Liam’s fingers danced across the keyboard, a blur of muscle memory and adrenaline. He jerked the mouse, locking a soldier in his crosshairs.
Click. Click.
"Target down. Pushing on. Watch my flank," he ordered, his voice calm and composed.
He leaned in closer, the cheap office chair groaning beneath him as he shifted his weight. In this moment, he wasn't just a skint eighteen-year-old wasting a Tuesday morning on a Manchester council estate; he was Strife_Actual, an elite marksman, currently dismantling the enemy team.
Click. Click.
"Got him!" Liam yelled, his voice raising an octave. "Are you guys seeing this? I’m absolutely beaming them!"
He lined up his next target. Finger hovering over the mouse button. Victory was in sight. Nothing could stop him now. He was in the zone. He was on fire. He was…
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT.
A drill-like mechanical screech tore through his headset, violent enough to make him wince. At the exact same instant, the monitor shifted from the gritty, high-definition browns of the battlefield to a blinding, lifeless cobalt.
The Blue Screen of Death.
"No, no, no. Don't do this!" Liam pleaded, mashing the spacebar and clicking the mouse furiously.
He smashed Ctrl-Alt-Del with a violent rhythm. "You piece of shit," he cried, his voice rising in panic. "Don't do this to me. Not now."
Desperate, he jammed his thumb against the power button on the tower case beneath his desk. He held it there, breath trapped in his chest, counting the agonising seconds as the audio loop screeched on.
Thunk.
The fans died. The buzzing cut out. The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the muffled sound of his neighbour’s television drifting through poorly soundproofed ceiling.
Liam exhaled, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Okay," he muttered to his pale reflection in the dark glass. "It’s fine. Just overheated a little. It’ll be alright."
He pressed his thumb to the power button again and prayed.
The LEDs flickered to life. The fans whirred with a struggling, grinding noise. The monitor backlight hummed... and then, without even showing the BIOS logo, the screen flooded with that same unmoving blue.
There was no error code. No percentage bar counting up to salvation. Just the silent, glowing confirmation that his old rig had finally run its last race.
“Fuck’s sake,” he yelled, ripping off his headset and flinging it onto the desk. He slumped back in his chair, buried his face in his hands, and let out a groan so loud it echoed back off the bedroom walls.
He glared down at the ancient PC—a relic he’d claimed after his dad walked out nearly a decade ago—and realised with a sinking feeling that he’d have to take to Dennis.
Dennis was a strange character, and his flat across the estate always reeked. It was a suffocating mix of body odour and damp Labrador, poorly masked by cheap air fresheners that coated the back of your throat and made you want to retch. But worse than the smell was the social tax; Dennis would expect to hang out. He always did.
It wasn’t a trip Liam wanted to make, but Dennis was the only one who could resurrect his rig. He’d done it three times in the last two years, and usually at a price Liam could scrape together. Usually.
Liam reached for his worn leather wallet and peered inside, finding a tenner and a crumpled five pound note. He scoffed. Fifteen quid wasn’t going to cut it, not if he needed parts. He pulled out his bank card and tapped it rhythmically against his palm, doing the mental math. His job seeker’s allowance payment was still a week out, and his online earnings wouldn't clear for another three.
He didn’t have nearly enough, leaving him with only one option. He’d have to ask Hannah for a loan. And knowing his sister, she wouldn’t hand out the cash without some strings attached.
He pushed off the desk, sending the chair rolling backwards, and stood to cross the room. He felt every imperfection in the floorboards through his socks and the threadbare carpet as he reached the door. It opened with a creak, and he stepped onto the landing to find it freezing—as usual, thanks to a draft that seemed to come from nowhere.
Under the hallway light, the floral wallpaper looked sickly—yellowed, faded, and decades out of style. But that wasn’t what caught his attention. It was the sight of the open door to his mother’s room that stopped him in his tracks—not that she ever slept in there these days, not after meeting Malcolm three years back.
At first, she would spend a few nights a week around his. Then four. Then five. And after the birth of his half-brother, Kai, four months ago, she had effectively moved out without any official announcement.
