HRT and new friend
The clamor of lottery day faded, and the next morning, Rila stood before the mirror, staring at her reflection. Her long hair remained uncut, but her school uniform had been replaced with the "new male" attire—a loose gray shirt and trousers, a blue badge pinned to her chest reading "Gender Transformation Number: 127." She straightened her back, trying to imagine herself two years from now, but the familiar face in the mirror felt alien to her.
The school entrance buzzed with activity, the air thick with the mingled scents of antiseptic and metal. The girls who had drawn red balls yesterday—now officially dubbed "new boys"—wore identical uniforms, their eyes clouded with confusion or fear. Rila entered the classroom and settled into a window seat. A tight chest binder constricted her torso; though slightly uncomfortable, her naturally flat figure made it bearable. She ran her fingers over the rough fabric, only to be jolted by a stifled whimper nearby.
Lifting her gaze, she saw Serena standing in the center of the room. The once-vibrant blonde now seemed drained of life. Forced into the new male uniform, the oversized shirt couldn’t hide her pale, strained face, taut from the binder’s grip. Serena’s chest had been her pride, a hallmark of her "elite template," as she’d often bragged. She’d dreamed of leveraging her looks to connect with one of the world’s rare natural males, securing a privileged family life instead of relying on government-issued artificial semen like most. Now, those fantasies lay shattered, her once-admired curves a burden. The binder left her gasping; she tugged at her collar, muttering hoarsely as she shuffled to her seat, "This damn thing’s going to strangle me!"
Rila watched, a flicker of pity stirring within her. Serena’s distress was palpable, like a peacock stripped of its plumes. She recalled yesterday’s smug, mocking grin, now replaced by raw humiliation. For Rila, the binder was a minor nuisance, but for Serena, with her overtly feminine frame, it was torment—the first step of transformation breaking her already.
Soft sobs punctuated the classroom. Rila glanced around; it wasn’t surprising to see the unlucky ones wiping tears in corners. But then she noticed Erin, another red-ball drawer, number 87, lounging in the front row. Leaning against her chair, Erin tapped the desk idly. Unlike the others’ tears or silence, a faint smile played on her lips—excitement, even? She glanced at her badge, her mouth curving upward as if anticipating something. Rila frowned, baffled. They’d all been forced to shed their old selves, yet Erin acted like she’d won a prize.
"All new boys, proceed to the medical room for your first transformation injection," a voice crackled over the intercom, snapping Rila from her thoughts. She stood, her palms clenching instinctively as she joined the crowd heading out. Serena trailed behind, dragging her feet, muttering resentfully under her breath. Erin, however, strode briskly, nearly first to the door.
In the medical room, a lone female doctor and a cluster of medical robots oversaw the jittery group. Rila was separated from the others, guided by a robot into a cramped, private cubicle—supposedly for privacy, though the isolation only heightened her nerves. She figured everyone felt the same. The four white walls seemed to close in, suffocating her. A robot’s single lens scanned her face, verifying her identity, then extended a mechanical arm holding a syringe filled with clear liquid. Rila fixated on the slender needle, her pulse racing, stomach churning as if she might retch. She braced for piercing agony, a doomsday reckoning she’d conjured in her mind.
"Don’t move. Relax," the doctor’s voice droned through the robot’s speaker. Rila flinched, realizing the doctor was female too, then remembered the transformation would strip her voice of its softness. Her heart squeezed painfully. Clenching her jaw, she shut her eyes, awaiting the final moment like a condemned soul.
Yet the injection ended almost before it began—swift as a mosquito’s sting, then nothing. She barely registered it before the robot retracted its arm with a curt buzz: "Task complete." Rila stumbled out of the cubicle, dazed by the speed. It felt unreal; only the sterile cotton pad on her arm convinced her it had happened. "What did they inject us with?" she murmured.
"Testosterone," came a familiar voice. Erin emerged from the next cubicle, unfazed. Rila’s confusion didn’t ease with the answer—Erin’s calm stood in stark contrast to the bewildered or tear-streaked faces around them.
"Erin, why aren’t you upset?" Rila’s voice rasped with urgency. "Back in the classroom, you even seemed… happy. Why? We’re all being forced into this."
Erin smiled faintly, as if she’d anticipated the question. "Because I’ve never felt like I should be a girl," she said, her tone steady and resolute. "It’s not about liking women and wanting to chase them as a man."
Rila nodded; same-sex pairings were common enough in their world, fleeting ones even more so.
"I like men, same as you," Erin continued, glancing at her badge. "But I’ve always wanted to be one. I think it’s called transgender."
The word tugged at Rila’s memory—something from a book, distant and faded.
"I dug through old records," Erin went on. "Back before gene editing collapsed, there were archives—fragments I pieced together. They had this term, ‘transgender,’ for people like me. I’m FTM—female-to-male—born in the wrong body. They had treatments then: hormones, surgeries, ways to live as who you really were. But the war wrecked it all; medical resources vanished, and transgender care became a luxury lost to history." Her eyes gleamed with longing. "I’ve always wished I’d been born then. Never thought this lottery would give me a shot at being my true self."
Rila stood silent, absorbing Erin’s words. She’d never imagined someone could see this forced change as liberation. For a moment, Erin seemed to inhabit a different realm—one Rila couldn’t fully grasp yet felt real. After a pause, she nodded. "I get it. If this is what you want… I’m with you. I hope you find happiness, become who you’re meant to be."
Erin’s face lit up, as if someone had finally peered into her soul. She grabbed Rila’s hand, voice trembling with joy. "Thank you, Rila! You don’t know how much that means. People used to think I was crazy when I talked about this—no one took me seriously. You’re the first."
"I’m glad you’ve found your path. I think I can understand," Rila said, then let out a wry chuckle. "Though I guess I’m being forced into FTM too." She smirked at the irony.
Erin blinked, then burst into laughter. "Maybe so, but at least we can both make peace with who we’re becoming, right?"
Rila nodded, the weight of her own fate easing slightly with this odd new friendship. "Yeah, maybe we should both face it head-on."