Nichole
Katherine’s insistence that Discursive Combat must be viewed “in a fitting setting for such a grand spectacle” provides a merciful reprieve from the horrors of being perceived outdoors, in favor of the lesser, more looming horror of the Accord server’s culture when there’s drama afoot.
Upon getting home to the apartment, Kathy wasted no time connecting her laptop to the common room TV, jumping into the ongoing call to watch a stream consisting of, as expected by now, a countdown in total silence. Every non-combatant is muted, with communication sequestered into the associated chat channel. Said channel, in turn, is a deluge of memes.
Kathy’s microwaved some popcorn and brought drinks. She is practically jittery with excitement, watching the discourse pouring in through her phone.
Jeff is also there, on his way out. “Oh hey you two!”
He’s got an enormous grin on his face, and the horrors of being perceived are setting in again.
“Uh, hi Jeff,” I respond. Wait, shit, carry on the conversation. “Aren’t you watching Discursive Combat?”
“Oh! No, I have plans already. Besides…”
What’s that expression? Why is he looking at us like that?
“I wouldn’t want to impose on you two!”
“Impose on us hanging out?” I probe, unsure but starting to suspect what he’s implying here.
“Aw, you boys are– oh, sorry, I know we’re doing the cover story full-time. You
girls
are adorable together. See, I respect your preferred pronouns!”
“We’re… adorable… friends?”
“Haha, of course! You’re
such good friends
. Roommates, even!” He’s winking. “Anyway, gotta run. Toodles!”
“We live in separate–” He’s out the door, leaving me with several questions and Kathy with zero questions, as she appears to have followed none of the preceding conversation.
“Nichole, look!”
She’s sending me a link, and for emphasis, bumping her head into my chest to take advantage of the soreness in the area, securing my attention.
“Ow. Yes, fine, I’m looking.”
Both of us starting estrogen really is interfering with this habit. Bit harder to platonically use each other’s chests as pillows when the area’s getting sensitive.
Yup. For quite a while now, I’ve just been going along with Katherine’s idea that platonic straight guy cuddling is a normal thing to do. I’m just going along with the scheme, playing the role according to what she’s expecting, and–
Cringe festers in refusing to take accountability for your own desires,
Katherine’s voice echoes in the back of my mind.
Fine, I like this habit, because it feels comfortable and safe and nice. It’s a bit odd since I don’t like dudes, and Katherine is a straight man pretending to be a trans woman, and as far as she’s aware so am I, but who cares? If she thinks it’s friend-cuddling and I recognize that it’s only going to be that, there’s no problem.
I can maturely recognize that she’s really attractive as a girl, and that acting on that attraction would sabotage our friendship by disrespecting her identity. She’s not interested anyway, she’s just clueless about how pretty she’s getting, and how her behavior around me could be interpreted if I didn’t know better, and it’s hard to believe someone could genuinely be this dense, even if I’m pretending to be that as a safety net and–
This train of thought is making me uncomfortable. Allowing the cringe to fester just a little, I choose to distract myself by looking at the meme my very good friend roommate buddy pal sent me. Platonically.
Magical Boy Bignaturals Steve
You guys don’t know shit about war profiteering. I’m playing both sides.
The image consists of desktop icons for two folders: “Memes if Trickster wins” and “Memes if Laura wins”. I’m unsure if the folders are empty by accident, or if that’s part of the joke.
“Haha, nice,” I lie, the post having failed to distract me as well as I hoped it would.
“Nichole. Your deceptions are nowhere near as convincing as you believe them to be.” She’s getting up and turning around to look directly at me, and I’m definitely just upset by the words and not the sudden absence of her touch.
Okay. Navigate the mind game. Does she think I’m trans, or does she suspect I’m attracted to her, or what?
“My uh–”
“You found that post to be neither amusing nor of particularly high quality. In fact, I suspect you do not care for discursive combat at all.”
Her gaze is piercing through me. Assessing, evaluating, scrutinizing me, and while it’s good to know this is about the server drama rather than my, uh, other stuff, it’s still incredibly jarring.
“I mean, I’m just sort of, you know. Not that invested. Because I don’t know the participants.”
Katherine lets out a long sigh. “You have had two months to get acquainted with the server culture, and have read several of the guides The Impenetrable has written.”
“Well, sure, but that doesn’t mean I have to be some kind of Laura fangirl, does it?”
“Is there something wrong with being a ‘Laura fangirl’?” She continues to penetrate straight through my defenses. “I have proudly embraced being a, as you say, ‘Laura fangirl’. Do you know why? Do you understand why the server community is doing this?”
Shit, I wasn’t expecting a confrontation on this right now. I don’t say anything in response to her question, avoiding eye contact.