The room was now occupied by Molly, who found the master bedroom preferable to sharing with Hannah. His cousin had been staying with them ever since her dad went to prison, bringing her loud, brash, opinionated personality with her.
An open door usually meant one thing: she was in with Hannah.
Liam’s eyes locked on his sister’s room at the end of the hall, the door practically vibrating from the muffled thud of trance music. Asking his sister for a loan was hard enough; asking her in front of Molly was going to be a nightmare.
He stalled for a moment in front of her room, gathering his nerve and rehearsing what he was going to say. He could pay her back in a month, once he got his Amazon earnings. If that didn’t work, he would have to beg a little—and use a little logic. Hannah wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but surely she would see that without his computer, he had no way of making money. And without money, she’d be the one buying all the groceries.
He inhaled sharply and rapped his knuckles against the wood.
Nothing.
He knocked again, harder this time. The thumping bass inside dialled down, and an irritated-sounding voice called out, “Yeah, what d’ya want?”
Liam eased the door open and stepped inside.
There in the middle of the room stood his chavvy sister, Hannah. Dressed in a cropped, candy-pink Juicy Couture tracksuit that exposed a sliver of fake-tanned stomach. Her bleached hair was pulled tight into a high, severe ponytail that pulled at her temples, her lips were overfilled and glossy, and her eyes were partly obscured beneath heavy, fan-like extensions. To her left stood his cousin, Molly, a carbon copy of faux tan and heavy contour. Molly was wearing an oversized black Supreme hoodie and grey sweatpants, her dark hair thrown up in a messy topknot.
Draped in their matching, gaudy loungewear amidst a sea of cosmetics and discarded clothing, they stared him down, clearly unimpressed by the interruption.
Liam went to speak, but the words caught in his throat.
“Well, spit it out,” Hannah said, her tone sharp. “We’re literally about to film a ‘Get Ready With Us.’ Can’t you see the setup?” She gestured vaguely with a long, manicured talon towards the tripod standing in the corner.
Molly rolled her eyes—a slow, exaggerated performance. “Yeah, Liam, could you, like, come back later?” She popped her gum loudly. “The lighting is peak right now.”
Liam swallowed hard. “Yeah... sorry to interrupt, Han. But my computer just fried itself. I need to get it fixed.”
“And that’s my problem... how?” Hannah glanced at Molly, feigning confusion.
“Well, I’m a little short on cash right now, and I was hoping you might...”
Hannah cut him off. “You want me to pay for it? Is that it? Honestly, Liam, you’re useless. Always coming to me for a handout. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one? That’s what Mum always said, right? Liam’s a genius. Liam’s going to university. Liam’s going to be a doctor. Why can’t you be more like Liam?”
Liam bit his lip, trying not to react. He hated it when Hannah said this; it always triggered him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go to university—he had the grades and the offers. He had just been born onto a council estate in a dysfunctional family with no money or support. Reality had crushed his dreams, not a lack of ambition.
“I’ll pay you back,” Liam said with pleading eyes. “You know it’s how I make money.”
Hannah scoffed. “Is that what all those gunshot sounds are when I walk by ya door? You making money?”
Molly began giggling to her left, making Liam’s temper flare.
“Please, Han. Don’t make me beg. You’re always telling me how easy it is for you to make money with all the followers you have. I’m doing what I can, but it’s not like I’ve got a pair of tits and BJ lips to tease people with.”
Molly’s jaw dropped, her eyes widened, and the room fell silent.
Liam instantly regretted his choice of words. He’d gone too far.
Knowing he’d blown his chance to score the cash, he braced himself for the mouthful of abuse about to be launched his way—until Hannah placed a calming hand on Molly’s shoulder.
“Tell ya what.” She said, turning towards her brother with a calculated look. “Instead of a loan, how about a job? Help us out with a video, and I'll pay you.”
Molly’s head snapped around in confusion before Hannah mouthed trust me, dissolving her surprised look into a sly grin.
