A cold shiver runs down your spine from the room's temperature, you wrap your arms around yourself - then recoil in surprise. Your breasts feel... unnatural. Although the rest of you feels like you, whoever you are, your breasts are unfamiliar. They're larger, and much more firm.
As the only piece of clothing in the room is the prison outfit, and with the chill in your bones, you go and slip it on. As if to confirm your odd feeling about your own breasts, the jumpsuit fits fairly well except around the chest - it's way too tight. After struggling with the zipper for a minute you decide to leave it open for the time being, as it's more comfortable.
Stepping into the bathroom, you get another shock looking into the mirror. You're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't this! Your hair is cut short, spiked high, and platinum blonde, very much disagreeing with your (admittedly confused) inner sense of self. You're also wearing makeup. Lots of it. Your lips are fire-red and your eyes are done up in a manner more suited to a Vegas showgirl than an ex-con (there's plenty of evidence to suggest the latter of the two, even if you don't remember it). Your eyes are bright green, unnaturally so. Upon closer inspection, you can see that you're wearing contacts.
Perhaps you're in disguise? Right down to breast augmentation?
That sort of thing is expensive; you wonder where you got the money. Maybe you stole it... Maybe some of it's still in the dank motel room.
You go around the room pulling open drawers with no sucess then you check under the bed only to find nothing. After searching for at least an hour, you notice a small peice of cloth drapped from the back of the television set. Looking closer it appears to be the last half inch of a shirt sleave. You Pry off the back to discover what you've been looking for - a stack of cash (a few thousand dollars from the looks of it), a makeup kit that matches what you have on your face, and a set of clothes. Unfortunately, after going through everything, you still don't have any answers - nor, does it seem, do you have any underwear.
The clothes fit you well, even skin-tight. They consist of a black leather mini, matching knee-high boots with spike heels, and a red PVC top that matches your lips, zips up in front, and boosts up your huge breasts nicely. Looking in the mirror with your new clothes on, you wonder if you're some kind of whore. You certainly look the part! But since your only other choice of clothing is the prison suit, it seems you have little choice in the matter.
Upon further inspection of the room, you gratefully discover a black overcoat hanging in the shower, perhaps to drip-dry. Also in the shower is a shoulder bag large enough to hold everything else you have.
In ten minutes, you have everything packed. The gun (loaded) is slipped into a hidden pocket inside the coat, and your other posessions are in the bag - including the prison suit, though you don't really know why you're keeping it. The scrap on newspaper is in another small pocket at the top of your boot - you can't help but think the phone number will come in handy.
Oddly, although you can't shake the feeling that you've recently fucked within an inch of your life, you found no evidence whatsoever that the room had another occupant.
With everything ready to go, you're about to step out the door when you hear sirens approaching in the distance.
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