Katherine, in turn, rolls her eyes. “We are doing this because it is
fun
, Nichole. Look in the chat, and see for yourself, instead of stewing in your own preconceptions of what lies within.”
BigTittyFemboy
Trickster win trickster win trickster win
Paladin of Penetration
Laura’s got this shit down, no mere usurper can best our king.
Manliest Valkyrie Alive
Cope harder, the age of your false idol is coming to an end, Gender Ragnarok is upon us.
Only In This For The Money Tbh
REMINDER: Payments need to be submitted for all bets
before
the debate starts! Message me on Noise for payment info!
Paladin of Penetration
I’m starting to get uncomfortable with how Norwientalist this chat is …
“They’re betting on who wins?” I look at Katherine. “Are you betting on anyone?”
“Hah, as if. I would not sully my devotion to this cause with monetary incentives.”
Setting aside the entire goal of the competition for a moment, I continue watching the discourse unfold. Memes about “Laurachads,” “Trickstercels” and the opposing viewpoint’s inverse of those are all over the place. It’s a mesmerizing thing to watch, and as I slowly get to grips with the terminology I find myself thinking a lot of these are … Actually pretty funny?
Katherine seems to have noticed, because she’s perking up. “See? It is an occasion for the community to come together and relish in a shared experience.”
I have to push back at least a little bit. “But it’s complete nonsense from an outside perspective, and–”
“Who
cares
about an outside perspective? Do you think these memes are meant as a product for market consumption? Why do you
insist
on positioning yourself as some outsider looking in? Do you not realize that these people are just like us?”
I mean. I am an outsider, but I can’t tell her that. Instead, I continue looking through the chat getting increasingly heated.
Templar of Titties
Trickster supporters are just a bunch of coping dickboys who need to accept that they’re never winning with their inferior strats. Start noting down resignation messages t b h.
Jormungandr in my Pants
Girl wtf are you talking about? We’re not resigning shit, we’re establishing that the Laura clique is 100% women and letting this competition return to its roots: A
men’s sport
, without a bunch of deceptive trans women going around cheating with their unfair advantages.
Melvin
hey what is this channel who the fuck is Laura
Knight of Knockers
there are zero women in the ‘laura clique’ wtf are you smoking.
Odinspattar
@Isaacahedron
lmao
Jormungandr in my Pants
@Isaacahedron
Manliest Valkyrie Alive
@Isaacahedron
Eg Har Jævlig Store Puppar Fyfaen
@Isaacahedron
Knight of Knockers
Laura is a
heterosexual man
who is simply and straightforwardly keeping another heterosexual man as a concubine, keep up with the program wtfff. we’re men and we’re confident in our manhood. also there is no ‘laura clique’ there’s just guys standing for what’s right, which is that the master of mammaries should retain her title and they/themboys don’t fucking belong in men’s spaces
BigTittyFemboy
okay I’ve kept my mouth shut but I’m really not digging how homophobic this server is
Knight of Knockers
I AM LITERALLY A CIS GAY MAN, AS IS THE MAJORITY OF THIS SPACE
Eg Har Jævlig Store Puppar Fyfaen
Hey speak for yourself Lauracel I’m a biromantic pansexual
BigTittyFemboy
@
Knight of Knockers SO YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT GAY MEN’S SPACES ARE THE MOST HOMOPHOBIC OF ALL
Melvin
Hey are we going to talk about the NTBVs that just dropped or
Knight of Knockers
THAT DOESN’T EVEN MAKE SENSE
BigTittyFemboy
ur two seconds away from calling me a twink derogatorily I can fucking sense it lmao
Bench Press Meta 2025
@Melvin
No off topic chatter please.
Knight of Knockers
no I wasn’t I respect twinks and femboys, who are—y’know—ACTUAL MEN and not closeted theymabs
Eg Har Jævlig Store Puppar Fyfaen
y’all lauracels go REAL hard on the toxic masculinity as a cover, you know that right?
Katherine doesn’t have to say it out loud; in this moment, I can practically
hear
her thoughts.
“So maybe they’re not
all
like us,” she finally admits. “Oh hey, new rankings just dropped too!”
She switches her attention over to looking at the leaderboards, but I’m too invested in this argument to pay attention to the server-wide ping about that right now. I believe that I think I have decided, mainly based on vibes, that I want to pick a side.
Also, to be honest, I’m filling up with breast puns and need an outlet for them. This will have to do.
Nickname
I think Laura is going to win not just the debate, but the entire compe
tit
ion, if you get what I mean?
I’ve thrown my hat into the ring. It’s not much, but it’s–
Wait. Why is it getting so many reactions?
Why are my notifications doing that??
Errant of E-cups
Yooooooo the princess of Q2-25 is a Laurachad, this is peak!
