Veil of Protection 11

Chapter 11: Hazy Days

To prepare for his role as one of the best undercover agents the country had ever produced, Javier Roca had undergone some of the most intensive training known to man - the kind that pushes a person to their limit in search of a breaking point. It was during this time that Javier earned the nickname “The Ox,” not for his physique - impressive as it was - but for his stubborn temperament and unbreakable willpower.

However, what the drill sergeants back at the training camps couldn’t do, Michael Tanaka blabbering away about styling techniques, armed with a curling wand, was coming dangerously close to achieving.

“It’s super easy to maintain this style,” Michael cheerfully announced as he placed his comb at the top of Javier’s freshly dyed platinum blonde hair. “Just a spritz of setting lotion and bring the curler down smoothly.”

Javier sat staring into the large mirror, nodding blankly at the woman styling his hair. It was a strange sensation to see two women reflected back while trying to remember which one he was.

The tall Black woman stood behind the chair, wearing a short white skirt and towering platform sandals that matched the bright orange of her low-cut top. She wasn’t Javier Roca. But the skinny white girl getting her long, silky locks styled in front surely couldn’t be him either! Dressed in a long-sleeved pink top that ended in dangerously long manicured nails, a frilly white skirt brushing against her hairless thighs, and impossibly tall pink platform heels with heart-shaped buckles, she looked like a human Barbie doll - the complete opposite of the man he used to be. However, as his brain caught up - and realised he wasn’t the one speaking - by process of elimination, the silent, anorexic, pink-lipped bimbo had to be him.

“You alright down there, baby girl?” Michael called out, peering into Javier’s bright blue eyes through the mirror. “I know I snipped off a few centimetres to give it some shape, but don’t you worry none - you look as fine as wine.”

“Erm… no… It’s not that. I… was just thinkin’ about somethin’ else,” Javier replied, his tone breathy, and clipped with the polished diction of a well-bred English girl. Every time he heard that sickly sweet voice emerge from his over-filled lips, it made his insides twist. “Don’t mind me.”

Michael set the curling wand down and smiled. “Mmmhmm. Well, sugar, I got two good ears if you ever feel like talkin’. But for now, why don’t you hop on up and take a proper look? I’m just about done workin’ my magic.”

She stepped back, her chunky orange heels clomping loudly against the hardwood floor. With a nod and a little hand flourish, she signalled for Javier to follow.

He lingered for a moment, summoning the strength to rise. Pressing his weight into his aching heels, he slowly lifted his dainty frame, feeling his calf muscles protest. Turning sharply on his pink platforms, he trotted over to where Michael stood, waiting with a proud smile.

Javier braced himself. He knew what came next. He took a breath, steeled his nerves, and turned to face the mirror that ran almost the length of the wall.

“Well?” Michael beamed. “Ain’t she somethin’? I swear, I outdid myself this time.”

Forcing a smile, Javier stared at his feminized reflection, trying not to let the horror show in his eyes. Like it? How could he possibly like it? Every inch of it repulsed him. He wanted to tear the soft curls from his scalp, claw at the Botox-filled face staring back at him. But something held him back - a voice inside, urging him to hold on just a little longer. That an opportunity would eventually present itself if he just bided his time.

(See image 35)

“I absolutely love it,” he cooed, the words tumbling out in that same plummy, over-enunciated accent that had been drilled into him. “Thank you ever so much, Destiny. You’ve seriously worked wonders.”

“Aww, you’re too sweet, Daisy,” Michael replied with a wink and a snap of his fingers. “Shoot, it’s easy when I got a head that pretty sittin’ in my chair.”

The compliment grated on Javier, and he clenched his jaw before easing back into his natural resting pout. Pretty? From where he was standing, the reflection staring back at him looked like a bad joke - fake, overdone, and as far from pretty as he could imagine.

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Meanwhile, in the kitchen of the witnesses’ new living quarters - its location known only to NINA - the individuals once known as Larry Stone and Jamal Lewis were making popcorn.

Larry stood by the microwave, his hips shifting with effortless poise as he tapped at the buttons, his long acrylic nails clicking with each press. His frilly, low-cut top clung to his heaving bosom while his dark green flared skirt swished lightly around his thick thighs. Perched on towering purple platform heels, he looked every inch the glamorous Latina he had been reshaped to become.

Behind him, Jamal sat primly on a kitchen stool, his pantyhosed legs crossed neatly and swinging gently. A leather miniskirt clung to his widened hips, while an off-the-shoulder red top revealed a sweep of pale, lightened skin. His red patent knee-high boots restored some of his lost height, though his shapely legs still didn’t reach the floor.

Jamal tilted his head. “Um… Luisa?” he asked, his voice delicate and precise, with a faint Chinese lilt. “Do you remember when you moved in here?”

Larry froze mid-button press, then quickly resumed to start the microwave. He turned dramatically, flipping his long, glossy ponytail over his shoulder. “Mmm. Same as you, no?” he replied with a playful smile, though a flicker of uncertainty passed behind his eyes. The memory had flashed into his head quickly - but he’d realised it wasn’t real before finishing the sentence.

