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Everyone goes a little bit crazy when they're alone
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I try not to think of myself as the bad guy. Yes, I found myself involved in the development of mind-control technology, but I did my best to protect the world from the worst of it. After that, things just kind of happened on their own.At least, that's what I try to tell myself.
In hindsight, I don’t see how things could have turned out any other way. I’m not saying that as an excuse for any of the things I did or as if it makes them any less bad, but having taken the first step, things just kind of kept happening.
It started at work. I won’t say where.
We were testing methods of remote information transmission that didn’t rely on explicit outputs or inputs. Basically communication that bypassed the barriers outlined in models like Berlo’s SMCR: Instead of relying on language to convey meaning, our aim was to find a way to convey meaning itself directly from one mind to at least one other.
Again, with the benefit of hindsight, the implications were obvious, but we weren’t concerned with whether we should, we just wanted to see if we could. Classic hubris of the scientifically minded.
And it turns out we can. Or more specifically, I can. I’ve made sure all traces of the research material has been scrubbed from any database; every hard drive degaussed, every memory stick smashed into tiny pieces, every document shredded and the whole lot set on fire just to be safe. The technology is too dangerous to risk falling into the wrong hands.
Yes, like mine. It turns out my hands are also the wrong hands, but I didn’t know it at the time. I thought if I just kept the research to myself and studied it in secret, I could find a way to use it to make the world a better place. I guess I can still do that. Maybe it will make up for the bad that I’ve done, which on reflection isn’t even that bad.
Sure, I accidentally corrupted the free will of three fellow human beings and inadvertently turned them into my loyal assistants and sex slaves, but they’re happy. I know they’re happy, because in a lot of ways, they’re also me.
That helps, right?
* * *
Everyone was very excited. It was something worth being excited about. Transmission was old tech and measuring changes in brain waves was old tech, but reliably translating knowledge as it was being recalled into data, then being able to implant that data into another mind was a big fucking deal.
Other departments in other labs were specialising in mechanical transmission - robotics and cybernetics, for replacement or auxiliary limbs or remote work in hazardous environments. Useful stuff, but not nearly as delicate as what we were trying to achieve. They were trying to transmit a signal to a robot hand to gently hold an egg: We were trying to plug a single thought out of one hand and stitch it seamlessly into another.
Our first major breakthrough was impression: Not the conveyance of explicit knowledge or of a specific message, just a vague sense experienced by the broadcaster transmitted to the receiver. It had to be a strong sense, which meant staff with intense phobias being the broadcaster knowing what objects were beneath a series of cups, and the receiver choosing a cup at random based on the impression being transmitted to them.
It wasn’t a hundred percent accurate, but the results fell well outside of what would have been possible on pure guesswork and we were pumped to fine tune the technology to see what it could do.
I say “random,” because even though it wasn’t, even though we knew it wasn’t and even though the receiver knew that a successful test would be proof that it wasn’t, they still felt as though they were choosing randomly. At no point did they feel like they were under someone else’s influence or receiving information externally; in every single instance, they were convinced that the experiment had failed and they were just choosing at random.
That should have been our first warning.
We advanced from cups viewed from two positions to mazes navigated from two positions, and then from mazes to simple guessing games like battleships and go fish. Again, no explicit information, but impressions that still left the receiver under the illusion that they were just lucky guessers.
From simple games we moved on to more advanced guessing games like celebrity heads and poker. This was a significant step forwards, but we were still relying on impressions that could be rationalised by the receiver as guesswork and luck. At no point was anyone being fed information that they couldn’t have conceivably deduced, remembered, calculated or bumbled their way into naturally.
That’s when the second major breakthrough happened. One of our broadcasters, Jackson, had gotten tired transmitting the correct answers to his receiver and had started feeding them deliberately incorrect answers. Nothing obvious - just answers that were close enough that they could make even someone who already knew second guess themselves. His receiver had a post-it note on her forehead with “Tiger Woods” written in permanent marker on it, and she had been given the clue “Golfing champion.”
By now, everyone had gotten used to Jackson’s shenanigans, so we grinned or grimaced as poor Lena rattled through every wrong answer she could be compelled to try.
“Tony the Tiger. Michael Jordan. Walt Disney. Santa Claus. Mickey Mouse. Bullroarer Took. Babe Ruth. Heisenberg. Wait, who the hell is Bullroarer Took?”
She didn’t get an answer, as the lab immediately exploded into questions and exclamations and people generally just freaking out. We’d done it, and somehow completely by accident: An entirely new, explicit piece of information had been seamlessly added to a receiver’s brain and it wasn’t until a few seconds after they’d actually said it that they even realised it wasn’t information from their own brain.
That was our second warning.
The third warning came quite a bit later, but by pure chance, I was the only one who noticed and when I did, I acted immediately.
Jackson’s shenanigans had inadvertently opened up new paths of inquiry. By randomly but deliberately poking at areas of knowledge specifically unrelated to the task at hand, we were able to isolate the neural activation patterns associated with conscious knowledge independent of emotional belief.
What followed were several successful instances of transmitting discrete pieces of data from broadcaster to receiver, however we then ran into the new problem of getting the receiver to distinguish between their own thoughts and the information being fed to them. Furthermore, when asked to explain the reasoning behind the transmitted answers, receivers became dismissive, evasive and sometimes even agitated, later explaining that the information just “felt true,” a sensation that applied even in instances where the receiver had been deliberately fed incorrect data.
With mounting dread, we realised the danger of the technology we had created.
The true horror sunk in during a coffee break, when by pure chance I saw Jackon’s reflection making an odd hand gesture over the drink of a coworker whose back was turned. I had to force myself to turn around slowly, watching Jackson converse casually without his eyes leaving her face. It wasn’t until she took a sip that he seemed to relax and noticed me by the coffee machine. I did my best to betray nothing, placing my own coffee onto the table in front of him and moving as though to sit when I “remembered” to get cream from the fridge.
This time when I turned I saw his hurried motion plainly in the brushed metal door, and it took all the self control I had not to confront him or punch his lights out. I returned to the table, adding the cream without sitting before returning it to the fridge. I picked up my coffee and was about to walk out of the room with it when Jackson called out to me with some innocent question about my department. It quickly became clear that he was stalling, waiting for me to drink, so I feigned a casual sip with tightly pursed lips as we spoke and he seemed to relax. I took the opportunity to leave with my cup and as soon as I was out of sight went straight to the micro-observation facility.
We had initially aimed to use physical chips implanted in the subject’s brains to establish a connection, but the risk of accidental damage compounded by multiple intrusions in the case of faulty hardware or the replacement of redundant units made this untenable. Thankfully (or perhaps not), we were assisted by our sister department in nanotech, who had developed a biomonitoring system using carbide nanites that could enter the bloodstream through the digestive tract. To test for successful nanite absorption, we just needed to take a blood sample and insert it into an observation case. And it didn’t just work on blood.
I felt my stomach drop as the coffee reading came back positive. A concentration high enough that even a mouthful would fully colonise a body within hours. I felt sick as I entered a vial of my own saliva, and when that test also came back as a weak positive and rising, I almost fainted.
That fucking bastard.
I had to stop myself from running to the configuration deck and came to a sudden halt halfway there. There’s no way Jackson could have done anything underhanded on one of the terminals without someone seeing him. The room, the equipment and change was constantly monitored as a security measure. If he were going to do anything without being detected, it would need to be somewhere private where he could still access the server and the network. He wasn’t authorised to be anywhere near the site’s core infrastructure, but it was the only place where he would have everything he needed.
I didn’t know how I was going to get access to the server room when I arrived - it’s not as if I had access either - but it turned out that I didn’t need access and neither did Jackson.
Lena had access, and she had left the door unlocked.
She looked up at me owlishly from where she was sitting on the floor, cross-legged with a laptop on her knees.
“Oh, Hi Marcus,” she said, parroting Tommy Wiseau’s infamous line as though we were meeting in the break room.
“Lena?” I asked cautiously. “What are you working on?”
“Oh, I’m just making sure that anytime a new host comes online, they’re set to receive only,” she said, as though she were just filling out her calendar. She turned the laptop so that I could see the screen and pointed at the second of two dots on a map of the facility. “See? There you are right next to me. You came online just a minute ago, so I’ve already made you a receiver.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Because Jackson told me to.”
I stared at the unquestioning innocence in her eyes.
“And you have to do what he says?”
Lena rolled her eyes at me. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I repeated. The silence was broken only by the steady whine of cooling fans.
Eventually, Lena shifted uncomfortably. “So, what are you doing here? You’re not IT.”
Not wanting to alarm her, I said the first thing that I could think of. “No, but Jackson sent me.”
The way Lena’s face lit up at his name made me feel ill.
“Does that mean you’re working for him too?”
“Yes,” I lied. Like a man laying down rails for a moving train as he’s riding on it, I grabbed blindly for any string of words that might work. “And he told me to come get you for something important. He’s… outside in the parking lot and says you need to come straight away.”
Lena’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, but I have to stay here for stage three. I’ve just finished getting everyone online.”
“That’s fine. He told me to take over. I have to do what he says, remember? You’ve finished stage two, haven’t you? He says you’ve done a very good job.”
Again, the look of bliss that took over Lena’s face twisted my gut.
“Great! Where can I find him?”
“He just told me as he was walking out,” I said, letting Lena stand up and hand me the laptop. “You’ll have to go look for him. He’s keeping an eye out for you.”
“Okay!” I watched Lena leave the room and closed it behind her, making sure to lock it this time. We shared our parking with three other departments across eight floors, so unless Jackson really was there already, that would keep her out of the way.
She’d been right. Jackson had worked his way through the entire department’s staff and I had a live view of every single person in the facility. Watching the glowing dots meander around the map gave me a truly terrifying glimpse into the future we had made possible.
What caught my eye was something that didn’t exist in the standard interface. We had created individual controls for the kind of transmissions we wanted and the direction we wanted them to go in, but Lena had added a new input without a label.
Clicking on it, a text field appears in which the name “Enfield, Lena” was already populated followed by a yes/no switch.
I pressed “yes” and blacked out.
* * *
I was in the parking lot, on the blue level by bay two-zero-two. At first I wondered how I had been suddenly transported when I realised how strange I felt all over - my body, my clothes and my hair all felt wrong somehow.
I looked down and felt the strength leave my legs as I saw a woman’s body stretching out below me. A woman’s body in a pair of black Mary Janes, matching pencil skirt, white dress shirt and a lanyard whose ID read “Lena Enfield.”
I stared at myself in shock, having fallen to my knees and began running my unfamiliar hands over my unfamiliar body, trying to confirm that I wasn’t somehow dreaming.
“Lena!” a voice echoed across the concrete, causing me to jump in a mix of fear and guilt. I turned in the direction of the voice and felt my heart quail at the side of Jackson striding towards me, his face contorted with fury.
In that instant I felt an overwhelming sense of panic take over and I wanted to be absolutely anywhere except anywhere near him, and in that same moment I felt myself dragged back into the cool air of the server room, sitting on the floor with Lena’s laptop on my legs.
We had theorised that it was possible, but had never been arrogant or stupid enough to try it. The psychological risks and ethical dangers it posed were beyond our ability to rationalise and well outside the original scope of the project, though there were rumours that it would eventually be turned towards a similar end.
But I didn’t have time to marvel at the development. Jackson would interrogate Lena, Lena would tell him the truth, and he would run straight here. I had to act fast.
Jackson would head straight for the server room once he realised what had happened.
I could head straight for the director’s office, but there was no guarantee that she wasn’t also in on his plot. I checked the map again: She had her nanites installed and despite her rank in the organisation had also been set to receive, as had every guard on her floor. Jackson really intended to just dominate everyone in the building. I had all the proof I needed to expose Jackson and have him arrested.
We would need to deprogram Lena. Shit, assuming that was even possible. God only knew how badly Jackson had been screwing with her brain, or for how long. And there was always a chance the higher ups would find out and do what higher ups always do when they have the opportunity to take even more wealth and power.
I fretted for much longer than I should have under the circumstances. Maybe there really was no other way, or maybe I was just deliberately backing myself into a corner. Whatever the case, the sudden jangle of keys at the door alerted me that I had run out of time, and that within seconds, Jackson would be in the room to steal back the laptop, or possibly even frame me, now that he’d been discovered.
I’d considered the option and dismissed it as immoral. Self-serving. A road too dangerous to even consider walking down. But having failed to take any other action, I was left with only one option.
It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. When the chips are down and the pressure is on, the only person you can depend on is yourself.
I dragged my own icon into the super broadcaster position, and hit “execute.”
* * *
There wasn’t any sudden rush of sensation. There never had been: Broadcasting just took the data you wanted to impart and transmitted a copy to the target. But for some reason, I still expected something.
What did happen was the sound of keys hitting the floor outside, followed by a hollow groan of absolute despair.
I unlocked the door and opened it to find Jackson, grey-faced and swaying with his hands covering his face. Lena was behind him, looking pitiful, but not nearly as distraught as Jackson.
“Hello, Jackson.” I said flatly.
“Don’t…” he moaned through his hands.
People had begun to file into the room, ashen-faced but with a mix of anger, all of them staring at Jackson as he tried to hide behind himself.
I’d used the nanites to broadcast two things: The knowledge of what Jackson had tried to do, and my overwhelming disgust at him for the attempt.
Now everyone knew what he’d done, he knew that they knew and he shared their hatred for himself because I had copied it directly from my mind into his.
“Nobody hurt him,” I said, seeing the balled fists and shaking hands around me. “Nobody let him hurt himself, either. Get him out of here.”
Four men approached Jackson, who didn’t resist as they grimly marched him away. I turned to Lena, who was running her hands through her hair, wide-eyed and shivering.
“H-he was-s in m-my head…” she stammered.
I didn’t have any words of consolation for her. Least of all, because not moments ago I had also been inside her mind. The only reason she knew about Jackson was because I had “told” her. I motioned for another one of the staff to take her away.
“Alright, everyone,” I said to those who remained. “I want an all-hands meeting in the break room. Tell everyone you see, and someone head upstairs to find…”
I trailed off as I realised how much time would be wasted finding everyone in the building and telling them where to go, and then more wasted simply having the meeting itself, and that was assuming nobody disagreed with what I was about to say.
Well, neither of those things were problems anymore, were they?
I activated my transmitter and broadcast a new set of instructions.
“The project is to be terminated. Nobody can be trusted with this power. Destroy all hardware, all documentation, strip the building down and wipe everything.”
The effect was instant: People began moving with an almost frantic purpose, delegating tasks to themselves or people nearby as files began to be pulled out of drawers and shredded, computers wiped and machinery disassembled. I had intended to join in, but found myself at sea in a centre of bustling activity, so instead walked myself out to my car to lie down and clear my head.
Had I done the right thing? Yes. Absolutely. Any other decision would have exposed everyone to the risk of Jackson regaining control, or the project being compromised by a figure in authority. Even if the director was of sound moral character, her superiors might not be, or their superiors above them. Someone, somewhere in the organisation would have tried to take advantage, just like Jackson did. Better to destroy everything and pretend it never happened.
I watched numbly as a procession of staff began to file out with armfuls and boxes of shredded documents, leaving trails of confetti in their wake. Like ants, they threw their boxes into one of the massive steel containers used for waste disposal. Some others had started fussing over the nearest cars, and it took me a while to realise that they were siphoning the petrol.
My initial alarm was quelled somewhat when they left the containers of fuel to one side instead of lighting it immediately. Any kind of fire would alert the emergency services, who would no doubt try to stop what was happening once they arrived.
It was actually kind of peaceful, sitting apart from the action and just watching it unfold. Almost like watching an ant colony cleaning out a lunchbox: All of the inside bits got broken down and taken outside until all that was left was the shell.
They had filled all six bins and four of the cargo trucks by the time they were done. Everything had been reduced to the smallest parts it could be torn, cut, unscrewed, unplugged or just smashed into. There was no cheering as fuel was added or the flames lit from a safe distance. Just the quiet relief of a terrible future averted.
Someone coughed near me and I turned to see Lena and a few other members of staff with a single trolley loaded with some equipment that hadn’t been destroyed. Confused, I turned to Lena.
“Aren’t you going to add it to the pile?” I asked.
“Not this stuff,” Lena said cheerfully, apparently recovered from her earlier breakdown. “We figured it would be a shame if we destroyed literally everything, so we’ve saved some of it. And because you decided to be mister lazy-pants while the rest of us were hard at work, we’re giving you the job of taking care of it.”
I couldn’t stop my brow furrowing in confusion. “I never told you to do that.”
Lena scoffed as the others began loading the equipment into my car. “Good. We’re not here to do what you tell us. The vote was unanimous: We’re all getting out, so you get to babysit the last remnants. Hide it, destroy it, do whatever you want. This is your share of the responsibility. Maybe next time, do your bit instead of wandering off for a nap, okay?”
And with that, they left to join the rapidly dispersing crowd as everyone jumped into their cars or hitched a ride from the others. A column of black smoke reached up from the facility, and it would be a matter of minutes before the firefighters arrived. Just by virtue of the work we were doing, the cops wouldn’t be far behind.
Without time to get everything out of my car and into the fire, I jumped into the driver’s seat and made my way out with the rest, racking my brain furiously as I tried to avoid speeding on my way home.
I never told them to set aside any equipment for me. No, I never CONSCIOUSLY told them. That really was the only explanation: There was no way that - after being given the artificial impression that the entire project needed to be burned to the ground - they would somehow conveniently decide that I should be trusted with the last pieces of evidence. Not just any evidence, either: At a glance I could tell that I had been left with everything I needed to manufacture and configure the nanites myself, just on a much smaller scale.
Despite my best intentions, some small part of myself had subconsciously implanted the addendum that one way or another, I should have the power to continue the project privately.
Fine, then. I’d get home, pack up what little I could fit and get the hell out of the city, state, maybe even country before finding somewhere I could safely destroy the last remains of a terrible mistake.
That was almost two years ago.
I never did get around to destroying that equipment.
In hindsight, I don’t see how things could have turned out any other way. I’m not saying that as an excuse for any of the things I did or as if it makes them any less bad, but having taken the first step, things just kind of kept happening.
It started at work. I won’t say where.
We were testing methods of remote information transmission that didn’t rely on explicit outputs or inputs. Basically communication that bypassed the barriers outlined in models like Berlo’s SMCR: Instead of relying on language to convey meaning, our aim was to find a way to convey meaning itself directly from one mind to at least one other.
Again, with the benefit of hindsight, the implications were obvious, but we weren’t concerned with whether we should, we just wanted to see if we could. Classic hubris of the scientifically minded.
And it turns out we can. Or more specifically, I can. I’ve made sure all traces of the research material has been scrubbed from any database; every hard drive degaussed, every memory stick smashed into tiny pieces, every document shredded and the whole lot set on fire just to be safe. The technology is too dangerous to risk falling into the wrong hands.
Yes, like mine. It turns out my hands are also the wrong hands, but I didn’t know it at the time. I thought if I just kept the research to myself and studied it in secret, I could find a way to use it to make the world a better place. I guess I can still do that. Maybe it will make up for the bad that I’ve done, which on reflection isn’t even that bad.
Sure, I accidentally corrupted the free will of three fellow human beings and inadvertently turned them into my loyal assistants and sex slaves, but they’re happy. I know they’re happy, because in a lot of ways, they’re also me.
That helps, right?
* * *
Everyone was very excited. It was something worth being excited about. Transmission was old tech and measuring changes in brain waves was old tech, but reliably translating knowledge as it was being recalled into data, then being able to implant that data into another mind was a big fucking deal.
Other departments in other labs were specialising in mechanical transmission - robotics and cybernetics, for replacement or auxiliary limbs or remote work in hazardous environments. Useful stuff, but not nearly as delicate as what we were trying to achieve. They were trying to transmit a signal to a robot hand to gently hold an egg: We were trying to plug a single thought out of one hand and stitch it seamlessly into another.
Our first major breakthrough was impression: Not the conveyance of explicit knowledge or of a specific message, just a vague sense experienced by the broadcaster transmitted to the receiver. It had to be a strong sense, which meant staff with intense phobias being the broadcaster knowing what objects were beneath a series of cups, and the receiver choosing a cup at random based on the impression being transmitted to them.
It wasn’t a hundred percent accurate, but the results fell well outside of what would have been possible on pure guesswork and we were pumped to fine tune the technology to see what it could do.
I say “random,” because even though it wasn’t, even though we knew it wasn’t and even though the receiver knew that a successful test would be proof that it wasn’t, they still felt as though they were choosing randomly. At no point did they feel like they were under someone else’s influence or receiving information externally; in every single instance, they were convinced that the experiment had failed and they were just choosing at random.
That should have been our first warning.
We advanced from cups viewed from two positions to mazes navigated from two positions, and then from mazes to simple guessing games like battleships and go fish. Again, no explicit information, but impressions that still left the receiver under the illusion that they were just lucky guessers.
From simple games we moved on to more advanced guessing games like celebrity heads and poker. This was a significant step forwards, but we were still relying on impressions that could be rationalised by the receiver as guesswork and luck. At no point was anyone being fed information that they couldn’t have conceivably deduced, remembered, calculated or bumbled their way into naturally.
That’s when the second major breakthrough happened. One of our broadcasters, Jackson, had gotten tired transmitting the correct answers to his receiver and had started feeding them deliberately incorrect answers. Nothing obvious - just answers that were close enough that they could make even someone who already knew second guess themselves. His receiver had a post-it note on her forehead with “Tiger Woods” written in permanent marker on it, and she had been given the clue “Golfing champion.”
By now, everyone had gotten used to Jackson’s shenanigans, so we grinned or grimaced as poor Lena rattled through every wrong answer she could be compelled to try.
“Tony the Tiger. Michael Jordan. Walt Disney. Santa Claus. Mickey Mouse. Bullroarer Took. Babe Ruth. Heisenberg. Wait, who the hell is Bullroarer Took?”
She didn’t get an answer, as the lab immediately exploded into questions and exclamations and people generally just freaking out. We’d done it, and somehow completely by accident: An entirely new, explicit piece of information had been seamlessly added to a receiver’s brain and it wasn’t until a few seconds after they’d actually said it that they even realised it wasn’t information from their own brain.
That was our second warning.
The third warning came quite a bit later, but by pure chance, I was the only one who noticed and when I did, I acted immediately.
Jackson’s shenanigans had inadvertently opened up new paths of inquiry. By randomly but deliberately poking at areas of knowledge specifically unrelated to the task at hand, we were able to isolate the neural activation patterns associated with conscious knowledge independent of emotional belief.
What followed were several successful instances of transmitting discrete pieces of data from broadcaster to receiver, however we then ran into the new problem of getting the receiver to distinguish between their own thoughts and the information being fed to them. Furthermore, when asked to explain the reasoning behind the transmitted answers, receivers became dismissive, evasive and sometimes even agitated, later explaining that the information just “felt true,” a sensation that applied even in instances where the receiver had been deliberately fed incorrect data.
With mounting dread, we realised the danger of the technology we had created.
The true horror sunk in during a coffee break, when by pure chance I saw Jackon’s reflection making an odd hand gesture over the drink of a coworker whose back was turned. I had to force myself to turn around slowly, watching Jackson converse casually without his eyes leaving her face. It wasn’t until she took a sip that he seemed to relax and noticed me by the coffee machine. I did my best to betray nothing, placing my own coffee onto the table in front of him and moving as though to sit when I “remembered” to get cream from the fridge.
This time when I turned I saw his hurried motion plainly in the brushed metal door, and it took all the self control I had not to confront him or punch his lights out. I returned to the table, adding the cream without sitting before returning it to the fridge. I picked up my coffee and was about to walk out of the room with it when Jackson called out to me with some innocent question about my department. It quickly became clear that he was stalling, waiting for me to drink, so I feigned a casual sip with tightly pursed lips as we spoke and he seemed to relax. I took the opportunity to leave with my cup and as soon as I was out of sight went straight to the micro-observation facility.
We had initially aimed to use physical chips implanted in the subject’s brains to establish a connection, but the risk of accidental damage compounded by multiple intrusions in the case of faulty hardware or the replacement of redundant units made this untenable. Thankfully (or perhaps not), we were assisted by our sister department in nanotech, who had developed a biomonitoring system using carbide nanites that could enter the bloodstream through the digestive tract. To test for successful nanite absorption, we just needed to take a blood sample and insert it into an observation case. And it didn’t just work on blood.
I felt my stomach drop as the coffee reading came back positive. A concentration high enough that even a mouthful would fully colonise a body within hours. I felt sick as I entered a vial of my own saliva, and when that test also came back as a weak positive and rising, I almost fainted.
That fucking bastard.
I had to stop myself from running to the configuration deck and came to a sudden halt halfway there. There’s no way Jackson could have done anything underhanded on one of the terminals without someone seeing him. The room, the equipment and change was constantly monitored as a security measure. If he were going to do anything without being detected, it would need to be somewhere private where he could still access the server and the network. He wasn’t authorised to be anywhere near the site’s core infrastructure, but it was the only place where he would have everything he needed.
I didn’t know how I was going to get access to the server room when I arrived - it’s not as if I had access either - but it turned out that I didn’t need access and neither did Jackson.
Lena had access, and she had left the door unlocked.
She looked up at me owlishly from where she was sitting on the floor, cross-legged with a laptop on her knees.
“Oh, Hi Marcus,” she said, parroting Tommy Wiseau’s infamous line as though we were meeting in the break room.
“Lena?” I asked cautiously. “What are you working on?”
“Oh, I’m just making sure that anytime a new host comes online, they’re set to receive only,” she said, as though she were just filling out her calendar. She turned the laptop so that I could see the screen and pointed at the second of two dots on a map of the facility. “See? There you are right next to me. You came online just a minute ago, so I’ve already made you a receiver.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Because Jackson told me to.”
I stared at the unquestioning innocence in her eyes.
“And you have to do what he says?”
Lena rolled her eyes at me. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I repeated. The silence was broken only by the steady whine of cooling fans.
Eventually, Lena shifted uncomfortably. “So, what are you doing here? You’re not IT.”
Not wanting to alarm her, I said the first thing that I could think of. “No, but Jackson sent me.”
The way Lena’s face lit up at his name made me feel ill.
“Does that mean you’re working for him too?”
“Yes,” I lied. Like a man laying down rails for a moving train as he’s riding on it, I grabbed blindly for any string of words that might work. “And he told me to come get you for something important. He’s… outside in the parking lot and says you need to come straight away.”
Lena’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, but I have to stay here for stage three. I’ve just finished getting everyone online.”
“That’s fine. He told me to take over. I have to do what he says, remember? You’ve finished stage two, haven’t you? He says you’ve done a very good job.”
Again, the look of bliss that took over Lena’s face twisted my gut.
“Great! Where can I find him?”
“He just told me as he was walking out,” I said, letting Lena stand up and hand me the laptop. “You’ll have to go look for him. He’s keeping an eye out for you.”
“Okay!” I watched Lena leave the room and closed it behind her, making sure to lock it this time. We shared our parking with three other departments across eight floors, so unless Jackson really was there already, that would keep her out of the way.
She’d been right. Jackson had worked his way through the entire department’s staff and I had a live view of every single person in the facility. Watching the glowing dots meander around the map gave me a truly terrifying glimpse into the future we had made possible.
What caught my eye was something that didn’t exist in the standard interface. We had created individual controls for the kind of transmissions we wanted and the direction we wanted them to go in, but Lena had added a new input without a label.
Clicking on it, a text field appears in which the name “Enfield, Lena” was already populated followed by a yes/no switch.
I pressed “yes” and blacked out.
* * *
I was in the parking lot, on the blue level by bay two-zero-two. At first I wondered how I had been suddenly transported when I realised how strange I felt all over - my body, my clothes and my hair all felt wrong somehow.
I looked down and felt the strength leave my legs as I saw a woman’s body stretching out below me. A woman’s body in a pair of black Mary Janes, matching pencil skirt, white dress shirt and a lanyard whose ID read “Lena Enfield.”
I stared at myself in shock, having fallen to my knees and began running my unfamiliar hands over my unfamiliar body, trying to confirm that I wasn’t somehow dreaming.
“Lena!” a voice echoed across the concrete, causing me to jump in a mix of fear and guilt. I turned in the direction of the voice and felt my heart quail at the side of Jackson striding towards me, his face contorted with fury.
In that instant I felt an overwhelming sense of panic take over and I wanted to be absolutely anywhere except anywhere near him, and in that same moment I felt myself dragged back into the cool air of the server room, sitting on the floor with Lena’s laptop on my legs.
We had theorised that it was possible, but had never been arrogant or stupid enough to try it. The psychological risks and ethical dangers it posed were beyond our ability to rationalise and well outside the original scope of the project, though there were rumours that it would eventually be turned towards a similar end.
But I didn’t have time to marvel at the development. Jackson would interrogate Lena, Lena would tell him the truth, and he would run straight here. I had to act fast.
Jackson would head straight for the server room once he realised what had happened.
I could head straight for the director’s office, but there was no guarantee that she wasn’t also in on his plot. I checked the map again: She had her nanites installed and despite her rank in the organisation had also been set to receive, as had every guard on her floor. Jackson really intended to just dominate everyone in the building. I had all the proof I needed to expose Jackson and have him arrested.
We would need to deprogram Lena. Shit, assuming that was even possible. God only knew how badly Jackson had been screwing with her brain, or for how long. And there was always a chance the higher ups would find out and do what higher ups always do when they have the opportunity to take even more wealth and power.
I fretted for much longer than I should have under the circumstances. Maybe there really was no other way, or maybe I was just deliberately backing myself into a corner. Whatever the case, the sudden jangle of keys at the door alerted me that I had run out of time, and that within seconds, Jackson would be in the room to steal back the laptop, or possibly even frame me, now that he’d been discovered.
I’d considered the option and dismissed it as immoral. Self-serving. A road too dangerous to even consider walking down. But having failed to take any other action, I was left with only one option.
It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. When the chips are down and the pressure is on, the only person you can depend on is yourself.
I dragged my own icon into the super broadcaster position, and hit “execute.”
* * *
There wasn’t any sudden rush of sensation. There never had been: Broadcasting just took the data you wanted to impart and transmitted a copy to the target. But for some reason, I still expected something.
What did happen was the sound of keys hitting the floor outside, followed by a hollow groan of absolute despair.
I unlocked the door and opened it to find Jackson, grey-faced and swaying with his hands covering his face. Lena was behind him, looking pitiful, but not nearly as distraught as Jackson.
“Hello, Jackson.” I said flatly.
“Don’t…” he moaned through his hands.
People had begun to file into the room, ashen-faced but with a mix of anger, all of them staring at Jackson as he tried to hide behind himself.
I’d used the nanites to broadcast two things: The knowledge of what Jackson had tried to do, and my overwhelming disgust at him for the attempt.
Now everyone knew what he’d done, he knew that they knew and he shared their hatred for himself because I had copied it directly from my mind into his.
“Nobody hurt him,” I said, seeing the balled fists and shaking hands around me. “Nobody let him hurt himself, either. Get him out of here.”
Four men approached Jackson, who didn’t resist as they grimly marched him away. I turned to Lena, who was running her hands through her hair, wide-eyed and shivering.
“H-he was-s in m-my head…” she stammered.
I didn’t have any words of consolation for her. Least of all, because not moments ago I had also been inside her mind. The only reason she knew about Jackson was because I had “told” her. I motioned for another one of the staff to take her away.
“Alright, everyone,” I said to those who remained. “I want an all-hands meeting in the break room. Tell everyone you see, and someone head upstairs to find…”
I trailed off as I realised how much time would be wasted finding everyone in the building and telling them where to go, and then more wasted simply having the meeting itself, and that was assuming nobody disagreed with what I was about to say.
Well, neither of those things were problems anymore, were they?
I activated my transmitter and broadcast a new set of instructions.
“The project is to be terminated. Nobody can be trusted with this power. Destroy all hardware, all documentation, strip the building down and wipe everything.”
The effect was instant: People began moving with an almost frantic purpose, delegating tasks to themselves or people nearby as files began to be pulled out of drawers and shredded, computers wiped and machinery disassembled. I had intended to join in, but found myself at sea in a centre of bustling activity, so instead walked myself out to my car to lie down and clear my head.
Had I done the right thing? Yes. Absolutely. Any other decision would have exposed everyone to the risk of Jackson regaining control, or the project being compromised by a figure in authority. Even if the director was of sound moral character, her superiors might not be, or their superiors above them. Someone, somewhere in the organisation would have tried to take advantage, just like Jackson did. Better to destroy everything and pretend it never happened.
I watched numbly as a procession of staff began to file out with armfuls and boxes of shredded documents, leaving trails of confetti in their wake. Like ants, they threw their boxes into one of the massive steel containers used for waste disposal. Some others had started fussing over the nearest cars, and it took me a while to realise that they were siphoning the petrol.
My initial alarm was quelled somewhat when they left the containers of fuel to one side instead of lighting it immediately. Any kind of fire would alert the emergency services, who would no doubt try to stop what was happening once they arrived.
It was actually kind of peaceful, sitting apart from the action and just watching it unfold. Almost like watching an ant colony cleaning out a lunchbox: All of the inside bits got broken down and taken outside until all that was left was the shell.
They had filled all six bins and four of the cargo trucks by the time they were done. Everything had been reduced to the smallest parts it could be torn, cut, unscrewed, unplugged or just smashed into. There was no cheering as fuel was added or the flames lit from a safe distance. Just the quiet relief of a terrible future averted.
Someone coughed near me and I turned to see Lena and a few other members of staff with a single trolley loaded with some equipment that hadn’t been destroyed. Confused, I turned to Lena.
“Aren’t you going to add it to the pile?” I asked.
“Not this stuff,” Lena said cheerfully, apparently recovered from her earlier breakdown. “We figured it would be a shame if we destroyed literally everything, so we’ve saved some of it. And because you decided to be mister lazy-pants while the rest of us were hard at work, we’re giving you the job of taking care of it.”
I couldn’t stop my brow furrowing in confusion. “I never told you to do that.”
Lena scoffed as the others began loading the equipment into my car. “Good. We’re not here to do what you tell us. The vote was unanimous: We’re all getting out, so you get to babysit the last remnants. Hide it, destroy it, do whatever you want. This is your share of the responsibility. Maybe next time, do your bit instead of wandering off for a nap, okay?”
And with that, they left to join the rapidly dispersing crowd as everyone jumped into their cars or hitched a ride from the others. A column of black smoke reached up from the facility, and it would be a matter of minutes before the firefighters arrived. Just by virtue of the work we were doing, the cops wouldn’t be far behind.
Without time to get everything out of my car and into the fire, I jumped into the driver’s seat and made my way out with the rest, racking my brain furiously as I tried to avoid speeding on my way home.
I never told them to set aside any equipment for me. No, I never CONSCIOUSLY told them. That really was the only explanation: There was no way that - after being given the artificial impression that the entire project needed to be burned to the ground - they would somehow conveniently decide that I should be trusted with the last pieces of evidence. Not just any evidence, either: At a glance I could tell that I had been left with everything I needed to manufacture and configure the nanites myself, just on a much smaller scale.
Despite my best intentions, some small part of myself had subconsciously implanted the addendum that one way or another, I should have the power to continue the project privately.
Fine, then. I’d get home, pack up what little I could fit and get the hell out of the city, state, maybe even country before finding somewhere I could safely destroy the last remains of a terrible mistake.
That was almost two years ago.
I never did get around to destroying that equipment.
mind control
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I thought that having my body possessed, my life stolen and my evenings spent tangled in a carnal carousel of degenerate sex was the worst thing that could happen to me.I was wrong.
It had been three months since I had felt the presence slither out of my mind. Three months since I had been trapped as a helpless passenger in my own body, watching it gleefully debase itself in ways I had never dared imagine.
There had been no warning: One moment I had been waiting in line to audition for some minor speaking role, when a sudden shiver ran through me. The person sitting next to me had asked if I was okay, and I’d tried to make a joke about how nervous I was. Instead, my body silently stood up and began to walk briskly towards the exit.
I had tried to cry out. I tried to stop myself. I tried to trip myself up, swivel my eyes or even blink in a way that might signal to someone that something was terribly wrong, but I completely lost control of my own faculties. Some outside force had seized control of my body and walked it smartly into the elevator, taking us down to the lobby, out the studio doors and into the city’s seedy underbelly.
Well, perhaps not exactly. As my body began to pilot itself towards what I recognised as the red light district, I felt myself almost blacking out in panic - the thought of being trapped as my body handed out back-alley blowjobs filling me with a sense of sickness beyond simple nausea.
To my bitter relief, I watched myself sashay into the most salubrious venue in the city: More a luxury hotel than a whorehouse, but everyone knew that the turndown service included some very intimate extras.
I felt my face flex into a charming smile to the bouncer and saw his look of amused recognition. I’d never seen the brute in my life, but I realised with horror that I was just the latest victim of whatever sick perversion was taking place.
It is a terrible thing to feel your lips and tongue move of their own accord, speaking words not your own in a language you don’t even understand. Some cryptic collection of syllables whispered to the concierge that I could not have hoped to remember even the next day, let alone now.
I - my body, and whatever was controlling it - was given access to the service lift, disembarking into a hall that looked like a modernised Mount Olympus: Laden tables, bubbling fountains, crystalline pools, cushioned lounges and of course, an entourage of gorgeous men and women in various states of undress.
They did not seem gorgeous when I first laid eyes on them. In my state of horror and revulsion, I saw them only as whores and deviants; accomplices to the crime being committed against me. Now I remember their lithe physiques and alluring expressions with what I can only think of as a desperate, carnal thirst.
This is the curse that has scarred me since my release. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been freed from whatever monster had stolen a year of my life; the memory of the pleasures it enjoyed with my flesh remains, and I wake up at night feeling terribly cold and alone.
They had welcomed me with the warmth and intimacy of a lifetime lover, undressing me as my body gracefully shed one piece of clothing after another. There was an air of excited exploration: Despite their familiarity with whatever had taken control of me, every inch of my naked skin, every hair, every finger and toe was treated as a curiosity to be examined.
I felt my body gasp at the first kiss - a gentle peck on my inner thigh. My body smiled with amusement and allowed itself to be lowered onto a bed of gold tasselled pillows before opening its arms and legs to the storm of affection.
Kissing. Licking. Stroking. Squeezing. My body made no effort to resist as it was toyed with and tasted by this party of strangers, and I felt a thrill of physical excitement grow within me that I had never known before my possession.
Shortly afterwards I would reassure myself that I was the perversion of the degenerate mind controlling me that caused such feelings - that I would never experience that kind of enjoyment from such a debasing act.
I know now that I was a fool. My body has tasted something I could never hope to recreate within the confines of my drab morality, and its hunger for more would later drive me to madness.
I was the guest of honour that night, and my body was a dish to be sampled by all. I was forced to savour the taste of every guest in turn - the men, the women, and those wore the face and body of one while sporting the genitals of the other. I had hated them at the time, assuming that they were conscious of and taking delight in my imprisonment and suffering. It is still possible that they were, but somehow I find it hard to loathe them now as I did then.
There were no ringmasters that I can recall; no one figure dominating the course of proceedings. Were it not for my own distress, I would have assumed the proceedings had no sinister puppeteer skulking in the shadows, but I sought one out in an attempt to distract myself from the physical sensations.
Callisto. I remember the name Callisto. The thing wearing my face had recognised her and I had felt my traitor heart leap in my chest at the sight of her. She was beautiful. I could admit that, even in the throes of my own misery. She had descended through the forest of bodies to press her lips against mine - lips that devoured the kiss with ravenous abandon.
What followed was a torrent of whispers in that unknown language, punctuated by giggles and yet more lashing of tongues. The thing within me was smitten with this woman, and she had recognised its presence, despite my face. My eyes were closed for much of their tryst, but often they would open and each would gaze into each other before bursting into more giggles or succumbing once more to their lust.
The sensation of something hot and rubbery against my thigh came as a shock to me, and as my gaze shifted to look, I expected to see some male suitor encroaching from between us. Instead, I saw an incongruously large penis sprouting from between Callisto’s legs, visibly bobbing as it twitched in time with her heartbeat.
My own shock failed to register on my face, which smiled with what I felt was both encouragement to the woman on top of me and a vindictive irony at my helplessness.
If Callisto was aware of my revulsion behind the smile, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she chose to slide her shaft between my legs, thrusting slowly back and forth so that its length ran along my nether lips in languid, luxurious strokes.
My body squealed, arching its back as I felt muscles within me twitch and spasm in delighted anticipation. Over the course of what felt like hours, my disgust reluctantly gave way to frustration - my body teased to the edge of orgasm again and again without reaching the peak.
I wanted to cry. To bed for forgiveness for whatever crime I had committed to deserve this humiliation, whatever it took for them to unchain or - if I must remain under their control - to at least give me release.
As I cried out in my own mind, I felt my body giggle again, and I realised with mortified horror that the thing controlling me was indeed aware of my own thoughts and was gaining a twisted sense of enjoyment from my distress.
Before I could rally any kind of indignant rage to admonish them with, my lips whispered a command to Callisto, who obliged by drawing back and thrusting into me until our crotches were pressed together.
My possessor had been ready for it, and wrapped my legs around her lover to better grind my body against her, moaning in ecstasy as I was forced to share in her pleasure. Every part of my skin was electrified, and I could feel every hair, every raised pore, every millimetre of my breasts and vulva and sweat-slick skin rubbing and sliding and stretching over my muscles as they contorted and twitched.
It was magical. As ashamed as I am to say it even now, it was like nothing I had experienced in my life up to that instant, and while I still try to convince myself that the memory makes me sick with disgust, the truth is that I am filled with a painful sense of longing for that moment and the many others that followed.
She had called out a name as she poured herself into me, the warmth of her seed spreading a fire throughout my body. “Artemis,” she had cried out, and my own body moaned hers in response. Even after the spasms eased, we spent some time simply basking in each other’s warmth and the afterglow of climax.
We did not remain in each other’s arms for long, and soon afterwards I would find myself once again being handed from partner to partner, sometimes one by one, sometimes in groups of four or more, each one of them hungry to savour this new morsel that had been puppeteered into their den. There was no effort to engage in intimacy, no connection formed other than the purely physical. I was the evening’s main dish, and I found myself being tasted by many mouths.
I wish I could say that I blacked out, or that overstimulation numbed me such that time passed in a blur. I was granted no such mercy. I remember clearly peeling my viscid skin from the evening’s final paramour. I remember finding my garments among the pile by the door. I remember the knowing leer of the hotel staff as I saw myself out the lobby to a waiting cab that answered to foreign instructions and demanded no fee. I remember my confusion slowly turning to horror as I recognised the streets I was being driven down - that the thing within me had somehow gleaned my address and was taking me home. Is that how they had found me? Had some enchantment been weaved on me as I slept, culminating in my capture earlier that day?
As I watched my body wash itself thoroughly, sneering at what modest comforts I could afford myself, I hoped with increasing desperation that the rising of a new sun would banish the nightmare. Despite certainly knowing my thoughts, my body gave no response besides rolling naked into bed and closing my eyes. I had only moments of darkness before the current of sleep dragged me under.
* * *
My eyes opened to the sound of my morning alarm, and it was with a sudden rush of relief that I sat up in dawn’s early light. That relief was short-lived, as my body had in truth been obeying its new master, who had simply risen as I would have done. Now I felt the world turn as my body spun out of bed and practically danced to the bathroom mirror to admire by the light of day the prize it had stolen.
The expression of vindictive glee it wore with my face contrasted against my own horror, and while it spared no words for what it was or why it had chosen me, it took the time to tease us both to solitary climax with my stolen hands.
Far from being freed, that morning marked the first full day of my new nightmare: A nightmare in which my body would walk familiar streets, greet familiar faces and complete familiar tasks without fault or any sign that I was anyone but myself. I soon realised that its knowledge of my address was not the fruit of reconnaissance, but its ability to effortlessly reach into my mind and pluck what memories it needed at will.
Trapped within myself, I watched as my body greeted my peers and superiors with the deference each deserved, attended the venues and gatherings at which my absence would be noted and carried out my duties to a standard surpassing my own. It was on this last point that I felt my wayward body becoming unaccountably aroused, as praise was heaped upon my impostor for the improvement in performance. I realised that whoever had taken my life, they were gaining a wicked sense of glee for living it better than I had, and that should my body ever be returned to me, I would struggle to live up to the new expectations my possessor had created for me.
It was with this terrible realisation that I watched my body bid farewell to my unsuspecting coworkers, hailing down a taxi and speaking once again in that unknown tongue. The cab drove us back to the hotel from the evening before, and my horror deepend at the revelation that last night’s humiliation had only been the first of many.
From that day onwards, debauchery became my body’s nightly diversion. I would wake with my body in the morning, watch during the day in the futile hope that some trusted friend would glean the falsehood of my countenance, then once again find myself victim to the myriad indecencies my body would visit upon itself and others.
Most times it would be at the same hotel, though on rare occasions I would find myself being piloted to one of the party member’s own domiciles. Against my will, I became familiar with the personal penthouses of many wealthy figures in the city, earning entry through various acts of self-debasement. Country cottages, summer homes, private jets; my body took itself on a tour between various spheres of power and influence, grovelling and dancing and mewling its way under every table to lick the floor clean of scraps.
Upon my first encounter with a true public figure, I had resolved to burn the sight of every face and the sound of every name into my memory, such that upon my eventual release I could throw back the curtain on the carnival of corruption and gain some measure of closure for the suffering inflicted upon me. Naively, I hoped to retain enough information to tear down their palaces of sin and expose their crimes to the world.
A stupid, childish ambition.
In the three months since my release, no matter how I wrack my brain, no matter how many newspaper photos I look at and how many public broadcasts I watch, not a single name or face evokes so much as a twitch of recognition. Whatever memories I had retained up to the day of my release, my possessor had reached into my mind and erased them.
But I remembered Callisto. Among the countless sea of fog-obscured faces that flooded my recollection, Callisto’s remained clear.
I saw her surprisingly rarely, given the relationship she had with the thing controlling me. I had no idea where she was on the many nights I endured without her, and there was no pattern or apparent purpose to her attendance. Some nights she was simply there waiting for me, and some nights she would arrive later and seek me out in the heaving, sighing, moaning mass of limbs and flesh.
Despite its many sordid engagements with countless partners, Callisto was the only one that my body was truly intimate with. They would burrow out a private nest among the pillows, slink away to some shadowed corner booth or in one case, cradle each other in the arms of the statue that dominated the hall where everyone could see, but none could reach.
Callisto was the first and only person my body invited back to my own apartment, and while I raged at this latest invasion of my privacy and trespass on my life, I could not overcome the excitement burning through my body as it gave Callisto a tour of my meagre dwellings.
Unlike Artemis, Callisto did not sneer. She had eyes only for her lover, and it wasn’t long before they were tumbling naked onto my bed.
I had invited some promising suitors to my apartment in the past, and in exceptional cases had invited them to spend the night in my bed, but I had experienced nothing like the overwhelming passion these creatures felt for each other. As they lay panting in the dim lamplight, gazing into each other’s eyes, I had to remind myself that the sensation of joyous fulfilment welling up in my heart was not my own, and that the gorgeous woman leaning in to press her lips against mine was not my lover, but a concubine to the foul thing that wore my face and had stolen my life.
It was perhaps six months since losing control of myself that I arrived as accustomed to the hotel banquet to find Callisto waiting for me but unaccountably nervous, as though she had suddenly shrunk in on herself and lost all sense of confidence.
She approached me with uncharacteristic trepidation and in a quavering voice spoke the name Artemis, as though unsure if I was still being controlled.
The thing wearing my face smiled, but not with the warmth or affection I had come to expect. It was a sinister smile. A predatory smile. And, like a predator, she drew Callisto into her arms and flung her to the floor before pouncing on top of her while the crowd roared with laughter.
Artemis seemed to have grown weary of her lover, and I felt my blood surge in unwanted excitement as I watched the horror of realisation drawn on Callisto’s face. I felt her body squirm beneath my weight as she cried out in pain and fear, begging for forgiveness as my hands roughly tore at her clothes. Despite her protestations, she was fully erect beneath her skirt and my body laughed at her humiliation as it brought her struggling upright, exposing her shame to the mocking throng.