“Kathy, what the fuck is happening?” I look at her. She’s looking at me. My phone keeps buzzing like it’s about to catch fire.
“I am as baffled by this turn of events as you, Nichole,” she answers. “Would you mind turning your upper body that way,” she makes a hand gesture, and with no idea
why
she wants me to do so, I turn to the right.
“Like this?”
“Hm. Intriguing.” She is looking at my chest.
“Kathy. Please explain in plain language.”
“You, Princess of the Second Quarter, are currently not merely in the lead of your cohort, but endowed with an all-time record for the two-month mark.”
I look down at my sore, slightly puffy and yet indisputably nearly
flat
absence of breasts, and then back at Katherine.
“
What?”
Emmy
Username: Trickster’s Tatas.
Quarter 1, 2023.
Legal name Bob-Kåre, first-place in the Q1-23 rankings, 3rd place on the all-time leaderboard. Swemish.
That is… Practically the entirety of the data I have on them.
The leaderboards have a few profiles I’ve taken to referring to as ‘phantoms’: Competitors who keep in touch exclusively to submit needed information for check-ins, who do not appear to engage with the server culture unless absolutely necessary to avoid disqualification. I suspect that these are first and foremost trans people who are noncommittally sticking around purely for a shot at the quarterly reward, free of the terror of doing all this for nothing pushing them to optimize strategies.
An enviable position, yet one that is neither for me, nor Bob-Kåre. They are a regular participant in the general, nutrition-strats and RLC-general chats, with occasional appearances across the whole of the server, and yet absurdly I cannot pin down a single notable personality trait from their entire messaging history.
Aside from the gloating provocations that have now escalated to Laura preparing for discursive combat from her hospital bed, Trickster’s Tatas seems to have expressed no views of their own on any subject for the last year and a half. They have, instead, communicated exclusively in noncommittal small-talk: “Nice,” questions like “how’s it going?”, statements like “that’ll do it”. At most, they sometimes state the server rules.
I had written them off entirely as a serious threat, with their projected NTBV score safely behind mine, let alone Laura’s. A
mistake
. My lapses in judgment recently are becoming cause for concern.
The culture of Swemark, then. Finding a copy of Andersen’s work on the
Lokesætt
was trivial, but gleaning useful information from the text is proving to be an exercise in futility. Andersen, it appears, has never attempted to talk to a single
‘soper’
, and has instead been conducting interviews with an assortment of locals with minimal connection to any gender-variant community.
It appears, in fact, that she is more interested in contrasting these purported gender-tricksters with the ‘rigid adherence to gender roles’ of ‘western transsexuals’. Briefly entertaining the possibility that I have in fact lost my faculties entirely, I locate Swemark on a map, and double-check. It is indeed in the northern hemisphere, sharing a timezone with Austrohungaria, placing it firmly in the western world.
“Sweetie, one of your clamps is a little loose, and the other’s out of frame.”
I wince, having been too focused on my task to keep my nipples precisely where Laura, infernal creature that she is, wanted them—namely, in full view of my carefully-positioned webcam. I adjust the errant nipple clamp per her note, then put myself through the humiliating ordeal of carefully centering my breasts—but not my face—in the video-conferencing frame.
“
Much
better.”
“You are supposed to avoid arousing stimuli for
weeks
, if not
months
,” I snipe, unable to contain my ire at this juvenile flexing of her power over me. “You cannot afford to rip your stitches open just because you
had
to ogle me.”
“So first off,
arousing
? Methinks the lady doth give herself a
little
too much credit.”
My cheeks grow hot. “Then I suppose I’ll put a hoodie back on.”
“No. You won’t.”
No. I won’t.
“Besides, I have transcended the
base impulses of the flesh
, as you can clearly see.”
“I see you looking moderately stoned in a hospital gown.”
“That’s the face of Enlightenment, baby, which my Buddhist ancestors pre-dominated for me so I didn’t have to bother.”
As with all other topics, Laura continues to display a distinctly
Laura
grasp of theology.
“My
point
, if you’ll let me get to it, is that I am now, with my weaknesses amputated from the perfection of my form, a being of pure, unyielding mental faculties, with platinum acuity and titanium focus. Neither you, nor any trickster, blessed with tatas or otherwise, will be able to inspire any physiological or indeed emotional response in me unless I will it so!”
After pausing for the requisite number of seconds following a Laura-typical dramatic flourish, I helpfully offer: “Tungsten is probably the metal you want if you’re reaching for the impressive ones.”
“You can tongue my sten all you like when I return, baby, but right now you’ve gotta finish compiling that intel for me.”
Right. The intel that Laura
definitely
didn’t need, and that she still couldn’t help badgering me for every two minutes.
