No price is too great for tomboys. Reveal the truth

You've come this far. You're not turning back now. You're sick of not knowing whether your family is full of shit, or if there really is something special about you.

And if it is true - if it could be true - when it comes to tomboys, is any price really too high to ask? One more glance up at the rugged woman before you persuades you that it is not. A chance to be someone, anyone, to a woman like Jordan would be more than worth a stint in prison.

This is probably a terrible, terrible idea, but you only live once.

"See, that actually might be a problem. Because reason I'm asking is..." you gather your wits and brace yourself, just in case Jordan decks you "... yesterday, my mom told me that I'm the new Master Tomboy."

All of Jordran's warmth vanishes, and the mood between you turns frigid. "Excuse me?"

You hold up your hands. "I swear I never heard about the Cult until yesterday, I needed to know if it was true or not."

Jordan looks you over a second time with a scowl. You might as well have transformed into a rabid dog. "The Master Tomboy is dead."

"Did he die a year ago?"

"No, he - well, I haven't been counting the days, but - "

"Wait, Mom gave me this." You pull your messenger bag around and retrieve the old leather tome. You show the book to Jordan. "She told me it would prove who I was?"

Jordan's eyes widen. "That's - that's a fake," she says, in disbelief. "Where did you get that?"

"My mom gave it to me," you repeat, offering the book to her. "She said it belonged to Dad...?"

The brawny climber reaches for the cover, but the second she touches it, she recoils as if the book itself was electrified. Jordan looks haunted. "What did you say your name was again?"

"Marshal," you say. "Marshal Tomboy." This time, one step ahead, you remove your driver's license from your wallet and show it to the woman.

Jordan snatches it from your hand, reads the name at the top, and furiously compares the bad hair day photo to your face, intermittently glancing at the book in your hands. After looking between the book, your license, and your face a dozen times, the woman is left dumbstruck.

"I'll be damned," says Jordan, arms akimbo. She's amazed and appraises you as if truly seeing you for the first time. "It really is you."

She circles you, taking you in from every angle. Her gaze makes you feel weirdly objectified. Women seldom look at you like you're made of diamonds, and certainly not older, taller, buffer women like Jordan.

It's bizarre, but not unpleasant. "So... did you know my Konrad? My father?" You feel oddly out of place asking the question of a complete stranger, but you don't know where else to start.

"Konrad, huh? So that was his name," says Jordan, distantly. She looks shaken, but belatedly, she remembers to return your license. "What was the question? Oh. No, no, I didn't know him. I wish I did, but the last one - Konrad, you said? Wow. Well, I mean, modern MTs keep to themselves for the most part. Cult heads know who they are so they can receive guidance as needed, but beyond that, it's usually kept secret unless you really need to know."

Out of all that, you only really hear one thing. "So my mom wasn't full of shit for not telling me who my dad was."

Jordan kicks at the ground, clearly as out of her element as you are. She looks deferentially at her feet. "I don't know about that, but... if it was public knowledge who the Master Tomboy was, they'd be flooded in tomboys wanting their attention all the time, for every stupid little thing."

The day becomes a little bit brighter. If the Cult of Tomboy values secrecy, maybe you're not the only guy whose mom had to leave him in the dark. Maybe Mom really didn't have a choice. Maybe she really was protecting you.

"Marshal? Coach?"

You snap out of it. "Huh?" And did she just call you coach, or did you mishear her?

Jordan gives you a sheepish look. "This is all new to you, isn't it."

You laugh nervously. "Y-yeah, I guess."

"Well, maybe I shouldn't even ask then, but, where a tomboy has need of wisdom... and it's not every day you meet to the new Master Tomboy, is it," she says to herself. "Marshal, can I ask you something?"

"Sure. I've been asking you all kinds of things, I probably owe you some answers too," you say, smiling.

Jordan crosses and uncrosses her arms, trying to phrase her question right. Eventually, though, she gives up and just blurts it out.