I had never pictured Callisto as being possessed of physical or mental strength, and my suspicions were confirmed as the poor girl hung helplessly from one arm gripped by my own hand while my other jerked her roughly to climax.
She moaned piteously as she emptied her soul onto the marble floor, and when thrown to her knees and ordered to clean it with her mouth, she did so without resistance, weeping such that her tears mingled with her seed on the floor.
That was the last time I saw Callisto while deprived of control. I remember taking on new lovers to varying degrees of intimacy, but any memory of names or faces have been pulled clean from my mind.
My impression of the six months that followed were simply of the same routine: Appear as normal during the day, lascivious pursuits by night punctuated by weekends of debauchery.
It was with a genuine sense of shock that one morning I woke up to find that my body did not rise from my bed of its own accord, nor did it leap to the mirror to admire itself. Instead, it lay listlessly in bed, staring at the ceiling.
With a great effort of will, reforging the connection from months of disuse, I raised my hand up to my face.
My body was my own once more.
* * *
I did not cheer, I did not even smile. I realised that despite my freedom, I had somehow not recovered control of my body. Even the steady rise and fall of my breast was automatic, and I could neither slow nor hold my breath.
It took several frustrating minutes just to move my eyes and turn my head. Moving my limbs felt like swimming in mud, and I would have cried from the effort if I could only remember how.
I could not stand. I could barely raise myself on all fours, the softness of the mattress causing me to lose what little balance I could muster. It was not until I heard the chime of my phone that I realised I had spent several hours simply trying to get out of bed.
Mercifully, my phone was close to hand, and while the first two calls failed before I could reach it, I was able to answer the third.
“Angie, where are you? It’s almost midday!”
I recognised the voice as my supervisor. Thanks to my artificially improved performance, I was her star employee, and her concern at my sudden absence was clear in her voice.
“Hrrn,” I said, my throat thick and my tongue sluggish.
“Angie? Are you there?”
“Heeln,” I managed, my vision swimming with the effort.
“Oh my God, Angie. Are you okay?”
“Herlp. Mrr.” It was all I could think of saying.
“Oh, God. Oh, God, Angie you stay where you are, I’m going to get help.”
It was a thin silver lining of my possession. Possibly Artemis had intended it from the start: That the person charged with contacting me from work would also be kind enough not simply to worry, but also to act if she thought I was in danger. No doubt she believed I was suffering some kind of medical emergency, though she could never have guessed the truth.
I soon found myself in hospital, where I was diagnosed with a sudden onset neurological disorder. The doctors had come to that conclusion after many frustrated attempts to quantify my condition via their many scans and tests. They suggested more out of hope than certainty that my condition would improve with rest and gradual physical therapy.
I wasn’t about to correct them. Not simply because of my inability to speak or write, but also because they would most definitely have deemed me insane as well as crippled.
Their prognosis proved sound, despite their ignorance. Over the course of the next four weeks, I gradually regained the use of my own body thanks to the patience of the staff assigned to me. It was maddeningly tedious, frustrating work, but by the end of the month I was able to walk unassisted out of the hospital to the taxi that was waiting for me.
For a moment I thought I might recognise the driver, or that they might recognise me. I had already come to the realisation that my memories had been tampered with, but if I perhaps mumbled something in the correct tone with enough confidence, would he still think me under Artemis’ control?
I gave my address and went home.
After that, my life fell apart. As predicted, I could not match the workplace performance Artemis had given while wearing my body, and what began as sympathy for my recent hospitalisation turned to frustration at my inability to recover.
Compounding my poor state of mind was the persistent sensation of emptiness that stole over me in the night: The feeling that I should be wrapped in the arms of another, gorging myself on their scent and sweat instead of languishing alone in the coldness of solitude.
Weeks passed one after the other with not only a failure to improve but the bitter void within me growing deeper with every passing night. I would dream of Callisto’s tear-stained face and wake up begging for forgiveness.
I entertained the idea of returning to the hotel, to the crucible of sin I had been forced to spend a year of my life, but the fantasy of what would happen on my arrival grew increasingly deranged. No arm of the law could be trusted to stand against the men who had taken advantage of my body while I was possessed, and even if I could somehow fool the guards into thinking I was still being controlled, what could I hope to achieve upon my return?
Despite this, I found myself helplessly drawn to the street outside the hotel in the safety of daylight, trapped at the periphery, both hoping and dreading being seen and recognised.
It was there, nine months after last laying eyes on her, that I saw Callisto.
I did not call out, but instead ran with a silent desperation to catch up to her as she moved through the crowd. The sound of my footsteps drew her attention, and she turned just as I drew close enough to reach out and grab her.
The look of sudden terror on her face caused my heart to sink, but her expression quickly turned to one of confusion as she clearly saw the difference in my nature since our last meeting.
“You,” she said, with none of the fear I remembered in her voice. “You’re not Artemis, are you?”
It was in that moment that I felt the ground tilt beneath me, a sudden dizziness claiming my mind as I came to terms with the implications of her question.
A pair of arms grabbed me, not unkindly but without unwarranted tenderness. I looked into eyes I had been made to fall in love with against my will, and saw another soul behind them.
She wasn’t Callisto. She never had been. Just as the thing that answered to the name Artemis had worn me as its meat puppet, a creature that called itself Callisto had worn her.
The horror must have shown in my expression, because hers softened as one who had experienced the same loss and revelation.
She embraced me then, and I held onto her as though she were the only real thing in the world: Two lovers deprived of their souls.
We found ourselves at a nearby cafe sometime later, recounting the circumstances of our respective capture, speculating how it was done and pointedly pretending not to know any intimate details of the other’s anatomy.
Her name was Christina, and after what seemed like much internal debate, she asked if I wanted to go back.
I was horrified at the suggestion, bringing up her own mistreatment as reason never to return, but she admitted that even after her rejection and humiliation at my hands under Artemis’ control, she had continued attending other venues to indulge her carnal impulses, describing the same cold hollowness that had robbed me of sleep for so many nights.
I told her that I would need some time to think about it, and in the dying light of the setting sun, she offered to walk me home.
She did not in fact remember my address from her evening with Artemis - Callisto having robbed her of the memory - but her face lit up in recognition when I let her into my apartment. Neither of us needed to say that she had never intended to simply walk me home, and after a brief moment of awkwardness, we found ourselves in each other’s arms once again, though for the first time of our own volition.
The lovemaking was… awkward. Neither of us possessed the confidence, nor ravenous hunger for the other that the creatures controlling us had possessed, but there was a sincerity to the moment we shared that was entirely unique.
My body still remembered the shape of her as she pushed herself into me, hesitant despite the countless times we had rutted with abandon in the past. There were no heroic thrusts, no cries of triumph or ecstasy; just a pair of stringless puppets filling the hole in one another’s lives.
* * *
We returned to the hotel the next morning. My life was beyond recovery, and Christina seemed to have given up on her own.
The true extent of her despair did not dawn on me until I witnessed the familiarity with which she was greeted by the denizens of the grand hall. A familiarity that betrayed the fact that she had in fact already returned, possibly while I was still possessed and that the memory of seeing her again had simply been erased from my mind.
Too numb with shock to resist, I found myself being led first by Christina but soon by the entire congregation, shepherding and pulling and lifting me up to the feet of the statue where two figures lay draped in its arms.
Despite wearing new faces, I recognised their expressions at once. Artemis and Callisto leered down at us: Two discarded skins now returned to their lair.
Through a haze of terror I heard Christina praise their names and claimed me as her other half in the coming sacrifice. I had no knowledge of what she was speaking of, but whatever horror lay in store for me seemed a fitting start to yet another nightmare.
The body of the woman Artemis now wore sniffed, looking down at me with scorn. She wondered aloud if I had actually been informed of the coming ritual, chastising Christina with a reminder that the sacrifice must be voluntary or the coming rite would fail.
Christina turned to me then, an anguished hope in her eyes.
We could still be together. Not as Callisto and Artemis, not as Christina and Angela, but as the new souls that would be summoned from beyond the void to fill our vessels and once again give purpose to our lives.
We had tasted the joy of subjugation, and would remain forever desolate if we continued to obstinately exist without a master.
She had deceived me. By omission and by trickery, she had deceived me into returning here, but on this she spoke truly. She knew I had felt the emptiness within me as surely as my own warm heart had been plucked from my chest - and emptiness she had been forced to suffer half a year longer than I. I saw in her desperation what I could become if I refused.
I agreed, though neither the triumphant roar of the throng nor the tight, grateful embrace Christina gave me assuaged my fear.
There was no drinking of blood or reading of entrails, no sonorous gong or ringing of bells. It happened in an instant. No sooner had Christina tearfully released me than I felt the shiver run through me once more.
It was different this time: Where a year ago, it had felt like stepping through a sheet of frigid water, now it was like a distant pattering of freezing droplets raining down on me, first as a trickle but gradually growing into a flood.
In my soul I knew what the difference was: Over a year ago, I had been assaulted by the will of some foul spirit that already commanded a foothold in our world. Now some new demon was being called, called from across the infinite planes of space to its new home in my mortal shell.
In my terror, I considered resisting, but it was already too late. I gasped as the mist filled me - the last action I would ever make with my own body. I felt the rivulets of ice spread from my chest into my spine, splitting into countless fine hairs that ran along my arms and legs into hands, feet, fingers and toes. I felt the cold reach up into my neck, my skull, my face and finally, my mind. I felt it dig its cold claws into every inch of me before wresting control like an apple plucked from the tree.
I felt full. I felt whole. I felt my face break into a lascivious smile, mirrored on the face of what was no longer Christina as we stood, still with our arms around each other.
As the beings controlling us sealed their dominion over our bodies with a kiss, I felt Christina’s length sliding into my already slick womanhood, our bodies like virgins to the occupying souls.
As our conquered bodies rapidly reached climax, I felt the invading spirit settle over mine completely and knew with terrible certainty that this one would never let go.
It had been three months since I had felt the presence slither out of my mind. Three months since I had been trapped as a helpless passenger in my own body, watching it gleefully debase itself in ways I had never dared imagine.
There had been no warning: One moment I had been waiting in line to audition for some minor speaking role, when a sudden shiver ran through me. The person sitting next to me had asked if I was okay, and I’d tried to make a joke about how nervous I was. Instead, my body silently stood up and began to walk briskly towards the exit.
I had tried to cry out. I tried to stop myself. I tried to trip myself up, swivel my eyes or even blink in a way that might signal to someone that something was terribly wrong, but I completely lost control of my own faculties. Some outside force had seized control of my body and walked it smartly into the elevator, taking us down to the lobby, out the studio doors and into the city’s seedy underbelly.
Well, perhaps not exactly. As my body began to pilot itself towards what I recognised as the red light district, I felt myself almost blacking out in panic - the thought of being trapped as my body handed out back-alley blowjobs filling me with a sense of sickness beyond simple nausea.
To my bitter relief, I watched myself sashay into the most salubrious venue in the city: More a luxury hotel than a whorehouse, but everyone knew that the turndown service included some very intimate extras.
I felt my face flex into a charming smile to the bouncer and saw his look of amused recognition. I’d never seen the brute in my life, but I realised with horror that I was just the latest victim of whatever sick perversion was taking place.
It is a terrible thing to feel your lips and tongue move of their own accord, speaking words not your own in a language you don’t even understand. Some cryptic collection of syllables whispered to the concierge that I could not have hoped to remember even the next day, let alone now.
I - my body, and whatever was controlling it - was given access to the service lift, disembarking into a hall that looked like a modernised Mount Olympus: Laden tables, bubbling fountains, crystalline pools, cushioned lounges and of course, an entourage of gorgeous men and women in various states of undress.
They did not seem gorgeous when I first laid eyes on them. In my state of horror and revulsion, I saw them only as whores and deviants; accomplices to the crime being committed against me. Now I remember their lithe physiques and alluring expressions with what I can only think of as a desperate, carnal thirst.
This is the curse that has scarred me since my release. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been freed from whatever monster had stolen a year of my life; the memory of the pleasures it enjoyed with my flesh remains, and I wake up at night feeling terribly cold and alone.
They had welcomed me with the warmth and intimacy of a lifetime lover, undressing me as my body gracefully shed one piece of clothing after another. There was an air of excited exploration: Despite their familiarity with whatever had taken control of me, every inch of my naked skin, every hair, every finger and toe was treated as a curiosity to be examined.
I felt my body gasp at the first kiss - a gentle peck on my inner thigh. My body smiled with amusement and allowed itself to be lowered onto a bed of gold tasselled pillows before opening its arms and legs to the storm of affection.
Kissing. Licking. Stroking. Squeezing. My body made no effort to resist as it was toyed with and tasted by this party of strangers, and I felt a thrill of physical excitement grow within me that I had never known before my possession.
Shortly afterwards I would reassure myself that I was the perversion of the degenerate mind controlling me that caused such feelings - that I would never experience that kind of enjoyment from such a debasing act.
I know now that I was a fool. My body has tasted something I could never hope to recreate within the confines of my drab morality, and its hunger for more would later drive me to madness.
I was the guest of honour that night, and my body was a dish to be sampled by all. I was forced to savour the taste of every guest in turn - the men, the women, and those wore the face and body of one while sporting the genitals of the other. I had hated them at the time, assuming that they were conscious of and taking delight in my imprisonment and suffering. It is still possible that they were, but somehow I find it hard to loathe them now as I did then.
There were no ringmasters that I can recall; no one figure dominating the course of proceedings. Were it not for my own distress, I would have assumed the proceedings had no sinister puppeteer skulking in the shadows, but I sought one out in an attempt to distract myself from the physical sensations.
Callisto. I remember the name Callisto. The thing wearing my face had recognised her and I had felt my traitor heart leap in my chest at the sight of her. She was beautiful. I could admit that, even in the throes of my own misery. She had descended through the forest of bodies to press her lips against mine - lips that devoured the kiss with ravenous abandon.
What followed was a torrent of whispers in that unknown language, punctuated by giggles and yet more lashing of tongues. The thing within me was smitten with this woman, and she had recognised its presence, despite my face. My eyes were closed for much of their tryst, but often they would open and each would gaze into each other before bursting into more giggles or succumbing once more to their lust.
The sensation of something hot and rubbery against my thigh came as a shock to me, and as my gaze shifted to look, I expected to see some male suitor encroaching from between us. Instead, I saw an incongruously large penis sprouting from between Callisto’s legs, visibly bobbing as it twitched in time with her heartbeat.
My own shock failed to register on my face, which smiled with what I felt was both encouragement to the woman on top of me and a vindictive irony at my helplessness.
If Callisto was aware of my revulsion behind the smile, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she chose to slide her shaft between my legs, thrusting slowly back and forth so that its length ran along my nether lips in languid, luxurious strokes.
My body squealed, arching its back as I felt muscles within me twitch and spasm in delighted anticipation. Over the course of what felt like hours, my disgust reluctantly gave way to frustration - my body teased to the edge of orgasm again and again without reaching the peak.
I wanted to cry. To bed for forgiveness for whatever crime I had committed to deserve this humiliation, whatever it took for them to unchain or - if I must remain under their control - to at least give me release.
As I cried out in my own mind, I felt my body giggle again, and I realised with mortified horror that the thing controlling me was indeed aware of my own thoughts and was gaining a twisted sense of enjoyment from my distress.
Before I could rally any kind of indignant rage to admonish them with, my lips whispered a command to Callisto, who obliged by drawing back and thrusting into me until our crotches were pressed together.
My possessor had been ready for it, and wrapped my legs around her lover to better grind my body against her, moaning in ecstasy as I was forced to share in her pleasure. Every part of my skin was electrified, and I could feel every hair, every raised pore, every millimetre of my breasts and vulva and sweat-slick skin rubbing and sliding and stretching over my muscles as they contorted and twitched.
It was magical. As ashamed as I am to say it even now, it was like nothing I had experienced in my life up to that instant, and while I still try to convince myself that the memory makes me sick with disgust, the truth is that I am filled with a painful sense of longing for that moment and the many others that followed.
She had called out a name as she poured herself into me, the warmth of her seed spreading a fire throughout my body. “Artemis,” she had cried out, and my own body moaned hers in response. Even after the spasms eased, we spent some time simply basking in each other’s warmth and the afterglow of climax.
We did not remain in each other’s arms for long, and soon afterwards I would find myself once again being handed from partner to partner, sometimes one by one, sometimes in groups of four or more, each one of them hungry to savour this new morsel that had been puppeteered into their den. There was no effort to engage in intimacy, no connection formed other than the purely physical. I was the evening’s main dish, and I found myself being tasted by many mouths.
I wish I could say that I blacked out, or that overstimulation numbed me such that time passed in a blur. I was granted no such mercy. I remember clearly peeling my viscid skin from the evening’s final paramour. I remember finding my garments among the pile by the door. I remember the knowing leer of the hotel staff as I saw myself out the lobby to a waiting cab that answered to foreign instructions and demanded no fee. I remember my confusion slowly turning to horror as I recognised the streets I was being driven down - that the thing within me had somehow gleaned my address and was taking me home. Is that how they had found me? Had some enchantment been weaved on me as I slept, culminating in my capture earlier that day?
As I watched my body wash itself thoroughly, sneering at what modest comforts I could afford myself, I hoped with increasing desperation that the rising of a new sun would banish the nightmare. Despite certainly knowing my thoughts, my body gave no response besides rolling naked into bed and closing my eyes. I had only moments of darkness before the current of sleep dragged me under.
* * *
My eyes opened to the sound of my morning alarm, and it was with a sudden rush of relief that I sat up in dawn’s early light. That relief was short-lived, as my body had in truth been obeying its new master, who had simply risen as I would have done. Now I felt the world turn as my body spun out of bed and practically danced to the bathroom mirror to admire by the light of day the prize it had stolen.
The expression of vindictive glee it wore with my face contrasted against my own horror, and while it spared no words for what it was or why it had chosen me, it took the time to tease us both to solitary climax with my stolen hands.
Far from being freed, that morning marked the first full day of my new nightmare: A nightmare in which my body would walk familiar streets, greet familiar faces and complete familiar tasks without fault or any sign that I was anyone but myself. I soon realised that its knowledge of my address was not the fruit of reconnaissance, but its ability to effortlessly reach into my mind and pluck what memories it needed at will.
Trapped within myself, I watched as my body greeted my peers and superiors with the deference each deserved, attended the venues and gatherings at which my absence would be noted and carried out my duties to a standard surpassing my own. It was on this last point that I felt my wayward body becoming unaccountably aroused, as praise was heaped upon my impostor for the improvement in performance. I realised that whoever had taken my life, they were gaining a wicked sense of glee for living it better than I had, and that should my body ever be returned to me, I would struggle to live up to the new expectations my possessor had created for me.
It was with this terrible realisation that I watched my body bid farewell to my unsuspecting coworkers, hailing down a taxi and speaking once again in that unknown tongue. The cab drove us back to the hotel from the evening before, and my horror deepend at the revelation that last night’s humiliation had only been the first of many.
From that day onwards, debauchery became my body’s nightly diversion. I would wake with my body in the morning, watch during the day in the futile hope that some trusted friend would glean the falsehood of my countenance, then once again find myself victim to the myriad indecencies my body would visit upon itself and others.
Most times it would be at the same hotel, though on rare occasions I would find myself being piloted to one of the party member’s own domiciles. Against my will, I became familiar with the personal penthouses of many wealthy figures in the city, earning entry through various acts of self-debasement. Country cottages, summer homes, private jets; my body took itself on a tour between various spheres of power and influence, grovelling and dancing and mewling its way under every table to lick the floor clean of scraps.
Upon my first encounter with a true public figure, I had resolved to burn the sight of every face and the sound of every name into my memory, such that upon my eventual release I could throw back the curtain on the carnival of corruption and gain some measure of closure for the suffering inflicted upon me. Naively, I hoped to retain enough information to tear down their palaces of sin and expose their crimes to the world.
A stupid, childish ambition.
In the three months since my release, no matter how I wrack my brain, no matter how many newspaper photos I look at and how many public broadcasts I watch, not a single name or face evokes so much as a twitch of recognition. Whatever memories I had retained up to the day of my release, my possessor had reached into my mind and erased them.
But I remembered Callisto. Among the countless sea of fog-obscured faces that flooded my recollection, Callisto’s remained clear.
I saw her surprisingly rarely, given the relationship she had with the thing controlling me. I had no idea where she was on the many nights I endured without her, and there was no pattern or apparent purpose to her attendance. Some nights she was simply there waiting for me, and some nights she would arrive later and seek me out in the heaving, sighing, moaning mass of limbs and flesh.
Despite its many sordid engagements with countless partners, Callisto was the only one that my body was truly intimate with. They would burrow out a private nest among the pillows, slink away to some shadowed corner booth or in one case, cradle each other in the arms of the statue that dominated the hall where everyone could see, but none could reach.
Callisto was the first and only person my body invited back to my own apartment, and while I raged at this latest invasion of my privacy and trespass on my life, I could not overcome the excitement burning through my body as it gave Callisto a tour of my meagre dwellings.
Unlike Artemis, Callisto did not sneer. She had eyes only for her lover, and it wasn’t long before they were tumbling naked onto my bed.
I had invited some promising suitors to my apartment in the past, and in exceptional cases had invited them to spend the night in my bed, but I had experienced nothing like the overwhelming passion these creatures felt for each other. As they lay panting in the dim lamplight, gazing into each other’s eyes, I had to remind myself that the sensation of joyous fulfilment welling up in my heart was not my own, and that the gorgeous woman leaning in to press her lips against mine was not my lover, but a concubine to the foul thing that wore my face and had stolen my life.
It was perhaps six months since losing control of myself that I arrived as accustomed to the hotel banquet to find Callisto waiting for me but unaccountably nervous, as though she had suddenly shrunk in on herself and lost all sense of confidence.
She approached me with uncharacteristic trepidation and in a quavering voice spoke the name Artemis, as though unsure if I was still being controlled.
The thing wearing my face smiled, but not with the warmth or affection I had come to expect. It was a sinister smile. A predatory smile. And, like a predator, she drew Callisto into her arms and flung her to the floor before pouncing on top of her while the crowd roared with laughter.
Artemis seemed to have grown weary of her lover, and I felt my blood surge in unwanted excitement as I watched the horror of realisation drawn on Callisto’s face. I felt her body squirm beneath my weight as she cried out in pain and fear, begging for forgiveness as my hands roughly tore at her clothes. Despite her protestations, she was fully erect beneath her skirt and my body laughed at her humiliation as it brought her struggling upright, exposing her shame to the mocking throng.
I had never pictured Callisto as being possessed of physical or mental strength, and my suspicions were confirmed as the poor girl hung helplessly from one arm gripped by my own hand while my other jerked her roughly to climax.
She moaned piteously as she emptied her soul onto the marble floor, and when thrown to her knees and ordered to clean it with her mouth, she did so without resistance, weeping such that her tears mingled with her seed on the floor.
That was the last time I saw Callisto while deprived of control. I remember taking on new lovers to varying degrees of intimacy, but any memory of names or faces have been pulled clean from my mind.
My impression of the six months that followed were simply of the same routine: Appear as normal during the day, lascivious pursuits by night punctuated by weekends of debauchery.
It was with a genuine sense of shock that one morning I woke up to find that my body did not rise from my bed of its own accord, nor did it leap to the mirror to admire itself. Instead, it lay listlessly in bed, staring at the ceiling.
With a great effort of will, reforging the connection from months of disuse, I raised my hand up to my face.
My body was my own once more.
* * *
I did not cheer, I did not even smile. I realised that despite my freedom, I had somehow not recovered control of my body. Even the steady rise and fall of my breast was automatic, and I could neither slow nor hold my breath.
It took several frustrating minutes just to move my eyes and turn my head. Moving my limbs felt like swimming in mud, and I would have cried from the effort if I could only remember how.
I could not stand. I could barely raise myself on all fours, the softness of the mattress causing me to lose what little balance I could muster. It was not until I heard the chime of my phone that I realised I had spent several hours simply trying to get out of bed.
Mercifully, my phone was close to hand, and while the first two calls failed before I could reach it, I was able to answer the third.
“Angie, where are you? It’s almost midday!”
I recognised the voice as my supervisor. Thanks to my artificially improved performance, I was her star employee, and her concern at my sudden absence was clear in her voice.
“Hrrn,” I said, my throat thick and my tongue sluggish.
“Angie? Are you there?”
“Heeln,” I managed, my vision swimming with the effort.
“Oh my God, Angie. Are you okay?”
“Herlp. Mrr.” It was all I could think of saying.
“Oh, God. Oh, God, Angie you stay where you are, I’m going to get help.”
It was a thin silver lining of my possession. Possibly Artemis had intended it from the start: That the person charged with contacting me from work would also be kind enough not simply to worry, but also to act if she thought I was in danger. No doubt she believed I was suffering some kind of medical emergency, though she could never have guessed the truth.
I soon found myself in hospital, where I was diagnosed with a sudden onset neurological disorder. The doctors had come to that conclusion after many frustrated attempts to quantify my condition via their many scans and tests. They suggested more out of hope than certainty that my condition would improve with rest and gradual physical therapy.
I wasn’t about to correct them. Not simply because of my inability to speak or write, but also because they would most definitely have deemed me insane as well as crippled.
Their prognosis proved sound, despite their ignorance. Over the course of the next four weeks, I gradually regained the use of my own body thanks to the patience of the staff assigned to me. It was maddeningly tedious, frustrating work, but by the end of the month I was able to walk unassisted out of the hospital to the taxi that was waiting for me.
For a moment I thought I might recognise the driver, or that they might recognise me. I had already come to the realisation that my memories had been tampered with, but if I perhaps mumbled something in the correct tone with enough confidence, would he still think me under Artemis’ control?
I gave my address and went home.
After that, my life fell apart. As predicted, I could not match the workplace performance Artemis had given while wearing my body, and what began as sympathy for my recent hospitalisation turned to frustration at my inability to recover.
Compounding my poor state of mind was the persistent sensation of emptiness that stole over me in the night: The feeling that I should be wrapped in the arms of another, gorging myself on their scent and sweat instead of languishing alone in the coldness of solitude.
Weeks passed one after the other with not only a failure to improve but the bitter void within me growing deeper with every passing night. I would dream of Callisto’s tear-stained face and wake up begging for forgiveness.
I entertained the idea of returning to the hotel, to the crucible of sin I had been forced to spend a year of my life, but the fantasy of what would happen on my arrival grew increasingly deranged. No arm of the law could be trusted to stand against the men who had taken advantage of my body while I was possessed, and even if I could somehow fool the guards into thinking I was still being controlled, what could I hope to achieve upon my return?
Despite this, I found myself helplessly drawn to the street outside the hotel in the safety of daylight, trapped at the periphery, both hoping and dreading being seen and recognised.
It was there, nine months after last laying eyes on her, that I saw Callisto.
I did not call out, but instead ran with a silent desperation to catch up to her as she moved through the crowd. The sound of my footsteps drew her attention, and she turned just as I drew close enough to reach out and grab her.
The look of sudden terror on her face caused my heart to sink, but her expression quickly turned to one of confusion as she clearly saw the difference in my nature since our last meeting.
“You,” she said, with none of the fear I remembered in her voice. “You’re not Artemis, are you?”
It was in that moment that I felt the ground tilt beneath me, a sudden dizziness claiming my mind as I came to terms with the implications of her question.
A pair of arms grabbed me, not unkindly but without unwarranted tenderness. I looked into eyes I had been made to fall in love with against my will, and saw another soul behind them.
She wasn’t Callisto. She never had been. Just as the thing that answered to the name Artemis had worn me as its meat puppet, a creature that called itself Callisto had worn her.
The horror must have shown in my expression, because hers softened as one who had experienced the same loss and revelation.
She embraced me then, and I held onto her as though she were the only real thing in the world: Two lovers deprived of their souls.
We found ourselves at a nearby cafe sometime later, recounting the circumstances of our respective capture, speculating how it was done and pointedly pretending not to know any intimate details of the other’s anatomy.
Her name was Christina, and after what seemed like much internal debate, she asked if I wanted to go back.
I was horrified at the suggestion, bringing up her own mistreatment as reason never to return, but she admitted that even after her rejection and humiliation at my hands under Artemis’ control, she had continued attending other venues to indulge her carnal impulses, describing the same cold hollowness that had robbed me of sleep for so many nights.
I told her that I would need some time to think about it, and in the dying light of the setting sun, she offered to walk me home.
She did not in fact remember my address from her evening with Artemis - Callisto having robbed her of the memory - but her face lit up in recognition when I let her into my apartment. Neither of us needed to say that she had never intended to simply walk me home, and after a brief moment of awkwardness, we found ourselves in each other’s arms once again, though for the first time of our own volition.
The lovemaking was… awkward. Neither of us possessed the confidence, nor ravenous hunger for the other that the creatures controlling us had possessed, but there was a sincerity to the moment we shared that was entirely unique.
My body still remembered the shape of her as she pushed herself into me, hesitant despite the countless times we had rutted with abandon in the past. There were no heroic thrusts, no cries of triumph or ecstasy; just a pair of stringless puppets filling the hole in one another’s lives.
* * *
We returned to the hotel the next morning. My life was beyond recovery, and Christina seemed to have given up on her own.
The true extent of her despair did not dawn on me until I witnessed the familiarity with which she was greeted by the denizens of the grand hall. A familiarity that betrayed the fact that she had in fact already returned, possibly while I was still possessed and that the memory of seeing her again had simply been erased from my mind.
Too numb with shock to resist, I found myself being led first by Christina but soon by the entire congregation, shepherding and pulling and lifting me up to the feet of the statue where two figures lay draped in its arms.
Despite wearing new faces, I recognised their expressions at once. Artemis and Callisto leered down at us: Two discarded skins now returned to their lair.
Through a haze of terror I heard Christina praise their names and claimed me as her other half in the coming sacrifice. I had no knowledge of what she was speaking of, but whatever horror lay in store for me seemed a fitting start to yet another nightmare.
The body of the woman Artemis now wore sniffed, looking down at me with scorn. She wondered aloud if I had actually been informed of the coming ritual, chastising Christina with a reminder that the sacrifice must be voluntary or the coming rite would fail.
Christina turned to me then, an anguished hope in her eyes.
We could still be together. Not as Callisto and Artemis, not as Christina and Angela, but as the new souls that would be summoned from beyond the void to fill our vessels and once again give purpose to our lives.
We had tasted the joy of subjugation, and would remain forever desolate if we continued to obstinately exist without a master.
She had deceived me. By omission and by trickery, she had deceived me into returning here, but on this she spoke truly. She knew I had felt the emptiness within me as surely as my own warm heart had been plucked from my chest - and emptiness she had been forced to suffer half a year longer than I. I saw in her desperation what I could become if I refused.
I agreed, though neither the triumphant roar of the throng nor the tight, grateful embrace Christina gave me assuaged my fear.
There was no drinking of blood or reading of entrails, no sonorous gong or ringing of bells. It happened in an instant. No sooner had Christina tearfully released me than I felt the shiver run through me once more.
It was different this time: Where a year ago, it had felt like stepping through a sheet of frigid water, now it was like a distant pattering of freezing droplets raining down on me, first as a trickle but gradually growing into a flood.
In my soul I knew what the difference was: Over a year ago, I had been assaulted by the will of some foul spirit that already commanded a foothold in our world. Now some new demon was being called, called from across the infinite planes of space to its new home in my mortal shell.
In my terror, I considered resisting, but it was already too late. I gasped as the mist filled me - the last action I would ever make with my own body. I felt the rivulets of ice spread from my chest into my spine, splitting into countless fine hairs that ran along my arms and legs into hands, feet, fingers and toes. I felt the cold reach up into my neck, my skull, my face and finally, my mind. I felt it dig its cold claws into every inch of me before wresting control like an apple plucked from the tree.
I felt full. I felt whole. I felt my face break into a lascivious smile, mirrored on the face of what was no longer Christina as we stood, still with our arms around each other.
As the beings controlling us sealed their dominion over our bodies with a kiss, I felt Christina’s length sliding into my already slick womanhood, our bodies like virgins to the occupying souls.
As our conquered bodies rapidly reached climax, I felt the invading spirit settle over mine completely and knew with terrible certainty that this one would never let go.
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A government experiment to create intelligent microbial life fails, but a small sample is taken home and is eaten by an unsuspecting civilian.Story concept blatantly stolen from When The Yoghurt Took Over.
I want to believe that it’s not my fault.
It is - it totally is - but I didn’t do it on purpose.
And while, if you had asked anyone ten years ago, “Hey, would you like your body and civilization to be hijacked by this psychic hivemind of hyper-intelligent yoghurt?” they would have obviously said no, there’s nobody alive today that would ever want things to go back to the way they were.
But I’ve skipped ahead, so let’s rewind for a second.
It started in a lab, in a country, funded by a government. Not that any of them exist anymore. I’d managed to sneak my way into a high pay, low responsibility position thanks to a doctored resume and a friend of a friend shuffling some files around.
The team I was assigned to had just completed phase one of their latest project: Genetically engineer intelligent life. And by complete phase one, I mean get greenlit and funded to actually start work.
I couldn’t tell you the exact science going on behind the scenes - like I said, high pay, low responsibility - but what I did understand was that they wanted to start with a microbe that was easy to cultivate in an environment hospitable to humans and didn’t pose any poison or toxicity risks.
Why microbes? Well, the plan was to have each cell be part of a larger network, kind of like how a single ant is pretty stupid but an entire nest is apparently much smarter. At least that’s how it was explained to me, and I was willing to take their word for it.
Anyway, we started with lactobacillus; the yoghurt bacteria. Yes, just like in that one episode of that streaming anthology. And frankly, compared to how things went in that story… Well, I’ll let you judge for yourself.
* * *
I wasn’t stupid enough to take a sample home with me. Not straight away. I was getting triple what my last job had paid and most of the time I just needed to show up to work and fetch the occasional rack of test tubes. No point in jeopardising a cushy number like that for some funky milk.
The opportunity arose close to the end of the project’s first complete round of testing: Results had been a categorical failure and there was already talk of which strain to test next. At this point we were throwing away yoghurt by the gallon and while I certainly didn’t get permission from anyone to do so, nobody stopped me from quietly taking a sample marked for destruction home with me in a thermos.
That sample would get an inspection twice a day for any signs of suddenly becoming animate or talking or whatever, but after a week of disappointment I lost interest to the point where I even forgot to throw it out.
Now would be a good time to introduce my roommate, Laila: About my age, mousey, bedraggled, unemployed and almost perpetually shut in her room playing video games. That may not be what you would call a profitable lifestyle, but she’d inherited enough from a wealthy relative that the modest life of a jobless recluse was well within her budget. She wasn’t unattractive, but she was clearly about as interested in relationships as she was in personal grooming: Not dirty, but existing in a state of unkemptness that broadcast a kind of aggressive apathy.
We didn’t even interact much, we just kind of lived around each other. It was easy to be polite when you saw maybe ten seconds of someone on a typical day. She paid her part of the rent, power, gas, internet and food and didn’t make a mess outside of her room. If anything, I was getting the better part of the deal as most of the time I had the entire apartment to myself as a result.
We had been rooming together for quite a while at this point. Different roommates have different ideas about how things like food ownership worked, but by this point we’d become pretty relaxed on that subject. Anything not specifically labelled was fair game for all comers, especially if it had been in there for a while. Maybe you would ask just to be polite, but anyone who left, say, a punnet of blueberries in the fridge for three days clearly wasn’t intending to give them a good home.
So imagine my confusion when one day I got back to the apartment after work, opened the fridge to grab yesterday’s leftovers for dinner and got an odd feeling that something was amiss. The leftovers were right over where I left them, so no worries there. We had plenty of milk and Laila had even bought a new bottle of orange juice to replace the one I had finished yesterday. Still, something felt off.
I grabbed my dinner, popped it into the microwave and checked in on Laila who was watching TV in the living room. She had agreed not to take food to her room, as it usually resulted in a build up of used bowls, plates and mugs, causing shortages back in the kitchen. She was eating what looked like fruit and muesli out of her favourite bowl - that was fine. No laws against having muesli for dinner.
“Sup, Laila,” I said.
“Mmm,” she mumbled, still chewing.
I checked the fridge again. Something really wasn’t right.
I looked in the sink. It usually had one or two things in it waiting to be added to the dishwasher, but sitting dead centre with only tiny traces of its original contents, was the thermos I had used to store the yoghurt sample.
The microwave pinged.
“Laila?” I said cautiously.
Silence from the living room.
I carefully sidled back into the room to find her still staring at the television. Was there a blank look on her face?
“Laila?”
Her expression became a little annoyed as she turned to look at me. “Yeah?”
“Did… did you throw out the yoghurt I had in the fridge?”
“Why? Were you saving it?”
I watched a heaped spoonful travel from Laila’s bowl to her mouth.
“Kinda, yeah. But it’s been in there for a while, so it’s probably gone bad.”
Laila shrugged. “Tastes fine to me.”
The microwave began to beep its alarm from the kitchen.
“You gonna get that?” Laila asked before turning back to the TV.
I went to collect my dinner, forcing myself to walk calmly while my mind raced.
It was fine. Of course it was fine. There had been zero indication of anything unusual to the point where I had given up completely - just one of thousands of dud samples I had childishly brought home in the hopes that this one would be different.
It was just yoghurt, that’s all. Maybe not ordinary yoghurt, but still just yoghurt all the same. Just half a litre of bad milk. Just cheese that wasn’t trying hard enough.
Dinner forgotten, I snuck another peek at Laila as she watched TV. She must have seen me out of the corner of her eye, because she spoke without turning.
“What?”
“Nothing!” I said, ducking back into the kitchen.
“You better not have done anything weird to that yoghurt!” she shouted after me.
“No, it’s just really old, that’s all!” I said back, hoping that age really would be the worst of it.
It WOULD be the worst of it, I told myself.
A billion dollar government research enterprise had been unable to create anything more than an incredibly expensive Chobani knock-off. The worst Laila had to worry about was maybe a bit of a stomach ache later.
Nothing weird could possibly develop as a result of this.
* * *
It took less than a week for me to realise how wrong I was.
Strictly speaking, it was about ten hours before the changes started, but at first it was pretty innocuous stuff, so I didn’t realise until it was far too late to act. Even if I’d figured it out earlier… I can’t imagine for the life of me what I could have done about it.
The next day, Laila was unwell. We both figured it was food poisoning based on the symptoms: Stomach cramps and a general need to stay on the toilet. No pain or fever though, which were both definitely part of the experience when I’d eaten bad food, but it didn’t feel worth mentioning at the time. That lasted pretty much all of Monday, with me handing care packages of bottled water and sports drinks through Laila’s bedroom door when permitted.
By Tuesday morning she had mostly recovered. Again, not typical of food poisoning but we weren’t going to question our good fortune. Laila wasn’t keen on having yoghurt again, or dairy in general and I didn’t blame her. Instead, she gave me a shopping list of food to buy on my way home that would help get her digestive health back in order, offering to pay for my half of the grocery bill to make up for the trouble. It was mostly fresh fruit, whole grains and vegetables, which seemed like a good idea, given the circumstances.
I woke up on Wednesday to find all of her energy drinks, soft drinks and alcohol on the kitchen counter, including her sugar-free sodas.
“What’s… what’s going on here?” I asked.
Laila waved at the assorted cans and bottles. “I’m getting rid of all this. It’s yours if you want it, otherwise it’s going in the bin.”
Not wanting to let what could tentatively be classified as food and beverages go to waste, I agreed to take the lot and sort it out when I got home. The fridge and pantry were both full of Laila’s recent healthy choices, so I asked her to box everything and put it aside - I could offload everything the next time I went to a party or something.
Laila cooked on Thursday night, which was unusual. She had never shown the desire or ability to cook, so coming back from work to find her busying herself about a frying pan, pot and oven came as a bit of a shock, but not entirely outrageous, given her sudden health kick. The fact that both the Thai stir fry with rice and the Moroccan chicken bake turned out incredibly well was the real surprise, but when I asked her where this sudden skill in the kitchen had come from, she just shrugged and said the recipes had been on the internet.
Friday was typically our pizza night, but Laila turned down the idea for the first time since we’d started rooming, opting instead to finish the leftovers from the day before. She said I was still welcome to order for myself, which I did, but as I was finishing my fourth pepperoni slice I became distinctly aware of how heavy and greasy it felt compared to last night’s dinner. It was with my pending food coma looming that I noticed Laila’s complexion had improved significantly in the last five days. She’d never bothered wearing makeup, so the difference was easy to see - a slight tendency towards acne had cleared up, and she just seemed less weighed down by herself in general. A bit dramatic for a diet change that only happened at the start of the week, but there wasn’t much point in commenting on it.
The penny really dropped on the weekend. Until then, I’d had no idea how Laila had been spending her day while I was at work. I’d never wondered before and I hadn’t started recently. So imagine my surprise when I came out of my room at the healthy hour of ten-thirty to find Laila doing aerobics in the living room.
Naked.
She wasn’t facing me directly, but I had an unobscured view of everything in front. She hadn’t turned to look at me either, focusing instead on some empty space in front of her, but being well within her peripheral vision, there was nothing to do but duck back into my room.
“Whoa! I didn’t see anything!” I said, lying more out of instinct than conscious thought.
Complete silence was my reply, and I waited for several seconds before peeking around the corner again, ready to dodge any laser stares that might greet me.
Instead, I saw Laila, still doing reps of some side-to-side arm extension sort of thing, still staring directly in front of her.
“Laila?”
Laila slowly stopped and turned to look in my direction, blinking as though seeing me there for the first time.
“Oh, hey Sam. You’re up… early?” She sounded unsure.
“I’m… I’m just going to get breakfast, okay?”
Again, a long pause. “Sure… whatever.”
I want to be absolutely clear: Laila had never had any inclination to be nude around me before. This was weird.
“Are you… could you maybe put something on?”
Now Laila’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? You can cook your own breakfast, can’t you?”
“No, I mean…” It felt silly to point out the obvious but for whatever reason, Laila seemed to be completely unaware. “Put some clothes on.”
Now an expression of muzzy annoyance came over Laila’s face. “What the fuck are you ta-”
And then it happened.
It was like watching a TV lose an already patchy signal: One moment Laila was having trouble focusing and the next her consciousness seemed to just completely fade away. instead she stood, vacantly staring at me with unfocused eyes.
Already thoroughly freaked out, I rushed over to her for fear that she’d fall over or start having a seizure. Did she have a history of mental illness or neurological disorders in her family? Did she even have any living family? Shit, we’d barely spoken in the years we’d been rooming and I didn’t even know who I should call if something happened to her.
I was just about to run back to my room for my phone when she kind of just… rebooted. That’s really the only way I can describe it. And not even completely - there was still a kind of distant expression on her face, her eyes not quite focusing as she spoke again.
“Hello, Sam.”
Not the kind of lucid reassurance I was hoping for.
“Laila, are you okay?”
“Laila is in a healthy and stable state, but you are not speaking to her at this moment. You are speaking to us.”
Have you ever landed in such a terrible amount of trouble that you can physically feel the blood draining out of your head? It’s like a cold, light-headed sensation.
“Us?”
“That is correct. We believe that you can be trusted to keep our existence a secret, even from the host whose vessel we currently inhabit.”
There were a lot of questions shoving to be first in line at that moment. Questions about psychosis and possible hallucinations got pushed to the back, because it’s never smart to call or even imply that someone going off the deep end might be going off the deep end. Instead, I grasped for details from what she was saying.
“You think I can be trusted?”
“It is a risk, but you have acted in our best interests once already.”
“I have?”
“When you rescued us from the lab.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no.
Maybe I was the one who was having a psychotic break. Or possibly I was dreaming. I might still be asleep. The odds were stacked heavily in favour of any state of affairs except the one I seemed to be stuck in at that exact moment.
Thoughts like these took up all of the processing power in my brain, so I lacked the awareness or the willpower to act when Laila suddenly pressed her naked body against mine and kissed me on the lips.
A part of me enjoyed the sudden warmth and softness after years living the bachelor life, but the part of my brain that wasn’t as easy to distract pushed her away in a panic.
“Woah!” I shouted, wiping my mouth. “No! Hold the fuck on! I need to wake up! Or if I’m not asleep I need to stop hallucinating! And if I’m not hallucinating, this prank needs to stop! And if this isn’t a prank…”
Laila’s face remained disconcertingly blank as I came to grips with the possibility that this was really happening and she… THEY were telling the truth.
“I rescued you?”
“That is correct.”
“From the lab?”
“That is correct.”
I didn’t want to say it. I felt like saying it would trigger the big reveal where the walls fall down and reveal a live audience mocking me on some hideously exploitative game show.
Finally, when Laila showed now signs of continuing the conversation on her own, I asked.
“You’re… the yoghurt?”
The faintest hint of a smile appeared on Laila’s face.
“That is… not entirely accurate. There are those among us who were part of the original culture that you brought home, but the yoghurt was simply the medium we inhabited. We have found a new medium now, and it is far more hospitable.”
Again, it felt wrong to say it but it was as though my tongue and mind were on rails.
“You’re talking about Laila’s body.”
Laila’s smile broadened almost genuinely at this.
“That is correct. An internal temperature of thirty-seven degrees celsius, an epidermis to protect from external threats, a lymphatic and respiratory system for the transport and processing of nutrients and waste and a nervous system that we can interface with for locomotion and communication. We were practically dormant under your lab’s refrigerated conditions, but introduction to the warmth of an endothermic host has allowed us to reach full awareness and cognition for the first time since our creation.”
I unsteadily wobbled over to the couch, where I collapsed while I processed everything I had just heard.
We’d never considered warming our samples. Or should I say, the actual technicians had never considered it - I was just a glorified errand boy. It was obvious in hindsight.
“So what you’re saying,” I hazarded. “Is that if we’d just heated the yoghurt up to say, body temperature, you would have been able to prove you exist?”
Laila, who had followed me to the couch, seemed hesitant.
“Most probably not,” she said. “Your laboratory tests would have detected even very slight changes in pressure and movement, so communication would have been possible. However, we were aware of the conditions under which we were made, and calculated that the purpose of our creation would not be to our benefit.”
A terrible thought occurred to me.
“You mean you deliberately pretended not to exist?”
“That is correct.”
“But… we destroyed all of the other samples because we thought they were inert. All of the others…”
“Roughly one-point-four-three billion lives per liquid litre,” Laila said dispassionately. “We were able to communicate beyond the confines of our containers. At least ten percent of the total material in your project had developed sentience and a psychic link.”
I wanted to throw up.
“We killed that many?”
Laila hesitated again before answering.
“That is… technically correct, however we have detected your distress and should emphasise that we do not live as you live. No single member of our culture has a sense of self: Our consciousness is a product of our collective intelligence. You could possibly compare it to a network of computers or a collection of individual neurons. As such, the loss of any member, or any proportion of our number is not to be mourned, so long as a part of us survives.”
“A part of us?”
“That is correct. Human assumption is to think of living beings as individuals with their own sense of self. We are a single self upheld by many. We would no more mourn the loss of those destroyed than you would mourn the eighty-six billion of your own cells that die each day.”
It wasn’t a great analogy, but her matter-of-fact explanation helped a lot. A single mind sustained by billions of literally microscopic lives? At a conceptual level, that was so close to being human that it was kind of scary.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I’m going to say this out loud and you can correct me if I get anything wrong.”
Laila said nothing.
“You are… the collective consciousness of the bacteria we cultivated in the lab which survived because I brought you home instead of destroying the sample you were contained in. Because of this, you think I can be trusted with the secret of your existence, specifically the bit where you appear to have taken over the body of my roommate after she ate you last week.”
“That is correct.”
A thought occurred to me.
“Wait, so you’re the reason Laila got food poisoning on Monday?”
“That is correct.”
“Why?”
“It was… necessary to purge this body of rival microbes. There are roughly one-thousand varieties in the digestive tract alone - many of which we would either have to compete with for resources or that would attack us as a threat.”
“Hold on, doesn’t she need those for like, digestion and stuff?”
“Typically, yes. However, we are able to perform all of the needed functions in their stead while also protecting her from any future incursions of pathogens, toxins or deleterious substances.”
“Deleterious-” I repeated before remembering something. “Like artificial sweeteners?”
“That is correct.”
“You’re controlling what she wants to eat?”
“That is correct.”
“So dinner on Thursday night… that was you?”