“Erm... yeah... I mean... I could, but I’d just be in the way, wouldn’t I?” Liam said, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach. “How about just a hundred quid? I’ll pay ya back next week, and I’ll get out of ya way.”
“How ‘bout a grand?” Hannah shot back. “Give us two hours of ya time, and then you can buy a brand-new computer.”
Liam’s eyes lit up. A thousand pounds! He’d never had that much money in one go before. “What’s the catch? What do I have to do?” he asked, bracing for disappointment.
“Well, ya must have seen all those trending videos recently. The Brother to Sister Challenge. I was thinkin’ we’d give ya a little makeover. Make you look like me.”
Liam’s mouth fell open as he automatically started to back out of the room. “Aahhh... nah, you’re alright. Thanks, but I’ll find another way to get the cash.”
“Ya sure?” Molly chimed in, sensing blood in the water. “You’re passing up a grand coz you’re scared of some mascara? It washes off, you know Liam? And it’s not like you’ve got any friends to make fun of you.”
“I have friends,” Liam snapped. He didn't mention they were all on Discord.
He thought about the money. “Just makeup, that’s it?”
“Yeah,” Hannah said smoothly. “And an outfit to go with it, of course.”
“Oh, I get it.” Liam announced in a smug tone. “You’re going to put me in one of your slutty dresses and humiliate me online. Have a good laugh at my expense, then claim you don’t have the cash. Is that it?”
Molly glared at him, but Hannah just walked to her desk without a word. She opened the top drawer, retrieved a tin, and pulled out a thick roll of cash.
Liam’s eyes widened as she peeled off the elastic band and started flicking through the twenty-pound notes. When she finished counting, she strutted forward and held out the bundle. “Got the cash right ‘ere. You want it or not?”
“Where did ya get all that?” Liam asked, staring at the notes, mesmerised.
“It’s like ya said,” Hannah smirked. “It pays to have a pair of tits.” She fanned herself with the notes. “You’re the one who came in here begging, Liam. If you want this, earn it. And tell you what. I won’t even make you wear a dress or a skirt.”
Liam looked from the cash to her wicked smile. It felt like a deal with the devil, but for a thousand pounds, he could swallow his pride.
“Alright,” he said, reaching for the money. “You’ve got me for two hours.
**********
“Do I actually need these on, though?” Liam groaned, looking down at his hands, which were now tipped in bright pink plastic extending past his fingertips.
“’Course,” Hannah said, not looking up as she adjusted the camera to frame him on the edge of her leopard-print duvet. “When ’ave you ever seen me without me nails done?”
“That glue’s proper rubbish anyway,” Molly laughed. “They’ll ping off in an hour. So, quit ya moaning.”
Liam tutted loudly, looking away. If it wasn’t for the thought of the shiny new PC that would soon be sitting under his desk, he would have walked out before the fake tan had been slathered on. But having been convinced that the bronzed look was essential and would wash off after a good scrub, here he was, strapped into one of his sister’s pink bras, the cups filled with rolled-up socks and the tight band pinching the skin of his back.
And the bra wasn’t even the most uncomfortable part. His legs felt compressed from all angles in a pair of pleather leggings he’d needed talcum powder just to squeeze into. Hannah had kept her word about not forcing him into a skirt, meaning he didn’t need to shave—but since the leggings weren’t designed to house what he had between his legs, the tight material outlined a bulge which ruined the look Hannah wanted.
Her solution, found after a quick online search, was a tight pair of bikini briefs and a tuck job. He struggled back out of the leggings, then fumbled through a few failed attempts to get his testicles up and hidden in a cavity he didn’t even realise he had, scared of hurting himself and feeling utterly foolish. When he finally managed it on the third try, he pulled his penis back between his legs and snapped the tight elastic bottoms over the top to hold everything in place. The result was a bizarre, conflicting sensation: a sleek, empty flatness on the outside, but a heavy, pressurised ache on the inside.
“Alright, time for ya new hair,” Molly chirped, dangling a fistful of blonde locks in front of him.
