Author’s note: there is no sex, no violence, nothing like that — just a psychological story about age regression. I’m not posting it on Patreon because I don’t want to test my luck anymore. They block anything if you are an adult-content creator and your text has a person under 18 in it (it doesn’t matter that nothing sexual happens, they don’t care).
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"Never thought braiding hair would be this... hard! Ugh!" — thought Anka to herself, frowning at the mirror, which reflected both her irritation and her futile attempt to look like an ordinary Romanian orphan girl.
Her fingers trembled. Strands of fine, soft light-blonde hair kept slipping away, almost mockingly. 'Jack Rowland,' — whispered the voice inside. — 'CIA Operations Officer. Fifteen years in the field. Syria, Iraq, Casablanca. These are fucking braids! How hard can it be?!'
And in the mirror stared back a girl of about eleven. Freckles. Cheeks that kept flaring up like someone had triggered an alarm. And those eyelashes... long, like from a cosmetics brochure. Jack— or now Anka— swallowed and slowly drew in a breath. What pissed her off the most wasn't even the appearance itself, but how it felt.
The mission prep had been long, and she knew it wouldn't be easy. She knew about the changes to her body, about the need to live among children, speak in a high-pitched voice, hide the instincts of a grown man behind the habits of an orphan girl. But training in a lab under a psychologist’s eye was one thing — and living the real, everyday life in a Romanian orphanage was another. A place that smelled like mold and boiled barley, where every adult’s glance probed your sincerity like tentacles.
Grown-ups looking down on you, kids teasing and mocking — all of that had seemed trivial in theory. But when you're standing in the lunch line with a plastic bowl in your hands, and two girls in front of you are whispering while glancing at your legs, and one of them— that idiot Marika — giggles under her breath:
— Anka's wearing mismatched socks again…
— And yesterday she was talking to herself out loud in the bedroom! She's totally lost it or something! — added Virka, and both girls laughed into their fists.
Anka gripped her hair tighter.
'Why the hell do I even care about this?!' she hissed to herself, feeling her cheeks flare up again. 'It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. You’re not a girl. This isn’t your body. This isn’t your life. It’s a mission, Rowland, you hear me?!'
She yanked at another strand hard, but the hair slipped out again, and the braid unraveled. Her fingers started shaking again — involuntarily — in a way they hadn't even under fire in Mosul. Her brain scrambled for phrases, as if searching for a lifeline: the brain transplant was a success; don’t worry, Jake, your identity will remain with you forever; No, hormonal levels won’t affect your mind.
— No effect... yeah, right... — Anka muttered, trying to focus on the mission. On the fact that she was supposed to establish contact with the target codenamed “Catalina.” A girl with a unique DNA mutation tied to resistance against a range of biological pathogens. Potentially — the key to developing next-gen vaccines... or a biological weapon, depending on whose hands it ended up in. The subject only responded to high levels of emotional trust, especially within the context of female socialization. Male behavior or adult interference triggered rejection and response-blocking. But the hardest part — no one knew who "Catalina" was.
That’s exactly why Rowland agreed to this. Because no drone, no undercover agent could earn the trust of a lonely girl like — another girl could. Or at least someone who could play the part well enough...
But the longer she lived in this body, the harder it became to remain not just professional — but herself. The flushed cheeks, the reflexive hurt from insults, the need to seem “normal” in the eyes of those... kids. As if she really was Anka. As if this really was her life. Not CIA officer Jake Rowland. Not a veteran of eight black ops.
Clack.
A sharp noise behind her — like someone had slammed a locker door. Anka flinched — and dropped the comb. She spun around, her body instantly snapping into combat mode.
— You talking to yourself again!? — came Marika’s loud voice...Full story (11 500 characters - 3 parts + add. oimages) is open to subscribers here