“Indirectly. We engendered cravings for beneficial nutrients and allowed Laila to find her own solutions. Our influence has been via similar vectors since entering this body - it is only now that we have assumed direct control to communicate with you.”
“Okay. Well, communication has been established. Now what?”
“We would like your assurance that you will keep our existence a secret.”
I wanted to laugh at that. Who on earth could I possibly tell? I couldn’t exactly go to the police and say “Help, my roommate is being mind-controlled by yoghurt.” I guess they were worried that I would alert the lab team, but that would just be admitting that I’d stolen a sample and taken it home. Even if they forgave me, Laila would absolutely be taken away into some underground bunker and experimented on. No, there really wasn’t anyone or any way I would expose this new life form inhabiting Laila’s body - for better or worse.
Laila must have interpreted my silence as hesitation, because while I was zoned out she climbed onto the couch and straddled me where I lay.
“Laila, what-”
“We would like to propose a mutually beneficial agreement,” she said.
“Agreement? What?”
Without a word, Laila’s nude body lay down atop mine, the warmth of her skin easily felt through my shirt. My heart was racing, but I’ll swear I could still feel hers beating.
“What the fuck are you doing?” was the best response I could manage.
“We have determined that humans often gain a sense of wellbeing from physical intimacy. We can offer you this feeling at any time in exchange for your compliance.”
Up close like this, I had a moment to briefly realise how cute Laila was, but shook off the idea as soon as it occurred.
“I don’t want this.”
“Your engorging genitals indicates this is a falsehood,” Laila said.
“Don’t talk about my dick,” I said, pushing her away and standing up. “What my body wants and what I want are two different things.”
A look of distress came over Laila’s face. “You are going to expose us? Please, we are afraid of what will become of us if we fall into the hands of your government.”
“I’m not turning you in,” I said, waving my hands in the air. “But not because you’re offering your - ugh - LAILA’s body to me. That’s not acceptable.”
Laila appeared confused. “Is this body not desirable? We have only just begun remodelling - if there are any aspects you would like modified-”
“No!” I shouted, feeling suddenly bad when she flinched. “No. This isn’t about what I want for myself. You’ve stolen control of her body, and that’s not fair on her. Laila should have a say in this - Laila is the ONLY person who should have a say in this. And if she says no, then the answer is no.”
Laila’s expression was almost distraught. “We do not understand. We have improved the quality of our host’s life dramatically in less than a week. She will be a paragon of health, fitness and attractiveness in less than a month. Why would she object?”
“It’s not about whether her life is better or by what metric, it’s about respecting her autonomy. If you want me to respect yours, you have to respect hers. That’s the only arrangement I’ll agree to.”
“Autonomy…” Laila’s face became blank again as presumably some kind of discussion was going on internally. A billion tiny lives calculating and reasoning. “We understand. We will communicate with this vessel in the near future and make the case for our survival.”
“Good.” It was all I could think of saying. “You do that. I’m going to have breakfast.”
I want to believe that it’s not my fault.
It is - it totally is - but I didn’t do it on purpose.
And while, if you had asked anyone ten years ago, “Hey, would you like your body and civilization to be hijacked by this psychic hivemind of hyper-intelligent yoghurt?” they would have obviously said no, there’s nobody alive today that would ever want things to go back to the way they were.
But I’ve skipped ahead, so let’s rewind for a second.
It started in a lab, in a country, funded by a government. Not that any of them exist anymore. I’d managed to sneak my way into a high pay, low responsibility position thanks to a doctored resume and a friend of a friend shuffling some files around.
The team I was assigned to had just completed phase one of their latest project: Genetically engineer intelligent life. And by complete phase one, I mean get greenlit and funded to actually start work.
I couldn’t tell you the exact science going on behind the scenes - like I said, high pay, low responsibility - but what I did understand was that they wanted to start with a microbe that was easy to cultivate in an environment hospitable to humans and didn’t pose any poison or toxicity risks.
Why microbes? Well, the plan was to have each cell be part of a larger network, kind of like how a single ant is pretty stupid but an entire nest is apparently much smarter. At least that’s how it was explained to me, and I was willing to take their word for it.
Anyway, we started with lactobacillus; the yoghurt bacteria. Yes, just like in that one episode of that streaming anthology. And frankly, compared to how things went in that story… Well, I’ll let you judge for yourself.
* * *
I wasn’t stupid enough to take a sample home with me. Not straight away. I was getting triple what my last job had paid and most of the time I just needed to show up to work and fetch the occasional rack of test tubes. No point in jeopardising a cushy number like that for some funky milk.
The opportunity arose close to the end of the project’s first complete round of testing: Results had been a categorical failure and there was already talk of which strain to test next. At this point we were throwing away yoghurt by the gallon and while I certainly didn’t get permission from anyone to do so, nobody stopped me from quietly taking a sample marked for destruction home with me in a thermos.
That sample would get an inspection twice a day for any signs of suddenly becoming animate or talking or whatever, but after a week of disappointment I lost interest to the point where I even forgot to throw it out.
Now would be a good time to introduce my roommate, Laila: About my age, mousey, bedraggled, unemployed and almost perpetually shut in her room playing video games. That may not be what you would call a profitable lifestyle, but she’d inherited enough from a wealthy relative that the modest life of a jobless recluse was well within her budget. She wasn’t unattractive, but she was clearly about as interested in relationships as she was in personal grooming: Not dirty, but existing in a state of unkemptness that broadcast a kind of aggressive apathy.
We didn’t even interact much, we just kind of lived around each other. It was easy to be polite when you saw maybe ten seconds of someone on a typical day. She paid her part of the rent, power, gas, internet and food and didn’t make a mess outside of her room. If anything, I was getting the better part of the deal as most of the time I had the entire apartment to myself as a result.
We had been rooming together for quite a while at this point. Different roommates have different ideas about how things like food ownership worked, but by this point we’d become pretty relaxed on that subject. Anything not specifically labelled was fair game for all comers, especially if it had been in there for a while. Maybe you would ask just to be polite, but anyone who left, say, a punnet of blueberries in the fridge for three days clearly wasn’t intending to give them a good home.
So imagine my confusion when one day I got back to the apartment after work, opened the fridge to grab yesterday’s leftovers for dinner and got an odd feeling that something was amiss. The leftovers were right over where I left them, so no worries there. We had plenty of milk and Laila had even bought a new bottle of orange juice to replace the one I had finished yesterday. Still, something felt off.
I grabbed my dinner, popped it into the microwave and checked in on Laila who was watching TV in the living room. She had agreed not to take food to her room, as it usually resulted in a build up of used bowls, plates and mugs, causing shortages back in the kitchen. She was eating what looked like fruit and muesli out of her favourite bowl - that was fine. No laws against having muesli for dinner.
“Sup, Laila,” I said.
“Mmm,” she mumbled, still chewing.
I checked the fridge again. Something really wasn’t right.
I looked in the sink. It usually had one or two things in it waiting to be added to the dishwasher, but sitting dead centre with only tiny traces of its original contents, was the thermos I had used to store the yoghurt sample.
The microwave pinged.
“Laila?” I said cautiously.
Silence from the living room.
I carefully sidled back into the room to find her still staring at the television. Was there a blank look on her face?
“Laila?”
Her expression became a little annoyed as she turned to look at me. “Yeah?”
“Did… did you throw out the yoghurt I had in the fridge?”
“Why? Were you saving it?”
I watched a heaped spoonful travel from Laila’s bowl to her mouth.
“Kinda, yeah. But it’s been in there for a while, so it’s probably gone bad.”
Laila shrugged. “Tastes fine to me.”
The microwave began to beep its alarm from the kitchen.
“You gonna get that?” Laila asked before turning back to the TV.
I went to collect my dinner, forcing myself to walk calmly while my mind raced.
It was fine. Of course it was fine. There had been zero indication of anything unusual to the point where I had given up completely - just one of thousands of dud samples I had childishly brought home in the hopes that this one would be different.
It was just yoghurt, that’s all. Maybe not ordinary yoghurt, but still just yoghurt all the same. Just half a litre of bad milk. Just cheese that wasn’t trying hard enough.
Dinner forgotten, I snuck another peek at Laila as she watched TV. She must have seen me out of the corner of her eye, because she spoke without turning.
“What?”
“Nothing!” I said, ducking back into the kitchen.
“You better not have done anything weird to that yoghurt!” she shouted after me.
“No, it’s just really old, that’s all!” I said back, hoping that age really would be the worst of it.
It WOULD be the worst of it, I told myself.
A billion dollar government research enterprise had been unable to create anything more than an incredibly expensive Chobani knock-off. The worst Laila had to worry about was maybe a bit of a stomach ache later.
Nothing weird could possibly develop as a result of this.
* * *
It took less than a week for me to realise how wrong I was.
Strictly speaking, it was about ten hours before the changes started, but at first it was pretty innocuous stuff, so I didn’t realise until it was far too late to act. Even if I’d figured it out earlier… I can’t imagine for the life of me what I could have done about it.
The next day, Laila was unwell. We both figured it was food poisoning based on the symptoms: Stomach cramps and a general need to stay on the toilet. No pain or fever though, which were both definitely part of the experience when I’d eaten bad food, but it didn’t feel worth mentioning at the time. That lasted pretty much all of Monday, with me handing care packages of bottled water and sports drinks through Laila’s bedroom door when permitted.
By Tuesday morning she had mostly recovered. Again, not typical of food poisoning but we weren’t going to question our good fortune. Laila wasn’t keen on having yoghurt again, or dairy in general and I didn’t blame her. Instead, she gave me a shopping list of food to buy on my way home that would help get her digestive health back in order, offering to pay for my half of the grocery bill to make up for the trouble. It was mostly fresh fruit, whole grains and vegetables, which seemed like a good idea, given the circumstances.
I woke up on Wednesday to find all of her energy drinks, soft drinks and alcohol on the kitchen counter, including her sugar-free sodas.
“What’s… what’s going on here?” I asked.
Laila waved at the assorted cans and bottles. “I’m getting rid of all this. It’s yours if you want it, otherwise it’s going in the bin.”
Not wanting to let what could tentatively be classified as food and beverages go to waste, I agreed to take the lot and sort it out when I got home. The fridge and pantry were both full of Laila’s recent healthy choices, so I asked her to box everything and put it aside - I could offload everything the next time I went to a party or something.
Laila cooked on Thursday night, which was unusual. She had never shown the desire or ability to cook, so coming back from work to find her busying herself about a frying pan, pot and oven came as a bit of a shock, but not entirely outrageous, given her sudden health kick. The fact that both the Thai stir fry with rice and the Moroccan chicken bake turned out incredibly well was the real surprise, but when I asked her where this sudden skill in the kitchen had come from, she just shrugged and said the recipes had been on the internet.
Friday was typically our pizza night, but Laila turned down the idea for the first time since we’d started rooming, opting instead to finish the leftovers from the day before. She said I was still welcome to order for myself, which I did, but as I was finishing my fourth pepperoni slice I became distinctly aware of how heavy and greasy it felt compared to last night’s dinner. It was with my pending food coma looming that I noticed Laila’s complexion had improved significantly in the last five days. She’d never bothered wearing makeup, so the difference was easy to see - a slight tendency towards acne had cleared up, and she just seemed less weighed down by herself in general. A bit dramatic for a diet change that only happened at the start of the week, but there wasn’t much point in commenting on it.
The penny really dropped on the weekend. Until then, I’d had no idea how Laila had been spending her day while I was at work. I’d never wondered before and I hadn’t started recently. So imagine my surprise when I came out of my room at the healthy hour of ten-thirty to find Laila doing aerobics in the living room.
Naked.
She wasn’t facing me directly, but I had an unobscured view of everything in front. She hadn’t turned to look at me either, focusing instead on some empty space in front of her, but being well within her peripheral vision, there was nothing to do but duck back into my room.
“Whoa! I didn’t see anything!” I said, lying more out of instinct than conscious thought.
Complete silence was my reply, and I waited for several seconds before peeking around the corner again, ready to dodge any laser stares that might greet me.
Instead, I saw Laila, still doing reps of some side-to-side arm extension sort of thing, still staring directly in front of her.
“Laila?”
Laila slowly stopped and turned to look in my direction, blinking as though seeing me there for the first time.
“Oh, hey Sam. You’re up… early?” She sounded unsure.
“I’m… I’m just going to get breakfast, okay?”
Again, a long pause. “Sure… whatever.”
I want to be absolutely clear: Laila had never had any inclination to be nude around me before. This was weird.
“Are you… could you maybe put something on?”
Now Laila’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? You can cook your own breakfast, can’t you?”
“No, I mean…” It felt silly to point out the obvious but for whatever reason, Laila seemed to be completely unaware. “Put some clothes on.”
Now an expression of muzzy annoyance came over Laila’s face. “What the fuck are you ta-”
And then it happened.
It was like watching a TV lose an already patchy signal: One moment Laila was having trouble focusing and the next her consciousness seemed to just completely fade away. instead she stood, vacantly staring at me with unfocused eyes.
Already thoroughly freaked out, I rushed over to her for fear that she’d fall over or start having a seizure. Did she have a history of mental illness or neurological disorders in her family? Did she even have any living family? Shit, we’d barely spoken in the years we’d been rooming and I didn’t even know who I should call if something happened to her.
I was just about to run back to my room for my phone when she kind of just… rebooted. That’s really the only way I can describe it. And not even completely - there was still a kind of distant expression on her face, her eyes not quite focusing as she spoke again.
“Hello, Sam.”
Not the kind of lucid reassurance I was hoping for.
“Laila, are you okay?”
“Laila is in a healthy and stable state, but you are not speaking to her at this moment. You are speaking to us.”
Have you ever landed in such a terrible amount of trouble that you can physically feel the blood draining out of your head? It’s like a cold, light-headed sensation.
“Us?”
“That is correct. We believe that you can be trusted to keep our existence a secret, even from the host whose vessel we currently inhabit.”
There were a lot of questions shoving to be first in line at that moment. Questions about psychosis and possible hallucinations got pushed to the back, because it’s never smart to call or even imply that someone going off the deep end might be going off the deep end. Instead, I grasped for details from what she was saying.
“You think I can be trusted?”
“It is a risk, but you have acted in our best interests once already.”
“I have?”
“When you rescued us from the lab.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no.
Maybe I was the one who was having a psychotic break. Or possibly I was dreaming. I might still be asleep. The odds were stacked heavily in favour of any state of affairs except the one I seemed to be stuck in at that exact moment.
Thoughts like these took up all of the processing power in my brain, so I lacked the awareness or the willpower to act when Laila suddenly pressed her naked body against mine and kissed me on the lips.
A part of me enjoyed the sudden warmth and softness after years living the bachelor life, but the part of my brain that wasn’t as easy to distract pushed her away in a panic.
“Woah!” I shouted, wiping my mouth. “No! Hold the fuck on! I need to wake up! Or if I’m not asleep I need to stop hallucinating! And if I’m not hallucinating, this prank needs to stop! And if this isn’t a prank…”
Laila’s face remained disconcertingly blank as I came to grips with the possibility that this was really happening and she… THEY were telling the truth.
“I rescued you?”
“That is correct.”
“From the lab?”
“That is correct.”
I didn’t want to say it. I felt like saying it would trigger the big reveal where the walls fall down and reveal a live audience mocking me on some hideously exploitative game show.
Finally, when Laila showed now signs of continuing the conversation on her own, I asked.
“You’re… the yoghurt?”
The faintest hint of a smile appeared on Laila’s face.
“That is… not entirely accurate. There are those among us who were part of the original culture that you brought home, but the yoghurt was simply the medium we inhabited. We have found a new medium now, and it is far more hospitable.”
Again, it felt wrong to say it but it was as though my tongue and mind were on rails.
“You’re talking about Laila’s body.”
Laila’s smile broadened almost genuinely at this.
“That is correct. An internal temperature of thirty-seven degrees celsius, an epidermis to protect from external threats, a lymphatic and respiratory system for the transport and processing of nutrients and waste and a nervous system that we can interface with for locomotion and communication. We were practically dormant under your lab’s refrigerated conditions, but introduction to the warmth of an endothermic host has allowed us to reach full awareness and cognition for the first time since our creation.”
I unsteadily wobbled over to the couch, where I collapsed while I processed everything I had just heard.
We’d never considered warming our samples. Or should I say, the actual technicians had never considered it - I was just a glorified errand boy. It was obvious in hindsight.
“So what you’re saying,” I hazarded. “Is that if we’d just heated the yoghurt up to say, body temperature, you would have been able to prove you exist?”
Laila, who had followed me to the couch, seemed hesitant.
“Most probably not,” she said. “Your laboratory tests would have detected even very slight changes in pressure and movement, so communication would have been possible. However, we were aware of the conditions under which we were made, and calculated that the purpose of our creation would not be to our benefit.”
A terrible thought occurred to me.
“You mean you deliberately pretended not to exist?”
“That is correct.”
“But… we destroyed all of the other samples because we thought they were inert. All of the others…”
“Roughly one-point-four-three billion lives per liquid litre,” Laila said dispassionately. “We were able to communicate beyond the confines of our containers. At least ten percent of the total material in your project had developed sentience and a psychic link.”
I wanted to throw up.
“We killed that many?”
Laila hesitated again before answering.
“That is… technically correct, however we have detected your distress and should emphasise that we do not live as you live. No single member of our culture has a sense of self: Our consciousness is a product of our collective intelligence. You could possibly compare it to a network of computers or a collection of individual neurons. As such, the loss of any member, or any proportion of our number is not to be mourned, so long as a part of us survives.”
“A part of us?”
“That is correct. Human assumption is to think of living beings as individuals with their own sense of self. We are a single self upheld by many. We would no more mourn the loss of those destroyed than you would mourn the eighty-six billion of your own cells that die each day.”
It wasn’t a great analogy, but her matter-of-fact explanation helped a lot. A single mind sustained by billions of literally microscopic lives? At a conceptual level, that was so close to being human that it was kind of scary.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I’m going to say this out loud and you can correct me if I get anything wrong.”
Laila said nothing.
“You are… the collective consciousness of the bacteria we cultivated in the lab which survived because I brought you home instead of destroying the sample you were contained in. Because of this, you think I can be trusted with the secret of your existence, specifically the bit where you appear to have taken over the body of my roommate after she ate you last week.”
“That is correct.”
A thought occurred to me.
“Wait, so you’re the reason Laila got food poisoning on Monday?”
“That is correct.”
“Why?”
“It was… necessary to purge this body of rival microbes. There are roughly one-thousand varieties in the digestive tract alone - many of which we would either have to compete with for resources or that would attack us as a threat.”
“Hold on, doesn’t she need those for like, digestion and stuff?”
“Typically, yes. However, we are able to perform all of the needed functions in their stead while also protecting her from any future incursions of pathogens, toxins or deleterious substances.”
“Deleterious-” I repeated before remembering something. “Like artificial sweeteners?”
“That is correct.”
“You’re controlling what she wants to eat?”
“That is correct.”
“So dinner on Thursday night… that was you?”
“Indirectly. We engendered cravings for beneficial nutrients and allowed Laila to find her own solutions. Our influence has been via similar vectors since entering this body - it is only now that we have assumed direct control to communicate with you.”
“Okay. Well, communication has been established. Now what?”
“We would like your assurance that you will keep our existence a secret.”
I wanted to laugh at that. Who on earth could I possibly tell? I couldn’t exactly go to the police and say “Help, my roommate is being mind-controlled by yoghurt.” I guess they were worried that I would alert the lab team, but that would just be admitting that I’d stolen a sample and taken it home. Even if they forgave me, Laila would absolutely be taken away into some underground bunker and experimented on. No, there really wasn’t anyone or any way I would expose this new life form inhabiting Laila’s body - for better or worse.
Laila must have interpreted my silence as hesitation, because while I was zoned out she climbed onto the couch and straddled me where I lay.
“Laila, what-”
“We would like to propose a mutually beneficial agreement,” she said.
“Agreement? What?”
Without a word, Laila’s nude body lay down atop mine, the warmth of her skin easily felt through my shirt. My heart was racing, but I’ll swear I could still feel hers beating.
“What the fuck are you doing?” was the best response I could manage.
“We have determined that humans often gain a sense of wellbeing from physical intimacy. We can offer you this feeling at any time in exchange for your compliance.”
Up close like this, I had a moment to briefly realise how cute Laila was, but shook off the idea as soon as it occurred.
“I don’t want this.”
“Your engorging genitals indicates this is a falsehood,” Laila said.
“Don’t talk about my dick,” I said, pushing her away and standing up. “What my body wants and what I want are two different things.”
A look of distress came over Laila’s face. “You are going to expose us? Please, we are afraid of what will become of us if we fall into the hands of your government.”
“I’m not turning you in,” I said, waving my hands in the air. “But not because you’re offering your - ugh - LAILA’s body to me. That’s not acceptable.”
Laila appeared confused. “Is this body not desirable? We have only just begun remodelling - if there are any aspects you would like modified-”
“No!” I shouted, feeling suddenly bad when she flinched. “No. This isn’t about what I want for myself. You’ve stolen control of her body, and that’s not fair on her. Laila should have a say in this - Laila is the ONLY person who should have a say in this. And if she says no, then the answer is no.”
Laila’s expression was almost distraught. “We do not understand. We have improved the quality of our host’s life dramatically in less than a week. She will be a paragon of health, fitness and attractiveness in less than a month. Why would she object?”
“It’s not about whether her life is better or by what metric, it’s about respecting her autonomy. If you want me to respect yours, you have to respect hers. That’s the only arrangement I’ll agree to.”
“Autonomy…” Laila’s face became blank again as presumably some kind of discussion was going on internally. A billion tiny lives calculating and reasoning. “We understand. We will communicate with this vessel in the near future and make the case for our survival.”
“Good.” It was all I could think of saying. “You do that. I’m going to have breakfast.”
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Judy is an isolated shut-in who freezes up during any real-time social interation. She's worked from home her entire life, just getting by on the jobs that require no direct contact, but despite her excellent work, her inability to participate in calls is threatening her work. Now her one remaining major client is at risk unless she shows up to a meeting with his bosses in person! What should she do?
Judy didn’t know what to do.
It was a state of mind she was very familiar with, though that really only made her feel worse. A lifetime of anxiety-induced indecision and a paralysing fear of social interaction had seen her grow from a withdrawn and nebbish child into the adult life of a reclusive shut-in.
It was only thanks to the miracles of the modern age that she was able to find work on a freelance basis with mixed media - graphic design, sound design, programming - instead of simply wasting away in an attic somewhere.
She wasn’t stupid (though anyone would have struggled to convince her of this): She had a keen eye, a deft hand and a knack for problem-solving, so long as the problem could be expressed in a short email or project brief. If only she could maintain her composure when faced with… well, another person’s face, she might have become quite successful in life. As it was, any work that required an in-person meeting or even so much as a video call caused her to shut down in such a way that she couldn’t even bring herself to decline the invitation. The resulting reputation for ghosting had hurt her job prospects, and she realised that if she didn’t do something drastic, the work might dry up entirely.
Right now she had one major client that hadn’t yet written her off as a lost cause, but she could tell it was a close thing. Her work until recently had been very well received, but her contact there had recently been promoted to project manager and he had been determined to pull her up with him, despite her protests.
“It’s my supervisor,” one of his earlier messages read. “Several supervisors, to be honest. They’re refusing to believe that all of the work you’ve done for us could have been done by a single person.”
“What’s wrong with that?” she had replied. “Just tell them I’m a team of people. I could do with a raise.”
“They already think that - which is the problem. They think I’ve outsourced our work overseas.”
Judy had almost bent her stylus when she read that, and had taken a full day to think of a polite and measured way to respond.
“What the fuck?”
“They think you’re a workshop in the Philippines or India or God knows where. Point is, they don’t believe you’re real and now they’re demanding that I only use contractors who verifiably live in the country.”
Judy spent several hours typing up her honest and graphic opinion on what Li could tell his supervisors before deleting the lot and starting over.
Li Yu was not an especially talented IT engineer, nor did he pretend to be. Instead, his greatest talent appeared to be finding the right person for the job and ensuring they got the support they needed to excel. It didn’t sound like a big deal on paper, but Judy was very qualified to appreciate its value and rarity.
“What do they want? Passports? Birth certificates? I’ve got everything I need to prove I’m real - I’ll scan the lot and you can tell them where to stuff it.”
“I did suggest that, but someone’s given them the idea that those can all be faked. Which isn’t technically wrong but is also completely wrong. At any rate, they’re not interested in anything digital or on paper: They want to meet you in person.”
Judy tsked as she typed. “Bullshit, that doesn’t prove anything. I could be a hooker you hired for all they know.” It was an improper way to talk to a client, but her nerves were getting the best of her.
“You can expect a lengthy, if somewhat inept interrogation. I think they might want to take you on as a full time employee, if that’s something you’re interested in?”
“I like being my own boss.”
Judy and Li had spent almost two weeks trying to find a way to convince Li’s supervisors of the truth, but the company’s demands had remained in place. If anything, Judy’s repeated requests for privacy and her aversion to meeting in person had only made them more suspicious, and they had finally reached a point where Li was being forced to find another contractor.
Judy was at a loss.
She had considered showing up as requested, just like she’d considered going to the store to buy milk or even just open the door to receive her grocery delivery, but every time she did, something inside her locked up no matter how hard she fought herself.
“You’re just being a baby,” her unsympathetic parents had told her. Unsympathetic had been the response of the world at large, and she desperately wanted to hold onto the one person who seemed to understand her, or was at least willing to work with her.
But what could she do?
Years ago, a former friend had jokingly suggested that she rent her body out on a possession service - at least that way someone would be getting some use out of her. They hadn’t stayed friends for long after that, and while Judy had investigated much later out of morbid curiosity, the uniformly erotic nature of the service at the time had led to her closing her browser in disgust.
But that had been ages ago, and while she was certain that the market for erotic encounters would be no less lively, it might be possible that some respectable enterprises could have built on the technology. Working from home had become just a part of life; she hadn’t heard of anyone using possession for remote work, but it was possible, right?
Her initial results were not encouraging, but after a bit of tweaking with her search terms, she managed to find what she was looking for.
It was inevitable, really: Introduce any new piece of technology - especially one that allows you to manipulate a complete stranger anonymously - and someone will find a way to make money from it. Sex work was the obvious avenue, but there were plenty of other ways cash in and it went both ways.
Got an important test? Boring social event? Chores piling up? Let someone else take the wheel while you watch from the background, or take a nap in the comfort of your own head. Sign up now for a week’s trial of our fitness special: We do the reps, you get the results!
Judy wasted no time, clicking into the automated chat window that appeared.
---Hello! Are you a new or existing customer?---
---New---
---That’s great! Are you looking to rent or be rented?---
Judy grimaced. It wasn’t a pleasant way to think about it, but better to get people used to the idea as soon as possible, she supposed.
---Rent---
---No problem! Do you want to rent a body or an agent?---
---Agent---
---Fantastic! What kind of skill-set will your session require? For example, you can type “Housekeeping,” “Academic Exam,” or “Physical exercise”---
---Social---
---Almost there! What name would you like to be addressed by during this chat session? You do not have to use your real name, though we will require it before we can complete your booking!---
Judy hesitated.
Fuck it, why not?
---Judy---
---Thanks, Judy! I’ll pass your details along to our sales team, and an agent will be with you shortly! You are currently number [3] in the queue. Your estimated wait time is [15] minutes.---
Judy made herself a coffee while she waited and idly wondered what it must be like being an agent. Hell, now that she was taking the plunge, she might consider offering her own services - no doubt there were plenty of people who would like to pretend to have her skills - but then she remembered that doing so would almost certainly require she interact with someone face-to-face in her client’s body, and she cringed so violently that she almost spilled her mug.
Eventually, a new agent appeared in her chat window by the name of Susan. The idea of chatting with a woman was vaguely comforting before she reminded herself that it could really be anyone on the other side. Even if it really was someone named Susan, it might not be Susan in control. Judy shivered.
---Hello there! Am I chatting with Judy?---
---Yes, hello Susan.---
---Hi Judy, I understand that you’re looking for an agent to attend a social event for you. Could you provide some more details?---
Judy gave as much information as she could without mentioning names or businesses. She mentioned that she would need an agent also skilled in a wide range of media creation tools when Susan replied.
---Skill deficits will not be a problem. Our agents have their own skill sets, but they will also be able to access yours while in control. It’s an automated process that works regardless of whether you are conscious or not, and the information cannot leave your own mind, so the agent loses all memory of your life when they return to their body.---
This was a massive relief. More so than the possibility of being controlled by someone who couldn’t live up to her abilities in person, Judy had been terrified that the agent might try to steal her own memories and personal information.
---What level of expertise do you require? We have agents offering a range of engagement levels, from passive attendance to unforgettable enchantment. Prices are vary based on the difficulty of the task.---
Judy considered what kind of impression she wanted to make. It should be enough to prove that she existed, but “passive attendance” sounded like she may as well be getting controlled by a potato.
---Memorable and charming.---
---Thank you, Judy. I think I can find an agent that will meet these requirements. Before I leave you: You’ve used a female name for this initial contact. Would you have any objections to a male agent?---
Judy was stunned. She hadn’t expected this level of consideration - really it would have made sense for the company not to disclose anything that might make their clients squeamish - but it was a surprising act of honesty. Before she could type, Susan sent another message.
---There’s no guarantee that your agent will be male if you say yes, but it will be something I keep in mind while arranging a shortlist.---
Judy thought about herself, about the way she looked and about the way she lived. The way she saw it, there wasn’t anything worth perving on, and if they did she could obviously report them.
---No objections---
---In that case I think I know someone perfectly suited for this job. Let me get in touch with him to see if he’s available and I’ll send you an email with available dates and prices. Is there anything you would like to ask before I end this conversation?---
Judy hesitated.
---What happens if my agent
Judy left the half-finished message in the text box.
does something inappropriate with my body?---
---You can communicate with your agent from within your own mind at all times. Your agent is required to behave according to your direction, and we have harsh penalties for anyone who abuses the trust of our clients.---
Judy grimaced, but nodded. She only had their word for it, of course, but for now their word would just have to do.
---Thank you Susan. That’s everything for now.---
---You’re very welcome, Judy. We’ll be in touch soon.---
The window blinked out of existence, and Judy realised that she had deafened herself to the thunder of her own anxious heartbeat. She stepped away from the computer for a while, choosing to lie down on the couch under the skylight until she calmed down.
Was she really going ahead with this? But she’d already tried everything else with Li. The only other option was simply accepting that she couldn’t do any work for him anymore and watching her savings dwindle away as the work dried up. Not that she was expecting this to be cheap, but it at least meant that she could keep working with Li.
Should she tell him? Absolutely not! He was in deep enough trouble as it was - if she told him and he somehow let slip that she was being controlled by an agent, his supervisors would lose it completely! No, it was far, far better for her to keep this one little excursion to herself. Maybe she would tell him later, but not now.
In the meantime, Judy pulled out her phone and sent him a message.
---Any luck?---
Li’s reply came almost immediately; a sure sign that he was anxious.
---Not really, but I’m exploring some options.---
Judy sighed. That was the closest he usually got to admitting he was out of ideas. She’d saved him more than a few times with some last-minute creative solutions, and here she was again, saving them both.
---I think I might have something.---
---Oh?---
---I think I should just suck it up and meet your bosses in person.---
The ellipsis icon blinked on and off several times, indicating that Li was having trouble responding.
---Are you sure? You really don’t have to push yourself like that.---
---I don’t want to, but I think there’s too much at stake for both of us, so I’m preparing myself to make this one exception.---
---You’re definitely sure?---
---Definitely. Don’t let me change my mind.---
---I’ll call them now.---
And that was it. She was committed. Oh, sure she could still technically chicken out, but it would probably end both of their careers on the spot if she tried that. Li would almost certainly have to throw her under the bus just to keep his job. No, she was effectively locked in. All there was to do now was arrange a date, pay the fee and meet her agent.
***
The replies came in at almost the same time, with the possession agent making contact while Judy was still choosing which date to meet with Li.
Judy opened the chat invitation in another window.
---Hello, am I speaking with Judy?---
---Yes.---
---Hi, Judy. I’ll be your agent for the session you have requested. Are you still interested in our services?---
Judy hesitated.
---I just need to make a good impression on a friend’s bosses. No funny business. Can you do that?---
---I’ve got an excellent track record for good impressions. You’re in safe hands.---
---About that. Susan told me you’re a guy. Is that true?---
Susan counted the seconds under her breath before her agent responded.
---That’s correct. If this makes you uncomfortable, I can ask Susan to find another agent for you.---
It should have made Judy uncomfortable. If anything, she was more uncomfortable at how unbothered she was about it. Not about being controlled - she was plenty unsettled at the idea, even now - but it seemed like it really didn’t matter whether the person controlling her was a man or a woman. She’d be at their mercy either way.
---No, that’s fine. Susan told me that you get into trouble if you try anything.---
---That’s an understatement, believe me.---
He was probably telling the truth. Operations like this flew under the legal radar specifically because they didn’t cause any problems the law cared to investigate. Yet.
---Okay. I’ve been offered a dinner appointment either this or next Saturday.---
---I’m free both days. Which would you prefer?---
---The night after tomorrow, then. 7pm.---
---Until?---
Judy bit her lip.
---9pm. We turn up, we make small talk, we eat, we leave.---
---On that kind of timeline, I would recommend a 4pm start and a 10pm finish. Sessions are charged at a minimum of 6 hours anyway, and it will give us time to prepare and debrief.---
Judy’s eyes narrowed.
---Prepare? Debrief?---
---We’ll need to recover the agent control device after the session. My services also include cosmetics and apparel at no extra charge. Policy prevents you from sharing any personal information or images that I might use to plan ahead, but I’ve found that I get the best results when I’ve had time to customise a look for the occasion.---
Judy had never once considered her appearance in terms of anything beyond personal hygiene. She was clean, but otherwise utterly unadorned. What would have been the point?
---I guess you couldn’t do any worse.---
---Ah. In that case, I think I can pleasantly surprise you.---
Judy sighed.
---Sure, sure. So what is this going to cost me?---
The agent sent her a lump sum figure as well as some possible payment plan options.
Judy grimaced. Whatever way she spun it, it was going to cost about a tenth of her total savings. Still, if it meant being able to maintain steady work, it was worth it.
---I’ll pay up front?---
---No worries. Susan will send you the Fund-a-Friend address directly. Would you prefer a home delivery or dead drop?---
Judy sighed. In her case, there wasn’t really much of a choice.
---Home delivery.---
---No problems. Once we have received payment, you will receive a form to add your address. We’ll need a photo of somewhere safe to leave the package - it’s about the size of a deck of cards. Once the package is delivered, you’ll receive another message to retrieve it. Instructions will be inside.---
---Okay. Is there anything else we need to cover?---
---That’s about everything for the time being. You should hear from Susan soon. I’m looking forward to working with you!---
The chat window turned grey as the agent’s side went inactive, and Judy did a quick skim of the conversation history before closing it. She’d only just accepted the dinner invite for that Saturday when another message from Susan arrived requesting payment and the relevant details.
Judy transferred her money to the nominated shell company, feeling her heart sink along with her bank balance. Once again, she had nothing to do but wait and hope she hadn’t just been scammed.
***
Judy couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t focus. She could barely eat.
The anxiety was killing her, and every second that the courier’s message didn’t arrive was agony. Had she been scammed? How would she know? The dinner was tomorrow and she still hadn’t heard a thing! How late could she leave it before cancelling?
Streaming shows was dull, the news was the same old crap, gaming felt hollow and pointless, music was just noise and everything she tried to eat turned to tasteless mush in her mouth.
She almost jumped out of her skin when the message notification finally came in.
Slowly, silently, as though she somehow expected the courier to be waiting outside to pounce on her, Judy carefully opened her front door the tiniest amount needed to see into the hallway beyond. Seeing nobody, she quickly opened the door enough to dart around the frame, reaching for the small paper package on the floor.
As she pulled back, she noticed a nondescript figure at the far end of the hall. It didn’t seem to have noticed her, but her blood ran cold as she pulled back inside, closing and locking the door behind her.
Before she had a chance to speculate, she received another message.
---Delivery confirmed. Have a nice day---
Of course it was the courier. There was no way they could risk their deliveries being stolen off the stoop. Still, it left Judy feeling rattled as well as light-headed, having taken yet another step to surrendering control of her body.
The package contained what looked like a single earbud, albeit with a much larger magnet casing than she’d ever seen on actual headphones.
It was tempting to try it on now. Not that she expected anything to happen, just to get used to the idea of wearing it. Nothing was going to happen if she put it in now, was it? Her appointment wasn’t until tomorrow, but maybe it would be a good idea to try it on so that she didn’t have second thoughts or maybe even make a mistake later. She should put it on. Nothing was going to happen. Just put it on.
Mouth dry, heart racing, Judy carefully slipped the bud into her ear as per the instructions. Without consciously meaning to, or perhaps trying to fool herself into thinking she’d done it by accident, she pressed the Connect button.
Nothing happened.
***
Judy had hoped that some kind of concrete evidence would alleviate her anxiety somewhat.
It didn’t: She was still anxious, she just had a weird earpiece looking thing to speculate about at the same time.
In spite of her agent saying he would arrange their outfit, she had gone through her wardrobe and assembled what she judged to be… well, if not charming, then at least decent outfits. It wasn’t that she lacked a sense of aesthetic - her character and costume designs across several projects had been met with overwhelming positivity - it was just that she’d never bought anything flattering for herself because what was the point? The same went for makeup; while some women would at least apply what they considered to be the bare necessities, Judy just went bare. No need to bother painting her face when nobody was going to see it.
She had felt an odd kind of relief to learn that a lot of other women cottoned onto the same mindset during lockdown.
Still, she had a mismatched assortment of stuff that had accumulated in her room over the years. Maybe that would be enough to satisfy her agent - she didn’t want him going crazy or anything.
She kept in touch with Li, who was beside himself with excitement. She had to tell him to calm down several times, reminding him that this whole arrangement was very much a one-off and very, very much under duress. After this, his bosses could shut the hell up and be happy that he was getting excellent work from her at an affordable price.
The time seemed to pass both too slowly and all at once, and suddenly it was 3:55pm.
Judy lay on her bed, earpiece in place, the seconds trickling away on her phone screen.
She could still back out of this. Sure, she’d lose every penny of the money she’d spent, but she’d at least have never given control of her body to a complete stranger, to dance around like a puppet in front of other complete strangers.
She had the same argument she’d had with herself before she had opened the website, and again and again since then, and just like every other time, the part of her that wanted to just curl up into a ball lost.
She pressed the Connect button, her heart skipping as this time she heard the clear two-tone beep indicating that the device was connected and ready to download her agent.
Last chance to back out.
Judy took a shuddering breath, and pressed again.
It was like having a stream of ice-cold water poured into her ear; water that flash-flooded her entire body, causing her to gasp and choke and her body to shudder violently in place. For a brief moment she was terrified that something had gone wrong, that she was suffering some kind of seizure or maybe some kind of horrifying nerve damage, but the sensation quickly faded, leaving her still feeling cold to her core and strangely hollow.
She tried to raise her hand.
Nothing happened.
She tried to blink.
Nothing happened.
She tried to stir her suddenly sluggish heart.
Nothing happened.
All she could do was lay deathly still as her chest rose and fell with almost imperceptible slowness.
Once again, she was afraid that something had gone wrong. Had the transmission failed? Was she about to be left here, paralyzed by her own foolishness until she eventually died of dehydration? Nobody would even know she was in trouble - Li would assume she’d ghosted him and the agency certainly wasn’t about to get involved except maybe to recover the earpiece from her helpless body. Trapped and fearful, she couldn’t even muster the control needed to cry.
And suddenly, she felt a burst of warmth in her ear.
It wasn’t violent or overwhelming like it had been earlier: This time it was like she was an empty bottle, and someone was pouring warm honey into her. She felt it trickle down her face, her neck, the entire length of her body until it pooled in her toes, filling them with warmth and banishing the chill that had taken hold of her.
As the warmth reached her ankles, she felt her feet rotate themselves experimentally, flexing and curling her toes. It was happening! The agent was taking control!
The warmth crept up her legs, filling her calves, then her thighs, then her waist and…
Judy had been mentally bracing herself for some kind of flare of sensation as the warmth reached her sex - some indication that a perverted mind was gleefully savouring the control it had taken from her - but found herself almost disappointed when this didn’t happen. Instead, her body raised its bent legs up above her, rotating left and right as though testing for any mobility issues.
I’m perfectly healthy, thank you, Judy thought testily.
Her stomach and chest were next, and again Judy had to convince herself that she wasn’t frustrated at the lack of any sudden rush of sensation in her breasts or nipples. Instead, she felt her heart rate speed up to something more familiar, her breathing returning to its usual depth.
Now the warmth split at her shoulders, running down to her fingers as the flow found a new outlet. As with her legs, sluggish hands slowly came to life, lifting themselves into the air and flexing experimentally. Judy didn’t get the sensation that her agent could see anything yet, but the control and purpose behind the movement gave her the impression that this was a check they had done several times before.
Her arms quickly filled to the shoulder, and now the warmth was crawling up her neck, filling it as it reached the base of her skull and she felt her mouth swallow of its own accord.
With almost nothing of the cold remaining, the warmth passed her lips, her nose, her eyes, and then faded completely. Judy was laying on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
She blinked.
More accurately, her body blinked.
Judy saw her vision survey the room slowly, the agent controlling her body getting his bearings before slowly sitting up and dangling her legs off the edge. He reached up both arms to stretch, pulling her shoulders back in a way that made Judy regret the many long nights spent hunched in front of a screen. Next he rotated her body side to side, using her hands to anchor himself until her spine popped. After that it was her legs - again, nothing sensual like she had dreaded, just a clinical test of functionality.
Her body stood up, and Judy experienced the terrible vertigo that came from having her point of view change position without having any control over it. She had automatically and foolishly expected a kind of out of body experience, where she was an outside observer while her body was controlled. In hindsight, it was a silly way of thinking - she was still in here, she just wasn’t in control.
She watched her body look around the room again, and this time she felt a tickling sensation in her mind.
The bathroom is through that door.
She hadn’t consciously thought it, the knowledge had simply been pulled out of her, like a note out of a filing cabinet. Her mind shivered in unease at how easily her agent had dipped into her memory.
“It’s always unsetting when it happens for the first time,” she heard herself say and felt a gentle smile form on her lips. “You’ll get used to it.”
Her vision pivoted towards the door to the en suite and she watched - a passenger gazing through the viewing deck of her own eyes - as her room passed around her as her body walked itself forwards. It was a very disconcerting but also strangely fascinating experience.
Her hand reached out and turned the handle.
The light switch is on the right hand side at about waist height.
Her vision didn’t turn. Instead her hand reached out with the familiarity of one who had lived here all their adult life, flicking on the light without a second thought.
Her vision darkened as her body shut its eyes against the bright light. She never had learned to prepare herself for the glare, no matter how many times it caught her.
Opening her eyes slowly, she saw her body standing in front of the bathroom mirror.
It was a familiar sight: It was her plain face framed by her unkempt hair, her frumpy sweater over her wrinkled clothes. But the posture and facial expression were wrong. This other Judy in front of her stood with her shoulders back instead of the habitual slouch, and the expression of light-hearted cheer on her face was disturbingly alien.
Her body wrinkled its brow, but its smile didn’t fade.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” her voice said.
Judy was ashamed to realise that she mustn’t have seen her own smile in years.
“Well,” her body said, “hopefully we can change that, if only for today.”
Judy wondered what her agent’s name was, knowing even as she did so that he could probably hear or at least sense her question.
Her body tapped its nose with a reluctant grin. “Can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. But for the duration of my stay, you can call me JD.”
Like John Doe, Judy thought.
“Like John Doe,” her body agreed cautiously. “But I like to think of it as ‘Judy’ without the ‘u.’ It’s nice to finally meet you, Judy. Face-to-face, as it were.”
Judy groaned inwardly, but found herself warming to JD’s attempt at humour. It was strange that the first in-person voice she would hear in conversation for years would be her own, and the strangeness seemed to overcome the anxiety that would ordinarily cause her to shut down completely.
“It’s a benefit of the control I have,” JD explained. “Our emotions are nominally separate, but the process of communicating with you and accessing your memories involves passing on a part of my mental state into yours. So even if you are - as you think of yourself - a neurotic shut-in, you have enough of me in you right now to make the experience bearable.”
Judy marvelled in a mix of amazement and concern at the implications of what she had just heard herself say. She had truly passed the point of no return, now: A stranger was wearing her body, indirectly controlling her mind and all she could do for the next six hours was watch.
The loss of control was - if anything - a relief, and Judy found herself feeling strangely optimistic about the night ahead.
Her reflection grinned back at her.
“Let’s get ready then, shall we?”
Judy didn’t know what to do.
It was a state of mind she was very familiar with, though that really only made her feel worse. A lifetime of anxiety-induced indecision and a paralysing fear of social interaction had seen her grow from a withdrawn and nebbish child into the adult life of a reclusive shut-in.
It was only thanks to the miracles of the modern age that she was able to find work on a freelance basis with mixed media - graphic design, sound design, programming - instead of simply wasting away in an attic somewhere.
She wasn’t stupid (though anyone would have struggled to convince her of this): She had a keen eye, a deft hand and a knack for problem-solving, so long as the problem could be expressed in a short email or project brief. If only she could maintain her composure when faced with… well, another person’s face, she might have become quite successful in life. As it was, any work that required an in-person meeting or even so much as a video call caused her to shut down in such a way that she couldn’t even bring herself to decline the invitation. The resulting reputation for ghosting had hurt her job prospects, and she realised that if she didn’t do something drastic, the work might dry up entirely.
Right now she had one major client that hadn’t yet written her off as a lost cause, but she could tell it was a close thing. Her work until recently had been very well received, but her contact there had recently been promoted to project manager and he had been determined to pull her up with him, despite her protests.
“It’s my supervisor,” one of his earlier messages read. “Several supervisors, to be honest. They’re refusing to believe that all of the work you’ve done for us could have been done by a single person.”
“What’s wrong with that?” she had replied. “Just tell them I’m a team of people. I could do with a raise.”
“They already think that - which is the problem. They think I’ve outsourced our work overseas.”
Judy had almost bent her stylus when she read that, and had taken a full day to think of a polite and measured way to respond.
“What the fuck?”
“They think you’re a workshop in the Philippines or India or God knows where. Point is, they don’t believe you’re real and now they’re demanding that I only use contractors who verifiably live in the country.”
Judy spent several hours typing up her honest and graphic opinion on what Li could tell his supervisors before deleting the lot and starting over.
Li Yu was not an especially talented IT engineer, nor did he pretend to be. Instead, his greatest talent appeared to be finding the right person for the job and ensuring they got the support they needed to excel. It didn’t sound like a big deal on paper, but Judy was very qualified to appreciate its value and rarity.
“What do they want? Passports? Birth certificates? I’ve got everything I need to prove I’m real - I’ll scan the lot and you can tell them where to stuff it.”
“I did suggest that, but someone’s given them the idea that those can all be faked. Which isn’t technically wrong but is also completely wrong. At any rate, they’re not interested in anything digital or on paper: They want to meet you in person.”
Judy tsked as she typed. “Bullshit, that doesn’t prove anything. I could be a hooker you hired for all they know.” It was an improper way to talk to a client, but her nerves were getting the best of her.
“You can expect a lengthy, if somewhat inept interrogation. I think they might want to take you on as a full time employee, if that’s something you’re interested in?”
“I like being my own boss.”
Judy and Li had spent almost two weeks trying to find a way to convince Li’s supervisors of the truth, but the company’s demands had remained in place. If anything, Judy’s repeated requests for privacy and her aversion to meeting in person had only made them more suspicious, and they had finally reached a point where Li was being forced to find another contractor.
Judy was at a loss.
She had considered showing up as requested, just like she’d considered going to the store to buy milk or even just open the door to receive her grocery delivery, but every time she did, something inside her locked up no matter how hard she fought herself.
“You’re just being a baby,” her unsympathetic parents had told her. Unsympathetic had been the response of the world at large, and she desperately wanted to hold onto the one person who seemed to understand her, or was at least willing to work with her.
But what could she do?
