In a shitty life full of shitty hardship and grief, Siena and Geneva had decided they were Batman and Robin, fighting the bad off together.
Siena really hoped there was some good for Geneva.
She took off her special bra, and with it the prosthetics that filled its cups. She set the prosthetics in their box and hung the bra on a hook in her closet. It had a few more wears before it would need a wash.
Then, in a habit she couldn’t explain if she tried, Siena stood in front of the mirror on her closet door and studied her body, letting her fingers trace the elaborate ink that covered her chest, over the scars and the absence of what was no longer there.
Their mother had died of breast cancer. So hadhermother. And two of their aunts. The third died of ovarian cancer. All the women in their family, every one they’d known, had died of cancer. They’d all had the BRCA1 mutation. The breast cancer gene.
Siena had it, too. They wouldn’t know if Geneva also had it until she was eighteen and could be tested, but the odds were obviously not in her favor.
They were, in fact, even. A one in two chance Geneva would also be burdened with the family curse. So Siena was trying to model making the most of a life where breast cancer loomed vast and low over their heads.
After she’d buried their mother, she’d had a preventive double mastectomy and a complete hysterectomy. It wasn’t a guaranteed prevention, but it improved her odds of avoiding the family curse tremendously. She hadn’t gotten implants; she hadn’t been able to afford to do implants at the same time as the mastectomy, the pain of the mastectomy had been enough to deal with anyway, and she’d needed to get back on her feet and take care of her sister.
That was why she couldn’t wear a cleavage-baring uniform. She didn’t have cleavage. To replicate it while showing ‘skin,’ she needed to use a breastplate like drag queens and some transwomen wore, and it was uncomfortable as hell and a pain in the ass to get on and styled so it looked natural. With the right bra and a couple silicone mounds, she could much more easily manufacture the look her former D cups had made under clothes. As a cocktail waitress, goingau naturelin hernaturelstate was not an option. Had to put the tits out, even tits she took off at the end of the night.
She tried not to care about the way her body looked, and mostly she thought she did okay. The ink helped; it really was beautiful, and the artist had done it for a quarter her usual rate. Avoiding the dressing room at work was more about avoiding the discussion than embarrassment about the look. Yes, it had destroyed her dating life, but becoming Geneva’s guardian five years ago had done that as well. Besides, losing her tits had nearly destroyed her libido; her nipples had been the ignition switch. She hardly even thought to use her magic wand anymore.
Furthermore and finally, the ratio of decent men to guys that sucked was not good, as her family’s history of absent fathers and single mothers attested. So ... meh.
Finished with her nightly physical inventory, Siena grabbed a clean set of pajamas from her dresser and went into her bathroom to shower off the pound of makeup and hairspray she wore for work.
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~oOo~
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Siena came awake witha gasping start. Sitting up in bed, she tried to get her bearings. What was that racket? Was something wrong with Geneva?
“Fuck!” she muttered and gave her temple a couple of sharp raps to clear her head.
The racket was ... music. Loud music. Also thumping and ... squealing. Like metal on metal. Bad brakes or something.
It was outside, whatever it was. She checked her phone. Not quite three in the morning.
Slipping from bed, she opened the cabinet in her nightstand and pulled a small gun safe from it. She put her thumb on the sensor, opened it, and pulled her Sig Sauer P238 Pink Pearl from it and checked the mag.
Yes, she kept a loaded gun beside her bed. She was a single woman raising a teenage girl alone. Of course she kept a loaded gun close for protection. In a gun safe, with a thumbprint lock. Yes, it had a pink grip. Nobody said you couldn’t look cute while you were warding off burglars and other bad guys. She had almost eighty hours at the gun range, and she was a damn good shot with her pretty pink gun.
Pink Pearl in hand, she sidled up to the front windows of her room and eased the curtain an inch or two from the side.
From that position, she could see brake lights—too many brake lights. Oh, wait. A truck and a trailer.
Apparently the new neighbor was trying to back a U-Haul and a trailer into the fucking carport. He’d missed at least once; she could see the tire tracks through the lava-rock gravel of the front yard next door.
He was doing all this at three o’clock in the morning. With some kind of very angry music playing way too fucking loud. It would be obnoxious at three in the afternoon. Now, if she went out there and shot him in the head, no jury would convict her.
Was he drunk? If it was a he. Odds were very good it was a he. Whoever it was, if he actually did manage to back the trailer onto the driveway, that U-Haul would never clear the carport roof. God, what a mess he’d make.
Armed with righteous fury and a pink handgun, Siena yanked a hoodie on over her pajamas and stomped outside.