard they were to do, and so on. He seemed disappointed by the idea that magic spells were 'all at-will abilities', as he put it. No incantations, spell formula, or reagents; just point and shoot.
He'd have liked Breath of Fire's magic more, I think.
I finished on what I hoped would be a high note: the Button itself. "Do you want to try it?" I offered, pushing it into the center of the table.
Craig responded by resting his forehead on the table and grunting, which was very much not the reaction I'd imagined.
"Is everything all right?"
"Yeah."
It was among the least convincing 'yeah's I had ever encountered.
"Are you sure?"
He didn't even bother responding this time.
"Craig—"
"Don't call me that."
"Okay. What should I call you?"
He harrumphed unhelpfully.
"Have I done something wrong?" I asked.
"No, it's… I dunno." He stood up and began wandering around the room the way he always did when he was upset, poking and prodding at whatever was easily accessible.
"You transitioned with magic, right?" he asked from near the stove.
"Yeah."
"Does that make you a cis woman?"
"I wouldn't say so, no."
He nodded like he expected that answer.
"Then, instead of making me into a boy… can magic make me into a cis girl instead?"
Had I heard that right? "What?"
"A cis girl!" he yelled, whirling around to face me. "I don't want to have to transition, magic or no magic! If magic can do anything, then just fix me so I'm not miserable like this!" He waved his arms up and down his current body. "Can you do that?"
"Uh." I tripped over my tongue twice before I managed to say, "I mean, it may well be possible, but—"
"You won't, then?"
"I'm not saying I won't, but—"
He/she stepped forward and slammed his/her hands on the countertop that separated the cooking area from the dining table. "Don't 'but' me! Why should I have to deal with all of this bullshit if you can just fix it? I don't want to have to deal with all of this crap! I want to feel okay in my body! I want to stop having to hide who I am! I want my parents to love me again!"
For a moment, the only sound was their heavy breathing.
"You have no right to tell me how I should live my life," they whined. "You have no idea what it's like to feel like this!"
"I know what you're—"
"No you don't! How could you, when you have magical solutions to all your problems?"
"I told you I transitioned late in life, right?" I asked. "Why do you think I spent thirty years of my life wishing for magical solutions in the first place?"
"Well, you got them!"
"Yes, I did, but that doesn't mean I don't remember what it's like. I know I'm lucky, but that doesn't mean I didn't have my share of problems on the way here." I stood up and reached out over the table to rest my hand on the Button. "Heck, you want to know what I looked like when I finally learned trans people even exist?"
I pushed down.
I'd tested the wand on myself before I'd offered it to them, of course, and the result had been exactly what I'd expected. The person now standing by the table looked the same as he had—as I had—when I'd met Max nearly forty years ago.
"You're right," I said in that nasal, pronunciation-impaired voice I'd once been so self-conscious of. "I might not know exactly how you feel, and I certainly don't have any right to tell you how to live. But I want to make sure you're making the right choice. I don't want you to do something just because it's what's your parents want, or what society wants—I want you to do what's best for you."
Yellow light from the streetlamps outside shone through the windows, casting shadows from the plant Max had given us years ago on the tile floor. The minutes on the microwave clock ticked over as the silence stretched, broken only by the steady background hum of small-town life intruding on our private drama.
They swallowed and scrubbed at their eyes with both hands.
"That's… you?" they asked.
"It's what I looked like," I admitted. "I wouldn't say it's 'me', but… well."
They kept staring. I wanted nothing more than to shrink away or fidget—more from the attention itself than the body I was admittedly a little less than comfortable in—but I forced myself to stand still and meet their eye. They blinked first, lowering their head to gaze a hole through the countertop tiles.
"I hate this," they whined. "I hate that I hate myself for feeling like this. I hate that I'm less comfortable with you now that you showed me this because seeing it makes it real. I hate it!"
I walked over and hugged them. They didn't fight or squirm—they hugged me back, as tightly as if holding on for dear life, face buried in my (flat, male) chest.
"Society is shit," I told them. "It doesn't matter what it is about you that doesn't fit; if you don't, won't, or can't conform, it's going to shit on you from great height even while it trains you to do the same to everyone else. But that doesn't mean we have to change ourselves to what they want us to be. Believe me, I understand you're tired of fighting. No one should have to justify their existence like this. Yes, maybe there is some magic spell somewhere that will turn you into the girl your dad wants, but is that really what you want?"
My rant trailed off into an awkward silence, but they didn't let go.
"I… I want…"
They paused, took a couple ragged breaths, and whispered:
"I want to go home."
———X==X==X———
Tempestuous
Words are wind, so I write.
- Location
- CA
AN: *blunders knowingly into minefield*
I rewrote this chapter and the one following it so many times I lost count of the revisions (literally; I gave up numbering them around 4 or 5). It's such a thorny, icky issue that I almost cut the entire arc several times, with possible replacements ranging from 'nothing' to 'Cass gets hit by a car, skip to next intermission'.
As you can see, I was not nearly so wise.
I rewrote this chapter and the one following it so many times I lost count of the revisions (literally; I gave up numbering them around 4 or 5). It's such a thorny, icky issue that I almost cut the entire arc several times, with possible replacements ranging from 'nothing' to 'Cass gets hit by a car, skip to next intermission'.
As you can see, I was not nearly so wise.
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- Location
- Somewhere!
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Yeah, I can imagine why writing this was tricky. I'm.... well, it's definitely very complex and uncomfortable?
Enthusiast#117
This is not the Profile you are looking for
- Location
- United States
Ambiguity as a cliffhanger is eeeeviiiiil!
- Location
- Elsewhere
Delegation for the win!
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Spectrum
Tell me a secret~
- Location
- Behind you~
That's an audible OOF. There's a whole messy can of worms there starting to think about 'de-programming' camps...
Jim Starluck
CO, ICS Vanguard
- Location
- Cincinnati, OH
You know, as a cis guy trying to better understand the situation that transgender people are in, this is something I've wondered about.
My understanding of gender dysphoria is that a person has their physical body, and a mental model of what their body is and/or should be. For cis people like myself, these two are in alignment, but for someone experiencing dysphoria there's a mis-match, and treating this condition involves -- at least in part -- of trying to reduce, minimize, or eliminate that mismatch. And since we currently don't have any way of affecting the mental side of the equation, all we can do is try to adjust the physical side. Not trying to be any kind of transmedicalist, mind you, this is just the broadest way of looking at a complex picture.
But if some method of affecting the mental side were discovered or developed, would not some people choose that way instead? Would they be wrong to? Would anyone else have any right to tell them that they could or could not, should or should not, any more so than with the existing methods of physiological transition?
All I know is that cis guys like me should be taking a back seat on that conversation.
And relating to the situation in the story, a child seeking the affection of their parents is a very powerful motivator. I just doubt whether the Elwicks will be capable of delivering on it, regardless of what their child chooses.
My understanding of gender dysphoria is that a person has their physical body, and a mental model of what their body is and/or should be. For cis people like myself, these two are in alignment, but for someone experiencing dysphoria there's a mis-match, and treating this condition involves -- at least in part -- of trying to reduce, minimize, or eliminate that mismatch. And since we currently don't have any way of affecting the mental side of the equation, all we can do is try to adjust the physical side. Not trying to be any kind of transmedicalist, mind you, this is just the broadest way of looking at a complex picture.
But if some method of affecting the mental side were discovered or developed, would not some people choose that way instead? Would they be wrong to? Would anyone else have any right to tell them that they could or could not, should or should not, any more so than with the existing methods of physiological transition?
All I know is that cis guys like me should be taking a back seat on that conversation.
And relating to the situation in the story, a child seeking the affection of their parents is a very powerful motivator. I just doubt whether the Elwicks will be capable of delivering on it, regardless of what their child chooses.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
A proper discussion of this would turn into an extensive derail, but a popular answer to this topic I've been hearing recently online is that physical transition for those who want it is an effective treatment to gender dysphoria because gender is innate, part of what makes up that person. Therefore, if you were to develop a method by which you could change that persons internal, innate sense of their own gender rather than going through the process of a physical transition, you would in fact be left with a different person entirely as something fundamental to their personhood has been changed. Just one perspective on it, but it cropped up across a few different sources so thought it was worth sharing.
- Location
- Somewhere!
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I would think of it kind of like personality death, yeah. Which... there's still an argument for allowing that, basically the same argument as allowing people to choose euthanasia or so on, but I think you'd definitely want to treat that kind of thing carefully?
There's also people who don't care that much about the shape of their body, as long as it's functional, healthy, etc. It's entirely possible that we have some sort of organic mechanism for this, like a mental switch or a slider that regulates how much do you care about the specifics - affecting it would be an alternative to gender change in the situation described. Actually doing so IRL may or may not require outright magic - biology can be surprisingly straightforward with it's designs sometimes, it could be as easy as eating a pill. Or it could be a devilishly complicated problem that would require literal magic to actually make a reality.
And before you say that's still bad, think about how other organic causes affect our personality - we easily accept alcohol, depression, and changes from old age and more, as something intrinsic to our circumstances and culture. I have no frame of reference for disphoria, but from the outside it seems that all these things represent a larger changes to personality than getting rid of body disphoria. We probably should be bothered by them a lot more, but we aren't.
TL;DR - why not just turn off body disphoria (and embrace your shapeshifting transhumanist future)?
And before you say that's still bad, think about how other organic causes affect our personality - we easily accept alcohol, depression, and changes from old age and more, as something intrinsic to our circumstances and culture. I have no frame of reference for disphoria, but from the outside it seems that all these things represent a larger changes to personality than getting rid of body disphoria. We probably should be bothered by them a lot more, but we aren't.
TL;DR - why not just turn off body disphoria (and embrace your shapeshifting transhumanist future)?
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- Location
- Colorado
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Gawd... Honestly, I GET that impulse from them... It's dark and messy and I think now even if it was possible it would have absolutely been the wrong choice for me, but HONESTLY, I've wanted that choice before... If I could have decided to just be a cis guy, things would have been so much easier... And yet, I'm glad that wasn't a possible option, especially when I was at my most vulnerable and would have hastily taken it, despite the hardship, my life is better for me embracing the fact I'm a woman.
