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BACK SPACE by [email protected] Dave Goodman was hooked up to every imaginable bio-monitoring device possible. Comfort was impossible. He recognized the machine he'd spent six months trying to understand. He'd never imagined it would be used for such a thing. He'd assumed it would be a boon to espionage, not inter-planetary, or, rather, intra-planetary exploration. "We have several promising targets," the captain told him. The two prongs of the probe looked sharp and dangerous. He could already feel the thrum behind his eyes, making him a little sick, a little dizzy. "We've worked it so there are two low-grade beams of radiation that we think will act as guides. We don't want to risk keeping them on more than a minute, so you'll have to move quick." Dave had spent the last week re-familiarizing himself with what he'd dubbed the "projector". He remembered when they'd brought it to him, when he'd been handed the task of back engineering it. When the prongs had touched his forehead there had been a few waves of nausea and then an all encompassing flash of ice cold fire on every nerve ending. Then he was floating two feet ahead of himself, feeling, seeing, hearing, smelling and tasting, all amplified. He'd accidentally hurled himself through half a dozen walls with a thought, and into the women's showers. While the soapy, naked women had not discerned his presence, he'd spent far more time than necessary discerning theirs. He still remembered the suds slipping down their wet limbs, slick as eel, their glossy bottoms and shining breasts shimmering in the hot steam. A technician glanced up from a monitor and eyed him. Dave forgot for a moment about his predicament: measured, monitored, gauged, every detail: blood pressure, brain activity, nerve response, erections. The nurse technician glanced up from her monitor. "Okay, we're ready when you are." Her hushed voice soothed him, and if he was going to die, if there was even a chance, he didn't mind that being the last voice he would ever hear. He pressed the two bluish prongs of the projector to his forehead and felt the stirring of a queasy disconnection from his body. It's the scale, he thought, his head swimming. This manufactured world of theirs, so neatly trapped in its titanium, vacuum packed box, is a billion times smaller. He wouldn't analyzed it more but all he could feel was the washing machine turbulence of the projection. # There were four guiding beams of light. He felt like he'd just started the machine and already they were counting down. 20 SECONDS He didn't want to do this. He wanted to be on the long flight home. He wanted his unkept house with the empty refrigerator and the full trash cans. He wanted the pile of mail, the bills he kept forgetting to pay, the half empty bottle of whiskey, the messages from his ex-wife, concern, still taking care of him, but no love, and certainly no sex. He wanted, God help him, he wanted to feel his erection in his hand again and see the impossibly beautiful women with the impossibly perfect skin on pay-per-view, the heavy breasts, the swollen lips, the dreamy eyes, their asses squirming, sighing, moaning 10 SECONDS He hesitated. 5 SECONDS He chosed the path that seemed the most solid. He could just barely see a dark form, a figure at the bottom, so far, far away. 3 SECONDS Shit! He was running out of time. He had to get himself down... then the figure was more clear. A sleeping form in a dark room, under covers. 1 SEC He felt that strange peaceful push that he always felt when he was trying to move just a little farther... just a little far OND # He was numb. It was an unpleasant sensation. He'd had the experience of an arm falling "asleep" before, but never his entire body. He felt like he was packed in a mass of cold clay. There was movement, but it was loose and uncoordinated. He flopped around like a dead fish. There was some give to the surface on which he lay; must be a bed. Something had gone wrong, he realized; something they hadn't foreseen, and now he was recovering. Had he been in a coma? Was he coming out of it? He heard a moan from somewhere; it was a high-pitched, chipmunk moan (he chuckled at that). Must be someone in a nearby bed. He tried to sit up, and failed, but felt a sense of himself inside the unfeeling body, oozing somehow into the cold flesh like hot syrup melting into pancakes. He experimented, directing the sensation first in one direction, then another. It was working. His body was beginning to awaken. Suddenly, violent pins-and-needles danced on the surface of his skin, pricking, tingling, a ticklish agony. There was that moan again, a strange half-laughing groan. The chipmunk had discovered speech: "Oh, oh, oh, oh" It was a little like slipping into a long, fiercely hot glove. In the wake of the pins and needles came sensation. He could feel his arm, most of it anyway. Almost at once he stretched his essence out in all directions. He was assaulted with hot and cold pins-and-needles, overwhelming. They prickled over every surface, nearly driving him mad, but after a short eternity, he flexed his larger muscle groups: the arms, the legs, the head. The chipmunk next door was going crazy with a titter of complaints and uncomfortable moans. He hoped they got some sedation over there soon. While he was at one with the larger parts of his body, he found it necessary to fine-tune the smaller ones, focusing on fingers, fingertips, toes, knees, and finally the face. The lips came first, the terrible prickling needles subsided at first into heat, then cold, then finally a warm regular disturbance which he recognized as his own exhale. The nose and the eyes were next. He sensed the first flicker of light, bluntly bright at first, then a swam of yellowish-black spots, and finally darkness. He was alive. The familiar sensations of breathing, of pulsing, the stretch and pull of tendons, taut and loose skin, nerves, were already fading into the background, being taken for granted once again, falling back into autonomy. He managed to sit up, though it was awkward, managed to swing his still awakening legs across the creases of the bed sheet and the soft side of the mattress. His feet dangled until he scooted ever so disjointedly forward, then there was the cold floor. It was solid and real and delicious. He couldn't help smiling. It felt good to be alive. He'd forgotten. There was an uncomfortable drag on his collarbone. He lifted his half numb arm to investigate and had to maneuver past a pillow. Past a cool, rubbery pillow. A pillow whose presence was strangely absent from his lap. His fingers met his collarbone. A marvelous hodgepodge of sensations: hard bone under soft, rubbery flesh; tingling fingertips; a faint warm pulse. He had a shirt on. He felt this, the slippery, silky sense of material. He lowered his hand, found the pillow, the soft He heard the chipmunk's voice say the word, "Shit." It all came together now. The high-pitched voice, the awkward "pillow", the tug on his collarbone, the odd movement, the short legs that did not quite reach the cold, cold floor. He experimented with that hot, syrupy presence, pushed outward from the chest and the pins-and-needles came in waves that ended in violent tips. "Oh shit!" said the chipmunk voice again. He'd assumed it was someone else's voice, but he could feel the vibration of his own throat. He'd assumed perhaps his ears were congested, but the sounds of shifting bedclothes and sheets were too clear. There was nothing wrong with that voice, and it didn't belong to anyone but him. There was heat in his cheeks, in his ears and (God help him) his nipples. He needed a mirror. # He waited for several long, agonizing moments for his eyes to adjust to the blinding light. They ached and they burned and every time he tried to open them they clamped shut again. He groped his body, and he didn't