"Now let's get your prosthetics put on." The Agent leads you to the next room over. It has a strange look to it. It has the same sterile and authoritarian aesthetic as the previous rooms, but will salon chairs and make-up vanities.
"See that screen in the corner," he motions to a folding screen across the room, "stand behind there and strip down. I'll send in someone to take measurements. From there we will determine what sort of prosthetics you need."
"Umm... yes sir." You feel awkward about someone seeing you even mostly naked, but it isn't like you have an option. You around the screen. There is an empty clothes bin, and a bench. You quickly strip down to your briefs and take a seat on the bench. You've barely had time to sit when a woman walks in. She's a mature woman, probably in her early 50s, and dressed in a very professional skirt suit and holding a clipboard.
"Hello, Mila, if you stand up we can get started." She pulls a tape measure from her pocket.
"I'm not Mila, I'm..." you start when you realize she's using your new name, "Sorry, yeah, I'm Mila, and why is a woman doing this, I don't know if I feel comfortable with you seeing me so underdressed."
"Why would a guy make a girl like you feel more comfortable?"
"Because... well..." You want to insist on your masculinity, but know it's probably a lost cause. "Can we just get started?"
"We can." She begins moving you through a variety of positions, all the while taking the measurements and copying them down on her clipboard. After what feels like an hour, but was probably less she puts her measuring tape back and says, "That's it, I'll go plug these into the computer. If you'd like to wait here I'll come back with the prosthetics."
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