Jamal pressed his glossy lips together. “Yes, I remember. But… when was that? Last week? Last year?” He let the question hang.

Larry’s smile wavered. He shrugged, turning back to the microwave as the popcorn bag slowly inflated. “Ay… time feels weird here. How do you say... Fuzzy. I don’t even know what day it is now.” He gave a breathy laugh, too light to be genuine. “Why are you asking?”

Jamal let his gaze drop as he traced a finger over his thigh absentmindedly, pausing just below the hem of his skirt. “Lately, I’ve been having strange thoughts. Like… I'm wearing pantyhose now. But…” He hesitated. “It feels new. Like I never did before. But I also have memories of always wearing them. Do you ever have thoughts like this?”

Larry turned, thinking carefully. He had thoughts like that all the time - two lives entangled in his mind. One of them: was a bearded, burly man from New Jersey who fixed engines, watched football, and drank beer. The other: was a dancer from Cartagena who enjoyed parties, sunning his shapely body on the beach, and sipping margaritas. He used to know which one was real. Most days, he still did. But sometimes, when the memories blurred, he questioned everything.

“Thoughts like that…” he said with a gentle smile, “they don’t help you, chica. That kind of thinking messes with your head.”

Jamal nodded slowly. “Yeah… NINA says the same thing. She says remembering things too clearly can be dangerous.”

The microwave dinged.

Larry opened the door and pulled out the popcorn, careful not to chip a nail as he ripped open the bag. As the sweet scent of caramel butter filled the kitchen, he divided it between two striped bowls. Then, with a practised sway, he strutted across the stone floor and set them down on the island counter.

“Xiexie,” Jamal murmured, reaching with a slender arm. He delicately pinched a piece of popcorn between the tips of his shiny, fire-engine red nails, popped it between his matching glossy lips, and began to chew. “I hope the show’s good tonight. Do you think Gabriela will find out Alejandro’s not really her brother?”

Larry giggled, tilting one of his pumps onto its towering stiletto heel to ease the pressure on the balls of his aching feet. “Ay, por Dios, I’ve been waiting for that for two whole weeks.”

Jamal smiled faintly, then tilted his head, studying the stunning Latina in front of him - his brain telling him that his oldest friend was, in fact, a stranger. “Luisa…” he said softly. “You ever think… what if this isn’t real?”

Larry’s smile faltered. “What you mean, querida?”

“I mean…” Jamal shifted atop his stool, the squeak of his leather miniskirt punctuating the silence. “What if this—” he gestured around the pastel kitchen, then down at himself, “—isn’t really who we are? Like… what if the people in those soap operas are like us? And while we’re watching them… someone else is watching us?”

The idea caught Larry off guard. It was absurd—yet somehow, it made a strange kind of sense. His life was controlled by NINA. Cameras tracked his every move. He was told when to wake up, what to wear, what to eat, and at what time. He fluttered his long lashes, looked up at the ceiling, and let the idea settle.

(See image 36)

"Maybe is possible," he said softly. "But I remember this guy I dated once. He was really into all that science stuff. He told me about some razor thingy… I don’t remember the details, but it’s like, when you got many answers, the simple one is always the right one. It's like a rule of the universe."

Jamal’s eyes widened. “Wow. That’s deep. You’re like… super smart, Luisa.”

Larry flipped his ponytail and rolled his eyes in exaggerated sass. “I have been told that before, cariño. So maybe let’s not overthink things, hmm? And especially not now, our show is about to start.”

Jamal slid off the stool with a soft groan, wobbling briefly before steadying himself against the counter.

“Luisa?” he asked, looking up. “Is it a little weird to wear high heels all the time? Even in the house? Is that normal?”

Without turning, Larry reached for his popcorn bowl and chuckled. “There you go, thinking too much again, chica. In Colombia, we always dress to impress. I bet it’s the same in China, no?”

Jamal gave a quiet, thoughtful nod. “I guess… yeah. It must be.”

“And anyway,” Larry added with a playful sway of his hips, “putting these legs in flats would be a crime, no?” He placed his manicured hands around the bowl, his glistening purple acrylics splaying out and forcing him to cradle it with his palms.

Jamal nodded, mimicking the same awkward grip. “You’re right,” he said firmly. “I do feel taller in heels. More... natural.”

They stood in silence for a moment, facing each other - two strangers shaped into something else, sharing an unspoken understanding neither dared put into words. Then, with a faint nod, they turned.

Larry led, his hips rolling and his backside bouncing. Jamal followed a step behind, his shorter legs working twice as hard to keep pace, causing the click of their heels to be slightly out of sync.

Neither said a word as they tottered into the living room, bowls awkwardly cradled in hands burdened by absurdly long nails. Their makeup-caked faces were unrecognisable from the ones they were born with and their curvaceous bodies were the kind their former male selves might have once fantasised about. Dressed more for a nightclub than a quiet evening in, the two men made their way to the sofa, ready to watch their soap opera as if it were the most natural thing in the world.