Tell her about herself

Sophie's still haranguing you when you interrupt her.

“Sophie, stop. There are things I found in there that you don't know about.”

She looks up at you, clearly pissed, but at least listening. “All right, Gerald,” she says slowly, “tell me what you learned that's so important it justifies invading my privacy.”

“Well, for one thing, you were a guy before. You've been forcibly feminized.”

She bursts out laughing.

“Jesus, Gerald, that's the most fucking ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Have you taken a look at me lately?” She spreads her arms wide. “I'm all girl, Gerald. Besides, you've seen my fantasies now. You can't get much more feminine than that.”

“Just my point. You're a guy's wet dream, Sophie. But you read Popular Mechanic. Nobody even owns cars these days, Sophie, much less a girl who wasn't even born when they were banned.”

She shrugs uncomfortably. “I like cars. So what?”

“What do you like about them?”

She smiles, her eyes focused elsewhere. “Oh, you know - it's intangible - things like feeling the wind in your hair going round a bend, or, you know, the hum of the engine as you clock over eighty, and - ”

“When was the last time you ever felt any of those things?” you interrupt.

Her face darkens. “I - I don't remember.”

“Could you have felt any of those things first hand, if you're really the young woman you think you are?”

She looks up at you, frightened. “What the fuck is going on?” she says finally.

“TRAINER told me his purpose is to forcibly feminize you, among other things. That's what he's done. I don't know why. Maybe you asked for it to be done, but I don't think so.”

Sophie still looks suspicious. “You're fucking with me, Gerald. I know you are. It's not funny. You go poking around my deepest, darkest fantasies, and you can't even have the fucking decency to tell me, you know, I'm normal, lots of girls like that shit. No. You tell me I used to have a cock. What's wrong with you?” she says, her lower lip trembling.

“I'm not screwing around with you, Sophie,” you reply gently. “You're a fantastic IVR programmer, right? How many years does it typically take to pick up those kinds of skills? Ten, fifteen? Either you're a prodigy, or you're not who you think you are.”

Sophie's silent for a minute, thinking.

Finally she says, “My programming module. Fuck. It's got an external interface.”

“What does that mean?” you ask, confused.

“Some Immersives are built for geriatrics, invalids, prisoners - basically anybody who, voluntarily or otherwise, lives inside an Immersive fulltime. Immersives like that require an external interface - so the caregiver, or warden, or whoever has authority to monitor the person's status and change the environment, can do so without any programming skills.”

“My module's got an external interface, for testing purposes. I had it installed for a project...some time ago, I don't remember exactly. Anyway, I haven't coded anything for it in forever.”

“So...what are you thinking?” you ask.

Sophie looks up at you. “I want to load up my programming module, and I want you to see what the external interface shows up. Can you do this for me?”

Still wierded out by this whole experience, you nevertheless agree, and in a few minutes Sophie's lying on her biosupport bed, her programming module loaded.

You gaze down at her soft, serene features, her face relaxed in the sleep-state that IVR induces so the body doesn't respond to stimulus. Her eyes dart about under her eyelids as if in REM sleep.

Suddenly a holoscreen interface springs to life. You can read the contents if you like.