The sky over Caledon Prime was bleeding from deep indigo to soft gold when Laura and Lysa returned to the bastion. The vast, silent halls felt like a sanctuary after the city’s hum. As they reached the residential wing, Lysa paused by a comm-panel in the hallway.

“Unit Seven,” she said softly. A moment later, a sleek, silent android glided from a service alcove, its arms cradling a large, metallic case. “Bring this to my chambers, please.”

Laura recognized the case; it was the portable outfitter they’d purchased from a boutique in the Concourse, a high-end model that used algorithmic weaving to generate garments on demand. The android deposited it in the center of Lysa’s room and departed with a soft chime.

Lysa turned to Laura, her eyes bright with conspiratorial energy. “It’s pre-loaded with a surprise randomizer. Every time we open it, it’ll have generated something completely new. We can try them all. Just us.”

Laura, still floating in the strange, warm aftermath of the baths, simply nodded and smiled. “Just us.”

*

In the guest suite, Sara Kerigan let the door seal behind her. The persona fell away with her posture, shoulders slumping. The gala, the confrontation, the constant performance—it was a weight. She needed to be free of it, if only for a few minutes.

Her hands went to the base of the Myrden-suit’s neck seal. With a firm, practiced pull, she broke the adhesive bond and began to peel the sophisticated polymer down her torso. Next came the prosthetic breasts, the silicone forms adhered with a medical-grade gel. They were stubborn, designed not to shift, and she had to pull with real force, her breath hissing through her teeth as they released with a soft, wet sound. She dropped them on a dressing table, where they lay, inert and oddly lifeless.

She stepped out of the clinging bodysuit, then carefully removed the long, chestnut wig, setting it on its stand. The man who was Marius stood naked in the cool air of the room. He walked into the shower, letting the steaming water sluice over him, washing away the scent of perfume and the ghost of Sara Kerigan.

After, he stood before the mirror, a towel around his waist. The reflection was a stranger. The months in disguise, the hormonal suppressants and subtle contouring treatments Lenard had administered, had done their work. The once-defined muscle of his arms and shoulders had softened, leaving a lean, almost scrawny frame. His skin was smooth, hairless. His face, without the wig’s frame, was undeniably feminine—high cheekbones, a softer jaw, eyes that seemed larger. His own short, dark hair was growing out in messy waves.

A sharp pang of regret twisted in his gut. This wasn’t a disguise he could shuck off like a coat. It was etched into his biology now, a permanent erosion of the soldier he had been. He looked away, swallowing hard.

For Vernon, he thought. For Arturus.

With grim resolve, he reassembled the armor. The cool silicone forms were pressed back into place, the bodysuit sealed up his body, the wig settled perfectly. Sara Kerigan looked back from the mirror. And in her face, he saw it—the ghost of Freiga. The same arch of the brow, the set of the mouth. The likeness, once a strategic choice, now felt like a haunting.

His hands—her hands—drifted over the reconstructed form. Over the flat stomach, the curve of the hip created by the suit’s padding. Finally, they rose to cup the false breasts, the silicone firm and cool under his palms. A complex, shocking heat bloomed low in his belly. It was arousal, but it was tangled with grief, with memory, with the profound wrongness and necessity of his own transformation. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, letting the feeling crest and then recede, leaving him hollow and resolved.

*

Back in Lysa’s chamber, the metallic case hissed open on its own.

“First draw!” Lysa announced, reaching in. She pulled out a dress of layered, sheer chiffon in moss green and silver. It was conservative in cut, with a high neck and long sleeves, but the fabric was translucent, hinting at the shape beneath. “Oh, this is elegant. Try it!”

Laura took the dress into the fresher. Slipping out of her day clothes, she pulled the chiffon over her head. It whispered against her Myrden suit. Stepping out, she felt impossibly exposed, the layers doing little to conceal the silhouette of the prosthetics beneath. Instinctively, her hands came up to cross over her chest, her fingers pressing against the false curves.

