"Basic... training...?" you ask.
"Relax," says Christy. "The median age of basic training is twelve."
"Okay," you say, "but I mean, couldn't it be like language...?"
"It's not. But even it were, you'd be going in with an interpreter."
You smile. "Thanks."
One of the council clears her throat. "For the record, try not to talk to your dress this much in the field. It alienates civilians. Regardless, Moira!"
A bare naked woman, 10 cm tall, flutters in on gossamer wings. "Take..." the old woman glances down at her desk, "Rea and her dress to the training ground, will you?"
Moira nods and flutters out of the room. You follow her outside to what looks like some sort of impossible obstacle course, where you find a woman, forty or a bit under, white, skinny and all muscle, hair buzzed, but wearing a frilly dress, albeit one cut in lacy crosses to show off her abs and gams.
"Who's this?" she asks.
"Rea Ash," Moira shouts, "wearing Christy Fridolin!"
The woman laughs. "Welcome back, Christy. I always knew we'd meet again like this!"