"Thank you kindly, captain. How do I leave your ship?" A still completely stunned captain made a door open out of nowhere, somehow, and open it for you. On the other side you can see the mall you came from.
Back at this strange magical mall, you take take a look at yourself, wondering if you need anything else. You have your clothes, your tools, your cyber-prostheses and your trusty satchel. "No, I does not need anything else." Your decision made you exit the mall.
Instead of returning to the human world, you end down somewhere in hell. For a second you wonder if you didn't take the wrong exit, but that second was just the time needed for reality to rewrite itself according to your new self, making everyone forget you ever were human, let alone male.
You are Menrva, one of the numerous daughter of Lilith the 26th. Technically it make you a princess, but your name is so far down in the succession list, you virtually have no chance to ever access the throne. Not that you care much for it. If your sisters want it, they can have it!
Back when you were a little kid, your youngest sister teared out the bonny part of your wings, believing it was an easy way to make one less potential rival for the throne. She was right, but not in the way she thought. It caused the ire of your mother, who made sure everyone remembered that physically harming a sister was a disqualifying action in the battle for the crown. That night, the disgraced sister became part of the family's meal.
Normally demonic royalty don't care much for technology, but letting you stay a cripple wouldn't have reflected well on the queen, so she didn't spare the ‘money’ to have you equipped with fully a functional wings prosthesis. This changed your life.
Back then, you had never known anything but the eternal battle to become Lilith the 27th, and social evenings at the palace. But those mechanical wings on your back, even if they used the leathery-skin of your old one as their membrane, fascinated you. It was like someone had opened a door toward an infinity of possibility just in front of you.
Slowly but steadily you grew apart from the picture of the perfect little hell-princess ready to cut throat to become queen, each day a step toward becoming a mechanics prodigy. Then there was that accident in your secret little workshop, taking away the top of your tail. That's how you learned to be careful when working on your machines, and to always respect safety regulations.
Rapidly, practicality made you wear clothes. CLOTHES! In hell it's commoners who wear clothes, not royalty! Of course, during all those mandatory (for princesses) social gatherings you pranced around in your birth suite, like all of hell's nobility. But otherwise you were most probably clothed. Be it back in your hidden workshop building things, or among the common folks installing hi-tech prostheses on fellow cripples, most of them hurt in the eternal war demons fight against god and his angels. You also made some better weapons, but beside Belial the 5th, who became a fan once he regained his left hand thanks to you, no royals seems interested in providing their armies with your weapons, not even your mother.
You reenter the palace through your secret workshop, deposit all your garments in the corner you dubbed your change-room, before directing yourself toward your bedroom.