“Despite your repeated and
unnecessarily licentious
intrusions,” I snipe, as though she wasn’t perfectly aware of how hard I was, “I finished compiling and chasing down the relevant sources. They should be pinned in our Accord DMs.”
“Oh,
perf
. Well done, my sexretary.”
A word that stupid shouldn’t make me have to suppress a moan.
Instead, I arrange my lips and tongue into a distinctly more professional cadence. “You know, the slur in question is mostly understood to be directed at gay men.”
“Sure.” Laura rolls her eyes. “And trans women have
never
been degendered as simple effeminate gay men, not in modern times and
certainly
not by cis gay historians. We should absolutely take as incontrovertible fact what some out-of-touch old-money institutions think about the transfeminized populations they
insist
on third-sexing the world over!”
Sometimes—more often than I’d like to admit—I see such a fire in Laura that I can’t help but stare, to want to forever bask in the sheer majesty of its radiance.
“What the fuck are you doing with your face?”
“Oh, just …” I smile. “You’ve got this.”
“I know.” Laura huffs, thinking I didn’t catch the little grin she suppressed. “I’m not going to let this Swemish fart think they can go around gendering people as they wish, whether it’s their attitude towards the trans women of their culture or their insistence on denying my manhood!”
Short-lived though the feeling is, it is nice while it lasts.
Playing off my disappointment, I wearily remind Laura that we need to end the call so that she may be ready to join the discursive combat channel at the appointed time. The moment she hangs up, I return to fruitlessly scouring the internet for
any
scrap of information, any edge that I might be able to secure her in seeing this foolish, senseless sideshow through.
A ridiculous use of my time as the second-place competitor, clearly. Laura is somewhat akin to a black hole of reason, with how inescapably she draws me in and overrides my faculties with her presence.
Much as it pains me to do so, I have to account for this unfortunate fallibility now. Her absence provides a degree of clarity, and yet as I sit here in the quiet I remain incapable of sidestepping this
yearning
through detached analysis.
The source of this weakness in my armor is obvious. Through some absurd fluke, I am experiencing greater degrees of association with my own emotional state due to the hormones and their effects on my body,
inhabiting
my body in a way I have not heretofore done so. Strong evidence, one might claim, in favor of a transgender identity.
One might claim as much, that is, if one were disregarding the remaining data points. My lack of discomfort with my genitals and the disinterest in outward feminine presentation clearly indicates that if my sex were to be subject to the binary classification all humans are limited to, I fall much more neatly into “male” despite my anomalous endocrinal make-up. Thus, as much as I may desperately wish it, I still only
wish
to be a lesbian, and no amount of wishing can make me one.
No matter. These ruminations serve no useful purpose.
Five minutes until Discursive Combat starts, another server-wide ping rings out. Today, of all days, we are graced with updated NTBV rankings. A potential upset in the leaderboard, on the same day that two of the leading competitors are facing off in a head-to-head deathmatch. If I could fathom what might possibly incentivize such behavior on their part, I might have even accused Admin of optimizing the timing for maximal frenetic chaos.
These updated leaderboards and associated data sets are only published every other month, a pace which is intolerably lacking for my purposes. Worse still, the server practically becomes unusable on update, every single time, with ranking shifts inciting conflict and precipitating dethroned quarter-champions who rush to the tribunals in desperate attempts to depose their usurpers, while the strategy channels erupt into a fresh hell of knee-jerk speculation on the causes underlying the newest developments.
This potent cocktail—of the assuredly
Molotov
persuasion—fomented from the participants’ sublimated anxieties and competitive spirit is all the more toxic given that the ranking update has struck at a moment when
all other channels,
save the channel dedicated to Discursive Combat, are locked. The heightened aggression and spontaneous organization of server denizens into dichotomous, antagonistic ‘teams’, complete with temporary server-nickname updates, is no doubt due to the stringent moderator guidelines threatening to expel any overzealous competitor who strays too far noticeably off-topic.
So I stare down the barrel of the video channel’s text chat, watching its discordant throng distill its neuroses into untamed aggression, while also desperately milling about the newly-appointed champions, especially …
Wait. Who is
Nichole
?
Surely not … the upstart who got involved in a tribunal dust-up almost instantly upon entry? A dust-up that was instigated by her very own roommate …
Boymoder Sephiroth
?! A roommate who, despite having entered the competition two whole quarters prior to Nichole, was now
lagging her in the global rankings?!
How
was
anyone
outside of Nichole’s quarter lagging her in the global rankings?!
