Punk City and the Human Boy

"Just a heads-up—for operational convenience, only men and women can participate. Other genders aren't allowed, so please understand."

After hearing the receptionist's announcement, Amon and Sonia headed to the waiting room. Since it was a cosplay contest disguised as a social movement challenge, the room was stocked with cosmetics, wigs, and the like. They were cheap, but they seemed effective enough for getting into the spirit. Working with the limited supplies, Sonia dressed as a man while Amon went for a female disguise.

Once their makeup was done, they critiqued each other's handiwork. Amon looked at Sonia. Her male disguise was passable, but the poor-quality cosmetics didn't help, and her long hair made it hard to sell. The low-grade wig only added to the awkwardness. Above all, her overflowing femininity made it impossible to see her as a man. She seemed aware of it too, flashing an awkward smile while pretending to be male before giving up and slumping her shoulders.

Now it was time to judge Amon's female disguise.

"Uh... um... er..."

Sonia stared at Amon's transformation, speechless. Beautiful. There were no other words for it. The wig had looked awkward on her, but it fit Amon perfectly. She'd always thought his thick eyebrows and droopy eyes were masculine, but a touch of eyeshadow and liner brought out a feminine allure. With his already flawless skin—free of stubble marks or blemishes—layered with women's makeup, there was no trace of masculinity left. The final touches of lip tint and earrings completed the look: a genuine girl stood there. No, "girl" didn't do it justice. It was a peerless beauty. She could debut as an actress with that face, and no one would suspect a thing.

Sonia, lost in admiration, finally snapped out of it.

"Uh... sis?"

"..."

Amon was at a loss for words. He'd put in a bit of effort thinking they'd give it their all, but he never dreamed he'd have a talent for... no, disguises. He'd gotten into it and gone all out without thinking, but the result left even him breathless. It was high-quality enough to make him seriously question his own masculinity. Wiping it off felt like a waste, though, so he'd gritted his teeth and committed.

"Let's just go..."

The longer they stayed, the more humiliating it would be. Better to get judged quickly and change out of it for his mental health. Urging Sonia on, he stepped onto the stage.

The contest rules were simple: participants got scored by judges and other contestants on how well they'd captured the opposite gender. Prizes were awarded based on points.

Sonia went first. She won an effort award. It was obvious she'd tried, but her femininity couldn't be hidden. She accepted it graciously, tucking the prize doll under her arm as she left the stage.

Then Amon.

"What the hell? Isn't this too much?"

The moment he appeared, they unanimously disqualified him. Why was a woman coming out without even attempting a male disguise? But when Amon revealed he was a guy, the reactions flipped.

"Perfect score... perfect score..."

Unanimous perfects. Champion of the day.

As Amon pondered whether to be happy or not, a man in a suit approached and pulled out a business card.

"Our entertainment agency—"

"Please leave."

The curse nearly escaped his throat, but as a devout believer, he held it back. The scout smacked his lips regretfully and backed off.

Back in the waiting room, Amon collapsed to the floor and muttered,

"Fuck..."

Sonia patted his back consolingly.

"I'm telling you upfront: I'm not becoming an actor. For real."

"I didn't say anything."

On the bus back to the Perfumrose Orphanage, Amon emphasized it to Sonia over and over. He hadn't settled on a career yet, but acting was off the table—especially cross-dressing roles.

Sonia nodded at his repeated vows.

"Got it. I won't make you."

Too bad...

She said that, but really, she wanted to see him in drag one more time. Of course, he'd hate it, so it probably wouldn't happen again.

As Sonia replayed Amon's disguise in her mind, he shivered, brushing off the chill running down his spine.

A TS actress true ending? No thanks...

A gag ending might be one thing, but he had no intention of living as a woman. His dream of becoming a legend was about excelling in worthy fields—not drag.

After some deep meditation, Amon overcame the demon gnawing at his mind. Despite the blow to his masculinity, it hadn't been fruitless. He'd discovered a talent.

Disguise: check.

He examined other talents linked to disguise. Talents formed a mind-map-like web, providing bonuses to related ones. High swordsmanship, for instance, boosted martial arts slightly. Conversely, mediocre talents could trace back to main skill trees.

Amon listed his: Guns—mediocre. Disguise and Charisma—exceptional. Combining them pointed to a path.

Assassin? Scout? Agent? Fixer?

Either way, he had direction. He was quite satisfied. Without an ending in mind, he could go wild with skill trees—like this ridiculous one he knew:

Dubbed "That Long Thing." Complete it, and he could wipe a city solo. But it required ruining relationships, bad endings, killing good NPCs. Amon passed. He wanted a happy ending—one needing intel gathering and minimal combat. Especially blind, careful scouting was key. Scout or hacker fit perfectly, so this path thrilled him.

Check other scout talents later.

Satisfied with the day's gains, he closed his notebook listing them. Glancing aside, he saw Sonia nodding off, her head swaying. Exhausted, apparently. As it tilted toward his shoulder, he gently supported it. Feeling the warm weight, he gazed out the window.

Tech had advanced, but the city remained grim. Sirens and gunshots echoed sporadically. Some called it a city of sin. Yet Amon's heart raced. The unknown tickled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his primal curiosity; graduating the orphanage to face the world excited him.

The day after Thanksgiving. America was still in festival mode—arguably the next day was the main event. The Friday when the country went mad: Black Friday. Nearly everything discounted 90%, generating 80% of companies' annual sales.

