Rift

Hokal stared at the unfamiliar face in the mirror. It was his now, but it hadn't been. What had his face looked like before? He couldn't remember anymore. Since he’d infiltrated the Republic he'd worn so many different faces, lived small moments in a dozen different lives.

"We need to move. We have lingered too long," said his Second Mind.

It was right. Hokal saw the glances from the other restroom patrons as they waited to use the sink. Hokal washed his hands and splashed water onto his borrowed face.

He left the public toilets behind, accepting the deferential bows that his uniform elicited. Walking down the plasteel sidewalk, he searched for his car, waited for his new memories to tell him where he'd parked. He found it, after a time, parked askew, the tail end jutting out a ways into traffic. It was dull gray and square, just a box on wheels. The epitome of function, which was all the rage in this nation despite the five centuries of exposure to the galactic market.

Hokal looked at himself in the car's rearview mirror. Dark brown eyes stared back under bushy eyebrows and long eyelashes. His new nose was wide and flat. A scar clung just to the left of his dimpled chin.

"Scarring. Weaklings," he said, starting the car. A Second Mind would never allow such deformities to remain. Humanity was doomed, it was only a matter time. But for now they were powerful, and it was Hokal’s duty to keep that power in check and keep his own people hidden.