Seized by a mania resulting from the sheer absurdity of this occurrence, I rush to secure Nichole’s data and feed it into my own approximated models, both the deterministic formulae sets and the Machine-Learning predictive chains. Terrifyingly, they spit out almost identical results, confirming for me that my reconstructions were on the right track, yet denying me any satisfaction or triumph because
how could someone on hormones for a scant two months have this high a score
? The boobacity variables were certainly not weighted enough—in all senses—to cause this anomalous a spike. This could only mean that—
“The other variables,” I sputter. “They’re boosting her rankings, but—how?!
Why
?!”
I have frittered away more than enough time assisting Laura in her doomed gladiatorial escapades, allowing her pointless bravado to taint even the clarity and trajectory of my inquiries. Nichole has proved to be a most vindicative data-point, a confirmation that my efforts were
not
all for naught, and I had to redouble them to unearth the root of this cartoonishly farcical ranking metric.
As I move to close the Accord tab, I see a notification from Laura. Without conscious thought, my hand moves to open her message, assailing me with an image of her bare torso.
“Since you did so well in my corner”, the caption reads, followed by a series of lewd and suggestive emojis that simply makes me melt.
“I hope you’re going to put your gown back on for the video call,” I reply, also seemingly without consciously making the choice to do so.
“No, you don’t.” Laura is quick to respond. “Give me a peek under your skirt for good luck.”
Immediately, I comply. There is nothing more important for me to attend to, after all.
It is this compromising position—one hand reaching for my phone, the other hiking up my bottoms to reveal my painfully, shamefully turgid state—that I am frozen in when the countdown hits zero. The chat is locked, and the two combatants are simultaneously unmuted, their cameras flickering to life in tandem.
Laura appears, her lips set in a thin, grim line, her hair less straight than is usual, her face showing signs of obvious exhaustion and a pharmacologically-induced haze, yet no less stoic and determined for any of it. Her eyes blaze with her characteristic sneer even if the rest of her body is a bit out of step, daring anyone and everyone to step into a ring she clearly
owns
, and will never relinquish her iron grip over. Sitting upright in a gurney, she almost appears to be at the helm of a vast and awesome machine, her firm hand on the levers of a terrifying instrument through which she enacts her will upon us all. Laura is—as she has always been, as she
always will be
, I truly believe in my heart and both my heads—
undefeated
.
Then I notice Bob-Kåre.
Bespoke suit—it
has
to be. The very cut hews to their form too closely, is too … androgynous? Too defiant of the banal binary of being classified as “men’s” or “women’s” that I did not even know I had come to expect from the way a blazer is lined, tailored, contoured over a person’s shape—and what a shape it is. Lanky, but not in a weedy, wiry way. Rather, in a manner evocative of braided tungsten cables, an impression of
solidity
that is only accentuated by the steely, metallic shades they have draped themselves in, the silvery trousers and jacket thrown into the barest of relief only by their white blouse and platinum-blonde hair.
The hair, too—long, winding ponytail draped over one shoulder, whilst the other is bare under a side-shave, somehow achieving a harmonious blending of two clashing styles from one end to the other. Underneath it all, Bob-Kåre is
pallid
, not like a cadaver, but like an animated statuette, a figure from a long-forgotten, long-drowned world that has surfaced to bore into us all with its piercing, steely-eyed gaze.
Surely,
surely
they were wearing contacts. They
had
to be.
“Fuck,” utters Laura, in a tone that makes my blood run cold. “I’m
definitely
bleeding.”
Laura
Okay. I
might
be fucked here.
Normally, I could crush a sexy fuck like Trickster with a simple flex of how gender is performative and thus subject to an external gaze, not an innate sense of self, but as they astutely pointed out, that could be turned around on me at any time. Butlerian jihad was thus out of the question.
That was still okay, though, because the topic they had chosen to stake their claim on was one I was
very
well-versed in. In all honesty, for someone so familiar with the foetid utterances of cultural anthropologists, they really should have known that challenging an
Asian
transsexual-but-cisgender man would be a losing maneuver. By the standards of the white racists and eagerly self-tokenizing diaspora “scholars” who wrote fanfiction about
my
neck of the woods, Vasundhara Andersen was borderline
respectful
.
Yet, all of that home-field advantage was struggling to assert itself in my mind, because the Trickster’s
true
gambit became clear the moment their image came into focus: make me obsessively wonder what their jizz tastes like.
Fucking fuck Laura,
do not wonder what their jizz tastes like
.
Do not wonder if it tastes like Brunost.
Stop thinking about what their jizz tastes like because you’re still pretty buzzed from the painkillers and if you say any of this out loud the entire server is going to know you want to play their Sjøfløyte like it’s the midsummer festival and they’ve successfully deceived you into revealing your true name and now you
have
to gargle their jizz to go free
.
“Fuck,” I moan, “I’m
definitely
bleeding.”
I’m going to need postoperative care, and the debate
hasn’t even started
.
