You've become an amalgamation.

The white wool sweater is Fiona's, an irony only put up with from thrift shopping (too good a deal to pass up, she'll tell you). It's got a red stain near the end of the right sleeve, something she insists in ketchup. In your line of work, it's probably blood. Still, the thing is incredibly warm, like wearing a blanket.

The pants are from Joanna, a pair of tight jeans. They'd been from before she bulked up, she told you. Her abs are quite literally too big (too abby?) to fit into them now. So now they're yours, and damn do they show off your ass well. If you don't look very long, you can even pretend you have an ass to show off. Huntress training prescribes squats, so maybe you're just being hard on yourself.

The bra is Robyn's, which is scandalous just by nature of being. It's a stretchy thing, something that can fit you even though you don't (and never will) have a chest the size of Robyn's. You've worn ill fitting clothes your entire life, though. What's a wrong cup size next to that?

Your entire wardrobe was burned ceremonially the day after you came out to them, a fuck-you to Atlas, to society, and to the rest of the Marigolds. Maybe it was a bad idea, since all of you are broke. But these women had your back, have your back, and will have your back. Your closet, so sparse in its contents before, is filled with more than you know what to do with. All the clothes come with a story as they hand them to you, each an adventure of their own in the fabric.

It's a feeling of utter amazement, going there each morning. You carefully pick out things more femme than you ever dreamed of having. When you look in the mirror, there's that brief moment that makes you say, 'Holy shit, I am a girl.'

It fades pretty quickly since you need to shave each morning. But Robyn says she knows a guy who knows someone with a heat semblance. Apparently, they do laser surgery with it. It sounds sketchy as hell, but what's a little risk in the face of unbearable agony?

Fiona knows a doctor that can get you meds, she tells you. Pretty soon you're whisked off to Polendina who's asking you what your name is.

"May," you tell him. That's the first time you've told someone who isn't your team. It feels good.

He's stellar, never dropping that horrid old name. May. May. May. He says it frequently, as if noticing you sit a bit taller each time you hear it. Doc's a good man, you decide. When he tells you not to pay, that one of the protectors of Mantle has no place paying, you tell him to fuck off. Politely. You pay him next week after a job.

That job is the last one done under your old name, as far as official Atlas paperwork would say. Turns out Joanna's got an old friend that works in forgery. Robyn gives Joanna a dark look, but for the sake of their mayflower, she obliges.

The day after the job, you're looking at a new license to practice huntressry. You even look femme enough in your picture to maybe fool someone. Doc says that time, and meds, will help you grow into who you should be.

You take on a lot of jobs after that. Normally Robyn might be upset that you're working purely for coin—mercenaried out—but being a bonafide bitch is expensive. You're enough of a patchwork quilt as it is, you think that you should get your own clothes.

Robyn's also noticed that you smile now. She mentions it to you, once, when you're both drinking more than you should. Calls it beautiful. She tries to kiss you, and you let her.

You're together after that. Romance is weird in a body that isn't your own (yet, hopefully) but you make it work how you can. Robyn understands and doesn't press you, especially when you clam up at the thought of sex.

Fiona helps you with makeup, holding your hand at first until you can soar. Plenty of attempts end in mayday before you can be May for the day. She looks at you like a proud artist at a canvas (or maybe a proud mother to daughter). You look in the mirror and there's no doubt you are woman (hear you roar). You go on a date with Robyn after, and your girlfriend tells you how confident you seem. You like that.

Joanna, though, helps you with the most important thing. While Robyn and Fiona are out on an extended mission, the two of you break into your parent's house for some much-needed catharsis.

The news report in the morning talks about vandals and there's no evidence that your semblance and gloves couldn't cover up. You've done damages totaling over a million lien. Huntress training can be quite destructive. Joanna gives you a high five. You reciprocate.

(Robyn and Fiona turn out to be sad to have not been included. You promise them they can come next time).

A million lien doesn't seem like much in the face of being abused, but your parents give a lot of shits about money. Taking some of theirs away seems like it'd bother them. You're content.

When Robyn starts running for council, you're at her side. Newscasters are interviewing you, campaign manager, and they're getting all the pronouns right. Not by credit to them (let's not be hasty) but by credit to you. You are a woman, and you've started to look it; act it, more importantly.

You give it your all, as if shackles released and you're finally able to. For once, for the first time ever, the incessant buzzing in the back of your mind that sees yourself as not yourself, goes quiet. It comes back, it always does, but there are blissful moments (longer, often) where you feel like you.

Like May Marigold.

You and your team celebrate that night when you tell them. They tell you how proud you are, Joanna miming a crotchety old geezer saying 'You've grown into a fine young woman!'

You laugh, but your heart is warm. You feel less like that mishmash, haphazard disaster. Like the seamstress got you right this time, stiches in a row like tin soldiers.

And fuck, does it feel good.


Author Notes: Just a little something I whipped up in like twenty minutes. Hope you enjoyed it.