like what he felt. In all the times he'd practiced with the projection machine, he'd never actually projected himself into someone. Until now, he couldn't have conceived it was even possible. "She" stood gazing at her reflection in a white silk pajama top with long sleeves and no bottoms. Her short, blonde hair was tussled, blue eyes squinting, brow pruned with distress. Her thighs flashed white in the soft bathroom light, her pale freckled arms at her sides. She stood and stared and stared and stared. Her brownish pink lips parted and out came that little girl voice again. "Fuck." Dave shook his head and felt the roses of her cheeks burn. The mirror reflected the girl's flushed face. He raised his hand and inserted his fingers into her hair; the girl's nipples tipped upward as she buried her fingers in her tussled blonde hair. She looked cute like that, sexy, even with her piqued expression. The real question is, he thought, can I get back? He wasn't really here, wasn't really inside her, wasn't really female; he was actually in a chair with two bluish prongs transmitting sensory data to and from a physical brain. He inserted one of her hands into her pajama top and cupped her cool nipple. Dammit, it felt so real. He sensed every limb, every breath, every goose bump from the cool air conditioning. They would turn off the projector in three hours which was equivalent to three months local time. He had to be in this girl's body, feeling everything she felt, making due in her life for three months. Surely, he thought, girl, boy, he was, at the heart of it, himself... surely he could manage for three months. # Problem number one. "Who the hell am I?" He had not yet come to terms with her voice. Chipmunk was not too strong a description. Who am I? He was an engineer, a highly intelligent technician trained to identify and resolve puzzles. But the problem remained. He didn't know anything about her. Okay, what did he know? She was certainly pretty. Short, platinum blonde hair, a sweet face with blushing cheeks... he rubbed them and found no makeup. Rosacea was the term, the ruddy blush that permanently stained some people's faces. His great grandmother had it. He shrugged and the girl's pretty face colored even more with a simpering smile. "I'm no diagnostician." It sounded awkward in her high-pitched tone, artificial, as if she were trying to sound smart. I sound like a ten year old, he thought. He did like her though. Something about her pretty white body, her small breasts--the pink areolae and large nipples--her flat tummy and curving hips just made her likeable. She had that girl-next-door kind of face, friendly, accepting, designed for smiling, laughing, scratch that, giggling. He sighed. This was going to be a long three months. "I'm going to be beating them off with a stick." If--he shivered in horror and watched the girl's breasts tremble delightfully in the mirror--if she doesn't already have someone. What were the odds that a girl like this didn't already have a beau? He slipped back into her silk pajamas, and couldn't help but admire her soft bottom in the mirror as he walked away, her white panties flashing with each stride. For the next three hours he scoured the apartment. He found no diary, no journal, no letters, no photo albums, and no identification. He found no books, no paper, no pens or pencils. Were the people of this world illiterate? They had to have some concrete way of communicating. It was the hallmark of every intelligent culture. He finally noticed the living room. It was not decorated in the standard way, all couches and chairs pointing to the centerpiece of the room, the television. Instead, the chairs and couch encircled a small table. A table that seemed somehow more than just a table. He plopped her light body down on the couch and felt her legs retract beneath her in a typically feminine way. Interesting. Her body had habits. It would be best to follow them, to try and not think about movement or speech, but to let her body move as it liked. A small light appeared above the table. He stared at it for some time. When he got up to investigate, it faded like a dying star. He tried another chair and the light reappeared. He looked for some kind of control, a remote, a keypad, anything. He stared at the light and noticed a strange expansion as he moved his eyes. He found he could move the light just by focusing on it. Suddenly, a dim menu appeared. He chuckled like the old engineer he was, painfully aware that it was modified by the girl's voice into a childish, gleeful giggle. He tried blinking, tried shifting his eyes quickly to and fro, but finally, just focusing intensely on menu option caused it to activate. He'd found something that resembled a television, but also a lot more. He spent the rest of the night surfing the menu, finding special interest in the item labeled "Profile". It had everything, banking information, job information, addresses, names, dates... he even managed to find out who she was. "Alison. My name is Alison." The phrase sounded awkward in his mind. Alison had a job as an "OBS Icon" at the Joufu Corporation, whatever the Hell that was. After a while, he found himself reading the same paragraph again and again. With a bleary-eyed yawn, he realized her body needed sleep. He stood, arched his back in a long satisfying stretch, and was acutely aware of Alison's nipples rubbing against the soft silk of her pajama top. Once again sitting on the side of the bed, Alison's feet were dangling above the cold floor. Alison's tiny feet with the pedicured toe nails. Alison's hairless thighs, so soft, so white, her shapely calves. He would have to get used to seeing himself from this perspective, somehow. The toenails drove him the craziest. Painted light blue. It made him feel particularly... "off", unlike himself. He was a middle-aged engineer. Divorced twice, no children, no family. All he wanted to do was sink his mind into the next piece of foreign technology the government gave him and back engineer it. So, how in God's name had he managed to find himself in the 23 year old body of Alison Owens with the blushing cheeks and the soft, round face and the eyes as sweet and as blue as Alison's hand leapt up and struck her own face, hard. "Get out!" Stunned, his cheek still stinging, he jumped off the bed and began to pace the room. It had been Alison's voice, but not his intent. What had just happened? Hello? he called out with his mind. "Hello?" he tried. "Is someone there? Can you hear me?" Alison? But there was no response, not from her voice or in her mind. She was in there somewhere though and the guilt soared in him now. Was there anyway around this? He was stuck and so was she. He laid in the darkness for a long time calling out to her, but she didn't or couldn't answer. Finally, exhaustion took its toll. # His eyes roved back and forth over the jungle that was her closet. He whispered three words in her small voice, "Oh. My. God." What does Alison wear to work? He had a fair number of ideas about how to get to work. Fortunately, she was a public transit kind of girl, and he was actually excited by the "walk", which he'd seen in pieces of movies from the night before, a kind of super fast sidewalk that immobilized its riders on the way to their destination. But the clothes. The clothes were a puzzle. There were photos of her at work he found and displayed on the holographic device. He liked the one with her in the plaid skirt and the sweater with the white shirt underneath. Except for the heels, of course. He wasn't sure he wanted to risk those. But it was looking like it might take him forever to find that exact outfit. Then there was makeup, which she clearly wore, but he didn't have time to learn. He showered and brushed her hair, first one way, then the other. He tried brushing it back, tried parting it down the middle, but nothing worked. She had some kind