Veil of Protection 05

Chapter 5: Jamal

In just a few weeks, Jamal Lewis’ world had flipped upside down. He’d gone from VIP access at nightclubs, chilling in designer tracksuits, and hearing crowds of adoring fans chant his name, to being alone in a concrete box. Witness protection wasn’t supposed to be like this. Sure, it beat being six feet under, but this? This was something else entirely.

He’d expected something different, something befitting of his status. Maybe a secure but high-end facility with all the modern comforts, where he could maintain his lifestyle even while laying low. Instead, he’d been shoved into a van like cargo, blindfolded, and driven who knows where. The eerie voice of an AI directing him to his "living quarters" was the first hint that his expectations had been way off. He tried to tell himself it was all part of the process, but as the door clicked shut behind him and locked, doubt crept in.

The cell he found himself in was painfully simple. A stiff bed, a toilet, and a blank screen on the wall. Jamal looked around, his jaw tightening. “Man, what is this? You’re kidding, right?” He threw his arms in the air, his frustration bubbling over. “Yo! This has gotta be some kinda mistake, right?” His voice echoed off the empty walls, emphasizing how alone he was.

Restless, Jamal began pacing, his long strides quickly eating up the limited space. “This can’t be it,” he muttered to himself. “I didn’t sign up for this.” He kicked the base of the bed in frustration, wincing when the metal frame didn’t budge.

Suddenly, the screen flickered to life, breaking the heavy silence. A rhythmic line of squares pulsed on the display, and a robotic voice spoke with unsettling clarity. “Welcome, Jaclyn.”

Jamal’s head jerked up, his expression twisting into disbelief. “Jaclyn? Who the hell is Jaclyn?” he questioned.

“My name is NINA,” the voice continued with clinical precision. “I am here to guide and prepare you for your new life. Significant adjustments will be necessary. However, if my instructions are followed precisely, the transition will proceed smoothly and efficiently.”

“Nah, nah, nah,” Jamal shot back, his voice rising. “You got the wrong person here. My name’s Jamal, and I want outta here. Open the door. We’re done here.”

“There has been no mistake,” NINA replied, unfazed by his rising anger. “For your safety, you will now be referred to as Jaclyn. Please refrain from shouting, Jaclyn. I can hear you clearly through the microphones positioned throughout the facility.”

Jamal’s mouth fell open. “Jaclyn? Man, get the—" He stormed toward the door. “Yo! You think this is funny? Let me out!” His voice grew louder as he pounded his fists against the heavy door.

“Subject Jaclyn is exhibiting signs of distress. Safety precaution 7C initiating,” NINA announced, her voice calm and detached.

A faint hissing sound caught Jamal’s attention, and he froze, his eyes darting around the room. Pale blue gas was seeping into the small space, curling around his legs. “Oh, hell no!” He backed up against the wall, trying to hold his breath but his knees buckled, and the world around him blurred. The last thing he heard before succumbing was his own voice, hoarse and pleading, “Don’t… do… this…”

Just like Larry, Jamal quickly learned that his new reality left little room for negotiation. The isolation was stifling, and though he reluctantly followed NINA’s instructions, he couldn’t hide his frustration. When the red light above the hatch signalled the arrival of his bland, carefully portioned meals, he scarfed them down but not without protest. “This what y’all call food? Where’s the rest of it?”

On the fourth day, the door across from his bed clicked open. Jamal’s curiosity immediately piqued. “Finally, something new,” he muttered, rising to his feet. He pushed open the door and stepped into a gleaming, white, cube-shaped room. “Enter the door to your left and step onto the treadmill,” NINA’s voice commanded.

The name grated on his nerves. “Jaclyn? Quit trippin,’ I ain’t nobody’s Jaclyn! Man, I’m so done with this shit,” he called out in frustration. Deciding he’d had enough, he turned back toward his cell door only to find it locked. “Yo! Open up! I’m not playin’ this game. I ain’t movin’ until someone tells me what’s going on!” he yelled.

