True Believer

Happy Sunday, everyone!

You chose "the government" as the entity which transform's today's protagonist. Your selection inspired me, and this caption is much longer than I originally intended.

In fact, it's another of those I can't help but think, "This could make a fun comic..."

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Text

I was about to leave for work when I got the call. I collapsed on the bed, a million feelings swirling through my brain.

“I know this wasn’t how it was supposed to go down,” the colonel had said. “But you’re a hero, son.” 

Looking down at the shriveled remains of my manhood, it’s hard to wonder if he’s right. 

See, I’m a soldier (and, yes, despite how I look, I still maintain that’s who I am), and in my experience there are three kinds of jarheads: Those who joined out of desperation, those who joined to hurt people, and guys like me: The true believers. I always said I’d go to any length to keep my country safe. But never in a million years did I expect that pledge would lead to castration, growing tits, and learning how to be a woman. 

This all started when the CIA discovered the secret of the terrorist commander Kamal al-Barakat: He had no interest in “traditional females” (as he called them) but was exclusively attracted to transgender women. Specifically, trans women who still possessed their male organ. 

Unfortunately, the CIA had no trans field agents, and those few available in the rest of the armed services weren’t suitable for the operation. Desperate measures were required.

A specially designed AI-program scanned through the faces of tens of thousands of services members to determine which of us would make the most convincing-no, most beautiful-woman after hormone treatment and feminizing facial surgery. Somehow, I was chosen.

“Obviously, this is strictly voluntary,” the colonel said in my private briefing. “Preparing you will take at least a year, and you’ll be undercover for an unknown length of time. And, son, I need to stress this point: Many of the physical alterations will be permanent. But if you succeed, you could be saving thousands of American lives.” 

“I understand, sir,” I remember saying. “I’m in, let’s take this bastard down.”

On paper, the mission was simple: The best medical and surgical minds in the government would oversee my transition into womanhood. Then, I’d be flown to London where our allies in MI5 would set me up with a false identity as a dancer in al-Barakat’s favorite nightclub (he was not as devout as he pretended). I’d seduce him, gather intel for weeks or months, and then, finally, assassinate him.

The plan proceeded right on schedule: The first thing they did was remove my testicles because the hormones would work faster without them. Even then, I had no regrets-or, at least, that’s what I told myself. But as the estrogen reshaped my formerly thin but muscular soldier’s body into something far curvier, I wondered what in the hell I’d gotten myself into. 

But it was too late. The comportment and dance lessons came next. By the time they were finished with me, nobody was calling me “sir” in public, even without the face surgery. Once that was done... I had no words for the beautiful creation I now faced in the mirror. The colonel had been right: Even if I had my breasts removed and took testosterone for the rest of my life, I’d never resemble the man I’d been.

All this time, I wasn’t permitted to contact my family. All they knew was that I’d embarked on a secret mission. What would my father think once he saw me after this was all over?

Finally, three weeks ago, the time had come. I tucked the tiny remnant of my penis into my panties, strapped on my bra, and left for the airport. I wore a skirt, tight blouse, and heels. In the security line, men stared at me hungrily. I took it as a point of pride. My mission depended on my desirability. 

I started working in the strip club only a few days after I landed. The work was hard, both physically and psychologically. But the whole time-through the lap dances and groping-I kept telling myself it was for the mission. Al-Barakat never showed, but this wasn’t unusual; it was often weeks between his visits.

Then, tonight, I got the call: Al-Barakat was dead.

Apparently, the CIA found his safehouse and sent in a kill team. The shooting was over in less than four minutes.

I sit up, wondering what in the hell comes next. But I’m still a soldier. So until they tell me otherwise, I’ll stick with the mission.

That means it’s time to go to work.