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lb_leeNo writeathon story this time, just a freebie for fun!
The Passing-for-Yuppies Job
Word Count: 1500
Summary: Biff and M.D. can pass for different things in different ways. They talk and troll each other about it.
Notes: Takes place after Time to Go and Hooray-We’re-Not-Dead Day, but no required reading. All you need to know is Biff is trans and biracial and had major issues with both growing up. More at the bottom.
“Okay, so we just break in and—gah! You’re white!”
The soccer mom passing us gave me a deeply offended look, and Biff hastily dragged me off down a cross street before I could say something worse, glaring daggers at me the whole time. “Never taking you on a job again,” he snarled at me under his breath.
I threw his grip off. “Look, I get it, it’s Oasis Valley, but at least have the decency not to go full cracker yuppie in the middle of a conversation with me. It’s creepy.” I swiped my hand through the illusory sweater. “Look at you, you’re wearing cable-knit, that’s just three kinds of not right…”
Biff shoved my arm away. “You never noticed before!”
“That get-up’s not exactly subtle—”
“Not that! The rest of it!”
Now it was my turn to be offended. “Uh, Biff, give me some credit here, I’m not stupid. Yeah, I notice how you whiten yourself up for certain neighborhoods, and blacken yourself for others. I’ve been noticing since 2002. You’re not the only brown person with blond hair here, sheesh.”
“You never said shit!”
“Yeah, because there would be a comfortable conversation, ‘gee Biff, you’re sure looking white today…’ Besides, until just now, you never had the audacity to pull that and a full wardrobe switch in the middle of a conversation with me. You’re getting sloppy.”
Biff swore. He actually seemed seriously anxious, so I relented.
“Relax, will you? I know your vanishing act, I’m around you a lot, and you still had me going for a while; I really thought you were white the whole time we were in Pinhead Prison. It wasn’t till you started drinking yourself stupid that I figured out it was fake, and it still took me a while to pick up on the shifts. You’re usually pretty subtle, all right? If nobody else’s called you on it yet, you’re probably fine.”
Biff relaxed a little. “Don’t fuck with me on that.”
“All right, all right,” I said. “Chill out. You’re fine. Wish I could visually code-switch like you; it’d sure be convenient.
He gave me an appraising look, glanced around to verify the street we were on was still empty. “Want me to?”
I blinked. It sounded absurd that I’d never asked before, but it’d never occurred to me. Biff was so touchy about the slightest suggestion he wasn’t totally normal that it hadn’t seemed worth the fight. But if he was offering… “Sure, do me over.”
Biff gave me a quick once-over and nodded. No look of concentration, no fireworks. But then, he’d probably trained himself incessantly to not make it noticeable.
“Cool.” The next car we passed, I checked my reflection in the side mirror.
It was… weird? Uncomfortable? Same uncanny valley effect with Biff, only worse because it was me? My skin was still tan, but in a salon way, not a me way. My eyes had changed. Even my facial shape had subtly changed, softened, rounded out. I didn’t just look white. I looked like a real girl.
I shuddered. “Change me back.”
He did.
“That wasn’t as fun as I thought it’d be,” I said, rubbing my hands over my arms. “But then, I guess you don’t do it for fun.”
Biff was silent.
Something else occurred to me—the brief period before his surgery, where Biff had stubbornly ditched vest and illusion to try and prove a point to himself, only to cave within a few hours. “I never saw you conscious without the vanish job, did I? Not till right before your surgery.”
He looked uncomfortable, but shook his head.
For a moment, I wondered if even now, I was still seeing Biff with a vanish job. But really, it was none of my business; if the face he most often showed me was what he felt most comfortable with, then it was his real face. At least he wasn’t trying to fake white all the time anymore. “Makes sense. Keeps you safe.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t think I could do it though.”
“Nah.”
“You ever feel like you’re losing yourself, doing that?”
He shrugged. “Not enough.”
Ouch. “Even after all the renovating?”
He frowned. Apparently the thought hadn’t occurred to him. He absently touched his chest. “Guess I’m still getting used to that,” he said finally.
“What’re you going to show your sisters?” I asked. “When you see them again?”
His expression closed. “Working on it.”
Time to change the subject. “Well, like I said, you do a good job. Just stay on the wagon, don’t get sloppy, and you’ll be fine. And for god’s sake man, ditch the sweater; that’s just embarrassing.”
