The air in Lenard’s workshop was thick with the smell of ozone and warm plastic. Vernon stood shivering, not from cold but from a deep, marrow-deep dread, as Lenard circled him with a critical eye. A holographic projection of a young woman—Lauren Kerigan—spun slowly in the air beside them, her vital statistics glowing in soft blue text.

“Alright, let’s get the blueprint locked in,” Lenard muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. He gestured, and one of his silent, hooded assistants wheeled over a large, sealed machine that resembled a sleek industrial oven. A ‘body molder,’ Lenard called it. He tapped a sequence on its console, and the hologram of Lauren was sucked into the machine’s scanner array with a soft whirr.

“Silicon base,” Lenard explained, his voice flat and instructional as he worked. “Old Earth stock, best for plasticity. We alloy it with a bit of Myrden-spun polymer. Makes it feel less like a toy and more like… well, flesh. Heats to body temp, gives under pressure. The weight’s the tricky part.”

Vernon watched, arms wrapped around his bare torso, as the machine began to hum with a low, building power. He felt exposed, more than just naked. He was a schematic being filled in.

“Noted the chest profile,” Lenard said, glancing at the hologram’s frozen image. “Full. A D-cup, terrestrial standard. You’ll feel the pull. The color will match your natural tone—pale, delicate. We’ll blend it at the edges so it’s seamless under anything but a medical scanner.”

The humming peaked, then settled into a steady, vibrating purr. Lights danced behind the machine’s dark glass front. Minutes passed in a silence broken only by the machine’s work and the frantic beat of Vernon’s heart. Finally, a soft chime sounded.

“Fabrication sequence complete,” a smooth, androgynous AI voice announced.

Lenard hit a release, and a sealed chamber hissed open. A curl of cool, sterile air wafted out. Inside, resting on a form-fitting tray, were the prosthetics.

Two lifelike breasts, perfect and pale, lay separate. Next to them was a single, continuous piece—a bodysuit that would cover from his natural waist down over his hips and groin, sculpted with the subtle curves of a woman’s pelvis and the defined mound of a pubic area.

Lenard reached in and carefully lifted the two silicone forms. They looked terrifyingly real in his calloused hands. “Adhesive matrix on the back,” he said, turning one over. “Strong enough to stay through a fight or a shower, but you can peel them off if you need to. It’ll take a good tug. Ready?”

Vernon gave a tiny, jerky nod. He couldn’t speak.

Lenard stepped close. Vernon flinched as the cool, surprisingly heavy silicone pressed against his chest. Lenard positioned one, then the other, smoothing the edges with a practiced thumb. Vernon looked down, his view now obscured by the soft, foreign curves.

A wave of wrongness crashed over him. “They’re… they’re too low,” Vernon protested, his voice thin. “Shouldn’t they be… higher up?”

Lenard let out a short, breathy sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Kid, breasts don’t sit up on the collarbone. They have weight. They hang. Trust me, I’ve seen more real ones than you’ve had hot meals. This is the natural drape. Now stand still.”

The correction, so blunt and clinical, made Vernon’s face burn. The adhesive activated with a faint warming tingle, bonding the prosthetics to his skin. They felt like a part of him now, a cold, heavy part.

Next, Lenard lifted the bodysuit. It was a complex, flesh-toned garment. “This is the engineering marvel,” he said, pointing to a nearly invisible seam along the hip. “Concealed zip. You peel the skin layer back here to get in and out. It’s a second skin. Micro-weave wicks moisture, regulates temperature. You won’t sweat under it.”

He handed the suit to Vernon, who took it with trembling hands. The material was thin, strong, and felt eerily like real skin.

“And the… practical matters?” Marius asked from his post by the door, his arms crossed.

Lenard nodded. “Addressed. The suit is permeable for waste. There’s an integrated, um, funnel system in the pelvic mold. You can urinate while wearing it. You’ll have to sit, of course. And for solid waste, the lower back has a sealed, micro-venting panel you can open in a fresher. It’s self-cleaning. High-tech.”

Pee like a woman. The instruction echoed in Vernon’s head, stark and horrifying. He felt a jolt of pure terror, a primal rejection of the mechanics being described. This wasn’t a costume. It was a cage for his biology.

Moving like an automaton, Vernon stepped into the bodysuit. He pulled it up, the material clinging and sliding over his legs and hips. It sealed around his waist, the prosthetic pelvis a strange, pressing presence against his own body. He found the nearly invisible zip, fumbled with the fake skin flap, and sealed himself in.

For a moment, he just stood there, breathing heavily.

“Walk,” Lenard commanded.

Vernon took a step. Then another. The world tilted.

His center of gravity was different. The new weight on his chest pulled him forward slightly, making his back muscles engage in a new way. The bodysuit changed how his thighs moved, the subtle padding on the hips altering his balance. He felt awkward, top-heavy, and profoundly dislocated from himself. Every step was a reminder of the flesh that wasn’t his, the shape that was now his shield.

He looked at Marius, his eyes wide with a silent plea.

Marius’s expression was unreadable. “You’ll get used to the weight,” he said, his voice low. “It’s just physics now, Vernon. Learn the new physics.”

Vernon looked down again at the chest that was now his. He saw Lauren Kerigan looking back. The transformation was complete on the outside. Inside, he was falling, and the only thing waiting at the bottom was a stranger.