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In Soviet Russia, Femslash Writes You

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They looked ridiculous in their huge movie star sunglasses—so ridiculous, in fact, that no one would be able believe that anyone so flamboyantly living the cliché could actually be legitimately famous. Which in turn meant they actually managed to provide Kristen and Hayden some actual anonymity, in a post-ironic sort of way.

Besides, it was actually sort of bright out, and they could use the protection from the sun as they stepped out of the Reptile House and into its blinding light.

Kristen wasn't sure how she felt about zoos in general, but she certainly had to admit there was very little one could compain about about the way they did things at this one. Which was a good thing, because it meant she could enjoy herself with Hayden guilt-free.

“See that woman over there?” she said, pointing to an attractive woman making her way aimlessly through the Monkey Trails. “She's a Weber fan who's making up for herself for the fact that her ex didn't break up with her here.”

Hayden scrunched up her face in that adorable way she had. “If you say so,” she said. “Way to go for the not-so-obscure reference.”

“You know me,” Kristen said with a smile. “Always going for the quasi-esoteric mundane.”

“Whatever,” said Hayden as they walked. She scanned the crowd around them, looking for a suitable subject. It was a game they liked to play: find some random stranger and imagine who they could be, what exotic life story they might have. “She's a famous opera singer,” Hayden suggested, pointing at an overweight woman near the pachyderm exhibit. “She comes to the zoo for inspiration.”

“Inspiration?” Kristen was skeptical.

“From the elephants,” Hayden improvised. “She imitates them to, y'know, get into character.”

“I'm pretty sure opera singers aren't method,” Kristen said doubtfully. “I think they just go out and sing, mostly. I mean, after they warm up and everything.”

Hayden looked around. “Well, how about that guy?” she asked, gesturing to a trim businessman carrying a black leather briefcase. “I mean, who brings a briefcase to the zoo?”

“Briefcase contains many Soviet secrets,” Kristen said in her Natasha Fatale voice. “If fall into hands of American government, much disaster. Must bring safely to contact.”

“Shocking,” said Hayden in a bad attempt of a Scottish accent, which, unlike Kristen's faux-Russian, did not even have the redeeming feature of being deliberately bad. Plus, the line was fairly boring in any context that did not allow for the pun. “Positively shocking.”

“Curses! I have revealed plan to enemy agent. You have won, Miss--?”

“Bond,” Hayden answered with a smile. “Jane Bond.”

“Very well, Ms. Bond,” Kristen continued in her fake accent. “You may have discovered my devious plot, but can you survive my man-eating tigers?” And they made their way to the great cat exhibit.

. . .

All through the great cat exhibit, Jane Bond flirted shamelessly with the Russian double agent. After all, Jane Bond has no shame.

Hayden—Kristen didn't know what was up with Hayden, actually. Hayden hidden behind those sunglasses, and her mouth was all Jane. What type of game, exactly, were the two of them playing? How staged was their play of seduction?

But then Hayden leaned over for a kiss, and either the flirting was real, or Hayden was really determined not to break character.

Some random dude whistled as he passed by. He thinks we're just two random hot girls making out, Kristen realized. Nobody special. Extras in the reality TV show that was life--in his life, he was the star, and two girls in the background wouldn't even merit their names in the end credits.

He didn't know the truth about their secret lives. Didn't know they were secret agents, didn't know about the briefcase full of Soviet secrets. He didn't know the fate of the world lay in their hands.

He'd have came in his pants if he had.

. . .

“Oh, Jane,” Kristen said in a falsetto as she followed Hayden into the hotel room. She had more than one “Bond Girl” voice, after all. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Martini,” Hayden answered automatically. “Stirred, not shaken.” Off Kristen's disapproving stare, she added, “I like book-Bond better. Hey, I'm a purist.”

Kristen shrugged and leaned back on the bed. She had no intention of actually making Hayden a martini or, for that matter, any other drink anyway. Getting 18-year-old girls drunk wasn't exactly her thing. Besides, Miss Jane Bond, superspy extraordinaire with a license to kill (which, if Kristen was lucky, included les petites morts as well), was going to need her faculties intact for her next mission—if she chose to accept it.