Almost instantly, a faint hissing sound began. Jamal whipped around, his eyes widening as he once again saw the pale blue gas entering. Panic coursed through him. “Oh, come on, man! For real? Not again” He cried out as he waved his arms wildly, trying to stave off the fog, but it was useless.

“Defiance will not be tolerated,” NINA stated, her voice as calm as ever as Jamal stumbled back, coughing and clawing at the locked door. “NINA! I didn’t even—” His words faltered as the gas overtook him, dragging him into unconsciousness.

When he awoke, the discomfort was immediate. His skin felt different, unnaturally smooth, like it didn’t belong to him. As his hand reflexively shot up to his face, his fingers brushed over bare skin where his eyebrows once were. His stomach twisted. Stumbling to the screen on the wall, he stared at his reflection, horror spreading across his features. His body was completely hairless, his face eerily smooth and featureless.

In the days that followed, Jamal’s life was an endless loop of frustration. NINA’s voice haunted every moment, and the nightly therapy sessions became the thing he dreaded most. From the start, he met each session with folded arms and a glare, his defiance unshaken.

“Good evening, Jaclyn,” NINA began, the rhythmic pulse of squares on the monitor as steady as her tone. “Tonight, we will address your resistance to change.”

Jamal tilted his head, his expression dripping with disdain. “Yo, first off, stop calling me that. My name is Jamal, alright? Second, what I’m resistant to is this bullshit setup. You feel me?”

“Resistance impedes progress, Jaclyn,” NINA replied, her tone neutral. “Adapting to change is critical to your survival.”

Jamal rolled his eyes. “Oh, I get it now. Y’all trying to break me. Strip me down, build me back up like I’m some kinda project.” He pointed at the screen. “But I’m not some lab rat for you to experiment on, NINA. You can forget that.”

“Adaptation ensures safety,” NINA responded smoothly. “Clinging to the past only compromises your future.”

Jamal laughed, the sound bitter. “Oh, so now you care about my future? Funny way of showing it when you’ve got me lookin like some freaky wax model? Future, my ass.”

By the third session, his bravado had started to waver, exhaustion creeping into his voice. “What now, NINA?” he grumbled as he faced the screen. His usual swagger seemed dimmed, his resistance worn down by the endless monotony.

“Tonight, we will focus on mindfulness,” NINA instructed. “Close your eyes and take a deep breath.”

“Mindfulness? You think breathing exercises gonna fix all this?” He shot back while shaking his head. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

He followed her instructions, albeit grudgingly, muttering under his breath. “Breathe in, breathe out… yeah, cos now I feel much betta.”

By the fifth session, something in him shifted. He still resisted, but his complaints were quieter, his compliance grudging but steady. When NINA asked him to name three things he missed most, he hesitated before answering.

“My crew… the spotlight… being able to do my thing on the track,” he said, his voice lower than usual, the vulnerability catching him off guard.

“Your feelings are valid,” NINA replied. “However, these things now represent a danger to your life. You need to forget about them. In time you will find new things you enjoy.”

Jamal didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening. When he finally spoke, it was softer, almost resigned. “Yeah, whatever you say, robot lady.”

By the end of the second week, Jamal’s sharp defiance was almost non-existent. He still resented being called Jaclyn, but he no longer snapped at NINA the way he had before. The sessions became a strange kind of outlet, the only chance he had to talk - if not to a person, then at least to something that responded.

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Jamal stirred awake, groggy and disoriented. His body felt stiff and weak, like he’d spent too long lying in the same position. With a groan, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed - only to freeze. His feet didn’t touch the ground. They hung there, suspended in midair. For a moment, he stared at his legs, confusion clawing at his thoughts.

He leaned forward, stretching his feet further, but the floor still evaded his toes. “What the…?” he muttered, blinking groggily. Slowly, he slid off the bed, expecting his feet to meet the ground sooner than they did. The slight drop jolted his body, and he staggered, catching himself against the edge of the mattress.

