Angela takes Lily back to the office Cats and Mice chapter 4 by Jem

What happened next, Lily was aware of, but not really. Angela came to get her, as promised. Angela helped guide Lily from her apartment floor, to the subway, and up an elevator into the cluttered, familiar office of End of an Empire. The office space was an old top-floor loft, the kind with an elevator that rose up in the center of the space, ringed by haphazard workspaces smooshed together, which, Lily noted with some small relief, were only sparsely occupied at this time.

The walls were almost entirely plastered with posters, used protest signs, pride flags of all kinds, printed-out slogans, and a genuinely impressive collection of varied stickers. Most of the time the office was filled to the brim with a roster of people as diverse and inclusive as the decor. Lily found herself nervous in that office in a way she didn't understand, as it had felt like the closest thing she had to a safe space for a long time. It was like her first day all over again, and she had no idea how everyone would think about her. Back then, she felt self conscious for entering that world as a straight, cis, white woman. Now, that same buzz was back, because she was basically already tiny. But...! She saw how her coworkers treated the reduced, and they treated them well. A tiny her, though? Even Angela was being way too nice, but of course Angela was also a social worker. End of an Empire basically doubled as a community resource and health center for the city's so-called anarchists, communists, and outsiders in general.

Her smartwatch still buzzed faintly against her wrist, a relentless reminder of the shrinking notice that had upended her morning. Lily's stomach churned as she followed Angela through the loft, her sneakers scuffing softly on the worn hardwood floors that even now, to her anxious mind, seemed to stretch endlessly under her feet. The air hummed with the low drone of computers and distant phone conversations, but every sound amplified her anxiety, turning the familiar chaos into a prelude to catastrophe. She clutched her arms around her midsection, as if holding herself together could stave off the inevitable. The Phenomenon hadn't claimed her yet—not fully—but the warning was clear: it was coming, and soon. Her body felt fragile already, like it might betray her at any moment, collapsing inward while the world rushed on indifferently.

As they wove past the cubicles, desks, and tables, Lily kept her head down, blonde hair falling like a curtain over her flushed face. The office's radical energy pressed in on her—the rainbow flags draping partitions, the zines stacked in teetering piles, the faint scent of patchouli and coffee mingling in the air. These were her colleagues: queer activists with visible tattoos snaking up their arms, trans writers with bold piercings and vibrant locs, people of color who'd turned this space into a fortress against the shrinking crisis ravaging the marginalized. And her? A straight, cis white woman in clean new jeans and a trendy hole-free tee - her privilege was as glaring as her fear. She'd always felt like the interloper here, tiptoeing around conversations she could only observe from the edges. Now, with the prospect of shrinking looming large, that insecurity twisted into something sharper: guilt. This clinic was meant for them—the ones society had already shrunk in every way but the literal. Would they resent her for needing their help? For taking up space in a system stretched thin?

Angela's hand rested lightly on Lily's shoulder, a steadying presence that felt both comforting and infantilizing. "You're doing great," the editor murmured, her voice warm and low, carrying that effortless authority honed from years of crisis management. Angela was a Black bisexual woman in her forties, her locs tied back, her blouse patterned with subtle activist icons. She'd seen this before—too many times—and her kindness was professional, but Lily wondered if it masked pity. Or worse, obligation.

They passed a cubicle where one of the interns Lily barely knew, a nonbinary queerdo with electric-blue hair, tan skin, and a septum piercing, glanced up from a stack of flyers. Their eyes flicked to Lily, then to Angela, a subtle furrow creasing their brow. "Everything okay?" The question was directed at Angela, as if Lily were already too fragile to address directly.

"Lily just got some tough news" Angela replied smoothly, squeezing Lily's shoulder. The coworker's nod was curt, their gaze lingering a beat too long on Lily's pale, anxious face. No warmth there—just a flicker of something tight, like they were tallying resources in their head. Lily's cheeks burned; she knew that look. It said, Why is that our problem? We've got folks waiting who actually need help.

Another voice chimed in from across the way—a trans woman of color with cornrows and a cropped jacket, her desk cluttered with support hotlines and tiny care kits for the reduced. "Need backup on anything?" Her tone was helpful, but her eyes narrowed slightly as they met Lily's, the politeness edged with fatigue.

"Nah, Sam's got it," Angela said, steering Lily onward. But the exchange hung in the air, heavy with unspoken questions. Why her first? Why now? Lily's pulse quickened, her mind spiraling. She didn't belong here, not really—not with her suburban roots and lack of battle scars. The shrinking crisis hit the vulnerable hardest, and here she was, queuing up for their expertise like it was her right.

Lily spied Sam as Angela led her like a lost puppy through her new home. Sam was someone who, thankfully, Lily was friendly enough with that it was a relief to see her. Samantha Tran was the most put-together and professional woman in the office, the most prim, and the most polite. It was no wonder she kept the books, and was also Empire's sort of unofficial HR manager. The woman's glasses and friendly face were immediately disarming. She always wore smart suits and was usually found in heels or flats, often with hose. Despite the comfort Lily felt for Samantha in the moment, she still wouldn't want the woman to loom over her, a giant. Lily was quickly discovering that she didn't want anyone in that role, though everyone in this office was about to be just that.

Finally, they reached Samantha's desk, an oasis of order in the loft's organized disarray: files alphabetized, a planner open to today's grid of tasks, a small jade plant catching the light from a high window. Samantha looked up from her keyboard, her expression shifting from focus to mild surprise. She was Vietnamese-American, mid-thirties, her dark hair in a neat chignon, her blouse crisp under a cardigan. The wedding ring on her finger caught the light—a symbol of her grounded life, balanced between this radical hub and her traditional marriage. Bisexual, Lily recalled from office gossip, but always the picture of decorum.