Seriously tho, props to you for tackling this... You're handling it with the same care you usually take and HONESTLY there's like, only one other story I've ever read that tackles this messy little issue... Plus it HONESTLY is taking things in an interesting direction I did not expect...
Seriously tho, props to you for tackling this... You're handling it with the same care you usually take and HONESTLY there's like, only one other story I've ever read that tackles this messy little issue... Plus it HONESTLY is taking things in an interesting direction I did not expect...
- Location
- Turtle Island
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Dysphoria isn't just about the physical shape of your body, though. There are a bunch of different (but interrelated) aspects of dysphoria, involving not just bodily appearance but also biochemistry (and its influences on psychology and emotions), social and societal aspects, presentation, sexuality, etc., and trans people can have any (or none) of these forms of dysphoria. And the flip side is gender euphoria—that is, feeling really good about some aspect of yourself (or how you present or are perceived or relate to other people) as it relates to gender (or lack thereof). The Gender Dysphoria Bible is a website with nice explanations of a lot of this stuff.
- Location
- Wingmaiden's Reach, the Near Roofs, Town
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Can I try to phrase this in a way that might make more intuitive sense to you? This isn't meant to be, like, an attack or anything, and I'm genuinely sorry if it comes off that way; I am just trying to make this metaphor work for you.
I don't know you super-well, but I really remember the essay you did on understanding wealth disparity via scale, so I'm assuming you feel very strongly about the subject; that it's important to you, and perhaps key to understanding yourself as you - that a hypothetical duplicate who is just like you, but who thought it was totally fine and good for certain people to be worth trillions of dollars, would not be you.
Well, if Jeff Bezos came to you and said, "wow, so, don't really understand this whole 'not being ultrawealthy' thing but I'm trying to empathize. But you poor people are upset about how the rich have grotesquely inequal power and reach and ability to distort society in their favor and fuck over everyone else, right?
What if, instead of doing anything to redistribute wealth and social power, we instead just found a way to brainwash you all into being happy with the crushing boot of capitalism on your necks?"
A version of 'you' who was an enthusiastic capitalism stan would not, if my read on you and your personality is correct, be you. At all. They'd be some terrifying pod person with your face living your life, but who is not you. Bezos' 'solution' here would be to murder you and put a flesh puppet in your corpse.
And yeah, you know what, maybe there are some people who would agree to that and maybe that's their choice to make; but god damn, if Jeff Bezos suggested that to you, I do not think this philosophical debate would be happening. The idea would be absurd. Patently, obviously monstrous.
...and while I do not and cannot know this because I can't read minds, I would be willing to bet that most trans people hold their gender as far more crucial to their self, their identity, their soul, than you hold your belief that capitalism is evil and will kill us all.
dhasenan
always lowercase
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Poor kiddo. They've got so much trauma from their parents around being trans that they can't feel comfortable taking a masculine identity. They love their parents despite the trauma. Maybe they're wishing that their relationship with their parents would be everything they always wanted if only they were a girl.
And that trauma has them keenly aware of the hardships with social transitioning, which is something they can't just magic away. Possibly over-aware. Their friends would be cool with it, and Cass would ensure the legal aspects go smoothly, and strangers mostly won't realize it. But Nameless Kiddo imagines having to regularly face people as negative as their parents.
I wouldn't have a problem with someone developing a gender changing potion like that if we were in a society that was fully accepting of trans people. Cis people wanting to try something new would be able to take the potion, and trans people could choose freely whether to use the physical transition treatments or the mental transition treatments.
I would have major problems with it being developed in our world because tons of trans people would be forced to take the treatment. Trans kids especially.
This isn't a good example because inequality is inherently unjust. Being a man or a woman or nonbinary is inherently chill.
And that trauma has them keenly aware of the hardships with social transitioning, which is something they can't just magic away. Possibly over-aware. Their friends would be cool with it, and Cass would ensure the legal aspects go smoothly, and strangers mostly won't realize it. But Nameless Kiddo imagines having to regularly face people as negative as their parents.
I wouldn't have a problem with someone developing a gender changing potion like that if we were in a society that was fully accepting of trans people. Cis people wanting to try something new would be able to take the potion, and trans people could choose freely whether to use the physical transition treatments or the mental transition treatments.
I would have major problems with it being developed in our world because tons of trans people would be forced to take the treatment. Trans kids especially.
This isn't a good example because inequality is inherently unjust. Being a man or a woman or nonbinary is inherently chill.
- Location
- Wingmaiden's Reach, the Near Roofs, Town
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Look, I'm sorry I'm not perfect poet who spins metaphors out of radiant fucking sunlight or whatever, okay? Obviously it's not a perfect fucking metaphor.
The fucking point was that hey, maybe altering who people are is inherently unjust, since that is murder.
This entire "oh, what if we made people not be trans" bullshit is horrifying; this entire course of discussion is about the most absurdly immoral idea I have ever heard; the fact that this is being treated as a light philosophical debate instead of genocide is infuriating; maybe right to death is a thing and people have a right to elect to commit suicide, but it is fucking irresponsible at best to go around promoting suicidal courses of action; I'm sorry if I'm being hurtful or snappy in my anger right now; and I am fucking done dealing with this bullshit.
Please don't fucking @ me; I'd prefer if people didn't rate this fucking post; @Tempestuous, apologies, but I'm unwatching so I don't get alerts from this fucking conversation, please know that I will still be reading whenever an update drops
Huh.
So I'm not getting involved with all this, but I just wanted to toss some positive vibes @Tempestuous-san's way. I love your story so goddamn much, and I genuinely really love how you understand that just because Frodo gets a lightsaber, that doesn't mean that Sauron needs a death star.
So I'm not getting involved with all this, but I just wanted to toss some positive vibes @Tempestuous-san's way. I love your story so goddamn much, and I genuinely really love how you understand that just because Frodo gets a lightsaber, that doesn't mean that Sauron needs a death star.
- Location
- A place
Oof, I did not see that turn in the story coming, although it reminds me of something I have found myself thinking about before.
There are some cases where someone physically transitions and then regrets it later. I know that for many people physically transitioning is the only way to come to peace with themselves, Especially when they have felt that way their entire lives. However I've always sort of wondered if in some cases people become obsessed that they have to be the "correct" gender for the way they act. To try and clarify my point better, I wonder if some people transition less because they have a innate feeling that there body is wrong for them but develop the mismatch between body and gender because they have internalized that they need to be a certain gender in order to be perceived and/or act in specific ways.
I myself don't remember being concerned with my assigned sex as a child but sometimes I have felt frustrated with it later in life, although I have never seriously considered trying to transition because, short of actual magic I can predict with high certainty that I would not be satisficed with the results, I would find the process to be to much trouble.
Not quite sure if something like this will be relevant in the case of this story, but I felt the need to try and put my thoughts in words after reading this, since I slightly wondered while I was reading if this could be a factor in why Becky?/Craig? is not jumping at the opportunity to magically change there body, and had not noticed this particular line of discussion brought up yet, and was wondering if I was the only one who was considering it from this angle.
Though to bring it back to the debate over whether magical brain alteration is a acceptable solution to the problem, I would say it would be in part a question of how much is being changed. I think most of us would agree that Becky?/Craig? being magically altered so that they can win their parents love by changing themselves so they want to be exactly the way their parents expect them to be would be basically suicide. Smaller changes like making themselves more confident in their current body but leaving their interests and preferences untouched would probably be closer to some chemical or therapy based approaches, even if facilitated by magic. Of course as with real life transitions discussing things with a therapist first is a good idea to figure out exactly what your goals are, Becky?/Craig? really needs to be convinced to get that counseling to figure out their goals.
Regardless kudos for trying tackle a very contentious/uncomfortable topic in your story @Tempestuous.
There are some cases where someone physically transitions and then regrets it later. I know that for many people physically transitioning is the only way to come to peace with themselves, Especially when they have felt that way their entire lives. However I've always sort of wondered if in some cases people become obsessed that they have to be the "correct" gender for the way they act. To try and clarify my point better, I wonder if some people transition less because they have a innate feeling that there body is wrong for them but develop the mismatch between body and gender because they have internalized that they need to be a certain gender in order to be perceived and/or act in specific ways.
I myself don't remember being concerned with my assigned sex as a child but sometimes I have felt frustrated with it later in life, although I have never seriously considered trying to transition because, short of actual magic I can predict with high certainty that I would not be satisficed with the results, I would find the process to be to much trouble.
Not quite sure if something like this will be relevant in the case of this story, but I felt the need to try and put my thoughts in words after reading this, since I slightly wondered while I was reading if this could be a factor in why Becky?/Craig? is not jumping at the opportunity to magically change there body, and had not noticed this particular line of discussion brought up yet, and was wondering if I was the only one who was considering it from this angle.
Though to bring it back to the debate over whether magical brain alteration is a acceptable solution to the problem, I would say it would be in part a question of how much is being changed. I think most of us would agree that Becky?/Craig? being magically altered so that they can win their parents love by changing themselves so they want to be exactly the way their parents expect them to be would be basically suicide. Smaller changes like making themselves more confident in their current body but leaving their interests and preferences untouched would probably be closer to some chemical or therapy based approaches, even if facilitated by magic. Of course as with real life transitions discussing things with a therapist first is a good idea to figure out exactly what your goals are, Becky?/Craig? really needs to be convinced to get that counseling to figure out their goals.
Regardless kudos for trying tackle a very contentious/uncomfortable topic in your story @Tempestuous.
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- Location
- on Chair
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Apropos and Kudos for continuing to tackle difficult topics like abuse and identity in your work. You continue to dismantle fish fulfillment stories by showing how messy and imperfect healing such things can be.
Especially since we are tackling not just the difficult choice of gender and transitioning (a topic which I feel Cass is being too pushy right now), but also the struggle of a child coping and coming to terms with abusive parents and the conflicting desires and emotions in that. You can't separate the two, either. Not-Craig doesn't have local friends they could talk to either and of course no Therapist.