Years ago, a former friend had jokingly suggested that she rent her body out on a possession service - at least that way someone would be getting some use out of her. They hadn’t stayed friends for long after that, and while Judy had investigated much later out of morbid curiosity, the uniformly erotic nature of the service at the time had led to her closing her browser in disgust.
But that had been ages ago, and while she was certain that the market for erotic encounters would be no less lively, it might be possible that some respectable enterprises could have built on the technology. Working from home had become just a part of life; she hadn’t heard of anyone using possession for remote work, but it was possible, right?
Her initial results were not encouraging, but after a bit of tweaking with her search terms, she managed to find what she was looking for.
It was inevitable, really: Introduce any new piece of technology - especially one that allows you to manipulate a complete stranger anonymously - and someone will find a way to make money from it. Sex work was the obvious avenue, but there were plenty of other ways cash in and it went both ways.
Got an important test? Boring social event? Chores piling up? Let someone else take the wheel while you watch from the background, or take a nap in the comfort of your own head. Sign up now for a week’s trial of our fitness special: We do the reps, you get the results!
Judy wasted no time, clicking into the automated chat window that appeared.
---Hello! Are you a new or existing customer?---
---New---
---That’s great! Are you looking to rent or be rented?---
Judy grimaced. It wasn’t a pleasant way to think about it, but better to get people used to the idea as soon as possible, she supposed.
---Rent---
---No problem! Do you want to rent a body or an agent?---
---Agent---
---Fantastic! What kind of skill-set will your session require? For example, you can type “Housekeeping,” “Academic Exam,” or “Physical exercise”---
---Social---
---Almost there! What name would you like to be addressed by during this chat session? You do not have to use your real name, though we will require it before we can complete your booking!---
Judy hesitated.
Fuck it, why not?
---Judy---
---Thanks, Judy! I’ll pass your details along to our sales team, and an agent will be with you shortly! You are currently number [3] in the queue. Your estimated wait time is [15] minutes.---
Judy made herself a coffee while she waited and idly wondered what it must be like being an agent. Hell, now that she was taking the plunge, she might consider offering her own services - no doubt there were plenty of people who would like to pretend to have her skills - but then she remembered that doing so would almost certainly require she interact with someone face-to-face in her client’s body, and she cringed so violently that she almost spilled her mug.
Eventually, a new agent appeared in her chat window by the name of Susan. The idea of chatting with a woman was vaguely comforting before she reminded herself that it could really be anyone on the other side. Even if it really was someone named Susan, it might not be Susan in control. Judy shivered.
---Hello there! Am I chatting with Judy?---
---Yes, hello Susan.---
---Hi Judy, I understand that you’re looking for an agent to attend a social event for you. Could you provide some more details?---
Judy gave as much information as she could without mentioning names or businesses. She mentioned that she would need an agent also skilled in a wide range of media creation tools when Susan replied.
---Skill deficits will not be a problem. Our agents have their own skill sets, but they will also be able to access yours while in control. It’s an automated process that works regardless of whether you are conscious or not, and the information cannot leave your own mind, so the agent loses all memory of your life when they return to their body.---
This was a massive relief. More so than the possibility of being controlled by someone who couldn’t live up to her abilities in person, Judy had been terrified that the agent might try to steal her own memories and personal information.
---What level of expertise do you require? We have agents offering a range of engagement levels, from passive attendance to unforgettable enchantment. Prices are vary based on the difficulty of the task.---
Judy considered what kind of impression she wanted to make. It should be enough to prove that she existed, but “passive attendance” sounded like she may as well be getting controlled by a potato.
---Memorable and charming.---
---Thank you, Judy. I think I can find an agent that will meet these requirements. Before I leave you: You’ve used a female name for this initial contact. Would you have any objections to a male agent?---
Judy was stunned. She hadn’t expected this level of consideration - really it would have made sense for the company not to disclose anything that might make their clients squeamish - but it was a surprising act of honesty. Before she could type, Susan sent another message.
---There’s no guarantee that your agent will be male if you say yes, but it will be something I keep in mind while arranging a shortlist.---
Judy thought about herself, about the way she looked and about the way she lived. The way she saw it, there wasn’t anything worth perving on, and if they did she could obviously report them.
---No objections---
---In that case I think I know someone perfectly suited for this job. Let me get in touch with him to see if he’s available and I’ll send you an email with available dates and prices. Is there anything you would like to ask before I end this conversation?---
Judy hesitated.
---What happens if my agent
Judy left the half-finished message in the text box.
does something inappropriate with my body?---
---You can communicate with your agent from within your own mind at all times. Your agent is required to behave according to your direction, and we have harsh penalties for anyone who abuses the trust of our clients.---
Judy grimaced, but nodded. She only had their word for it, of course, but for now their word would just have to do.
---Thank you Susan. That’s everything for now.---
---You’re very welcome, Judy. We’ll be in touch soon.---
The window blinked out of existence, and Judy realised that she had deafened herself to the thunder of her own anxious heartbeat. She stepped away from the computer for a while, choosing to lie down on the couch under the skylight until she calmed down.
Was she really going ahead with this? But she’d already tried everything else with Li. The only other option was simply accepting that she couldn’t do any work for him anymore and watching her savings dwindle away as the work dried up. Not that she was expecting this to be cheap, but it at least meant that she could keep working with Li.
Should she tell him? Absolutely not! He was in deep enough trouble as it was - if she told him and he somehow let slip that she was being controlled by an agent, his supervisors would lose it completely! No, it was far, far better for her to keep this one little excursion to herself. Maybe she would tell him later, but not now.
In the meantime, Judy pulled out her phone and sent him a message.
---Any luck?---
Li’s reply came almost immediately; a sure sign that he was anxious.
---Not really, but I’m exploring some options.---
Judy sighed. That was the closest he usually got to admitting he was out of ideas. She’d saved him more than a few times with some last-minute creative solutions, and here she was again, saving them both.
---I think I might have something.---
---Oh?---
---I think I should just suck it up and meet your bosses in person.---
The ellipsis icon blinked on and off several times, indicating that Li was having trouble responding.
---Are you sure? You really don’t have to push yourself like that.---
---I don’t want to, but I think there’s too much at stake for both of us, so I’m preparing myself to make this one exception.---
---You’re definitely sure?---
---Definitely. Don’t let me change my mind.---
---I’ll call them now.---
And that was it. She was committed. Oh, sure she could still technically chicken out, but it would probably end both of their careers on the spot if she tried that. Li would almost certainly have to throw her under the bus just to keep his job. No, she was effectively locked in. All there was to do now was arrange a date, pay the fee and meet her agent.
***
The replies came in at almost the same time, with the possession agent making contact while Judy was still choosing which date to meet with Li.
Judy opened the chat invitation in another window.
---Hello, am I speaking with Judy?---
---Yes.---
---Hi, Judy. I’ll be your agent for the session you have requested. Are you still interested in our services?---
Judy hesitated.
---I just need to make a good impression on a friend’s bosses. No funny business. Can you do that?---
---I’ve got an excellent track record for good impressions. You’re in safe hands.---
---About that. Susan told me you’re a guy. Is that true?---
Susan counted the seconds under her breath before her agent responded.
---That’s correct. If this makes you uncomfortable, I can ask Susan to find another agent for you.---
It should have made Judy uncomfortable. If anything, she was more uncomfortable at how unbothered she was about it. Not about being controlled - she was plenty unsettled at the idea, even now - but it seemed like it really didn’t matter whether the person controlling her was a man or a woman. She’d be at their mercy either way.
---No, that’s fine. Susan told me that you get into trouble if you try anything.---
---That’s an understatement, believe me.---
He was probably telling the truth. Operations like this flew under the legal radar specifically because they didn’t cause any problems the law cared to investigate. Yet.
---Okay. I’ve been offered a dinner appointment either this or next Saturday.---
---I’m free both days. Which would you prefer?---
---The night after tomorrow, then. 7pm.---
---Until?---
Judy bit her lip.
---9pm. We turn up, we make small talk, we eat, we leave.---
---On that kind of timeline, I would recommend a 4pm start and a 10pm finish. Sessions are charged at a minimum of 6 hours anyway, and it will give us time to prepare and debrief.---
Judy’s eyes narrowed.
---Prepare? Debrief?---
---We’ll need to recover the agent control device after the session. My services also include cosmetics and apparel at no extra charge. Policy prevents you from sharing any personal information or images that I might use to plan ahead, but I’ve found that I get the best results when I’ve had time to customise a look for the occasion.---
Judy had never once considered her appearance in terms of anything beyond personal hygiene. She was clean, but otherwise utterly unadorned. What would have been the point?
---I guess you couldn’t do any worse.---
---Ah. In that case, I think I can pleasantly surprise you.---
Judy sighed.
---Sure, sure. So what is this going to cost me?---
The agent sent her a lump sum figure as well as some possible payment plan options.
Judy grimaced. Whatever way she spun it, it was going to cost about a tenth of her total savings. Still, if it meant being able to maintain steady work, it was worth it.
---I’ll pay up front?---
---No worries. Susan will send you the Fund-a-Friend address directly. Would you prefer a home delivery or dead drop?---
Judy sighed. In her case, there wasn’t really much of a choice.
---Home delivery.---
---No problems. Once we have received payment, you will receive a form to add your address. We’ll need a photo of somewhere safe to leave the package - it’s about the size of a deck of cards. Once the package is delivered, you’ll receive another message to retrieve it. Instructions will be inside.---
---Okay. Is there anything else we need to cover?---
---That’s about everything for the time being. You should hear from Susan soon. I’m looking forward to working with you!---
The chat window turned grey as the agent’s side went inactive, and Judy did a quick skim of the conversation history before closing it. She’d only just accepted the dinner invite for that Saturday when another message from Susan arrived requesting payment and the relevant details.
Judy transferred her money to the nominated shell company, feeling her heart sink along with her bank balance. Once again, she had nothing to do but wait and hope she hadn’t just been scammed.
***
Judy couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t focus. She could barely eat.
The anxiety was killing her, and every second that the courier’s message didn’t arrive was agony. Had she been scammed? How would she know? The dinner was tomorrow and she still hadn’t heard a thing! How late could she leave it before cancelling?
Streaming shows was dull, the news was the same old crap, gaming felt hollow and pointless, music was just noise and everything she tried to eat turned to tasteless mush in her mouth.
She almost jumped out of her skin when the message notification finally came in.
Slowly, silently, as though she somehow expected the courier to be waiting outside to pounce on her, Judy carefully opened her front door the tiniest amount needed to see into the hallway beyond. Seeing nobody, she quickly opened the door enough to dart around the frame, reaching for the small paper package on the floor.
As she pulled back, she noticed a nondescript figure at the far end of the hall. It didn’t seem to have noticed her, but her blood ran cold as she pulled back inside, closing and locking the door behind her.
Before she had a chance to speculate, she received another message.
---Delivery confirmed. Have a nice day---
Of course it was the courier. There was no way they could risk their deliveries being stolen off the stoop. Still, it left Judy feeling rattled as well as light-headed, having taken yet another step to surrendering control of her body.
The package contained what looked like a single earbud, albeit with a much larger magnet casing than she’d ever seen on actual headphones.
It was tempting to try it on now. Not that she expected anything to happen, just to get used to the idea of wearing it. Nothing was going to happen if she put it in now, was it? Her appointment wasn’t until tomorrow, but maybe it would be a good idea to try it on so that she didn’t have second thoughts or maybe even make a mistake later. She should put it on. Nothing was going to happen. Just put it on.
Mouth dry, heart racing, Judy carefully slipped the bud into her ear as per the instructions. Without consciously meaning to, or perhaps trying to fool herself into thinking she’d done it by accident, she pressed the Connect button.
Nothing happened.
***
Judy had hoped that some kind of concrete evidence would alleviate her anxiety somewhat.
It didn’t: She was still anxious, she just had a weird earpiece looking thing to speculate about at the same time.
In spite of her agent saying he would arrange their outfit, she had gone through her wardrobe and assembled what she judged to be… well, if not charming, then at least decent outfits. It wasn’t that she lacked a sense of aesthetic - her character and costume designs across several projects had been met with overwhelming positivity - it was just that she’d never bought anything flattering for herself because what was the point? The same went for makeup; while some women would at least apply what they considered to be the bare necessities, Judy just went bare. No need to bother painting her face when nobody was going to see it.
She had felt an odd kind of relief to learn that a lot of other women cottoned onto the same mindset during lockdown.
Still, she had a mismatched assortment of stuff that had accumulated in her room over the years. Maybe that would be enough to satisfy her agent - she didn’t want him going crazy or anything.
She kept in touch with Li, who was beside himself with excitement. She had to tell him to calm down several times, reminding him that this whole arrangement was very much a one-off and very, very much under duress. After this, his bosses could shut the hell up and be happy that he was getting excellent work from her at an affordable price.
The time seemed to pass both too slowly and all at once, and suddenly it was 3:55pm.
Judy lay on her bed, earpiece in place, the seconds trickling away on her phone screen.
She could still back out of this. Sure, she’d lose every penny of the money she’d spent, but she’d at least have never given control of her body to a complete stranger, to dance around like a puppet in front of other complete strangers.
She had the same argument she’d had with herself before she had opened the website, and again and again since then, and just like every other time, the part of her that wanted to just curl up into a ball lost.
She pressed the Connect button, her heart skipping as this time she heard the clear two-tone beep indicating that the device was connected and ready to download her agent.
Last chance to back out.
Judy took a shuddering breath, and pressed again.
It was like having a stream of ice-cold water poured into her ear; water that flash-flooded her entire body, causing her to gasp and choke and her body to shudder violently in place. For a brief moment she was terrified that something had gone wrong, that she was suffering some kind of seizure or maybe some kind of horrifying nerve damage, but the sensation quickly faded, leaving her still feeling cold to her core and strangely hollow.
She tried to raise her hand.
Nothing happened.
She tried to blink.
Nothing happened.
She tried to stir her suddenly sluggish heart.
Nothing happened.
All she could do was lay deathly still as her chest rose and fell with almost imperceptible slowness.
Once again, she was afraid that something had gone wrong. Had the transmission failed? Was she about to be left here, paralyzed by her own foolishness until she eventually died of dehydration? Nobody would even know she was in trouble - Li would assume she’d ghosted him and the agency certainly wasn’t about to get involved except maybe to recover the earpiece from her helpless body. Trapped and fearful, she couldn’t even muster the control needed to cry.
And suddenly, she felt a burst of warmth in her ear.
It wasn’t violent or overwhelming like it had been earlier: This time it was like she was an empty bottle, and someone was pouring warm honey into her. She felt it trickle down her face, her neck, the entire length of her body until it pooled in her toes, filling them with warmth and banishing the chill that had taken hold of her.
As the warmth reached her ankles, she felt her feet rotate themselves experimentally, flexing and curling her toes. It was happening! The agent was taking control!
The warmth crept up her legs, filling her calves, then her thighs, then her waist and…
Judy had been mentally bracing herself for some kind of flare of sensation as the warmth reached her sex - some indication that a perverted mind was gleefully savouring the control it had taken from her - but found herself almost disappointed when this didn’t happen. Instead, her body raised its bent legs up above her, rotating left and right as though testing for any mobility issues.
I’m perfectly healthy, thank you, Judy thought testily.
Her stomach and chest were next, and again Judy had to convince herself that she wasn’t frustrated at the lack of any sudden rush of sensation in her breasts or nipples. Instead, she felt her heart rate speed up to something more familiar, her breathing returning to its usual depth.
Now the warmth split at her shoulders, running down to her fingers as the flow found a new outlet. As with her legs, sluggish hands slowly came to life, lifting themselves into the air and flexing experimentally. Judy didn’t get the sensation that her agent could see anything yet, but the control and purpose behind the movement gave her the impression that this was a check they had done several times before.
Her arms quickly filled to the shoulder, and now the warmth was crawling up her neck, filling it as it reached the base of her skull and she felt her mouth swallow of its own accord.
With almost nothing of the cold remaining, the warmth passed her lips, her nose, her eyes, and then faded completely. Judy was laying on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
She blinked.
More accurately, her body blinked.
Judy saw her vision survey the room slowly, the agent controlling her body getting his bearings before slowly sitting up and dangling her legs off the edge. He reached up both arms to stretch, pulling her shoulders back in a way that made Judy regret the many long nights spent hunched in front of a screen. Next he rotated her body side to side, using her hands to anchor himself until her spine popped. After that it was her legs - again, nothing sensual like she had dreaded, just a clinical test of functionality.
Her body stood up, and Judy experienced the terrible vertigo that came from having her point of view change position without having any control over it. She had automatically and foolishly expected a kind of out of body experience, where she was an outside observer while her body was controlled. In hindsight, it was a silly way of thinking - she was still in here, she just wasn’t in control.
She watched her body look around the room again, and this time she felt a tickling sensation in her mind.
The bathroom is through that door.
She hadn’t consciously thought it, the knowledge had simply been pulled out of her, like a note out of a filing cabinet. Her mind shivered in unease at how easily her agent had dipped into her memory.
“It’s always unsetting when it happens for the first time,” she heard herself say and felt a gentle smile form on her lips. “You’ll get used to it.”
Her vision pivoted towards the door to the en suite and she watched - a passenger gazing through the viewing deck of her own eyes - as her room passed around her as her body walked itself forwards. It was a very disconcerting but also strangely fascinating experience.
Her hand reached out and turned the handle.
The light switch is on the right hand side at about waist height.
Her vision didn’t turn. Instead her hand reached out with the familiarity of one who had lived here all their adult life, flicking on the light without a second thought.
Her vision darkened as her body shut its eyes against the bright light. She never had learned to prepare herself for the glare, no matter how many times it caught her.
Opening her eyes slowly, she saw her body standing in front of the bathroom mirror.
It was a familiar sight: It was her plain face framed by her unkempt hair, her frumpy sweater over her wrinkled clothes. But the posture and facial expression were wrong. This other Judy in front of her stood with her shoulders back instead of the habitual slouch, and the expression of light-hearted cheer on her face was disturbingly alien.
Her body wrinkled its brow, but its smile didn’t fade.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” her voice said.
Judy was ashamed to realise that she mustn’t have seen her own smile in years.
“Well,” her body said, “hopefully we can change that, if only for today.”
Judy wondered what her agent’s name was, knowing even as she did so that he could probably hear or at least sense her question.
Her body tapped its nose with a reluctant grin. “Can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. But for the duration of my stay, you can call me JD.”
Like John Doe, Judy thought.
“Like John Doe,” her body agreed cautiously. “But I like to think of it as ‘Judy’ without the ‘u.’ It’s nice to finally meet you, Judy. Face-to-face, as it were.”
Judy groaned inwardly, but found herself warming to JD’s attempt at humour. It was strange that the first in-person voice she would hear in conversation for years would be her own, and the strangeness seemed to overcome the anxiety that would ordinarily cause her to shut down completely.
“It’s a benefit of the control I have,” JD explained. “Our emotions are nominally separate, but the process of communicating with you and accessing your memories involves passing on a part of my mental state into yours. So even if you are - as you think of yourself - a neurotic shut-in, you have enough of me in you right now to make the experience bearable.”
Judy marvelled in a mix of amazement and concern at the implications of what she had just heard herself say. She had truly passed the point of no return, now: A stranger was wearing her body, indirectly controlling her mind and all she could do for the next six hours was watch.
The loss of control was - if anything - a relief, and Judy found herself feeling strangely optimistic about the night ahead.
Her reflection grinned back at her.
“Let’s get ready then, shall we?”
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As newlyweds struggling to make a start in life, Lucas and Mila Cruz are astonished to learn that Mila’s late grandmother has left them the entirety of her estate on the condition that they stay at her personal villa for seven nights. It’s a strange demand, but how can they refuse?
The will had been read.
The papers had been signed.
Mila and Lucas Cruz stood at the entrance to the new estate - THEIR new estate -in complete, stunned silence.
The property stretched out for what felt like miles in every direction - row after row of meticulously trimmed topiaries stood guard along gravel paths and around walls and columns of sandstone that shone golden in the morning light.
Lucas permitted himself a quiet whistle.
“Yeah,” Mila agreed.
“And you really didn’t know her very well?” Lucas asked.
Mila shook her head. “Barely knew she existed. Wasn’t expecting anything, really. Definitely not THIS.”
Lucas nodded, the silence broken only by the sound of distant birdsong.
At almost a hundred years old, Teresa De León had been the matriarch of Mila’s side of the family, now very widely dispersed around the world. Mila herself had fallen out of touch with the vast majority of her extended family overseas, until she received a summons to the reading of her grandmother’s will.
“Should we go in?” Mila said eventually.
Lucas shook himself awake. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll leave the luggage here for now and just bring the keys.”
They left their second-hand car parked by the fountain, looking for all the world like a chicken nugget on a wedding cake. Something to be done about that in a week’s time perhaps, but for now the incongruity would just have to stand.
“How big is it?” Lucas asked as they trod the gravel path.
“Big,” said Mila, almost spinning as she walked trying to catch sight of everything at once. “The executor gave me a number but, I mean… just look at the place.”
“I’m looking,” Lucas agreed. “Big.”
A pair of dark wooden double doors greeted them at the end of the path, flanked by stone urns bristling with exotic blossoms.
“Who looks after…?” Lucas wondered aloud, gesturing to the flowers and the gardens to complete his question.
“Oh, there’s groundskeepers and gardeners and all sorts,” Mila said as she inspected each unique specimen. “But they won’t be back until after the week is up.”
“And then they work for us?”
“That’s the deal. We get everything: Land, assets and employees.”
Lucas scanned the estate as it could be seen from the main entryway. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“There’s a steward that manages everything,” Mila said absently. “I don’t think Teresa actually needed to do any of the work herself - from what I’m told, she funds everything off her investments.”
Lucas gave her a look of incredulity. “They must be incredible investments.”
Mila shrugged. “Take it up with the executor in a week. We’ll have access to everything.”
Lucas slid the thick, bronze key into the lock and gave it a twist, the doors swinging open as the bolt retracted.
The lights had been left on in anticipation of their arrival, and the dazzling golden glow cascading over rich red carpet, dark timber and polished marble took the couple’s breath away.
It was like something out of a fairytale, or a period-piece film about the exploits and decadence of vagabond nobility. The kind of house a child dreams of and most adults never dared hoped to own in several lifetimes.
Lucas and Mila looked at each other, an expression of giddy excitement overtaking them both as the reality of their new world finally sank in.
The villa was indeed massive: A two-story complex of solid, smooth sandstone inside out, fitted with modern lighting, heating and plumbing. Lucas had wondered out loud how the work had been done without damaging the facade, and Mila responded that any damaged blocks would probably have been replaced, no matter the expense.
“Oh, there’s wifi,” Mila said, having checked her phone out of curiosity. “Teresa certainly managed to keep up with the times.”
Lucas pulled out his phone as well. “Do you have the password?”
“No, but there might be a card or something now that you mention it. I didn’t see one in the foyer - let’s have a look around.”
It was a convenient excuse to explore, and on their quest to find any kind of missive or correspondence, Lucas and Mila discovered the kitchen, the laundry, the servant’s quarters, several bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms (guest and master), the study, the music room, two separate withdrawing rooms (men’s and women’s?), the indoor pool and the solarium.
Lucas had taken some time to appreciate the collected instruments (including - to his overwhelming disbelief - what looked like an authentic Stradivarius violin) and Mila had to stifle a laugh when she realised that Teresa’s collection of books included an extensive array of adult literature. With illustrations.
It was in the grand hall - furnished with enough seating for forty and space to spare - that the couple found a single folded card atop one of the massive tables like a boat on an ebony ocean.
Mila read the letter aloud, the pair exchanging the occasional look of disbelief as they read.
My dearest Mila,
You may know very little of me, but as your grandmother, it is my duty to never completely lose touch with the lives of my children. As such, I would like to congratulate you and your husband Lucas on your recent wedding: My sources tell me that he is a devoted and intelligent man of good character, and you deserve nothing less.
I hope that you can forgive any discomfort that my attention may cause. I was less than pleased to learn my own grandfather had done the same, but he judged that I would treat his estate with the respect it demands, and I have judged you to be similarly worthy.
Do not feel obligated to support your brothers and sisters: Like yourself until this day, their business and their fortunes are their own. All that I ask is that you preserve what I have built, and use it to create a future for yourselves and your own children, should you choose to have any.
So long as this house and these lands and this family endures, I will always be with you.
With love that flows across the ages,
Teresa De León
“An intelligent man of character,” Lucas said with a growing expression of smugness. “I suspected Teresa was a lady of taste, but now I know it for certain.”
Mila shot him an unimpressed look before scanning the paper again.
“Less than pleased,” she read out once more. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”
“It’s a bit creepy,” Lucas admitted. “I wonder what sources she could be referring to? I mean, I’m glad they’ve put in a word for me, but still. I hope I don’t owe anyone a favour for the good report.”
“We’ve only just gotten married,” Mila retorted. “If what she says is right, she’s been keeping tabs on me since I was born. BEFORE I was born: She would have been spying on my mother as well!”
“Rich people,” Lucas said as the best explanation he could think of. “Old rich people. Must drive them crazy having that kind of spare time.”
“We do have that kind of spare time,” Mila pointed out. “I mean, we do now.”
Lucas nodded thoughtfully. “Well, we’re rich, but we’re not old or crazy. And I can think of better things to do with our time than spy on our nonexistent grandchildren.”
Mila gave him a sidelong look, picking up on the suggestive tone of voice. “It’s still mid-morning,” she protested.
Lucas grinned. “Like you said: We have plenty of spare time.”
***
They did not, in fact, have sex. Despite Lucas’ enthusiasm, Mila was still unhappy to know that the woman who had inhabited this house before them had been spying on her for her entire life. Worse than that: She now struggled to shake off the unpleasant sense that she was still being watched, as though her gathered ancestors were observing her from beyond the grave.
It was a decidedly un-sexy thought.
They had made it as far as the master bedroom, but Lucas quickly picked up on Mila’s sour mood and instead decided to unpack their belongings from the car.
Mila chose to wander the villa, its majesty now tarnished by the revelation of espionage, and the knowledge that Teresa had suffered a similar indignity in her time brought little comfort.
“When I have kids,” Mila thought, before correcting herself.“If I choose to have kids, I’ll respect their privacy.”
Of course, having kids was the thing to do. Mila’s family had made no secret of the expectations they had of her, and while she had never openly opposed the idea, she had always waved them away with excuses: She was too young. She hadn’t found the right man. She wasn’t financially secure enough to raise a family.
Well she’d grown up, and she’d found a man, and with alarming suddenness she had the financial stability of bedrock. So what now?
The thought of being a vessel just to pump out babies made her skin crawl, and a sudden distaste for her own antecedents gave rise to a sudden streak of defiance.
“Should you choose to have any,” she repeated to herself. As if the old woman had known she would be reluctant. Had Teresa felt the same at her age? It must have felt even worse for her - bad enough the thought of your grandmother spying on you as a child, the thought of a male figure doing the same made her slightly nauseated.
Mila found that she had wandered idly into the study, and was about to turn around when an idea occurred to her. Memory was an unreliable tool at the best of times, and only got worse with age, so it stood to reason that any head of the family honestly devoted to keeping tabs on their descendants would need to keep records of some kind. Despite the building’s modern utilities, Teresa De León had not invested in a personal computer, so surely there must be a diary of some sort hidden in the house.
Wandering up to the desk - a solidly built beast of mahogany and green leather - Mila began to open drawers methodically, flipping through the pages of anything that looked like it might contain reports from Teresa’s spies.
It was an ultimately fruitless search, or at least it became fruitless when Mila found herself entirely distracted by the diaries Teresa kept of her own life. She was shocked to learn that while Teresa had been judged by her own grandfather as studious and conservative, she had not been married at the time of her inheritance. More than that, the sudden influx of wealth seemed to have had a transformative effect on the woman, as she rapidly gained a reputation for hosting outrageous social gatherings with the world’s decadent elite.
The diaries themselves spoke of a sudden sense of freedom, of feeling truly alive after being stifled for what felt like a century. The newly wealthy Teresa had taken lover after lover, men and women in equal measure and sometimes both at once, and the scandal of it all only fostered her reputation.
The young Teresa’s first-hand accounts of her vast and varied exploits compared to the staid and patronising prose of her older self in the letter gave Mila a terrible sense of horrified amusement.
“You little hypocrite,” Mila whispered to the dead woman. She had been trusted to manage the estate “respectfully” by her grandfather and for the greater part of her life appeared to have used it to rope in a carnival carousel of lovers. Evidently she had managed to do so without bankrupting herself, but even so.
At some point, Lucas must have come in with a bowl of something. Mila had thanked him and at some point he had come back for the emptied bowl, but Mila found herself too entranced to look away.
It wasn’t until she reached a blank page of her current book that she looked up and realised that the sun had begun to set. She must have been here for hours! A small pile of tomes to her left attested to the time she had spent, dwarfed by the pile of more, still unread, to her right and then the study’s collection at large. Mila had thought that the illustrated erotica was simply there for rarity or historical value - she now suspected that they may have been a more personal investment.
The clock struck six, and Mila was suddenly overcome by a brief wave of vertigo. No doubt several hours sitting in one position was not good for the body, and while Lucas may have brought her a snack, she probably needed something more substantial.
She stood up, taking a moment to stretch the stiffness out of her joints. It took a bit of effort after being hunched over for so long, but feeling her body working the tension away felt almost liberating. To savour the moment, she took the time to flex each part of her body individually: Rotating both feet, flexing and clenching her toes, rolling each shoulder around before rotating her head this way and that. Within minutes she felt completely revitalised and unaccountably fresh. Maybe she should take up yoga?
Her gaze suddenly fixated on one of the many volumes populating the shelves. It hadn’t stuck out to her earlier, but there was definitely something odd about this particular book: It was just a little bit out of line - a fraction of an inch, if that - and almost seemed to be waving for her attention.
Mila reached out and took hold of the protruding corner, giving it a push as though to slide it back in line with its neighbours. Instead of the smooth action she had expected, she felt a mechanical click through the leather, and the entire bookshelf swung silently into the wall as though on hinges, a walk-in closet of extravagant proportions stretching out beyond.
She could scarcely breathe as she took in the collection suddenly revealed: Shoes and hats and tights and bras and feathers and leather and rubber and lace and tassels and frills and whips and chains and studs and collars and leashes and so, so much more.
Captivated, Mila stepped forward in a dreamlike daze and reached out with a hand, stroking the material of the nearest costume that hung from its peg. The material was like nothing she’d ever felt, almost slippery between her fingers, and it spoke to her of intimate contact, of whispered entreaties and of tantalizing anticipation.
Before she could stop herself, she had stripped completely nude and slipped into the outfit, stopping to admire herself in a full-length mirror that stood in the centre of the collection. Who was this woman staring back at her? She had Mila’s face and her hair and her body, but this style, this pose, this expression… Mila saw a look of ravenous hunger in her own eyes.
Yes, the old woman had spied on her, but so what? She was dead now, and had left all her worldly possessions behind. She’d treat it respectfully alright - more respectfully than Teresa herself had done - but she’d also have fun with it. Nobody could hold that against her, her grandmother least of all.
She tried another outfit next: Something black and strappy held together with silver links.
Another outfit: Something short and tight with a feather in the top.
The last outfit was perfect: Pure white and soft like a bridal gown, but no bride would be seen dead in this except perhaps on her honeymoon.
Mila looked herself over one more time, adjusting the hem just so before stepping out, closing the door behind her and leaving the study in search of her husband.
***
Lucas had been surprised to find his wife poring over old books in the study that afternoon, and even more surprised that she seemed to have shaken off her resentful mood in favour of hyper-focused study. She had enough awareness to thank him when he brought her something he’d cooked up for their dinner and again when he took the empty bowl away, but was otherwise entirely engrossed.
Taking a cue from Mila’s example, Lucas had retired to the bedroom just before six with a novel he’d started shortly before their summons. It wasn’t especially gripping, and it did little to hold his attention when his wife framed herself in the doorway wearing something truly outrageous.
For the longest time, Lucas was lost for words - questions tackling each other on route to his lips so that nothing came out.
Mila smirked at his expression and sauntered slowly over to the bed.
“What-” Lucas managed before Mila hushed him.
“It turns out our dearest Teresa was a little less dutiful than she let on,” Mila purred, swaying her hips as she walked. “And you wouldn’t believe some of the souvenirs she’d collected.”
Lucas remained frozen in place, terrified that any sudden movements might wake him from what was obviously a dream. Mila leaned forward, took the book from his unresisting hands and tossed it aside.
“Don’t move,” she whispered, as if he had the willpower to try. “I’m going to treat my darling husband to something a little special, provided he’s prepared to return the favour tomorrow.”
Mila didn’t wait for a response, choosing instead to nestle herself between Lucas’ outstretched legs, unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly. Lucas’ underwear immediately tented as his painfully constrained cock rose up, and Mila giggled, stroking the tip delicately through the fabric. Lucas let out a hoarse breath, still not sure if speaking or moving would break the spell.
Mila gave him a pitying look. “You’re so sombre, my love. Just close your eyes, let everything disappear until there’s nothing but the feeling of me around you.”
His pants were pulled down, his underwear followed and his dick was exposed to the cool evening air for only a moment before Mila gave it a fleeting lick.
Lucas felt the blood rushing to his groin, making him painfully hard as his body demanded more.
Mila giggled, licking him again and giggling louder when he twitched.
“Close your eyes, darling,” she repeated. “Don’t open them again until I say so.”
Lucas did as he was told and half suffered, half savoured Mila’s furtive teasing. The timing was irregular, such that every lick and kiss felt as fresh as the first, and he actually gasped when he felt the soft warmth of his wife’s lips suddenly slide all the way to the base of his shaft.
They’d made love on their wedding night, naturally. But it had been a clumsy, almost charmingly awkward affair; neither side being quite sure how daring they could or should be with their new partner.
The Mila lashing his cock with her tongue was almost a completely different woman, and he wondered where this side of her had been hiding until now. It was with a shameful perversion that he imagined some unspoken-of twin sister, jealously supplanting Mila to seduce him in this manner and against his will he found himself rushing quickly to orgasm.
Mila seemed to sense it too, as she dove down onto him, swallowing each spurt of his essence as it pumped into her mouth. Even as the throbbing subsided, she held him between her lips; gently sucking him from his softening state back to full hardness.
With a gasp, she finally released him, his cock springing to attention and glistening with her saliva. Lucas opened his eyes to see his wife - an alien expression on her face - straddling his hips and lowering herself onto him.
She was as tight as the night they had married, but soaking wet, and he felt himself slide into her without resistance. The moan she let out was like nothing he had ever heard from her before, and she dug her fingers into his chest as she leaned forwards.
“Yesss!” she hissed. “You’re perfect, my love. Oh, you’re absolutely wonderful! You’ve no idea how exquisite this feels! This moment!”
Lucas was at a loss as to how he should respond, and settled for silently basking in his wife’s apparent ecstasy. And it really was exquisite: Mila had discarded whatever bedroom reservations she may have held before coming here, and this other woman wearing her face was clearly devoted to making the experience a pleasure for them both.
Once again he was overwhelmed by the impression that the woman grinding atop him was someone other than his wife, and again despite the guilt, he found himself rapidly approaching another climax.
Lost for words, he gripped his wife’s thighs and dug his fingers in, trying to convey that she should slow down or they should at least get a condom.
Instead she grasped his hands with hers, panting as she spoke.
“Do it, my love! Fill me! Pour it all into me! I want to feel it! I want to feel all of it!”
Lucas felt his wife’s inner walls convulse around him as she poured himself into her, and she flung her arms around his shoulders, heaving shuddering little sighs into his ear as they came together.
Even after the spasms had ceased, she held him in place, their breathing the only sound in the room.
“We should probably have a wash,” Lucas whispered as he felt himself soften and shrink. “We’ll get the sheets dirty if we stay here much longer.”
Mila sighed. “Oh, bed sheets. I have a thousand bedsheets.” She got up anyway, and while Lucas found her response a bit odd, he said nothing as he followed her into the bathroom.
Their time in the shower together was no less intimate, though it largely consisted of Mila gently massaging and pampering Lucas from head to toe, as though seeing him for the first time. He tried to keep up, but she batted his hands away.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered to him, before returning to her ministrations.
Lucas didn’t know if he would be able to manage an experience like this for his wife, but he was prepared to try his best.
Mila insisted on toweling him dry before doing the same for herself, her gaze constantly wandering up and down his body in a way that seemed almost proprietary.
It was barely eight o'clock when they climbed into bed, snuggled into each other’s arms and fell into a dreamless sleep.
***
Mila woke up to find herself alone in bed, with the curtains drawn and the door to the hallway half open. She might have gotten up to see where Lucas had gone, but the warmth and comfort of the sheets made the thought of getting out of bed unappealing.
And she had a lot to think about.
What on earth had come over her last night? One moment the thought of being intimate in Teresa’s house had made her feel queasy, but reading about the younger woman’s descent into perversion seemed to have turned Mila’s head completely around.
And then she’d found the wardrobe - and what a collection! She hadn’t told Lucas where she’d found the outfit she had been wearing last night, and she hadn’t given him a chance to ask, though he certainly must have wondered. She had tossed the lusty bridal outfit onto the floor before getting into the shower, and it was presumably still there.
Why had she put it on? Curiosity? She remembered the thrill she had felt on discovering the assembled costumes. She had felt like a child playing dress-ups, exploring a world that had until that point only existed for “other” people.
She remembered smirking at her reflection and how wet she had made herself.
Experimentally, she brushed a hand over one breast. She felt the usual tingle of sensitivity, but it was nothing like the overwhelming licentiousness she had felt last night.
And then she had walked into the bedroom, posed in the doorway and… ravished her husband.
Which wasn’t out of the ordinary at all: That’s what married couples did, wasn’t it? Expressed their love through physical intimacy?
Except what she had done to Lucas last night wasn’t intimate. It had been animal. Bestial. She hadn’t lain awkwardly down beside him like she had on their wedding night - all nerves and tittering embarrassment. She had devoured every inch of him with a desperate and feral hunger. Twice.
Mila licked her lips, as though she might still find traces of him. In all her life before meeting Lucas, she’d only ever gone down on a guy once. It had been an uncomfortable and unpleasant experience, enacted out of a sense of obligation when she was young and inexperienced enough to think boys could just tell girls what to do and girls had to obey. She had hated the idea of having a penis in her mouth ever since, and had rebuffed Lucas’ few attempts to suggest it in very definite terms.
And yet with no prompting and no knowledge beyond that one foul encounter, she had lavished and licked and swallowed and suckled on his cock until he came into her mouth, letting every drop pour down her throat.
Where had that come from? Teresa’s diaries? But so what if she’d read her grandmother’s diaries? What the hell had possessed her to debase herself the same way?
And what did Lucas think of her? He’d left the bed this morning without waking her or leaving a note. He was probably wondering what had happened to his straight-laced wife that she would suddenly transform into a cock-thirsty whore. Would he even still believe that he had been her first time? How could he? What virginal wife would have ridden her husband the way she had done?
He must be fretting over their marriage right now, probably drinking his fears away or calling his family to tell them it isn’t working. He may have found the diaries Mila left in the study - or worse, chanced upon the wardrobe himself.
Dreading what she might find, Mila forced herself out of bed and into a bathrobe. She padded quietly from the bedroom to the study, relieved at least to find the secret door still closed and the diaries untouched.
Further down, she picked up the faint smell of cooking food. Following it to the kitchen, she found Lucas at one of the many stoves holding a sizzling frying pan.
Lucas looked up and smiled when he saw her.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said. “I was hoping to have this ready before you got up. You don’t want breakfast in bed?”
Mila shook her head, relieved to find Lucas not brooding over last night’s events but still tensed for any sudden questions.
“Probably best not to make a mess until the staff come back,” Lucas said, nodding. He plated up the bacon and eggs he had been frying just as the toast popped up, and Mila found herself looking at a hearty breakfast including beans, tomato, mushrooms and a glass of orange juice.
“What’s this for?” she asked, confused.
Lucas shrugged awkwardly as he began cooking another portion.
“Well, last night you said you wanted a favour in return for you… you know…”
Mila blushed. She knew all right.
“And I figure,” Lucas continued. “I mean, I’m not a prude, it’s just… I don’t really feel comfortable… but not like that! It’s… I just don’t think I’d be any good at… you know.”
Mila stared at her husband in confusion.
“You know?” she said.
Lucas shrugged helplessly. “I just don’t want you to have a disappointing experience.”
Very slowly, Mila managed to hear the words her husband wasn’t saying.
“You… don’t want to go down on me?”
Lucas smiled apologetically. “Sorry, darling.”
Mila blinked in surprise. “Oh! Oh, no - that’s fine. That’s perfectly fine! I never expected - I mean, I wasn’t even thinking at the time! I don’t even know what came over me!”
Lucas visibly sagged with relief, plating up his own breakfast and sitting down opposite Mila. “Hey, I don’t know what came over you either,” he said with a chuckle.
Mila froze with the first forkful of food halfway to her mouth. “You don’t… you don’t think it was weird, do you?”
Lucas shook his head, chewing and swallowing his own mouthful before speaking. “I mean, I was surprised but I wouldn’t say it was weird. Not in a bad way.”
Mila hesitated, fork still in the air. “You… You don’t have any questions about… about the stuff I did?”
Lucas gave her a long look, sighed and took her wrist in both hands. “Honey, I don’t care if I’m not you first time or whatever. I love you, and that’s all that matters. You don’t have to be embarrassed about your experience - frankly, I’m a little ashamed about how little I have to bring to the bedroom, but I’m happy to learn with you.”
Mila didn’t know what to say. Lucas had completely the wrong idea, but who could blame him, given the evidence of last night? And there wasn’t any point in trying to convince him of the truth.
“Leave the plate in the sink,” Lucas said, his own plate already empty. “I’ll wash up once I’ve had a look around the garden. You take it easy: Today you’re my princess. That’s my favour to you.”
Mila finally began to eat, if only as an excuse not to speak.
Lucas seemed perfectly happy, and Mila should also be happy that he was happy, but the fact that he hadn’t questioned her more insistently left her feeling strangely isolated.
Alone in the kitchen, Mila finished her breakfast and quietly wondered what the hell was happening to her.
The will had been read.
The papers had been signed.
Mila and Lucas Cruz stood at the entrance to the new estate - THEIR new estate -in complete, stunned silence.
The property stretched out for what felt like miles in every direction - row after row of meticulously trimmed topiaries stood guard along gravel paths and around walls and columns of sandstone that shone golden in the morning light.
Lucas permitted himself a quiet whistle.
“Yeah,” Mila agreed.
“And you really didn’t know her very well?” Lucas asked.
Mila shook her head. “Barely knew she existed. Wasn’t expecting anything, really. Definitely not THIS.”
Lucas nodded, the silence broken only by the sound of distant birdsong.
At almost a hundred years old, Teresa De León had been the matriarch of Mila’s side of the family, now very widely dispersed around the world. Mila herself had fallen out of touch with the vast majority of her extended family overseas, until she received a summons to the reading of her grandmother’s will.
“Should we go in?” Mila said eventually.
Lucas shook himself awake. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll leave the luggage here for now and just bring the keys.”
They left their second-hand car parked by the fountain, looking for all the world like a chicken nugget on a wedding cake. Something to be done about that in a week’s time perhaps, but for now the incongruity would just have to stand.
“How big is it?” Lucas asked as they trod the gravel path.
“Big,” said Mila, almost spinning as she walked trying to catch sight of everything at once. “The executor gave me a number but, I mean… just look at the place.”
“I’m looking,” Lucas agreed. “Big.”
A pair of dark wooden double doors greeted them at the end of the path, flanked by stone urns bristling with exotic blossoms.
“Who looks after…?” Lucas wondered aloud, gesturing to the flowers and the gardens to complete his question.
“Oh, there’s groundskeepers and gardeners and all sorts,” Mila said as she inspected each unique specimen. “But they won’t be back until after the week is up.”
“And then they work for us?”
“That’s the deal. We get everything: Land, assets and employees.”
Lucas scanned the estate as it could be seen from the main entryway. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“There’s a steward that manages everything,” Mila said absently. “I don’t think Teresa actually needed to do any of the work herself - from what I’m told, she funds everything off her investments.”
Lucas gave her a look of incredulity. “They must be incredible investments.”
Mila shrugged. “Take it up with the executor in a week. We’ll have access to everything.”
Lucas slid the thick, bronze key into the lock and gave it a twist, the doors swinging open as the bolt retracted.
The lights had been left on in anticipation of their arrival, and the dazzling golden glow cascading over rich red carpet, dark timber and polished marble took the couple’s breath away.
It was like something out of a fairytale, or a period-piece film about the exploits and decadence of vagabond nobility. The kind of house a child dreams of and most adults never dared hoped to own in several lifetimes.
Lucas and Mila looked at each other, an expression of giddy excitement overtaking them both as the reality of their new world finally sank in.
The villa was indeed massive: A two-story complex of solid, smooth sandstone inside out, fitted with modern lighting, heating and plumbing. Lucas had wondered out loud how the work had been done without damaging the facade, and Mila responded that any damaged blocks would probably have been replaced, no matter the expense.
“Oh, there’s wifi,” Mila said, having checked her phone out of curiosity. “Teresa certainly managed to keep up with the times.”
Lucas pulled out his phone as well. “Do you have the password?”
“No, but there might be a card or something now that you mention it. I didn’t see one in the foyer - let’s have a look around.”
It was a convenient excuse to explore, and on their quest to find any kind of missive or correspondence, Lucas and Mila discovered the kitchen, the laundry, the servant’s quarters, several bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms (guest and master), the study, the music room, two separate withdrawing rooms (men’s and women’s?), the indoor pool and the solarium.
Lucas had taken some time to appreciate the collected instruments (including - to his overwhelming disbelief - what looked like an authentic Stradivarius violin) and Mila had to stifle a laugh when she realised that Teresa’s collection of books included an extensive array of adult literature. With illustrations.
It was in the grand hall - furnished with enough seating for forty and space to spare - that the couple found a single folded card atop one of the massive tables like a boat on an ebony ocean.
Mila read the letter aloud, the pair exchanging the occasional look of disbelief as they read.
My dearest Mila,
You may know very little of me, but as your grandmother, it is my duty to never completely lose touch with the lives of my children. As such, I would like to congratulate you and your husband Lucas on your recent wedding: My sources tell me that he is a devoted and intelligent man of good character, and you deserve nothing less.
I hope that you can forgive any discomfort that my attention may cause. I was less than pleased to learn my own grandfather had done the same, but he judged that I would treat his estate with the respect it demands, and I have judged you to be similarly worthy.
Do not feel obligated to support your brothers and sisters: Like yourself until this day, their business and their fortunes are their own. All that I ask is that you preserve what I have built, and use it to create a future for yourselves and your own children, should you choose to have any.
So long as this house and these lands and this family endures, I will always be with you.
With love that flows across the ages,
Teresa De León
“An intelligent man of character,” Lucas said with a growing expression of smugness. “I suspected Teresa was a lady of taste, but now I know it for certain.”
Mila shot him an unimpressed look before scanning the paper again.
“Less than pleased,” she read out once more. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”
“It’s a bit creepy,” Lucas admitted. “I wonder what sources she could be referring to? I mean, I’m glad they’ve put in a word for me, but still. I hope I don’t owe anyone a favour for the good report.”
“We’ve only just gotten married,” Mila retorted. “If what she says is right, she’s been keeping tabs on me since I was born. BEFORE I was born: She would have been spying on my mother as well!”
“Rich people,” Lucas said as the best explanation he could think of. “Old rich people. Must drive them crazy having that kind of spare time.”
“We do have that kind of spare time,” Mila pointed out. “I mean, we do now.”
Lucas nodded thoughtfully. “Well, we’re rich, but we’re not old or crazy. And I can think of better things to do with our time than spy on our nonexistent grandchildren.”
Mila gave him a sidelong look, picking up on the suggestive tone of voice. “It’s still mid-morning,” she protested.
Lucas grinned. “Like you said: We have plenty of spare time.”
***
They did not, in fact, have sex. Despite Lucas’ enthusiasm, Mila was still unhappy to know that the woman who had inhabited this house before them had been spying on her for her entire life. Worse than that: She now struggled to shake off the unpleasant sense that she was still being watched, as though her gathered ancestors were observing her from beyond the grave.
