#trans 141

"Garrick," it calls, pulling Kyle from the door to the lockers. "Wi' me."

Ghost leads him down a service hall and around a corner, to a little storage room its claimed for itself. There's a bench and a half-wall of tall lockers.

"Far right is mine," Ghost tells him. "C'n 'ave the one next to it. Rest is f' the custodians, but they respect a locked door."

Gaz's face is pinched, the way it gets when he's miffed but biting his tongue. His eyes scan everything, before he says, "No shower."

"Service sink." Ghost points to the opposite corner from the door. "'s not perfect. But. It's better than bein' around all those... people."

"You don't like being perceived."

"Not as a man, no."

Gaz's eyes snap up to the mask. "No? How should you be perceived?"

"'m a weapon."

"Ah."

"'n you?" Ghost cocks its head, examines Gaz's closed off expression. "Not a weapon, then?"

They hold eye contact for a long moment, and the corner of Gaz's mouth tips up. "No. Not a weapon. I'm, ah... a woman."

Ghost takes a short moment to think. Nods. Points to her. "She." Points to itself. "It." He circles his finger in the air. "Our lockers, yeah?"

Simon’s been in the service for a decade and a half the first time he smears eye black on his lips just to see what he’ll look like. He squints, puckers his lips, rolls them, and decides it’s a bit shite. He wipes his mouth, then pauses, and tries again, leaving his bottom lip clean. He turns his face this way and that, lets his jaw drop open, just a bit. Smiles.

Oh.

He’s never been less than thorough, so the next day he goes to the pharmacy and gets a handful of tubes of lip gloss in various colors. He doesn’t bother to come up with a justification, and the girl at the cash doesn’t ask for one. He goes home and tests them all out, following tutorials as best he can with a limited color pallet. Eye black and cotton swabs are a poor but serviceable substitute for eyeliner.