Especially since we are tackling not just the difficult choice of gender and transitioning (a topic which I feel Cass is being too pushy right now), but also the struggle of a child coping and coming to terms with abusive parents and the conflicting desires and emotions in that. You can't separate the two, either. Not-Craig doesn't have local friends they could talk to either and of course no Therapist.
Chapter 115: In Circles
Tempestuous
Words are wind, so I write.
- Location
- CA
AN: Beta-read by Carbohydratos, Did I?, Gaia, Linedoffice, Zephyrosis, and Mizu, plus special guest consultants Lyrisey and HorizonTheTransient!
Once they'd retreated to their room, I headed down the hall after them and let myself into my hotel room through the bedroom door, where I flopped down on the bed the way I always did when I was in a mood: with a sigh.
"Okay, so," my voice said from somewhere above the middle of the bed. "We need to have this out because… well, because."
I lifted my head and raised an eyebrow at the two sprites floating above me. Both looked like me, differing only in their clothes: one wore a floral blouse and jeans; the other, a plain gray t-shirt and a flannel skirt.
"What axes are we using today?" I asked.
The sprites shared a look.
"I dunno," the one in jeans said. "I don't feel particularly 'good' or 'evil'."
"I don't feel particularly emotional or logical, either," the other said.
"I think we're just going to have to do 'for' and 'against'."
"Shall I do against, then?"
"You're the one wearing a skirt. Let me do 'Refuse'."
"Then I'll argue 'Grant'."
"Sounds good," Refuse said. "Shall I go first?"
Grant shrugged. "I think the 'For' position usually goes first, but I don't mind if you want to."
"Wait, hold on," I interrupted. "I started calling you 'Grant' in my head, but that just sounds like a normal guy's name. How about… I don't know. Accept?"
She rolled her eyes. "Why are you asking me? It's your inner monologue."
Oh. Right.
"Sorry, carry on."
"Right. Ahem." Refuse cleared her throat as though she didn't already have everyone's attention. "The primary reason we're having this conversation is that we don't like the idea of changing his gender identity, so the question is, 'Why?', and I think the answer comes down to our concepts of what it means to 'be' who we are. Changing someone's gender identity isn't therapeutic, it's reprogramming."
"What's the distinction?" Accept asked.
"I'm not sure we can answer that without solving the Hard Problem of Consciousness, but there is a line there."
"Well, of course, but I don't think it's obvious which side of the line this is."
"If it was obvious, we wouldn't need to have this conversation," Refuse pointed out.
"Fair."
"And I don't think I need to remind us that our emotional reaction puts it on the wrong side."
"Clearly," Accept agreed, "but the whole point of this conversation is to figure out if our emotional reaction is appropriate."
"Then let's try to judge the ends. Say we go through with it—how would we feel afterwards? If we saw him walking down the street being happy as a girl, would we feel like we've done good, or like we helped his parents force him into the lifestyle they wanted?"
"The latter, probably, but that only says that our emotional reaction is consistent, not that it's correct."
Refuse frowned at finding herself back at square one. "I think, ultimately, it just edges too close to mind control," she said, "which is wrong as an axiomatic principle."
"No it's not," Accept countered. "I mean, it's not axiomatic. Mind control is wrong because of the harm it does."
"I meant—sorry, yes, I misspoke. Mind control is wrong under nearly all circumstances."
"Only nearly?"
"I'm sure we could construct some contrived hypothetical situation to justify it if we put our minds to it," Refuse replied, "but all that would prove is our imagination. But you raise a good point: changing his gender identity would also be wrong for the harm it does."
"What harm? She'd be happy once her body and identity matched no matter which one changed."
"We're not questioning the end experience. If we grant the request, he'd be happy as a girl; that's a given. The issue at hand is entirely in the ethics of doing so. With psychic mind-altering powers, one could make someone perfectly happy with any situation."
Accept crossed her arms. "Putting aside the invitation to a doubtlessly painful tangent on the role of happiness in our utility function, you're asserting a slippery slope—or maybe a false equivalence. Not all mind altering effects are equally bad."
"I never claimed that. I only claimed that this one is bad."
"Why, though?"
"It's a death of personality, isn't it?" Refuse replied. "Replacing someone with someone else."
"Is it?"
"Yes?"
"More than all the Jumpchain import shenanigans?" Accept pressed.
Refuse opened her mouth, reconsidered, and stared off into space, mouth drawn into a hard line.
"Maybe we'd have better luck with the question if we'd tried Jumping as a man one of these times," Accept mused.
"Why?"
"Because we'd know how it feels to change gender identity."
"Imports are different, though," I interjected.
They stopped and turned to look at me, consideration all over their (my?) faces.
"Are they?" Refuse asked.
"I want to say yes," Accept said, "but I'm pretty sure my argument works better if they aren't. A cis person importing as a cis person of the opposite gender would, by necessity, change their gender identity. If we accept that as an, um, 'acceptable' thing to do, then shouldn't we also accept the request?"
"We wouldn't be totally fine with one case and flip out about the other if they were the same, right?"
"How are they different, then?"
Refuse rubbed her chin in thought for a few seconds before grinning in triumph. "Homura mentioned that most people go back to their original gender," she reminded us.
"That depends on how you define 'original'—hold on, don't look at me like that," Accept complained when we gave her disapproving looks. "Companions going back to their original gender could be seen as a matter of habit, and trans or not, you'd say she's in the habit of presenting female, right?"
"You're focusing on the wrong bit. Changing gender identity for a Jump is generally a temporary thing, not a life-defining decision."
"What if it's possible to make her equally comfortable in a body of either gender? She could switch as often as she liked once magic became public knowledge."
"I think that's making a few too many assumptions," Refuse said.
"Like what?"
"Access, personal acceptance, societal acceptance… on second thought, let's make that a separate point. 'There's no outside pressure to import as one gender or another.' That's definitely a difference."
"Gender-locked options," Accept fired back. "Max's first time as a woman was specifically because of an 'outside pressure'."
"That's more like an… incentive?"
"Isn't that kind of the same thing?"
"Not at all. Incentives are 'coercive', not 'corrective'."
"That's a semantic quibble at best."
"It's something, though. Hold on, let me write these down." Refuse stopped and did just that on the whiteboard that manifested beside her. "What else?"
"Why are you asking me to support your argument?"
She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Point three: with imports, people are going from cis to cis, not trans to cis."
"Didn't we go from trans to cis?"
"I'd argue that not changing our gender identity means we're not part of the sample."
"Fair enough," Accept said. "Why does that matter, though?"
"Because…"
Refuse trailed off, deep in thought, only to be suddenly and brilliantly illuminated by a lightbulb appearing over her head. "That's it!"
"What?" Accept and I asked over each other.
"They're not trying to 'fix' anything," Refuse explained. "We know how many people think 'solving' the 'condition' of being trans means preventing people from wanting to transition. Being trans isn't a mental illness, and trying to 'cure' it tends to lead to the same sort of awful shit the idea of 'curing homosexuality' does—crackpot 'doctors' prescribing treatments that are just torture by another name. That's why the request gets our hackles up so much!"
Accept nodded along. "Yeah, that makes sense… but I also think it points to our emotional reasoning not being 'correct'. You're arguing that she's asking for the results of bad practices, but unlike the so-called 'treatments', a magical procedure would actually accomplish the goal, and it wouldn't cause any suffering, either."
"That doesn't change the core argument, though: being trans isn't a mental illness, and trying to 'cure' it isn't just 'misguided', it's transphobic in and of itself."
"Even if it's the preferred solution to someone's gender dysphoria?" Accept challenged. "How is denying someone the right to choose their gender identity any less 'misguided' than denying them the right to choose their gender expression?"
" Forcing someone to express the wrong gender is a form of psychological harm, whether they're cis or trans. Actresses who portray women passing as men have reported gender dysphoria from the experience—"
"Wait, really?" I asked. "I mean, that makes perfect sense, but I wasn't aware they'd said it. How do you know that?"
Refuse held up her phone. "I googled it."
"You have an internet connection separate from—"
"Let's not get off topic," Accept interrupted. She turned to Refuse and prompted, "You were saying?"
"Uh, right. Forcing someone to express the wrong gender is a form of psychological harm; changing someone's gender identity is mentally invasive and only alleviates suffering in as much as it allows someone to avoid dealing with people who want to do the former."
"But then we're right back to the sticking point we had earlier with regard to 'what separates 'therapeutic' and 'invasive' procedures."
Refuse groaned. "Fine. How about this: it's wrong because—in our cultural context—granting his request is perfectly aligned with some of the most severely transphobic ideas in circulation."
"Our cultural context? Not 'this' cultural context?"
"They're close enough as to be effectively the same culture."
"Okay, I'll grant you that," Accept said, "but what you're saying boils down to that we shouldn't help him with his preferred solution because it's bad optics."
"That's a deliberately bad-faith way to summarize the situation."
"Ugh, yeah, that's fair. Still, is it right to allow our feelings to control someone else's life?"
"Depends if those feelings are correct or not," Refuse answered.
"That's circular reasoning."
"No it's not, it's a tautology."
Accept groaned. "Fine, whatever. My argument is that they are not. If you want to say this is unethically invasive mind alteration and imports aren't, you need to be able to justify the difference."
"Maybe we should question the latter assumption," Refuse suggested. "What if the alterations made by import memories are also unethically invasive?"
I groaned. "Let's not open that can of worms, please."
"No, no, she's got a point," Accept said. "We do need to deal with that sooner or later. We're already a very different person than we were when we joined."
"We're a lot more comfortable solving problems with violence, for one thing," Refuse added. "Kicking down doors?"
"'Sooner or later' does not mean 'right now, while we're wrestling with a more immediate problem'," I scolded them. "The question is, 'Are our feelings about granting the request sufficient reason to refuse?'."
"No," Accept said.
"Yes!" Refuse insisted. "One way or another, he's asking us to 'cure' him of his gender identity, but—and I know I'm repeating myself here, but this is probably the most important sentence in this entire debate—being transgender is not a mental illness."
"Then why did Worm's mental health clean-up affect us?"
"Did it? We told ourself we weren't uncomfortable wearing our old male form, but if that were really the case, we wouldn't be so averse to being a guy, would we?"