of hairstyle in the photos that he couldn't manage. It was short, above the shoulders, and sort of whipped out at the ends. He had no idea how to achieve that effect. He'd seen girls pull their hair back into ponytails, and he would've done that, but he couldn't figure out how to keep it pulled back. She didn't have any of those rubber-band things. He shook it loose, saw her usually lush lips compressed into a frown and shrugged. Sorry, he told her, still wondering if she could hear him on some level, I'm doing my best. He found the flattest shoes he could find, some blue slacks that he swore were too short (they stopped short of his ankles and felt tight), and a light blue buttoned shirt with an overly large collar. He tried a sweater or two and finally settled on one he liked, green. He looked in the mirror. Maybe women had more rods and cones in their eyes; maybe there were more sensitive to color. Maybe he looked like a godammned joke. "I look like Mr. Rogers's wife." He tried again, and again, and finally managed to get close to one of the photos. A shimmering dark green skirt (which he wasn't keen on wearing, but at least it was her style), and a tight, short, matching vest over a white button up shirt. He looked at the photo again to verify whether or not she tucked it in her waistband. She didn't. He spent the next thirty minutes searching for the thin black belt she had on in the photo, sifting through a tangle of belts that fought him like a mass of wriggling snakes. No matter what though, he vowed to stick with the flattest, non-heeled shoes he could find. He didn't care if they matched or not. He wasn't about to teeter about the city looking like a damned fool. The last thing "Alison" needed was to call attention to herself. He'd seen enough women put on makeup, even if he hadn't paid attention, to manage the basics. He just wasn't sure what color went with what. He took a stab at mascara and didn't too horribly, though the term "stab" couldn't be appropriate enough. His eyeball still had a smudge of black irritating it. Surprisingly, women of this world hadn't managed to forego the feminine ritual anymore than the women of his world. He managed lipstick. He toyed with some eyeshadow, but wasn't sure which shade went where and decided to research it later. He was at the door, looking over his apartment trying to get himself together, when he paused to gather his wits. Okay... what am I missing? Shouldn't she have some kind of bag? Women always had a bag. There was a purse by the door. He peeked in it and found the one thing he hadn't thought of, the one thing that struck like a shard of ice in his heart and his loins. In the next three months, if this world was anything like his own, he would have to deal with this perhaps as many as three times. He stared at the tiny torpedo and felt dread. A tampon was a girl's best friend. He'd think about it later. He'd think about a lot of things later. He opened the door and checked the hall. It was the morning rush: people leaving their apartments. She watched as a man strode towards her. He smiled. "Hey Ally. Another Monday, huh?" She tried to smile like she knew him. "Yeah, uh, another Monday." Was it his imagination or was this guy unnaturally tall? No. Of course not. The man wasn't tall; Alison was short. It was yet another item he hadn't anticipated, looking up at people all day, especially men. Terrific. He could imagine how desirable that might be from the male perspective, but it made him--in Alison's petite female body -feel like a child, a toy, a doll. The man's gray eyes penetrated her. He had a strong jaw. There was just the barest bristle of hair under his chin that he'd missed while shaving. His shoulders seemed as wide as the hallway. His hair was thick and black and styled to perfection. He was like a G.Q. magazine cover, rugged, handsome, casually confident. Dave felt Alison's cheeks burning. Alison's brain was definitely heterosexual, and Dave now felt the effects. He caught himself admiring the man, checking him out. "You okay?" the man asked. "I'm fine, just thought I forgot something," Dave told him. In a brisk pace, Dave walked away. A man burst from his apartment door and into the hall, clearly late. Dave nearly ran into him. Quickly, quietly, he heard Alison's voice apologize. The man cursed and Dave turned to see if it was directed at him, pleased to discover the guy patting his pockets and rolling his eyes. He sighed, put his eye up to peephole and the door opened. That at least solved the mystery of why Dave couldn't find Alison's keys. A hand with an iron grip grabbed him by the arm and jerked his light body to a halt. He peered up into the eyes of Mr. G.Q. Dave noticed that his eyes were not really grey, but tinged with blue. He felt Alison's cheeks burning again, hotter than ever. "Wha what..." "Are you sure you're okay, hon?" the man's deep voice penetrated Dave's cluttered thoughts. His eyes bore deep down into Dave's estrogen soaked mind and Alison's body responded in the only it knew how. It smiled and it blushed, and it fluttered it's long eyelashes and it seemed to sigh with desire. Mr. G.Q.'s eyebrows squeezed together. His expression was so stern, so commanding that Dave literally felt lightheaded. He felt as if he was suffering from a bad sunburn so hot was his blush. He gazed down at the man's large hand and noticed it almost completely encircled his small upper arm. Jesus, Dave thought, if this guy wanted to do something to me, if he if he... A flash of fear shot through Alison's body like an electric jolt making her fine hairs stand on end, making her tremble slightly and her thighs tense. Dave aimed Alison's sweet smile at the man. "I'm fine." Mr. G.Q.'s grip loosened. The furrows in his forehead disappeared. Suddenly he was smiling, and Dave couldn't be sure, but he thought the guy might be blushing as well. "Okay. Didn't mean to scare you. Just... you seemed, uh, y'know, out of sorts. I'll see you at the desk." What just happened? Dave wondered. I smiled at him and his whole demeanor changed. Astonished, Dave realized the guy was attracted to Alison. One smile from her and he acted like a man half of his age. Dave felt his head swim. Of course. Didn't attractive women always turn him into in idiot back on Earth? Wait. What had he said? See you at the "desk"? That was his in. He watched the man walk down the hallway, admiring his broad shoulders, the way that large hand of his swung with his stride, and how casually he slipped his other hand into his pants pocket, and even the shape of his ass in those dark blue pants. Blue was really a nice color on him. Dave shook his head. I can't keep thinking things like that. But he was Dave's in. If Alison could get him to escort her to her "desk", wherever that was, then Dave's problem was solved. A good plan except Dave didn't know the man's name. Alison's short legs meant Dave had to take a short jog just to catch up to him, and yes, Alison ran like a girl regardless of who was in the pilot's seat. He couldn't help it, the bounce of her small breasts, her wide hips made it impossible to run any other way. "Excuse me!" Mr. G.Q. turned and Dave felt that hot rash on Alison's cheeks again. Goddamn, those blue-grey eyes just turned this girl's body to butter. Alison would spend the next twenty minutes trying to figure out what his name was, trying to avoid those spine melting eyes, and trying to figure out what she was going to when she finally got to work. # The "desk" turned out to be a row of girls (all smartly dressed, much more so than Alison, he realized) sitting before a row of blinking multi-colored holographic lights. Dave looked around the hustle and bustle of the place and prayed for a miracle. It came by way of a girl with long brown hair. (How did she get the ends of her hair to curl like that? he wondered.) He looked upon her with a strange mixture of