What will you tell me to do?

Kat releases your chin and steps back, appraising you with eyes that used to be yours. The distance doesn't help; your conditioning interprets even her withdrawal as a form of control, permission granted rather than space claimed. Your pulse thrums in your temples.

"First, you're going to answer their questions honestly," she says, moving back toward the sensor display. Your former hands dance across holographic controls with a fluency that shouldn't surprise you—Kat lived with you for three years, watched you work these systems daily—but seeing your body move with such authority while you sit here trembling feels like a violation of natural law. "The Miridians scan for deception. If you lie, their systems will flag it. If their systems flag it, they dig deeper. If they dig deeper, they find the consciousness transfer."

She pulls up a registration document, its official seals glowing in the cabin's dim light. "Your modifications are legal. Registered, consented, documented. When they scan you, they'll find exactly what they expect to find: a companion-class modification suite optimized for..." She pauses, and your own smile looks cruel on your former face. "Domestic service and sexual responsiveness."

The words hit your nervous system before your conscious mind processes them. Domestic service. Sexual responsiveness. The conditioning interprets this as affirmation, as purpose, and warmth spreads through your chest like honey. You hate it. You hate how good it feels to hear yourself described this way.

"Second," Kat continues, "you're going to be quiet unless directly addressed. The conditioning should help with that—you always did excellent work." There's something almost like admiration in her voice, twisted by years of resentment. "Third, you're going to do whatever I tell you during the inspection. Kneel if I tell you to kneel. Speak if I tell you to speak. And if I tell you to demonstrate the full functionality of your modifications..." She lets the implication hang.

Your throat tightens. "That's not—they wouldn't ask—"

"They might not," Kat agrees. "But I might tell you to anyway. To remind you what it feels like. What I felt like, every time you gave me a casual command and watched me comply." She crosses back to you, and this time she doesn't stop at arm's length. Her hand—your hand—slides into your hair, gripping firmly at the base of your skull. The sensation triggers cascading responses: submission, arousal, a **** need to please that your engineering mind recognizes as pure behavioral architecture but your body experiences as absolute truth.

"Do you understand what you're going to do?" she asks.

"Yes," you breathe, and the word comes out broken. Eager.

"Good girl."

The phrase detonates in your limbic system. Dopamine floods your synapses. Your eyes half-close, and for one terrible moment you forget that you were ever anyone other than what this body was designed to be. The engineering mind screams somewhere distant, noting the efficiency of the reward cascade, the precision with which past-you calibrated these responses.

Kat watches your reaction with something that might be satisfaction or might be vindication. "Eleven minutes," she says, releasing you. "Get yourself presentable. And remember—the only way either of us survives this inspection is if you play your role perfectly."

The docking alarm pulses red in your peripheral vision. Your hands shake as you stand, but whether from fear or anticipation, you genuinely cannot tell.