Accept frowned. "The clean-up made being male less unpleasant, but I'll admit we weren't suddenly happy with it."
"I'm not sure it even did that much. I think we were just in denial."
Rather than facepalm, I draped an arm across my face to hide my eyes from the world. "This sucks."
"Yeah," Accept agreed. "And here we thought the trickiest thing he could ask of us was to help more people than just her."
"It's kind of funny, looking back on it," Refuse added. "Megan barely questioned the whole masquerade. Maybe she reads enough urban fantasy to just accept the premise as axiomatic?"
"You keep using that word."
"It does mean what I think it means. Anyway, what I was getting at is that we weren't sure how we'd respond if he'd asked us to help others, too."
Accept nodded. "That's probably what we would have done if Max hadn't offered us a spot on the 'chain."
There was a brief pause before Accept spoke again. "Since we're all playing devil's advocate anyway, I'm gonna ask: why is being on the 'chain different?"
"For one thing," Refuse began, "if we end up going back, we can bring things like that." I raised my arm off my face just enough to see her point at the Button I'd dropped on the nightstand. "And if we don't… well, we don't have to face any of the people we didn't ask Max and company to help, for whatever good that would've done."
"You think he'd have refused?"
"Hard to say. Where would we have drawn the boundary? Friends? Friends of friends? Anyone we've ever commiserated with on internet message boards? I don't think he'd have been willing to treat an entire world's worth of trans people."
"Should he have been?"
I groaned as I pulled myself into a sitting position. "We are seriously off topic, here," I scolded them. "We're trying to deal with whether or not to grant a questionable request, not answer Big Questions about what being part of the 'chain means for our 'duty to help'. Put a pin in it and get back on topic."
"Sorry," they chorused.
I considered lying back down, but decided to remain sitting, shifting myself backwards until I could rest my back against the head of the bed.
"Now that I think about it," Accept mused, "I can't help but notice an odd parallel to Star Trek-humanity's purist approach to the human form."
"How's that?"
"Well, Star Trek's Federation hates body modifications, but they have no problem providing medical services to transgender people. Have we found ourselves as the hard-line purists? As Picard said, it would be inappropriate to tell someone to be grateful for a condition that prevents them from living a happy life."
"Do you think Deanna would agree if we asked her?" Refuse asked. "Do you really think she'd say, 'Oh, psychically changing someone's gender identity? Easy.'?"
"Do you want to just ask her, then?"
"I… well, yes, actually, I do 'want' to ask her, but I also think it's the wrong thing to do. Having her refuse is the easy way out. We'd be letting someone else take responsibility for the decision, someone we could point to and say, 'Sorry, I tried.' Maybe she'd do a better job of explaining why this wasn't an acceptable solution, but more importantly, it'd make it not our fault."
"Why does it have to be our fault?" Accept asked.
"Because if it's not our fault, it's not our decision, either."
"You're just worried she'd say 'yes'."
"Yes, I'm worried she'd say 'yes'!" Refuse snapped. "If we bring her into the conversation, it's out of our hands. We'd have passed the buck to her and rendered this entire discussion pointless because we're not making the decision at all."
"That's a bad-faith argument and you know it! Asking for advice doesn't mean letting someone else choose for you."
"It is not a bad-faith argument because it wouldn't be just 'advice'. If Deanna says it's unethical, the matter is settled. If she says it is ethical, we'd be hard-pressed to find a reason not to allow her to perform the procedure, and the matter is settled in the opposite way. The former makes it 'not our fault', and the latter takes it out of our hands."
"That's assuming that Deanna would hold that granting the request is ethical but be unable to provide a satisfactory case for why," Accept countered. "If it's ethical and she knows that, she should be able to explain it. Hell, maybe we shouldn't be the one making this decision after all. She's probably got, like, twenty degrees in psychology or something."
"That feels like a cop-out."
"I know, but there's nothing wrong with asking for help from those who know more than you."
"Even if it means giving up control over the situation?" Refuse asked. "You're just afraid of making the wrong decision."
"Of course we are! That's why we're having this conversation in the first place!"
Refuse bristled at her counterpart's tone, but ultimately conceded the point.
"You know," she added, "I think we might be asking the wrong question."
"What other question is there?" Accept asked.
"We've spent the entire conversation asking, 'Is it acceptable to change someone's gender identity if they want to identify as the other gender?' when the actual question is, 'Is it a good idea to grant this specific request.'"
Accept frowned. "I'm not sure I see the difference."
"His parents."
Her frown intensified. "We already went over that with the whole cultural thing."
"No, that's not what I'm getting at," Refuse said. "Does he really want to identify as a girl, or does he just want to please his parents?"
"It's not just her parents. 'Not being trans' avoids an entire lifetime of stupid bullshit."
"Yes, we know that, but being cis-passing alleviates a lot of that bullshit, and I'm talking specifically about his parents because I don't think he's thinking about the 'entire lifetime of stupid bullshit'. I think he's thinking about his parents."
"And no matter what conclusion we reach here, it's important that she decides based on what's best for her and not what her parents want," Accept agreed.
"That's part of it. The other is that life with the Elwicks may suck regardless of his gender identity. If we change his gender identity to female and send her home, then yes, she won't have to deal with their transphobia, but will she really be happy?"
"That's not for us to decide."
"Let me rephrase, then," Refuse said. "Is changing his gender identity to female going to give her what she wants? And if not, isn't that a reason not to grant the request?"
The three of us sat and considered that. How much of their conflict with their parents was based on her desire to transition, how much on the question of gender conformity with regards to hobbies and interests, and how much on good old-fashioned parental narcissism?
"Even if it's not," Accept said, "it's still her choice to try. Besides, there are plenty of other reasons why someone would rather change identity than expression."
"That's true, but there are also reasons why it may be preferable to change expression rather than identity. It's our responsibility as the adult in the situation to make sure he considers all the angles."
"And if she still decides she wants to be a girl, we'd be okay changing her gender identity?"
Refuse grimaced. "I wouldn't say we'd be 'okay' with it," she said. "The world needs more trans people, not less."
"That," I declared, "is a bold claim."
Refuse folded her arms and held her head high, projecting as much confidence as she could channel through her eight-inch frame. "Yeah, I know, but I stand by it. Being trans gives you a perspective that I think a lot of cis people are missing. Seeing both sides of the gender divide, the way guys act when it's only guys and the same for girls, all the assumptions around being one or the other… You know what I'm saying?"
"But being trans was a terrible experience," Accept objected. "Why would you wish that on someone?"
"I don't and I'm not. That suffering is something that's inflicted on trans people, not part of being trans itself."
"Gender dysphoria?"
"Not universal to the trans experience," Refuse countered. "Look, I'll grant you that our experience of being trans sucked. That's one hundred percent valid. But it doesn't have to suck. In a better society…"
"But we can't change that," Accept interrupted. "I get where you're coming from with 'being trans' maybe not being an intrinsically bad experience, but we don't live in a 'better society'—we live in this one, where being trans sucks."
"So did being gay at one point, and not that long ago, either. You wouldn't say the world should have less gay people in it, right?"
Accept rubbed her chin in thought, eyes narrowed. "I don't like that argument, but I don't feel great about criticizing it, either."
Refuse frowned as well. "Was that a bad-faith argument?"
"I don't think it's 'bad-faith', exactly, but I'm not sure it's a proper argument, either. Being gay doesn't need to be 'addressed' the way being trans does."
"But being trans can be addressed perfectly well without doing anything that might even approach 'death of personality'," she countered. "In both cases, it's about changing someone so other people aren't uncomfortable."
"You mean so that other people don't use your differences as a basis for abuse," Accept said.
"Well, yes. Back to my original point, though: the thing about changing someone to just 'be cis' is that it's a tacit acceptance of the assumption that being trans is inherently 'worse' than being cis, and that's bullshit."
Accept couldn't find a counterargument, so I took the opportunity to ask, "This also addresses the distinction between importing as another gender and changing someone's gender identity, doesn't it?"
Refuse nodded eagerly. "Yes. It all relates back to the point about 'solving a problem'." She turned to where her whiteboard had been, found that it had ceased existing when no one had been paying attention, and took a moment to pout at its lack of object permanence before giving up on the idea. "Oh, well. The point is that even if we ignore the question of whether that sort of mental alteration constitutes a 'death of personality', doing it is transphobic in as much as it serves to let transphobes just not deal with the fact that trans people exist, which they do." She glanced at Accept, then added, "Which is why making her equally comfortable with either gender is also not a solution I'm happy with."
"That justifies our feelings," Accept conceded, "but that still doesn't mean we should act on them—or not act on them, as the case may be. For one thing, how is she going to take this? I mean, can we phrase our refusal in a way that doesn't echo her parents' refusal to help?"
"It feels awful to say no," I said, "but it'd feel awful to say yes, too. There's no good answer."
"Maybe we shouldn't refuse," Refuse suggested.
"Isn't 'refuse' your entire argument?" Accept asked.
"Well, yes, but what I meant is that we should convince him it's not a good idea rather than telling him 'no' outright."
"That would be ideal," I said, "but what if we can't?"
"I don't know, improvise?"
"That's not helpful."
"If we really can't convince her that she should transition, maybe it's because she shouldn't," Accept said. "Look at it this way: magic can take care of pretty much everything with regard to transition except for other people's reactions, and if that's the thing tilting the scales, I think we can make a pretty good case that no one should let a bunch of random assholes control who they are. If there are other, more fundamental reasons, then maybe she should stay a girl."
"Going with that feels like we spent the whole conversation only to arrive at, 'Eh, I dunno,'" Refuse said.
"Sunk cost?"
"I mean, that doesn't mean it's wrong, it just feels…"
"Like a no-op," I finished.
"Yeah."
I dragged a hand down my face before returning my attention to the sprites, who were waiting for me to continue.
"So," I said, "do we have a verdict?"
Refuse glanced at Accept—who shrugged helplessly—then turned back to me. "I think our answer is ultimately, 'no, we're not okay with doing this'—irrespective of whether or not that's 'right'."
"Both options suck," Accept added.