Almost as if they could
hear
my inside thoughts about springing an anime cuntbleed, Trickster’s Tatas has the sheer, unmitigated gall to give
me
a sexy, faelike Nordic smirk.
I’m
supposed to do the disarming sexy smirks here!
“T for Tails,” they drawl.
“What the FUCK did you say to me?!”
Admin’s screen—which I only just notice is some kind of digital coin-flipper—flashes briefly before landing a virtual coin on a virtual desk. It rolls about and wobbles dramatically before revealing its pseudorandom bit-determiner coughed up “tails”, handing the opening statement to the infuriatingly hot Swemarkian.
“Damnit I
really
wanted the opening statement,” I whine.
“Oh, I was going to go second, but now that you’ve revealed that …”
Even their voice is like warm mead poured over cold lutefisk, like the ululating of sea-nymphs frolicking beneath the fjords.
“I
will
deliver the opening statement after all,
Mistress
.”
They call me that in a tone that Emmy is distinctly not allowed to use with me. I attempt to arrange my face into a disapproving scowl, but a quick glance at my own cam reveals that it mostly just looks like my o-face.
Not that anyone is really paying attention to me, I think—the chat is completely silent. The trickster, it appears, has absolutely everyone—me included, I shamefully confess—eating right out of their gloved palm. They’re resting their ethereally, surreally beautiful face against the knuckles of one fist now, elbow no doubt propped up on a piece of IKEA furniture they no doubt assembled themselves with those deliciously-long fingers. Of course everyone is holding their collective breath, not just me.
“The Impenetrable One means to challenge my manhood.”
“Oh, I’ll tell you
exactly
where you can stick your so-called manhood, brxh.”
At least the drugs hadn’t compromised my ability to pronounce “brxh”.
“She means to do this by insinuating that
I
am the inauthentic one, of the two of us.” Trickster continues, pretending they didn’t even hear me like the fucking tease they are. “Gentlemen, she makes a complete mockery of this sport—has done so since the very moment she joined, in fact. For Laura the Impenetrable will happily turn to you all and declare that I am a non-man, citing as proof my pronouns, my presentation, my embrace of my people’s proud cultural role of the hallowed Soper. All the while, Laura the Impenetrable will, through some incoherent, belligerent transmutation of actual gender-philosophy, insist that
she
—and pay attention to the pronoun I use, at
her express request
—does not truly inhabit the gender she so adequately embodies.”
“Excuse me,
adequately
?” I sputter. “Everything I do, I
excel
at.”
“Then you excel at womanhood, Impenetrable One.” Trickster flashes their pearlescent incisors at me, goading me with their penetrating gaze and the simplicity of the tripwire I merrily blundered over. “Are you not, at this very moment, conducting this very debate from your post-operative sickbed? Have you not, as you so aptly put it, cast off the ‘extraneous appendage’ that was, allegedly, ‘holding you back’ in a manner that other members of this Accord server do not feel encumbered by? You say, as I would, that manhood is not stored in the balls, but the fact remains that in a society which sexes us—by presentation, by embodiment, by our every choice and desire and expression of intimacy—one of us still possesses the classical signifiers of manhood that the other readily threw away.”
Oh, this is fucking perfect. Trickster thinks they have the upper hand, but I’m going to fucking pin them to a wall and nail them so very roughly on their unrepentant transphobia towards our transmasculine brothers. It’s not like debates are won by interpreting your opponent’s words in the spirit they were intended, after all.
“And so, just like so many of her kind, we see that Mistress Laura proves herself to be yet another dishonest deceptress, adopting whatever masquerade serves her goals best in the moment.”
“... what the
fuck
did you just say?”
It’s the painkillers. They can’t possibly have said what I thought I heard them say.
Right?
“We all know what trans women are like, don’t we guys?” Trickster’s bared fangs are gleaming at me, I’m sure of it. “Liars, manipulators,
fetishists
who will study exactly what they need to say to hardworking medical providers appointed to help
actually dysphoric people
, regurgitating answers learned by rote to secure access to the healthcare they do not deserve, and clogging up the queues in front of those who do. The history of this—the established
pattern
, the documented
abuses
—are well-known amongst those familiar with the literature on this duplicitous demographic.”
“Is this fucking legal?” I’m staring directly at my camera lens in disbelief. “We’re just going to let them say this shit?”
There is, as always, no response from Admin.
“What I speak now is nothing but the unvarnished
truth
!” Trickster’s voice is raised now, as though this bigoted worm could ever shout me down if I wasn’t
literally rendered speechless
. “I speak the truth that we all see plainly,
Laura
, that you have endeavored so assiduously, yet clumsily, to deny! I stand up for every man here, whose integrity, sportsmanship and good nature you have
repeatedly taken advantage of
, thereby violating the very sanctity, the very
spirit
of this competition we all want to honestly participate in. YOU, Mistress Laura, are a charlatan, a knave, a rapscallion, a
rogue
—you are, in short,
no man
. You, like every trans woman who has prevaricated to steal resources from this sport,
do not belong in this single-sexed space
.”
