Chapter 30 Chapter 29: Consent
Both my mother and my father drove me to the clinic, a silent, tense convoy. I wasn't sure if they thought I wouldn't show up on my own, or that I might try to run away at the last second, but they were both adamant that they should come. Their presence in the
car felt less like support and more like an escort, ensuring the delivery of a problematic package.
The clinic itself was unnervingly discreet. The entrance was a set of dark, almost black, wooden double doors, nearly hidden in a row of busy shopfronts on a main street in the town centre. The only feature setting it apart from the neighbouring doors was a rather small, tarnished brass plaque with the stark, simple words: Health and Gender Clinic, Appointments Only.
My father, ever the Nate of action, pushed on the door. It didn't budge. After a moment of confused fumbling, we noticed an even smaller plaque above a discreet buzzer that instructed: Please Ring the Bell. My father pressed it firmly. A crackle of wispy static answered from a hidden speaker. "Yes?" a voice asked, tinny and impersonal.
My father leaned close to the grille. "We have an appointment for Nanda Stone."
A loud buzz shattered the quiet, and the door unlocked with a heavy clunk.
Stepping inside was like passing into another world. Everything was a blinding, brilliant white, every surface, every wall, the ceiling, the floor, all gleaming under harsh fluorescent lights. The air carried a sharp, sterile smell of cleaning fluids and chlorine, so strong it stung the back of my throat. The small entranceway was a deception; it opened into a huge, multi-story atrium that stretched up five floors, a cavern of sanitized silence.
Directly ahead was the reception: a high, white counter with two staff members behind it, their faces neutral. To the left was a waiting area that felt like an afterthought, featuring a single, struggling large green plant, a sofa table piled with tatty magazines, and about ten stark white chairs.
Before we could even reach the counter, a rather busy-looking nurse in crisp whites emerged from behind it. "You must be the Stone family. Nanda, isn't it?" she said, her eyes scanning a chart. "Please, take a seat." She shepherded us over to the bleak waiting area and then handed my mother and father a single clipboard. "Please fill out this consent form while we wait for Professor Liza."
A cold dread trickled down my spine. "Should I not fill out my own form?" I asked, my voice sounding small in the vast, white space.
The nurse looked down at me with a practiced, condescending expression; the 'hello, sweet child' look. "In the eyes of the law," she explained, her tone implying she'd said this a thousand times, "you are a minor until you receive your gender. As you are a... genderless changeling, you must have your parents' consent for any procedure or consultation."
My whole world did a nauseating turn once more. The dress, the dinner, the diplomatic offer, none of it mattered here. In this sterile box, I was a nobody. A child. A legal non-entity with no rights and no privacy.
"Mum, Dad, can I see that?" I asked, watching their pens hover over the boxes, about to define my existence on my behalf.
"Shh," my mother answered absently, not looking up from the form. "You can see it in a minute." Then, she turned to my father and asked in a whisper that carried perfectly in the quiet room, "When was her last change, again? The tenth?"
This was too much. The humiliation, the erasure. I jumped out of my seat, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Mum, Dad, this is not fair! This is about me!"
"And what's not fair?" a voice called, sharp and clear, from down the corridor. Professor Liza was walking towards us, her heels clicking on the polished floor with a deafening, authoritative echo that seemed to chastise my outburst before she even reached us.
“Loran and Geo, isn’t it?” Professor Liza said, her tone brisk and efficient as she plucked the clipboard from my father’s hands. She scanned it with a quick, practiced eye. “I can see you have filled out the consent forms. Good. You both just need to sign and date the bottom.”
I just stood there, flabbergasted, a spectator in the conversation about my own body. My opinion, my voice, was irrelevant. The so-called adults spoke over me, around me, as if I were a piece of furniture that had inconveniently learned to listen.
“Now, Nanda,” Professor Liza said, finally turning her attention to me as my parents scribbled their names, legally handing over control. “If you would like to follow me, this should not take more than a few hours.” Then, she addressed my parents again, her dismissal polite but firm. “Nanda is in good hands now. You have signed the form; you are free to go. I am sure Nanda is old enough to find her own way home.”
It was the first thing all day I could wholeheartedly agree with. The thought of being trapped in a porty with them afterwards, subjected to an interrogation, was unbearable. Freedom, however brief, was worth any examination.
“If you’re sure…” my mother whispered to the room, her voice laced with a doubt that felt more about relinquishing control than genuine concern for my welfare.
“We are sure, Mum,” I said, the words coming out more forcefully than I intended. I was already hurrying after Professor Liza’s retreating back, if for nothing else than to put a definitive end to my parents’ involvement and put physical distance between us.
I followed the Professor down a long, unnaturally bright corridor that seemed to stretch on forever, lined with identical white doors. The air grew even colder, the smell of antiseptic more pronounced. Finally, she stopped and ushered me into a small, windowless office. It was sparsely furnished: a stark metal desk, a computer, and three chairs. One of them was already occupied.
Sitting there was a strange-looking Nate with a wild mane of grey, frizzy hair that seemed to crackle with static. He wore a stark white doctor´s kittle and a pair of clichéd round glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose, which he peered over as we entered. He didn't smile.
“This is Doctor Vorn,” Professor Liza stated, closing the door behind us with a soft, final click. “He will be joining us for the first part of our examination. After our discussion, he will complete the next part of the assessment.”
Doctor Vorn gave a curt, unsmiling nod, his eyes, magnified by the thick lenses, fixed on me with an unsettling, analytical stillness. The "next part" of the assessment hung in the air, unspoken and ominous. I was no longer just a case study for the Professor; I was now a specimen for multiple experts.