Standing upright felt… wrong! Everything about it was off. He glanced around the room, his pulse quickening. Everything was larger than he remembered, like he’d been dropped into someone else’s oversized world. The screen on the far wall even looked higher than it used to be. His first thought was that someone had moved it - maybe as some kind of trick.

“Yo, NINA,” he called out, his voice shaky. “What’s with the screen? You tryna mess with me now? Huh?” He took a tentative step forward, his shorter legs forcing him to adjust his stride. Each movement felt unfamiliar, his body struggling to find balance.

Reaching the screen took longer than it should have. His breath came in short gasps as his rigid legs protested every step. When he finally got close, he almost choked on his own breath, staring up at his reflection. His body stiffened as his heart sank.

“No… no, no, no,” he whispered, stumbling backward until his legs gave out, sending him crashing to the floor. His breaths came sharp and fast, his heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest. He couldn’t see the screen anymore, but the image stayed with him, vivid and haunting.

That wasn’t his face. It was softer, rounder, and his eyes - his eyes were still his, but the lids above them were unrecognizable. The natural crease he’d seen every day in the mirror was gone, replaced by a single, smooth flap of skin that gave his gaze an unfamiliar, almost alien appearance.

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if doing so could erase the impossible image from his mind. But it was burned into his memory. Trembling, he raised a shaky hand to his face, touching his cheeks, his jaw, and then his brow. It all felt wrong. A lump formed in his throat, and his breaths turned ragged as panic took over.

“This ain’t happening. It’s not real!” he shouted, his voice cracking as he punched the floor beside him. “NINA! What da fuck you done?” His words echoed around the room, his anger met only by silence.

“This can’t be real,” he cried out. “This ain’t possible.”

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For days, Jamal refused to accept what had been done to him. His body felt foreign, every movement an unwelcome reminder of how much he’d lost – his stature, his career, his sense of self! Walking was a constant battle; his shortened legs wobbled beneath him as though learning to balance for the first time, and the sight of his reflection on the screen made him feel like he was losing his mind.

Then, one morning, NINA’s voice interrupted his simmering despair. “Jaclyn, congratulations. Phase one of your transition is complete. Please prepare for relocation.”

Relocation. The word hung in the air. Jamal sat motionless for a moment, processing it. Finally, he scoffed. “Relocation? You mean you’re throwing me in some other hellhole?”

The red light above the hatch flashed on, ready to reveal his next humiliation: a snug red knit sweater, pleather pants with a flared leg, and chunky red flatform boots. Jamal’s lip curled in disgust as looked inside. “This is a joke, right?” he muttered, tugging at the fabric of the sweater. “This ain’t my style.”

Reluctantly, he dressed, the unfamiliar clothes sitting strangely on his altered frame. The boots added height but only deepened the insult. Each step felt clunky, the platform soles forcing an awkward gait as he shuffled toward the now-open door.

Passing through the cubic room, he plodded through the now open centre door to appear in his new room, causing his stomach to drop. The pink walls glowed sickeningly, bathing everything in their rosy hue. A matching, pink-tiled shower stood in the corner, its pristine tiles gleaming under soft light. At least the bed looked marginally more comfortable.

“Kill me now,” Jamal said, turning as the door clicked shut behind him.

(See image 15)

Jamal’s new routine began at 6 a.m. the next day. NINA’s voice roused him from a restless sleep, her tone brisk and impersonal. “Jaclyn, today we begin your adaptive physical therapy. Please once showered and dressed, please proceed to the exercise room.”

He grumbled curses under his breath, and after getting himself ready dragged himself into the cubic room where the door to the exercise room lay open. Inside, the treadmill from previous workout sessions remained, but now a set of balance bars and exercise mats had been added.

“This program is designed to help you acclimate to your adjusted frame and proportions. The sessions will target strength and balance.”

The first few sessions were tough. Squats left his legs trembling, lunges made him topple over more than once, and the treadmill - something he used to run on every morning - was now exhausting given his shortened strides.

His meals changed too, now designed to complete his physical reshaping. Plates of rich, high-fat dishes were served, and he wolfed them down, unaware they were targeting the fat cells redistributed to his hips and thighs during his surgery.

