The fluorescent lights of the R&D department hummed a flat, scientific note, a stark contrast to the brooding, almost gothic atmosphere of the main field office. Nathan stood awkwardly in a space that looked like a cross between a surgical theater and a Hollywood special effects workshop. Gleaming chrome tables held unidentifiable gadgets, and half-formed silicone faces stared blankly from mannequin heads.

Luke was already there, leaning against a table and examining a jar of what looked like liquid skin with mild distaste. He’d swapped his previous outfit for sleek black tactical pants and a tight grey t-shirt, looking more like a dancer than an FBI agent. He gave Nathan a slow, appraising glance.

“Nervous, newbie?” Luke asked, his voice a lazy drawl. “Don’t worry. The screaming usually stops after the first hour.”

Before Nathan could formulate a retort, the door hissed open and Kevin Copeland strode in, followed by a man in a pristine white lab coat. The specialist was thin, with wire-frame glasses and hair so short it was almost nonexistent. He moved with a quiet, precise energy.

“Summers, Copeland,” Kevin said, his tone all business. “This is Dr. Aris Thorne, head of Applied Disguise Technology. He’s the reason you won’t look like two idiots in wigs by tomorrow.”

Dr. Thorne offered a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “A pleasure. Let’s dispense with the theatrics and discuss the substrate of your new identities.” He gestured to two life-size holographic projections that flickered to life in the center of the room. One was Arabella Montclair, her features haughty and perfect. The other was a smiling, fresh-faced young woman with tousled brown hair and freckles. ‘Allison Reed, NYU Sophomore’ glowed beneath her image.

“The principle is advanced biodynamic replication,” Thorne began, tapping a tablet. “We performed full-spectrum body scans on Miss Montclair and, separately, on Miss Reed. The data isn’t just measurements; it’s pore structure, subcutaneous fat distribution, muscle tone at rest, the way light refracts off their particular skin. Our printers,” he nodded to two large, coffin-like units against the wall, “will synthesize a dermal sheath.”

“A what?” Nathan asked, his voice tight.

“A second skin,” Thorne clarified. “A full facial mask and necessary body prosthetics, constructed from a polymer that breathes, sweats, and even tans. It is attached with a medical-grade adhesive that lasts for seventy-two hours before requiring reapplication and cleansing. You will not ‘take it off’ at night. You will live in it.”

Nathan stared at the hologram of Arabella. Her eyes seemed to look right through him. “Why me?” The question burst out of him. “For her, I mean. There must be other agents.”

Kevin crossed his arms. “Two reasons, Summers. First, your file shows an androgynous bone structure. Narrow shoulders, slight hips. With the correct padding and posture coaching from Luke, you can approximate Arabella’s silhouette. Second, you are within one centimeter of her height. The disguise works best when it has a plausible foundation to build upon. You are that foundation.”

Nathan felt a flush that was part shame, part bizarre pride. His lifelong insecurity about not being bulky enough was now a professional asset.

Luke pointed a thumb at the image of Allison Reed. “And why am I getting the girl-next-door package? Why not just be some dude on the same floor? Less… invasive.”

Kevin’s gaze was level. “Proximity and pedagogy, Luke. As a female student living in the same dormitory suite, you will have constant, natural access to Nathan. A male student would raise eyebrows and require more complicated excuses for constant contact. Furthermore,” Kevin added, a trace of his earlier sternness returning, “this assignment will be educational. You will learn, firsthand, what it is to navigate the world as a young woman. Perhaps it will instill some respect where your usual… womanizing… has not.”

Luke opened his mouth, then shut it, looking genuinely struck. He glanced back at Allison’s friendly, holographic face with new consideration.

“The process is largely passive for the subject,” Thorne continued, as if discussing a car repair. “You will be secured in the printer chamber for approximately four hours while the layers are applied. The most demanding part is the pre-processing. The substrate—your actual skin—must be perfectly smooth and clean for adhesion.”

Kevin nodded, his expression grimly satisfied. “Which brings us to your final preparation for today.” He looked from Nathan to Luke. “Both of you. You are to report to the adjacent hygiene suite. You will shave. Everything. From the neck down. No stubble, no patches. Dr. Thorne’s technicians will provide the tools and verify the results.”

A dead silence filled the room. The hum of the lights seemed to grow louder. Nathan’s mind went blank, then filled with a single, vivid image of himself standing naked in a sterile room with a razor.

Luke was the first to break. A slow, incredulous grin spread across his face. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not,” Kevin said. “The dermal sheath cannot adhere to hair. It would create ridges, shadows, points of failure. This is not a costume. It is a new epidermis. Now move. The printers are scheduled for 0700 tomorrow. You have work to do.”

He turned and left, the door sighing shut behind him. Dr. Thorne gave them another thin smile. “The suite is through that door. Disposable garments and supplies are inside. Please be thorough.”

Alone with Luke, Nathan could only stare at the floor, his face burning. The absurdity of his situation crashed over him in a new wave: probation, cross-dressing, and now, full-body deforestation.

Luke let out a low whistle, then clapped a hand on Nathan’s stiff shoulder. “Come on, partner,” he said, his voice laced with a dark amusement. “Let’s go get silky smooth. Just think of it as… exfoliating for the country.” He steered the stunned Nathan toward the hygiene suite, the holographic faces of Arabella and Allison watching their retreat with silent, digital eyes.