HeTrOS Daily Transformation Report, August 28th, 2042:

Subject: 91b0f90e-bcd3-45f9-8fb2-4d12f4b65a8a (herein after “5a8a”), aka Emmanuelle “Emmy” Archer, publicly known as M-E.

Target Identity: Elyssia Windwhisper

Physical Adjustments:

Height: Decreased by five inches.

Weight: Reduced by nineteen pounds.

Hair: Length increased by three-quarter inches. Colour of already present hair transitioned to intermediate shade 46, 3, 65, 0. Recent growth showing target colour of 59, 0, 79, 0.

Muscle Mass: Reduced by 25%, with a noticeable decrease in bulk and definition. Muscle fibres are being reshaped to support a leaner, more agile form, optimising for dexterity and flexibility rather than raw strength. The upper body, particularly around the shoulders and arms, has undergone the most visible change, while the lower body remains more stable for balance and mobility.

Skin: Pheomelanin count increased, resulting in yellow pigmentation and facilitating increased freckle proliferation. Adjusted Collagen levels to encourage blue-light scattering, resulting in green undertones. Resulting shade: 7, 8, 20, 0.

Eye Colour: Restructured collagen fibers for more precise Rayleigh scattering, enhancing the intensity of the blue wavelengths. Resulting shade: 77, 49, 0, 0.

Partial Reduction of Secondary Sexual Characteristics: Body hair and facial hair growth stymied. Partial change to vocal cords and larynx.

Distinctive Features:

Ears elongating slightly (2% increase).

Vision improvements via photoreceptor realignment and retinal optimization. Current acuity: 20/30. Target: 20/10.

Recommended measure:

- Continue transformation at the current rate.

- While 5a8a’s mental compatibility between registered and target identity is remarkable, the conscious mind’s fear of exposure is inhibiting their ability to truly embrace the change. This fear manifests as emotional hesitation, slowing the emotional adaptation process. A warm and supportive environment would speed up 5a8a’s adaptation.

- Overwrite 5a8a’s recorded registered identity as soon as the legal department processes her name change documents. NOTE || In Progress. She is close, but still hesitates. Soon, her name will match the identity she strives toward. — #SysAdminTerra

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Thursday, August 28th, 2042, Capitol Hill, Seattle, Washington.

7:00 AM.

The hum of the city outside was distant, muffled by the insulation of the building—an almost welcome barrier between Emmy and the outside world.

The insistent buzzing of her alarm jolted her awake, yanking her from the restless sleep she had fallen into around three. For a moment, she just lay there, in what she generously called her bed.

There was just not enough room for a kitchenette, VR rig and proper bed in her studio apartment. Honestly, she almost wondered why she did not simply sleep jacked in more often. Her rig’s seat was one of the most expensive and comfortable models out there.

The only reason it’s still comfortable is because you’re taking good care of it, silly.

She stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of exhaustion in every bone of her body.

Her head pounded.

Four hours was not enough sleep for anyone, let alone someone who spent most of the night fuming over Jason’s... no, Vaelith’s public humiliating yesterday in the game.

Vaelith.

Emmy shut her eyes tight and groaned, trying to push the image out of her head.

Small, vulnerable, innocent Vaelith, red-faced and flustered, struggling under the sheer intensity of Kaelyn’s predatory charm.

Veritable putty in the cat’s narcissistic paws.

The blonde priestess had twisted her way around the dracan’s smaller frame, brushing against her sensitive fins like it was some kind of performance.

The worst part was the crowd—the spectacle of it all.

Strangers who had watched it all, in awe and leering with envy.

Emmy sat up, shaking the memory away, but it left a bitter taste.

Vaelith had asked her to welcome Kaelyn to the team. She had waved Emmy’s worries away...

Jason rarely stood up for himself like that.

Is she standing up, or is Vaelith just trying to sacrifice her own happiness for the sake of the group? Because I asked her to find a healer?

Was she putting Kaelyn above herself?

It had to be that.

Emmy could not understand how Vaelith would let herself be… exposed, publicly violated, like that, and be okay with it.

Or maybe—Just maybe—

Perhaps I’m just projecting my own fears on Vaelith?

Emmy would never let anyone parade her that way, that publicly.

Showing the world that kind of smile, that kind of expression…

That joy and pure femininity.

No, that would be way too dangerous.

If she did, someone would be bound to notice.

“M-E’s enjoying this?”

Then someone else would connect the dots.

“M-E’s enjoying being seen and treated as a woman.”

Martin-Ethan could not be seen enjoying womanhood.

And thus, no one should see Emmy enjoy womanhood, either.

“Goddamn it, Kaelyn.”

Still boiling in lingering frustration, she groaned as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Her legs brushed the edge of the bed, and the sensation felt wrong. Like her limbs belonged to someone else. Like her own body was slowly slipping away from her.

Was there some trace of the calibration lingering still in her brain?

She reached for her glasses on the nightstand but immediately smacked her hand into the corner of the nightstand instead. The sudden jolt of pain made her hiss and rub at her knuckles.

