All According to Plan - Episode 2

All episodes and other stuff: https://www.patreon.com/collection/830779

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Mark wakes up alone, without Cassie, in the United States and discovers that he now has the body of a Latina bombshell with a big butt and large breasts. Thanks to an adaptation program, his language skills now match his new status—that of a Latin American immigrant living in the U.S. on a work-based green card and working as a receptionist at a spa.

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Episode 2

The neon light above flickered indifferently, filling the room with a cold, dim glow. Nearby, medical machines hummed quietly, blinking with multicolored indicators. A lab technician, barely stifling a yawn, snapped his fingers to the rhythm of the music streaming through his headphones, lazily keeping an eye on the equipment. Beside him stood his partner, curiously watching the figures as they updated on the screen.

— "Checkpoint," — muttered the first tech, removing an earbud and yawning as he glanced over at his partner, whose eyes suddenly widened, fixed on the patient’s face—or as they liked to call them, "client." Before he knew it, he got a smack on the back of his head, spinning around to see his partner laughing, watching him with amused eyes as he rubbed the spot where he'd been playfully flicked.

— "Ha! You should've seen your face! You like what you see, huh?" — laughed the senior tech, his voice echoing off the walls.

— "What... no... isn't that... a man?" — he stammered, looking away, embarrassed.

— "A man? Pff," — the senior tech scoffed, eyeing the patient again. — "Well, maybe once... but now, take a look—absolute bombshell! Just check out those curves!" He nodded toward her full hips and prominent chest with a smirk. — "Wait till we finish the last phase, adapting the head's genotype—her hair will start coming in full and lush , and her whole ‘knowledge base’ will update! Now she's Carla Mendoza, off to San Antonio or somewhere... Not that it matters... wherever she ends up, people are gonna be thrilled."

The junior tech, still not used to seeing a masculine face almost entirely transformed by the procedures, cleared his throat nervously and glanced back at the monitors. Data confirming the adaptation of her new body and identity slowly but surely began filling the screen. He shifted his gaze to the document clipped to the bed.

— "Carla Mendoza, twenty-six, San Antonio, Texas," — he mumbled aloud, still feeling uneasy. — "Receptionist... Funny, given she... he used to do something completely different."

The senior waved a dismissive hand, chuckling.

— "Listen, you haven't been here long, so remember this," — the senior lowered his voice. — "You're not here to ask questions. Just watch the metrics and take notes. The whole process is finely tuned. We've done procedures like this before, and the results are flawless every time. Head transplant, body adaptation, and bam!—new person."

The junior threw a final glance at the document, then back at the patient—or rather, the new "Carla Mendoza," still in a deep sleep, awaiting the moment she would wake. A notification flashed on the monitor, indicating stable neural activity. The senior tech leaned in closer to the screen, lips curling into a sly grin.

— "Integration is on schedule," — he murmured. — "We've got ourselves a real Latina beauty here. And hey, even the accent will come naturally. Clients pay big bucks for this."

— "Wait, really?" — the junior tech, still absorbing it all, glanced at the monitor where "Carla Mendoza" was listed as an employee of some local spa in San Antonio. — "So... what about her old memories? Does she... remember who she was?"

The senior tech looked at him like he was a naive rookie.

— "Memories? That’s the client's personal business—can’t just erase them," — he replied as if it were obvious, eyeing the report like an expert. — "But this Carla's going to have to forget who she used to be and learn to be someone else: an ordinary girl, greeting clients, serving coffee, sitting at the reception desk in some back-alley salon. Not luxury, but better than being dead."

He smirked, but the junior tech continued to stare tensely at "Carla," still deep in her coma, waiting to wake up. Her face had already darkened, her skin taking on a warm brown tone, her hair starting to show a slight wave, like so many Latinas.

— "It just feels wrong," — he mumbled. — "I think it’s going to be a shock for her when she wakes up."

The senior nodded, shrugging.

— "They go through with it themselves," — he replied. — "They live like this for years. If you don’t want Interpol or worse coming for you and you’ve got the cash, you change, and don’t ask questions. Though it’s pretty rare to see a guy’s head on a body like this," — he muttered, eyeing "Carla’s" curves on the monitor. — "Sometimes I don’t get what the ‘higher-ups’ are thinking."

He patted the junior tech on the shoulder, as if to remind him they had other work to do.

