As Good as It Gets

— Brian, darling, I’ll just take something from your study, — Catherine, his “perfect wife,” said softly. She fixed a lock of hair, leaned over, and kissed her husband on the cheek. Everything looked flawless: a suburban house, the sunset glowing behind the curtains, the smell of fresh pie from the kitchen — a picture straight out of a 1960s American ad.

— But darling, you know that women…

— Don’t belong in a man’s study, — Brian finished the phrase, adjusting his tie and smiling with the very confidence that his “perfect marriage” was unshakable.

Catherine gave a soft chuckle, as if agreeing, but her eyes flashed with a faint shadow of mockery.

— Catherine… — Brian frowned slightly, but didn’t turn around, still studying his reflection in the perfectly polished silver coffeepot.

Behind him, the lock clicked quietly.

— Yes, darling? — her voice came out soft, almost sing-song.

— You remember the rules… — he smirked, staring into the glass of amber whiskey. — A man’s study is sacred territory. Women have no business there.

— Just for a minute, — her voice sounded even, almost innocent, — and then I promise I’ll do for you what you’re too shy to tell your friend about, — Catherine tilted her head slightly, as if hinting at something ambiguous.

Brian chuckled smugly, glancing back at his reflection again, but something uneasy flickered in his eyes. She had said that line with too much confidence.

There was a thin sound of a key turning in the lock.

Stepping inside, Catherine slowly closed the door behind her and turned the key all the way. The metallic click was so sharp that Brian flinched, though he tried to hide it behind a strained smirk.

— Catherine, you… — he turned, holding the glass in his hand, — this all looks… unusual.

She, however, turned her head toward the wardrobe and took a few confident steps. Her heels tapped distinctly against the parquet. Catherine opened the wardrobe door, and from within — among perfectly pressed men’s suits and polished hangers — she pulled out a rifle. Cold metal gleamed in the soft light of the lamp. Her lips curved into a light, almost playful smile, which only made it more terrifying.

— Oh yes, baby, long time no see, — Catherine ran her hand along the rifle as if it weren’t lifeless steel, but her old friend. Her fingers lingered on the bolt, as if she felt almost intimate pleasure from it. Then, unhurriedly, she turned toward the massive desk, on which two old computer monitors stood, and her smile grew wider.

The monitors, square and mute, came alive as if they had been waiting just for her touch. Dim green letters danced on the black screen.

— Well, you dumb piece of junk, — she whispered, as if speaking not to her husband behind the door, but to the very heart of the study, — it’s time to bring me back.

Words appeared on the screen:

“WELCOME, CATHERINE SMITH. PLEASE PUT DOWN THE WEAPON.”

— Oh, so now you’re not just some computer that a “silly woman can’t handle”? — Catherine drawled, raising the rifle a little, almost playfully, — But then again, who am I?

The green letters on the screen flickered, as if the machine hesitated, unsure how to respond.

ON THE SCREEN:

“STATUS CONFIRMED. YOU ARE THE PRIMARY SUBJECT OF THE EXPERIMENT. SERGEANT WALTER DAVIS. ACCESS LEVEL: MAXIMUM”

— Kat, honey, is everything alright in there? — came a voice, muffled by the door and the wall.

Catherine froze for a moment, her eyes locked on the green letters, while the corners of her lips slowly curled upward. The rifle swayed lightly in her hands, more like a toy than a weapon.

— Everything’s fine, darling, — she sang in a melodious tone, then added half a note lower, — if only you knew how much I hate you.

Brian didn’t hear that. Outside the door, he noisily gulped his whiskey and whistled something — pleased, smug, absolutely certain he had this house, this world, and this woman under control.

But Catherine — or rather Walter Davis, a Marine stuffed into a skirt and high heels after taking part in the quantum computer activation experiment — stood in the middle of the study with a rifle in her hands, unable to tear her eyes from the green lines on the screen.

— Well, come on then, send me back.

The computer blinked and printed new words:

“REALITY STABLE. CHANGES NOT RECOMMENDED. RECOMMENDATION: CONTINUE LIFE AS CATHERINE.”

— I’ll fucking smash you, you dumb piece of scrap, I’ve already been stuck here for two damn years. Do you think it was easy to find you?! — Catherine hissed, tightening her grip on the rifle. The metal was pleasantly cold against her palms, and that sensation only fueled her rage — the Marine inside this female body wasn’t about to accept the role of a “perfect wife.” — God, if I had known from the start you were in my husband’s study, then… ugh! “My husband,” those words still make me sick!

The monitors flickered faster, as if the machine itself grew nervous under her shouting. Slowly, new green letters emerged on the screen:

“SUBJECT SHOWS INSTABILITY. CORRECTION POSSIBLE. PROPOSAL: STRENGTHEN INTEGRATION.”

— Strengthen?! — Catherine slammed the rifle butt against the desk. The heels of her shoes clacked sharply on the floor again, and for a moment she felt the skirt betray her, riding up to reveal smooth thighs. The sensation only enraged her more. — I am not your doll for ‘integration’! I’m a Marine, Sergeant Davis!

Her voice rang in the silence, but from behind the door came Brian’s muffled call:

— Catherine? Is everything alright?