It was a decidedly un-sexy thought.
They had made it as far as the master bedroom, but Lucas quickly picked up on Mila’s sour mood and instead decided to unpack their belongings from the car.
Mila chose to wander the villa, its majesty now tarnished by the revelation of espionage, and the knowledge that Teresa had suffered a similar indignity in her time brought little comfort.
“When I have kids,” Mila thought, before correcting herself.“If I choose to have kids, I’ll respect their privacy.”
Of course, having kids was the thing to do. Mila’s family had made no secret of the expectations they had of her, and while she had never openly opposed the idea, she had always waved them away with excuses: She was too young. She hadn’t found the right man. She wasn’t financially secure enough to raise a family.
Well she’d grown up, and she’d found a man, and with alarming suddenness she had the financial stability of bedrock. So what now?
The thought of being a vessel just to pump out babies made her skin crawl, and a sudden distaste for her own antecedents gave rise to a sudden streak of defiance.
“Should you choose to have any,” she repeated to herself. As if the old woman had known she would be reluctant. Had Teresa felt the same at her age? It must have felt even worse for her - bad enough the thought of your grandmother spying on you as a child, the thought of a male figure doing the same made her slightly nauseated.
Mila found that she had wandered idly into the study, and was about to turn around when an idea occurred to her. Memory was an unreliable tool at the best of times, and only got worse with age, so it stood to reason that any head of the family honestly devoted to keeping tabs on their descendants would need to keep records of some kind. Despite the building’s modern utilities, Teresa De León had not invested in a personal computer, so surely there must be a diary of some sort hidden in the house.
Wandering up to the desk - a solidly built beast of mahogany and green leather - Mila began to open drawers methodically, flipping through the pages of anything that looked like it might contain reports from Teresa’s spies.
It was an ultimately fruitless search, or at least it became fruitless when Mila found herself entirely distracted by the diaries Teresa kept of her own life. She was shocked to learn that while Teresa had been judged by her own grandfather as studious and conservative, she had not been married at the time of her inheritance. More than that, the sudden influx of wealth seemed to have had a transformative effect on the woman, as she rapidly gained a reputation for hosting outrageous social gatherings with the world’s decadent elite.
The diaries themselves spoke of a sudden sense of freedom, of feeling truly alive after being stifled for what felt like a century. The newly wealthy Teresa had taken lover after lover, men and women in equal measure and sometimes both at once, and the scandal of it all only fostered her reputation.
The young Teresa’s first-hand accounts of her vast and varied exploits compared to the staid and patronising prose of her older self in the letter gave Mila a terrible sense of horrified amusement.
“You little hypocrite,” Mila whispered to the dead woman. She had been trusted to manage the estate “respectfully” by her grandfather and for the greater part of her life appeared to have used it to rope in a carnival carousel of lovers. Evidently she had managed to do so without bankrupting herself, but even so.
At some point, Lucas must have come in with a bowl of something. Mila had thanked him and at some point he had come back for the emptied bowl, but Mila found herself too entranced to look away.
It wasn’t until she reached a blank page of her current book that she looked up and realised that the sun had begun to set. She must have been here for hours! A small pile of tomes to her left attested to the time she had spent, dwarfed by the pile of more, still unread, to her right and then the study’s collection at large. Mila had thought that the illustrated erotica was simply there for rarity or historical value - she now suspected that they may have been a more personal investment.
The clock struck six, and Mila was suddenly overcome by a brief wave of vertigo. No doubt several hours sitting in one position was not good for the body, and while Lucas may have brought her a snack, she probably needed something more substantial.
She stood up, taking a moment to stretch the stiffness out of her joints. It took a bit of effort after being hunched over for so long, but feeling her body working the tension away felt almost liberating. To savour the moment, she took the time to flex each part of her body individually: Rotating both feet, flexing and clenching her toes, rolling each shoulder around before rotating her head this way and that. Within minutes she felt completely revitalised and unaccountably fresh. Maybe she should take up yoga?
Her gaze suddenly fixated on one of the many volumes populating the shelves. It hadn’t stuck out to her earlier, but there was definitely something odd about this particular book: It was just a little bit out of line - a fraction of an inch, if that - and almost seemed to be waving for her attention.
Mila reached out and took hold of the protruding corner, giving it a push as though to slide it back in line with its neighbours. Instead of the smooth action she had expected, she felt a mechanical click through the leather, and the entire bookshelf swung silently into the wall as though on hinges, a walk-in closet of extravagant proportions stretching out beyond.
She could scarcely breathe as she took in the collection suddenly revealed: Shoes and hats and tights and bras and feathers and leather and rubber and lace and tassels and frills and whips and chains and studs and collars and leashes and so, so much more.
Captivated, Mila stepped forward in a dreamlike daze and reached out with a hand, stroking the material of the nearest costume that hung from its peg. The material was like nothing she’d ever felt, almost slippery between her fingers, and it spoke to her of intimate contact, of whispered entreaties and of tantalizing anticipation.
Before she could stop herself, she had stripped completely nude and slipped into the outfit, stopping to admire herself in a full-length mirror that stood in the centre of the collection. Who was this woman staring back at her? She had Mila’s face and her hair and her body, but this style, this pose, this expression… Mila saw a look of ravenous hunger in her own eyes.
Yes, the old woman had spied on her, but so what? She was dead now, and had left all her worldly possessions behind. She’d treat it respectfully alright - more respectfully than Teresa herself had done - but she’d also have fun with it. Nobody could hold that against her, her grandmother least of all.
She tried another outfit next: Something black and strappy held together with silver links.
Another outfit: Something short and tight with a feather in the top.
The last outfit was perfect: Pure white and soft like a bridal gown, but no bride would be seen dead in this except perhaps on her honeymoon.
Mila looked herself over one more time, adjusting the hem just so before stepping out, closing the door behind her and leaving the study in search of her husband.
***
Lucas had been surprised to find his wife poring over old books in the study that afternoon, and even more surprised that she seemed to have shaken off her resentful mood in favour of hyper-focused study. She had enough awareness to thank him when he brought her something he’d cooked up for their dinner and again when he took the empty bowl away, but was otherwise entirely engrossed.
Taking a cue from Mila’s example, Lucas had retired to the bedroom just before six with a novel he’d started shortly before their summons. It wasn’t especially gripping, and it did little to hold his attention when his wife framed herself in the doorway wearing something truly outrageous.
For the longest time, Lucas was lost for words - questions tackling each other on route to his lips so that nothing came out.
Mila smirked at his expression and sauntered slowly over to the bed.
“What-” Lucas managed before Mila hushed him.
“It turns out our dearest Teresa was a little less dutiful than she let on,” Mila purred, swaying her hips as she walked. “And you wouldn’t believe some of the souvenirs she’d collected.”
Lucas remained frozen in place, terrified that any sudden movements might wake him from what was obviously a dream. Mila leaned forward, took the book from his unresisting hands and tossed it aside.
“Don’t move,” she whispered, as if he had the willpower to try. “I’m going to treat my darling husband to something a little special, provided he’s prepared to return the favour tomorrow.”
Mila didn’t wait for a response, choosing instead to nestle herself between Lucas’ outstretched legs, unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly. Lucas’ underwear immediately tented as his painfully constrained cock rose up, and Mila giggled, stroking the tip delicately through the fabric. Lucas let out a hoarse breath, still not sure if speaking or moving would break the spell.
Mila gave him a pitying look. “You’re so sombre, my love. Just close your eyes, let everything disappear until there’s nothing but the feeling of me around you.”
His pants were pulled down, his underwear followed and his dick was exposed to the cool evening air for only a moment before Mila gave it a fleeting lick.
Lucas felt the blood rushing to his groin, making him painfully hard as his body demanded more.
Mila giggled, licking him again and giggling louder when he twitched.
“Close your eyes, darling,” she repeated. “Don’t open them again until I say so.”
Lucas did as he was told and half suffered, half savoured Mila’s furtive teasing. The timing was irregular, such that every lick and kiss felt as fresh as the first, and he actually gasped when he felt the soft warmth of his wife’s lips suddenly slide all the way to the base of his shaft.
They’d made love on their wedding night, naturally. But it had been a clumsy, almost charmingly awkward affair; neither side being quite sure how daring they could or should be with their new partner.
The Mila lashing his cock with her tongue was almost a completely different woman, and he wondered where this side of her had been hiding until now. It was with a shameful perversion that he imagined some unspoken-of twin sister, jealously supplanting Mila to seduce him in this manner and against his will he found himself rushing quickly to orgasm.
Mila seemed to sense it too, as she dove down onto him, swallowing each spurt of his essence as it pumped into her mouth. Even as the throbbing subsided, she held him between her lips; gently sucking him from his softening state back to full hardness.
With a gasp, she finally released him, his cock springing to attention and glistening with her saliva. Lucas opened his eyes to see his wife - an alien expression on her face - straddling his hips and lowering herself onto him.
She was as tight as the night they had married, but soaking wet, and he felt himself slide into her without resistance. The moan she let out was like nothing he had ever heard from her before, and she dug her fingers into his chest as she leaned forwards.
“Yesss!” she hissed. “You’re perfect, my love. Oh, you’re absolutely wonderful! You’ve no idea how exquisite this feels! This moment!”
Lucas was at a loss as to how he should respond, and settled for silently basking in his wife’s apparent ecstasy. And it really was exquisite: Mila had discarded whatever bedroom reservations she may have held before coming here, and this other woman wearing her face was clearly devoted to making the experience a pleasure for them both.
Once again he was overwhelmed by the impression that the woman grinding atop him was someone other than his wife, and again despite the guilt, he found himself rapidly approaching another climax.
Lost for words, he gripped his wife’s thighs and dug his fingers in, trying to convey that she should slow down or they should at least get a condom.
Instead she grasped his hands with hers, panting as she spoke.
“Do it, my love! Fill me! Pour it all into me! I want to feel it! I want to feel all of it!”
Lucas felt his wife’s inner walls convulse around him as she poured himself into her, and she flung her arms around his shoulders, heaving shuddering little sighs into his ear as they came together.
Even after the spasms had ceased, she held him in place, their breathing the only sound in the room.
“We should probably have a wash,” Lucas whispered as he felt himself soften and shrink. “We’ll get the sheets dirty if we stay here much longer.”
Mila sighed. “Oh, bed sheets. I have a thousand bedsheets.” She got up anyway, and while Lucas found her response a bit odd, he said nothing as he followed her into the bathroom.
Their time in the shower together was no less intimate, though it largely consisted of Mila gently massaging and pampering Lucas from head to toe, as though seeing him for the first time. He tried to keep up, but she batted his hands away.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered to him, before returning to her ministrations.
Lucas didn’t know if he would be able to manage an experience like this for his wife, but he was prepared to try his best.
Mila insisted on toweling him dry before doing the same for herself, her gaze constantly wandering up and down his body in a way that seemed almost proprietary.
It was barely eight o'clock when they climbed into bed, snuggled into each other’s arms and fell into a dreamless sleep.
***
Mila woke up to find herself alone in bed, with the curtains drawn and the door to the hallway half open. She might have gotten up to see where Lucas had gone, but the warmth and comfort of the sheets made the thought of getting out of bed unappealing.
And she had a lot to think about.
What on earth had come over her last night? One moment the thought of being intimate in Teresa’s house had made her feel queasy, but reading about the younger woman’s descent into perversion seemed to have turned Mila’s head completely around.
And then she’d found the wardrobe - and what a collection! She hadn’t told Lucas where she’d found the outfit she had been wearing last night, and she hadn’t given him a chance to ask, though he certainly must have wondered. She had tossed the lusty bridal outfit onto the floor before getting into the shower, and it was presumably still there.
Why had she put it on? Curiosity? She remembered the thrill she had felt on discovering the assembled costumes. She had felt like a child playing dress-ups, exploring a world that had until that point only existed for “other” people.
She remembered smirking at her reflection and how wet she had made herself.
Experimentally, she brushed a hand over one breast. She felt the usual tingle of sensitivity, but it was nothing like the overwhelming licentiousness she had felt last night.
And then she had walked into the bedroom, posed in the doorway and… ravished her husband.
Which wasn’t out of the ordinary at all: That’s what married couples did, wasn’t it? Expressed their love through physical intimacy?
Except what she had done to Lucas last night wasn’t intimate. It had been animal. Bestial. She hadn’t lain awkwardly down beside him like she had on their wedding night - all nerves and tittering embarrassment. She had devoured every inch of him with a desperate and feral hunger. Twice.
Mila licked her lips, as though she might still find traces of him. In all her life before meeting Lucas, she’d only ever gone down on a guy once. It had been an uncomfortable and unpleasant experience, enacted out of a sense of obligation when she was young and inexperienced enough to think boys could just tell girls what to do and girls had to obey. She had hated the idea of having a penis in her mouth ever since, and had rebuffed Lucas’ few attempts to suggest it in very definite terms.
And yet with no prompting and no knowledge beyond that one foul encounter, she had lavished and licked and swallowed and suckled on his cock until he came into her mouth, letting every drop pour down her throat.
Where had that come from? Teresa’s diaries? But so what if she’d read her grandmother’s diaries? What the hell had possessed her to debase herself the same way?
And what did Lucas think of her? He’d left the bed this morning without waking her or leaving a note. He was probably wondering what had happened to his straight-laced wife that she would suddenly transform into a cock-thirsty whore. Would he even still believe that he had been her first time? How could he? What virginal wife would have ridden her husband the way she had done?
He must be fretting over their marriage right now, probably drinking his fears away or calling his family to tell them it isn’t working. He may have found the diaries Mila left in the study - or worse, chanced upon the wardrobe himself.
Dreading what she might find, Mila forced herself out of bed and into a bathrobe. She padded quietly from the bedroom to the study, relieved at least to find the secret door still closed and the diaries untouched.
Further down, she picked up the faint smell of cooking food. Following it to the kitchen, she found Lucas at one of the many stoves holding a sizzling frying pan.
Lucas looked up and smiled when he saw her.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said. “I was hoping to have this ready before you got up. You don’t want breakfast in bed?”
Mila shook her head, relieved to find Lucas not brooding over last night’s events but still tensed for any sudden questions.
“Probably best not to make a mess until the staff come back,” Lucas said, nodding. He plated up the bacon and eggs he had been frying just as the toast popped up, and Mila found herself looking at a hearty breakfast including beans, tomato, mushrooms and a glass of orange juice.
“What’s this for?” she asked, confused.
Lucas shrugged awkwardly as he began cooking another portion.
“Well, last night you said you wanted a favour in return for you… you know…”
Mila blushed. She knew all right.
“And I figure,” Lucas continued. “I mean, I’m not a prude, it’s just… I don’t really feel comfortable… but not like that! It’s… I just don’t think I’d be any good at… you know.”
Mila stared at her husband in confusion.
“You know?” she said.
Lucas shrugged helplessly. “I just don’t want you to have a disappointing experience.”
Very slowly, Mila managed to hear the words her husband wasn’t saying.
“You… don’t want to go down on me?”
Lucas smiled apologetically. “Sorry, darling.”
Mila blinked in surprise. “Oh! Oh, no - that’s fine. That’s perfectly fine! I never expected - I mean, I wasn’t even thinking at the time! I don’t even know what came over me!”
Lucas visibly sagged with relief, plating up his own breakfast and sitting down opposite Mila. “Hey, I don’t know what came over you either,” he said with a chuckle.
Mila froze with the first forkful of food halfway to her mouth. “You don’t… you don’t think it was weird, do you?”
Lucas shook his head, chewing and swallowing his own mouthful before speaking. “I mean, I was surprised but I wouldn’t say it was weird. Not in a bad way.”
Mila hesitated, fork still in the air. “You… You don’t have any questions about… about the stuff I did?”
Lucas gave her a long look, sighed and took her wrist in both hands. “Honey, I don’t care if I’m not you first time or whatever. I love you, and that’s all that matters. You don’t have to be embarrassed about your experience - frankly, I’m a little ashamed about how little I have to bring to the bedroom, but I’m happy to learn with you.”
Mila didn’t know what to say. Lucas had completely the wrong idea, but who could blame him, given the evidence of last night? And there wasn’t any point in trying to convince him of the truth.
“Leave the plate in the sink,” Lucas said, his own plate already empty. “I’ll wash up once I’ve had a look around the garden. You take it easy: Today you’re my princess. That’s my favour to you.”
Mila finally began to eat, if only as an excuse not to speak.
Lucas seemed perfectly happy, and Mila should also be happy that he was happy, but the fact that he hadn’t questioned her more insistently left her feeling strangely isolated.
Alone in the kitchen, Mila finished her breakfast and quietly wondered what the hell was happening to her.
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For all of his ten years on earth, Nick’s dearest wish was to become a superhero just like his sister, Dana. His ordinary family want nothing more than an ordinary life for him, but extraordinary circumstances throw those plans into disarray. Nick suddenly finds himself becoming a superhero, but maybe not in the way he had hoped for.This is a strictly PG story due to the age of the characters involved, and I've needed to exercise some creative license to tie the requested plot points together into a coherent series of events
Nick Miller loved superheroes. In fairness, everyone Nick’s age loved superheroes - anyone who didn’t was boring and dumb - but Nick was one of the few that genuinely aspired to a career of costumed crime-fighting while others aspired to be brain surgeons or astronauts.
His family mostly tried to discourage him, but found it difficult to convince him that superheroes weren’t real, because every effort to do so was tacitly misinterpreted by Nick to include a wink and a nudge because everyone knew real superheroes needed to be kept a secret.
Nick’s older sister did NOT discourage him, much to their relative’s annoyance. Dana had given up a promising life as a banking clerk to pursue a career in both cosplay and martial arts - a life decision that had functionally excommunicated her from the family except on special occasions.
This attempt to shield Nick from outlandish influence proved to be ironically counter-productive, as it lent Dana’s few appearances in Nick’s life a mythological quality and allowed her to lean into her stage persona as the Amazing Danamite whenever they met: Yes, she’d been on lots of adventures since their last meeting. This year she had defeated invading aliens from the Negaverse, but not before fighting off assassins sent by the League of Villains. Nick believed every word of it and pinkie-promised that he would never tell anyone about Dana’s true identity, ever, ever, ever, and in return, for Christmas after his tenth birthday, Dana would begin training him as a real life superhero.
***
It had not gone well.
The training had started off with a lot of promise - Nick’s very first lesson in being a superhero was how to survive. Most kids might have baulked at this - demanding instead to be taught how to throw devastating punches or summon giant robots - but Dana had impressed upon him the vital importance of staying alive. The superheroes you know about are the ones that learned to survive; you don’t hear about the other ones, because they didn’t learn.
It had actually been a lot of fun. Dana was a strong girl (she was a superhero, so of course she was) and once Nick had learned the basics of landing safely, she had spent the afternoon picking him up and throwing him around the grass while he practised his tucks and rolls. Neither of them noticed the growing crowd of disapproving relatives, though it wasn’t until Dana started teaching Nick how to block a punch that someone ran off to get their dad.
Harlan Miller did not love superheroes. Harlan Miller loved waking up early, working hard and getting everything he needed to know about the world from the newspaper. But more than anything else, Harlan loved telling his kids they wouldn’t amount to anything if they wasted their time doing literally anything he wasn’t doing when he was their age.
There had been a lot of shouting. Nick was afraid that it might have even come to a fight, and while he knew that Dana was a superhero, he also knew that Harlan was their dad, and dads didn’t need to be superheroes - they were already dads.
By the end of the argument, nobody was hurt, but Dana had come over to him with her eyes still red and puffy, gave him a big hug and then gotten in her car without saying anything.
Nick had stood by the side of the road watching her disappear down the street, ignoring his family’s demands that he come back into the house.
That might have been the last time he ever saw his sister, if his house hadn’t suddenly exploded.
***
Nick hadn’t heard the strange whistling noise, nor did he hear the angry demands of his family change to cries of terror. He never remembered the explosion, or being picked up by the shockwave and thrown like a tumbleweed.
Nick woke up on his back to the stink of burning asphalt in his nose and the sound of distant screaming.
The sudden sense of danger made him jump as quickly to his feet as he could, various scrapes and bruises stinging as he did so.
Everything was black smoke and green flames, and for a moment he stood in a daze, completely lost as to where he was or where he should be running. Eventually a black shape took form in one direction, and silhouetted against the flames, Nick realised it must be some kind of… thing. A made thing, like a building or a car.
Edging cautiously towards it, Nick began to make out a shape and form that suggested it was some kind of vehicle; a guess that was confirmed when a blackened glass panel was smashed open and a hulking body tumbled out, a scattering of debris falling to the ground with it.
It was man shaped, thick-limbed, scaly and wearing some kind of rubbery jumpsuit. It had claws and beady red eyes and a mouthful of fangs. In short, everything about it screamed to Nick’s sensibilities that it was a Bad Guy.
It was injured, but it levered itself up onto its arms and for a moment Nick was terrified that it would attack him. That’s what Bad Guys did to little kids. But instead, its gaze focused on something small with glowing green lights on the ground a few yards away and began painfully dragging itself forwards.
Nick didn’t know what the creature was or where it had come from or what the thing it was crawling towards did, but his ironclad belief in superhero conventions told him that letting the creature get to the thing was a bad idea.
Heart racing, Nick lunged forward, snatching the tiny gadget up in one hand before scurrying back to a safe distance. He flinched when the creature bellowed at him, and when it began violently dragging itself toward him, he turned and ran blindly through the fumes.
Stumbling, choking and weeping in fear, Nick found himself running towards the red glow of ordinary flames and the panic-stricken cries of familiar voices.
One of them suddenly stopped and turned towards him, lunging out of the gloom to pick him up in both arms.
“Nick!” his mother cried. “Nick, oh my God, you’re okay! Oh my God, Nick, you’re okay!”
Nick tried to choke out a warning about the creature in the smoke, but Sally Miller carried him to where his younger siblings and cousins were huddled together in the blood-red light of the setting sun.
“Stay here!” his mother ordered. “Stay here and don’t go anywhere!”
Nick looked around that part of his family more or less his age. Most of them were crying quietly to themselves or staring mutely at the flames consuming a nearby house.
Nick realised with horror that it was in fact his own house, and that of all the shouting silhouettes around the flames, his father wasn’t among them.
“Did he come out the back way?”
“It’s all collapsed! He must have come out of a window!”
“None of the windows are open! He’s still in there!”
Nick recognised the terrified face of his sister lit up by the flames. She’d come back when the fire had started, but why wasn’t she rushing in? Their dad was still in there!
A suddenly very loud crackling noise pulled his attention away, and Nick looked down to see the green thing in his hand begin blinking erratically.
---VTLS-CSD---
---LNK-TRMNTD---
---GREETINGS, NEW OWNER---
The voice was loud to the point of being intrusive, and Nick looked around at his siblings in fear of how they would react. None of them had so much as turned to look at him.
As though sensing his question, the voice returned.
---THIS MESSAGE IS BEING BROADCAST BY TELEPATHIC LINK---
---NO-ONE BUT THE BEARER OF THIS DEVICE CAN HEAR THIS MESSAGE---
Nick looked back down at his hand. New owner? Then that thing back at the ship must have been…
---PLEASE ENTER ACCELERATION PARAMETERS---
Nick boggled in confusion. He had no idea what half of those words meant.
---PLEASE ENTER ACCELERATION PARAMETERS---
Nick looked back at his sister and considered shouting out to her. She’d know what to do. Superheroes always knew what to do.
???WHAT IS [SUPERHERO]???
Flabbergasted by such a stupid question, Nick found himself unable to think of any lucid answer, pointing instead mentally towards his sister. Dana Miller. Dana Miller was a superhero.
---USER>SUPERHERO---
???YES/NO???
Yes!
Nick felt something buzz in his brain.
Nick passed out.
***
Nick woke up standing with the bellowing heat of flames against his face.
The distant shouting was also closer now, and as he tried to figure out how he had suddenly moved closer to the fire, a passing figure angrily pushed him back.
“Get out of the way! Go home!”
One of Nick’s Uncles ran past with a pair of empty buckets, and Nick was stunned at how short the man suddenly seemed. The house too, despite being on fire, seemed much smaller than it usually did.
With a sudden lurch of fear in his stomach, Nick looked down at himself to find not the same ten-year-old body he was used to seeing below his neck, but the body of a well exercised martial artist.
His sister’s body.
In the confines of his own mind, he screamed.
---USER=SUPERHERO---
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
No! He hadn’t meant like this!
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
Nick was about to say yes when he realised that he was suddenly in a position to save his father. He wasn’t sure why Dana had hesitated, but he could charge into the building, save Harlan and then everyone…
He looked at the crowd of people, half of them ineffectually trying to douse the fire with a bucket chain while the other half looked on in horror.
Nobody knew Dana was a real superhero. She’d told him to keep it a secret. Superheroes had to keep their identity a secret.
As slowly as he dared, Nick backed away from the flames into the growing darkness of the street.
Dana couldn’t break into the building without everyone seeing her. Keeping her secret identity was important… but not as important as saving their dad, right? Maybe she was waiting to see if the firefighters would get there in time, but the myriad fires burning across the neighbourhood told Nick that help was a long way away.
He didn’t want his dad to get hurt, but it felt wrong to expose Dana’s superhero identity when she was clearly trying to keep it a secret even now.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
Nick blinked. It could do that?
---CONFIRMED---
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
How?
Nick’s cry of surprise was muffed by the sudden growth of a rubber black layer that seemed to come out of his own - Dana’s own - skin. It stopped as quickly as it had started, covering every part of Dana’s body like a padded ninja suit including a visor that closed over his eyes.
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
Without bothering to wonder, Nick flew back towards the house. He dimly registered cries of alarm from the crowd as he bolted towards the burning front deck, only to recoil from the heat as he got too close.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
This wasn’t right - superheroes were meant to be tough!
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
A sudden cooling sensation rushed underneath Nick’s rubbery outer skin, and he found the heat suddenly bearable. He waded through the burning wreckage of the deck, squared up against the blacked front door and kicked.
The door belched out a cloud of smoke and embers, but did not move.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
Superheroes are meant to be strong!
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
Nick kicked again, and the door disintegrated, revealing the hellish red glow of the burning building beyond.
Nick was momentarily frozen at the horror of seeing something he’d take for granted his entire life so utterly destroyed, but forced himself onwards. The house seemed to be completely alight, and he was at a loss as to where he might find his father alive when his next footstep went right through the charred floorboard-
-and onto solid concrete. That’s right! The basement!
With his home burning around him, Nick punched his way through a nearby wall, opening up a path to the staircase leading down.Some of the debris had tumbled down the stone steps, but it was otherwise completely dark. Dark with smoke.
Nick pushed onwards, and it wasn’t long before he found the crumpled figure of Harlan prone in the furthest corner. There hadn’t been any way out from here, so the only option left to him had been to stay put and wait for rescue or death.
Nick shook him desperately.
“Dad! Dad! Wake up! We need to get out of here!”
The strangeness of hearing his sister’s voice coming out of his mouth was lost in the terror of losing his father, but Harlan didn’t stir.
Nick had often pictured what his first heroic rescue would look like. He imagined how good it would feel to see the hope on people’s faces, to stand before them and tell them everything would be alright now that he was there to save them.
He had never imagined the gut-wrenching fear of what he would lose if he failed.
Despite their size difference, Nick cradled his dad in his sister’s arms and tried to think of a way out.
***
Nick’s family were still fighting a losing battle against the fire when emergency services began to arrive. With fires and panic spread throughout the neighbourhood, there were far too many emergencies and not enough responders to deal with them. A pair of squad cars pulled up outside, and the police began to order the family away from the flames, leading to an argument as buckets were dropped and tempers began to flare.
The shouting was cut short when the nearest wall of the house exploded in a cloud of smoke and embers, and two soot-blackened figures tumbled out; one carrying the other. Everyone recognised the larger form as that of an unconscious man, but the second figure was some kind of bloated, rubbery monster with the apparent ability to carry someone twice its size.
Nick lowered his father to the ground and looked up to see expressions of horror in the eyes of his family and four police with their guns drawn.
He immediately threw his hands up in the air, looking around him to see what they were aiming at, only to realise that they were aiming at him!
All four of them were shouting.
“Don’t move!”
“Hands on your head!”
“Down on the ground!”
“Get back!”
Nick tried to shout in a muffled voice that he wasn’t a bad guy, but the suit muffled his voice and he could barely hear himself over the adults yelling and the flames.
He tried to back away slowly, but slipped, causing him to stagger. The sudden movement was enough for one of the cops to fire, and the sudden crack of gunfire made Nick spin around and scramble into the darkness, more wild shots chasing after him.
Nick ran away from the house, jumping over the fence and then over the roof of the house next door, turning away from another fire and sliding into the narrow space between a brick wall and a shed. His heart was pounding, his breath coming in gasps and whimpers and as he strained his ears for the sounds of pursuit, he felt a dull pain spreading out from his right shoulder.
In the poor light he could barely see anything, and he pawed at the rubbery suit around him trying to reach Dana’s phone.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
He needed to see what was wrong! Was he hit?
---PROGRAM REVERTED---
The strange material deflated back into Dana’s exposed skin, revealing her clothes and freeing up access to her pockets. With shaking fingers, Nick pulled out his sister’s phone and turned the flashlight towards where the pain was coming from, revealing a rapidly colouring bruise.
No! No! This wasn’t right! Cops weren’t meant to shoot heroes! And Dana was hurt! He’d gotten his sister hurt! What was he going to do?
With the smokey light of distant fires and the echoing cries of panicked neighbours around him, Nick felt tears well up in his eyes and was about to begin sobbing when he gritted his teeth and rubbed his face.
Heroes had to be tough, even when things weren’t going great. He wasn’t going to become a real hero if he let a little scare and bruise like this get the best of him. Besides, he’d done what he needed to do: His dad was safe now and that was something to be proud of.
Still aching but in much better spirits, Nick got gingerly to his feet and headed back home.
***
He had only been hiding for a few minutes and everyone was practically where he had left them. A pair of paramedics were doing paramedic stuff on his dad while his mum and aunt fretted. The house was still burning, though it had almost completely collapsed. The police were gone, and he felt a little ashamed at how relieved he was. Nobody paid attention to him as he crept his sister’s body over to where the other kids had fallen asleep around his real one.
He knelt down in the grass and looked at himself. He was so small from his sister’s point of view, and he wondered how she could possibly think he’d be able to be a superhero at his size.
But he had to go back. This was his sister’s body, and he’d already gotten it into enough trouble.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
He needed to be himself again.
---PROGRAM TERMINATED---
***
New year’s day was little cause for celebration for the Millers. With no house and widespread accommodation shortages due to the large number of people also without homes, they had tried to squeeze in with an aunt who lived nearby with very little success.
Contrary to his typical disinterest in the news, Nick insisted on watching every report about the incident, which authorities claimed was caused by debris from a rogue satellite falling out of orbit. That kind of explanation went over Nick’s head, but he watched anyway waiting for them to mention what he was now confident had been a spaceship or escape pod and the alien that had been inside it.
They never did, causing him to get more and more frustrated with every report until he came to the chilling realisation that the adults might be keeping it a secret. Evil aliens were definitely already on earth, but you never heard about them in the news, so it made sense that this time would be no different; he’d just happened to be there for this one.
The strange gadget had still been in his hand when he had woken up with Dana slumped over him, and he had kept it a secret ever since. Any adult would absolutely have taken it from him if they ever found out, and he knew he’d need it if he ever needed to be a hero again.
Dana had woken up with a sizeable bruise and fractured upper arm, forcing her to take time off work. Nick didn’t learn the full nature of her injury or about her needing to take time off sick until the new year’s get-together, at which point he immediately offered to stay with Dana and help her around the house.
Ignorant of his sudden guilty conscience, there had been some chuckles about Nick’s uncharacteristic chivalry, but the cramped arrangement at his aunt’s meant that his parents were all too happy to let him stay with Dana for the rest of the holidays, and Dana couldn’t bring herself to refuse.
It was actually really cool to hang out with his sister at her place. She had to take time off from being a superhero and he didn’t have to go to school, so they got to just cook meals, go shopping, play games, watch shows and talk about stuff. Dana even took him to the gym where she trained one night, and Nick was immediately convinced that half of the people at her gym were also superheroes in disguise. How could they not be?
One of the other women recognised Dana and casually walked over.
“Thought you were off?” she said, motioning towards Nick with her head.
“Just the shoulder,” Dana replied, patting Nick on the shoulder and winking. “Superheroes gotta stay in shape.”
Nick saw the light of understanding dawn on the other woman’s face. “Ah, so you’re Nick, huh? You been keeping your sister safe?”
Nick nodded dumbly, desperately wanting to seem cool and aloof but also just itching to ask every question he could possibly think of.
The woman knelt down and flexed an enormous bicep. “They call me Callie, but my real name is Bronze Hammer. You can keep that a secret, can’t you?”
Nick nodded again.
Callie grinned at his sister, returning her wink. “I think he’ll be one of the best once he’s grown a bit. Eat your protein, Nick. Uh, and your vegetables,” she added, seeing the look on Dana’s face. “But also your protein.”
Nick followed Dana around the gym as she introduced him to the people she knew. A woman named Titania (but you can call me Tina) with thighs thicker than his chest offered to let him try holding a weight she was curling one-handed, and with Dana’s cautious permission he held his hands out while it was lowered into his grasp. He immediately found himself almost tipping forward, but caught himself by bending his knees instead of falling over.
“Good instincts,” the Titania had said, leaving Nick feeling much better about almost embarrassing himself.
“Okay, I’m just doing legs today,” Dana said when the tour was complete. “It’s probably safe for you to hop onto a treadmill if you want?”
“Nah, I’m gonna take a nap in the car,” Nick lied.
“Oh, did you want to go home?” Dana asked. “I can come back later if you’re tired.”
“No!” Nick almost shouted, then scolded himself. “No, that’s fine. We already came here, I’ll just have a lie down and wait for you to finish.”
Dana seemed uncertain, but walked him out to the carpark and unlocked the car.
“Lock it again when you close the door,” she said. “I won’t be long.”
Nick did lock the door, and then watched his sister walk back into the gym. He wasn’t tired - in fact his heart was racing from the anticipation. He’d been waiting for exactly an opportunity like this to try using the gadget again, and it had worked out in his favour that they had decided to visit the gym at night. Now he had the perfect excuse to stay in the car, and in the dark, nobody would notice him unless they came right up to the windows and looked inside.
Fingers almost shaking with anticipation, Nick took the gadget out of his pocket and started pressing against anything that looked like it might be a button.
---GREETINGS, OWNER---
He found it! What had he done last time? Everything had been so crazy, he could barely remember.
---PLEASE ENTER ACCELERATION PARAMETERS---
He had thought about wanting to be a superhero, and when the gadget had asked him what that meant, he’d thought of-
Nick felt something buzz in his brain.
Nick passed out.
***
Nick found himself on his back at an odd angle, his feet planted against something heavy. Opening his eyes, he realised that Dana had only just gotten into position on the leg-pushing machine thingy. He hadn’t had the opportunity to really take in his sister’s body back at the house, and he marvelled at how strange it was to see her legs in front of him, chest chest below him and her hands in front of his borrowed face.
Experimentally, he gave the plate a push with his feet, feeling the muscles of his well-trained body flexing to shift the heavy weight. He tried to reposition his back and felt a twinge from his shoulder, the shock of the pain causing him to lose concentration and the weight to fall back onto him, pushing his legs against his chest.
“You alright?” a concerned voice said.
It was Titania, observing from where she was doing her own weights.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Nick said.
Titania’s look of concern didn’t soften. “You need to be careful if you’re going to keep working out with your shoulder like that.”
Nick nodded, not wanting to say anything that might give him away. Dana had taught him about rolling and moving around, but she hadn’t taught him about how to move safely when injured. There hadn’t been any need.
Without wanting to accidentally get her hurt even more, Nick considered his options. He wanted to practise training more, but doing so in Dana’s body wasn’t an option. But that was fine, because he was surrounded by plenty more.
Looking back at Titania, who had put her weights down and was stretching, Nick focused his concept of a superhero on her instead.
Nick felt something buzz in his brain.
Nick passed out.
***
He wasn’t getting used to the sensation, but at least it wasn’t especially disorienting or painful. Nick found himself standing, one arm still braced across his chest by the other. He relaxed, letting the held arm swing to one side and feeling the flesh on his very different chest fall back into shape.
Looking back at his sister, he saw her much as she had been when he first left her body after controlling her the first time: Kind of slumped forwards in a daze.
“Dana?” he said cautiously, thrown off by the comparatively deeper voice of the body he was in.
Dana seemed to shake herself awake.
“Huh? Yeah? What?”
“You alright?” Nick said, doing his best to mimic Titania’s manner of speech.
Dana nodded, wincing as her shoulder injury prevented her from raising her arm properly. “Yeah, just spaced out there for a second.”
“You need to be careful if you’re going to… uh, keep working out with your shoulder like that,” Nick parroted Titania’s advice.
“I know, I just need to get the blood pumping or I feel like I’ll turn into pudding.”
Nick didn’t know how to respond to that, so he quietly made his way off of the gym floor and into the locker rooms, having to stop himself from walking through the boy’s door.
The room was empty, and Nick headed for the nearest mirror to marvel at his reflection.
Not his actual reflection, but the reflection of Titania gaping back at him.
She was huge: Taller even than his dad with muscles that visibly bulged and flexed as he moved her arms around experimentally. He tried out the poses he’d seen bodybuilders use to show off and was mesmerised at the sight of Titania showing off her strength.
He hoped he’d be this strong himself someday, but for now this was the next best thing.
“Nice delts, Tina,” a voice called out, and Nick had to fight the urge to cover himself up as if he’d been caught doing something dirty.
One of the other gym-goers had walked in without him noticing, and he realised with alarm that she was about to start taking her clothes off.
Face rapidly turning red, he hurried silently out of the changing rooms and back into the gym proper, only to find that Dana had already ditched the leg machine thingy and was halfway towards the door.
Nick managed to stop himself before he called out or ran after her. He needed to act as normally as possible or people would get suspicious, so he walked Titania’s body back to the bench she had been practising at and pictured his sister’s superhero persona in his mind.
***
The switches were definitely getting easier, and Nick let out a sigh of relief when he opened his eyes to find himself suddenly outside and back in Dana’s body.
The relief was short-lived when he saw four figures gathered around Dana’s car, and his heart was gripped with a sudden anxiety when all of them looked up at his approach and walked towards him.
If they had been random thugs, he might have been excited: Dana probably beat up bad guys like that just as a warm up. But not only was she injured, these didn’t look like regular bad guys. They were in costumes for a start, and regular henchmen didn’t usually get costumes.
“Is she the one?” one of them said - a man with broad shoulders that towered above Nick in his sister’s body. He had a costume of rich blue and red with gold trimming - the classic colours of a leader type character.
“Yep,” said a dark-skinned woman, wearing two shades of green and black goggles. “Relax,” she said to Nick. “I saw what you did at the fire yesterday. We know you’re one of the good guys.”
Nick didn’t say anything. Did they even know it was Nick, or did they just see Danamite?
The leader spoke again. “Did you see anything strange before the fire that night? Any… vehicles? Or creatures?”
Nick automatically shook his head in silence. It was wrong to lie, but he didn’t know if he could trust these people with the truth, or if it might get him or Dana in trouble if he told it.
The leader grimaced and sighed. “Well, it’s not going to be easy to hear this, but those fires weren’t… what did the news call it?”
“Gas explosion,” another man behind him said, this one mostly in navy blue.
Leader man grunted. “Well, it wasn’t that. We’ve been tracking… I may as well be honest: Aliens. It doesn’t seem to be an organised invasion, but every time one lands, they bring something with them and cause all sorts of trouble.”
Nick said the first thing that came to mind. “Just you?”
The fourth person - a much younger woman maybe about Dana’s own age wearing totally ordinary clothes - suppressed a laugh.
Leader shook his head. “Not just us. We’ve networked with others like us all over the country - all over the world. People who learned they were different in ways that could help those in need when things got bad.”
Nick turned the speech over in his head. It sounded almost familiar.
“So… you’re superheroes?” he said.
Leader chuckled and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess we are. Though we try to stay secret when we can. So, would you like to become a superhero?”
“Oh, I’m one already,” Nick blurted out before he could stop himself.
Leader raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s your name?”
“Ni- Uh, Danamite,” Nick said, having suddenly backed himself into a corner.
Mister leader looked quizzically at the others, who all shrugged or shook their heads.
“Have you been on the scene for long?”
Nick shook his head. He knew Dana had been working for a long time, but it was clear she’d kept herself just to her close friends until now, and the fact that he’d blown her cover to complete strangers made him cringe with guilt.
“Well, stay out of trouble and we might get in touch if we need you,” Leader said. “What can you do?”
“Um… I’m… I’m strong,” Nick managed through a suddenly dry mouth.
Leader raised an eyebrow. “Anything else?”
“And… I’m tough?” Nick squeaked.
Leader looked back at the green lady, who nodded. “Elevated strength and endurance. She busted through a burning building and shook off a bullet.”
Leader nodded. “Maybe stay away from the police in future,” he said. “They’re on edge at the best of times, so it’s best not to upset them.
Nick nodded mutely.
“You can call me Captain Keen,” the leader said before pointing to the green lady, white man and ordinary looking girl. “This is Nightsight, Satellite and Audie.”
Audie waved with a big grin on her face. Nick nervously waved back.
“Alright, I think we’ve wasted enough of your time. Get home safe and stay on your toes - we’ll be seeing you soon enough, I expect.”
Nick nodded again, not trusting himself to speak.
And just like that, three of them were gone. There had been a flurry of movement, causing him to flinch, and when he opened his eyes, only Audie remained.
Nick felt himself tensing to fight or run as Audie approached him, the same grin never leaving her face.
“So, it looks like you’ll be joining the league of heroes soon. Feels good to know you’re not the only one, huh?”
Nick nodded, desperately wanting her to go away so he could just get back into his body and go home. As though sensing his thoughts, Audie looked back at the car.
“Care to explain why you’ve left a young boy asleep in the car at night in a strange neighbourhood?”
“I-I’m just- I mean, he was just tired!” Nick stammered. “I’m taking him home now.”
Audie looked like she was going to say something, but shrugged instead.
“Hey, it’s cool. You’re not the only one who isn’t who they say they are, and it pays to keep at least a few secrets, especially among superheroes.”
Nick didn’t trust himself to speak, watching in silence as Audie sauntered back to the car and peered into a window.
“I’d think very carefully before committing to the superhero lifestyle. It gets awfully difficult trying to save the world while also looking after… yourself.”
With a wink, Audie strolled over to a nearby motorcycle, kicking it into life and roaring out of the carpark and down the street.
Nick watched the tail lights disappear into the night with a terrible sense of dread. Just what had he gotten his sister into?
Nick Miller loved superheroes. In fairness, everyone Nick’s age loved superheroes - anyone who didn’t was boring and dumb - but Nick was one of the few that genuinely aspired to a career of costumed crime-fighting while others aspired to be brain surgeons or astronauts.
His family mostly tried to discourage him, but found it difficult to convince him that superheroes weren’t real, because every effort to do so was tacitly misinterpreted by Nick to include a wink and a nudge because everyone knew real superheroes needed to be kept a secret.
Nick’s older sister did NOT discourage him, much to their relative’s annoyance. Dana had given up a promising life as a banking clerk to pursue a career in both cosplay and martial arts - a life decision that had functionally excommunicated her from the family except on special occasions.
This attempt to shield Nick from outlandish influence proved to be ironically counter-productive, as it lent Dana’s few appearances in Nick’s life a mythological quality and allowed her to lean into her stage persona as the Amazing Danamite whenever they met: Yes, she’d been on lots of adventures since their last meeting. This year she had defeated invading aliens from the Negaverse, but not before fighting off assassins sent by the League of Villains. Nick believed every word of it and pinkie-promised that he would never tell anyone about Dana’s true identity, ever, ever, ever, and in return, for Christmas after his tenth birthday, Dana would begin training him as a real life superhero.
***
It had not gone well.
The training had started off with a lot of promise - Nick’s very first lesson in being a superhero was how to survive. Most kids might have baulked at this - demanding instead to be taught how to throw devastating punches or summon giant robots - but Dana had impressed upon him the vital importance of staying alive. The superheroes you know about are the ones that learned to survive; you don’t hear about the other ones, because they didn’t learn.
It had actually been a lot of fun. Dana was a strong girl (she was a superhero, so of course she was) and once Nick had learned the basics of landing safely, she had spent the afternoon picking him up and throwing him around the grass while he practised his tucks and rolls. Neither of them noticed the growing crowd of disapproving relatives, though it wasn’t until Dana started teaching Nick how to block a punch that someone ran off to get their dad.
Harlan Miller did not love superheroes. Harlan Miller loved waking up early, working hard and getting everything he needed to know about the world from the newspaper. But more than anything else, Harlan loved telling his kids they wouldn’t amount to anything if they wasted their time doing literally anything he wasn’t doing when he was their age.
There had been a lot of shouting. Nick was afraid that it might have even come to a fight, and while he knew that Dana was a superhero, he also knew that Harlan was their dad, and dads didn’t need to be superheroes - they were already dads.
By the end of the argument, nobody was hurt, but Dana had come over to him with her eyes still red and puffy, gave him a big hug and then gotten in her car without saying anything.
Nick had stood by the side of the road watching her disappear down the street, ignoring his family’s demands that he come back into the house.
That might have been the last time he ever saw his sister, if his house hadn’t suddenly exploded.
***
Nick hadn’t heard the strange whistling noise, nor did he hear the angry demands of his family change to cries of terror. He never remembered the explosion, or being picked up by the shockwave and thrown like a tumbleweed.
Nick woke up on his back to the stink of burning asphalt in his nose and the sound of distant screaming.
The sudden sense of danger made him jump as quickly to his feet as he could, various scrapes and bruises stinging as he did so.
Everything was black smoke and green flames, and for a moment he stood in a daze, completely lost as to where he was or where he should be running. Eventually a black shape took form in one direction, and silhouetted against the flames, Nick realised it must be some kind of… thing. A made thing, like a building or a car.
Edging cautiously towards it, Nick began to make out a shape and form that suggested it was some kind of vehicle; a guess that was confirmed when a blackened glass panel was smashed open and a hulking body tumbled out, a scattering of debris falling to the ground with it.
It was man shaped, thick-limbed, scaly and wearing some kind of rubbery jumpsuit. It had claws and beady red eyes and a mouthful of fangs. In short, everything about it screamed to Nick’s sensibilities that it was a Bad Guy.
It was injured, but it levered itself up onto its arms and for a moment Nick was terrified that it would attack him. That’s what Bad Guys did to little kids. But instead, its gaze focused on something small with glowing green lights on the ground a few yards away and began painfully dragging itself forwards.
Nick didn’t know what the creature was or where it had come from or what the thing it was crawling towards did, but his ironclad belief in superhero conventions told him that letting the creature get to the thing was a bad idea.
Heart racing, Nick lunged forward, snatching the tiny gadget up in one hand before scurrying back to a safe distance. He flinched when the creature bellowed at him, and when it began violently dragging itself toward him, he turned and ran blindly through the fumes.
Stumbling, choking and weeping in fear, Nick found himself running towards the red glow of ordinary flames and the panic-stricken cries of familiar voices.
One of them suddenly stopped and turned towards him, lunging out of the gloom to pick him up in both arms.
“Nick!” his mother cried. “Nick, oh my God, you’re okay! Oh my God, Nick, you’re okay!”
Nick tried to choke out a warning about the creature in the smoke, but Sally Miller carried him to where his younger siblings and cousins were huddled together in the blood-red light of the setting sun.
“Stay here!” his mother ordered. “Stay here and don’t go anywhere!”
Nick looked around that part of his family more or less his age. Most of them were crying quietly to themselves or staring mutely at the flames consuming a nearby house.
Nick realised with horror that it was in fact his own house, and that of all the shouting silhouettes around the flames, his father wasn’t among them.
“Did he come out the back way?”
“It’s all collapsed! He must have come out of a window!”
“None of the windows are open! He’s still in there!”
Nick recognised the terrified face of his sister lit up by the flames. She’d come back when the fire had started, but why wasn’t she rushing in? Their dad was still in there!
A suddenly very loud crackling noise pulled his attention away, and Nick looked down to see the green thing in his hand begin blinking erratically.