— "Alright, don’t dwell on it. You’ll see plenty more ‘Carlas’ like this; eventually, you’ll get tired of it," — he advised, heading toward the door and glancing back. — "Come on, you’ll get your fill. She’ll be here for a few more weeks until the scar on her neck heals. And don’t worry about that—scar’s nothing," — he smirked, raising his tablet and making a note. — "That’s the genius of ‘Alternative’: everything’s perfected down to the smallest detail. While they’re in stasis, the body adapts, tiny flaws are fixed—new clients come out of it with zero doubts, and they just forget their old life."

— "Hold on," — he paused, looking back at the records, — "but what if she had some military training, for example? Or, say, what if this ‘Carla’ used to... torture people?"

— "Will you cut it out?" — the senior tech brushed him off with a smirk, pushing the tablet closer to him and pointing at the final status marked "full adaptation." — "After the procedure, all that’s left of those ‘skills’ is a faint shadow," — he added.

The junior nodded, staring tensely at the data on the tablet. The records confirmed it: now "Carla Mendoza," 26, a Mexican national working in the U.S. on a green card, residing in San Antonio, Texas, and employed as a receptionist at a local spa called "Estilo Bello." Her biography was meticulously documented across several pages.

— "Alright, let’s go, no point wasting time," — the senior clapped him on the shoulder, nudging him toward the exit, and proudly added, — "We work for ‘Alternative’! This is serious business."

…

The dim light barely seeped through the curtains as Mark opened his eyes. His eyelids felt heavy, and his head throbbed as if he’d taken a severe hit. Above him was a low ceiling, cracked and weathered, like some cheap room that hadn’t seen repairs in years. Turning his head, he saw a cluttered table nearby: plastic flowers in a vase, cheap cosmetics, a coconut-scented lotion, a few bottles of nail polish, and powder scattered across the mirror’s surface. On a shelf, there were figurines and photos—a little girl with black pigtails hugged a woman, probably her mother, with a view of a Mexican village stretching behind them.

— ¿Qué diablos...? — slipped out of him, and he immediately froze, hearing an unfamiliar voice. High-pitched, somehow Spanish, and… female. Strongly female.

Raising his hand, he suddenly stopped, staring at small, dainty fingers with neatly polished nails. The skin was smooth and brown. Mark stared at his own hands in shock, feeling a surge of panic rising to his throat. His heart raced, and he tried to sit up, only to feel something heavy and foreign pulling him down. His gaze darted downward, and he froze, staring… at a woman’s breasts. It felt noticeably heavy, swaying with every slight movement as if it had a life of its own. In confusion, Mark pressed a hand against his tits, hoping it was just a hallucination, but the feel of the soft, yielding flesh under his fingers confirmed this wasn’t a dream.

‘God… this isn’t a dream,’ he thought, overwhelmed as long dark hair brushed against his bare shoulders and cheeks, strands tickling his skin. He shuddered, trying to toss it back, but his movements were clumsy. He felt nausea rising.

— Dios mío… — he whispered again, the Spanish phrase slipping out and making him shudder. He didn’t know Spanish. Never had. And yet the words flowed naturally, felt completely normal.

‘I need to contact the agency!’ Mark pushed himself off the bed, nearly stumbling as his new center of gravity and softer muscles made him feel off-balance in this new form. Catching himself as he took a step and feeling his new rounded hips sway, he grabbed onto the bedside table with its cheap lamp and plastic flowers. His breasts shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his skin, a constant reminder, and his stomach twisted unpleasantly.

He made it to the corner of the room, where there was a plastic chair, and sat down, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘How long have I been out, and what the hell did they do to me?!’ was all he could think before he heard a knock at the door. It swung open unceremoniously, and in walked a slightly overweight, graying but still relatively young man in casual clothes.

Mark jumped and tensed up, feeling his instinctual urge to get up and take this stranger down, as he would have in the past, was now replaced by something else. Instead of grabbing the stranger and demanding answers, he instinctively covered his large, soft tits, which pressed awkwardly under his hand, and froze, trying not to reveal his alarm. The man raised an eyebrow, looking at Carla, and spoke:

— "Carla, sweetheart, come on, I’ve seen it all before," — the man shook his head, smirking as if amused by the situation.

Mark stood there, processing the man’s words, trying to activate his undercover instincts. The words felt foreign to him, even though he spoke in English. But this was no typical scenario, yet he couldn’t afford to lose control. Internally focusing, Mark realized this must be someone from the agency who knew he’d gone through “Alternative.”

