Origins, interlude 1: Sam

Sometime in 202x

"... and that'll be processed in about 3-5 business days. Is there anything further I can help you with?" Sam says into their headset, irritated by the masculine burr still apparent in their otherwise squeaky voice.

Sam half pays attention to the client on the other end of the line waffling on, as they write up the notes of the call in the background. It's draining and irritating work, working in a call centre, but it's all the work Sam can get.

Doctors in esoteric areas of computer science aren't exactly highly sought after. Not even by IT startups. Especially with Sam's highly variable grades, and lack of recent and relevant code samples.

They're overqualified for most office jobs, with many employers seemingly bothered by the decade-long period taken up by study and whatever casual work Sam could get, with no tech industry experience. Or they have concerns that Sam will demand a high wage because of the doctorate, which Sam refuses to remove from their CV. Or are concerned Sam will gun for their job, showing them up to their bosses.

And even if it wasn't that? Something about Sam doesn't click with employers - it could be the directness, the unwillingness to lie. It could be the air of queerness, not that Sam is open about their tentative explorations into non-binaryhood. Not too many employers are willing to hire people who just seem *different* when they have any other alternative, and Sam's not got any other offers.

Whatever the reason, it all adds up to here. A group hiring by a reviled industry 6 months ago. Just one of a batch of desperate, visibly diverse new employees, all disposable, all paid the minimum the employer can legally get away with. Sam would hate themselves for working here if they didn't already hate their appearance, their voice, the very way they move through society.

And that society itself! Sam could rant at length about the deliberate choices towards poverty and misery - and does, to the increasingly queer circle of online friends they have around them. A circle that includes people like them, who are just a bit different, just a bit *off* compared to the norm.

Some of them have formal diagnoses. Autism, ADHD, complex PTSD, anxiety, depression. Sam has considered it - and relates to the stories told by the friends who've been able to get this out in therapy, and the rarer few who can get in to see psychiatrists. But Sam just doesn't have the money. Story of their life, really.

Idle thoughts about what could be flick through their head as the client finally finishes waffling, and Sam closes the call with a less open-ended statement. This delay will hurt their KPIs, but they still have the urge to help people in whatever small way they can. Sometimes all they can do is listen.

Sam's eyes flick to the clock on the ancient desktop computer in front of them - another irritation point - and realises it's time for their half an hour lunch break. It's never enough time to regain their 'social spoons', as a neurodivergent and physically disabled friend calls it. Sam knows they're consciously concealing - 'masking' away - the effort of presenting neurotypical, the irritations of working in a noisy and overwhelming office space. Although never entirely enough to completely fly under the radar, it seems.

They need time to 'unmask', to just *be* who they are, in a space accommodating of that. For now, that's when they get to be on break, or when they're at home in yet another sharehouse full of people they barely know. Who just know Sam as the quiet 'guy' who spends all their time at work, asleep, or hiding in their room. And, most importantly, who pays the rent on time.

Sam signs out of the phone and time tracking systems with a barely-concealed sigh, grabs their signature messenger bag, double checking for the swipe card needed to get in and out of the similarly-ancient security systems. It's still on their lanyard, a rainbow one to signal that they're an 'ally' to anyone else in the office who might be like them. There are others here - quite a few others, more than Sam expected - but they're in other sections, effectively walled off by social distance and the time pressures of the role.

They just don't have the time to stand around and be social, even if they had a burning urge to. The atomisation and alienation of the workplace, an angry, politically-active, and also very neurodivergent friend named Sophie would put it.

Sam dodges the gaze of their supervisor as they weave their way through the drab cubicle farm to the exit. Sam belatedly realises they should have put a message into the group chat about clocking off for lunch before signing out.

After an initial spike of fear, a kind of disaffected, defeated fatalism sets in. Well, what are they going to do, fire them? Too late to change that now. And it wouldn't be the first time they've been called into a seemingly deliberately intimidating 1:1 meeting with a supervisor - often with no prior warning, let alone explanation. Never knowing whether it'll be good news or bad, always fearing bad. And the bad being usually over some minor infraction, like being 2 minutes late, or forgetting some minutia of process. Efforts made and processes changed, all just to be let go the following month anyway. ADHD in the workplace, they suppose.

Medication might help, but again, who has the money to get diagnosed? Sam knows they were missed as a kid because they were the inattentive kind of autistic ADHDer - always in their head, always in a book, always quiet, always well-behaved, always anxious to live up to expectations to avoid rejection.

They know there's stereotypes and diagnostic criteria about the gendered presentations of male and non-male autism and ADHD - AuDHD - and that they meet the non-male ones. And that doctors still only look out for the stereotypically male presentation of these. That even getting in front of a psychiatrist, as unlikely as that might be, is no guarantee of a diagnosis, despite the frankly obvious nature of their neurodiversity to anyone else who knows them. Because not every doctor even respects the other binary gender enough to learn the signs and criteria there, let alone the presentations in gender diverse people like Sam.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

All these thoughts swirl and race in their head as they push through the exit stairwell and down to street level. The CBD is grey and drab, all homeless-hostile architecture and few trees to mitigate extremes of temperature, but there's a few spots of colour. The restaurants, the occassional cafe staffed with bored baristas serving nearly-identically-dressed executives. And the small combination newagency and convenience store which sells a ready-to-eat meal tolerable to Sam's autistic sensory aversions and restricted diet - Sam's destination, as they forgot to pack lunch in their panic to get out the door and to work on time this morning.

They amble down the street, gait noticeably different to anyone who'd care to notice, Sam only half paying attention to their surroundings. One painfully-garish sign announces the lottery's jackpot of $80 million. That grabs their attention as they enter the store. "What if?" the sign asks. What if indeed, Sam muses.