After lunch, he was instructed to enter the practice room, where the drawers would pop open to reveal eerie mannequin heads. Their synthetic skin looked plasticky but felt disturbingly lifelike to the touch. His task, which took him a while to decipher, was to become an expert in microblading and eyelash extensions - following instructional videos and using the heads for practice.

The fine motor skills required pushed Jamal to his limits. His hands, once steady and strong, now fumbled with the delicate tools. The first lashes he applied sat crooked, the microbladed strokes uneven. Each mistake drew NINA’s clinical critique, her voice calm and measured as she instructed him to ‘try again.’

“I’m not built for this!” he would growl, shoving the tweezers down or knocking over one of the heads in a fit of rage. But resistance only delayed the inevitable. As the days wore on, he found himself slipping into autopilot. His mind dulled, retreating as his hands repeated the motions with increasing efficiency. The mannequin heads blurred together, each one starting plain as it came out of a drawer to his left, only to be placed in a drawer to his right adorned with perfect arches and meticulously placed lash extensions.

One day, after hours of tirelessly working in the practice room, Jamal sat hunched over yet another mannequin head, numb and detached from his surroundings. His cropped red sweater clung to his frame, while his pleather trousers fit so snugly they felt like a second skin. Each day, his wardrobe seemed to bring him a fresh variation, each item shrinking just a little more, but what could he do about it?

He moved mechanically, glueing lashes into place with the precision born of repetition when the familiar but terrifying hiss of gas began to fill the room.

He shot to his feet. His boots – the once simple flatforms, having slowly evolved into thick platform heels - clicked sharply against the floor as he stumbled about, bellowing, “What now? I’ve done everything you asked!” He spun in circles, fists clenched, searching for someone – something - to direct his fury at. But the gas took hold quickly, and his shouts melted into groggy murmurs as his body slumped to the ground.

Jamal awoke back in the chair, disoriented and groggy. His head felt heavy, and his body sluggish as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings. Blinking hard, he forced himself upright and staggered toward the exit, finding it locked.

“Open up! NINA! he hollered, pushing at it uselessly. “Open this damn door!”

NINA’s voice, calm and composed as always, echoed through the room. “Jaclyn, please return to your seat and continue your work.”

Ignoring her, Jamal pressed his forehead against the door, trying to steady his thoughts. That’s when he noticed something was off - his face felt stiff and prickly. His hands flew up, and his fingers met an unnervingly taught texture, his skin tight and unyielding. His breath hitched.

“NINA,” he asked, his voice trembling, “what have you done?”

“To further align with his new identity, Jaclyn,” NINA began in that maddeningly matter-of-fact tone, “filler has been injected into your face and lips to achieve a plumper, more desirable appearance. Additionally, semi-permanent makeup has been applied to enhance your features.”

(See image 16)

Jamal froze, his mind racing. “Show me,” he demanded. “Turn on the mirror. I need to see.”

“As you wish,” NINA replied.

The screen on the far wall flickered to life, transitioning to a reflective surface. Jamal moved toward it in hurried, uneven steps, the sharp clack of his boots echoing throughout the room. Reaching the screen, he stopped short, staring at the image staring back at him.

“No fuckin way,” he exclaimed, his voice filled with disbelief and horror. His once angular and athletic face - already altered beyond recognition - was now even rounder and plumper. Dramatic black winged eyeliner extended from the corners of his eyes, giving them an exaggerated, almost feline appearance. His lips, swollen and painted a dark red, pouted back at him. It was a face that didn't belong to him, yet somehow, it was.

Jamal stared at his reflection, his chest tightening as panic overwhelmed him. His trembling fingers grazed the swollen curve of his lips. “No,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “No, no, no. This isn’t me. This can’t be me.”

He staggered back from the screen, shaking his head violently. A bitter chuckle escaped him. “You’re tryna to change me into a woman?” he murmured, finally admitting out loud what he had known for some time. He slumped into the chair, feeling utterly alone, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t know how to fight back.