"Lily," Samantha said, pulling over the spare chair that lived next to her desk. Her voice was even, professional, with just a hint of warmth. "Angela mentioned the notice. Come, sit. We'll do the intake—get you registered before things progress."

Lily sank into the chair in a heap. She knew she was tired, but in that moment, she found herself surprised just how tired she was. Samantha settled back into her own seat with a soft creak. In that interstitial moment, everything felt amplified: the tap of Samantha's nails on her mouse, the faint floral notes of her perfume, the way her glasses magnified her dark eyes. Lily crossed her arms, trying to steady her breathing, but her watch vibrated again—a cruel tick-tock counting down. Lily didn't even notice that Angela had already moved on after dumping her with Samantha, and had to fight a pang of abandonment.

Samantha clicked open a digital form on her screen, her posture impeccable. "Let's start with the basics. Full name and date of birth?"

"You already know all that don't you?" Lily hated how whiny her voice was in her ears."

"In your employee file, yes," Sam replied softly. "But this is a different application."

Lily's voice came out smaller than she intended as she rattled off her details, as if swallowed by the vastness of the room.

"And your height and weight right now?"

Lily's throat was so dry as she responded, and it took her a few tries. 

"Current symptoms? The watch notice—what triggered it?" Samantha continued, tone clinical but probing.

"Light-headedness, mostly. The notification just... popped up while I was doing dishes." Lily shifted, the chair's vinyl sticking to her skin. She glanced sideways, catching another coworker—a queer Latina with intricate tattoos—passing by with a stack of papers. The woman's eyes skimmed over her, lips pursing briefly before she looked away. That subtle dismissal stung, feeding Lily's growing knot of insecurity.

This seat, Lily suddenly thought. Her mood was too dour for this to be a social visit. Would be catch on to what was happening to her?"

"Any family history of the Phenomenon? Close contacts we should notify?" Samantha continued, her fingers flying across the keys.

Lily hesitated, the question dredging up old tensions. "My mom, Jennifer. But... we don't talk much. She's in the suburbs—thinks this job is a phase." She forced a weak smile, but it faltered. Samantha nodded without comment, but Lily caught the faint tightening of her jaw.

The questions piled on: living situation, financial stability, support networks within the community. "Preferences for care once it happens? On-site housing? Integration into programs?" Samantha's voice stayed neutral, but Lily sensed the undercurrent—the way her glances darted to her inbox, the soft sigh as she adjusted her glasses. Resources were finite, prioritized for those from the clinic's core: trans folks navigating care post-shrinking, queer youth displaced by the crisis, people of color fighting systemic barriers amplified by size. Lily's answers felt inadequate, her straight-white-cis existence a glaring mismatch.

And where was she going to go? What options did she have? "I'd like to stay here if possible," Lily said, unsure. She had to go somewhere, after all. "Contribute somehow, still—um, like, writing, maybe?"

Samantha's pen paused. "We'll assess based on needs. Slots are... competitive." The word hung, laced with implication. Lily nodded, heat rising in her face. Competitive. For her?

More queries followed: allergies, mental health history, emergency contacts. Each one peeled back layers of her vulnerability, the office's ambient noise a constant reminder of eyes on her. A tattooed arm brushed past the desk partition; a muffled conversation dipped when her name was mentioned. The annoyance was subtle—clipped hellos, averted gazes—but it built, making Lily feel like a guest who'd overstayed her thin welcome, her impending world-shattering shrinking just another imposition.

At last, Samantha leaned back, closing the form. "That's the initial log done. For now, just stay at this desk—it's safest if I keep you in sight while I wrap up billing. Don't wander, Lils; things move fast around here."

The common pet name suddenly hit different, all of a sudden: Lils. She hated it, but she didn't say anything about it.

Instead, Lily murmured agreement, perching awkwardly on the chair's edge, her hands twisting in her lap. Time dragged, the loft's rhythm resuming around her: keyboards clacking, chairs rolling, voices rising in debate over an article. She felt exposed, adrift in the current of the busier and busier office, her watch's silence now more ominous than its buzz. Insecurity gnawed—tiny in spirit already, white and straight and cisgender and basic amid this tapestry of resilience. Did they see her as deserving? Or just a polite detour? Where was the help for her? Back with her mom? Lily glanced over at Samantha and considered that, if she shrank right now, her work friend would be the first person to find her. To hold her. Her first giant. Lily was exhausted and terrified by the thought, but she had no other choice.

An hour slipped by, the day's tension coiling tighter in Lily's chest. Samantha stretched with a quiet exhale, rolling her shoulders. "These shifts are killer," she said, almost to herself. She bent down, easing off her heels with deliberate motions—the shoes thudding softly to the floor. Her bare feet, sheathed in sheer hose, flexed against the cool air, toes spreading with evident relief. Then, with a casual swing, she propped them on a lower shelf of her desk that had no back to it, just visible from Lily's angle. Sam's soles glistened, a faint sheen of sweat from the days long hours.

Samantha wiggled her toes idly, the nylon whispering, a subtle scent of leather and faint perspiration drifting over. She didn't acknowledge Lily, eyes fixed on her monitor, but the gesture felt dismissive, like a giant's indifference to Lily's smaller concerns. Lily averted her gaze, heart hammering, the scale of it all—literal and metaphorical—pressing down. Her watch vibrated once more, sharper this time. The moment wasn't here yet, but its shadow loomed, promising to make every giant worry of hers a reality.