He rolled his eyes but swapped the illusory sweater out for a V-necked T-shirt with a breast pocket and a luxury brand name. “Better?”
“Much better. You fit right in with the palm trees and carefully manicured mini-lawns.” I looked at him and rubbed my chin, then sighed dramatically. “You know, I can’t help but grieve the lost opportunity.”
“Enh?”
“You could’ve been a fantastic con artist, if it weren’t for your personality.” I shook my head sadly. “Sorry Biff, you’ve got the look down pat, but you can’t pull off the yuppie walk for love or money.”
He looked indignant. “Fuck you talking about? I got it down.”
I rolled my eyes. “Biff, please, I date Raige. I know what Oasis Valley yuppies act like. You’re still walking like you’re out hunting the man who groin-kicked you. Yuppies don’t need to do that; their wallets do all the swaggering for them.”
Biff sighed with exasperation. “Fine smartass, you do it.”
I straightened up to my full height and adopted the look of oblivious smugness of a person who didn’t need to constantly check their environment for muggers or cops. I checked an invisible watch and then power-walked briskly down the sidewalk, chatting about my imaginary kids with an invisible fellow soccer mom. I didn’t have Biff’s vanish anymore, but I tried to embody whiteness and yoga pants.
Biff paused. “Okay, that’s pretty good.”
I smirked and came back to him. “Seriously Biff. If I had your abilities, I wouldn’t have needed to become junior healer. I would’ve just become the most amazing grifter the world has ever seen.”
Biff squinted at me, studying. “Do it again. Guy this time; I can’t fake girls for shit.”
Biff had all the imagination and creativity of a bowl of oatmeal, but I had to give him this, he was observant. I pulled on my yuppie act again (brisk walk, focused gaze, complete ignorance and disinterest in the environment because no threats or uses would come from it) and after a couple tries Biff managed a credible imitation. He still didn’t look quite like a yuppie, but he could pass for someone new to money and trying to impress his neighbors. When a dog-walking woman came up on us, he even managed to improvise checking a nonexistent PDA, while I blathered on in a whiny tone about how we were going to be late, he never paid attention to me, and that was just so like him…
It worked. The woman blew right past us with not a lick of attention. She even sped up, not wanting to get dragged into my nagging or asked for directions.
The moment she was gone, Biff ditched the illusory PDA (I’d have to find out how he got his visual memory so good) and looked at me with new appreciation. “Huh,” he said. “Should’ve brought you on jobs before this.”
I spread my hands. “I know, right? If I weren’t so darn orange, I would’ve been great! I can even speak weatherman English, unlike you.”
He rolled his eyes, cleared his throat, and said, in perfect Standard English, “I can talk weatherman. It’s tough, but I can do it. I don’t sound like I’m from Georgia anymore, do I?”
I stared at him. He smirked.
I shook myself all over and began yuppie-walking away from him. “Four kinds of not right! Don’t do that!”
He pursued me. “What, does it bug you? Is it annoying?”
“Yes! Yes it bothers me, you shouldn’t speak in Weatherman; it’s not annoying, it’s uncomfortable!”
Across the street, curtains rippled. A little old lady was staring at us with squinty eyes, watching me yuppie-flee from Biff, who hadn’t bothered to alter his usual body language.
I pointed at her. “There, see, you’re scaring the yuppies. That’s how unsettling it is, so knock it off before she calls the cops.”
He did, but only because he was snickering too hard to maintain the accent. “You so full of shit.”
“All right, all right, I take it back, you’re not a complete failure at social camouflage, just promise me to never talk like that again.”
He punched me in the shoulder, we both affected our best yuppie body language, and we headed on deeper into suburbia, blathering nonsense about stocks and bonds and leaving the suspicious old lady behind.
Notes: The seeds of this story first came up ten years ago. So yeah, I’ve wanted to address this for a while. You’ll get more context for what they’re doing later.
Oasis Valley is a mostly white, extremely affluent Vaygo suburb, and despite its name, it suffers just as much from drought and water shortage as the rest of the city. One popular sign of affluence is to wear nice sweaters, even in summer. Then there are mini-lawns, carefully manicured and maintained patches of grass of roughly eighteen square feet. Raige’s dad doesn’t bother; he prefers to sink his money into other things, so they have a lawn made entirely of rocks, gravel, and yucca.