Their short reddy-brown hair and disappointingly-still masculine-reading face reflects in the glass door as it slides open. One of many things they'd fix if they had the money, they muse again. The intrusive thoughts from the gender dysphoria are bad today.

They grab the meal kit, and nod to the attendent behind the counter while they heat it in the store's microwave. Unlike their work colleagues, Sam has actually made a point of getting to know Priti, who's working the counter today. She has a side shave, tattoos, and a disdain for authority that Sam really gels with. Sam first noticed that Priti was a lesbian or woman-attracted - sapphic - queer of some variety because she'd seen Priti's wife Rehema come into the store before, and overheard their conversations. The side shave being a big clue in that direction, but not a conclusive one on its own.

Priti and Rehema are the cool visible queers Sam aspires to one day be, and Sam lives for their encounters. The little glimpse of queer community, the tiny bit of non-painful in-person human contact they get around their work and exhausted post-work collapse and doom-scrolling. After some mutual cautious disclosures, Sam's learnt that Priti is also a STEM type - a software engineer who just can't seem to catch a break in the industry either. And that Rehema is a biotech engineer with a Masters on a visa, who can't break out of the low-level, low-paid job she's trapped in by the visa which allowed her to move here to be with Priti.

The microwave beeps while Sam's musing about the queer community and how no one queer or femme read seems to be able to get a break, and they carry the various pieces of the meal kit to the front counter to pay. Awkwardly juggling the meal kit, their messenger bag, and a large highly-caffeinated cola they'd snagged earlier.

Sam greets Priti as warmly as they know how to, and Priti smiles, also happy to greet another of the few queers she sees in her day.

"Hey Priti! It's certainly a day out there - you doing okay?" Sam opens.

"Hey Sam, yeah, good as can be expected. The usual, yeah?" Priti says with a genuine-if-sly smile, as she scans Sam's purchase.

"You know it. Sorry to just vent and run on you, but not sure how much longer I can take this role - it's really grinding me down." Sam confides.

"Relatable mood - hey, do you know when they're doing the next group hire? I gotta get outta here. Change of scenery, you know?" Priti drawls. Sam knows who wears the metaphorical pants in Priti and Rehema's relationship - Priti just radiates the quiet confidence and self-assurance of the dominant type Sam both wants to be and also is drawn to.

"Next intake I think is a few months away. They haven't ground through everyone yet." Sam says with a sigh. They self-consciously realise they're sighing a lot today.

"Still, it pays a bit better than here. I mean, you can afford that." Priti gestures to the meal kit.

"Yeah, it does, barely, but it'll never be enough for what I need - I have some, uh, big saving goals." Sam shares, somewhat coyly. Sam's already done the disclosure dance with Priti - Sam's rainbow lanyard long ago prompting that conversation. But cis queer and trans queer relations are still somewhat tense in an era of reactionary-stoked, escalating lateral hostility between groups under the queer umbrella. As Sam's more politically-active friend Sophie would put it.

Priti nods sympathetically - Sam files away further confirmation of Priti's coolness with gender diversity and awareness and sympathy towards trans topics - and Priti gestures to the lottery counter next to them. "Hey, my boss would love it if I sold more of these - wanna help me meet my quota for the week?"

Sam is torn. They're effectively a mathematician - computer science being a highly mathematical field - so they know the probability is really, really low of winning anything. But, they're in a dark mood, and some vague spark, some hope of change - something to look forward to? Right now, that seems really appealing.

"Fuck it, why not. You pick, yeah? I trust you." Sam offers.

Priti smiles warmly again - and Sam feels something respond in them. Priti rambles something about systems and syndicates and draws over $30 million which Sam tunes out of as they're lost for a moment in something wiser heads would know as sapphic panic. "So a single game, random number draw, system 8 entry will probably be your best bet - the $80 million jackpot is a good opportunity today." Priti concludes.

Sam nods, still a bit lost in their sapphic state, and thrusts their card forward to pay. Priti asks for Sam's legal name and mobile number for the entry - which doesn't help Sam's focus one bit - and prints the ticket and hands it to Sam.

"Good luck, hey? One of us has got to get the hell out of here." Priti finishes.

Sam nods and mutters a quick goodbye, suddenly needing to end the conversation fast and get out of there. Sam doesn't see, but Priti smiles slyly to herself at Sam's back as they leave the store. She might be married - happily so, and exclusively so, this being a sometimes-privately-investigated term of Rehema's visa - but it's nice to see she's still got the old razzle dazzle to land a mind-fuzzing hit on the clearly sapphic, clearly slightly submissive 'boymoder' Sam.

Sam promptly forgets about the ticket in their masc-cut pants, almost forgets their meal until they're halfway back to the office.

So it comes as a total surprise to them a week later, still in bed two days after being let go for the exact infraction they were concerned about, when they get a series of calls unexpectedly. It's an unknown number - and normally Sam would ignore these, having all the local recruiters in their phone already - but the caller seems most persistent. Sam's curiosity bites. They eventually answer, on the fourth attempt.

"Ah hello, Mr Winters! You're a difficult man to get a hold of!" the person on the other end says, clearly reacting to the masculine depths in Sam's cautious greeting.

"Mx Winters, I'm non-binary" Sam corrects impulsively, pronouncing the gender neutral title as 'mix'. If they're going to be cold called, they might as well get addressed properly. Maybe they should have used doctor instead? It's too late to go back, and the caller is already responding.

"Ah, apologies, Mx Winters." the person on the other end smoothly corrects themselves. Sam would applaud the diversity training of the callers' firm, or maybe suspect the queerness of the other person, except the caller does not pause. "Is now a good time to talk? Are you sitting down?" the caller continues.

"... yeah" Sam listlessly replies. What is this?

"Congratulations! You've won $80 million dollars."