“Don’t hide,” Lysa said softly, rising from the bed. “Laura, you look… ethereal. Like a forest spirit.” She walked a slow circle around her. “The way the light catches the silver thread… it’s beautiful.”

Laura forced her hands down to her sides, a blush warming her cheeks. “It feels like I’m wearing a cloud that everyone can see through.”

“A very pretty cloud,” Lysa insisted, smiling. “Okay, next!”

The case closed and hummed. When it opened again, the dress inside was a stark contrast: a sleek, minimalist sheath dress in matte black durasilk, with a severe, high collar and a back that plunged to the waist. It was power dressing, coreworld chic.

This one was tighter. Laura had to wriggle into it, the fabric gripping every inch of the prosthetic suit. The deep back exposed the seamless polymer of the Myrden suit, making her feel like a machine in elegant packaging. As she turned, her hands automatically went to her hips, then drifted up to cup her breasts, checking the alignment, feeling the unyielding silicone through the dress.

“Wow,” Lysa breathed, her gaze intense. “That’s… different. You look commanding. Dangerous, almost.” She bit her lip. “It suits you.”

The third dress was a riot of color, a patterned wrap-dress with a plunging V-neckline that revealed a significant amount of cleavage. “This is more Concourse style,” Lysa laughed, handing it over.

Laura tied it on, the front panels barely meeting. The cleavage it created was deep and undeniable. She looked in the mirror and saw a stranger—bold, flirtatious. Her hands came up, not to cover, but to frame the revealed curves, her thumbs brushing the top of the silicone forms. The gesture felt oddly natural, a part of the performance.

“You’re blushing again,” Lysa pointed out, her own cheeks pink. “But you look amazing. It’s like you’re a different person with each dress.”

The fourth offering made Laura gasp. It was less a dress and more an ensemble: a skirt made of linked, metallic discs that hung low on the hips, and a top that was essentially two strips of shimmering fabric that criss-crossed over the chest, leaving the midriff and shoulders completely bare.

“This is for a synth-opera star,” Laura protested, her voice faint.

“Just try it!” Lysa urged, her eyes dancing.

Laura put it on. The disc-skirt rattled softly. The top held the prosthetics in place, but just barely, the strips of fabric pressing into the silicone. She felt wildly vulnerable, every artificial line of her body on display. She cupped her breasts fully, her palms covering the criss-crossed fabric, as if to hold herself together. The cool, smooth feel of the forms under her hands was a bizarre comfort.

Lysa was silent for a long moment. “You have no idea how you look, do you?” she finally said, her voice hushed. “It’s… it’s art. You’re like a sculpture.”

The final draw from the machine was the most audacious. It generated what could only be described as a bikini-like outfit: a high-waisted, metallic mesh brief and a matching bandeau top that looked like woven platinum threads.

Laura stared at it, then at Lysa. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Lysa said, her tone gentle but firm. “It’s just us. Remember?”

Taking a deep breath, Laura changed. The mesh was cool against the Myrden suit. The bandeau sat snugly over the prosthetics, her entire torso and the suit’s artificial contours laid bare. She felt utterly naked, more than in the baths. Her arms hung awkwardly at her sides before her hands, almost of their own volition, rose to cradle the false weight of her chest, her fingers splaying over the metallic threads. She wasn’t checking the disguise this time. It was a gesture of sheer, overwhelmed self-consciousness.

Lysa didn’t speak. She just looked, her gaze traveling slowly from Laura’s nervous eyes, down the exposed plane of her stomach, to where her hands cupped the metallic-covered curves. The room was quiet, filled only with the faint hum of the climate control.

“You’re breathtaking,” Lysa whispered finally, the words hanging in the air between them. “Every single version of you.”

Laura, her hands still resting on the false flesh of her disguise, managed a small, shaky smile. In Lysa’s admiring eyes, the line between Laura the construct and the person trapped inside began, for a fleeting moment, to blur.