"Too true," I grumbled. "Well, that's an answer, so unless you have any closing comments…"
The sprites exchanged another glance, and I was about to declare the matter 'over' when Accept jerked upright and held up a finger. "Hold on, there is one more thing."
"Yeah?"
"We've spent the whole argument assuming that the only two options were 'change gender identity' and 'do nothing'."
"We're not doing nothing," Refuse objected.
Accept rolled her eyes. "I meant, 'take no action in regards to their mind'."
That implied a different kind of mental effect. Refuse came to the same conclusion, and said, "I don't think I'm going to like what you're about to say."
"Relax. I'm just thinking that it's probably possible to treat his gender dysphoria without touching his gender identity—you know, reduce his suffering without changing anything."
"That's only papering over the problem, though," I noted. "There's a lot more to it than just dysphoria."
"It's better than nothing," Accept said. "Especially if they decide they want to wait until they graduate high school to actually transition."
"Starting over in a new place," Refuse added.
"Yeah."
"It's something to look into," I said. "Are we done, then?"
Accept looked at me. "I think so, unless our moderator has any closing comments."
"Nothing from me," I said. "Uh, thanks, I guess."
The pair bowed to me and popped like soap bubbles.
If it were up to me, I'd get through the terrifying prospect of another heart-to-heart as soon as possible—no, that's a lie. If it were up to me, I'd procrastinate as long as possible rather than deal with it despite knowing all the while that I'd be best served by getting it out of the way. Anxiety meant I'd spend the whole time just as stressed over the anticipation as I would about whatever it was I was worried about.
Unfortunately, the kid—which was a terrible way to refer to someone, but they'd told me not to use their male name and I didn't think it was appropriate to use their birth one—was upset enough that they gave every sign that they did not want to talk for the entirety of the following day. By that evening, the tension had gotten to me.
"Something wrong, Cass?" Rita asked as she pulled me to my feet for what felt like the twentieth time that night.
"I'm fine." I picked up my dropping training weapon and reset my stance. "You didn't hit me too hard or anything."
"I know I didn't; I'm asking because you're distracted. Is something wrong?"
I considered lying for about half a second before realizing it was clearly obvious. "Yeah, something's wrong."
"Can you deal with it or put it away?"
"This is 'put away'."
"Then take the rest of the night off." She turned and headed to the rack of training weapons to stow her polearm.
"Seriously?" I whined. "I thought this was a friendly deal, not a 'focus with all your heart or Gee-Tee-Eff-Oh' thing."
"This is me being friendly. You don't want to meet Drill Sergeant Rita." She deposited the training polearm and turned back to me, her voice softening. "You're going to reinforce bad habits if you keep practicing like that. Take the night off, sort things out, and come back tomorrow with a clear head. Deal?"
"If only it were so easy."
"Then take two nights off. Take a week off. Take the whole rest of the Jump off if you need it. Getting rusty is better than ingraining bad habits."
I sighed and followed her to the weapon rack. "Night off it is, I guess." And I'm normally so good at 'putting things away'. Then again, was it really that surprising that this would be the thing I couldn't just put out of mind? It was my responsibility, something I could (and needed to) address, and—in some respects—stemmed from something I'd personally said and done. Maybe it was right that I couldn't brush it off so easily.
The local Warehouse time was somewhere in the early afternoon, judging by the sunlight shining through the windows in the front lobby. I paused as I reached the doors; I didn't want to head back to the apartment yet—it was barely midnight in 'world' time—but I wasn't sure what else to do. Even if they were done sulking, there wasn't much I could do about the problem when the other party was asleep.
Well, maybe there was one thing.
Deanna was in the Library when Dragon tracked her down for me. We could have spoken there, but it was a library, so we opted to take a walk around town while we talked rather than disturb the sanctity of the institution.
"This is probably a weird question that I'm not going to be able to convincingly pass off as a strictly hypothetical one," I began, "but what do you think about the ethics of changing someone's gender identity at their request?"
"At the person's own request?"
"Yes."
"If we're talking about someone in the current setting, I'd be 'strongly hesitant', considering their culture," Deanna replied. "What would they hope to accomplish by doing so?"
"Well, if you identify as one gender and your body is the other, something's gotta give."
"Why the mind and not the body?"
I met her question with a question rather than trying to explore the many confused and conflicting reasons for such a request. "Are you thinking of something in particular?"
"I'd want to be sure they were making the right decision for their future rather than bowing to societal pressures."
"How would you do that?"
Her answer was simple and wonderfully direct. "I'd ask them. I'm not going to be their gatekeeper; if they're sure, I'd take their word for it, and if not, then I'd want them to think about things until they were, one way or the other."
I spent nearly a minute of our walk digesting that answer before returning to her previous question.
"There are definitely a lot of societal pressures," I agreed. "That said, if I'd had the option back before… well, this"—a wave of my hand at the inside of the Warehouse got the point across nicely—"I might have taken it just to avoid having to totally redefine myself in my own head. I'd spent more or less my whole life convincing myself that I was a man. I was sure that I identified as male and was unhappy for unrelated reasons—mostly because I hadn't realized there was another option—so sticking with my original gender would have been easier in some ways, if I'd had the choice at the time."
"Yet you haven't imported as a man yet, have you?" she noted.
"Well, no. I was well past halfway through the whole 'redefine myself' thing by the time I signed on."
We reached the border between the town and park and turned right, walking along the boundary rather than out onto the winding park paths.
"You know, maybe that's part of why I haven't imported as a man," I mused. "After all the effort it took to 'redefine' my understanding of who I was, I didn't want to throw that all up into the air again."
"Is that something you want to examine?"
I shrugged. "Not really. I like how things are."
"That's good."
Deanna gave us a short break from conversation before returning to the central point. "What about your new friend?"
"Hmm?"
"You didn't bother trying to disguise your questions as hypothetical, so I assumed someone approached you with such a request."
"You're not wrong," I admitted.
"And you want me to help?"
"Well…" I hesitated before admitting, "No, not really. For starters, 'curing' trans people of their desire to transition is a transphobic concept that is far too common in the early twenty-first century."
She nodded. "I've met cultures who mandated 'corrective' actions for nonconformity, and it's not something any society aspiring to enlightenment should emulate regardless of how effective their methods are."
The building-lined border of the Warehouse was fast approaching, so I held off my next comment until we reached it. I quirked an eyebrow to say 'What now?', and Deanna raised an arm back the way we came. Backtracking it was.
"Second," I continued, "changing someone's gender identity like that isn't about their suffering, it's about not making other people uncomfortable, and those people shouldn't get to determine how anyone lives, you know? And finally, I'm not convinced it wouldn't be invasive enough to constitute a 'death of personality', though I'm not sure how to square that with how we can import as cis people of either gender."
Deanna simply nodded at my words, so I had to ask, "Would you refuse the request in my place?"
"I used the phrase 'strongly hesitant' earlier," she replied. "If that's what they truly want independent of other people's opinions, then it's just a matter of informed consent. If it's bowing to social pressure, then you were on the right track with your concerns about 'eliminating the unusual'—enforcing normative behavior, to put it another way. Not only are you stomping out a diversity of experience, you're letting people ignore the problem instead of addressing it."
"It doesn't seem fair to say, 'You have to suffer for the good of social progress,'" I said.
"It wouldn't be, so we aren't. Those things are 'consequences'. The reason to refuse is much simpler: if they're only changing to mollify other people, then it's not the right choice for their own wellbeing."
I'd hoped hearing that said with Deanna's calm authority would make me confident that was the right way to think of the problem. It helped less than I'd have liked.
"But ultimately, if they say they're definitely not just trying to conform, I should let them make that decision?" I asked.
"How old is this person, exactly?"
"Seventeen."
Deanna hmm'ed. "That's a difficult age."
"All age is difficult," I quipped.
"True. I was thinking specifically that they're old enough to make their own choices but young enough to be irresponsible about it."
"So should I reserve the right to veto them?"
"I would not, in your position." She paused for a moment before continuing, "However, I'm speaking hypothetically, while you have someone in mind. How much do you trust them to make the right decision?"
"It's more about trusting them to answer honestly," I clarified. "They might say they're not bowing to outside pressure, but I'm not sure I'd believe it."
"I probably don't have to tell you this, but don't ask the question unless you're prepared to accept their answer."
"Right." Giving someone a choice and then overruling them anyway might be worse than not asking in the first place.
Deanna let me stew in my thoughts until we drew to a stop at the point we'd gone from walking through town to walking along the edge.
"This whole situation sucks," I complained. "They only came to me for help in the first place because their parents refused to help with their transition. I'm not sure I can even make a case against letting them just be cis without hitting that trauma."
"Start with a show of good faith," Deanna said. "Do your research: figure out what changing their gender identity would look like as a process and what the consequences would be. It'll show you're willing to consider their point of view."
That assumed I was willing to consider their point of view—but when I thought of it like that, the answer was obvious. The lack of that 'consideration' was what had gone wrong between them and their parents, and if I was going to do better, I had to start there.
"If they say they're really sure about going with the mental changes, I wouldn't be 'okay' with it," I said, "but I guess I could… accept it enough to get them help? Refer them to someone who can do what they want, if I'm not willing to do it myself."
"A compromise."
"Of a sort. It'll be hard for me to stay neutral if they're still on the fence about it, though."
"You have a right to express your opinion as long as you make it clear that's what you're doing," Deanna said. "Make your case and let them make theirs. Maybe one of you will convince the other, and there won't be a conflict after all."
Here's hoping, I thought.
"I don't suppose you have any insight as to the 'process' or 'consequences'?"
She shook her head. "I could do it, but a magic spell targeting the concept of gender identity would be a much cleaner solution. I'm not fond of metaphors equating brains and computers, but a comparison between a software wizard and manually editing a registry wouldn't be too far off. The 'consequences' naturally depend on the exact spell, but talking to people here who've swapped gender between Jumps would be a good start."
"Have you?" I asked. "Swapped, I mean."
"Not personally, no."
"Why not?"
Deanna shrugged. "I never saw a reason to."
"Not even 'curiosity'?"
"As an empath and psychic, I already understand how other people think better than many of them do."