My head clears.
I know now exactly what I must say, and there is no combination of drugs on the planet, in any dosage, that could ever stop me from saying it. This was actual transphobia—pure, unfiltered transmisogyny, not simply a creative interpretation of their words. Trickster had, somehow, perfectly hit upon
every transmisogynistic trope in existence.
There is a part of me that wants to simply sneer at them in turn. To say something haughty about hewing to the best strats, to observing the meta trends, to powergaming every moment of every day like a real competitor who gives a damn about optimizing her fucking performance.
But no.
No, that’s not going to do. Because this isn’t about
strats
anymore. It’s not about the fucking game.
It’s about my goddamned
honor
.
“Well, Trickster,” I finally manage to spit, my voice dripping venom, “you certainly
do
speak like an anthropologist.”
Katherine
The conniving trickster has truly gone too far. How
dare
they make such sweeping accusations towards trans women? Is this some manner of ploy, to wield bigotry against their opponent just to claim the strategic high ground in this rhetorical battle?
And yet, Katherine, have you not considered a similar strategy yourself? Can you truly say this sinister Swemarkian is not
entirely accurate
in their assessment of you, in particular? Truthfully, regardless of how well the accusation applies to the Impenetrable One, or trans women as a whole, are you not
precisely
the archetype of deceiving manipulator outlined just now?
A whimper to my left pierces through my ruminations. I glance towards Nichole–her cheeks are glistening with tears, her morale clearly faltering at the notion that this competition she is enduring at a great emotional toll might be undermined by
impostors.
Impostors such as myself.
My penance, then, must be to console her. I cannot reveal my deception at this juncture, but I cannot allow its harm to go unabated. I offer Nichole my hand, and she takes it. I pull her into my embrace, such that she may feel its comfort.
I am of course fully aware that this is somewhat outside the typical boundaries on masculine kinship, but Nichole is ensnared in my web of lies to an extent where she accepts.
“Is she going to say anything?” Nichole whispers into my breasts, right before Laura cuts through the tension with a mere word.
“
You
.”
I am certain that no human, living or dead, has ever packed so much sheer fury into a single syllable before.
“Unworthy opponent. You, who allow ten thousand evils to speak through your mouth.”
Unlike Nichole’s, Laura’s eyes are not in tears, I realize—the fire of Laura’s spirit is shining through the intensity of her gaze.
“You sit there from the comfort of your supposed Swemarkian gender-utopia, a thrall to the institutions that have always sought to corral, control, restrict, surveil—to frankly,
cure
the trans woman. You recite the actions of a desperate population, forced to do what they need to in order to merely survive, as though it was a litany of crimes. You have the temerity, the audacity, the sheer fucking arrogance to declare yourself a third-sex above them all, sneering down your perfectly-shaped nose at those you deem your inferiors, because they did not have the luxury to treat with their oppressors authentically, because they had to navigate a hostile environment that sought not to help, but
punish
them. You, my repugnant antagonist, are not worth the breath I expel to condemn you, and you will be cast out of this arena—out of
my
arena—with little fanfare and fewer tears.”
Laura grits her teeth.
“
When I allow it
.”
Stupefied, I can only gawk at her, then at Trickster, who remains oddly silent. Where Laura is determined, focused, dramatic in that way we have always loved, the Trickster is … subdued? They are quiet, at any rate, but it is difficult to gauge what they are thinking with that manic glint in their eyes.
“For you are not on trial for your views on trans women, Bobbathy Care-Bear,
repellent
though they no doubt are.” Laura makes a sweeping gesture, slashing the very air in twain with one hand. “You, my
dear
‘Soper’, are here to defend your participation in this server, hiding behind your ‘cultural practices’ to justify your traipsing about with
pronouns
. Cultural practices that are well-documented—by reputed academics, even! And what documentation it is, how
flowery
and
reverent
and
thoroughly, completely bunk
.”
I gasp. Nichole gasps. I am certain, more certain than I am of even the universal laws, that every denizen of the server watching gasped at that precise moment, in unison.
“For your dear
Vasundhara Andersen
is not a native of Swemark, nor even a
citizen
—she is simply
married to a Swemarkian man
. Her so-called ‘scholarship’ was cobbled together from cisgender imaginings, creatively-interpreted myths from an oral tradition, and what seems to be a troupe of trans people who were genuinely pulling her leg when she was demonstrated to possess infinite credulity. A thorough shredding of this drivel is available in Swemish, written by local activists in local papers, kindly machine-translated by my dear Emmy, who can provide the dossier if she is granted permission to supply it.”