“Now, please take a seat and get comfortable,” Professor Liza said, gesturing to the empty chair opposite the desk. Her voice was a flat, practiced monotone, devoid of any warmth that might suggest this was for my benefit. “We will ask a few questions, so we can help determine the best course of action.”
I sat, the cold plastic of the chair seeping through my clothes. The questions started slowly, deceptively simple. They were easy to answer on autopilot.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Do you exercise regularly?”
“Yes. I run.”
“Do you eat three meals a day?”
“Mostly.”
But then the tone shifted. The questions turned invasive, probing into the most private corners of my life. The clinical setting made them feel even more violating.
“How often do you use the toilet?”
I stammered, my face growing hot. “I… I don’t know. A normal amount?”
“Do you masturbate?”
The bluntness of the question was a slap. I stared at my hands, mumbling a barely audible response.
“When was your last sexual encounter?”
It started to feel less like a consultation and more like an interrogation. They would circle back, asking the same questions phrased in slightly different ways, as if they were trying to trap me in a contradiction. "You stated earlier you feel fatigued, yet you maintain a regular running schedule. Can you elaborate on that discrepancy?"
The only other sounds in the sterile, windowless room were the frantic scribbling of both their pens on notepads, scratchy, permanent records of my humiliation and the constant, slow, mocking tick… tick… tick… of the clock on the wall. Each tick measured out a piece of my dignity.
After what felt like a lifetime of this psychological dissection, though a glance at the clock revealed it had been only thirty minutes, Professor Liza finally placed her pen down with a definitive click.
“That will be all for now, Nanda,” she said, her expression unreadable. She nodded toward Doctor Vorn, who had risen silently to his feet. “If you could please go with Doctor Vorn for your tests.”
The word "tests" hung in the air, heavy and ominous. The questioning was over, but it was clear the real examination was just beginning.
Doctor Vorn led me back to the same stark waiting room, its bright, artificial light and the single, sad-looking plant feeling more oppressive than before. He didn't say a word during the short walk. Almost immediately, a nurse I hadn't seen before appeared, holding a small paper cup containing two unmarked white pills.
The Doctor gestured vaguely toward the hard plastic chairs. "Please take a seat and swallow the pills," he instructed, his tone as dry and impersonal as the surroundings. "They are a very mild sedative. They will take effect in approximately fifteen minutes. I will come back for you in twenty." And then, without another word or a backward glance, he turned and disappeared back down the long, white corridor, his footsteps echoing faintly.
I was left standing there, holding the cup. The nurse didn't leave. She stood with her hands clasped, her expression neutral but her presence an unmistakable command. She was there to ensure compliance. There was no choice, no discussion. Feeling a cold knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach, I tipped the pills into my mouth. The nurse wordlessly offered a second paper cup; this one filled with tepid water. I swallowed, the act feeling like a surrender.
She watched my throat move to confirm the pills were gone, then plucked the empty cups from my hands. "The Doctor will return shortly," she stated, and then she, too, left, her soft-soled shoes making no sound on the gleaming floor.
Suddenly, I was completely alone. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the frantic thumping of my own heart. I sat down, the plastic chair cold and unyielding against my back. The clock on the wall ticked off the seconds, each one stretching out as I waited for a drug I didn't want to take hold of my body, a passive participant in whatever was to come.
Alone in the sterile silence, a spike of panic cut through my anxiety. The appointment with Professor Liza. I’d completely forgotten. My mind, scrambling for a distraction, for any thread of control, latched onto another obligation. I rummaged through my handbag, my fingers fumbling past loose gist and a tangled headset until they brushed against the sharp, expensive corners of Lord Vincent's business card.
Shit. I was meant to ring him today.
The thought was a lifeline. A decision I could make for myself, right here, right now. Maybe I could still salvage something from this nightmare. With trembling fingers, I dialled the number. A voice on the other end answered immediately, crisp and alert.
“Vincent.” It wasn't a question, but a statement of presence.
“Lord Vincent, it’s me, Nanda.”
“Ah, Nanda. Splendid.” His voice was smooth, confident, a world away from the clinical white walls surrounding me. “I take it you wish to take me up on my offer?”
“Er, yes please, sir. Very much so.” I tried to inject confidence into my voice, but it came out thin and reedy.
“Splendid. Hang on the line and my secretary will fill you in on the details. I will see you bright and early Saturday morning. Until then, good day.” The line went dead with a decisive click, leaving me in silence once more.
I waited. And waited. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the ticking clock and the growing, cottony feeling in my head. Had I been disconnected? Forgotten? Just as I was about to give up, a new, efficient Polli voice rang out.
“Nanda? Lord Vincent wishes you to come to our downtown office for a preliminary briefing. Can we say today at 12:00?”
My heart sank. I looked at the time on my com. It was already 10:15. I was trapped in this clinic, and a drowsy heaviness was beginning to creep into my limbs. “Yes, but… I might be a little late,” I stammered, the words feeling sluggish.
The secretary’s voice was icy, leaving no room for negotiation. “Not if you want to work for Lord Vincent.” The line went dead.
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through me, my stomach turning queasy. Whether it was from the intimidating conversation or the pills beginning their work, I didn’t know. But the two sensations merged into one overwhelming dread. The room seemed to tilt slightly, and a distinct, unwelcome drowsiness began to blanket my thoughts, threatening to pull me under just as I needed all my wits about me.