The Passing-for-Yuppies Job
Word Count: 1500
Summary: Biff and M.D. can pass for different things in different ways. They talk and troll each other about it.
Notes: Takes place after Time to Go and Hooray-We’re-Not-Dead Day, but no required reading. All you need to know is Biff is trans and biracial and had major issues with both growing up. More at the bottom.
“Okay, so we just break in and—gah! You’re white!”
The soccer mom passing us gave me a deeply offended look, and Biff hastily dragged me off down a cross street before I could say something worse, glaring daggers at me the whole time. “Never taking you on a job again,” he snarled at me under his breath.
I threw his grip off. “Look, I get it, it’s Oasis Valley, but at least have the decency not to go full cracker yuppie in the middle of a conversation with me. It’s creepy.” I swiped my hand through the illusory sweater. “Look at you, you’re wearing cable-knit, that’s just three kinds of not right…”
Biff shoved my arm away. “You never noticed before!”
“That get-up’s not exactly subtle—”
“Not that! The rest of it!”
Now it was my turn to be offended. “Uh, Biff, give me some credit here, I’m not stupid. Yeah, I notice how you whiten yourself up for certain neighborhoods, and blacken yourself for others. I’ve been noticing since 2002. You’re not the only brown person with blond hair here, sheesh.”
“You never said shit!”
“Yeah, because there would be a comfortable conversation, ‘gee Biff, you’re sure looking white today…’ Besides, until just now, you never had the audacity to pull that and a full wardrobe switch in the middle of a conversation with me. You’re getting sloppy.”
Biff swore. He actually seemed seriously anxious, so I relented.
“Relax, will you? I know your vanishing act, I’m around you a lot, and you still had me going for a while; I really thought you were white the whole time we were in Pinhead Prison. It wasn’t till you started drinking yourself stupid that I figured out it was fake, and it still took me a while to pick up on the shifts. You’re usually pretty subtle, all right? If nobody else’s called you on it yet, you’re probably fine.”
Biff relaxed a little. “Don’t fuck with me on that.”
“All right, all right,” I said. “Chill out. You’re fine. Wish I could visually code-switch like you; it’d sure be convenient.
He gave me an appraising look, glanced around to verify the street we were on was still empty. “Want me to?”
I blinked. It sounded absurd that I’d never asked before, but it’d never occurred to me. Biff was so touchy about the slightest suggestion he wasn’t totally normal that it hadn’t seemed worth the fight. But if he was offering… “Sure, do me over.”
Biff gave me a quick once-over and nodded. No look of concentration, no fireworks. But then, he’d probably trained himself incessantly to not make it noticeable.
“Cool.” The next car we passed, I checked my reflection in the side mirror.
It was… weird? Uncomfortable? Same uncanny valley effect with Biff, only worse because it was me? My skin was still tan, but in a salon way, not a me way. My eyes had changed. Even my facial shape had subtly changed, softened, rounded out. I didn’t just look white. I looked like a real girl.
I shuddered. “Change me back.”
He did.
“That wasn’t as fun as I thought it’d be,” I said, rubbing my hands over my arms. “But then, I guess you don’t do it for fun.”
Biff was silent.
Something else occurred to me—the brief period before his surgery, where Biff had stubbornly ditched vest and illusion to try and prove a point to himself, only to cave within a few hours. “I never saw you conscious without the vanish job, did I? Not till right before your surgery.”
He looked uncomfortable, but shook his head.
For a moment, I wondered if even now, I was still seeing Biff with a vanish job. But really, it was none of my business; if the face he most often showed me was what he felt most comfortable with, then it was his real face. At least he wasn’t trying to fake white all the time anymore. “Makes sense. Keeps you safe.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t think I could do it though.”
“Nah.”
“You ever feel like you’re losing yourself, doing that?”
He shrugged. “Not enough.”
Ouch. “Even after all the renovating?”
He frowned. Apparently the thought hadn’t occurred to him. He absently touched his chest. “Guess I’m still getting used to that,” he said finally.
“What’re you going to show your sisters?” I asked. “When you see them again?”
His expression closed. “Working on it.”
Time to change the subject. “Well, like I said, you do a good job. Just stay on the wagon, don’t get sloppy, and you’ll be fine. And for god’s sake man, ditch the sweater; that’s just embarrassing.”