admiration and envy. She smiled and waved Alison over. Just as he was making his way toward her, a grumpy, sour-faced man pressed uncomfortably close from behind. Two large hands were suddenly pressing down on his small shoulders and he could smell the guy's coffee breath. "Don't we have some place to be, Miss Owens?" He looked up into the guy's red, corpulent face. "Uh... I was just going... over there." He half expected a swat on the ass the way the guy looked at him. Male chauvinism was alive and well in this universe as well. Dave felt an instant hostility towards the man. "You girls," the guy said while Dave found himself helplessly mesmerized by the enormous pores in the guy's bulbous nose, "always sticking together. Fine, I don't care where you sit, just get to work." He pulled Alison's girlish body out from under the man's large sweaty paws and walked toward the girl, feeling the heat of resentment churning in his gut. The girl hopped from her seat and wrapped her arms around him. Dave didn't have much choice but to reciprocate, and he wasn't disappointed. Her hair smelled like apples and flowers, and her breasts, bigger than Alison's, pressed into his own, two sets of soft masses yielding pleasantly. He could hear the gentle whisking and rustle of their clothing, and smell the light aroma of her makeup and perfume. "How was your weekend, sis?" the girl asked. He stared at her, flustered. She was so close, so feminine, so sweet smelling. Her lips were glossy and pink, eyes dark green, skin like tanned glass, brown and smooth and perfect. The girl sized up Alison's unpainted face and frowned. "You okay?" "I'm... I've had... I'm not feeling all that well." "I can see that." The portly man with the fat hands that Dave already hated approached them. "Girls, please!" "Get lost, Abram." He blanched and marched off. The girl giggled and sat before a console. "Well, we better get to work." "Sure, okay," Dave replied and couldn't believe how quiet, how shy Alison's voice sounded. He sat before the foreign console and felt the seat rise and swell beneath him. He watched his "friend" as she leaned back. Two prongs lowered to her forehead. She closed her eyes. The projector! This was technology he was familiar with, but what would happen if were to use it in his current state? After all, he was already projected into Alison's body, and he was about to project himself yet again. The prongs lowered to Alison's forehead and Dave decided he would feign illness and not risk it. Before he had the chance, however, the prongs hummed and turned blue and met his forehead. The was a loud, yet distant BANG and he felt himself thrust forward and up out of the chair. Then he was standing in an open office, which was placed squarely in the center of rows upon rows of dark gray, infinitely tall, infinitely wide filing cabinets. He took a gander at himself and saw that he was now dressed much differently. A red skirt which stopped at his upper thigh, a tight red top which accentuated his bosom and left his white shoulders bare, a glittering gold necklace with the Joufu company logo on it, a fold belt and, of course, glossy red high heels. His hair was much longer than before, draped around his pale shoulders, parted to one side with much of it falling over one side of his face. His nails were painted dark red, his toenails as well, peeking out from the sandals with the straps weaving their way up his shapely calves. A man fizzled into view before him. His eyes dropped immediately to Alison's cleavage and remained there while he licked his lips. Dave would've laughed had he not been the subject of the attention. "Uh... can I... can I help you?" What the hell is an OBS Icon? he wondered. Please, God, don't let me be some kind of virtual hooker! "Yeah, uh, I have a Telton Response Center with an iconic mediator and I'm not sure it's got the right level barter I asked for." Dave stared at the man. The man studied at Alison's cleavage. "I... " "Oh," the man interrupted, surprised by the soft glow of his virtual jacket pocket. He removed a small glowing number. "I have this." Dave stared at the number and felt that somewhere something was receiving it, processing it. The man's eyes dropped, following the curve of her hips down to her legs. He swallowed and studied her shoes. He licked his lips again. What am I a piece of meat? Dave wondered. The man approached Alison's body, stepped uncomfortably close, gazed down into her blue eyes and Dave marveled at how real it felt. He could actually feel the man's hot breath on his face. "So," the man exhaled, "that way?" Dave felt himself swallow. He followed the man's gaze and saw the floor lit up behind him. "Y-yes." They followed a lit path to a small vault and Dave saw an open drawer. He moved instinctively toward it and placed Alison's small hands on the papers inside. He could actually feel the edges. He stared at his long red nails, almost as aroused by them as the man behind him, who was probably staring at his ass. Words formed in Dave's mind. He turned and listened and tried to repeat them. "An invoice of a level S barter unit has been found." "Oh," the man replied, "but did I pay for that or an R level?" "You paid for an S, Sir, on the 23rd. I am noticing that there was a campaign on the 22nd and I'm wondering if perhaps some confusion may have occurred about the current price." Wow, Dave thought, this seems pretty damn easy. Why not just have some computer generated characters do this? "Well, I guess, okay, well, see my competitor has an R and I don't want to, y'know, get into that, but... shit... okay, what if I wanted an upgrade?" A price list appeared in Dave's head. "There is a usual price of one hundred twenty-three shares... however, I'm showing a long history... so the price could be as less ninety-eight shares." The man considered and finally nodded. "Okay, I guess maybe I mis- remembered or thought the price was something else or something." The man looked so distraught that Dave couldn't help feeling empathy. He laughed and Alison's sweet laugh drew the man's attention. He had the expression of someone who thought he was being made fun of and didn't like it. "Oh, no," Dave apologized and felt her virtual cheeks burn, "I mean, just that I've been there." He laughed again and even he had to admit it was an especially warm giggle. "I hate it when I get things wrong. It just seems like no matter how hard I try sometimes I just can't... well, I don't know." The man smiled at him, blushing, hands in his pockets. "Yeah, okay, we'll go with the upgrade then." Dave waited for a confirmation, a number, something, but no words formed. He stood, crossed Alison's small arms and felt her leg twist a little; a subconscious movement that felt right; a habit, he realized. He tried hard not to notice it, to let it happen and the effect was apparent on the man's face. The man was fixated on that shapely leg, moving to and fro in a nervous fashion. "God, are you really this beautiful in real life?" He came close, so close Dave could feel the heat of his body, and his penetrating stare. You didn't have to be a genius to know what was on the man's mind. "I, uh, I don't know," Dave replied and the man's eyes flashed with confusion. "Oh... I wasn't expecting that." He laughed and took a step back. "I mean, the other icons, y'know the autos don't do that, but of course that's the whole point, isn't it? You guys are real so, I mean it's not like a program. But seriously though, I mean, in real life... do you really look like this?" Dave felt his lips part, felt the tackiness of the lipstick as they parted this place felt real in every sense. He couldn't wait to back engineer the whole place. "I'm not wearing this suit." The man laughed aloud. "No, I mean," Dave rushed to correct, but had to laugh, which of course was anything but a hearty laugh, and couldn't have been anything but a shy girlish