She bit her lip, suppressing the urge to fire straight into the screen, then suddenly shouted back in a sweet, sing-song voice:

— Everything’s fine, dear! Just… dropped something.

— Be careful, darling, — her husband’s smug voice once again drowned in the creak of his chair and the clink of pouring whiskey.

Catherine turned her gaze back to the screen.

“OTHER REALITY VARIANTS DIFFER IN QUALITY OF LIFE. FOR SUBJECT ‘WALTER DAVIS,’ THE MOST OPTIMAL LIFE SELECTED: ‘CATHERINE’ (DIMENSION 547893).”

Catherine snapped her head up toward the monitor, as if the green letters had just spat in her face.

— Optimal?! — her voice broke into a rasp, her breasts heaving under the light gray jacket, each breath only amplifying the absurdity of the situation. — You call optimal a life in a skirt, with pies in the kitchen, and that drunken peacock behind the door?!

The screen flickered and displayed:

“ALTERNATIVE VARIANTS:

— DIMENSION 201948: SOLDIER, BATTLEFIELD, DEATH AT AGE 32.

— DIMENSION 390117: PRISON, LIFE SENTENCE.

— DIMENSION 711200: STREET, HOMELESS.

— DIMENSION 547893: WIFE, STABILITY, PROSPERITY, SOCIAL RECOGNITION.

— RECOMMENDATION: CONTINUE AS CATHERINE.”

The words pressed against her temples like a vice.

— You… want to say… — her lips twisted, though her voice trembled, — that everything else is even worse? That my only “happiness” is tits and fucking pots?!

The letters flashed instantly:

“YES. VARIANT 547893 IS THE MOST STABLE REALITY FOR YOU.”

She slammed her palm onto the keyboard, plastic keys flying in all directions. The rifle swayed, and for a split second her finger almost squeezed the trigger.

— No… — Catherine whispered, a shiver running down her spine. — I won’t agree to that. I won’t live for “social harmony.” I’m not an “optimal wife,” I’m a soldier!

At that moment the study door opened. In the doorway stood Brian with a mug in his hand, his smile vanishing instantly as the mug slipped and shattered into pieces.

— Catherine?! — his voice wavered, though he kept his gaze steady. — What the hell…

The door slammed shut with a heavy thud. The automatic lock clicked into place on its own, as if pulled by an invisible hand. Brian was left outside — cut off from what was happening inside.

On the screen of the old computer new lines appeared:

“STABILIZATION REQUIRED. YOUR SITUATION DEMANDS CORRECTION.”

Catherine, reminding herself she was still Walter, gripped the rifle tighter, feeling the fabric of the light gray jacket stretch over her breasts, emphasizing the shape of her new body far too much. Breathing inside this female cage was suffocating.

— Listen, you piece of junk, — her voice grew harsh, almost hoarse, — I want the second optimal variant. One where I’m a man. Where I’m me again.

On the screen appeared:

“CALCULATING. PLEASE WAIT…”

A loading bar blinked, letters flashing rapidly. And then:

“CALCULATION TIME: 5 DAYS LOCAL TIME.”

— Five days?! — Catherine slammed the rifle butt against the floor, heels clacking, her skirt riding up even higher. She felt the cold air of the study against her bare legs. — I can’t wait that long, do you hear me?!

— Catherine, what’s going on?! Open the door right now! — her husband raged from outside the door. Catherine cast a glance that way, then turned back to the screen.

The screen responded indifferently:

“CALCULATION CANNOT BE ACCELERATED.”

Catherine clenched her teeth, her gaze darting between the keyboard, the blinking letters, and the door that looked like it might give way any second. Her fingers trembled, her breasts rose higher with each breath.

— Fine… then throw me into any other reality! — she shouted, slamming her palm against the keys. — Anywhere I’m a man, for fuck’s sake!

Words appeared on the screen:

“CALCULATION REQUIRED. TIME TO CALCULATE: 5 DAYS.”

— Fuck! Then just anywhere else!

“CONFIRM: RANDOM SELECTION.”

— Confirmed, goddamn it…

Everything around her flickered. A void pulled at her, as if the carpet beneath her feet had vanished. The rifle slipped from her hands but never hit the floor — it simply dissolved into the air.

…and Catherine crashed into another body.

She gasped sharply, and at once the pounding of music hit her ears. Bass, beats, the whistles of a crowd. Her nose filled with the smell of cheap perfume, powder, and alcohol. A splash of bright pink light struck her face.

She was sitting in front of a mirror in a dressing room. A glittery sequin skirt clung to her lap, barely covering her thighs. Thick lipstick painted her lips, her lashes heavy with mascara.

In the reflection, she saw a girl with long wavy hair and the same Catherine face (Walter’s female version), only now… more slutty?

Catherine — Walter — stared into the mirror, her eyes wide. She instinctively ran her palm along her thigh, feeling smooth skin beneath a thin stocking, and yanked her hand back.

— What… what the fuck…

The dressing room door burst open, and another girl poked her head in — heavy makeup, pink feathers in her hair.

— Hey, Candice, you’re on in three minutes! Move it, the crowd’s hot tonight!

And the door slammed shut again.

Catherine lifted her head, looking once more into the mirror.

— God… — she closed her eyes, whispering barely audibly. — And how the hell am I supposed to find that fucking machine again…