---VTLS-CSD---
---LNK-TRMNTD---
---GREETINGS, NEW OWNER---
The voice was loud to the point of being intrusive, and Nick looked around at his siblings in fear of how they would react. None of them had so much as turned to look at him.
As though sensing his question, the voice returned.
---THIS MESSAGE IS BEING BROADCAST BY TELEPATHIC LINK---
---NO-ONE BUT THE BEARER OF THIS DEVICE CAN HEAR THIS MESSAGE---
Nick looked back down at his hand. New owner? Then that thing back at the ship must have been…
---PLEASE ENTER ACCELERATION PARAMETERS---
Nick boggled in confusion. He had no idea what half of those words meant.
---PLEASE ENTER ACCELERATION PARAMETERS---
Nick looked back at his sister and considered shouting out to her. She’d know what to do. Superheroes always knew what to do.
???WHAT IS [SUPERHERO]???
Flabbergasted by such a stupid question, Nick found himself unable to think of any lucid answer, pointing instead mentally towards his sister. Dana Miller. Dana Miller was a superhero.
---USER>SUPERHERO---
???YES/NO???
Yes!
Nick felt something buzz in his brain.
Nick passed out.
***
Nick woke up standing with the bellowing heat of flames against his face.
The distant shouting was also closer now, and as he tried to figure out how he had suddenly moved closer to the fire, a passing figure angrily pushed him back.
“Get out of the way! Go home!”
One of Nick’s Uncles ran past with a pair of empty buckets, and Nick was stunned at how short the man suddenly seemed. The house too, despite being on fire, seemed much smaller than it usually did.
With a sudden lurch of fear in his stomach, Nick looked down at himself to find not the same ten-year-old body he was used to seeing below his neck, but the body of a well exercised martial artist.
His sister’s body.
In the confines of his own mind, he screamed.
---USER=SUPERHERO---
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
No! He hadn’t meant like this!
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
Nick was about to say yes when he realised that he was suddenly in a position to save his father. He wasn’t sure why Dana had hesitated, but he could charge into the building, save Harlan and then everyone…
He looked at the crowd of people, half of them ineffectually trying to douse the fire with a bucket chain while the other half looked on in horror.
Nobody knew Dana was a real superhero. She’d told him to keep it a secret. Superheroes had to keep their identity a secret.
As slowly as he dared, Nick backed away from the flames into the growing darkness of the street.
Dana couldn’t break into the building without everyone seeing her. Keeping her secret identity was important… but not as important as saving their dad, right? Maybe she was waiting to see if the firefighters would get there in time, but the myriad fires burning across the neighbourhood told Nick that help was a long way away.
He didn’t want his dad to get hurt, but it felt wrong to expose Dana’s superhero identity when she was clearly trying to keep it a secret even now.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
Nick blinked. It could do that?
---CONFIRMED---
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
How?
Nick’s cry of surprise was muffed by the sudden growth of a rubber black layer that seemed to come out of his own - Dana’s own - skin. It stopped as quickly as it had started, covering every part of Dana’s body like a padded ninja suit including a visor that closed over his eyes.
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
Without bothering to wonder, Nick flew back towards the house. He dimly registered cries of alarm from the crowd as he bolted towards the burning front deck, only to recoil from the heat as he got too close.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
This wasn’t right - superheroes were meant to be tough!
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
A sudden cooling sensation rushed underneath Nick’s rubbery outer skin, and he found the heat suddenly bearable. He waded through the burning wreckage of the deck, squared up against the blacked front door and kicked.
The door belched out a cloud of smoke and embers, but did not move.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
Superheroes are meant to be strong!
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
Nick kicked again, and the door disintegrated, revealing the hellish red glow of the burning building beyond.
Nick was momentarily frozen at the horror of seeing something he’d take for granted his entire life so utterly destroyed, but forced himself onwards. The house seemed to be completely alight, and he was at a loss as to where he might find his father alive when his next footstep went right through the charred floorboard-
-and onto solid concrete. That’s right! The basement!
With his home burning around him, Nick punched his way through a nearby wall, opening up a path to the staircase leading down.Some of the debris had tumbled down the stone steps, but it was otherwise completely dark. Dark with smoke.
Nick pushed onwards, and it wasn’t long before he found the crumpled figure of Harlan prone in the furthest corner. There hadn’t been any way out from here, so the only option left to him had been to stay put and wait for rescue or death.
Nick shook him desperately.
“Dad! Dad! Wake up! We need to get out of here!”
The strangeness of hearing his sister’s voice coming out of his mouth was lost in the terror of losing his father, but Harlan didn’t stir.
Nick had often pictured what his first heroic rescue would look like. He imagined how good it would feel to see the hope on people’s faces, to stand before them and tell them everything would be alright now that he was there to save them.
He had never imagined the gut-wrenching fear of what he would lose if he failed.
Despite their size difference, Nick cradled his dad in his sister’s arms and tried to think of a way out.
***
Nick’s family were still fighting a losing battle against the fire when emergency services began to arrive. With fires and panic spread throughout the neighbourhood, there were far too many emergencies and not enough responders to deal with them. A pair of squad cars pulled up outside, and the police began to order the family away from the flames, leading to an argument as buckets were dropped and tempers began to flare.
The shouting was cut short when the nearest wall of the house exploded in a cloud of smoke and embers, and two soot-blackened figures tumbled out; one carrying the other. Everyone recognised the larger form as that of an unconscious man, but the second figure was some kind of bloated, rubbery monster with the apparent ability to carry someone twice its size.
Nick lowered his father to the ground and looked up to see expressions of horror in the eyes of his family and four police with their guns drawn.
He immediately threw his hands up in the air, looking around him to see what they were aiming at, only to realise that they were aiming at him!
All four of them were shouting.
“Don’t move!”
“Hands on your head!”
“Down on the ground!”
“Get back!”
Nick tried to shout in a muffled voice that he wasn’t a bad guy, but the suit muffled his voice and he could barely hear himself over the adults yelling and the flames.
He tried to back away slowly, but slipped, causing him to stagger. The sudden movement was enough for one of the cops to fire, and the sudden crack of gunfire made Nick spin around and scramble into the darkness, more wild shots chasing after him.
Nick ran away from the house, jumping over the fence and then over the roof of the house next door, turning away from another fire and sliding into the narrow space between a brick wall and a shed. His heart was pounding, his breath coming in gasps and whimpers and as he strained his ears for the sounds of pursuit, he felt a dull pain spreading out from his right shoulder.
In the poor light he could barely see anything, and he pawed at the rubbery suit around him trying to reach Dana’s phone.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
He needed to see what was wrong! Was he hit?
---PROGRAM REVERTED---
The strange material deflated back into Dana’s exposed skin, revealing her clothes and freeing up access to her pockets. With shaking fingers, Nick pulled out his sister’s phone and turned the flashlight towards where the pain was coming from, revealing a rapidly colouring bruise.
No! No! This wasn’t right! Cops weren’t meant to shoot heroes! And Dana was hurt! He’d gotten his sister hurt! What was he going to do?
With the smokey light of distant fires and the echoing cries of panicked neighbours around him, Nick felt tears well up in his eyes and was about to begin sobbing when he gritted his teeth and rubbed his face.
Heroes had to be tough, even when things weren’t going great. He wasn’t going to become a real hero if he let a little scare and bruise like this get the best of him. Besides, he’d done what he needed to do: His dad was safe now and that was something to be proud of.
Still aching but in much better spirits, Nick got gingerly to his feet and headed back home.
***
He had only been hiding for a few minutes and everyone was practically where he had left them. A pair of paramedics were doing paramedic stuff on his dad while his mum and aunt fretted. The house was still burning, though it had almost completely collapsed. The police were gone, and he felt a little ashamed at how relieved he was. Nobody paid attention to him as he crept his sister’s body over to where the other kids had fallen asleep around his real one.
He knelt down in the grass and looked at himself. He was so small from his sister’s point of view, and he wondered how she could possibly think he’d be able to be a superhero at his size.
But he had to go back. This was his sister’s body, and he’d already gotten it into enough trouble.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
He needed to be himself again.
---PROGRAM TERMINATED---
***
New year’s day was little cause for celebration for the Millers. With no house and widespread accommodation shortages due to the large number of people also without homes, they had tried to squeeze in with an aunt who lived nearby with very little success.
Contrary to his typical disinterest in the news, Nick insisted on watching every report about the incident, which authorities claimed was caused by debris from a rogue satellite falling out of orbit. That kind of explanation went over Nick’s head, but he watched anyway waiting for them to mention what he was now confident had been a spaceship or escape pod and the alien that had been inside it.
They never did, causing him to get more and more frustrated with every report until he came to the chilling realisation that the adults might be keeping it a secret. Evil aliens were definitely already on earth, but you never heard about them in the news, so it made sense that this time would be no different; he’d just happened to be there for this one.
The strange gadget had still been in his hand when he had woken up with Dana slumped over him, and he had kept it a secret ever since. Any adult would absolutely have taken it from him if they ever found out, and he knew he’d need it if he ever needed to be a hero again.
Dana had woken up with a sizeable bruise and fractured upper arm, forcing her to take time off work. Nick didn’t learn the full nature of her injury or about her needing to take time off sick until the new year’s get-together, at which point he immediately offered to stay with Dana and help her around the house.
Ignorant of his sudden guilty conscience, there had been some chuckles about Nick’s uncharacteristic chivalry, but the cramped arrangement at his aunt’s meant that his parents were all too happy to let him stay with Dana for the rest of the holidays, and Dana couldn’t bring herself to refuse.
It was actually really cool to hang out with his sister at her place. She had to take time off from being a superhero and he didn’t have to go to school, so they got to just cook meals, go shopping, play games, watch shows and talk about stuff. Dana even took him to the gym where she trained one night, and Nick was immediately convinced that half of the people at her gym were also superheroes in disguise. How could they not be?
One of the other women recognised Dana and casually walked over.
“Thought you were off?” she said, motioning towards Nick with her head.
“Just the shoulder,” Dana replied, patting Nick on the shoulder and winking. “Superheroes gotta stay in shape.”
Nick saw the light of understanding dawn on the other woman’s face. “Ah, so you’re Nick, huh? You been keeping your sister safe?”
Nick nodded dumbly, desperately wanting to seem cool and aloof but also just itching to ask every question he could possibly think of.
The woman knelt down and flexed an enormous bicep. “They call me Callie, but my real name is Bronze Hammer. You can keep that a secret, can’t you?”
Nick nodded again.
Callie grinned at his sister, returning her wink. “I think he’ll be one of the best once he’s grown a bit. Eat your protein, Nick. Uh, and your vegetables,” she added, seeing the look on Dana’s face. “But also your protein.”
Nick followed Dana around the gym as she introduced him to the people she knew. A woman named Titania (but you can call me Tina) with thighs thicker than his chest offered to let him try holding a weight she was curling one-handed, and with Dana’s cautious permission he held his hands out while it was lowered into his grasp. He immediately found himself almost tipping forward, but caught himself by bending his knees instead of falling over.
“Good instincts,” the Titania had said, leaving Nick feeling much better about almost embarrassing himself.
“Okay, I’m just doing legs today,” Dana said when the tour was complete. “It’s probably safe for you to hop onto a treadmill if you want?”
“Nah, I’m gonna take a nap in the car,” Nick lied.
“Oh, did you want to go home?” Dana asked. “I can come back later if you’re tired.”
“No!” Nick almost shouted, then scolded himself. “No, that’s fine. We already came here, I’ll just have a lie down and wait for you to finish.”
Dana seemed uncertain, but walked him out to the carpark and unlocked the car.
“Lock it again when you close the door,” she said. “I won’t be long.”
Nick did lock the door, and then watched his sister walk back into the gym. He wasn’t tired - in fact his heart was racing from the anticipation. He’d been waiting for exactly an opportunity like this to try using the gadget again, and it had worked out in his favour that they had decided to visit the gym at night. Now he had the perfect excuse to stay in the car, and in the dark, nobody would notice him unless they came right up to the windows and looked inside.
Fingers almost shaking with anticipation, Nick took the gadget out of his pocket and started pressing against anything that looked like it might be a button.
---GREETINGS, OWNER---
He found it! What had he done last time? Everything had been so crazy, he could barely remember.
---PLEASE ENTER ACCELERATION PARAMETERS---
He had thought about wanting to be a superhero, and when the gadget had asked him what that meant, he’d thought of-
Nick felt something buzz in his brain.
Nick passed out.
***
Nick found himself on his back at an odd angle, his feet planted against something heavy. Opening his eyes, he realised that Dana had only just gotten into position on the leg-pushing machine thingy. He hadn’t had the opportunity to really take in his sister’s body back at the house, and he marvelled at how strange it was to see her legs in front of him, chest chest below him and her hands in front of his borrowed face.
Experimentally, he gave the plate a push with his feet, feeling the muscles of his well-trained body flexing to shift the heavy weight. He tried to reposition his back and felt a twinge from his shoulder, the shock of the pain causing him to lose concentration and the weight to fall back onto him, pushing his legs against his chest.
“You alright?” a concerned voice said.
It was Titania, observing from where she was doing her own weights.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Nick said.
Titania’s look of concern didn’t soften. “You need to be careful if you’re going to keep working out with your shoulder like that.”
Nick nodded, not wanting to say anything that might give him away. Dana had taught him about rolling and moving around, but she hadn’t taught him about how to move safely when injured. There hadn’t been any need.
Without wanting to accidentally get her hurt even more, Nick considered his options. He wanted to practise training more, but doing so in Dana’s body wasn’t an option. But that was fine, because he was surrounded by plenty more.
Looking back at Titania, who had put her weights down and was stretching, Nick focused his concept of a superhero on her instead.
Nick felt something buzz in his brain.
Nick passed out.
***
He wasn’t getting used to the sensation, but at least it wasn’t especially disorienting or painful. Nick found himself standing, one arm still braced across his chest by the other. He relaxed, letting the held arm swing to one side and feeling the flesh on his very different chest fall back into shape.
Looking back at his sister, he saw her much as she had been when he first left her body after controlling her the first time: Kind of slumped forwards in a daze.
“Dana?” he said cautiously, thrown off by the comparatively deeper voice of the body he was in.
Dana seemed to shake herself awake.
“Huh? Yeah? What?”
“You alright?” Nick said, doing his best to mimic Titania’s manner of speech.
Dana nodded, wincing as her shoulder injury prevented her from raising her arm properly. “Yeah, just spaced out there for a second.”
“You need to be careful if you’re going to… uh, keep working out with your shoulder like that,” Nick parroted Titania’s advice.
“I know, I just need to get the blood pumping or I feel like I’ll turn into pudding.”
Nick didn’t know how to respond to that, so he quietly made his way off of the gym floor and into the locker rooms, having to stop himself from walking through the boy’s door.
The room was empty, and Nick headed for the nearest mirror to marvel at his reflection.
Not his actual reflection, but the reflection of Titania gaping back at him.
She was huge: Taller even than his dad with muscles that visibly bulged and flexed as he moved her arms around experimentally. He tried out the poses he’d seen bodybuilders use to show off and was mesmerised at the sight of Titania showing off her strength.
He hoped he’d be this strong himself someday, but for now this was the next best thing.
“Nice delts, Tina,” a voice called out, and Nick had to fight the urge to cover himself up as if he’d been caught doing something dirty.
One of the other gym-goers had walked in without him noticing, and he realised with alarm that she was about to start taking her clothes off.
Face rapidly turning red, he hurried silently out of the changing rooms and back into the gym proper, only to find that Dana had already ditched the leg machine thingy and was halfway towards the door.
Nick managed to stop himself before he called out or ran after her. He needed to act as normally as possible or people would get suspicious, so he walked Titania’s body back to the bench she had been practising at and pictured his sister’s superhero persona in his mind.
***
The switches were definitely getting easier, and Nick let out a sigh of relief when he opened his eyes to find himself suddenly outside and back in Dana’s body.
The relief was short-lived when he saw four figures gathered around Dana’s car, and his heart was gripped with a sudden anxiety when all of them looked up at his approach and walked towards him.
If they had been random thugs, he might have been excited: Dana probably beat up bad guys like that just as a warm up. But not only was she injured, these didn’t look like regular bad guys. They were in costumes for a start, and regular henchmen didn’t usually get costumes.
“Is she the one?” one of them said - a man with broad shoulders that towered above Nick in his sister’s body. He had a costume of rich blue and red with gold trimming - the classic colours of a leader type character.
“Yep,” said a dark-skinned woman, wearing two shades of green and black goggles. “Relax,” she said to Nick. “I saw what you did at the fire yesterday. We know you’re one of the good guys.”
Nick didn’t say anything. Did they even know it was Nick, or did they just see Danamite?
The leader spoke again. “Did you see anything strange before the fire that night? Any… vehicles? Or creatures?”
Nick automatically shook his head in silence. It was wrong to lie, but he didn’t know if he could trust these people with the truth, or if it might get him or Dana in trouble if he told it.
The leader grimaced and sighed. “Well, it’s not going to be easy to hear this, but those fires weren’t… what did the news call it?”
“Gas explosion,” another man behind him said, this one mostly in navy blue.
Leader man grunted. “Well, it wasn’t that. We’ve been tracking… I may as well be honest: Aliens. It doesn’t seem to be an organised invasion, but every time one lands, they bring something with them and cause all sorts of trouble.”
Nick said the first thing that came to mind. “Just you?”
The fourth person - a much younger woman maybe about Dana’s own age wearing totally ordinary clothes - suppressed a laugh.
Leader shook his head. “Not just us. We’ve networked with others like us all over the country - all over the world. People who learned they were different in ways that could help those in need when things got bad.”
Nick turned the speech over in his head. It sounded almost familiar.
“So… you’re superheroes?” he said.
Leader chuckled and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess we are. Though we try to stay secret when we can. So, would you like to become a superhero?”
“Oh, I’m one already,” Nick blurted out before he could stop himself.
Leader raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s your name?”
“Ni- Uh, Danamite,” Nick said, having suddenly backed himself into a corner.
Mister leader looked quizzically at the others, who all shrugged or shook their heads.
“Have you been on the scene for long?”
Nick shook his head. He knew Dana had been working for a long time, but it was clear she’d kept herself just to her close friends until now, and the fact that he’d blown her cover to complete strangers made him cringe with guilt.
“Well, stay out of trouble and we might get in touch if we need you,” Leader said. “What can you do?”
“Um… I’m… I’m strong,” Nick managed through a suddenly dry mouth.
Leader raised an eyebrow. “Anything else?”
“And… I’m tough?” Nick squeaked.
Leader looked back at the green lady, who nodded. “Elevated strength and endurance. She busted through a burning building and shook off a bullet.”
Leader nodded. “Maybe stay away from the police in future,” he said. “They’re on edge at the best of times, so it’s best not to upset them.
Nick nodded mutely.
“You can call me Captain Keen,” the leader said before pointing to the green lady, white man and ordinary looking girl. “This is Nightsight, Satellite and Audie.”
Audie waved with a big grin on her face. Nick nervously waved back.
“Alright, I think we’ve wasted enough of your time. Get home safe and stay on your toes - we’ll be seeing you soon enough, I expect.”
Nick nodded again, not trusting himself to speak.
And just like that, three of them were gone. There had been a flurry of movement, causing him to flinch, and when he opened his eyes, only Audie remained.
Nick felt himself tensing to fight or run as Audie approached him, the same grin never leaving her face.
“So, it looks like you’ll be joining the league of heroes soon. Feels good to know you’re not the only one, huh?”
Nick nodded, desperately wanting her to go away so he could just get back into his body and go home. As though sensing his thoughts, Audie looked back at the car.
“Care to explain why you’ve left a young boy asleep in the car at night in a strange neighbourhood?”
“I-I’m just- I mean, he was just tired!” Nick stammered. “I’m taking him home now.”
Audie looked like she was going to say something, but shrugged instead.
“Hey, it’s cool. You’re not the only one who isn’t who they say they are, and it pays to keep at least a few secrets, especially among superheroes.”
Nick didn’t trust himself to speak, watching in silence as Audie sauntered back to the car and peered into a window.
“I’d think very carefully before committing to the superhero lifestyle. It gets awfully difficult trying to save the world while also looking after… yourself.”
With a wink, Audie strolled over to a nearby motorcycle, kicking it into life and roaring out of the carpark and down the street.
Nick watched the tail lights disappear into the night with a terrible sense of dread. Just what had he gotten his sister into?
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I try not to think of myself as the bad guy. Yes, I found myself involved in the development of mind-control technology, but I did my best to protect the world from the worst of it. After that, things just kind of happened on their own.At least, that's what I try to tell myself.
In hindsight, I don’t see how things could have turned out any other way. I’m not saying that as an excuse for any of the things I did or as if it makes them any less bad, but having taken the first step, things just kind of kept happening.
It started at work. I won’t say where.
We were testing methods of remote information transmission that didn’t rely on explicit outputs or inputs. Basically communication that bypassed the barriers outlined in models like Berlo’s SMCR: Instead of relying on language to convey meaning, our aim was to find a way to convey meaning itself directly from one mind to at least one other.
Again, with the benefit of hindsight, the implications were obvious, but we weren’t concerned with whether we should, we just wanted to see if we could. Classic hubris of the scientifically minded.
And it turns out we can. Or more specifically, I can. I’ve made sure all traces of the research material has been scrubbed from any database; every hard drive degaussed, every memory stick smashed into tiny pieces, every document shredded and the whole lot set on fire just to be safe. The technology is too dangerous to risk falling into the wrong hands.
Yes, like mine. It turns out my hands are also the wrong hands, but I didn’t know it at the time. I thought if I just kept the research to myself and studied it in secret, I could find a way to use it to make the world a better place. I guess I can still do that. Maybe it will make up for the bad that I’ve done, which on reflection isn’t even that bad.
Sure, I accidentally corrupted the free will of three fellow human beings and inadvertently turned them into my loyal assistants and sex slaves, but they’re happy. I know they’re happy, because in a lot of ways, they’re also me.
That helps, right?
* * *
Everyone was very excited. It was something worth being excited about. Transmission was old tech and measuring changes in brain waves was old tech, but reliably translating knowledge as it was being recalled into data, then being able to implant that data into another mind was a big fucking deal.
Other departments in other labs were specialising in mechanical transmission - robotics and cybernetics, for replacement or auxiliary limbs or remote work in hazardous environments. Useful stuff, but not nearly as delicate as what we were trying to achieve. They were trying to transmit a signal to a robot hand to gently hold an egg: We were trying to plug a single thought out of one hand and stitch it seamlessly into another.
Our first major breakthrough was impression: Not the conveyance of explicit knowledge or of a specific message, just a vague sense experienced by the broadcaster transmitted to the receiver. It had to be a strong sense, which meant staff with intense phobias being the broadcaster knowing what objects were beneath a series of cups, and the receiver choosing a cup at random based on the impression being transmitted to them.
It wasn’t a hundred percent accurate, but the results fell well outside of what would have been possible on pure guesswork and we were pumped to fine tune the technology to see what it could do.
I say “random,” because even though it wasn’t, even though we knew it wasn’t and even though the receiver knew that a successful test would be proof that it wasn’t, they still felt as though they were choosing randomly. At no point did they feel like they were under someone else’s influence or receiving information externally; in every single instance, they were convinced that the experiment had failed and they were just choosing at random.
That should have been our first warning.
We advanced from cups viewed from two positions to mazes navigated from two positions, and then from mazes to simple guessing games like battleships and go fish. Again, no explicit information, but impressions that still left the receiver under the illusion that they were just lucky guessers.
From simple games we moved on to more advanced guessing games like celebrity heads and poker. This was a significant step forwards, but we were still relying on impressions that could be rationalised by the receiver as guesswork and luck. At no point was anyone being fed information that they couldn’t have conceivably deduced, remembered, calculated or bumbled their way into naturally.
That’s when the second major breakthrough happened. One of our broadcasters, Jackson, had gotten tired transmitting the correct answers to his receiver and had started feeding them deliberately incorrect answers. Nothing obvious - just answers that were close enough that they could make even someone who already knew second guess themselves. His receiver had a post-it note on her forehead with “Tiger Woods” written in permanent marker on it, and she had been given the clue “Golfing champion.”
By now, everyone had gotten used to Jackson’s shenanigans, so we grinned or grimaced as poor Lena rattled through every wrong answer she could be compelled to try.
“Tony the Tiger. Michael Jordan. Walt Disney. Santa Claus. Mickey Mouse. Bullroarer Took. Babe Ruth. Heisenberg. Wait, who the hell is Bullroarer Took?”
She didn’t get an answer, as the lab immediately exploded into questions and exclamations and people generally just freaking out. We’d done it, and somehow completely by accident: An entirely new, explicit piece of information had been seamlessly added to a receiver’s brain and it wasn’t until a few seconds after they’d actually said it that they even realised it wasn’t information from their own brain.
That was our second warning.
The third warning came quite a bit later, but by pure chance, I was the only one who noticed and when I did, I acted immediately.
Jackson’s shenanigans had inadvertently opened up new paths of inquiry. By randomly but deliberately poking at areas of knowledge specifically unrelated to the task at hand, we were able to isolate the neural activation patterns associated with conscious knowledge independent of emotional belief.
What followed were several successful instances of transmitting discrete pieces of data from broadcaster to receiver, however we then ran into the new problem of getting the receiver to distinguish between their own thoughts and the information being fed to them. Furthermore, when asked to explain the reasoning behind the transmitted answers, receivers became dismissive, evasive and sometimes even agitated, later explaining that the information just “felt true,” a sensation that applied even in instances where the receiver had been deliberately fed incorrect data.
With mounting dread, we realised the danger of the technology we had created.
The true horror sunk in during a coffee break, when by pure chance I saw Jackon’s reflection making an odd hand gesture over the drink of a coworker whose back was turned. I had to force myself to turn around slowly, watching Jackson converse casually without his eyes leaving her face. It wasn’t until she took a sip that he seemed to relax and noticed me by the coffee machine. I did my best to betray nothing, placing my own coffee onto the table in front of him and moving as though to sit when I “remembered” to get cream from the fridge.
This time when I turned I saw his hurried motion plainly in the brushed metal door, and it took all the self control I had not to confront him or punch his lights out. I returned to the table, adding the cream without sitting before returning it to the fridge. I picked up my coffee and was about to walk out of the room with it when Jackson called out to me with some innocent question about my department. It quickly became clear that he was stalling, waiting for me to drink, so I feigned a casual sip with tightly pursed lips as we spoke and he seemed to relax. I took the opportunity to leave with my cup and as soon as I was out of sight went straight to the micro-observation facility.
We had initially aimed to use physical chips implanted in the subject’s brains to establish a connection, but the risk of accidental damage compounded by multiple intrusions in the case of faulty hardware or the replacement of redundant units made this untenable. Thankfully (or perhaps not), we were assisted by our sister department in nanotech, who had developed a biomonitoring system using carbide nanites that could enter the bloodstream through the digestive tract. To test for successful nanite absorption, we just needed to take a blood sample and insert it into an observation case. And it didn’t just work on blood.
I felt my stomach drop as the coffee reading came back positive. A concentration high enough that even a mouthful would fully colonise a body within hours. I felt sick as I entered a vial of my own saliva, and when that test also came back as a weak positive and rising, I almost fainted.
That fucking bastard.
I had to stop myself from running to the configuration deck and came to a sudden halt halfway there. There’s no way Jackson could have done anything underhanded on one of the terminals without someone seeing him. The room, the equipment and change was constantly monitored as a security measure. If he were going to do anything without being detected, it would need to be somewhere private where he could still access the server and the network. He wasn’t authorised to be anywhere near the site’s core infrastructure, but it was the only place where he would have everything he needed.
I didn’t know how I was going to get access to the server room when I arrived - it’s not as if I had access either - but it turned out that I didn’t need access and neither did Jackson.
Lena had access, and she had left the door unlocked.
She looked up at me owlishly from where she was sitting on the floor, cross-legged with a laptop on her knees.
“Oh, Hi Marcus,” she said, parroting Tommy Wiseau’s infamous line as though we were meeting in the break room.
“Lena?” I asked cautiously. “What are you working on?”
“Oh, I’m just making sure that anytime a new host comes online, they’re set to receive only,” she said, as though she were just filling out her calendar. She turned the laptop so that I could see the screen and pointed at the second of two dots on a map of the facility. “See? There you are right next to me. You came online just a minute ago, so I’ve already made you a receiver.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Because Jackson told me to.”
I stared at the unquestioning innocence in her eyes.
“And you have to do what he says?”
Lena rolled her eyes at me. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I repeated. The silence was broken only by the steady whine of cooling fans.
Eventually, Lena shifted uncomfortably. “So, what are you doing here? You’re not IT.”
Not wanting to alarm her, I said the first thing that I could think of. “No, but Jackson sent me.”
The way Lena’s face lit up at his name made me feel ill.
“Does that mean you’re working for him too?”
“Yes,” I lied. Like a man laying down rails for a moving train as he’s riding on it, I grabbed blindly for any string of words that might work. “And he told me to come get you for something important. He’s… outside in the parking lot and says you need to come straight away.”
Lena’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, but I have to stay here for stage three. I’ve just finished getting everyone online.”
“That’s fine. He told me to take over. I have to do what he says, remember? You’ve finished stage two, haven’t you? He says you’ve done a very good job.”
Again, the look of bliss that took over Lena’s face twisted my gut.
“Great! Where can I find him?”
“He just told me as he was walking out,” I said, letting Lena stand up and hand me the laptop. “You’ll have to go look for him. He’s keeping an eye out for you.”
“Okay!” I watched Lena leave the room and closed it behind her, making sure to lock it this time. We shared our parking with three other departments across eight floors, so unless Jackson really was there already, that would keep her out of the way.
She’d been right. Jackson had worked his way through the entire department’s staff and I had a live view of every single person in the facility. Watching the glowing dots meander around the map gave me a truly terrifying glimpse into the future we had made possible.
What caught my eye was something that didn’t exist in the standard interface. We had created individual controls for the kind of transmissions we wanted and the direction we wanted them to go in, but Lena had added a new input without a label.
Clicking on it, a text field appears in which the name “Enfield, Lena” was already populated followed by a yes/no switch.
I pressed “yes” and blacked out.
* * *
I was in the parking lot, on the blue level by bay two-zero-two. At first I wondered how I had been suddenly transported when I realised how strange I felt all over - my body, my clothes and my hair all felt wrong somehow.
I looked down and felt the strength leave my legs as I saw a woman’s body stretching out below me. A woman’s body in a pair of black Mary Janes, matching pencil skirt, white dress shirt and a lanyard whose ID read “Lena Enfield.”
I stared at myself in shock, having fallen to my knees and began running my unfamiliar hands over my unfamiliar body, trying to confirm that I wasn’t somehow dreaming.
“Lena!” a voice echoed across the concrete, causing me to jump in a mix of fear and guilt. I turned in the direction of the voice and felt my heart quail at the side of Jackson striding towards me, his face contorted with fury.
In that instant I felt an overwhelming sense of panic take over and I wanted to be absolutely anywhere except anywhere near him, and in that same moment I felt myself dragged back into the cool air of the server room, sitting on the floor with Lena’s laptop on my legs.
We had theorised that it was possible, but had never been arrogant or stupid enough to try it. The psychological risks and ethical dangers it posed were beyond our ability to rationalise and well outside the original scope of the project, though there were rumours that it would eventually be turned towards a similar end.
But I didn’t have time to marvel at the development. Jackson would interrogate Lena, Lena would tell him the truth, and he would run straight here. I had to act fast.
Jackson would head straight for the server room once he realised what had happened.
I could head straight for the director’s office, but there was no guarantee that she wasn’t also in on his plot. I checked the map again: She had her nanites installed and despite her rank in the organisation had also been set to receive, as had every guard on her floor. Jackson really intended to just dominate everyone in the building. I had all the proof I needed to expose Jackson and have him arrested.
We would need to deprogram Lena. Shit, assuming that was even possible. God only knew how badly Jackson had been screwing with her brain, or for how long. And there was always a chance the higher ups would find out and do what higher ups always do when they have the opportunity to take even more wealth and power.
I fretted for much longer than I should have under the circumstances. Maybe there really was no other way, or maybe I was just deliberately backing myself into a corner. Whatever the case, the sudden jangle of keys at the door alerted me that I had run out of time, and that within seconds, Jackson would be in the room to steal back the laptop, or possibly even frame me, now that he’d been discovered.
I’d considered the option and dismissed it as immoral. Self-serving. A road too dangerous to even consider walking down. But having failed to take any other action, I was left with only one option.
It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. When the chips are down and the pressure is on, the only person you can depend on is yourself.
I dragged my own icon into the super broadcaster position, and hit “execute.”
* * *
There wasn’t any sudden rush of sensation. There never had been: Broadcasting just took the data you wanted to impart and transmitted a copy to the target. But for some reason, I still expected something.
What did happen was the sound of keys hitting the floor outside, followed by a hollow groan of absolute despair.
I unlocked the door and opened it to find Jackson, grey-faced and swaying with his hands covering his face. Lena was behind him, looking pitiful, but not nearly as distraught as Jackson.
“Hello, Jackson.” I said flatly.
“Don’t…” he moaned through his hands.
People had begun to file into the room, ashen-faced but with a mix of anger, all of them staring at Jackson as he tried to hide behind himself.
I’d used the nanites to broadcast two things: The knowledge of what Jackson had tried to do, and my overwhelming disgust at him for the attempt.
Now everyone knew what he’d done, he knew that they knew and he shared their hatred for himself because I had copied it directly from my mind into his.
“Nobody hurt him,” I said, seeing the balled fists and shaking hands around me. “Nobody let him hurt himself, either. Get him out of here.”
Four men approached Jackson, who didn’t resist as they grimly marched him away. I turned to Lena, who was running her hands through her hair, wide-eyed and shivering.
“H-he was-s in m-my head…” she stammered.
I didn’t have any words of consolation for her. Least of all, because not moments ago I had also been inside her mind. The only reason she knew about Jackson was because I had “told” her. I motioned for another one of the staff to take her away.
“Alright, everyone,” I said to those who remained. “I want an all-hands meeting in the break room. Tell everyone you see, and someone head upstairs to find…”
I trailed off as I realised how much time would be wasted finding everyone in the building and telling them where to go, and then more wasted simply having the meeting itself, and that was assuming nobody disagreed with what I was about to say.
Well, neither of those things were problems anymore, were they?
I activated my transmitter and broadcast a new set of instructions.
“The project is to be terminated. Nobody can be trusted with this power. Destroy all hardware, all documentation, strip the building down and wipe everything.”
The effect was instant: People began moving with an almost frantic purpose, delegating tasks to themselves or people nearby as files began to be pulled out of drawers and shredded, computers wiped and machinery disassembled. I had intended to join in, but found myself at sea in a centre of bustling activity, so instead walked myself out to my car to lie down and clear my head.
Had I done the right thing? Yes. Absolutely. Any other decision would have exposed everyone to the risk of Jackson regaining control, or the project being compromised by a figure in authority. Even if the director was of sound moral character, her superiors might not be, or their superiors above them. Someone, somewhere in the organisation would have tried to take advantage, just like Jackson did. Better to destroy everything and pretend it never happened.
I watched numbly as a procession of staff began to file out with armfuls and boxes of shredded documents, leaving trails of confetti in their wake. Like ants, they threw their boxes into one of the massive steel containers used for waste disposal. Some others had started fussing over the nearest cars, and it took me a while to realise that they were siphoning the petrol.
My initial alarm was quelled somewhat when they left the containers of fuel to one side instead of lighting it immediately. Any kind of fire would alert the emergency services, who would no doubt try to stop what was happening once they arrived.
It was actually kind of peaceful, sitting apart from the action and just watching it unfold. Almost like watching an ant colony cleaning out a lunchbox: All of the inside bits got broken down and taken outside until all that was left was the shell.
They had filled all six bins and four of the cargo trucks by the time they were done. Everything had been reduced to the smallest parts it could be torn, cut, unscrewed, unplugged or just smashed into. There was no cheering as fuel was added or the flames lit from a safe distance. Just the quiet relief of a terrible future averted.
Someone coughed near me and I turned to see Lena and a few other members of staff with a single trolley loaded with some equipment that hadn’t been destroyed. Confused, I turned to Lena.
“Aren’t you going to add it to the pile?” I asked.
“Not this stuff,” Lena said cheerfully, apparently recovered from her earlier breakdown. “We figured it would be a shame if we destroyed literally everything, so we’ve saved some of it. And because you decided to be mister lazy-pants while the rest of us were hard at work, we’re giving you the job of taking care of it.”
I couldn’t stop my brow furrowing in confusion. “I never told you to do that.”
Lena scoffed as the others began loading the equipment into my car. “Good. We’re not here to do what you tell us. The vote was unanimous: We’re all getting out, so you get to babysit the last remnants. Hide it, destroy it, do whatever you want. This is your share of the responsibility. Maybe next time, do your bit instead of wandering off for a nap, okay?”
And with that, they left to join the rapidly dispersing crowd as everyone jumped into their cars or hitched a ride from the others. A column of black smoke reached up from the facility, and it would be a matter of minutes before the firefighters arrived. Just by virtue of the work we were doing, the cops wouldn’t be far behind.
Without time to get everything out of my car and into the fire, I jumped into the driver’s seat and made my way out with the rest, racking my brain furiously as I tried to avoid speeding on my way home.
I never told them to set aside any equipment for me. No, I never CONSCIOUSLY told them. That really was the only explanation: There was no way that - after being given the artificial impression that the entire project needed to be burned to the ground - they would somehow conveniently decide that I should be trusted with the last pieces of evidence. Not just any evidence, either: At a glance I could tell that I had been left with everything I needed to manufacture and configure the nanites myself, just on a much smaller scale.
Despite my best intentions, some small part of myself had subconsciously implanted the addendum that one way or another, I should have the power to continue the project privately.
Fine, then. I’d get home, pack up what little I could fit and get the hell out of the city, state, maybe even country before finding somewhere I could safely destroy the last remains of a terrible mistake.
That was almost two years ago.
I never did get around to destroying that equipment.
In hindsight, I don’t see how things could have turned out any other way. I’m not saying that as an excuse for any of the things I did or as if it makes them any less bad, but having taken the first step, things just kind of kept happening.
It started at work. I won’t say where.
We were testing methods of remote information transmission that didn’t rely on explicit outputs or inputs. Basically communication that bypassed the barriers outlined in models like Berlo’s SMCR: Instead of relying on language to convey meaning, our aim was to find a way to convey meaning itself directly from one mind to at least one other.
Again, with the benefit of hindsight, the implications were obvious, but we weren’t concerned with whether we should, we just wanted to see if we could. Classic hubris of the scientifically minded.
And it turns out we can. Or more specifically, I can. I’ve made sure all traces of the research material has been scrubbed from any database; every hard drive degaussed, every memory stick smashed into tiny pieces, every document shredded and the whole lot set on fire just to be safe. The technology is too dangerous to risk falling into the wrong hands.
Yes, like mine. It turns out my hands are also the wrong hands, but I didn’t know it at the time. I thought if I just kept the research to myself and studied it in secret, I could find a way to use it to make the world a better place. I guess I can still do that. Maybe it will make up for the bad that I’ve done, which on reflection isn’t even that bad.
Sure, I accidentally corrupted the free will of three fellow human beings and inadvertently turned them into my loyal assistants and sex slaves, but they’re happy. I know they’re happy, because in a lot of ways, they’re also me.
That helps, right?
* * *
Everyone was very excited. It was something worth being excited about. Transmission was old tech and measuring changes in brain waves was old tech, but reliably translating knowledge as it was being recalled into data, then being able to implant that data into another mind was a big fucking deal.
Other departments in other labs were specialising in mechanical transmission - robotics and cybernetics, for replacement or auxiliary limbs or remote work in hazardous environments. Useful stuff, but not nearly as delicate as what we were trying to achieve. They were trying to transmit a signal to a robot hand to gently hold an egg: We were trying to plug a single thought out of one hand and stitch it seamlessly into another.
Our first major breakthrough was impression: Not the conveyance of explicit knowledge or of a specific message, just a vague sense experienced by the broadcaster transmitted to the receiver. It had to be a strong sense, which meant staff with intense phobias being the broadcaster knowing what objects were beneath a series of cups, and the receiver choosing a cup at random based on the impression being transmitted to them.
It wasn’t a hundred percent accurate, but the results fell well outside of what would have been possible on pure guesswork and we were pumped to fine tune the technology to see what it could do.
I say “random,” because even though it wasn’t, even though we knew it wasn’t and even though the receiver knew that a successful test would be proof that it wasn’t, they still felt as though they were choosing randomly. At no point did they feel like they were under someone else’s influence or receiving information externally; in every single instance, they were convinced that the experiment had failed and they were just choosing at random.
That should have been our first warning.
We advanced from cups viewed from two positions to mazes navigated from two positions, and then from mazes to simple guessing games like battleships and go fish. Again, no explicit information, but impressions that still left the receiver under the illusion that they were just lucky guessers.
From simple games we moved on to more advanced guessing games like celebrity heads and poker. This was a significant step forwards, but we were still relying on impressions that could be rationalised by the receiver as guesswork and luck. At no point was anyone being fed information that they couldn’t have conceivably deduced, remembered, calculated or bumbled their way into naturally.
That’s when the second major breakthrough happened. One of our broadcasters, Jackson, had gotten tired transmitting the correct answers to his receiver and had started feeding them deliberately incorrect answers. Nothing obvious - just answers that were close enough that they could make even someone who already knew second guess themselves. His receiver had a post-it note on her forehead with “Tiger Woods” written in permanent marker on it, and she had been given the clue “Golfing champion.”
By now, everyone had gotten used to Jackson’s shenanigans, so we grinned or grimaced as poor Lena rattled through every wrong answer she could be compelled to try.
“Tony the Tiger. Michael Jordan. Walt Disney. Santa Claus. Mickey Mouse. Bullroarer Took. Babe Ruth. Heisenberg. Wait, who the hell is Bullroarer Took?”
She didn’t get an answer, as the lab immediately exploded into questions and exclamations and people generally just freaking out. We’d done it, and somehow completely by accident: An entirely new, explicit piece of information had been seamlessly added to a receiver’s brain and it wasn’t until a few seconds after they’d actually said it that they even realised it wasn’t information from their own brain.
That was our second warning.
The third warning came quite a bit later, but by pure chance, I was the only one who noticed and when I did, I acted immediately.
Jackson’s shenanigans had inadvertently opened up new paths of inquiry. By randomly but deliberately poking at areas of knowledge specifically unrelated to the task at hand, we were able to isolate the neural activation patterns associated with conscious knowledge independent of emotional belief.
What followed were several successful instances of transmitting discrete pieces of data from broadcaster to receiver, however we then ran into the new problem of getting the receiver to distinguish between their own thoughts and the information being fed to them. Furthermore, when asked to explain the reasoning behind the transmitted answers, receivers became dismissive, evasive and sometimes even agitated, later explaining that the information just “felt true,” a sensation that applied even in instances where the receiver had been deliberately fed incorrect data.
With mounting dread, we realised the danger of the technology we had created.
The true horror sunk in during a coffee break, when by pure chance I saw Jackon’s reflection making an odd hand gesture over the drink of a coworker whose back was turned. I had to force myself to turn around slowly, watching Jackson converse casually without his eyes leaving her face. It wasn’t until she took a sip that he seemed to relax and noticed me by the coffee machine. I did my best to betray nothing, placing my own coffee onto the table in front of him and moving as though to sit when I “remembered” to get cream from the fridge.
This time when I turned I saw his hurried motion plainly in the brushed metal door, and it took all the self control I had not to confront him or punch his lights out. I returned to the table, adding the cream without sitting before returning it to the fridge. I picked up my coffee and was about to walk out of the room with it when Jackson called out to me with some innocent question about my department. It quickly became clear that he was stalling, waiting for me to drink, so I feigned a casual sip with tightly pursed lips as we spoke and he seemed to relax. I took the opportunity to leave with my cup and as soon as I was out of sight went straight to the micro-observation facility.
We had initially aimed to use physical chips implanted in the subject’s brains to establish a connection, but the risk of accidental damage compounded by multiple intrusions in the case of faulty hardware or the replacement of redundant units made this untenable. Thankfully (or perhaps not), we were assisted by our sister department in nanotech, who had developed a biomonitoring system using carbide nanites that could enter the bloodstream through the digestive tract. To test for successful nanite absorption, we just needed to take a blood sample and insert it into an observation case. And it didn’t just work on blood.
I felt my stomach drop as the coffee reading came back positive. A concentration high enough that even a mouthful would fully colonise a body within hours. I felt sick as I entered a vial of my own saliva, and when that test also came back as a weak positive and rising, I almost fainted.
That fucking bastard.
I had to stop myself from running to the configuration deck and came to a sudden halt halfway there. There’s no way Jackson could have done anything underhanded on one of the terminals without someone seeing him. The room, the equipment and change was constantly monitored as a security measure. If he were going to do anything without being detected, it would need to be somewhere private where he could still access the server and the network. He wasn’t authorised to be anywhere near the site’s core infrastructure, but it was the only place where he would have everything he needed.
I didn’t know how I was going to get access to the server room when I arrived - it’s not as if I had access either - but it turned out that I didn’t need access and neither did Jackson.
Lena had access, and she had left the door unlocked.
She looked up at me owlishly from where she was sitting on the floor, cross-legged with a laptop on her knees.
“Oh, Hi Marcus,” she said, parroting Tommy Wiseau’s infamous line as though we were meeting in the break room.
“Lena?” I asked cautiously. “What are you working on?”
“Oh, I’m just making sure that anytime a new host comes online, they’re set to receive only,” she said, as though she were just filling out her calendar. She turned the laptop so that I could see the screen and pointed at the second of two dots on a map of the facility. “See? There you are right next to me. You came online just a minute ago, so I’ve already made you a receiver.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Because Jackson told me to.”
I stared at the unquestioning innocence in her eyes.
“And you have to do what he says?”
Lena rolled her eyes at me. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I repeated. The silence was broken only by the steady whine of cooling fans.
Eventually, Lena shifted uncomfortably. “So, what are you doing here? You’re not IT.”
Not wanting to alarm her, I said the first thing that I could think of. “No, but Jackson sent me.”
The way Lena’s face lit up at his name made me feel ill.
“Does that mean you’re working for him too?”
“Yes,” I lied. Like a man laying down rails for a moving train as he’s riding on it, I grabbed blindly for any string of words that might work. “And he told me to come get you for something important. He’s… outside in the parking lot and says you need to come straight away.”
Lena’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, but I have to stay here for stage three. I’ve just finished getting everyone online.”
“That’s fine. He told me to take over. I have to do what he says, remember? You’ve finished stage two, haven’t you? He says you’ve done a very good job.”
Again, the look of bliss that took over Lena’s face twisted my gut.
“Great! Where can I find him?”
“He just told me as he was walking out,” I said, letting Lena stand up and hand me the laptop. “You’ll have to go look for him. He’s keeping an eye out for you.”
“Okay!” I watched Lena leave the room and closed it behind her, making sure to lock it this time. We shared our parking with three other departments across eight floors, so unless Jackson really was there already, that would keep her out of the way.
She’d been right. Jackson had worked his way through the entire department’s staff and I had a live view of every single person in the facility. Watching the glowing dots meander around the map gave me a truly terrifying glimpse into the future we had made possible.
What caught my eye was something that didn’t exist in the standard interface. We had created individual controls for the kind of transmissions we wanted and the direction we wanted them to go in, but Lena had added a new input without a label.
Clicking on it, a text field appears in which the name “Enfield, Lena” was already populated followed by a yes/no switch.
I pressed “yes” and blacked out.
* * *
I was in the parking lot, on the blue level by bay two-zero-two. At first I wondered how I had been suddenly transported when I realised how strange I felt all over - my body, my clothes and my hair all felt wrong somehow.
I looked down and felt the strength leave my legs as I saw a woman’s body stretching out below me. A woman’s body in a pair of black Mary Janes, matching pencil skirt, white dress shirt and a lanyard whose ID read “Lena Enfield.”
I stared at myself in shock, having fallen to my knees and began running my unfamiliar hands over my unfamiliar body, trying to confirm that I wasn’t somehow dreaming.