The orphanage reaped the benefits too. Budget-strapped, they couldn't miss it. The director's ironclad wallet cracked open. She bought supplies for the kids and nuns for the next year in a frenzy.

Amon and Sonia were busy too. Booming logistics meant endless errands, no matter how much help they hired. With bonuses on top, they dashed around the city, feet aching. The manic Black Friday spree—from Friday to Sunday—passed in a blur.

Monday, people returned to work, freed from madness. Remembering how hard money was to earn, they regretted impulse buys at desks, figuring out how to offload junk: gifts, flea markets, returns. Another logistics wave.

The orphanage rode the fever high. No returns or markets for them—their bounty poured in as donations. Impulse buys too awkward to keep became tax write-offs and PR wins. Win-win-win. Always needy, the orphanage took everything.

After the director and nuns' initial screening, items piled in the central playground. Kids swarmed, grabbing for rooms and beds. Nuns juggled inspections and donor schmoozing, leaving chaos like a market floor.

Usually, older siblings snatched the good stuff first, little ones taking scraps. To score, kids buttered up the bigs.

But Amon and Sonia added a touch of decorum to the disorder. Nothing grand.

"Tom, you wanted this, right? Big bro grabbed it for you."

"Rumi, sis doesn't need this doll—take it."

Yielding to the young with gentle voices and kind smiles, modeling virtue. No force, no violence—just inspiring admiration for voluntary courtesy. Like kids imitating parents and siblings, others followed, sharing with littles.

- Thanks, bro!

- Love you, sis!

A heartwarming scene of elder love unfolded.

But as an ancient Eastern sage said, "Gather five people, and one is trash." The theory held even in changed times.

"Hey, you gonna scram? Outta the way, brats."

As feared, Jimmy's gang appeared the moment Amon stepped away. Led by Jimmy, the delinquents bullied; young kids parted reluctantly. Jimmy strutted like a king through the crowd. Grabbing armfuls for himself, he and his crew headed to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the warehouse by the playground.

Confirming nuns busy with guests, they climbed the window. Sonia's eyes narrowed.

She called to their backs from the warehouse door.

"That's where the nuns sort dangerous stuff."

"Hmph. What do you know, kid? It's probably just their picks hidden away."

"Nuns wouldn't do that."

"Naive brat. I'll show you."

Jimmy sneered, vaulting the window. Clank clank. The inner latch slid; the door swung open. His crew filed in like spec ops.

Five minutes later, they emerged, arms laden with "spoils," smug and hugging them tight.

Sonia grimaced at the haul.

"Put those back."

"Shut up already. Nuns won't notice once it's in our rooms. Just don't snitch."

"They're dangerous."

"So you're the snitch?"

"Sigh..."

Sonia glared, then looked away. Unlike Amon, her humanity was thin. She wasn't one to persuade the unpersuadable. Ignoring Jimmy, she returned to the kids.

But that wasn't what Jimmy wanted. Puberty's peak: boys fawning over pretty girls. Softening his gruffness to chat more, he called her over, offering a black vase.

"You've needed this forever."

"Nah?"

His kindness fell flat; her response was cold.

"I wanted a flower bed."

"Same difference."

"No room in my room for a vase."

"Argh, seriously! Why are you so socially inept? Just take the damn gift."

Her eyebrow twitched at his outburst, but she refused the vase. Even from someone else, it was ugly—tacky patterns, murky black. And from Jimmy? No way. Maybe if Amon gave it...

Stung by her blunt rejection, Jimmy grumbled.

"Fine, whatever. I'll keep it in my room, bitch."

Petulant from hurt feelings. Maybe aiming for bad-boy vibe, but not her type.

Her eyebrow twitched again. Jimmy clutched the vase and headed to his room. Spotting a kid with a wallet, he lashed out.

Reaching for it, he barked,

"Hand it over."

The kid hesitated. Jimmy scowled, tucking the vase under his left arm, right fist clenched. Raising it like for a knuckle-rap, he loomed.

"Dumbass, deaf? I said gimme."

Reluctantly, the kid offered it. Jimmy reached—

—and his knee buckled involuntarily.

"Aigoo... Turn my back for a sec, and you pull this shit."

Behind the kneeling Jimmy stood Amon, visibly pissed. One leg still raised—he'd swept Jimmy's Achilles.

Violence against people? Nah. Amon called it non-verbal communication for smooth dialogue. Not violence. Jimmy hurt because his leg happened to be there when Amon stretched.

"Fuckin' bastard!"

Jimmy whirled, face twisted. But Amon's thumb pressing his collarbone tamed him ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠quick.

"Aaaah! Fuck! I get it!"

"Quit with the 'fuck' already. This ain't Fuckin' Punk City."

Subduing Jimmy instantly, Amon returned the identical wallet to the kid, warning to tell him if Jimmy retaliated later, then sent the child off.

"Grow up. Seventeen and acting like a kid."

Snatching the wallet from Jimmy's hand, he smacked the delinquent's head with it—flapping open and shut like a fan. Rude as a slap. Intentionally so.

Jimmy glared—

"Eyes down nice, or else?"

Jimmy averted his gaze. Once, age gave him the edge, but Amon's puberty hit, and he was outmatched. Plus, the director always sided with Amon. "If they fought equally, why'd Amon swing first?"—Jimmy got scolded solo. He couldn't touch Amon.

After minutes of public humiliation before the kids, Amon returned to his room. Left alone, Jimmy ground his teeth at Amon's retreating back. Beside him, the black vase ominously pulsed in sync.