giggle, "I mean, I'm wearing clothes, but... I mean this is me. My hair is shorter and... I mean it's very close." "So... where are you?" "I... uh " "Oh, not supposed to say, huh? Yeah, I guess customers ask you out all the time, huh? It's just, you're so real and just the way your face moves and that leg thing and the way you touched your hair... it's just marvelous." "Um... thank you." The compliment lit Alison's cheeks on fire. "So, okay..." the man laughed. "I guess I should get back. I'll be filling out your card with just, you know, highest marks so..." "Thank you." "Okay, goodbye." The man was nearly faded into the background before Dave added, "Uh, come again!" In the blink of an eye, he found himself back in the open office. Another man appeared before him and began to smile the moment he saw Alison. It didn't take long before Dave realized exactly what his job was. # "So, what's going on with you?" Anna asked. He'd gotten lucky: someone had called her by name on the way to lunch. He glanced around the crowded caf?. "What do you mean?" He'd ordered a salad, because he figured that was the kind of thing Alison would order. Unfortunately, he was still under the influence of his old appetite and had ordered a large. He'd barely eaten a third of it before he was full. "Okay, so like you show up late, and the way you're dressed...." Dave looked down at himself. He thought he looked good. "You don't like it?" "Well yeah if you're a frumpy housewife. Girl, you know how they are about appearances around here. They want us to look like we do in there, and what's with the no makeup?" He touched his cheek in shock. "I'm wearing makeup." Anna leaned into him, face to face. "No... you're not." "But... but my eyes and I have lipstick " "Yeah, and what's up with that? Did you like put it on with a paintbrush or something? What happened this weekend? You're just so not yourself?" Dave glared angrily down at his salad, stabbed at it with his fork and noticed how big the fork seemed in his tiny hands. Anna laughed, withdrew, shocked. "You're mad?" Dave let the fork drop into the bowl. He took a deep breath, acutely aware of the rise and fall of his breasts, of the heat in his face and neck and ears. "No," he muttered. Anna stared at her friend, eyes searching. Dave finally glanced up. "What?" "I... I've just never seen you mad before. You're always so...." It was information that Dave couldn't have discerned from any source other than Alison's best friend. "What?" Anna shook her head. Dave returned to staring at the salad he couldn't have eaten if he tried. He was already filling like he was going to burst. He felt a cool hand on his cheek and looked up. Anna smiled with tenderness. "I'm really worried about you, kiddo. I mean, if you keep up like this, you're gonna lose your rank." "My rank?" Anna's eyes dropped from concern to fear. "Maybe you should go home. You're not doing so well." "No, just " Dave bowed his head and placed his face in his waiting palms. "Are you my friend?" "Yes. You know I am." "Then... " It was a gamble, but at this rate he didn't feel he had anything to lose. He might be able to fool strangers, he realized, but family and friends would see through him. "I want you to do something." "Okay," Anna replied, sounding uncertain. "I had a really, just weird weekend. Let's just pretend for a second that I've been, um, possessed by someone else." Anna laughed. "Possessed?" "Yes, like some other being came into my body and it's actually them you're talking to and not Alison." Anna stared at him for a long time. "You're serious." "Yes, and I want you just to tell me about things like I don't know anything, okay? I mean, Alison will be back, but for now, just play along." Anna leaned close again, eye to eye, her perfume mixing oddly with the odor of tomato bisque on her breath. Dave had to admit she was sexy as hell, all that brown hair, twisting and twirling, those green, smart-as- hell eyes, her shiny pink lips. Anna's whisper was that of a co- conspirator wanting in on the next mission. "Did you meet someone?" Dave blinked. "What?" "You did, didn't you?" Dave felt his cheeks glowing like a nuclear meltdown. "Oh, you did," Anna and continued, "and he must've given you a real reaming." "What? No!" "He did, didn't he? Did he leave your thighs all wet and trembly? Because I've been there and I know how it can shake things up, and hey " "No, just " Dave felt Alison's body shaking with shame and anger. "Please just tell me about the rank thing. Okay? Please." Anna sat back, still grinning. It wasn't hard to see the thought behind those green eyes, 'Girl, did he do a number on you!' "The rank. You know? Based on our tips. So, you were like ranked 6th, but after today, I don't know." "Tips?" Anna grinned. This time it was, 'Oh, he just fucked the daylights out of you, didn't he?' "Yes, the tips from our customers based on our quality of service." "So," Dave wondered, "answer me this. Are we like virtual secretaries or is it something else?" Anna laughed. "Secretaries? Uh, well, I mean I guess in a way. We just provide, you know some window dressing while we take care of business." "So... how far do we go with these... customers?" Anna froze. Her eyes narrowed. "You didn't..." "No, it's just a question." "Because you know we'd get fired and probably prosecuted if we... you know." "Okay, but how far?" Anna sighed, obviously tiring of the game. "We are supposed to provide arousal but no satisfaction. Get it?" "So... nudity?" Anna laughed. "Well, you know what they say, naked girls meet more customers but make less tips." That didn't make any sense to Dave. "Don't tell me you're feeling bad about working here again?" Anna asked. "No," Dave replied, "I guess just needed to be reminded of what the score was." "The the score?" A chime sounded in the room and people started moving toward the doors. Lunch time was thankfully over. Dave got to his feet, glanced discreetly down at his clothes. What was wrong with what he was wearing? "Wait, what do you mean score?" Anna chased after her. # Back in her red skirt and tight red blouse, Dave waited for yet another male customer to reappear. He was tired. Not physically, but mentally, but it was getting easier. Sometimes it was sales, sometimes warranty, sometimes just general help, sometimes information about the company. Sometimes, he thought they came just to receive a little female attention. And strangely, he was finding a kind of groove. It was perhaps the engineer in him, his affinity for studying processes. He measured the kind of effect his smile had on each "customer". And, he was learning, there were different kinds of smiles. Sometimes he beamed bright like a brainless cheerleader, sometimes he grinned like an all knowing vixen, sometimes it was just gentle and accepting. Different guys seemed to want (or need) different things. And that was just the smile. There were a myriad of ways Alison's body had of suggesting a myriad of things. He tried to let it follow its habits, but sometimes he worried he might be going too far. The next customer appeared. Dave's smile was generous and his "Welcome" riddled with sexual innuendo. He had already learned that a single word spoken with the right inflection could mean so much more. He worried he was being too overt, too obvious, but if he was, none of them showed signs of noticing. He was already judging the poor guy: well dressed, an executive; confident (the more confident, the more subtle Alison's overtures); discreet (the more under wraps he kept his lust, the more she "accidentally" exposed herself--an accidental spilling of cleavage, a skirt hiking up as she reached for a drawer that strangely knew to position itself high). It was his mouth that threw her off: it was not quite a smile, not quite a frown, but something unidentifiable. He wasted no time, but swept her to him, somehow coercing her arms to fall