Temporarily Forever

Sitting in the medical room, feeling the unfamiliar weight of two new bulges on his chest, Alexander could no longer hope that this was all just a dream. They were — real. Just like the long hair, the slender fingers, and this body of his that was nearly 30 centimeters shorter than his male one. And even that... emptiness between his legs, which, paradoxically enough, felt even more distinct than everything else.

He shifted on the bed, trying to find a position where his new curves wouldn't feel so... blatant, and trying to collect himself after the doctor's detailed explanation of what had happened to him — and how lucky he was that the medical team had arrived in time and that his brain had been successfully transplanted and adapted perfectly in this body.

— God... — he exhaled, and even that one short word came out in a soft, sultry alto that had absolutely nothing in common with the person he was just two days ago. — But why... why this body? I mean... I upgraded my insurance to premium just last week, specifically for situations like this...

The doctor didn’t reply right away. He pretended to study something on his tablet, but in reality, he was simply giving the patient time to vent — and cool down a bit. It was in the protocol; he was required to allow five to ten minutes for the denial phase. Though, by comparison to others, Alexander was handling it surprisingly well.

— Your insurance upgrade has been registered, that’s correct, — he finally spoke, carefully, like each word cost him a drop of sympathy. — But you may not have read the notification that was sent to your holographic bracelet. There was a clause about a four-week delay before the activation of a designer body. The biomaterial needs time to mature. And you were in the accident... two days after the upgrade, if I’m not mistaken?

Alexander closed his eyes. Yeah, he had seen it. Some kind of notification. That day, he was at the gym, working on his chest and abs, and just brushed off the signal on his wrist. There were always messages popping up. Updates, personalized offers, promos. And now — that careless moment had cost him his muscles, his height, and even his dick...

— But why a female body? — his voice trembled, and it felt humiliating. He wasn’t used to sounding so... delicate. — Why not at least a male one?

— Because it was the only one available and biosuitable during the critical hours, — the doctor repeated flatly, and Alexander could almost feel him mentally checking off boxes from a corporate script. — Believe me, we looked for every possible option. But male bodies — even temporary ones — are in extreme shortage. All major insurance companies are lined up.

Alexander opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. His breathing was uneven — not from panic, but more from how different breathing itself felt now. He could sense his chest rising differently, his breasts pulling slightly at the skin. Even the shape of his mouth, his lips — it all affected the sound, the feeling of a simple exhale. He felt suffocated.

— Alright, alright... — he finally said, imagining what it would be like to show up like this in front of his wife, his kids... his mistress... another mistress — goddammit, no, this is impossible! — Four weeks, yeah? Okay. How much time is left!? I’ll wait — and then you’ll put me back in mine, right?

He stared at the doctor with eyes that held more pleading than anger, even though he tried to look otherwise.

The doctor met that look with the same professional mask of sympathy that, as Alexander knew, had surely been perfected over years of dealing with people in shock, in panic, and in bodies that weren’t theirs. He stayed silent a bit longer than necessary, not out of cruelty — but because he knew: the words he was about to say would be the line after which there was no going back.

— It’s... four years and ten months, — he finally said, so softly that every word sounded almost like an apology. — Give or take a couple weeks for readaptation. A second brain transplant isn’t possible any sooner than five years from now.

It took Alexander a moment to understand what those words meant. His brain, it seemed, simply refused to register this new reality. Five years. Almost two thousand days. Of formless nights, of waking up each morning in this... body, with this voice, these legs, tits, hips — all this new shit that had never been part of his life and was never meant to be.

He unclenched his fists. His fingers were trembling. So thin, it felt like they couldn’t grip anything firmly — except maybe someone else’s opinion of him. He suddenly realized that if he started screaming, he’d sound hysterical, not threatening. If he punched a wall, he’d break his wrist, not the wall. Even his anger now had to be filtered through the lens of a female body. And that made it all even more terrifying.

— You mean to tell me... — he exhaled slowly, staring at the doctor, — that I’m stuck? That I’ll stay like... this... — he moved his hand along his side, brushing against the side of his breast and pulling away instantly, like from a burn, — for years?

The doctor slightly lowered his gaze. Stayed silent. As if there was no need to say it out loud — the confirmation was already there, in every medical term, in every cold, glossy monitor around, in every point of pressure where the new body touched the mattress, in every centimeter of skin that now breathed differently.

— And my wife? — he whispered, not recognizing the tone of his own voice. — How am I supposed to... how can I even explain this to her? My daughter? My son? They’re thirteen and nine. Do you even realize how they’ll take... this?

He pointed at himself with an uncertain, almost embarrassed gesture — the kind he would’ve once mocked in someone else. Too feminine. Too fragile. Even his protest didn’t look manly now. It was all too... softened by emotion. It felt like everything around him was deliberately underlining: you’re different now. Even in anger.

— We have specialists who can help you communicate with your family. Social adaptation consultants, identity transition lawyers. This isn’t the first case, Mr. Rubtsov. Though, admittedly, not the most typical one, — the doctor’s voice remained steady, which only made it more irritating.

— The hell kind of “Mister”... — Alexander snapped, suddenly aware of how unnatural that title sounded next to how he looked now. He jumped up — or tried to — and nearly lost balance. His hips jolted forward, his tits bounced, his hair fell in his face, and he had to swat it away, remembering that he couldn’t just toss it back like with a short haircut. Everything felt clumsy. Ridiculous.

— We have a mirror, if you’re ready, — the doctor said, standing up. — We don’t push it. But many patients say it’s better to see than to imagine.

Alexander didn’t answer. He wasn’t ready to face the reality yet — even though he was already feeling every damn bit of it.