Lenard wheeled the bioscan modifier over, a sleek, humming device with a glowing aperture. “Right hand, Vernon. Place it inside the cradle.”

Vernon hesitated for only a second. He was standing shirtless, the cool air of the workshop on his skin. Instinctively, his left hand came up to cover and lift the two unfamiliar weights on his chest, a gesture of modesty that felt absurd even as he did it. He slid his right hand into the machine’s opening.

“Steady,” Lenard said, his fingers dancing over a control panel. A thin, translucent bioscan bracelet—Lauren Kerigan’s registered identity—slotted into a port on the machine’s side. “This will sting. Brief deactivation of your old sigil, then imprint of the new one. Try not to jerk.”

A wave of heat, sharp and focused, encircled Vernon’s wrist. It was followed by a piercing sting, like a concentrated insect bite. He gritted his teeth, his left hand tightening reflexively on the soft silicone of the prosthetic breast. He felt a faint pop of sensation, a disconnection. The machine whirred, a cool blue light washing over his skin. The sting returned, deeper this time, a branding. Then it was over. The machine’s hum died down.

“Done,” Lenard announced, retracting the cradle.

Vernon pulled his hand back. On his wrist, the old Freides heir’s bioscan sigil was gone. In its place was a simple, unremarkable band of faintly glowing circuitry—Lauren Kerigan’s life, now his. He flexed his fingers. It looked no different, but the slight, throbbing ache was a phantom reminder of what had been severed.

“Universal identification,” Lenard said, wiping his hands on a rag. “Any port, any dominion checkpoint, any commercial scanner will read you as her. The records will show a living, breathing Lauren Kerigan. As for the hardware…” He gestured at Vernon’s torso. “The Myrden polymers in the bodysuit and the breast forms are x-ray and deep-tissue scan opaque. They’ll project a perfect, biological female silhouette. No hidden skeletal anomalies, no concealed… equipment. The micro-electronics for the waste system and thermal regulation are shielded. A standard metal detector will sing a lullaby as you walk through. You are, for all intents and purposes, a woman named Lauren.”

Vernon barely heard the technical assurances. His attention was pulled toward a full-length mirror mounted in a small, recessed chamber. He walked toward it, his steps still uncertain in his new center of gravity.

He saw her. Him. The person in the mirror.

His hands—his hands—rose. They traced the new geography of his body. The bodysuit cinched his waist, creating a sharp, feminine taper he could feel with every slight turn. His palms slid over the curve of his hips, the polymer feeling unnervingly soft and yielding under his touch, simulating flesh and fat. He tried to look down, to see the space below his navel, but the new, prominent swell of his chest blocked the view entirely. A profound, claustrophobic disconnect settled in his gut. He was a prisoner in this smooth, sculpted shell.

Hesitantly, he cupped the breasts. They were warm, the silicone giving gently under his pressure. A strange, distant sensation registered through the permeable layer of the bodysuit—not pleasure, not pain, but a profound wrongness paired with a clinical curiosity. This was his armor. This was what would keep him alive.

The door to the chamber slid open. Marius stood there, holding a bundle of clothing. His eyes, usually so steady and assessing, flickered away from Vernon’s transformed torso, fixing on a point on the wall. He cleared his throat. “Mar-Shada casual. You’ll blend.” He held out a black synth-cotton shirt, a pair of rugged jeans with leather padding at the knees and hips, and sturdy boots.

“It’s okay,” Vernon said, his voice quiet. He took the clothes. “It’s just… the suit.”

Lenard chuckled from his workbench. “Don’t be so shy, Marius. You’ve worn a contour suit before on ops. Yours just had… considerably less upfront architecture, if I recall the specs.”

Marius shot Lenard a withering look, but a faint, grim smile touched his lips. “Different mission parameters.”

“Right, right,” Lenard said, waving a hand. He then picked up one final item and brought it over to Vernon. It was a wig, a lifelike brunette bob cut with subtle highlights. “The finishing touch. High-grade synthetic, matches Lauren’s profile images. Scalp ventilation, root realism.” He turned it around, showing a small, flat button nestled at the nape. “Magnetic anchor points. Place it, press the button here, and it seals to the biosuit’s substrate layer. Stays put through wind, rain, or a brawl. Press again to release.”

Vernon took the wig. It felt like heavy, fine hair. He looked from the clothes in his hands, to the wig, to his reflection—the smooth chest, the narrowed waist, the face that was still his, but now framed by a context that changed everything.

Lauren Kerigan looked back at him, waiting to be dressed.