“Hair? You never said nuthin' about hair,” Liam protested. “The deal was makeup and clothes.”
“Don’t cha worry, cutie,” Molly cooed, pouting with mock sympathy. “We’ll get to ya makeup soon enough.”
“Speaking of clothes...” Hannah interrupted, tossing a piece of pink fabric at him, which he snatched from the air with his claw-like pink nails.
He unfolded the fabric, curled his lip, then shot a glare at his sister.
“Do ya need help getting into that or somethin’?” Hannah teased, sending Molly into a fit of giggles.
“I’ll manage,” Liam grumbled. He fed his arms into the tiny scrap of fabric, working it down until it moulded around the padding on his chest, creating the uncomfortable illusion of a bust. He tugged at the hem, desperate to cover himself, but it was a lost cause; the bright pink tee was intentionally cropped. It left his tanned midriff completely bare, perfectly mirroring his sister's look.
“Perfect. Now sit still while I make ya pretty,” Molly announced, descending upon him with a hairbrush and a set of Hannah’s clip-in extensions.
Molly worked with terrifying efficiency. She parted his short hair and jammed the extension combs against his scalp, snapping them shut with a force that made his eyes water. Click. Click. Snap.
"Ow! You're pulling it," Liam hissed, trying to jerk his head away.
"Stop moving, you big baby," she teased, smoothing a long, synthetic curtain of platinum blonde over his ears.
When she finally pulled her hands away, the silence was heavy. Liam felt the alien weight of the hair draping over his shoulders, tickling the bare skin of his upper arms. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached up. His pink talons brushed against the cheap, glossy strands near his face. He froze, eyes wide and panicked, thinking how ridiculous he must have looked.
"Oh. My. God," Hannah gasped, clapping. "That looks lush, Liam. Proper suits you."
"Doesn’t it?" Molly smirked, admiring her work. “But the name Liam doesn’t. He needs a girl's name.”
Hannah tapped a manicured finger against her chin, scanning him up and down. “He looks like a… Chantelle. Definitely a Chantelle.”
“Nah, too basic,” Molly dismissed, tapping her lip in mock thought. She clicked her fingers. “What’s the name of that computer game bint on the poster in his bedroom?”
“Ugh, I dunno...” Hannah mused. “Tina? Tiffany?”
“It's Tifa,” Liam grumbled, correcting them instinctively.
“Tifa!” Molly pointed a finger at him. “Perfect. Tifa, it is. Tiff for short.”
“You're not calling me Tifa,” Liam protested with a look of outrage.
“Hush now, Tiff,” Molly giggled, patting his cheek patronisingly. “It’s cute. And it’s time to get your slap on.”
The assault was immediate. Hannah loaded a sponge with orange-tinted foundation and plastered it over Liam’s face, baking it in with powder until his skin felt unable to breathe.
"Look up, Tiff," she ordered. She attacked his eyes next—rimming the waterlines in thick black kohl and slashing liquid liner out into a dramatic cat-eye. He blinked through the mascara, but the irritation came next: a pair of dense, plastic strip lashes. She glued the bands, waited for the tack, and jammed them onto his eyelids.
"Blink, and I'll kill ya," she warned as the glue hardened.
"Now he’s starting to look more like you, Han!" Molly giggled from behind the tripod.
"We’re not done yet," Hannah grinned, dusting his cheeks with aggressive strokes of hot pink blush before grabbing a lip pencil.
"Pout for me, Tifa." Liam hesitated; she tapped his lips sharply until he puckered up. She drew heavily outside his natural lip line with a dark pencil, then flooded the space with a thick, gloopy layer of bubblegum gloss.
"And for the finishing touch," Molly chirped, throwing a pink ribbed beanie.
Hannah caught it and pulled it down hard over his head, hiding the clips and his dark hair. She stepped back with a satisfied grin. Tifa was complete.
Well, almost. There was just one thing missing—something that started to make its presence known just after Liam had jammed his feet into the fluffy lining of his sister's platform Uggs.