Piper Price, a Femboy

The last thing you remember is closing up shop at the cafe on Sunday night. But now you're here. No longer wearing your work clothes and barista apron, you stare down to see a glowing-new pair of white high tops, low-rise skinny jeans, and a comfortable heather tank top. You catch your reflection in the mirror polished walls just inside the yawning mouth of the grotesque, still a lithe, pale 22 year old with blue eyes and a mop of strawberry blond hair.

You come to a large set of sickly green double-doors. You spread your fingers over the cold, glossy surface, your "atomic peach" nail polish fluorescing under the glow of blacklight mingled with the incandescent bulbs dotting the ceiling.

You push gently on the double-doors and they swing slowly inward ...