“Lena!” a voice echoed across the concrete, causing me to jump in a mix of fear and guilt. I turned in the direction of the voice and felt my heart quail at the side of Jackson striding towards me, his face contorted with fury.
In that instant I felt an overwhelming sense of panic take over and I wanted to be absolutely anywhere except anywhere near him, and in that same moment I felt myself dragged back into the cool air of the server room, sitting on the floor with Lena’s laptop on my legs.
We had theorised that it was possible, but had never been arrogant or stupid enough to try it. The psychological risks and ethical dangers it posed were beyond our ability to rationalise and well outside the original scope of the project, though there were rumours that it would eventually be turned towards a similar end.
But I didn’t have time to marvel at the development. Jackson would interrogate Lena, Lena would tell him the truth, and he would run straight here. I had to act fast.
Jackson would head straight for the server room once he realised what had happened.
I could head straight for the director’s office, but there was no guarantee that she wasn’t also in on his plot. I checked the map again: She had her nanites installed and despite her rank in the organisation had also been set to receive, as had every guard on her floor. Jackson really intended to just dominate everyone in the building. I had all the proof I needed to expose Jackson and have him arrested.
We would need to deprogram Lena. Shit, assuming that was even possible. God only knew how badly Jackson had been screwing with her brain, or for how long. And there was always a chance the higher ups would find out and do what higher ups always do when they have the opportunity to take even more wealth and power.
I fretted for much longer than I should have under the circumstances. Maybe there really was no other way, or maybe I was just deliberately backing myself into a corner. Whatever the case, the sudden jangle of keys at the door alerted me that I had run out of time, and that within seconds, Jackson would be in the room to steal back the laptop, or possibly even frame me, now that he’d been discovered.
I’d considered the option and dismissed it as immoral. Self-serving. A road too dangerous to even consider walking down. But having failed to take any other action, I was left with only one option.
It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. When the chips are down and the pressure is on, the only person you can depend on is yourself.
I dragged my own icon into the super broadcaster position, and hit “execute.”
* * *
There wasn’t any sudden rush of sensation. There never had been: Broadcasting just took the data you wanted to impart and transmitted a copy to the target. But for some reason, I still expected something.
What did happen was the sound of keys hitting the floor outside, followed by a hollow groan of absolute despair.
I unlocked the door and opened it to find Jackson, grey-faced and swaying with his hands covering his face. Lena was behind him, looking pitiful, but not nearly as distraught as Jackson.
“Hello, Jackson.” I said flatly.
“Don’t…” he moaned through his hands.
People had begun to file into the room, ashen-faced but with a mix of anger, all of them staring at Jackson as he tried to hide behind himself.
I’d used the nanites to broadcast two things: The knowledge of what Jackson had tried to do, and my overwhelming disgust at him for the attempt.
Now everyone knew what he’d done, he knew that they knew and he shared their hatred for himself because I had copied it directly from my mind into his.
“Nobody hurt him,” I said, seeing the balled fists and shaking hands around me. “Nobody let him hurt himself, either. Get him out of here.”
Four men approached Jackson, who didn’t resist as they grimly marched him away. I turned to Lena, who was running her hands through her hair, wide-eyed and shivering.
“H-he was-s in m-my head…” she stammered.
I didn’t have any words of consolation for her. Least of all, because not moments ago I had also been inside her mind. The only reason she knew about Jackson was because I had “told” her. I motioned for another one of the staff to take her away.
“Alright, everyone,” I said to those who remained. “I want an all-hands meeting in the break room. Tell everyone you see, and someone head upstairs to find…”
I trailed off as I realised how much time would be wasted finding everyone in the building and telling them where to go, and then more wasted simply having the meeting itself, and that was assuming nobody disagreed with what I was about to say.
Well, neither of those things were problems anymore, were they?
I activated my transmitter and broadcast a new set of instructions.
“The project is to be terminated. Nobody can be trusted with this power. Destroy all hardware, all documentation, strip the building down and wipe everything.”
The effect was instant: People began moving with an almost frantic purpose, delegating tasks to themselves or people nearby as files began to be pulled out of drawers and shredded, computers wiped and machinery disassembled. I had intended to join in, but found myself at sea in a centre of bustling activity, so instead walked myself out to my car to lie down and clear my head.
Had I done the right thing? Yes. Absolutely. Any other decision would have exposed everyone to the risk of Jackson regaining control, or the project being compromised by a figure in authority. Even if the director was of sound moral character, her superiors might not be, or their superiors above them. Someone, somewhere in the organisation would have tried to take advantage, just like Jackson did. Better to destroy everything and pretend it never happened.
I watched numbly as a procession of staff began to file out with armfuls and boxes of shredded documents, leaving trails of confetti in their wake. Like ants, they threw their boxes into one of the massive steel containers used for waste disposal. Some others had started fussing over the nearest cars, and it took me a while to realise that they were siphoning the petrol.
My initial alarm was quelled somewhat when they left the containers of fuel to one side instead of lighting it immediately. Any kind of fire would alert the emergency services, who would no doubt try to stop what was happening once they arrived.
It was actually kind of peaceful, sitting apart from the action and just watching it unfold. Almost like watching an ant colony cleaning out a lunchbox: All of the inside bits got broken down and taken outside until all that was left was the shell.
They had filled all six bins and four of the cargo trucks by the time they were done. Everything had been reduced to the smallest parts it could be torn, cut, unscrewed, unplugged or just smashed into. There was no cheering as fuel was added or the flames lit from a safe distance. Just the quiet relief of a terrible future averted.
Someone coughed near me and I turned to see Lena and a few other members of staff with a single trolley loaded with some equipment that hadn’t been destroyed. Confused, I turned to Lena.
“Aren’t you going to add it to the pile?” I asked.
“Not this stuff,” Lena said cheerfully, apparently recovered from her earlier breakdown. “We figured it would be a shame if we destroyed literally everything, so we’ve saved some of it. And because you decided to be mister lazy-pants while the rest of us were hard at work, we’re giving you the job of taking care of it.”
I couldn’t stop my brow furrowing in confusion. “I never told you to do that.”
Lena scoffed as the others began loading the equipment into my car. “Good. We’re not here to do what you tell us. The vote was unanimous: We’re all getting out, so you get to babysit the last remnants. Hide it, destroy it, do whatever you want. This is your share of the responsibility. Maybe next time, do your bit instead of wandering off for a nap, okay?”
And with that, they left to join the rapidly dispersing crowd as everyone jumped into their cars or hitched a ride from the others. A column of black smoke reached up from the facility, and it would be a matter of minutes before the firefighters arrived. Just by virtue of the work we were doing, the cops wouldn’t be far behind.
Without time to get everything out of my car and into the fire, I jumped into the driver’s seat and made my way out with the rest, racking my brain furiously as I tried to avoid speeding on my way home.
I never told them to set aside any equipment for me. No, I never CONSCIOUSLY told them. That really was the only explanation: There was no way that - after being given the artificial impression that the entire project needed to be burned to the ground - they would somehow conveniently decide that I should be trusted with the last pieces of evidence. Not just any evidence, either: At a glance I could tell that I had been left with everything I needed to manufacture and configure the nanites myself, just on a much smaller scale.
Despite my best intentions, some small part of myself had subconsciously implanted the addendum that one way or another, I should have the power to continue the project privately.
Fine, then. I’d get home, pack up what little I could fit and get the hell out of the city, state, maybe even country before finding somewhere I could safely destroy the last remains of a terrible mistake.
That was almost two years ago.
I never did get around to destroying that equipment.
mind control
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I thought that having my body possessed, my life stolen and my evenings spent tangled in a carnal carousel of degenerate sex was the worst thing that could happen to me.I was wrong.
It had been three months since I had felt the presence slither out of my mind. Three months since I had been trapped as a helpless passenger in my own body, watching it gleefully debase itself in ways I had never dared imagine.
There had been no warning: One moment I had been waiting in line to audition for some minor speaking role, when a sudden shiver ran through me. The person sitting next to me had asked if I was okay, and I’d tried to make a joke about how nervous I was. Instead, my body silently stood up and began to walk briskly towards the exit.
I had tried to cry out. I tried to stop myself. I tried to trip myself up, swivel my eyes or even blink in a way that might signal to someone that something was terribly wrong, but I completely lost control of my own faculties. Some outside force had seized control of my body and walked it smartly into the elevator, taking us down to the lobby, out the studio doors and into the city’s seedy underbelly.
Well, perhaps not exactly. As my body began to pilot itself towards what I recognised as the red light district, I felt myself almost blacking out in panic - the thought of being trapped as my body handed out back-alley blowjobs filling me with a sense of sickness beyond simple nausea.
To my bitter relief, I watched myself sashay into the most salubrious venue in the city: More a luxury hotel than a whorehouse, but everyone knew that the turndown service included some very intimate extras.
I felt my face flex into a charming smile to the bouncer and saw his look of amused recognition. I’d never seen the brute in my life, but I realised with horror that I was just the latest victim of whatever sick perversion was taking place.
It is a terrible thing to feel your lips and tongue move of their own accord, speaking words not your own in a language you don’t even understand. Some cryptic collection of syllables whispered to the concierge that I could not have hoped to remember even the next day, let alone now.
I - my body, and whatever was controlling it - was given access to the service lift, disembarking into a hall that looked like a modernised Mount Olympus: Laden tables, bubbling fountains, crystalline pools, cushioned lounges and of course, an entourage of gorgeous men and women in various states of undress.
They did not seem gorgeous when I first laid eyes on them. In my state of horror and revulsion, I saw them only as whores and deviants; accomplices to the crime being committed against me. Now I remember their lithe physiques and alluring expressions with what I can only think of as a desperate, carnal thirst.
This is the curse that has scarred me since my release. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been freed from whatever monster had stolen a year of my life; the memory of the pleasures it enjoyed with my flesh remains, and I wake up at night feeling terribly cold and alone.
They had welcomed me with the warmth and intimacy of a lifetime lover, undressing me as my body gracefully shed one piece of clothing after another. There was an air of excited exploration: Despite their familiarity with whatever had taken control of me, every inch of my naked skin, every hair, every finger and toe was treated as a curiosity to be examined.
I felt my body gasp at the first kiss - a gentle peck on my inner thigh. My body smiled with amusement and allowed itself to be lowered onto a bed of gold tasselled pillows before opening its arms and legs to the storm of affection.
Kissing. Licking. Stroking. Squeezing. My body made no effort to resist as it was toyed with and tasted by this party of strangers, and I felt a thrill of physical excitement grow within me that I had never known before my possession.
Shortly afterwards I would reassure myself that I was the perversion of the degenerate mind controlling me that caused such feelings - that I would never experience that kind of enjoyment from such a debasing act.
I know now that I was a fool. My body has tasted something I could never hope to recreate within the confines of my drab morality, and its hunger for more would later drive me to madness.
I was the guest of honour that night, and my body was a dish to be sampled by all. I was forced to savour the taste of every guest in turn - the men, the women, and those wore the face and body of one while sporting the genitals of the other. I had hated them at the time, assuming that they were conscious of and taking delight in my imprisonment and suffering. It is still possible that they were, but somehow I find it hard to loathe them now as I did then.
There were no ringmasters that I can recall; no one figure dominating the course of proceedings. Were it not for my own distress, I would have assumed the proceedings had no sinister puppeteer skulking in the shadows, but I sought one out in an attempt to distract myself from the physical sensations.
Callisto. I remember the name Callisto. The thing wearing my face had recognised her and I had felt my traitor heart leap in my chest at the sight of her. She was beautiful. I could admit that, even in the throes of my own misery. She had descended through the forest of bodies to press her lips against mine - lips that devoured the kiss with ravenous abandon.
What followed was a torrent of whispers in that unknown language, punctuated by giggles and yet more lashing of tongues. The thing within me was smitten with this woman, and she had recognised its presence, despite my face. My eyes were closed for much of their tryst, but often they would open and each would gaze into each other before bursting into more giggles or succumbing once more to their lust.
The sensation of something hot and rubbery against my thigh came as a shock to me, and as my gaze shifted to look, I expected to see some male suitor encroaching from between us. Instead, I saw an incongruously large penis sprouting from between Callisto’s legs, visibly bobbing as it twitched in time with her heartbeat.
My own shock failed to register on my face, which smiled with what I felt was both encouragement to the woman on top of me and a vindictive irony at my helplessness.
If Callisto was aware of my revulsion behind the smile, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she chose to slide her shaft between my legs, thrusting slowly back and forth so that its length ran along my nether lips in languid, luxurious strokes.
My body squealed, arching its back as I felt muscles within me twitch and spasm in delighted anticipation. Over the course of what felt like hours, my disgust reluctantly gave way to frustration - my body teased to the edge of orgasm again and again without reaching the peak.
I wanted to cry. To bed for forgiveness for whatever crime I had committed to deserve this humiliation, whatever it took for them to unchain or - if I must remain under their control - to at least give me release.
As I cried out in my own mind, I felt my body giggle again, and I realised with mortified horror that the thing controlling me was indeed aware of my own thoughts and was gaining a twisted sense of enjoyment from my distress.
Before I could rally any kind of indignant rage to admonish them with, my lips whispered a command to Callisto, who obliged by drawing back and thrusting into me until our crotches were pressed together.
My possessor had been ready for it, and wrapped my legs around her lover to better grind my body against her, moaning in ecstasy as I was forced to share in her pleasure. Every part of my skin was electrified, and I could feel every hair, every raised pore, every millimetre of my breasts and vulva and sweat-slick skin rubbing and sliding and stretching over my muscles as they contorted and twitched.
It was magical. As ashamed as I am to say it even now, it was like nothing I had experienced in my life up to that instant, and while I still try to convince myself that the memory makes me sick with disgust, the truth is that I am filled with a painful sense of longing for that moment and the many others that followed.
She had called out a name as she poured herself into me, the warmth of her seed spreading a fire throughout my body. “Artemis,” she had cried out, and my own body moaned hers in response. Even after the spasms eased, we spent some time simply basking in each other’s warmth and the afterglow of climax.
We did not remain in each other’s arms for long, and soon afterwards I would find myself once again being handed from partner to partner, sometimes one by one, sometimes in groups of four or more, each one of them hungry to savour this new morsel that had been puppeteered into their den. There was no effort to engage in intimacy, no connection formed other than the purely physical. I was the evening’s main dish, and I found myself being tasted by many mouths.
I wish I could say that I blacked out, or that overstimulation numbed me such that time passed in a blur. I was granted no such mercy. I remember clearly peeling my viscid skin from the evening’s final paramour. I remember finding my garments among the pile by the door. I remember the knowing leer of the hotel staff as I saw myself out the lobby to a waiting cab that answered to foreign instructions and demanded no fee. I remember my confusion slowly turning to horror as I recognised the streets I was being driven down - that the thing within me had somehow gleaned my address and was taking me home. Is that how they had found me? Had some enchantment been weaved on me as I slept, culminating in my capture earlier that day?
As I watched my body wash itself thoroughly, sneering at what modest comforts I could afford myself, I hoped with increasing desperation that the rising of a new sun would banish the nightmare. Despite certainly knowing my thoughts, my body gave no response besides rolling naked into bed and closing my eyes. I had only moments of darkness before the current of sleep dragged me under.
* * *
My eyes opened to the sound of my morning alarm, and it was with a sudden rush of relief that I sat up in dawn’s early light. That relief was short-lived, as my body had in truth been obeying its new master, who had simply risen as I would have done. Now I felt the world turn as my body spun out of bed and practically danced to the bathroom mirror to admire by the light of day the prize it had stolen.
The expression of vindictive glee it wore with my face contrasted against my own horror, and while it spared no words for what it was or why it had chosen me, it took the time to tease us both to solitary climax with my stolen hands.
Far from being freed, that morning marked the first full day of my new nightmare: A nightmare in which my body would walk familiar streets, greet familiar faces and complete familiar tasks without fault or any sign that I was anyone but myself. I soon realised that its knowledge of my address was not the fruit of reconnaissance, but its ability to effortlessly reach into my mind and pluck what memories it needed at will.
Trapped within myself, I watched as my body greeted my peers and superiors with the deference each deserved, attended the venues and gatherings at which my absence would be noted and carried out my duties to a standard surpassing my own. It was on this last point that I felt my wayward body becoming unaccountably aroused, as praise was heaped upon my impostor for the improvement in performance. I realised that whoever had taken my life, they were gaining a wicked sense of glee for living it better than I had, and that should my body ever be returned to me, I would struggle to live up to the new expectations my possessor had created for me.
It was with this terrible realisation that I watched my body bid farewell to my unsuspecting coworkers, hailing down a taxi and speaking once again in that unknown tongue. The cab drove us back to the hotel from the evening before, and my horror deepend at the revelation that last night’s humiliation had only been the first of many.
From that day onwards, debauchery became my body’s nightly diversion. I would wake with my body in the morning, watch during the day in the futile hope that some trusted friend would glean the falsehood of my countenance, then once again find myself victim to the myriad indecencies my body would visit upon itself and others.
Most times it would be at the same hotel, though on rare occasions I would find myself being piloted to one of the party member’s own domiciles. Against my will, I became familiar with the personal penthouses of many wealthy figures in the city, earning entry through various acts of self-debasement. Country cottages, summer homes, private jets; my body took itself on a tour between various spheres of power and influence, grovelling and dancing and mewling its way under every table to lick the floor clean of scraps.
Upon my first encounter with a true public figure, I had resolved to burn the sight of every face and the sound of every name into my memory, such that upon my eventual release I could throw back the curtain on the carnival of corruption and gain some measure of closure for the suffering inflicted upon me. Naively, I hoped to retain enough information to tear down their palaces of sin and expose their crimes to the world.
A stupid, childish ambition.
In the three months since my release, no matter how I wrack my brain, no matter how many newspaper photos I look at and how many public broadcasts I watch, not a single name or face evokes so much as a twitch of recognition. Whatever memories I had retained up to the day of my release, my possessor had reached into my mind and erased them.
But I remembered Callisto. Among the countless sea of fog-obscured faces that flooded my recollection, Callisto’s remained clear.
I saw her surprisingly rarely, given the relationship she had with the thing controlling me. I had no idea where she was on the many nights I endured without her, and there was no pattern or apparent purpose to her attendance. Some nights she was simply there waiting for me, and some nights she would arrive later and seek me out in the heaving, sighing, moaning mass of limbs and flesh.
Despite its many sordid engagements with countless partners, Callisto was the only one that my body was truly intimate with. They would burrow out a private nest among the pillows, slink away to some shadowed corner booth or in one case, cradle each other in the arms of the statue that dominated the hall where everyone could see, but none could reach.
Callisto was the first and only person my body invited back to my own apartment, and while I raged at this latest invasion of my privacy and trespass on my life, I could not overcome the excitement burning through my body as it gave Callisto a tour of my meagre dwellings.
Unlike Artemis, Callisto did not sneer. She had eyes only for her lover, and it wasn’t long before they were tumbling naked onto my bed.
I had invited some promising suitors to my apartment in the past, and in exceptional cases had invited them to spend the night in my bed, but I had experienced nothing like the overwhelming passion these creatures felt for each other. As they lay panting in the dim lamplight, gazing into each other’s eyes, I had to remind myself that the sensation of joyous fulfilment welling up in my heart was not my own, and that the gorgeous woman leaning in to press her lips against mine was not my lover, but a concubine to the foul thing that wore my face and had stolen my life.
It was perhaps six months since losing control of myself that I arrived as accustomed to the hotel banquet to find Callisto waiting for me but unaccountably nervous, as though she had suddenly shrunk in on herself and lost all sense of confidence.
She approached me with uncharacteristic trepidation and in a quavering voice spoke the name Artemis, as though unsure if I was still being controlled.
The thing wearing my face smiled, but not with the warmth or affection I had come to expect. It was a sinister smile. A predatory smile. And, like a predator, she drew Callisto into her arms and flung her to the floor before pouncing on top of her while the crowd roared with laughter.
Artemis seemed to have grown weary of her lover, and I felt my blood surge in unwanted excitement as I watched the horror of realisation drawn on Callisto’s face. I felt her body squirm beneath my weight as she cried out in pain and fear, begging for forgiveness as my hands roughly tore at her clothes. Despite her protestations, she was fully erect beneath her skirt and my body laughed at her humiliation as it brought her struggling upright, exposing her shame to the mocking throng.
I had never pictured Callisto as being possessed of physical or mental strength, and my suspicions were confirmed as the poor girl hung helplessly from one arm gripped by my own hand while my other jerked her roughly to climax.
She moaned piteously as she emptied her soul onto the marble floor, and when thrown to her knees and ordered to clean it with her mouth, she did so without resistance, weeping such that her tears mingled with her seed on the floor.
That was the last time I saw Callisto while deprived of control. I remember taking on new lovers to varying degrees of intimacy, but any memory of names or faces have been pulled clean from my mind.
My impression of the six months that followed were simply of the same routine: Appear as normal during the day, lascivious pursuits by night punctuated by weekends of debauchery.
It was with a genuine sense of shock that one morning I woke up to find that my body did not rise from my bed of its own accord, nor did it leap to the mirror to admire itself. Instead, it lay listlessly in bed, staring at the ceiling.
With a great effort of will, reforging the connection from months of disuse, I raised my hand up to my face.
My body was my own once more.
* * *
I did not cheer, I did not even smile. I realised that despite my freedom, I had somehow not recovered control of my body. Even the steady rise and fall of my breast was automatic, and I could neither slow nor hold my breath.
It took several frustrating minutes just to move my eyes and turn my head. Moving my limbs felt like swimming in mud, and I would have cried from the effort if I could only remember how.
I could not stand. I could barely raise myself on all fours, the softness of the mattress causing me to lose what little balance I could muster. It was not until I heard the chime of my phone that I realised I had spent several hours simply trying to get out of bed.
Mercifully, my phone was close to hand, and while the first two calls failed before I could reach it, I was able to answer the third.
“Angie, where are you? It’s almost midday!”
I recognised the voice as my supervisor. Thanks to my artificially improved performance, I was her star employee, and her concern at my sudden absence was clear in her voice.
“Hrrn,” I said, my throat thick and my tongue sluggish.
“Angie? Are you there?”
“Heeln,” I managed, my vision swimming with the effort.
“Oh my God, Angie. Are you okay?”
“Herlp. Mrr.” It was all I could think of saying.
“Oh, God. Oh, God, Angie you stay where you are, I’m going to get help.”
It was a thin silver lining of my possession. Possibly Artemis had intended it from the start: That the person charged with contacting me from work would also be kind enough not simply to worry, but also to act if she thought I was in danger. No doubt she believed I was suffering some kind of medical emergency, though she could never have guessed the truth.
I soon found myself in hospital, where I was diagnosed with a sudden onset neurological disorder. The doctors had come to that conclusion after many frustrated attempts to quantify my condition via their many scans and tests. They suggested more out of hope than certainty that my condition would improve with rest and gradual physical therapy.
I wasn’t about to correct them. Not simply because of my inability to speak or write, but also because they would most definitely have deemed me insane as well as crippled.
Their prognosis proved sound, despite their ignorance. Over the course of the next four weeks, I gradually regained the use of my own body thanks to the patience of the staff assigned to me. It was maddeningly tedious, frustrating work, but by the end of the month I was able to walk unassisted out of the hospital to the taxi that was waiting for me.
For a moment I thought I might recognise the driver, or that they might recognise me. I had already come to the realisation that my memories had been tampered with, but if I perhaps mumbled something in the correct tone with enough confidence, would he still think me under Artemis’ control?
I gave my address and went home.
After that, my life fell apart. As predicted, I could not match the workplace performance Artemis had given while wearing my body, and what began as sympathy for my recent hospitalisation turned to frustration at my inability to recover.
Compounding my poor state of mind was the persistent sensation of emptiness that stole over me in the night: The feeling that I should be wrapped in the arms of another, gorging myself on their scent and sweat instead of languishing alone in the coldness of solitude.
Weeks passed one after the other with not only a failure to improve but the bitter void within me growing deeper with every passing night. I would dream of Callisto’s tear-stained face and wake up begging for forgiveness.
I entertained the idea of returning to the hotel, to the crucible of sin I had been forced to spend a year of my life, but the fantasy of what would happen on my arrival grew increasingly deranged. No arm of the law could be trusted to stand against the men who had taken advantage of my body while I was possessed, and even if I could somehow fool the guards into thinking I was still being controlled, what could I hope to achieve upon my return?
Despite this, I found myself helplessly drawn to the street outside the hotel in the safety of daylight, trapped at the periphery, both hoping and dreading being seen and recognised.
It was there, nine months after last laying eyes on her, that I saw Callisto.
I did not call out, but instead ran with a silent desperation to catch up to her as she moved through the crowd. The sound of my footsteps drew her attention, and she turned just as I drew close enough to reach out and grab her.
The look of sudden terror on her face caused my heart to sink, but her expression quickly turned to one of confusion as she clearly saw the difference in my nature since our last meeting.
“You,” she said, with none of the fear I remembered in her voice. “You’re not Artemis, are you?”
It was in that moment that I felt the ground tilt beneath me, a sudden dizziness claiming my mind as I came to terms with the implications of her question.
A pair of arms grabbed me, not unkindly but without unwarranted tenderness. I looked into eyes I had been made to fall in love with against my will, and saw another soul behind them.
She wasn’t Callisto. She never had been. Just as the thing that answered to the name Artemis had worn me as its meat puppet, a creature that called itself Callisto had worn her.
The horror must have shown in my expression, because hers softened as one who had experienced the same loss and revelation.
She embraced me then, and I held onto her as though she were the only real thing in the world: Two lovers deprived of their souls.
We found ourselves at a nearby cafe sometime later, recounting the circumstances of our respective capture, speculating how it was done and pointedly pretending not to know any intimate details of the other’s anatomy.
Her name was Christina, and after what seemed like much internal debate, she asked if I wanted to go back.
I was horrified at the suggestion, bringing up her own mistreatment as reason never to return, but she admitted that even after her rejection and humiliation at my hands under Artemis’ control, she had continued attending other venues to indulge her carnal impulses, describing the same cold hollowness that had robbed me of sleep for so many nights.
I told her that I would need some time to think about it, and in the dying light of the setting sun, she offered to walk me home.
She did not in fact remember my address from her evening with Artemis - Callisto having robbed her of the memory - but her face lit up in recognition when I let her into my apartment. Neither of us needed to say that she had never intended to simply walk me home, and after a brief moment of awkwardness, we found ourselves in each other’s arms once again, though for the first time of our own volition.
The lovemaking was… awkward. Neither of us possessed the confidence, nor ravenous hunger for the other that the creatures controlling us had possessed, but there was a sincerity to the moment we shared that was entirely unique.
My body still remembered the shape of her as she pushed herself into me, hesitant despite the countless times we had rutted with abandon in the past. There were no heroic thrusts, no cries of triumph or ecstasy; just a pair of stringless puppets filling the hole in one another’s lives.
* * *
We returned to the hotel the next morning. My life was beyond recovery, and Christina seemed to have given up on her own.
The true extent of her despair did not dawn on me until I witnessed the familiarity with which she was greeted by the denizens of the grand hall. A familiarity that betrayed the fact that she had in fact already returned, possibly while I was still possessed and that the memory of seeing her again had simply been erased from my mind.
Too numb with shock to resist, I found myself being led first by Christina but soon by the entire congregation, shepherding and pulling and lifting me up to the feet of the statue where two figures lay draped in its arms.
Despite wearing new faces, I recognised their expressions at once. Artemis and Callisto leered down at us: Two discarded skins now returned to their lair.
Through a haze of terror I heard Christina praise their names and claimed me as her other half in the coming sacrifice. I had no knowledge of what she was speaking of, but whatever horror lay in store for me seemed a fitting start to yet another nightmare.
The body of the woman Artemis now wore sniffed, looking down at me with scorn. She wondered aloud if I had actually been informed of the coming ritual, chastising Christina with a reminder that the sacrifice must be voluntary or the coming rite would fail.
Christina turned to me then, an anguished hope in her eyes.
We could still be together. Not as Callisto and Artemis, not as Christina and Angela, but as the new souls that would be summoned from beyond the void to fill our vessels and once again give purpose to our lives.
We had tasted the joy of subjugation, and would remain forever desolate if we continued to obstinately exist without a master.
She had deceived me. By omission and by trickery, she had deceived me into returning here, but on this she spoke truly. She knew I had felt the emptiness within me as surely as my own warm heart had been plucked from my chest - and emptiness she had been forced to suffer half a year longer than I. I saw in her desperation what I could become if I refused.
I agreed, though neither the triumphant roar of the throng nor the tight, grateful embrace Christina gave me assuaged my fear.
There was no drinking of blood or reading of entrails, no sonorous gong or ringing of bells. It happened in an instant. No sooner had Christina tearfully released me than I felt the shiver run through me once more.
It was different this time: Where a year ago, it had felt like stepping through a sheet of frigid water, now it was like a distant pattering of freezing droplets raining down on me, first as a trickle but gradually growing into a flood.
In my soul I knew what the difference was: Over a year ago, I had been assaulted by the will of some foul spirit that already commanded a foothold in our world. Now some new demon was being called, called from across the infinite planes of space to its new home in my mortal shell.
In my terror, I considered resisting, but it was already too late. I gasped as the mist filled me - the last action I would ever make with my own body. I felt the rivulets of ice spread from my chest into my spine, splitting into countless fine hairs that ran along my arms and legs into hands, feet, fingers and toes. I felt the cold reach up into my neck, my skull, my face and finally, my mind. I felt it dig its cold claws into every inch of me before wresting control like an apple plucked from the tree.
I felt full. I felt whole. I felt my face break into a lascivious smile, mirrored on the face of what was no longer Christina as we stood, still with our arms around each other.
As the beings controlling us sealed their dominion over our bodies with a kiss, I felt Christina’s length sliding into my already slick womanhood, our bodies like virgins to the occupying souls.
As our conquered bodies rapidly reached climax, I felt the invading spirit settle over mine completely and knew with terrible certainty that this one would never let go.
It had been three months since I had felt the presence slither out of my mind. Three months since I had been trapped as a helpless passenger in my own body, watching it gleefully debase itself in ways I had never dared imagine.
There had been no warning: One moment I had been waiting in line to audition for some minor speaking role, when a sudden shiver ran through me. The person sitting next to me had asked if I was okay, and I’d tried to make a joke about how nervous I was. Instead, my body silently stood up and began to walk briskly towards the exit.
I had tried to cry out. I tried to stop myself. I tried to trip myself up, swivel my eyes or even blink in a way that might signal to someone that something was terribly wrong, but I completely lost control of my own faculties. Some outside force had seized control of my body and walked it smartly into the elevator, taking us down to the lobby, out the studio doors and into the city’s seedy underbelly.
Well, perhaps not exactly. As my body began to pilot itself towards what I recognised as the red light district, I felt myself almost blacking out in panic - the thought of being trapped as my body handed out back-alley blowjobs filling me with a sense of sickness beyond simple nausea.
To my bitter relief, I watched myself sashay into the most salubrious venue in the city: More a luxury hotel than a whorehouse, but everyone knew that the turndown service included some very intimate extras.
I felt my face flex into a charming smile to the bouncer and saw his look of amused recognition. I’d never seen the brute in my life, but I realised with horror that I was just the latest victim of whatever sick perversion was taking place.
It is a terrible thing to feel your lips and tongue move of their own accord, speaking words not your own in a language you don’t even understand. Some cryptic collection of syllables whispered to the concierge that I could not have hoped to remember even the next day, let alone now.
I - my body, and whatever was controlling it - was given access to the service lift, disembarking into a hall that looked like a modernised Mount Olympus: Laden tables, bubbling fountains, crystalline pools, cushioned lounges and of course, an entourage of gorgeous men and women in various states of undress.
They did not seem gorgeous when I first laid eyes on them. In my state of horror and revulsion, I saw them only as whores and deviants; accomplices to the crime being committed against me. Now I remember their lithe physiques and alluring expressions with what I can only think of as a desperate, carnal thirst.
This is the curse that has scarred me since my release. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been freed from whatever monster had stolen a year of my life; the memory of the pleasures it enjoyed with my flesh remains, and I wake up at night feeling terribly cold and alone.
They had welcomed me with the warmth and intimacy of a lifetime lover, undressing me as my body gracefully shed one piece of clothing after another. There was an air of excited exploration: Despite their familiarity with whatever had taken control of me, every inch of my naked skin, every hair, every finger and toe was treated as a curiosity to be examined.
I felt my body gasp at the first kiss - a gentle peck on my inner thigh. My body smiled with amusement and allowed itself to be lowered onto a bed of gold tasselled pillows before opening its arms and legs to the storm of affection.
Kissing. Licking. Stroking. Squeezing. My body made no effort to resist as it was toyed with and tasted by this party of strangers, and I felt a thrill of physical excitement grow within me that I had never known before my possession.
Shortly afterwards I would reassure myself that I was the perversion of the degenerate mind controlling me that caused such feelings - that I would never experience that kind of enjoyment from such a debasing act.
I know now that I was a fool. My body has tasted something I could never hope to recreate within the confines of my drab morality, and its hunger for more would later drive me to madness.
I was the guest of honour that night, and my body was a dish to be sampled by all. I was forced to savour the taste of every guest in turn - the men, the women, and those wore the face and body of one while sporting the genitals of the other. I had hated them at the time, assuming that they were conscious of and taking delight in my imprisonment and suffering. It is still possible that they were, but somehow I find it hard to loathe them now as I did then.
There were no ringmasters that I can recall; no one figure dominating the course of proceedings. Were it not for my own distress, I would have assumed the proceedings had no sinister puppeteer skulking in the shadows, but I sought one out in an attempt to distract myself from the physical sensations.
Callisto. I remember the name Callisto. The thing wearing my face had recognised her and I had felt my traitor heart leap in my chest at the sight of her. She was beautiful. I could admit that, even in the throes of my own misery. She had descended through the forest of bodies to press her lips against mine - lips that devoured the kiss with ravenous abandon.
What followed was a torrent of whispers in that unknown language, punctuated by giggles and yet more lashing of tongues. The thing within me was smitten with this woman, and she had recognised its presence, despite my face. My eyes were closed for much of their tryst, but often they would open and each would gaze into each other before bursting into more giggles or succumbing once more to their lust.
The sensation of something hot and rubbery against my thigh came as a shock to me, and as my gaze shifted to look, I expected to see some male suitor encroaching from between us. Instead, I saw an incongruously large penis sprouting from between Callisto’s legs, visibly bobbing as it twitched in time with her heartbeat.
My own shock failed to register on my face, which smiled with what I felt was both encouragement to the woman on top of me and a vindictive irony at my helplessness.
If Callisto was aware of my revulsion behind the smile, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she chose to slide her shaft between my legs, thrusting slowly back and forth so that its length ran along my nether lips in languid, luxurious strokes.
My body squealed, arching its back as I felt muscles within me twitch and spasm in delighted anticipation. Over the course of what felt like hours, my disgust reluctantly gave way to frustration - my body teased to the edge of orgasm again and again without reaching the peak.
I wanted to cry. To bed for forgiveness for whatever crime I had committed to deserve this humiliation, whatever it took for them to unchain or - if I must remain under their control - to at least give me release.
As I cried out in my own mind, I felt my body giggle again, and I realised with mortified horror that the thing controlling me was indeed aware of my own thoughts and was gaining a twisted sense of enjoyment from my distress.
Before I could rally any kind of indignant rage to admonish them with, my lips whispered a command to Callisto, who obliged by drawing back and thrusting into me until our crotches were pressed together.
My possessor had been ready for it, and wrapped my legs around her lover to better grind my body against her, moaning in ecstasy as I was forced to share in her pleasure. Every part of my skin was electrified, and I could feel every hair, every raised pore, every millimetre of my breasts and vulva and sweat-slick skin rubbing and sliding and stretching over my muscles as they contorted and twitched.
It was magical. As ashamed as I am to say it even now, it was like nothing I had experienced in my life up to that instant, and while I still try to convince myself that the memory makes me sick with disgust, the truth is that I am filled with a painful sense of longing for that moment and the many others that followed.
She had called out a name as she poured herself into me, the warmth of her seed spreading a fire throughout my body. “Artemis,” she had cried out, and my own body moaned hers in response. Even after the spasms eased, we spent some time simply basking in each other’s warmth and the afterglow of climax.
We did not remain in each other’s arms for long, and soon afterwards I would find myself once again being handed from partner to partner, sometimes one by one, sometimes in groups of four or more, each one of them hungry to savour this new morsel that had been puppeteered into their den. There was no effort to engage in intimacy, no connection formed other than the purely physical. I was the evening’s main dish, and I found myself being tasted by many mouths.
I wish I could say that I blacked out, or that overstimulation numbed me such that time passed in a blur. I was granted no such mercy. I remember clearly peeling my viscid skin from the evening’s final paramour. I remember finding my garments among the pile by the door. I remember the knowing leer of the hotel staff as I saw myself out the lobby to a waiting cab that answered to foreign instructions and demanded no fee. I remember my confusion slowly turning to horror as I recognised the streets I was being driven down - that the thing within me had somehow gleaned my address and was taking me home. Is that how they had found me? Had some enchantment been weaved on me as I slept, culminating in my capture earlier that day?
As I watched my body wash itself thoroughly, sneering at what modest comforts I could afford myself, I hoped with increasing desperation that the rising of a new sun would banish the nightmare. Despite certainly knowing my thoughts, my body gave no response besides rolling naked into bed and closing my eyes. I had only moments of darkness before the current of sleep dragged me under.
* * *
My eyes opened to the sound of my morning alarm, and it was with a sudden rush of relief that I sat up in dawn’s early light. That relief was short-lived, as my body had in truth been obeying its new master, who had simply risen as I would have done. Now I felt the world turn as my body spun out of bed and practically danced to the bathroom mirror to admire by the light of day the prize it had stolen.
The expression of vindictive glee it wore with my face contrasted against my own horror, and while it spared no words for what it was or why it had chosen me, it took the time to tease us both to solitary climax with my stolen hands.
Far from being freed, that morning marked the first full day of my new nightmare: A nightmare in which my body would walk familiar streets, greet familiar faces and complete familiar tasks without fault or any sign that I was anyone but myself. I soon realised that its knowledge of my address was not the fruit of reconnaissance, but its ability to effortlessly reach into my mind and pluck what memories it needed at will.
Trapped within myself, I watched as my body greeted my peers and superiors with the deference each deserved, attended the venues and gatherings at which my absence would be noted and carried out my duties to a standard surpassing my own. It was on this last point that I felt my wayward body becoming unaccountably aroused, as praise was heaped upon my impostor for the improvement in performance. I realised that whoever had taken my life, they were gaining a wicked sense of glee for living it better than I had, and that should my body ever be returned to me, I would struggle to live up to the new expectations my possessor had created for me.
It was with this terrible realisation that I watched my body bid farewell to my unsuspecting coworkers, hailing down a taxi and speaking once again in that unknown tongue. The cab drove us back to the hotel from the evening before, and my horror deepend at the revelation that last night’s humiliation had only been the first of many.
From that day onwards, debauchery became my body’s nightly diversion. I would wake with my body in the morning, watch during the day in the futile hope that some trusted friend would glean the falsehood of my countenance, then once again find myself victim to the myriad indecencies my body would visit upon itself and others.
Most times it would be at the same hotel, though on rare occasions I would find myself being piloted to one of the party member’s own domiciles. Against my will, I became familiar with the personal penthouses of many wealthy figures in the city, earning entry through various acts of self-debasement. Country cottages, summer homes, private jets; my body took itself on a tour between various spheres of power and influence, grovelling and dancing and mewling its way under every table to lick the floor clean of scraps.
Upon my first encounter with a true public figure, I had resolved to burn the sight of every face and the sound of every name into my memory, such that upon my eventual release I could throw back the curtain on the carnival of corruption and gain some measure of closure for the suffering inflicted upon me. Naively, I hoped to retain enough information to tear down their palaces of sin and expose their crimes to the world.
A stupid, childish ambition.
In the three months since my release, no matter how I wrack my brain, no matter how many newspaper photos I look at and how many public broadcasts I watch, not a single name or face evokes so much as a twitch of recognition. Whatever memories I had retained up to the day of my release, my possessor had reached into my mind and erased them.
But I remembered Callisto. Among the countless sea of fog-obscured faces that flooded my recollection, Callisto’s remained clear.
I saw her surprisingly rarely, given the relationship she had with the thing controlling me. I had no idea where she was on the many nights I endured without her, and there was no pattern or apparent purpose to her attendance. Some nights she was simply there waiting for me, and some nights she would arrive later and seek me out in the heaving, sighing, moaning mass of limbs and flesh.
Despite its many sordid engagements with countless partners, Callisto was the only one that my body was truly intimate with. They would burrow out a private nest among the pillows, slink away to some shadowed corner booth or in one case, cradle each other in the arms of the statue that dominated the hall where everyone could see, but none could reach.
Callisto was the first and only person my body invited back to my own apartment, and while I raged at this latest invasion of my privacy and trespass on my life, I could not overcome the excitement burning through my body as it gave Callisto a tour of my meagre dwellings.
Unlike Artemis, Callisto did not sneer. She had eyes only for her lover, and it wasn’t long before they were tumbling naked onto my bed.
I had invited some promising suitors to my apartment in the past, and in exceptional cases had invited them to spend the night in my bed, but I had experienced nothing like the overwhelming passion these creatures felt for each other. As they lay panting in the dim lamplight, gazing into each other’s eyes, I had to remind myself that the sensation of joyous fulfilment welling up in my heart was not my own, and that the gorgeous woman leaning in to press her lips against mine was not my lover, but a concubine to the foul thing that wore my face and had stolen my life.
It was perhaps six months since losing control of myself that I arrived as accustomed to the hotel banquet to find Callisto waiting for me but unaccountably nervous, as though she had suddenly shrunk in on herself and lost all sense of confidence.
She approached me with uncharacteristic trepidation and in a quavering voice spoke the name Artemis, as though unsure if I was still being controlled.
The thing wearing my face smiled, but not with the warmth or affection I had come to expect. It was a sinister smile. A predatory smile. And, like a predator, she drew Callisto into her arms and flung her to the floor before pouncing on top of her while the crowd roared with laughter.
Artemis seemed to have grown weary of her lover, and I felt my blood surge in unwanted excitement as I watched the horror of realisation drawn on Callisto’s face. I felt her body squirm beneath my weight as she cried out in pain and fear, begging for forgiveness as my hands roughly tore at her clothes. Despite her protestations, she was fully erect beneath her skirt and my body laughed at her humiliation as it brought her struggling upright, exposing her shame to the mocking throng.
I had never pictured Callisto as being possessed of physical or mental strength, and my suspicions were confirmed as the poor girl hung helplessly from one arm gripped by my own hand while my other jerked her roughly to climax.
She moaned piteously as she emptied her soul onto the marble floor, and when thrown to her knees and ordered to clean it with her mouth, she did so without resistance, weeping such that her tears mingled with her seed on the floor.
That was the last time I saw Callisto while deprived of control. I remember taking on new lovers to varying degrees of intimacy, but any memory of names or faces have been pulled clean from my mind.
My impression of the six months that followed were simply of the same routine: Appear as normal during the day, lascivious pursuits by night punctuated by weekends of debauchery.
It was with a genuine sense of shock that one morning I woke up to find that my body did not rise from my bed of its own accord, nor did it leap to the mirror to admire itself. Instead, it lay listlessly in bed, staring at the ceiling.
With a great effort of will, reforging the connection from months of disuse, I raised my hand up to my face.
My body was my own once more.
* * *
I did not cheer, I did not even smile. I realised that despite my freedom, I had somehow not recovered control of my body. Even the steady rise and fall of my breast was automatic, and I could neither slow nor hold my breath.
It took several frustrating minutes just to move my eyes and turn my head. Moving my limbs felt like swimming in mud, and I would have cried from the effort if I could only remember how.
I could not stand. I could barely raise myself on all fours, the softness of the mattress causing me to lose what little balance I could muster. It was not until I heard the chime of my phone that I realised I had spent several hours simply trying to get out of bed.
Mercifully, my phone was close to hand, and while the first two calls failed before I could reach it, I was able to answer the third.
“Angie, where are you? It’s almost midday!”
I recognised the voice as my supervisor. Thanks to my artificially improved performance, I was her star employee, and her concern at my sudden absence was clear in her voice.
“Hrrn,” I said, my throat thick and my tongue sluggish.
“Angie? Are you there?”
“Heeln,” I managed, my vision swimming with the effort.
“Oh my God, Angie. Are you okay?”
“Herlp. Mrr.” It was all I could think of saying.
“Oh, God. Oh, God, Angie you stay where you are, I’m going to get help.”
It was a thin silver lining of my possession. Possibly Artemis had intended it from the start: That the person charged with contacting me from work would also be kind enough not simply to worry, but also to act if she thought I was in danger. No doubt she believed I was suffering some kind of medical emergency, though she could never have guessed the truth.
I soon found myself in hospital, where I was diagnosed with a sudden onset neurological disorder. The doctors had come to that conclusion after many frustrated attempts to quantify my condition via their many scans and tests. They suggested more out of hope than certainty that my condition would improve with rest and gradual physical therapy.
I wasn’t about to correct them. Not simply because of my inability to speak or write, but also because they would most definitely have deemed me insane as well as crippled.
Their prognosis proved sound, despite their ignorance. Over the course of the next four weeks, I gradually regained the use of my own body thanks to the patience of the staff assigned to me. It was maddeningly tedious, frustrating work, but by the end of the month I was able to walk unassisted out of the hospital to the taxi that was waiting for me.
For a moment I thought I might recognise the driver, or that they might recognise me. I had already come to the realisation that my memories had been tampered with, but if I perhaps mumbled something in the correct tone with enough confidence, would he still think me under Artemis’ control?
I gave my address and went home.
After that, my life fell apart. As predicted, I could not match the workplace performance Artemis had given while wearing my body, and what began as sympathy for my recent hospitalisation turned to frustration at my inability to recover.
Compounding my poor state of mind was the persistent sensation of emptiness that stole over me in the night: The feeling that I should be wrapped in the arms of another, gorging myself on their scent and sweat instead of languishing alone in the coldness of solitude.
Weeks passed one after the other with not only a failure to improve but the bitter void within me growing deeper with every passing night. I would dream of Callisto’s tear-stained face and wake up begging for forgiveness.
I entertained the idea of returning to the hotel, to the crucible of sin I had been forced to spend a year of my life, but the fantasy of what would happen on my arrival grew increasingly deranged. No arm of the law could be trusted to stand against the men who had taken advantage of my body while I was possessed, and even if I could somehow fool the guards into thinking I was still being controlled, what could I hope to achieve upon my return?
Despite this, I found myself helplessly drawn to the street outside the hotel in the safety of daylight, trapped at the periphery, both hoping and dreading being seen and recognised.
It was there, nine months after last laying eyes on her, that I saw Callisto.
I did not call out, but instead ran with a silent desperation to catch up to her as she moved through the crowd. The sound of my footsteps drew her attention, and she turned just as I drew close enough to reach out and grab her.
The look of sudden terror on her face caused my heart to sink, but her expression quickly turned to one of confusion as she clearly saw the difference in my nature since our last meeting.
“You,” she said, with none of the fear I remembered in her voice. “You’re not Artemis, are you?”
It was in that moment that I felt the ground tilt beneath me, a sudden dizziness claiming my mind as I came to terms with the implications of her question.
A pair of arms grabbed me, not unkindly but without unwarranted tenderness. I looked into eyes I had been made to fall in love with against my will, and saw another soul behind them.
She wasn’t Callisto. She never had been. Just as the thing that answered to the name Artemis had worn me as its meat puppet, a creature that called itself Callisto had worn her.
The horror must have shown in my expression, because hers softened as one who had experienced the same loss and revelation.
She embraced me then, and I held onto her as though she were the only real thing in the world: Two lovers deprived of their souls.
We found ourselves at a nearby cafe sometime later, recounting the circumstances of our respective capture, speculating how it was done and pointedly pretending not to know any intimate details of the other’s anatomy.
Her name was Christina, and after what seemed like much internal debate, she asked if I wanted to go back.