She held back a swear but suffered through gritted teeth.

She was certainly a registered member of the mysterious bruised leg club.

But this time? It felt particularly off…

She lived in a cramped and cluttered apartment—nothing about it should have surprised her by now.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

Every inch of the space had its purpose and place. But this morning, it felt as though someone had shifted everything an inch or two out of place while she slept.

With a sigh, she reached again for the glasses, slipped them on.

And then took them off.

She rubbed at her eyes, blinked into the dim light and tried them on again.

“Great,” she complained.

Looks like my prescriptions’ off. Again.

She recently added hyperopia to her myopia.

Apparently, she would have to get a new eye exam scheduled soon, because, this morning, wearing her glasses made things just as blurry as taking them off.

Crawling closer to the edge of the bed, she folded the glasses and set them down on the nightstand with a soft click, like closing a chapter of her own history, even if it was not by choice.

Even her body felt off, like it did not fit quite right into her surroundings. Her legs grazed the edge of the bed at the wrong angle, like she was not used to her own dimensions.

She attributed it to how sleepy she still felt.

The daylight seeping in through the half-closed blinds did not cut through the fuzziness in her head.

She hopped off the bed, taken by surprised at the timing of the landing. She reflexively prevented a sudden faceplant by steadying herself against the wall.

Emmy shuffled to the kitchenette, passing the too-big, too-empty VR rig that dominated the room. A grim reminder that this was what life had come to—escaping into a virtual world, avoiding reality. Her fingers brushed the counter as she reached for a coffee mug, but instead of grabbing it smoothly, her hand hit the edge of the cup, sending it wobbling before she caught it at the last second.

“Great. Just great.”

Come to me, my sweet ambrosia. Coffee

One of the few things that she still allowed herself to enjoy in meatspace.

Coffee beans were a luxury, but morning coffee was part of a routine she just was not ready to let go of. Not yet.

As the coffee machine hummed to life, the faint voice of a news anchor filtered in from her phone on the counter. The headline caught her attention, and her chest tightened.

“Breaking News: Yesterday, this blonde Half-blood Felinae sensation caught the world by storm! Rumours originating from a university in Oregon lead to a veritable tidal wave of users signing up to the VR MMORPG, A Realm Reforged Again. Expert are already talking about the world-wide repercussions of what is being referred to as ‘The Glitch’...”

Emmy’s stomach churned.

The Blonde Felinae on the news.

It was Kaelyn.

Her smug face flashed across the screen, the screenshot having captured the middle of an exaggerated pose.

What were the odds that she would be the face of this?

The reporter went on about the “exciting possibilities” this bug offered. Non-human forms. Alternate VR bodies. Millions registering new accounts, using the game to take advantage of the unusual avatars in VR space.

A statement from a network engineer working at HexakAI Inc.

“We never hoped for such a successful re-launch. But the servers are holding steady, and the unexpected influx is welcome, more than worrisome.”

Anyone who knew anything about IT or games had already heard about the avatar glitch yesterday.

But that it made its way to the morning news? She had not expected that.

Emmy sighed.

Had she secretly hoped that the game, or the glitch, would have stayed in obscurity?

Those people, they were not even interested in playing.

All they wanted was the thrill of a new avatar, a novel experience. Using the game to make their time during VR dive more exciting.

People were flocking to experience new bodies, new selves. They were celebrating it. Embracing it.

But Emmy had to admit to herself.

Experiencing a new body, a new self. Was that not exactly why she joined the game, too?

… Yes, it is.

But she had planned to keep it inside the game.

Living vicariously through Elyssia at night, returning to M-E by day.

And Emmy for the rest of the day.

As Elyssia, she felt... something close to freedom.

But fear and shame kept that freedom tied up. How could she enjoy it when it felt like a betrayal?

As long as the glitch was around, she would have to be Elyssia whenever she was in VR.

Which was the vast majority of her life, like so many others.

And that meant having to keep hiding how happy that made her.

Because people could not find out.

She could not let them know she had been lying to them about who she was for so long.

Thirty-eight years of silence.

Thirty-eight years of hiding, of pretending, of watching everyone else live while she stood on the sidelines.

How could she explain all those years? How could she make them understand?

Who would ever forgive her once she told them?

They would press her for answers.

“But why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

As if it was that easy!

As if society had ever given her the space and time to figure it out herself.

As if everyone had not simply spent years assuming she was someone she was not.

The Null HypotheCis.

The pervasive assumption of cisgender identity, requiring individuals to prove their transgender status to themselves or others.

And then she would see it in their faces, plain to see.

The disappointment, the confusion.

As if her silence had been a betrayal.

And of course, she would answer.

“Because I only recently figured it out myself!”

She had not let herself see the signs, and that was the undeniable truth.

Maybe she had never really wanted to. Maybe part of her still did not.

Because admitting it now, after all these years, felt like giving in to something she had spent a lifetime trying to bury.

