You have 30 minutes to move your skin.

You have 10 minutes to move your skin.

Your skin has been impounded.

Your skin has been crushed into a cube.

You have 30 minutes to move your cube.

Part One:

Part Two:

I did try at some length to make an empty, wrinkly skinsuit, with no luck, so I'm afraid it's fully fleshed out 😢

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"Token accepted. Welcome back, valued consumer. It has been... nineteen seconds since your deposit," warbled the machine in its high electronic voice. "We hope you have enjoyed your Man Time. One moment, please. We are preparing your skin. Suspending storage protocols."

Beyond the frosted glass, Jonah could see the loose, inside-out skins trundling past on the ceiling rail, like jackets in a dry cleaner. Jonah looked in dismay at the token in his palm. He must have swiped it by mistake. A pale skinsuit with a vibrant ginger ponytail swung into view. The machine hadn't even had time to invert it yet. The front panel snapped open. The skin dangled, jiggling bonelessly, slick and dripping from a blast of preservative brine. A long, neat opening ran along its spine, exposing the fleshy void within.

"Your skin is now ready. Please step inside to commence reskinning."

Jonah gave a startled squawk. "No, no, I didn't mean to do that. Take it back!"

He squinted at the control panel, unsure of which strobing button to press to fix this. In all his years squatting beside the booth, hearing thousands of people undergoing transformations within, he'd never paid attention to how it was actually operated. It was a rich man's toy, certainly not made for the likes of him. The interface was a cluttered mess of animated advertisements upselling tattoos, alterations in hair color, underwear, jewelry, condoms, and everything else a freshly gender-flipped customer might need. In and amongst them, he spotted words like 'Disposal' and 'Incineration' and snatched his hand back in alarm.

"You have one minute to retrieve your skin," said the machine.

"What happens then? Does it go back into storage? Is it... is it safe?"

"You have fifty seconds to retrieve your skin," said the machine.

"Ah! Help! Somebody help!" Jonah cried to the busy station.

It was the worst thing he could have said. The bustling crowd of commuters flowed smoothly around him like water around a rock, as if he had some repelling aura. Their noses sank deeper into their newspapers or their phones rather than acknowledge the desperate, raving vagrant. He may as well have been invisible. Only the stray dogs were paying attention, congregating around the Gender Vender, staring up at the skin like it was a string of sausages in a butcher's window. One darted forward, nipping at the ankles. "Shoo! Bad dog! That's not for you!" Jonah positioned himself between them and the door.

Another tried its luck. Larger dogs trotted forward, baring their teeth. His panic grew. If they got their teeth into it... The booth had begun to chime an impatient bleep at him, instructing the User to step inside and accept their awaiting skin. Whatever he did, he had a feeling he'd be blamed for it. All that mattered keeping the poor lady's skin whole and intact, and there was only one way to do that. With a despairing sigh, he stepped backwards over the lip of the booth.

The door snapped shut. Machine manacles snared his bony wrists and ankles. Twisting his neck, he saw the cauterising lasers swinging into place along the length of his spine.