"Ah," I said. "I didn't think about that."
When she didn't offer any further advice, I cleared my throat and added, "I guess I'll go ask some questions. Thanks for the advice."
"You're welcome, and good luck."
Chapter 115: In Circles
Once they'd retreated to their room, I headed down the hall after them and let myself into my hotel room through the bedroom door, where I flopped down on the bed the way I always did when I was in a mood: with a sigh.
"Okay, so," my voice said from somewhere above the middle of the bed. "We need to have this out because… well, because."
I lifted my head and raised an eyebrow at the two sprites floating above me. Both looked like me, differing only in their clothes: one wore a floral blouse and jeans; the other, a plain gray t-shirt and a flannel skirt.
"What axes are we using today?" I asked.
The sprites shared a look.
"I dunno," the one in jeans said. "I don't feel particularly 'good' or 'evil'."
"I don't feel particularly emotional or logical, either," the other said.
"I think we're just going to have to do 'for' and 'against'."
"Shall I do against, then?"
"You're the one wearing a skirt. Let me do 'Refuse'."
"Then I'll argue 'Grant'."
"Sounds good," Refuse said. "Shall I go first?"
Grant shrugged. "I think the 'For' position usually goes first, but I don't mind if you want to."
"Wait, hold on," I interrupted. "I started calling you 'Grant' in my head, but that just sounds like a normal guy's name. How about… I don't know. Accept?"
She rolled her eyes. "Why are you asking me? It's your inner monologue."
Oh. Right.
"Sorry, carry on."
"Right. Ahem." Refuse cleared her throat as though she didn't already have everyone's attention. "The primary reason we're having this conversation is that we don't like the idea of changing his gender identity, so the question is, 'Why?', and I think the answer comes down to our concepts of what it means to 'be' who we are. Changing someone's gender identity isn't therapeutic, it's reprogramming."
"What's the distinction?" Accept asked.
"I'm not sure we can answer that without solving the Hard Problem of Consciousness, but there is a line there."
"Well, of course, but I don't think it's obvious which side of the line this is."
"If it was obvious, we wouldn't need to have this conversation," Refuse pointed out.
"Fair."
"And I don't think I need to remind us that our emotional reaction puts it on the wrong side."
"Clearly," Accept agreed, "but the whole point of this conversation is to figure out if our emotional reaction is appropriate."
"Then let's try to judge the ends. Say we go through with it—how would we feel afterwards? If we saw him walking down the street being happy as a girl, would we feel like we've done good, or like we helped his parents force him into the lifestyle they wanted?"
"The latter, probably, but that only says that our emotional reaction is consistent, not that it's correct."
Refuse frowned at finding herself back at square one. "I think, ultimately, it just edges too close to mind control," she said, "which is wrong as an axiomatic principle."
"No it's not," Accept countered. "I mean, it's not axiomatic. Mind control is wrong because of the harm it does."
"I meant—sorry, yes, I misspoke. Mind control is wrong under nearly all circumstances."
"Only nearly?"
"I'm sure we could construct some contrived hypothetical situation to justify it if we put our minds to it," Refuse replied, "but all that would prove is our imagination. But you raise a good point: changing his gender identity would also be wrong for the harm it does."
"What harm? She'd be happy once her body and identity matched no matter which one changed."
"We're not questioning the end experience. If we grant the request, he'd be happy as a girl; that's a given. The issue at hand is entirely in the ethics of doing so. With psychic mind-altering powers, one could make someone perfectly happy with any situation."
Accept crossed her arms. "Putting aside the invitation to a doubtlessly painful tangent on the role of happiness in our utility function, you're asserting a slippery slope—or maybe a false equivalence. Not all mind altering effects are equally bad."
"I never claimed that. I only claimed that this one is bad."
"Why, though?"
"It's a death of personality, isn't it?" Refuse replied. "Replacing someone with someone else."
"Is it?"
"Yes?"
"More than all the Jumpchain import shenanigans?" Accept pressed.
Refuse opened her mouth, reconsidered, and stared off into space, mouth drawn into a hard line.
"Maybe we'd have better luck with the question if we'd tried Jumping as a man one of these times," Accept mused.
"Why?"
"Because we'd know how it feels to change gender identity."
"Imports are different, though," I interjected.
They stopped and turned to look at me, consideration all over their (my?) faces.
"Are they?" Refuse asked.
"I want to say yes," Accept said, "but I'm pretty sure my argument works better if they aren't. A cis person importing as a cis person of the opposite gender would, by necessity, change their gender identity. If we accept that as an, um, 'acceptable' thing to do, then shouldn't we also accept the request?"
"We wouldn't be totally fine with one case and flip out about the other if they were the same, right?"
"How are they different, then?"
Refuse rubbed her chin in thought for a few seconds before grinning in triumph. "Homura mentioned that most people go back to their original gender," she reminded us.
"That depends on how you define 'original'—hold on, don't look at me like that," Accept complained when we gave her disapproving looks. "Companions going back to their original gender could be seen as a matter of habit, and trans or not, you'd say she's in the habit of presenting female, right?"
"You're focusing on the wrong bit. Changing gender identity for a Jump is generally a temporary thing, not a life-defining decision."
"What if it's possible to make her equally comfortable in a body of either gender? She could switch as often as she liked once magic became public knowledge."
"I think that's making a few too many assumptions," Refuse said.
"Like what?"
"Access, personal acceptance, societal acceptance… on second thought, let's make that a separate point. 'There's no outside pressure to import as one gender or another.' That's definitely a difference."
"Gender-locked options," Accept fired back. "Max's first time as a woman was specifically because of an 'outside pressure'."
"That's more like an… incentive?"
"Isn't that kind of the same thing?"
"Not at all. Incentives are 'coercive', not 'corrective'."
"That's a semantic quibble at best."
"It's something, though. Hold on, let me write these down." Refuse stopped and did just that on the whiteboard that manifested beside her. "What else?"
"Why are you asking me to support your argument?"
She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Point three: with imports, people are going from cis to cis, not trans to cis."
"Didn't we go from trans to cis?"
"I'd argue that not changing our gender identity means we're not part of the sample."
"Fair enough," Accept said. "Why does that matter, though?"
"Because…"
Refuse trailed off, deep in thought, only to be suddenly and brilliantly illuminated by a lightbulb appearing over her head. "That's it!"
"What?" Accept and I asked over each other.
"They're not trying to 'fix' anything," Refuse explained. "We know how many people think 'solving' the 'condition' of being trans means preventing people from wanting to transition. Being trans isn't a mental illness, and trying to 'cure' it tends to lead to the same sort of awful shit the idea of 'curing homosexuality' does—crackpot 'doctors' prescribing treatments that are just torture by another name. That's why the request gets our hackles up so much!"
Accept nodded along. "Yeah, that makes sense… but I also think it points to our emotional reasoning not being 'correct'. You're arguing that she's asking for the results of bad practices, but unlike the so-called 'treatments', a magical procedure would actually accomplish the goal, and it wouldn't cause any suffering, either."
"That doesn't change the core argument, though: being trans isn't a mental illness, and trying to 'cure' it isn't just 'misguided', it's transphobic in and of itself."
"Even if it's the preferred solution to someone's gender dysphoria?" Accept challenged. "How is denying someone the right to choose their gender identity any less 'misguided' than denying them the right to choose their gender expression?"
" Forcing someone to express the wrong gender is a form of psychological harm, whether they're cis or trans. Actresses who portray women passing as men have reported gender dysphoria from the experience—"
"Wait, really?" I asked. "I mean, that makes perfect sense, but I wasn't aware they'd said it. How do you know that?"
Refuse held up her phone. "I googled it."
"You have an internet connection separate from—"
"Let's not get off topic," Accept interrupted. She turned to Refuse and prompted, "You were saying?"
"Uh, right. Forcing someone to express the wrong gender is a form of psychological harm; changing someone's gender identity is mentally invasive and only alleviates suffering in as much as it allows someone to avoid dealing with people who want to do the former."
"But then we're right back to the sticking point we had earlier with regard to 'what separates 'therapeutic' and 'invasive' procedures."
Refuse groaned. "Fine. How about this: it's wrong because—in our cultural context—granting his request is perfectly aligned with some of the most severely transphobic ideas in circulation."
"Our cultural context? Not 'this' cultural context?"
"They're close enough as to be effectively the same culture."
"Okay, I'll grant you that," Accept said, "but what you're saying boils down to that we shouldn't help him with his preferred solution because it's bad optics."
"That's a deliberately bad-faith way to summarize the situation."
"Ugh, yeah, that's fair. Still, is it right to allow our feelings to control someone else's life?"
"Depends if those feelings are correct or not," Refuse answered.
"That's circular reasoning."
"No it's not, it's a tautology."
Accept groaned. "Fine, whatever. My argument is that they are not. If you want to say this is unethically invasive mind alteration and imports aren't, you need to be able to justify the difference."
"Maybe we should question the latter assumption," Refuse suggested. "What if the alterations made by import memories are also unethically invasive?"
I groaned. "Let's not open that can of worms, please."
"No, no, she's got a point," Accept said. "We do need to deal with that sooner or later. We're already a very different person than we were when we joined."
"We're a lot more comfortable solving problems with violence, for one thing," Refuse added. "Kicking down doors?"
"'Sooner or later' does not mean 'right now, while we're wrestling with a more immediate problem'," I scolded them. "The question is, 'Are our feelings about granting the request sufficient reason to refuse?'."
"No," Accept said.
"Yes!" Refuse insisted. "One way or another, he's asking us to 'cure' him of his gender identity, but—and I know I'm repeating myself here, but this is probably the most important sentence in this entire debate—being transgender is not a mental illness."
"Then why did Worm's mental health clean-up affect us?"
"Did it? We told ourself we weren't uncomfortable wearing our old male form, but if that were really the case, we wouldn't be so averse to being a guy, would we?"
Accept frowned. "The clean-up made being male less unpleasant, but I'll admit we weren't suddenly happy with it."
"I'm not sure it even did that much. I think we were just in denial."
Rather than facepalm, I draped an arm across my face to hide my eyes from the world. "This sucks."
