The Calm Before The Shrink Cats and Mice chapter 5 by Jem

Lily's smartwatch was quiet, but the tension in her body only tightened over time. Lily felt absolutely buzzy sitting there at Samantha's desk, watching the woman's hosed feet flex idly on the shelf. She couldn't look away, but she didn't want to be there anymore.

Just shrink already! A frustrated little voice inside of her pleaded.

Lily squeezed her eyes shut.

 She needed to move, just a little—to clear her head, and get away from Sam's oblivious, teasing feet. What if she shrunk right then and there? All at once she imagined Samantha's hose-covered soles towering over here, flexing, wiggling...

Lily shook her head. Samantha was still focused on her screen; she probably wouldn't even notice if the young blonde dwindled down next to her. Then Lily cleared her throat softly. "I, um... I need to stretch my legs a bit. But I won't go far—I promise I won't leave the office."

Samantha glanced up, her dark eyes flashing behind her glasses. Lily could almost see the woman's calculating brain work behind that stare. A faint crease formed between Sam's brows, but she nodded curtly. "Fine. Just stay in sight. We don't need any messes right now." Her tone carried that efficient edge, laced with the implication that Lily was already enough of a hassle. 

Messes. Lily gulped.

Lily murmured a quick thanks and rose, her sneakers padding quietly on the hardwood as she slipped away from the desk.

She entered into the loft's open layout aimlessly. She kept her steps measured, arms loose at her sides, trying to blend in, trying to look natural. Nothing to see here! Everything was totally fine.

The posters on the walls seemed to watch her—bold declarations of solidarity, faded edges curling from years of exposure. Her mind raced with fragments of doubt: They can tell I'm out of place. Always have been. Now it's worse: they're waiting for me to shrink, like the freak I am. But she pushed the thoughts down, focusing on the simple act of walking, and the faint creak of floorboards underfoot.

Near the far end of the room, where the cubicles gave way to a row of bookshelves crammed with zines and manifestos, Lily spotted a familiar figure bent over a stack of manuscripts. Katy Hill. Relief flickered through her, warm and fleeting. Katy was one of the few people who had always been kind in that effortless way—smiles that reached her eyes, small nods in the hallway. Lily had reached out a couple times after work, suggesting coffee or a show, but Katy always demurred with polite excuses: deadlines, plans with friends, that easy deflection that left Lily puzzling over what she was doing wrong.

Katy straightened as Lily approached, sweeping her long black hair out of her face and behind an ear. She was dressed in a fitted sweater that hugged her curves, the soft knit accentuating her round breasts and the subtle flare of her hips, paired with a knee-length skirt that screamed polished elegance. Her dark brown eyes watched Lily approach behind glasses with big chic lenses, framed by lashes that seemed unfairly lush, and her cheekbones caught the light from the overhead fluorescents, giving her that ethereal, enviable beauty. Lily remembered the office whisper months ago—the revelation that Katy was trans—and how it had shifted nothing in her admiration, but only deepened her quiet awe.

"Hey, Lily," Katy said, her as welcoming as ever, a genuine smile curving her full lips. The familiar kindness almost cleaved Lily in two. Katy set down the papers, adjusting her glasses with a manicured finger. "Didn't expect to see you in today. Get a juicy lead?"

Lily forced a casual shrug, leaning against the bookshelf to mirror Katy's relaxed stance. "Yeah, just... needed a break from sitting. You know how it is—endless research, writing." The knot in Lily's gut. She didn't have it in her to spin out some elaborate lie.

Katy nodded, her expression sympathetic. "Tell me about it. I just finished editing a piece on the latest policy failures—tinies getting pushed out of public transit access. It's exhausting." She tilted her head, studying Lily with that perceptive gaze. "You look a little off, though. Rough morning?"

"Something like that," Lily replied, her fingers idly tracing the spine of a worn pamphlet. The warmth in Katy's attention felt like a lifeline, but oh, if only this normalcy was real.

Before Lily could respond, a voice cut through from across the loft. Angela peeked out from her glass-partitioned office, her expression stern, arms crossed. "Lily! I don't care if you're in a tough place—don't go distracting people from their work. We've got deadlines piling up."

Pink flooded Lily's cheeks. "Sorry, Angela. I wasn't—I'll get back to it." She waved awkwardly to Katy, who offered a sympathetic wave in return, and turned away.

Next, Lily veered toward a lounge area at the loft's periphery. There was a cluster of mismatched armchairs and a low coffee table scarred from countless meetings, tucked near a window overlooking the city sprawl. The space promised a softer perch than Samantha's spare chair, and a momentary escape from the cubicle buzz. Lily sank into a worn velvet armchair, the fabric cool against her skin, and pulled her knees up slightly, hugging them as she stared out at the gray skyline.

Minutes ticked by in the relative quiet, broken only by the distant murmur of voices. Then, heavy footsteps approached, and Lily looked up to see Megumi Laforge striding in, her presence like a storm front. Meg was everything Lily aspired to be, but fell short of: a reporter whose bylines graced the most incendiary outlets, whose words were weapons in the fight against systemic rot. Radical to her core—a socialist firebrand, unyielding feminist, lesbian iconoclast who Lily half-jokingly called a bra-burner (with much rolling of eyes from her coworkers)—Meg embodied the walk-the-walk ethos. Gym-honed muscles rippled under her typical tomboy getup of cargo pants, a faded band tee, and a leather jacket slung over one shoulder. Her short-cropped hair was dyed electric blue at the tips, and tattoos peeked from her collar—symbols of resistance inked almost overtop one another. Megumi's hair seemed to change color and shape almost daily, and somehow, despite being tattooed all over, she always seemed to show up with new art.

Lily had always held Meg in quiet reverence, the kind that made her tongue-tie around her. And as if all the above wasn't enough, there was more; endlessly more: The Vietnamese-French-American woman knew a variety of martial arts inside and out, volunteered almost every minute of her free time, and rumor had it she moonlighted in sex work, turning her edge into empowerment. But awe aside, Meg's vibe toward Lily was cool at best—polite nods in meetings, but nothing more.

Meg dropped into the armchair opposite of Lily without a word, her chunky skater sneakers thudding against the floor. She pulled out her phone, scrolling with intense focus, but her green eyes flicked up once, twice—dirty looks that landed like subtle jabs. Lily shifted, offering a hesitant smile. "Hey, Meg. Busy day?"

No response. Meg's jaw tightened, her gaze sliding away as if Lily were furniture. Then, with a deliberate huff, Meg kicked off her sneakers. Her bare feet shot up onto the table between the two women, propping there with rude finality. Lily didn't want to look at her soles, but she found herself fixed on the woman's rough but beautiful feet, which were callused from training; Meg's toes flexed with casual disregard. A faint, sour earthy scent found Lily's nostrils, even from that distance.

Lily's breath caught, the intrusion blatant, a wall of indifference. Meg didn't glance her way, thumbs flying over her screen, but the message was clear: This space isn't yours. Stay in your lane. Lily pressed back into the chair, her pulse quickening, and decided, once more, that she needed to remove.

As she stood, though, she started to feel woozy.