around his neck. His mouth was on hers before she could retreat. He pressed his lean angular body into her soft curves, mashing her in a way she had no defense against. If Alison's cheeks were on fire again, Dave didn't notice, because he was too busy fighting his way out of a flood of pleasure. The heat between them was nearly unbearable, and most of it seemed to be boiling up from within. He felt a strange yearning in his nipples, felt them harden in his bra, felt waves of heat fan out across his chest, down across his tummy, and melting between his thighs. The man released Alison's mouth, but kept her imprisoned within his arms. His breath was hot, his arms were hot, his body was hot and Dave felt Alison's body heat matching his. "How's my sweet girl today?" It took Dave a long time to remember how to move Alison's lips. "I..." Had to breathe, forgot to breathe. "I'm... good. How are you?" "I just love pushing your buttons, seeing how close I can get before they turn on the sirens." His chuckle shot her full of adrenaline. She felt a terrible, wonderful need to please him, to beg him to be pleased with her. Gotta shake myself out of this, Dave thought. "Uh, so... you do have something... uh... I can take care of?" The man grinned, eyes shining black and voracious like the eyes of a shark. Dave realized too late what he'd said. "I do," the man whispered. "Here." Alison's mystery client produced a glowing number and Dave heard the processing of it in his mind. Words formed. Dave repeated them without paying attention. He didn't know what he was saying, his mind was faraway in a whirlwind somewhere. His body was alive though. Alive and wanting nothing more to press Alison's breasts against the man's firm hard body once again. His thighs wanted to part. His lips yearned once again for the heat of the man's unyielding lips. His nipples begged to be manhandled... manhandled... manhandled. That word floated through Dave's mind. Handled by a man, rough and sure and brutal and... Snap the fuck out of it, he cursed himself. This man, Alison's secret virtual lover, was a man who understood the system, knew what he could get away with and he couldn't... and he also happened to be an enormous tipper. # He studied. He declined offers for after work drinks. He declined a hot party with Anna and friends. He declined a movie. He declined overtime. He studied. He spent his evening going over schematics. He spent his evening researching how eyeshadow should be applied. He spent his evening looking at repair flow-charts of automated systems. He spent his evening sifting through search results for "fashion for the petite figure". He came to a deeper understanding of underlying principles upon which this world's technology was based. He tried on one outfit after another in front of the mirror. Circuit boards had advanced beyond his wildest dreams. Heels were a must. He found himself at the end of the day exhausted with a throbbing headache. There was a glimmer of fear that maybe being projected this way into Alison's body might have disastrous long term results on one or both of their bodies. He had more than a glimmer of fear that somehow the buried Alison personality was punishing him. But he couldn't do anything about it so he pushed such fears to the back of his mind. He studied his body in the mirror again. He couldn't help but be attracted to it. She was so small, like a little bird, but her breasts were nice and healthy and he couldn't resist cupping them in his tiny palms. They had weight, they had a gelatinous gravity that delighted him and a world of men alike, they had a sensitivity for he which he was unprepared. He examined his vagina. It had hair, it had external lips which felt similar to the underside of his testes, it had a clitoris, buried but available, which felt similar to that sensitive spot on the underside of his penis. It wasn't that different. The motion of his body was different, running, walking, but he was still bipedal with the same basic mechanics. It was the emotional differences that were the most challenging, and the vast difference in how he was treated. The degree to which people noticed Dave Goodman was different than how they noticed Alison Owens. He asked the bathroom mirror to draw him a bath: yet another outlet of the holograph controls. He sat on the toilet and felt the logical part of his brain begin to play. Observed versus ignored as David Goodman was perhaps a 80/20 ratio. It was almost exactly opposite as Alison owned: observed 80% of the time, ignored 20%, maybe less. He slipped into the hot bath and was pleased to discover that Alison had the thing programmed for soapy bubbles. Her cheery giggle bounced off the tiles and he had to admit he was getting used to it, even getting to like it. Ah, this was where he'd like to stay for the rest of his life, or at least the next three months. He settled back into the tub, feeling his muscles loosening, his mind wandering, his skin softening. A tingle began in his nipples where the minuscule soap bubbles were dissipating. He felt himself relaxing, felt Alison's hands slipping slowly down her wet, slippery body. Unconsciously, the fingers of one hand began to draw small circles on her belly, while her other hand began to rub her thigh. It was soothing and completely beneath's Dave mental radar. He let his mind drift, back to the interface of the board, back to the small salad, back to Anna's curled hair, back to the infinite rows of filing cabinets, back to Anna's eyes, her lips, back to... that man, on him before he knew it. Alison's finger was on her mouth, tracing the outlines of her lips. The man, the rugged man, that hard body pressing into his soft body. He was only breasts and hips. He was only soft, lush lips being devoured by a hot, hungry mouth. Alison's hand slipped down and down. He was only division, two halves being separated, an ocean being parted, a dam waiting to burst. He was open thighs and open lips and an open mouth. He was so open. Open and available and wanting to be used, to be "manhandled". Alison's hand fell to her breast and found an erect nipple waiting. The man was pressing against him and he was all smiles and whispers and innuendo, but he had that hard serious look on his face, that look that said, "You are mine. You are mine and there's nothing you can do about it. You are mine because you can't help wanting to be mine, wanting me, wanting to be used by me, to let me fully use you the way in which your body was designed." Alison's finger had found its prize and was making quick circles around it. Her thighs had closed and were pressing against one another. Her hand began to rub furiously. She was back in the virtual office, in her red skirt, tight red top, somehow tighter, revealing more, her soft belly, her hard nipples. He was slipping the straps off her shoulders. He was lowering her top, exposing her never-ending softness, never-ending, ever-yielding skin. Alison was moaning, rubbing furiously, keeping a vigilant finger on that nub of pleasure, bucking her hips, licking her lips, grabbing at her breast. He was sliding her skirt down now and sliding down her pink panties. She was naked, and he was there, covering her body with his own, placing two rough hands on two tender knees and pulling them apart. There would be no hiding here, no concealment; there would be no piece of her that would not be fully exposed, no place he would not ruthlessly reveal. Alison felt the slippery wetness of herself, felt her finger slip down and in and out and back up to the awaiting nub, which was less sensitive now and ready for a more vigorous rubbing. It felt so damn good, she couldn't have stopped if she'd tried. She didn't try. It didn't even occur to her. He had her now. Right where he wanted her. Right where she wanted to be. Right where he could plunge into her, body and soul, where she would finally be truly