"Yeah," Accept agreed. "And here we thought the trickiest thing he could ask of us was to help more people than just her."
"It's kind of funny, looking back on it," Refuse added. "Megan barely questioned the whole masquerade. Maybe she reads enough urban fantasy to just accept the premise as axiomatic?"
"You keep using that word."
"It does mean what I think it means. Anyway, what I was getting at is that we weren't sure how we'd respond if he'd asked us to help others, too."
Accept nodded. "That's probably what we would have done if Max hadn't offered us a spot on the 'chain."
There was a brief pause before Accept spoke again. "Since we're all playing devil's advocate anyway, I'm gonna ask: why is being on the 'chain different?"
"For one thing," Refuse began, "if we end up going back, we can bring things like that." I raised my arm off my face just enough to see her point at the Button I'd dropped on the nightstand. "And if we don't… well, we don't have to face any of the people we didn't ask Max and company to help, for whatever good that would've done."
"You think he'd have refused?"
"Hard to say. Where would we have drawn the boundary? Friends? Friends of friends? Anyone we've ever commiserated with on internet message boards? I don't think he'd have been willing to treat an entire world's worth of trans people."
"Should he have been?"
I groaned as I pulled myself into a sitting position. "We are seriously off topic, here," I scolded them. "We're trying to deal with whether or not to grant a questionable request, not answer Big Questions about what being part of the 'chain means for our 'duty to help'. Put a pin in it and get back on topic."
"Sorry," they chorused.
I considered lying back down, but decided to remain sitting, shifting myself backwards until I could rest my back against the head of the bed.
"Now that I think about it," Accept mused, "I can't help but notice an odd parallel to Star Trek-humanity's purist approach to the human form."
"How's that?"
"Well, Star Trek's Federation hates body modifications, but they have no problem providing medical services to transgender people. Have we found ourselves as the hard-line purists? As Picard said, it would be inappropriate to tell someone to be grateful for a condition that prevents them from living a happy life."
"Do you think Deanna would agree if we asked her?" Refuse asked. "Do you really think she'd say, 'Oh, psychically changing someone's gender identity? Easy.'?"
"Do you want to just ask her, then?"
"I… well, yes, actually, I do 'want' to ask her, but I also think it's the wrong thing to do. Having her refuse is the easy way out. We'd be letting someone else take responsibility for the decision, someone we could point to and say, 'Sorry, I tried.' Maybe she'd do a better job of explaining why this wasn't an acceptable solution, but more importantly, it'd make it not our fault."
"Why does it have to be our fault?" Accept asked.
"Because if it's not our fault, it's not our decision, either."
"You're just worried she'd say 'yes'."
"Yes, I'm worried she'd say 'yes'!" Refuse snapped. "If we bring her into the conversation, it's out of our hands. We'd have passed the buck to her and rendered this entire discussion pointless because we're not making the decision at all."
"That's a bad-faith argument and you know it! Asking for advice doesn't mean letting someone else choose for you."
"It is not a bad-faith argument because it wouldn't be just 'advice'. If Deanna says it's unethical, the matter is settled. If she says it is ethical, we'd be hard-pressed to find a reason not to allow her to perform the procedure, and the matter is settled in the opposite way. The former makes it 'not our fault', and the latter takes it out of our hands."
"That's assuming that Deanna would hold that granting the request is ethical but be unable to provide a satisfactory case for why," Accept countered. "If it's ethical and she knows that, she should be able to explain it. Hell, maybe we shouldn't be the one making this decision after all. She's probably got, like, twenty degrees in psychology or something."
"That feels like a cop-out."
"I know, but there's nothing wrong with asking for help from those who know more than you."
"Even if it means giving up control over the situation?" Refuse asked. "You're just afraid of making the wrong decision."
"Of course we are! That's why we're having this conversation in the first place!"
Refuse bristled at her counterpart's tone, but ultimately conceded the point.
"You know," she added, "I think we might be asking the wrong question."
"What other question is there?" Accept asked.
"We've spent the entire conversation asking, 'Is it acceptable to change someone's gender identity if they want to identify as the other gender?' when the actual question is, 'Is it a good idea to grant this specific request.'"
Accept frowned. "I'm not sure I see the difference."
"His parents."
Her frown intensified. "We already went over that with the whole cultural thing."
"No, that's not what I'm getting at," Refuse said. "Does he really want to identify as a girl, or does he just want to please his parents?"
"It's not just her parents. 'Not being trans' avoids an entire lifetime of stupid bullshit."
"Yes, we know that, but being cis-passing alleviates a lot of that bullshit, and I'm talking specifically about his parents because I don't think he's thinking about the 'entire lifetime of stupid bullshit'. I think he's thinking about his parents."
"And no matter what conclusion we reach here, it's important that she decides based on what's best for her and not what her parents want," Accept agreed.
"That's part of it. The other is that life with the Elwicks may suck regardless of his gender identity. If we change his gender identity to female and send her home, then yes, she won't have to deal with their transphobia, but will she really be happy?"
"That's not for us to decide."
"Let me rephrase, then," Refuse said. "Is changing his gender identity to female going to give her what she wants? And if not, isn't that a reason not to grant the request?"
The three of us sat and considered that. How much of their conflict with their parents was based on her desire to transition, how much on the question of gender conformity with regards to hobbies and interests, and how much on good old-fashioned parental narcissism?
"Even if it's not," Accept said, "it's still her choice to try. Besides, there are plenty of other reasons why someone would rather change identity than expression."
"That's true, but there are also reasons why it may be preferable to change expression rather than identity. It's our responsibility as the adult in the situation to make sure he considers all the angles."
"And if she still decides she wants to be a girl, we'd be okay changing her gender identity?"
Refuse grimaced. "I wouldn't say we'd be 'okay' with it," she said. "The world needs more trans people, not less."
"That," I declared, "is a bold claim."
Refuse folded her arms and held her head high, projecting as much confidence as she could channel through her eight-inch frame. "Yeah, I know, but I stand by it. Being trans gives you a perspective that I think a lot of cis people are missing. Seeing both sides of the gender divide, the way guys act when it's only guys and the same for girls, all the assumptions around being one or the other… You know what I'm saying?"
"But being trans was a terrible experience," Accept objected. "Why would you wish that on someone?"
"I don't and I'm not. That suffering is something that's inflicted on trans people, not part of being trans itself."
"Gender dysphoria?"
"Not universal to the trans experience," Refuse countered. "Look, I'll grant you that our experience of being trans sucked. That's one hundred percent valid. But it doesn't have to suck. In a better society…"
"But we can't change that," Accept interrupted. "I get where you're coming from with 'being trans' maybe not being an intrinsically bad experience, but we don't live in a 'better society'—we live in this one, where being trans sucks."
"So did being gay at one point, and not that long ago, either. You wouldn't say the world should have less gay people in it, right?"
Accept rubbed her chin in thought, eyes narrowed. "I don't like that argument, but I don't feel great about criticizing it, either."
Refuse frowned as well. "Was that a bad-faith argument?"
"I don't think it's 'bad-faith', exactly, but I'm not sure it's a proper argument, either. Being gay doesn't need to be 'addressed' the way being trans does."
"But being trans can be addressed perfectly well without doing anything that might even approach 'death of personality'," she countered. "In both cases, it's about changing someone so other people aren't uncomfortable."
"You mean so that other people don't use your differences as a basis for abuse," Accept said.
"Well, yes. Back to my original point, though: the thing about changing someone to just 'be cis' is that it's a tacit acceptance of the assumption that being trans is inherently 'worse' than being cis, and that's bullshit."
Accept couldn't find a counterargument, so I took the opportunity to ask, "This also addresses the distinction between importing as another gender and changing someone's gender identity, doesn't it?"
Refuse nodded eagerly. "Yes. It all relates back to the point about 'solving a problem'." She turned to where her whiteboard had been, found that it had ceased existing when no one had been paying attention, and took a moment to pout at its lack of object permanence before giving up on the idea. "Oh, well. The point is that even if we ignore the question of whether that sort of mental alteration constitutes a 'death of personality', doing it is transphobic in as much as it serves to let transphobes just not deal with the fact that trans people exist, which they do." She glanced at Accept, then added, "Which is why making her equally comfortable with either gender is also not a solution I'm happy with."
"That justifies our feelings," Accept conceded, "but that still doesn't mean we should act on them—or not act on them, as the case may be. For one thing, how is she going to take this? I mean, can we phrase our refusal in a way that doesn't echo her parents' refusal to help?"
"It feels awful to say no," I said, "but it'd feel awful to say yes, too. There's no good answer."
"Maybe we shouldn't refuse," Refuse suggested.
"Isn't 'refuse' your entire argument?" Accept asked.
"Well, yes, but what I meant is that we should convince him it's not a good idea rather than telling him 'no' outright."
"That would be ideal," I said, "but what if we can't?"
"I don't know, improvise?"
"That's not helpful."
"If we really can't convince her that she should transition, maybe it's because she shouldn't," Accept said. "Look at it this way: magic can take care of pretty much everything with regard to transition except for other people's reactions, and if that's the thing tilting the scales, I think we can make a pretty good case that no one should let a bunch of random assholes control who they are. If there are other, more fundamental reasons, then maybe she should stay a girl."
"Going with that feels like we spent the whole conversation only to arrive at, 'Eh, I dunno,'" Refuse said.
"Sunk cost?"
"I mean, that doesn't mean it's wrong, it just feels…"
"Like a no-op," I finished.
"Yeah."
I dragged a hand down my face before returning my attention to the sprites, who were waiting for me to continue.
"So," I said, "do we have a verdict?"
Refuse glanced at Accept—who shrugged helplessly—then turned back to me. "I think our answer is ultimately, 'no, we're not okay with doing this'—irrespective of whether or not that's 'right'."
"Both options suck," Accept added.
"Too true," I grumbled. "Well, that's an answer, so unless you have any closing comments…"
The sprites exchanged another glance, and I was about to declare the matter 'over' when Accept jerked upright and held up a finger. "Hold on, there is one more thing."
"Yeah?"