A scant moment later, Emmy—empowered by an Admin-granted role—bestows upon the chat a trove of documentation. Nearly the entire server population investigates its contents simultaneously, as evinced by the immense number of anonymous accounts now perusing these hitherto-unknown texts.
“
None of which I needed to gather to begin with!
” Laura roars. “
For I, too, am from a culture with an alleged ‘third sex’, Bobbathy! I have witnessed the very pejoratives hurled against my sisters turned into ‘venerated gender-roles’ by sensationalist outsiders performing for orientalist institutions to secure ill-gotten grants!
So I know what this looks like, intimately, personally, and agonizingly. Which is why Emmy will now dash your final lie, my dear, ‘honest’ Trickster. FOR I KNOW WHAT ‘SOPER’ MEANS, AS I KNEW BEFORE EMMY EVEN BOTHERED TO CONFIRM. ‘SOPER’ IS NOT A VENERATED SWEMARKIAN GENDER ANY MORE THAN YOU ARE A MAN, FOR IT IS SIMPLY A SLUR THAT HAS BEEN HURLED AT DEGENDERED WOMEN SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL. I KNOW, BOBBATHY! I KNOW THAT ‘SOPER’! MEANS!
”
The Impenetrable One speaks the slur with unshakable resolve, and it echoes through our speakers,
all
speakers of those listening, as the death-knell on Bob-Kåre’s tenure in the competition. If this were an actual arena, the outpouring of applause would be deafening, every onlooker baying for the blood of the Trickster.
Any interloper with an iota of shame would have, at that precise moment, hung up, left the server of their own volition, logged off entirely, destroyed all their devices, and begun the decades-long-journey of penance they no doubt were obligated to undertake. Trickster, true to their declared nature, apparently does not possess even a speck of it. For far from hanging their head in shame, they are … laughing?
They are actually
laughing
?
Have they gone
mad
?
By Jove, they
have
. They are not merely laughing—they are utterly abandoning all restraint, all attachment to reason itself. Biting their glove to tear it off their hand with their teeth; using their now-free hand to reach back and rip out their hair tie; spitting the glove out while shaking their head, revealing a bizarrely shaggy mane of platinum locks, a texture one would not have expected from the immaculately-styled and tamed ponytail. They are
cackling
,
wheezing
, staring into the lens with an uncomfortable intensity, their unnaturally-colored eyes boring into our very
souls
.
“Well done, Laura!”
One gloved hand, one bare—Trickster is
clapping
.
“You have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt your mastery of Discursive Combat!” They announce this as though they are a judge, rather than an unworthy challenger to the Impenetrable One. “Not only have you thoroughly dismantled the artificial edifice of the academy’s precious ‘third sexes’, you have totally, holistically repudiated every speck of muck I sought to rake over the poor, downtrodden transfeminized peoples of the world. Truly, Mistress, you are without equal in
your
arena.”
The Trickster speaks truth, finally, and yet their
tone
has an air of flagrant disrespect which I cannot condone.
“There’s just one small, tiny,
glaring
issue though.
The Trickster leans forward, their toothy grin somehow wider than it has ever been.
“Tell me, Impenetrable One …
why
do you know this?”
Silence descends upon us. Has the Trickster defied all expectations to land a killing blow upon their opponent?
“No, no, please, do enlighten us all!” Trickster spreads their arms wide. “Please regale this server of supposedly ‘oestrogenized men’ why you possess such a thorough familiarity with the degendering crimes of cultural anthropology, why you have such a thorough grasp of the most recent, modern, grassroots transfeminism, why you are so richly endowed with knowledge that is—forget ‘optimal’—scarcely even
relevant
to a cisgender transsexual man on estrogen for ‘the gains’. You want honesty, Laura? You want the lies to cease?! You want this kangaroo court, this utter fable, this mockery of our very lives and existence to finally be transformed into a stage upon which we declare our TRUTHS, do you?”
Trickster brings their hands together with the intensity of a thunderclap.
“THEN TELL ME, IMPENETRABLE ONE, MISTRESS OF MAMMARIES, REIGNING CHAMPION OF DISCURSIVE COMBAT, THE NEVER-DETHRONED QUEEN OF RANKED COMPETITIVE BREAST GROWTH! TELL ME, TELL THEM, TELL US ALL:
WHY DO YOU CARE FOR THE PLIGHT OF THE TRANS WOMAN, THIRD-SEXED OR OTHERWISE?
I …
I am at an utter loss for what the
fuck
to think about this.
“No one who is not a trans woman fights for trans women, Laura. You
truly
mean to tell me you’re not one of us?”