The air in Caledon Prime didn’t taste like dust and desperation. Laura walked a half-step behind Sara, her eyes wide behind the tinted lenses of her borrowed spectacles. Mar-Shada had been a wound of a world—dark, chaotic, everything sharp edges and predatory glances. Here, the walkways were clean, lit by soft, ambient panels set into the walls. Holographic advertisements shimmered with silent elegance, displaying fashions and tech far beyond anything she’d known on Artanis. The people moved with a purposeful, orderly flow. It was quiet. It felt… safe. The contrast was so violent it was dizzying.

“Stop gawking like a fucking tourist,” Sara muttered, her voice low and rough. She hadn’t slept. The strain of the escape, the constant vigilance, had sanded her usual stoicism down to a raw, irritable edge. “You look lost. Lost girls get noticed. Keep your eyes forward and your mouth shut unless I tell you otherwise.”

Laura flinched, the friendly illusion of the city cracking. “Yes, ma’am,” she whispered, the vocal modulator making it sound like a meek daughter’s reply.

Sara led them to a boutique fronted by a crystal-clear window displaying a single, stunning gown that seemed woven from solidified twilight. The sign read Silhouette. A soft chime announced their entry.

The interior was cool and smelled of ozone and clean linen. A man with impeccably groomed silver hair and a measuring tape around his neck glided forward. “Welcome to Silhouette. How may we enhance your presence today?”

Sara’s posture shifted, the hardened soldier melting into a wealthy, slightly harried matron. “We need to get my daughter suited for society. We’ve just arrived from the Fall, and our wardrobe is… rustic. We have an invitation to the Duke’s seasonal gala, and I won’t have her looking like a backwater relic.”

The shopkeeper’s eyes, magnified by thin lenses, appraised Laura. She fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest. “A gala! Of course. The ducal visitors’ aesthetic this cycle is ‘Audacious Elegance.’ May I show you our relevant collection?”

He led them past racks of finery to a secluded alcove. The dresses here were works of art—sleek, modern, and undeniably revealing. Sheer panels, daring cut-outs, fabrics that clung like a second skin.

Sara pointed at a gown in a vibrant, swirling pattern of blues and purples. It had a neckline that plunged to the sternum and a high slit that promised to reveal the leg up to the thigh. “That one. For her.”

Laura’s stomach dropped. She waited until the shopkeeper moved to retrieve the gown before leaning close to Sara. “Mother,” she hissed. “That’s… it’s practically indecent. I’ll be half-naked.”

Sara’s eyes were flint. “That’s the goddamn point, you idiot. Eyes will be on the tits and the legs, not on your face. They’ll remember the body, not the features. It’s a distraction. A good one. Now shut up and smile.”

The shopkeeper returned, beaming. “An excellent choice. The colors will complement her complexion. The changing suites are this way.”

The changing room was a circular pod. The door sealed behind them with a hushed sigh. In the center was a small platform. Sara hung the dress in a clear cylindrical container that extended from the wall.

“Stand on the pad,” Sara instructed, her voice echoing slightly in the sterile space.

Laura obeyed. A soft scan washed over her from head to toe. Whirr. Panels in the ceiling slid open. Several slender, multi-jointed mechanical arms descended, their tips equipped with delicate grippers and sensors.

“Try not to tense up,” Sara said, not unkindly, just factually. “It’ll just take longer.”

The arms went to work with terrifying efficiency. Grippers found the seals of her Mar-Shada tunic and trousers. The fabric was peeled away with a smooth, relentless motion. Laura stood rigid, her heart hammering against the silicone of her false ribs, as she was stripped down to the simple, neutral undergarments that covered the Myrden suit. The air felt cold on her exposed shoulders and back.

An arm retrieved the dress from the container. In a fluid ballet of machinery, the gown was unfolded, guided over her head, and settled onto her body. The fabric was cool and surprisingly heavy. Another arm zipped up the back with a precise zip.

“Okay. Step down.”

Laura moved off the pad and turned to a full-length mirror that illuminated. The reflection was a stranger. A stunning, terrified stranger. The dress’s neckline did indeed plunge, showcasing the smooth, perfect curve of the prosthetic breasts. The slit revealed her leg, the Myrden suit beneath giving the limb a sleek, feminine line. The colors were beautiful.

“How does it feel?” Sara asked, circling her.

“It’s… very revealing,” Laura said quietly. “But it fits.”

Sara squinted, her head tilting. “Bullshit. It’s loose through the torso. It needs to grip you. The curve of the waist isn’t defined. Machine. Size down. Standard tailoring protocol.”

“Sara, wait—”

It was too late. The arms descended again. They undressed her with the same clinical speed, the beautiful gown removed and whisked away. A moment later, a new version of the same dress was brought forth and applied.

This one hugged.

Laura gasped as it settled into place. The fabric cinched her manufactured waist, clung to the hips of the bodysuit, and pressed firmly against the breast forms. The neckline felt even lower.

“It’s tight,” she breathed. “It’s… really tight.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to work,” Sara said, stepping close. Her hands, calloused and sure, came up to adjust the bust of the gown. She tugged and pressed, molding the fabric and the silicone beneath until the cleavage was deeper, more pronounced, the shapes rounder and more voluptuous. The tightness of the dress made the upper curves swell, the nipples of the prosthetics becoming visibly outlined against the vibrant fabric.

“Fuck,” Sara muttered, studying her handiwork. “We’ll need a different undergarment. Something with more lift and padding. These look good, but for this dress, they need to be a fucking spectacle.” She finally looked at Laura’s face in the mirror. “You’ll stop traffic. And every pair of eyes that’s stuck on your chest is a pair that isn’t analyzing your jawline or your eyes. You understand?”

Laura looked at her reflection—at the exaggerated, erotic curves, at the face that was still, underneath it all, Vernon’s, pale with shock. She saw the weird, strained expression she was making, a silent protest to the woman she now had to call mother.

She swallowed, the vocal modulator bobbing in her throat. “I understand.”

She just didn’t know if the part of her that was still Vernon ever would.