He rolled his eyes but swapped the illusory sweater out for a V-necked T-shirt with a breast pocket and a luxury brand name. “Better?”
“Much better. You fit right in with the palm trees and carefully manicured mini-lawns.” I looked at him and rubbed my chin, then sighed dramatically. “You know, I can’t help but grieve the lost opportunity.”
“Enh?”
“You could’ve been a fantastic con artist, if it weren’t for your personality.” I shook my head sadly. “Sorry Biff, you’ve got the look down pat, but you can’t pull off the yuppie walk for love or money.”
He looked indignant. “Fuck you talking about? I got it down.”
I rolled my eyes. “Biff, please, I date Raige. I know what Oasis Valley yuppies act like. You’re still walking like you’re out hunting the man who groin-kicked you. Yuppies don’t need to do that; their wallets do all the swaggering for them.”
Biff sighed with exasperation. “Fine smartass, you do it.”
I straightened up to my full height and adopted the look of oblivious smugness of a person who didn’t need to constantly check their environment for muggers or cops. I checked an invisible watch and then power-walked briskly down the sidewalk, chatting about my imaginary kids with an invisible fellow soccer mom. I didn’t have Biff’s vanish anymore, but I tried to embody whiteness and yoga pants.
Biff paused. “Okay, that’s pretty good.”
I smirked and came back to him. “Seriously Biff. If I had your abilities, I wouldn’t have needed to become junior healer. I would’ve just become the most amazing grifter the world has ever seen.”
Biff squinted at me, studying. “Do it again. Guy this time; I can’t fake girls for shit.”
Biff had all the imagination and creativity of a bowl of oatmeal, but I had to give him this, he was observant. I pulled on my yuppie act again (brisk walk, focused gaze, complete ignorance and disinterest in the environment because no threats or uses would come from it) and after a couple tries Biff managed a credible imitation. He still didn’t look quite like a yuppie, but he could pass for someone new to money and trying to impress his neighbors. When a dog-walking woman came up on us, he even managed to improvise checking a nonexistent PDA, while I blathered on in a whiny tone about how we were going to be late, he never paid attention to me, and that was just so like him…
It worked. The woman blew right past us with not a lick of attention. She even sped up, not wanting to get dragged into my nagging or asked for directions.
The moment she was gone, Biff ditched the illusory PDA (I’d have to find out how he got his visual memory so good) and looked at me with new appreciation. “Huh,” he said. “Should’ve brought you on jobs before this.”
I spread my hands. “I know, right? If I weren’t so darn orange, I would’ve been great! I can even speak weatherman English, unlike you.”
He rolled his eyes, cleared his throat, and said, in perfect Standard English, “I can talk weatherman. It’s tough, but I can do it. I don’t sound like I’m from Georgia anymore, do I?”
I stared at him. He smirked.
I shook myself all over and began yuppie-walking away from him. “Four kinds of not right! Don’t do that!”
He pursued me. “What, does it bug you? Is it annoying?”
“Yes! Yes it bothers me, you shouldn’t speak in Weatherman; it’s not annoying, it’s uncomfortable!”
Across the street, curtains rippled. A little old lady was staring at us with squinty eyes, watching me yuppie-flee from Biff, who hadn’t bothered to alter his usual body language.
I pointed at her. “There, see, you’re scaring the yuppies. That’s how unsettling it is, so knock it off before she calls the cops.”
He did, but only because he was snickering too hard to maintain the accent. “You so full of shit.”
“All right, all right, I take it back, you’re not a complete failure at social camouflage, just promise me to never talk like that again.”
He punched me in the shoulder, we both affected our best yuppie body language, and we headed on deeper into suburbia, blathering nonsense about stocks and bonds and leaving the suspicious old lady behind.
Notes: The seeds of this story first came up ten years ago. So yeah, I’ve wanted to address this for a while. You’ll get more context for what they’re doing later.
Oasis Valley is a mostly white, extremely affluent Vaygo suburb, and despite its name, it suffers just as much from drought and water shortage as the rest of the city. One popular sign of affluence is to wear nice sweaters, even in summer. Then there are mini-lawns, carefully manicured and maintained patches of grass of roughly eighteen square feet. Raige’s dad doesn’t bother; he prefers to sink his money into other things, so they have a lawn made entirely of rocks, gravel, and yucca.