helpless to anything but him and pleasure, where she was most at risk, most vulnerable. On her back, she imagined the heat of his penis on her thigh. His hands were somehow, impossibly on her shoulders and on her tummy, forcing her thighs wider apart. Everywhere at once. His mouth was firmly against hers, forcing it open, his wet lips sliding hungrily across hers, his tongue penetrating her, finding her waiting and willing. He shoved inside her. Alison's body clenched. The sound of a squeal of pleasure echoed in the bathroom. Alison's hand stopped and began to press and press while her body jerked in spasms of pure joy, of pure tingling joy, of pure twitching joy, of heartfelt love. She'd never loved anything in her life as much as she loved this right now. She rubbed herself harder, faster. Her other hand squeezed her breast, splashed into the water and began grasping for something, anything, finally finding her hip. The waves of pleasure faded slowly, and yet not slow enough for Dave Goodman. Because, when the pleasure finally faded away, he would be left to deal with the thoughts that had driven Alison's body to the heights of ecstasy. And a soaked bathroom rug. # He straightened his black skirt, checked his teeth for lipstick, fretted like a teenager about whether or not to apply a fresh coat, and swept his hair to the side for the umpteenth time. It was a habit that was both feminine and annoying as hell for its repetitiveness, but even he knew it drove the customers crazy with desire. The more femininity he displayed, the more tips he made. He asked Anna if he'd used too much blush and she eyed him like a doting mother and agreed he might have been a little heavy handed. You could always count on friends to set you straight. His stride was much more confident now than it had been in the first few weeks. He felt he was finally getting the hang of things, both his body and his job and his relationships. He settled into an eager if occasionally bitchy friendship with Anna, and had already learned when and when not to look men in the eyes, which was almost never. Not that you averted your eyes in shame, you just kept them straight ahead, because even the smallest glance might set them off. It was strange that he was thinking of men as far less human now, less similar, less related. Somehow they'd become obstacles; hurdles to be overcome; traps to be avoided. He'd been asked out more times than he could count, and he had yet to develop any talent for rejection. Anna had consoled him, even as she interrogated him. "You never get good at that. Sometimes they're bastards about it, and sometimes it's like you just tore off their pecker. Although, you know, there were a couple of winners in there. I mean, what is it? Are you afraid? Have really high standards? I'm just saying that sooner or later, you've got to accept one because, you know, a girl's gotta get laid." There was a man Dave had his eye on, however. Gene Harmon. An executive in charge of research and development. That was a man who knew things. That was a man who could clue him in on technologies not yet released to the public, who could make his mission a whopping success. But Gene was a womanizer with a painfully bad reputation. It was rumored that a few girls had found themselves doing things that were unlike them. There was some suspicion among the girls that he'd done something to them, drugged them or used some as of yet unknown technology on them. Then there was the lab. He'd seen Gene access it, but it was absolutely forbidden for anyone without the proper profile to enter, which, of course, no lowly Icon girl would ever have. Then there was the complication of how does a girl like Alison, small and petite and sweet, go about attracting the attention of a lascivious Gene without it seeming obvious? After having lived in Alison's world for the last few weeks, he was painfully aware of how important a girl's reputation was not only with other women, but within the entire corporate culture. He would eventually return to his whole body, which was seeming more and more distant and imaginary every day, and the buried Alison personality would emerge. If he could help it, he didn't want to leave her life worse than when he found it. He thought of every dreadful teenage romance movie he could remember. The shy girl drops her books in front of the handsome jock or collides with the man of her dreams in the hall or instantly hates him and therefore becomes "hard to get". But they all seemed like bad strategies, and Dave was certain Anna and others would see through them. It had to be an accident. Or at least look like one. He'd work on how to manipulate Gene into letting Alison into the secure lab later. He was certainly getting enough practice with all the customers running his heels off in the office every day. The answer came after an unhappy coincidence after work. Dave's worst fears came to fruition. He woke up one morning aching. The tight little fluted skirt, which had fit so well before, was suddenly tight and cutting into his belly. His breasts felt sore and, he wasn't sure, but they also felt bigger, swollen somehow. At lunch in the caf? with Anna, he'd finished eating when he was suddenly overcome with a terrible pain. He'd just gotten to his feet when the entire lower half of his belly knotted up and throbbed with pain, twisting every tighter. It felt like it was caught in a vice. A wave of dizziness plopped him right back into his chair. "Uh-oh," Anna whispered. Dave lowered his face into his arms and slung an arm around his stomach. "I don't feel so good." "Yeah, I can see that. I hate it when it hits like that." He looked up at her with confusion. "When what hits?" "Um, aren't you... you know...." Dave closed his eyes. Oh, right. That. The one thing he'd been the most successful at blocking from his mind. He may have avoided it, but it had not avoided him. He'd spent the entire day in the virtual office feeling distant pangs from Alison's menstruating body. Not to mention the mess and the smell, but mostly the mess. He'd never actually removed the tampons from his purse, but he'd spent the last few weeks becoming well practiced at ignoring them. There was no ignoring them now. He sat swooning on the toilet looking at the mess he'd made of his panties. He'd never been very good with blood. Now, he didn't have a choice. He'd actually stained his damn skirt and that just pissed him off, because... well it was disgusting and.... Dammit! He liked that skirt! It made his ass look great, really went with that red vest and.... Didn't matter, did it? While he couldn't spend the entire week at home, he could be prepared. He'd always been curious about the umbilical connection women had to their purses. Now he knew. Not only did he have makeup and the rest of his feminine gear in there, but he also had a pair of replacement panties, tampons, pads and a small bottle of hand sanitizer with an added deodorant. His little purse filled up quickly. Still, it wasn't enough. It was a constant check every few hours to see if he was leaking, to see if he was smelling or had stained himself in some way. He hated it. But it kept him late at work. He'd spent so much time in the bathroom one afternoon that nearly everyone had left by the time he got out. He finally had himself squared away and was heading home when he spied Gene. And more importantly, Gene saw Alison. Alison had a location and a time now to arrange their accidental meeting; she'd just have to wait a few days for her female plumbing to right itself. # Dave realized he would have to think of Gene as a customer, analyze him from a female perspective and develop a female strategy. Gene was well dressed and liked expensive things, definitely management. His nails were too clean, skin too flawless, hair too coifed to be anything other than professionally maintained. He had no trace of a beard. His hair