"We've spent the whole argument assuming that the only two options were 'change gender identity' and 'do nothing'."
"We're not doing nothing," Refuse objected.
Accept rolled her eyes. "I meant, 'take no action in regards to their mind'."
That implied a different kind of mental effect. Refuse came to the same conclusion, and said, "I don't think I'm going to like what you're about to say."
"Relax. I'm just thinking that it's probably possible to treat his gender dysphoria without touching his gender identity—you know, reduce his suffering without changing anything."
"That's only papering over the problem, though," I noted. "There's a lot more to it than just dysphoria."
"It's better than nothing," Accept said. "Especially if they decide they want to wait until they graduate high school to actually transition."
"Starting over in a new place," Refuse added.
"Yeah."
"It's something to look into," I said. "Are we done, then?"
Accept looked at me. "I think so, unless our moderator has any closing comments."
"Nothing from me," I said. "Uh, thanks, I guess."
The pair bowed to me and popped like soap bubbles.
———X==X==X———
If it were up to me, I'd get through the terrifying prospect of another heart-to-heart as soon as possible—no, that's a lie. If it were up to me, I'd procrastinate as long as possible rather than deal with it despite knowing all the while that I'd be best served by getting it out of the way. Anxiety meant I'd spend the whole time just as stressed over the anticipation as I would about whatever it was I was worried about.
Unfortunately, the kid—which was a terrible way to refer to someone, but they'd told me not to use their male name and I didn't think it was appropriate to use their birth one—was upset enough that they gave every sign that they did not want to talk for the entirety of the following day. By that evening, the tension had gotten to me.
"Something wrong, Cass?" Rita asked as she pulled me to my feet for what felt like the twentieth time that night.
"I'm fine." I picked up my dropping training weapon and reset my stance. "You didn't hit me too hard or anything."
"I know I didn't; I'm asking because you're distracted. Is something wrong?"
I considered lying for about half a second before realizing it was clearly obvious. "Yeah, something's wrong."
"Can you deal with it or put it away?"
"This is 'put away'."
"Then take the rest of the night off." She turned and headed to the rack of training weapons to stow her polearm.
"Seriously?" I whined. "I thought this was a friendly deal, not a 'focus with all your heart or Gee-Tee-Eff-Oh' thing."
"This is me being friendly. You don't want to meet Drill Sergeant Rita." She deposited the training polearm and turned back to me, her voice softening. "You're going to reinforce bad habits if you keep practicing like that. Take the night off, sort things out, and come back tomorrow with a clear head. Deal?"
"If only it were so easy."
"Then take two nights off. Take a week off. Take the whole rest of the Jump off if you need it. Getting rusty is better than ingraining bad habits."
I sighed and followed her to the weapon rack. "Night off it is, I guess." And I'm normally so good at 'putting things away'. Then again, was it really that surprising that this would be the thing I couldn't just put out of mind? It was my responsibility, something I could (and needed to) address, and—in some respects—stemmed from something I'd personally said and done. Maybe it was right that I couldn't brush it off so easily.
The local Warehouse time was somewhere in the early afternoon, judging by the sunlight shining through the windows in the front lobby. I paused as I reached the doors; I didn't want to head back to the apartment yet—it was barely midnight in 'world' time—but I wasn't sure what else to do. Even if they were done sulking, there wasn't much I could do about the problem when the other party was asleep.
Well, maybe there was one thing.
———X==X==X———
Deanna was in the Library when Dragon tracked her down for me. We could have spoken there, but it was a library, so we opted to take a walk around town while we talked rather than disturb the sanctity of the institution.
"This is probably a weird question that I'm not going to be able to convincingly pass off as a strictly hypothetical one," I began, "but what do you think about the ethics of changing someone's gender identity at their request?"
"At the person's own request?"
"Yes."
"If we're talking about someone in the current setting, I'd be 'strongly hesitant', considering their culture," Deanna replied. "What would they hope to accomplish by doing so?"
"Well, if you identify as one gender and your body is the other, something's gotta give."
"Why the mind and not the body?"
I met her question with a question rather than trying to explore the many confused and conflicting reasons for such a request. "Are you thinking of something in particular?"
"I'd want to be sure they were making the right decision for their future rather than bowing to societal pressures."
"How would you do that?"
Her answer was simple and wonderfully direct. "I'd ask them. I'm not going to be their gatekeeper; if they're sure, I'd take their word for it, and if not, then I'd want them to think about things until they were, one way or the other."
I spent nearly a minute of our walk digesting that answer before returning to her previous question.
"There are definitely a lot of societal pressures," I agreed. "That said, if I'd had the option back before… well, this"—a wave of my hand at the inside of the Warehouse got the point across nicely—"I might have taken it just to avoid having to totally redefine myself in my own head. I'd spent more or less my whole life convincing myself that I was a man. I was sure that I identified as male and was unhappy for unrelated reasons—mostly because I hadn't realized there was another option—so sticking with my original gender would have been easier in some ways, if I'd had the choice at the time."
"Yet you haven't imported as a man yet, have you?" she noted.
"Well, no. I was well past halfway through the whole 'redefine myself' thing by the time I signed on."
We reached the border between the town and park and turned right, walking along the boundary rather than out onto the winding park paths.
"You know, maybe that's part of why I haven't imported as a man," I mused. "After all the effort it took to 'redefine' my understanding of who I was, I didn't want to throw that all up into the air again."
"Is that something you want to examine?"
I shrugged. "Not really. I like how things are."
"That's good."
Deanna gave us a short break from conversation before returning to the central point. "What about your new friend?"
"Hmm?"
"You didn't bother trying to disguise your questions as hypothetical, so I assumed someone approached you with such a request."
"You're not wrong," I admitted.
"And you want me to help?"
"Well…" I hesitated before admitting, "No, not really. For starters, 'curing' trans people of their desire to transition is a transphobic concept that is far too common in the early twenty-first century."
She nodded. "I've met cultures who mandated 'corrective' actions for nonconformity, and it's not something any society aspiring to enlightenment should emulate regardless of how effective their methods are."
The building-lined border of the Warehouse was fast approaching, so I held off my next comment until we reached it. I quirked an eyebrow to say 'What now?', and Deanna raised an arm back the way we came. Backtracking it was.
"Second," I continued, "changing someone's gender identity like that isn't about their suffering, it's about not making other people uncomfortable, and those people shouldn't get to determine how anyone lives, you know? And finally, I'm not convinced it wouldn't be invasive enough to constitute a 'death of personality', though I'm not sure how to square that with how we can import as cis people of either gender."
Deanna simply nodded at my words, so I had to ask, "Would you refuse the request in my place?"
"I used the phrase 'strongly hesitant' earlier," she replied. "If that's what they truly want independent of other people's opinions, then it's just a matter of informed consent. If it's bowing to social pressure, then you were on the right track with your concerns about 'eliminating the unusual'—enforcing normative behavior, to put it another way. Not only are you stomping out a diversity of experience, you're letting people ignore the problem instead of addressing it."
"It doesn't seem fair to say, 'You have to suffer for the good of social progress,'" I said.
"It wouldn't be, so we aren't. Those things are 'consequences'. The reason to refuse is much simpler: if they're only changing to mollify other people, then it's not the right choice for their own wellbeing."
I'd hoped hearing that said with Deanna's calm authority would make me confident that was the right way to think of the problem. It helped less than I'd have liked.
"But ultimately, if they say they're definitely not just trying to conform, I should let them make that decision?" I asked.
"How old is this person, exactly?"
"Seventeen."
Deanna hmm'ed. "That's a difficult age."
"All age is difficult," I quipped.
"True. I was thinking specifically that they're old enough to make their own choices but young enough to be irresponsible about it."
"So should I reserve the right to veto them?"
"I would not, in your position." She paused for a moment before continuing, "However, I'm speaking hypothetically, while you have someone in mind. How much do you trust them to make the right decision?"
"It's more about trusting them to answer honestly," I clarified. "They might say they're not bowing to outside pressure, but I'm not sure I'd believe it."
"I probably don't have to tell you this, but don't ask the question unless you're prepared to accept their answer."
"Right." Giving someone a choice and then overruling them anyway might be worse than not asking in the first place.
Deanna let me stew in my thoughts until we drew to a stop at the point we'd gone from walking through town to walking along the edge.
"This whole situation sucks," I complained. "They only came to me for help in the first place because their parents refused to help with their transition. I'm not sure I can even make a case against letting them just be cis without hitting that trauma."
"Start with a show of good faith," Deanna said. "Do your research: figure out what changing their gender identity would look like as a process and what the consequences would be. It'll show you're willing to consider their point of view."
That assumed I was willing to consider their point of view—but when I thought of it like that, the answer was obvious. The lack of that 'consideration' was what had gone wrong between them and their parents, and if I was going to do better, I had to start there.
"If they say they're really sure about going with the mental changes, I wouldn't be 'okay' with it," I said, "but I guess I could… accept it enough to get them help? Refer them to someone who can do what they want, if I'm not willing to do it myself."
"A compromise."
"Of a sort. It'll be hard for me to stay neutral if they're still on the fence about it, though."
"You have a right to express your opinion as long as you make it clear that's what you're doing," Deanna said. "Make your case and let them make theirs. Maybe one of you will convince the other, and there won't be a conflict after all."
Here's hoping, I thought.
"I don't suppose you have any insight as to the 'process' or 'consequences'?"
She shook her head. "I could do it, but a magic spell targeting the concept of gender identity would be a much cleaner solution. I'm not fond of metaphors equating brains and computers, but a comparison between a software wizard and manually editing a registry wouldn't be too far off. The 'consequences' naturally depend on the exact spell, but talking to people here who've swapped gender between Jumps would be a good start."
"Have you?" I asked. "Swapped, I mean."
"Not personally, no."
"Why not?"
Deanna shrugged. "I never saw a reason to."
"Not even 'curiosity'?"
"As an empath and psychic, I already understand how other people think better than many of them do."
"Ah," I said. "I didn't think about that."
When she didn't offer any further advice, I cleared my throat and added, "I guess I'll go ask some questions. Thanks for the advice."
"You're welcome, and good luck."
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