I stepped into a sleek and sterile examination room. The so-called studio. Stainless steel. Bright white counters. Opaque black glass. Thin gray tubes connected to alien surgical devices.
Instead of removing my clothes, I simply unequipped each piece of my kit one by one. The doctor was alarmed as they vanished from sight, but quickly recovered. He was more interested in the blank canvas of my flesh. More mannequin than human.
“Wow. Ahem–I mean, please step into the center of the room.”
I did as instructed, planting my bare feet in the middle of a translucent hexagonal pad. The doctor clicked on some vibrant overhead lamps and began taking readings, projecting an image of my exposed body on a display screen on the wall as he manipulated the 3D model with a tablet and stylus.
I recalled the last time I had been stripped. At least this time was voluntary.
“So, tell me what you have in mind and I can sketch up a preview.”
Thinking back to his comment about special operations, I briefly had the vision of black feathers sprouting from the back of my arms. But I pushed that foolish thought aside. In the background I overheard the receptionist talking quietly to someone in the lobby. It sounded like she was telling another customer to come back later.
▶ I… want to stand out more. I want people to notice when I walk into a room. Or remember my face. Or actually hear my voice when I speak.
I felt oddly vulnerable saying these things out loud. But the doctor murmured supportively, his eyes glued to his tablet.
“In this part of town you certainly make an impression. But I catch your meaning. Adding some height would be an obvious move. I think for your price range, we could get you up to 180 centimeters.”
As he manipulated the model with the stylus, the image of my body on the display elongated.
“This one makes you taller! This one makes you smaller! Heh heh.”
At least he was amusing himself.
▶ What is that in feet?
“Sorry. I was a refugee from one of the early Dead Zones. Metric system. Old habits and all that. 180 centimeters would bring you to just under 5 foot 11.”
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Dead zones…
“So, rounding up, let’s call it 1,000 Crypt per inch. 2,000 total.”
I guess that makes me 5’9. Never really thought to measure my height in this place. Odd.
▶ How much to go to 6 feet?
“That’s more pricey. Structurally, other aspects of your anatomy need to be stretched and reformed to support additional height. Standard deviations and all that. But we can also do a little sculpting of your face to add some character. Freckles? Dimples? Maybe a disfiguring scar for intimidation purposes? Heh heh. Just a joke.”
I’d have plenty of real scars by now if it wasn’t for my virtual resurrections.
▶ Something more subtle. What about my cheekbones, or chin? Something to make me look less… oval. Less artificial.
The doctor zoomed in on my face, tweaking the model with an expert flick of his hand. Soon I watched my jawline tighten up. It looked more angular, fit.
“I recommend the Chiseled Jawline. Pretty popular starter option. That’ll run you another 1,000.”
Leaving me with 2,000. Not a bad deal, considering it wasn’t actually my money. And not a bad look. But I definitely wanted to address my underwhelming starter voice. However, choosing a voice would cement a perception of my identity that maybe I wasn’t quite ready to commit to. What if I made the wrong choice?
I thought about that song. The song that Monique played in the limo. Sweet dreams, and all that. The singer, whoever it was, had such a distinctive voice. Deep. Commanding. Even a little hypnotic. Not that I planned to do any singing. At the moment, it was all I could think of. I tried to explain the elusive qualities of that voice to the doctor.
“Ah. I think you mean a contralto. We do carry a generic contralto voice. We also have a countertenor voice, but honestly that’s just a marketing difference at this lower tier. It typically runs 3,000 Crypt.”
Dram. Too much.
“But I’ll tell you what… let’s make a deal. I’ll let you have the extra height, the chiseled jawline, and the contralto voice for 5,000. Under one condition.”
▶ What’s that?
The doctor stopped doodling on his tablet and fixed me with a serious gaze.
“That you never come here again. At least not during regular business hours. If you want to schedule an after hours appointment, that might be a possibility. No offense, but I think you’ll scare off our customer base.”
No offense. Right.
▶ Fine. One last question. Does anesthesia cost extra?
“What? I don’t understand the question. All of our procedures are completely painless.”
Of course they are.
The doctor pressed a button and an exam chair emerged from the floor behind the scanning pad. He eased me into a reclining position, put on some goggles, and flicked a switch. Oppressively peaceful spa music filled the room. A vid screen above played a loop of aquarium fish.
No restraints. That’s nice.
The doctor pulled up a stool and brandished two handheld tools connected to the wall by the gray cords. Blue and red light flashed out of each like welding torches and I braced myself against the padded armrests.
The lasers worked over my nude avatar, cutting and stretching and altering my flesh and bones like putty. Wisps of steam rose from my altered form. But, as advertised, there was no pain.
When the procedure was over, I navigated to my Cosmetics submenu.
* COSMETICS
* WAVY ASYMMETRICAL CROP (hair)
* ALMOND (skin tone)
* +2 INCHES (height)
* CHISELED JAWLINE (face)
* CONTRALTO (voice)