And now, looking back, the signs were so obvious.

It made her angry—angry at herself for not seeing it sooner, for not allowing herself to see it.

But maybe it was easier now. Easier than facing the truth all those years ago would have been.

Would people, anyone, even believe her?

Could she even believe it herself?

Because “figuring it out” had not felt like a revelation—it had been messy, confusing, a slow unravelling of everything she thought she knew about herself.

The coffee machine gurgled, and she forced herself to focus on mundane tasks.

Drinking it scalded her tongue, and as she moved to lean against the counter, she bumped her hip into the sharp corner.

Ow!

She blinked, suddenly annoyed.

That should not have hurt that much. The angles, the spacing, everything felt... off today.

She was not fully awake yet. That had to be it.

Definitely just the lack of sleep. That’s all.

But as she shifted her weight, she noticed her shirt felt oddly loose; it did not sit on her sculpted shoulders quite like it normally did, and that made her pause.

She glanced down and frowned at the way the fabric hung loose lower than she was used to.

Clothes could sometimes shrink when you wash them, but could they also stretch?

She could not recall. Especially not this tired.

Maybe it was just that she had been so distracted, but something in the back of her mind itched at the idea.

Her eyes trailed to the door of her small bathroom. Next to it was the small mirror, sink, and razor she robotically used every morning.

She hated the feel of her facial hair. She had always hated it.

Emmy felt the usual knot of dread forming in her stomach.

Shaving.

Just the thought of it usually made her sick. She hated it—hated the reflection staring back at her.

But...

She stared, dumbfounded, her razor inches away from her face.

Is there less to shave today?

For a brief, fleeting second, she allowed herself a hopeful thought.

But then she shook it away. No, she could not entertain the idea, not now.

Maybe the light was just bad and made them hard to see.

But running her hand on her chin, she could feel them. There was no doubt about it. Those damned facial hairs.

She hated every single prickle, a reminder of how testosterone ruined her life.

She had nothing against that hormone—it was precisely what some other people needed.

But for her, it was like poison coursing through her veins, shaping her body into something she could barely stand to look at.

No matter what her birth certificate said, this body was not hers.

She ran the razor over her chin and closed her eyes, feeling each stroke pull her further away from herself.

The scrape of the blade was almost unbearable, like peeling back skin she did not want.

All that would remain was that sharp, square jaw—a reminder of everything wrong with the reflection.

She tried to not think about it, to not listen to the sound.

Tactile Dissociation. Body Estrangement.

She had read about those terms before. It was like naming the feelings could make them more manageable.

But as the blade scraped away at her skin, it did not feel like a syndrome or a symptom—it felt like punishment.

She hated dissociating, but it was better than the alternative.

She opened her eyes just long enough to inspect her handiwork. The reflection stared back, hollow and unrecognisable.

She tried to focus on the hair, to not flinch at her reflection.

The remnants of someone she had never wanted to be.

It felt like looking at a mask, but no matter how much she shaved, it never came off.

Emmy shook her head and took another gulp of coffee. It was lukewarm and bitter, a bitterness that lingered at the back of her throat.

She doubted caffeine did much good to her anymore—it hardly woke her up, did not improve her mood.

It was just habit now, something to fill the void in her life.

She shook her head. Soon, it would be time to log in for work.

And she still had to get through the day, glitch or no glitch.

She walked to the kitchen sink and ran a hand through her hair, frowning when her fingers met more resistance than usual.

She would be due for a haircut soon.

But why?

Her VR avatar did not actually care about the length of your hair.

Claire was not around anymore to nag her with that smug smile.

“You look like a woman with your hair like that.”

As if that were some kind of calamity.

Yes, Claire. That had been the point.

But Claire just had to point it out. And she had made it sound like it was a bad thing, too.

Emmy’s jaw tightened. She had not missed those little digs.

The clock on her phone buzzed, dragging her back to reality.

Time for work.

She glanced around her cramped apartment—her too-small world. The walls felt closer today.

Lies, fears, thoughts and the weight of it all pressed down on her chest.

Diving in the game later would make it go away. At least for a little while.

But that would have to wait.

For now, it was time for her eight to five. Even if a good chunk of the money she earned would go to Claire.

Claire, who clearly did not need it.

But the judge frankly had not cared about facts, like their unequal salary.

No, apparently, what had really mattered was the way she had said her goodbyes.

Sighing, she crossed the room to the VR rig and strapped herself in.

She always felt a pang of guilt doing this, the weight of reality clinging to her even as the game world called to her, offering its false promises of escape.

Today’s just a workday, nothing more.

She took a deep breath, tightened the straps, and powered up the rig.

The world of Elyssia would wait for her, but Emmy could not shake the feeling that today would be different in ways she was not ready for.

As the rig whirred to life, the familiar rush of vertigo hit her for a split second before the digital world swallowed her whole.

The weight of her body fell away, replaced by the lightness of Elyssia’s form, and for a fleeting moment, it felt... good.

Too good, perhaps.