was thick and brown and hung over his dark, brooding eyes like a lush canopy, and when he shook it, if it became tussled, it only made him look wild and exciting. He could flip it back into place with a shake of his head, but he preferred to run his hand through it. Dave was not as objective as he would've liked. He noticed himself noticing, noticed Alison's body generating a kind of nervous energy. Oh, he had noticed men from time; it couldn't be helped. He reminded himself he was in a heterosexual female body. Hormones were hormones. And Alison's hormones, for whatever reason, found this man, Gene Harmon, especially attractive. She was waiting for the Drop, which was sort of like an elevator without a box, transporting one person at a time, immobilizing them and moving them very quickly down a long tube, a vertical version of the Walk. She didn't have to say a word or even give him a second glance. In fact, she went out of her way to ignore him. "I know you, don't I?" Gene asked. He smiled and it lit the first spark of a bonfire in Alison's already anxious body. She noticed his white teeth, so straight, so clean. She wondered if his breath didn't smell like a field of mint. "Do you?" It took all her effort to withhold a smile. Something in her wanted to match his smile, tooth for tooth. She felt the familiar heat in her cheeks and knew what it was doing to her face, flushing it with effervescent charm; it was like some kind of beacon of lust. "Ellen?" he tried. "Alison," Dave corrected. Gene put his well groomed hand flat against the wall and leaned against it, his body fell into a casual, confident stance; one hand deep in his pants pocket, one leg loose and bent. She could spend hours following the creases of his clothes, from one square shoulder to the other, down over his pecs, around his crotch, spiraling in, in and around his.... She blinked, her cheeks suffused with natural rouge. He had said something, but she hadn't caught a word. The words seemed to be floating in the space between them, and by the time she could force her mind to grab them, her lips had already started flapping. "Wh-what?" Then, and only then, did she realize he'd asked why she was here so late. "I said," he repeated and smiled broader and, God help her, his eyes were blue and she could swear he did it on purpose, made them catch the light, made them twinkle with mischief and desire, "what's kept you here so late?" Her body was on automatic now, like a flower afraid of the Sun, shying away from the brightness that was Gene Harmon. She was helpless to stop the motion, the sudden drop of her eyes, the sweeping of blonde bangs from her face, tucking it behind an ear, exposing her tender neck in some kind of subtle, subconscious display of vulnerability, or worse... availability. It was only extreme will that forced her voice above a whisper. "Just... just late is all." A moment stretched between them, a timeless moment where he stared at her, followed the soft line of her neck down to her bare shoulder, followed the ridge of her collarbone down into her cleavage. "So... you're one of those Icon girls, right?" She nodded. The tube light lit green and she started in, but his hand was suddenly on her arm, turning her on her toes. He was tall enough or she was short enough that she had to lift her face to make eye contact. She hated always having to look up at people, but she was so surprised she almost didn't notice; she also didn't notice that she'd licked her lips and they were now wet and slightly parted. With that and her curious blue eyes, she might as well have hiked her skirt and parted her thighs for him right then and there, or constructed a billboard that said, "Open 24/7." "Say," he said, and his tone had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyelids half dropped to enhance the suggestion, "seeing as we're both here and alone, maybe we should have a little dinner tonight." "I... I don't think so." It was easier to say it than mean it. Dave felt he was swimming against a tide of desire. Alison's body wanted him in the worst way. Why, he didn't know, but she was up to her neck in with "want". "Aw, hey now, you're not listening to what those girls say about me, are you?" He had quite the reputation; and she was painfully aware of it. The girls of this world were as bitchy and as back stabbing as the girls from his world, but with guys like this, they used gossip like a warning siren. She pulled her arm away, tried to scowl at him, but could manage only a simper. "I... I'm just really tired." Gene's broad smile returned and scorched her cheeks with its brightness. "So... another time then?" She entered the Drop and felt the gentle paralyzing effects and then the quick rush. She was usually at her destination before she could consider why she didn't feel claustrophobic, but this time her thoughts were in such a whirl that she just stood there breathing shallow and quick and like the whole world was crashing in on her. It took an "Um, any day now!" from a stranger before she stirred her willowy legs into motion and left the chamber. Dave needed to think and he couldn't do it at home. Alison's things, the mirrors, the floral walls, the aromas that the media center broadcasted all reinforced that sense of femininity. He could've adjusted the setting of course, but he'd hoped it would help reinforce the role of "Alison". He needed all the help he could get. Instead, when he needed to think, he would walk down to the market and park her body in the middle of Appliance World. Media dropdowns for the office, pupil memory devices (good for hanging people's profiles beside them, just in case you were in danger of forgetting), new clothing downloads for your bio-closet (capable of updating your grower with the latest styles), hover accessories, and other forms of beautiful, beautiful technology. Her ear buzzed. Figuring it was Anna, he parked his attention on the blinking icon and answered. "Hello?" There was a moment of silence then Gene's low voice. "Hi, Alison." It didn't just catch him off guard; it setup a weird carnival in Alison's body, stomach doing somersaults, heart performing back flips, feet walking the tightrope.... "Hello." Alison was licking her lips again. "You didn't answer me, dear." Was he... was he fussing at her? Something was happening. Dave wasn't sure what, but something in Alison responded as if she'd parked herself at the top of a roller coaster and was deciding whether or not she really wanted to drop into oblivion. "I... I'm, uh, sorry." "Don't be." A head and shoulders view of him faded into view. He looked around. "Applicance World? Are you shopping for something?" "No, no, no, not really. I just... like coming here." "Oh, a techfet, huh?" This could work, Dave realized. He'd like to think he'd planned it this way, but it was pure coincidence. Or was it? He'd noticed over the past week or so that he sometimes did things without fully realizing why he'd done them. He'd attempted to let the body's habits continue uninterrupted, but it almost felt like it had a mind of its own. "I guess I just like seeing the future." "I thought you were tired." That roller coaster feeling was back again; it was a thrill, Dave realized. Gene's tone had become a little accusing, and Alison felt a little guilty and a little excited at being caught. "Or did you just say that to get out of going to dinner with me?" he asked, his tone harsh. She had and they both knew it. "I... I am tired, but..." "It's okay, dear." God, why did he have call her that? Why did he have to make her feel like she was his subordinate? And why in Hell did she feel her nipples twitching, her mouth drying, her hands trembling. "I know how you can make it up to me," he continued, and she didn't need to look at his image to know he was grinning; she could hear it in his voice. Make it up to him? Dave felt a spark of a rage. Can't a girl say