— "Carla?" — Mark forced out, noticing his heavy Spanish accent. It sounded horribly real, as if he were a native Mexican woman, not an agent born and raised in the U.S.

The man leaned against the doorframe with a knowing smirk, watching her confusion with sharp but weary eyes.

— "What are you so scared of, huh?" — his tone was casual, but there was a hidden cruelty in his eyes. — "I get it, first time waking up… all this," — he gestured at her figure, as if, of course, he meant her appearance, — "takes some getting used to. But where’s the joy, Carla?" — he drawled, with a crooked smile. — "You dreamed of disappearing, getting a new life. Well, you got it, and then some." He looked her over, smirking openly. — "‘Alternative’ did its job."

Mark clenched his teeth but forced a tense smile. He already understood that every movement, every reaction was being closely monitored. Who knew what other controls were in place under this foreign exterior? This man was clearly an “Alternative” agent, of that, there was no doubt.

— Por qué soy mujer?! I mean—" he stammered, pointing at himself with a heavy accent. — "Why… a woman?"

The man’s eyes widened as he looked over Carla’s stunning figure, as if trying to understand something, and then, as if something clicked, he opened his mouth and let out a loud, raucous laugh that filled the room.

— "You mean, you used to be a man?!" — he blurted, laughing loudly as if he’d just heard the joke of the year. He even clutched his side, not hiding his gloating amusement. — "Well, ‘Alternative’ sure knows how to hide its clients. You see, darling, whoever you were," — he drawled, still trying to contain his laughter, — "now you’re just Carla, a receptionist in San Antonio. So get used to the new life and be grateful."

Mark, still stunned, watched the man. His mind raced to piece together the fragments of information. "San Antonio? Receptionist?" Those words seared into his mind, but his body reacted differently. Panic rose, his thoughts scattered, and his muscles responded in a foreign, strangely uncooperative way. Carla’s body was soft, flexible, but everything in it felt alien to him.

— ¿Qué quieres de mí? — he blurted out, and immediately noticed how the Spanish words flowed naturally, with a native accent. Inside, he froze with realization: he’d just spoken in Spanish, effortlessly, as if he’d always known the language.

— "English, Carla, English," — her roommate smirked, backing toward the door. — "You’re in the U.S. on a green card, Carla. So brush up on your English, sweetheart. Anyway, it’s all there in the documents."

The man tossed a folder onto the bed and left, chuckling, leaving the door slightly ajar. Mark, still in shock, waited a few minutes until the footsteps faded. He crawled over to the folder and opened it. On the first page was a "biography"—Carla Mendoza, age 26, Mexican immigrant, recently granted a green card. It listed past jobs, education, and details of her work visa, issued "due to a shortage of service workers."

Mark took a deep breath, barely holding back a tremor that was entirely foreign to him, now coursing through his body from head to toe. A single glance at the first page was enough to grasp the scale of what had happened: Carla Mendoza, age 26, legal U.S. resident with work authorization, living in San Antonio, Texas, and employed as a receptionist at a spa called Estilo Bello. The biography was so meticulously detailed that any check would confirm he now existed as Carla.

He turned the page, trying to breathe steadily. Down to the details—lists of school records, bits of language course notes, a scanned work permit. The more he read, the clearer it became that everything about his former life no longer belonged to him. In its place was a new, foreign life laid out before him. Feeling the constant, heavy weight of his new boobs moving unnaturally, Mark cursed under his breath.

"Six months?" he muttered, eyes widening at the timestamps in the reports. Six months! He’d been "out" all that time while "Alternative" finished transforming him into Carla. His instincts demanded he act, to immediately call his superiors, but as he grabbed the nearby cell phone, he froze. The phone was clearly a setup, and any suspicious call could lead them to track him.

Realizing that someone from "Alternative" was likely watching him closely, he forced himself to exhale and stand up straight. Acting openly was too risky. Scanning the page again, his eyes caught a note: employed as a receptionist under a green card, with no right to change employers until her contract ended. It became clear that "Alternative" had tied him to the spa, cutting off any legal options to work elsewhere.

— Dios mío… — escaped his lips again, and even that small phrase sounded so natural that it chilled him to the core with rage and shock. Clutching the documents tightly to himself, Mark let out a low growl but quickly forced himself to calm down.