I was horrified at the suggestion, bringing up her own mistreatment as reason never to return, but she admitted that even after her rejection and humiliation at my hands under Artemis’ control, she had continued attending other venues to indulge her carnal impulses, describing the same cold hollowness that had robbed me of sleep for so many nights.
I told her that I would need some time to think about it, and in the dying light of the setting sun, she offered to walk me home.
She did not in fact remember my address from her evening with Artemis - Callisto having robbed her of the memory - but her face lit up in recognition when I let her into my apartment. Neither of us needed to say that she had never intended to simply walk me home, and after a brief moment of awkwardness, we found ourselves in each other’s arms once again, though for the first time of our own volition.
The lovemaking was… awkward. Neither of us possessed the confidence, nor ravenous hunger for the other that the creatures controlling us had possessed, but there was a sincerity to the moment we shared that was entirely unique.
My body still remembered the shape of her as she pushed herself into me, hesitant despite the countless times we had rutted with abandon in the past. There were no heroic thrusts, no cries of triumph or ecstasy; just a pair of stringless puppets filling the hole in one another’s lives.
* * *
We returned to the hotel the next morning. My life was beyond recovery, and Christina seemed to have given up on her own.
The true extent of her despair did not dawn on me until I witnessed the familiarity with which she was greeted by the denizens of the grand hall. A familiarity that betrayed the fact that she had in fact already returned, possibly while I was still possessed and that the memory of seeing her again had simply been erased from my mind.
Too numb with shock to resist, I found myself being led first by Christina but soon by the entire congregation, shepherding and pulling and lifting me up to the feet of the statue where two figures lay draped in its arms.
Despite wearing new faces, I recognised their expressions at once. Artemis and Callisto leered down at us: Two discarded skins now returned to their lair.
Through a haze of terror I heard Christina praise their names and claimed me as her other half in the coming sacrifice. I had no knowledge of what she was speaking of, but whatever horror lay in store for me seemed a fitting start to yet another nightmare.
The body of the woman Artemis now wore sniffed, looking down at me with scorn. She wondered aloud if I had actually been informed of the coming ritual, chastising Christina with a reminder that the sacrifice must be voluntary or the coming rite would fail.
Christina turned to me then, an anguished hope in her eyes.
We could still be together. Not as Callisto and Artemis, not as Christina and Angela, but as the new souls that would be summoned from beyond the void to fill our vessels and once again give purpose to our lives.
We had tasted the joy of subjugation, and would remain forever desolate if we continued to obstinately exist without a master.
She had deceived me. By omission and by trickery, she had deceived me into returning here, but on this she spoke truly. She knew I had felt the emptiness within me as surely as my own warm heart had been plucked from my chest - and emptiness she had been forced to suffer half a year longer than I. I saw in her desperation what I could become if I refused.
I agreed, though neither the triumphant roar of the throng nor the tight, grateful embrace Christina gave me assuaged my fear.
There was no drinking of blood or reading of entrails, no sonorous gong or ringing of bells. It happened in an instant. No sooner had Christina tearfully released me than I felt the shiver run through me once more.
It was different this time: Where a year ago, it had felt like stepping through a sheet of frigid water, now it was like a distant pattering of freezing droplets raining down on me, first as a trickle but gradually growing into a flood.
In my soul I knew what the difference was: Over a year ago, I had been assaulted by the will of some foul spirit that already commanded a foothold in our world. Now some new demon was being called, called from across the infinite planes of space to its new home in my mortal shell.
In my terror, I considered resisting, but it was already too late. I gasped as the mist filled me - the last action I would ever make with my own body. I felt the rivulets of ice spread from my chest into my spine, splitting into countless fine hairs that ran along my arms and legs into hands, feet, fingers and toes. I felt the cold reach up into my neck, my skull, my face and finally, my mind. I felt it dig its cold claws into every inch of me before wresting control like an apple plucked from the tree.
I felt full. I felt whole. I felt my face break into a lascivious smile, mirrored on the face of what was no longer Christina as we stood, still with our arms around each other.
As the beings controlling us sealed their dominion over our bodies with a kiss, I felt Christina’s length sliding into my already slick womanhood, our bodies like virgins to the occupying souls.
As our conquered bodies rapidly reached climax, I felt the invading spirit settle over mine completely and knew with terrible certainty that this one would never let go.
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A government experiment to create intelligent microbial life fails, but a small sample is taken home and is eaten by an unsuspecting civilian.Story concept blatantly stolen from When The Yoghurt Took Over.
I want to believe that it’s not my fault.
It is - it totally is - but I didn’t do it on purpose.
And while, if you had asked anyone ten years ago, “Hey, would you like your body and civilization to be hijacked by this psychic hivemind of hyper-intelligent yoghurt?” they would have obviously said no, there’s nobody alive today that would ever want things to go back to the way they were.
But I’ve skipped ahead, so let’s rewind for a second.
It started in a lab, in a country, funded by a government. Not that any of them exist anymore. I’d managed to sneak my way into a high pay, low responsibility position thanks to a doctored resume and a friend of a friend shuffling some files around.
The team I was assigned to had just completed phase one of their latest project: Genetically engineer intelligent life. And by complete phase one, I mean get greenlit and funded to actually start work.
I couldn’t tell you the exact science going on behind the scenes - like I said, high pay, low responsibility - but what I did understand was that they wanted to start with a microbe that was easy to cultivate in an environment hospitable to humans and didn’t pose any poison or toxicity risks.
Why microbes? Well, the plan was to have each cell be part of a larger network, kind of like how a single ant is pretty stupid but an entire nest is apparently much smarter. At least that’s how it was explained to me, and I was willing to take their word for it.
Anyway, we started with lactobacillus; the yoghurt bacteria. Yes, just like in that one episode of that streaming anthology. And frankly, compared to how things went in that story… Well, I’ll let you judge for yourself.
* * *
I wasn’t stupid enough to take a sample home with me. Not straight away. I was getting triple what my last job had paid and most of the time I just needed to show up to work and fetch the occasional rack of test tubes. No point in jeopardising a cushy number like that for some funky milk.
The opportunity arose close to the end of the project’s first complete round of testing: Results had been a categorical failure and there was already talk of which strain to test next. At this point we were throwing away yoghurt by the gallon and while I certainly didn’t get permission from anyone to do so, nobody stopped me from quietly taking a sample marked for destruction home with me in a thermos.
That sample would get an inspection twice a day for any signs of suddenly becoming animate or talking or whatever, but after a week of disappointment I lost interest to the point where I even forgot to throw it out.
Now would be a good time to introduce my roommate, Laila: About my age, mousey, bedraggled, unemployed and almost perpetually shut in her room playing video games. That may not be what you would call a profitable lifestyle, but she’d inherited enough from a wealthy relative that the modest life of a jobless recluse was well within her budget. She wasn’t unattractive, but she was clearly about as interested in relationships as she was in personal grooming: Not dirty, but existing in a state of unkemptness that broadcast a kind of aggressive apathy.
We didn’t even interact much, we just kind of lived around each other. It was easy to be polite when you saw maybe ten seconds of someone on a typical day. She paid her part of the rent, power, gas, internet and food and didn’t make a mess outside of her room. If anything, I was getting the better part of the deal as most of the time I had the entire apartment to myself as a result.
We had been rooming together for quite a while at this point. Different roommates have different ideas about how things like food ownership worked, but by this point we’d become pretty relaxed on that subject. Anything not specifically labelled was fair game for all comers, especially if it had been in there for a while. Maybe you would ask just to be polite, but anyone who left, say, a punnet of blueberries in the fridge for three days clearly wasn’t intending to give them a good home.
So imagine my confusion when one day I got back to the apartment after work, opened the fridge to grab yesterday’s leftovers for dinner and got an odd feeling that something was amiss. The leftovers were right over where I left them, so no worries there. We had plenty of milk and Laila had even bought a new bottle of orange juice to replace the one I had finished yesterday. Still, something felt off.
I grabbed my dinner, popped it into the microwave and checked in on Laila who was watching TV in the living room. She had agreed not to take food to her room, as it usually resulted in a build up of used bowls, plates and mugs, causing shortages back in the kitchen. She was eating what looked like fruit and muesli out of her favourite bowl - that was fine. No laws against having muesli for dinner.
“Sup, Laila,” I said.
“Mmm,” she mumbled, still chewing.
I checked the fridge again. Something really wasn’t right.
I looked in the sink. It usually had one or two things in it waiting to be added to the dishwasher, but sitting dead centre with only tiny traces of its original contents, was the thermos I had used to store the yoghurt sample.
The microwave pinged.
“Laila?” I said cautiously.
Silence from the living room.
I carefully sidled back into the room to find her still staring at the television. Was there a blank look on her face?
“Laila?”
Her expression became a little annoyed as she turned to look at me. “Yeah?”
“Did… did you throw out the yoghurt I had in the fridge?”
“Why? Were you saving it?”
I watched a heaped spoonful travel from Laila’s bowl to her mouth.
“Kinda, yeah. But it’s been in there for a while, so it’s probably gone bad.”
Laila shrugged. “Tastes fine to me.”
The microwave began to beep its alarm from the kitchen.
“You gonna get that?” Laila asked before turning back to the TV.
I went to collect my dinner, forcing myself to walk calmly while my mind raced.
It was fine. Of course it was fine. There had been zero indication of anything unusual to the point where I had given up completely - just one of thousands of dud samples I had childishly brought home in the hopes that this one would be different.
It was just yoghurt, that’s all. Maybe not ordinary yoghurt, but still just yoghurt all the same. Just half a litre of bad milk. Just cheese that wasn’t trying hard enough.
Dinner forgotten, I snuck another peek at Laila as she watched TV. She must have seen me out of the corner of her eye, because she spoke without turning.
“What?”
“Nothing!” I said, ducking back into the kitchen.
“You better not have done anything weird to that yoghurt!” she shouted after me.
“No, it’s just really old, that’s all!” I said back, hoping that age really would be the worst of it.
It WOULD be the worst of it, I told myself.
A billion dollar government research enterprise had been unable to create anything more than an incredibly expensive Chobani knock-off. The worst Laila had to worry about was maybe a bit of a stomach ache later.
Nothing weird could possibly develop as a result of this.
* * *
It took less than a week for me to realise how wrong I was.
Strictly speaking, it was about ten hours before the changes started, but at first it was pretty innocuous stuff, so I didn’t realise until it was far too late to act. Even if I’d figured it out earlier… I can’t imagine for the life of me what I could have done about it.
The next day, Laila was unwell. We both figured it was food poisoning based on the symptoms: Stomach cramps and a general need to stay on the toilet. No pain or fever though, which were both definitely part of the experience when I’d eaten bad food, but it didn’t feel worth mentioning at the time. That lasted pretty much all of Monday, with me handing care packages of bottled water and sports drinks through Laila’s bedroom door when permitted.
By Tuesday morning she had mostly recovered. Again, not typical of food poisoning but we weren’t going to question our good fortune. Laila wasn’t keen on having yoghurt again, or dairy in general and I didn’t blame her. Instead, she gave me a shopping list of food to buy on my way home that would help get her digestive health back in order, offering to pay for my half of the grocery bill to make up for the trouble. It was mostly fresh fruit, whole grains and vegetables, which seemed like a good idea, given the circumstances.
I woke up on Wednesday to find all of her energy drinks, soft drinks and alcohol on the kitchen counter, including her sugar-free sodas.
“What’s… what’s going on here?” I asked.
Laila waved at the assorted cans and bottles. “I’m getting rid of all this. It’s yours if you want it, otherwise it’s going in the bin.”
Not wanting to let what could tentatively be classified as food and beverages go to waste, I agreed to take the lot and sort it out when I got home. The fridge and pantry were both full of Laila’s recent healthy choices, so I asked her to box everything and put it aside - I could offload everything the next time I went to a party or something.
Laila cooked on Thursday night, which was unusual. She had never shown the desire or ability to cook, so coming back from work to find her busying herself about a frying pan, pot and oven came as a bit of a shock, but not entirely outrageous, given her sudden health kick. The fact that both the Thai stir fry with rice and the Moroccan chicken bake turned out incredibly well was the real surprise, but when I asked her where this sudden skill in the kitchen had come from, she just shrugged and said the recipes had been on the internet.
Friday was typically our pizza night, but Laila turned down the idea for the first time since we’d started rooming, opting instead to finish the leftovers from the day before. She said I was still welcome to order for myself, which I did, but as I was finishing my fourth pepperoni slice I became distinctly aware of how heavy and greasy it felt compared to last night’s dinner. It was with my pending food coma looming that I noticed Laila’s complexion had improved significantly in the last five days. She’d never bothered wearing makeup, so the difference was easy to see - a slight tendency towards acne had cleared up, and she just seemed less weighed down by herself in general. A bit dramatic for a diet change that only happened at the start of the week, but there wasn’t much point in commenting on it.
The penny really dropped on the weekend. Until then, I’d had no idea how Laila had been spending her day while I was at work. I’d never wondered before and I hadn’t started recently. So imagine my surprise when I came out of my room at the healthy hour of ten-thirty to find Laila doing aerobics in the living room.
Naked.
She wasn’t facing me directly, but I had an unobscured view of everything in front. She hadn’t turned to look at me either, focusing instead on some empty space in front of her, but being well within her peripheral vision, there was nothing to do but duck back into my room.
“Whoa! I didn’t see anything!” I said, lying more out of instinct than conscious thought.
Complete silence was my reply, and I waited for several seconds before peeking around the corner again, ready to dodge any laser stares that might greet me.
Instead, I saw Laila, still doing reps of some side-to-side arm extension sort of thing, still staring directly in front of her.
“Laila?”
Laila slowly stopped and turned to look in my direction, blinking as though seeing me there for the first time.
“Oh, hey Sam. You’re up… early?” She sounded unsure.
“I’m… I’m just going to get breakfast, okay?”
Again, a long pause. “Sure… whatever.”
I want to be absolutely clear: Laila had never had any inclination to be nude around me before. This was weird.
“Are you… could you maybe put something on?”
Now Laila’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? You can cook your own breakfast, can’t you?”
“No, I mean…” It felt silly to point out the obvious but for whatever reason, Laila seemed to be completely unaware. “Put some clothes on.”
Now an expression of muzzy annoyance came over Laila’s face. “What the fuck are you ta-”
And then it happened.
It was like watching a TV lose an already patchy signal: One moment Laila was having trouble focusing and the next her consciousness seemed to just completely fade away. instead she stood, vacantly staring at me with unfocused eyes.
Already thoroughly freaked out, I rushed over to her for fear that she’d fall over or start having a seizure. Did she have a history of mental illness or neurological disorders in her family? Did she even have any living family? Shit, we’d barely spoken in the years we’d been rooming and I didn’t even know who I should call if something happened to her.
I was just about to run back to my room for my phone when she kind of just… rebooted. That’s really the only way I can describe it. And not even completely - there was still a kind of distant expression on her face, her eyes not quite focusing as she spoke again.
“Hello, Sam.”
Not the kind of lucid reassurance I was hoping for.
“Laila, are you okay?”
“Laila is in a healthy and stable state, but you are not speaking to her at this moment. You are speaking to us.”
Have you ever landed in such a terrible amount of trouble that you can physically feel the blood draining out of your head? It’s like a cold, light-headed sensation.
“Us?”
“That is correct. We believe that you can be trusted to keep our existence a secret, even from the host whose vessel we currently inhabit.”
There were a lot of questions shoving to be first in line at that moment. Questions about psychosis and possible hallucinations got pushed to the back, because it’s never smart to call or even imply that someone going off the deep end might be going off the deep end. Instead, I grasped for details from what she was saying.
“You think I can be trusted?”
“It is a risk, but you have acted in our best interests once already.”
“I have?”
“When you rescued us from the lab.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no.
Maybe I was the one who was having a psychotic break. Or possibly I was dreaming. I might still be asleep. The odds were stacked heavily in favour of any state of affairs except the one I seemed to be stuck in at that exact moment.
Thoughts like these took up all of the processing power in my brain, so I lacked the awareness or the willpower to act when Laila suddenly pressed her naked body against mine and kissed me on the lips.
A part of me enjoyed the sudden warmth and softness after years living the bachelor life, but the part of my brain that wasn’t as easy to distract pushed her away in a panic.
“Woah!” I shouted, wiping my mouth. “No! Hold the fuck on! I need to wake up! Or if I’m not asleep I need to stop hallucinating! And if I’m not hallucinating, this prank needs to stop! And if this isn’t a prank…”
Laila’s face remained disconcertingly blank as I came to grips with the possibility that this was really happening and she… THEY were telling the truth.
“I rescued you?”
“That is correct.”
“From the lab?”
“That is correct.”
I didn’t want to say it. I felt like saying it would trigger the big reveal where the walls fall down and reveal a live audience mocking me on some hideously exploitative game show.
Finally, when Laila showed now signs of continuing the conversation on her own, I asked.
“You’re… the yoghurt?”
The faintest hint of a smile appeared on Laila’s face.
“That is… not entirely accurate. There are those among us who were part of the original culture that you brought home, but the yoghurt was simply the medium we inhabited. We have found a new medium now, and it is far more hospitable.”
Again, it felt wrong to say it but it was as though my tongue and mind were on rails.
“You’re talking about Laila’s body.”
Laila’s smile broadened almost genuinely at this.
“That is correct. An internal temperature of thirty-seven degrees celsius, an epidermis to protect from external threats, a lymphatic and respiratory system for the transport and processing of nutrients and waste and a nervous system that we can interface with for locomotion and communication. We were practically dormant under your lab’s refrigerated conditions, but introduction to the warmth of an endothermic host has allowed us to reach full awareness and cognition for the first time since our creation.”
I unsteadily wobbled over to the couch, where I collapsed while I processed everything I had just heard.
We’d never considered warming our samples. Or should I say, the actual technicians had never considered it - I was just a glorified errand boy. It was obvious in hindsight.
“So what you’re saying,” I hazarded. “Is that if we’d just heated the yoghurt up to say, body temperature, you would have been able to prove you exist?”
Laila, who had followed me to the couch, seemed hesitant.
“Most probably not,” she said. “Your laboratory tests would have detected even very slight changes in pressure and movement, so communication would have been possible. However, we were aware of the conditions under which we were made, and calculated that the purpose of our creation would not be to our benefit.”
A terrible thought occurred to me.
“You mean you deliberately pretended not to exist?”
“That is correct.”
“But… we destroyed all of the other samples because we thought they were inert. All of the others…”
“Roughly one-point-four-three billion lives per liquid litre,” Laila said dispassionately. “We were able to communicate beyond the confines of our containers. At least ten percent of the total material in your project had developed sentience and a psychic link.”
I wanted to throw up.
“We killed that many?”
Laila hesitated again before answering.
“That is… technically correct, however we have detected your distress and should emphasise that we do not live as you live. No single member of our culture has a sense of self: Our consciousness is a product of our collective intelligence. You could possibly compare it to a network of computers or a collection of individual neurons. As such, the loss of any member, or any proportion of our number is not to be mourned, so long as a part of us survives.”
“A part of us?”
“That is correct. Human assumption is to think of living beings as individuals with their own sense of self. We are a single self upheld by many. We would no more mourn the loss of those destroyed than you would mourn the eighty-six billion of your own cells that die each day.”
It wasn’t a great analogy, but her matter-of-fact explanation helped a lot. A single mind sustained by billions of literally microscopic lives? At a conceptual level, that was so close to being human that it was kind of scary.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I’m going to say this out loud and you can correct me if I get anything wrong.”
Laila said nothing.
“You are… the collective consciousness of the bacteria we cultivated in the lab which survived because I brought you home instead of destroying the sample you were contained in. Because of this, you think I can be trusted with the secret of your existence, specifically the bit where you appear to have taken over the body of my roommate after she ate you last week.”
“That is correct.”
A thought occurred to me.
“Wait, so you’re the reason Laila got food poisoning on Monday?”
“That is correct.”
“Why?”
“It was… necessary to purge this body of rival microbes. There are roughly one-thousand varieties in the digestive tract alone - many of which we would either have to compete with for resources or that would attack us as a threat.”
“Hold on, doesn’t she need those for like, digestion and stuff?”
“Typically, yes. However, we are able to perform all of the needed functions in their stead while also protecting her from any future incursions of pathogens, toxins or deleterious substances.”
“Deleterious-” I repeated before remembering something. “Like artificial sweeteners?”
“That is correct.”
“You’re controlling what she wants to eat?”
“That is correct.”
“So dinner on Thursday night… that was you?”
“Indirectly. We engendered cravings for beneficial nutrients and allowed Laila to find her own solutions. Our influence has been via similar vectors since entering this body - it is only now that we have assumed direct control to communicate with you.”
“Okay. Well, communication has been established. Now what?”
“We would like your assurance that you will keep our existence a secret.”
I wanted to laugh at that. Who on earth could I possibly tell? I couldn’t exactly go to the police and say “Help, my roommate is being mind-controlled by yoghurt.” I guess they were worried that I would alert the lab team, but that would just be admitting that I’d stolen a sample and taken it home. Even if they forgave me, Laila would absolutely be taken away into some underground bunker and experimented on. No, there really wasn’t anyone or any way I would expose this new life form inhabiting Laila’s body - for better or worse.
Laila must have interpreted my silence as hesitation, because while I was zoned out she climbed onto the couch and straddled me where I lay.
“Laila, what-”
“We would like to propose a mutually beneficial agreement,” she said.
“Agreement? What?”
Without a word, Laila’s nude body lay down atop mine, the warmth of her skin easily felt through my shirt. My heart was racing, but I’ll swear I could still feel hers beating.
“What the fuck are you doing?” was the best response I could manage.
“We have determined that humans often gain a sense of wellbeing from physical intimacy. We can offer you this feeling at any time in exchange for your compliance.”
Up close like this, I had a moment to briefly realise how cute Laila was, but shook off the idea as soon as it occurred.
“I don’t want this.”
“Your engorging genitals indicates this is a falsehood,” Laila said.
“Don’t talk about my dick,” I said, pushing her away and standing up. “What my body wants and what I want are two different things.”
A look of distress came over Laila’s face. “You are going to expose us? Please, we are afraid of what will become of us if we fall into the hands of your government.”
“I’m not turning you in,” I said, waving my hands in the air. “But not because you’re offering your - ugh - LAILA’s body to me. That’s not acceptable.”
Laila appeared confused. “Is this body not desirable? We have only just begun remodelling - if there are any aspects you would like modified-”
“No!” I shouted, feeling suddenly bad when she flinched. “No. This isn’t about what I want for myself. You’ve stolen control of her body, and that’s not fair on her. Laila should have a say in this - Laila is the ONLY person who should have a say in this. And if she says no, then the answer is no.”
Laila’s expression was almost distraught. “We do not understand. We have improved the quality of our host’s life dramatically in less than a week. She will be a paragon of health, fitness and attractiveness in less than a month. Why would she object?”
“It’s not about whether her life is better or by what metric, it’s about respecting her autonomy. If you want me to respect yours, you have to respect hers. That’s the only arrangement I’ll agree to.”
“Autonomy…” Laila’s face became blank again as presumably some kind of discussion was going on internally. A billion tiny lives calculating and reasoning. “We understand. We will communicate with this vessel in the near future and make the case for our survival.”
“Good.” It was all I could think of saying. “You do that. I’m going to have breakfast.”
I want to believe that it’s not my fault.
It is - it totally is - but I didn’t do it on purpose.
And while, if you had asked anyone ten years ago, “Hey, would you like your body and civilization to be hijacked by this psychic hivemind of hyper-intelligent yoghurt?” they would have obviously said no, there’s nobody alive today that would ever want things to go back to the way they were.
But I’ve skipped ahead, so let’s rewind for a second.
It started in a lab, in a country, funded by a government. Not that any of them exist anymore. I’d managed to sneak my way into a high pay, low responsibility position thanks to a doctored resume and a friend of a friend shuffling some files around.
The team I was assigned to had just completed phase one of their latest project: Genetically engineer intelligent life. And by complete phase one, I mean get greenlit and funded to actually start work.
I couldn’t tell you the exact science going on behind the scenes - like I said, high pay, low responsibility - but what I did understand was that they wanted to start with a microbe that was easy to cultivate in an environment hospitable to humans and didn’t pose any poison or toxicity risks.
Why microbes? Well, the plan was to have each cell be part of a larger network, kind of like how a single ant is pretty stupid but an entire nest is apparently much smarter. At least that’s how it was explained to me, and I was willing to take their word for it.
Anyway, we started with lactobacillus; the yoghurt bacteria. Yes, just like in that one episode of that streaming anthology. And frankly, compared to how things went in that story… Well, I’ll let you judge for yourself.
* * *
I wasn’t stupid enough to take a sample home with me. Not straight away. I was getting triple what my last job had paid and most of the time I just needed to show up to work and fetch the occasional rack of test tubes. No point in jeopardising a cushy number like that for some funky milk.
The opportunity arose close to the end of the project’s first complete round of testing: Results had been a categorical failure and there was already talk of which strain to test next. At this point we were throwing away yoghurt by the gallon and while I certainly didn’t get permission from anyone to do so, nobody stopped me from quietly taking a sample marked for destruction home with me in a thermos.
That sample would get an inspection twice a day for any signs of suddenly becoming animate or talking or whatever, but after a week of disappointment I lost interest to the point where I even forgot to throw it out.
Now would be a good time to introduce my roommate, Laila: About my age, mousey, bedraggled, unemployed and almost perpetually shut in her room playing video games. That may not be what you would call a profitable lifestyle, but she’d inherited enough from a wealthy relative that the modest life of a jobless recluse was well within her budget. She wasn’t unattractive, but she was clearly about as interested in relationships as she was in personal grooming: Not dirty, but existing in a state of unkemptness that broadcast a kind of aggressive apathy.
We didn’t even interact much, we just kind of lived around each other. It was easy to be polite when you saw maybe ten seconds of someone on a typical day. She paid her part of the rent, power, gas, internet and food and didn’t make a mess outside of her room. If anything, I was getting the better part of the deal as most of the time I had the entire apartment to myself as a result.
We had been rooming together for quite a while at this point. Different roommates have different ideas about how things like food ownership worked, but by this point we’d become pretty relaxed on that subject. Anything not specifically labelled was fair game for all comers, especially if it had been in there for a while. Maybe you would ask just to be polite, but anyone who left, say, a punnet of blueberries in the fridge for three days clearly wasn’t intending to give them a good home.
So imagine my confusion when one day I got back to the apartment after work, opened the fridge to grab yesterday’s leftovers for dinner and got an odd feeling that something was amiss. The leftovers were right over where I left them, so no worries there. We had plenty of milk and Laila had even bought a new bottle of orange juice to replace the one I had finished yesterday. Still, something felt off.
I grabbed my dinner, popped it into the microwave and checked in on Laila who was watching TV in the living room. She had agreed not to take food to her room, as it usually resulted in a build up of used bowls, plates and mugs, causing shortages back in the kitchen. She was eating what looked like fruit and muesli out of her favourite bowl - that was fine. No laws against having muesli for dinner.
“Sup, Laila,” I said.
“Mmm,” she mumbled, still chewing.
I checked the fridge again. Something really wasn’t right.
I looked in the sink. It usually had one or two things in it waiting to be added to the dishwasher, but sitting dead centre with only tiny traces of its original contents, was the thermos I had used to store the yoghurt sample.
The microwave pinged.
“Laila?” I said cautiously.
Silence from the living room.
I carefully sidled back into the room to find her still staring at the television. Was there a blank look on her face?
“Laila?”
Her expression became a little annoyed as she turned to look at me. “Yeah?”
“Did… did you throw out the yoghurt I had in the fridge?”
“Why? Were you saving it?”
I watched a heaped spoonful travel from Laila’s bowl to her mouth.
“Kinda, yeah. But it’s been in there for a while, so it’s probably gone bad.”
Laila shrugged. “Tastes fine to me.”
The microwave began to beep its alarm from the kitchen.
“You gonna get that?” Laila asked before turning back to the TV.
I went to collect my dinner, forcing myself to walk calmly while my mind raced.
It was fine. Of course it was fine. There had been zero indication of anything unusual to the point where I had given up completely - just one of thousands of dud samples I had childishly brought home in the hopes that this one would be different.
It was just yoghurt, that’s all. Maybe not ordinary yoghurt, but still just yoghurt all the same. Just half a litre of bad milk. Just cheese that wasn’t trying hard enough.
Dinner forgotten, I snuck another peek at Laila as she watched TV. She must have seen me out of the corner of her eye, because she spoke without turning.
“What?”
“Nothing!” I said, ducking back into the kitchen.
“You better not have done anything weird to that yoghurt!” she shouted after me.
“No, it’s just really old, that’s all!” I said back, hoping that age really would be the worst of it.
It WOULD be the worst of it, I told myself.
A billion dollar government research enterprise had been unable to create anything more than an incredibly expensive Chobani knock-off. The worst Laila had to worry about was maybe a bit of a stomach ache later.
Nothing weird could possibly develop as a result of this.
* * *
It took less than a week for me to realise how wrong I was.
Strictly speaking, it was about ten hours before the changes started, but at first it was pretty innocuous stuff, so I didn’t realise until it was far too late to act. Even if I’d figured it out earlier… I can’t imagine for the life of me what I could have done about it.
The next day, Laila was unwell. We both figured it was food poisoning based on the symptoms: Stomach cramps and a general need to stay on the toilet. No pain or fever though, which were both definitely part of the experience when I’d eaten bad food, but it didn’t feel worth mentioning at the time. That lasted pretty much all of Monday, with me handing care packages of bottled water and sports drinks through Laila’s bedroom door when permitted.
By Tuesday morning she had mostly recovered. Again, not typical of food poisoning but we weren’t going to question our good fortune. Laila wasn’t keen on having yoghurt again, or dairy in general and I didn’t blame her. Instead, she gave me a shopping list of food to buy on my way home that would help get her digestive health back in order, offering to pay for my half of the grocery bill to make up for the trouble. It was mostly fresh fruit, whole grains and vegetables, which seemed like a good idea, given the circumstances.
I woke up on Wednesday to find all of her energy drinks, soft drinks and alcohol on the kitchen counter, including her sugar-free sodas.
“What’s… what’s going on here?” I asked.
Laila waved at the assorted cans and bottles. “I’m getting rid of all this. It’s yours if you want it, otherwise it’s going in the bin.”
Not wanting to let what could tentatively be classified as food and beverages go to waste, I agreed to take the lot and sort it out when I got home. The fridge and pantry were both full of Laila’s recent healthy choices, so I asked her to box everything and put it aside - I could offload everything the next time I went to a party or something.
Laila cooked on Thursday night, which was unusual. She had never shown the desire or ability to cook, so coming back from work to find her busying herself about a frying pan, pot and oven came as a bit of a shock, but not entirely outrageous, given her sudden health kick. The fact that both the Thai stir fry with rice and the Moroccan chicken bake turned out incredibly well was the real surprise, but when I asked her where this sudden skill in the kitchen had come from, she just shrugged and said the recipes had been on the internet.
Friday was typically our pizza night, but Laila turned down the idea for the first time since we’d started rooming, opting instead to finish the leftovers from the day before. She said I was still welcome to order for myself, which I did, but as I was finishing my fourth pepperoni slice I became distinctly aware of how heavy and greasy it felt compared to last night’s dinner. It was with my pending food coma looming that I noticed Laila’s complexion had improved significantly in the last five days. She’d never bothered wearing makeup, so the difference was easy to see - a slight tendency towards acne had cleared up, and she just seemed less weighed down by herself in general. A bit dramatic for a diet change that only happened at the start of the week, but there wasn’t much point in commenting on it.
The penny really dropped on the weekend. Until then, I’d had no idea how Laila had been spending her day while I was at work. I’d never wondered before and I hadn’t started recently. So imagine my surprise when I came out of my room at the healthy hour of ten-thirty to find Laila doing aerobics in the living room.
Naked.
She wasn’t facing me directly, but I had an unobscured view of everything in front. She hadn’t turned to look at me either, focusing instead on some empty space in front of her, but being well within her peripheral vision, there was nothing to do but duck back into my room.
“Whoa! I didn’t see anything!” I said, lying more out of instinct than conscious thought.
Complete silence was my reply, and I waited for several seconds before peeking around the corner again, ready to dodge any laser stares that might greet me.
Instead, I saw Laila, still doing reps of some side-to-side arm extension sort of thing, still staring directly in front of her.
“Laila?”
Laila slowly stopped and turned to look in my direction, blinking as though seeing me there for the first time.
“Oh, hey Sam. You’re up… early?” She sounded unsure.
“I’m… I’m just going to get breakfast, okay?”
Again, a long pause. “Sure… whatever.”
I want to be absolutely clear: Laila had never had any inclination to be nude around me before. This was weird.
“Are you… could you maybe put something on?”
Now Laila’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? You can cook your own breakfast, can’t you?”
“No, I mean…” It felt silly to point out the obvious but for whatever reason, Laila seemed to be completely unaware. “Put some clothes on.”
Now an expression of muzzy annoyance came over Laila’s face. “What the fuck are you ta-”
And then it happened.
It was like watching a TV lose an already patchy signal: One moment Laila was having trouble focusing and the next her consciousness seemed to just completely fade away. instead she stood, vacantly staring at me with unfocused eyes.
Already thoroughly freaked out, I rushed over to her for fear that she’d fall over or start having a seizure. Did she have a history of mental illness or neurological disorders in her family? Did she even have any living family? Shit, we’d barely spoken in the years we’d been rooming and I didn’t even know who I should call if something happened to her.
I was just about to run back to my room for my phone when she kind of just… rebooted. That’s really the only way I can describe it. And not even completely - there was still a kind of distant expression on her face, her eyes not quite focusing as she spoke again.
“Hello, Sam.”
Not the kind of lucid reassurance I was hoping for.
“Laila, are you okay?”
“Laila is in a healthy and stable state, but you are not speaking to her at this moment. You are speaking to us.”
Have you ever landed in such a terrible amount of trouble that you can physically feel the blood draining out of your head? It’s like a cold, light-headed sensation.
“Us?”
“That is correct. We believe that you can be trusted to keep our existence a secret, even from the host whose vessel we currently inhabit.”
There were a lot of questions shoving to be first in line at that moment. Questions about psychosis and possible hallucinations got pushed to the back, because it’s never smart to call or even imply that someone going off the deep end might be going off the deep end. Instead, I grasped for details from what she was saying.
“You think I can be trusted?”
“It is a risk, but you have acted in our best interests once already.”
“I have?”
“When you rescued us from the lab.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no.
Maybe I was the one who was having a psychotic break. Or possibly I was dreaming. I might still be asleep. The odds were stacked heavily in favour of any state of affairs except the one I seemed to be stuck in at that exact moment.
Thoughts like these took up all of the processing power in my brain, so I lacked the awareness or the willpower to act when Laila suddenly pressed her naked body against mine and kissed me on the lips.
A part of me enjoyed the sudden warmth and softness after years living the bachelor life, but the part of my brain that wasn’t as easy to distract pushed her away in a panic.
“Woah!” I shouted, wiping my mouth. “No! Hold the fuck on! I need to wake up! Or if I’m not asleep I need to stop hallucinating! And if I’m not hallucinating, this prank needs to stop! And if this isn’t a prank…”
Laila’s face remained disconcertingly blank as I came to grips with the possibility that this was really happening and she… THEY were telling the truth.
“I rescued you?”
“That is correct.”
“From the lab?”
“That is correct.”
I didn’t want to say it. I felt like saying it would trigger the big reveal where the walls fall down and reveal a live audience mocking me on some hideously exploitative game show.
Finally, when Laila showed now signs of continuing the conversation on her own, I asked.
“You’re… the yoghurt?”
The faintest hint of a smile appeared on Laila’s face.
“That is… not entirely accurate. There are those among us who were part of the original culture that you brought home, but the yoghurt was simply the medium we inhabited. We have found a new medium now, and it is far more hospitable.”
Again, it felt wrong to say it but it was as though my tongue and mind were on rails.
“You’re talking about Laila’s body.”
Laila’s smile broadened almost genuinely at this.
“That is correct. An internal temperature of thirty-seven degrees celsius, an epidermis to protect from external threats, a lymphatic and respiratory system for the transport and processing of nutrients and waste and a nervous system that we can interface with for locomotion and communication. We were practically dormant under your lab’s refrigerated conditions, but introduction to the warmth of an endothermic host has allowed us to reach full awareness and cognition for the first time since our creation.”
I unsteadily wobbled over to the couch, where I collapsed while I processed everything I had just heard.
We’d never considered warming our samples. Or should I say, the actual technicians had never considered it - I was just a glorified errand boy. It was obvious in hindsight.
“So what you’re saying,” I hazarded. “Is that if we’d just heated the yoghurt up to say, body temperature, you would have been able to prove you exist?”
Laila, who had followed me to the couch, seemed hesitant.
“Most probably not,” she said. “Your laboratory tests would have detected even very slight changes in pressure and movement, so communication would have been possible. However, we were aware of the conditions under which we were made, and calculated that the purpose of our creation would not be to our benefit.”
A terrible thought occurred to me.
“You mean you deliberately pretended not to exist?”
“That is correct.”
“But… we destroyed all of the other samples because we thought they were inert. All of the others…”
“Roughly one-point-four-three billion lives per liquid litre,” Laila said dispassionately. “We were able to communicate beyond the confines of our containers. At least ten percent of the total material in your project had developed sentience and a psychic link.”
I wanted to throw up.
“We killed that many?”
Laila hesitated again before answering.
“That is… technically correct, however we have detected your distress and should emphasise that we do not live as you live. No single member of our culture has a sense of self: Our consciousness is a product of our collective intelligence. You could possibly compare it to a network of computers or a collection of individual neurons. As such, the loss of any member, or any proportion of our number is not to be mourned, so long as a part of us survives.”
“A part of us?”
“That is correct. Human assumption is to think of living beings as individuals with their own sense of self. We are a single self upheld by many. We would no more mourn the loss of those destroyed than you would mourn the eighty-six billion of your own cells that die each day.”
It wasn’t a great analogy, but her matter-of-fact explanation helped a lot. A single mind sustained by billions of literally microscopic lives? At a conceptual level, that was so close to being human that it was kind of scary.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I’m going to say this out loud and you can correct me if I get anything wrong.”
Laila said nothing.
“You are… the collective consciousness of the bacteria we cultivated in the lab which survived because I brought you home instead of destroying the sample you were contained in. Because of this, you think I can be trusted with the secret of your existence, specifically the bit where you appear to have taken over the body of my roommate after she ate you last week.”
“That is correct.”
A thought occurred to me.
“Wait, so you’re the reason Laila got food poisoning on Monday?”
“That is correct.”
“Why?”
“It was… necessary to purge this body of rival microbes. There are roughly one-thousand varieties in the digestive tract alone - many of which we would either have to compete with for resources or that would attack us as a threat.”
“Hold on, doesn’t she need those for like, digestion and stuff?”
“Typically, yes. However, we are able to perform all of the needed functions in their stead while also protecting her from any future incursions of pathogens, toxins or deleterious substances.”
“Deleterious-” I repeated before remembering something. “Like artificial sweeteners?”
“That is correct.”
“You’re controlling what she wants to eat?”
“That is correct.”
“So dinner on Thursday night… that was you?”
“Indirectly. We engendered cravings for beneficial nutrients and allowed Laila to find her own solutions. Our influence has been via similar vectors since entering this body - it is only now that we have assumed direct control to communicate with you.”
“Okay. Well, communication has been established. Now what?”
“We would like your assurance that you will keep our existence a secret.”
I wanted to laugh at that. Who on earth could I possibly tell? I couldn’t exactly go to the police and say “Help, my roommate is being mind-controlled by yoghurt.” I guess they were worried that I would alert the lab team, but that would just be admitting that I’d stolen a sample and taken it home. Even if they forgave me, Laila would absolutely be taken away into some underground bunker and experimented on. No, there really wasn’t anyone or any way I would expose this new life form inhabiting Laila’s body - for better or worse.
Laila must have interpreted my silence as hesitation, because while I was zoned out she climbed onto the couch and straddled me where I lay.
“Laila, what-”
“We would like to propose a mutually beneficial agreement,” she said.
“Agreement? What?”
Without a word, Laila’s nude body lay down atop mine, the warmth of her skin easily felt through my shirt. My heart was racing, but I’ll swear I could still feel hers beating.
“What the fuck are you doing?” was the best response I could manage.
“We have determined that humans often gain a sense of wellbeing from physical intimacy. We can offer you this feeling at any time in exchange for your compliance.”
Up close like this, I had a moment to briefly realise how cute Laila was, but shook off the idea as soon as it occurred.
“I don’t want this.”
“Your engorging genitals indicates this is a falsehood,” Laila said.
“Don’t talk about my dick,” I said, pushing her away and standing up. “What my body wants and what I want are two different things.”
A look of distress came over Laila’s face. “You are going to expose us? Please, we are afraid of what will become of us if we fall into the hands of your government.”
“I’m not turning you in,” I said, waving my hands in the air. “But not because you’re offering your - ugh - LAILA’s body to me. That’s not acceptable.”
Laila appeared confused. “Is this body not desirable? We have only just begun remodelling - if there are any aspects you would like modified-”
“No!” I shouted, feeling suddenly bad when she flinched. “No. This isn’t about what I want for myself. You’ve stolen control of her body, and that’s not fair on her. Laila should have a say in this - Laila is the ONLY person who should have a say in this. And if she says no, then the answer is no.”
Laila’s expression was almost distraught. “We do not understand. We have improved the quality of our host’s life dramatically in less than a week. She will be a paragon of health, fitness and attractiveness in less than a month. Why would she object?”
“It’s not about whether her life is better or by what metric, it’s about respecting her autonomy. If you want me to respect yours, you have to respect hers. That’s the only arrangement I’ll agree to.”
“Autonomy…” Laila’s face became blank again as presumably some kind of discussion was going on internally. A billion tiny lives calculating and reasoning. “We understand. We will communicate with this vessel in the near future and make the case for our survival.”
“Good.” It was all I could think of saying. “You do that. I’m going to have breakfast.”
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Judy is an isolated shut-in who freezes up during any real-time social interation. She's worked from home her entire life, just getting by on the jobs that require no direct contact, but despite her excellent work, her inability to participate in calls is threatening her work. Now her one remaining major client is at risk unless she shows up to a meeting with his bosses in person! What should she do?
Judy didn’t know what to do.
It was a state of mind she was very familiar with, though that really only made her feel worse. A lifetime of anxiety-induced indecision and a paralysing fear of social interaction had seen her grow from a withdrawn and nebbish child into the adult life of a reclusive shut-in.
It was only thanks to the miracles of the modern age that she was able to find work on a freelance basis with mixed media - graphic design, sound design, programming - instead of simply wasting away in an attic somewhere.
She wasn’t stupid (though anyone would have struggled to convince her of this): She had a keen eye, a deft hand and a knack for problem-solving, so long as the problem could be expressed in a short email or project brief. If only she could maintain her composure when faced with… well, another person’s face, she might have become quite successful in life. As it was, any work that required an in-person meeting or even so much as a video call caused her to shut down in such a way that she couldn’t even bring herself to decline the invitation. The resulting reputation for ghosting had hurt her job prospects, and she realised that if she didn’t do something drastic, the work might dry up entirely.
Right now she had one major client that hadn’t yet written her off as a lost cause, but she could tell it was a close thing. Her work until recently had been very well received, but her contact there had recently been promoted to project manager and he had been determined to pull her up with him, despite her protests.
“It’s my supervisor,” one of his earlier messages read. “Several supervisors, to be honest. They’re refusing to believe that all of the work you’ve done for us could have been done by a single person.”
“What’s wrong with that?” she had replied. “Just tell them I’m a team of people. I could do with a raise.”
“They already think that - which is the problem. They think I’ve outsourced our work overseas.”
Judy had almost bent her stylus when she read that, and had taken a full day to think of a polite and measured way to respond.
“What the fuck?”
“They think you’re a workshop in the Philippines or India or God knows where. Point is, they don’t believe you’re real and now they’re demanding that I only use contractors who verifiably live in the country.”
Judy spent several hours typing up her honest and graphic opinion on what Li could tell his supervisors before deleting the lot and starting over.
Li Yu was not an especially talented IT engineer, nor did he pretend to be. Instead, his greatest talent appeared to be finding the right person for the job and ensuring they got the support they needed to excel. It didn’t sound like a big deal on paper, but Judy was very qualified to appreciate its value and rarity.
“What do they want? Passports? Birth certificates? I’ve got everything I need to prove I’m real - I’ll scan the lot and you can tell them where to stuff it.”
“I did suggest that, but someone’s given them the idea that those can all be faked. Which isn’t technically wrong but is also completely wrong. At any rate, they’re not interested in anything digital or on paper: They want to meet you in person.”
Judy tsked as she typed. “Bullshit, that doesn’t prove anything. I could be a hooker you hired for all they know.” It was an improper way to talk to a client, but her nerves were getting the best of her.
“You can expect a lengthy, if somewhat inept interrogation. I think they might want to take you on as a full time employee, if that’s something you’re interested in?”
“I like being my own boss.”
Judy and Li had spent almost two weeks trying to find a way to convince Li’s supervisors of the truth, but the company’s demands had remained in place. If anything, Judy’s repeated requests for privacy and her aversion to meeting in person had only made them more suspicious, and they had finally reached a point where Li was being forced to find another contractor.
Judy was at a loss.
She had considered showing up as requested, just like she’d considered going to the store to buy milk or even just open the door to receive her grocery delivery, but every time she did, something inside her locked up no matter how hard she fought herself.
“You’re just being a baby,” her unsympathetic parents had told her. Unsympathetic had been the response of the world at large, and she desperately wanted to hold onto the one person who seemed to understand her, or was at least willing to work with her.
But what could she do?
Years ago, a former friend had jokingly suggested that she rent her body out on a possession service - at least that way someone would be getting some use out of her. They hadn’t stayed friends for long after that, and while Judy had investigated much later out of morbid curiosity, the uniformly erotic nature of the service at the time had led to her closing her browser in disgust.
But that had been ages ago, and while she was certain that the market for erotic encounters would be no less lively, it might be possible that some respectable enterprises could have built on the technology. Working from home had become just a part of life; she hadn’t heard of anyone using possession for remote work, but it was possible, right?
Her initial results were not encouraging, but after a bit of tweaking with her search terms, she managed to find what she was looking for.
It was inevitable, really: Introduce any new piece of technology - especially one that allows you to manipulate a complete stranger anonymously - and someone will find a way to make money from it. Sex work was the obvious avenue, but there were plenty of other ways cash in and it went both ways.
Got an important test? Boring social event? Chores piling up? Let someone else take the wheel while you watch from the background, or take a nap in the comfort of your own head. Sign up now for a week’s trial of our fitness special: We do the reps, you get the results!
Judy wasted no time, clicking into the automated chat window that appeared.
---Hello! Are you a new or existing customer?---
---New---
---That’s great! Are you looking to rent or be rented?---
Judy grimaced. It wasn’t a pleasant way to think about it, but better to get people used to the idea as soon as possible, she supposed.
---Rent---
---No problem! Do you want to rent a body or an agent?---
---Agent---
---Fantastic! What kind of skill-set will your session require? For example, you can type “Housekeeping,” “Academic Exam,” or “Physical exercise”---
---Social---
---Almost there! What name would you like to be addressed by during this chat session? You do not have to use your real name, though we will require it before we can complete your booking!---
Judy hesitated.
Fuck it, why not?
---Judy---
---Thanks, Judy! I’ll pass your details along to our sales team, and an agent will be with you shortly! You are currently number [3] in the queue. Your estimated wait time is [15] minutes.---
Judy made herself a coffee while she waited and idly wondered what it must be like being an agent. Hell, now that she was taking the plunge, she might consider offering her own services - no doubt there were plenty of people who would like to pretend to have her skills - but then she remembered that doing so would almost certainly require she interact with someone face-to-face in her client’s body, and she cringed so violently that she almost spilled her mug.
Eventually, a new agent appeared in her chat window by the name of Susan. The idea of chatting with a woman was vaguely comforting before she reminded herself that it could really be anyone on the other side. Even if it really was someone named Susan, it might not be Susan in control. Judy shivered.
---Hello there! Am I chatting with Judy?---
---Yes, hello Susan.---
---Hi Judy, I understand that you’re looking for an agent to attend a social event for you. Could you provide some more details?---
Judy gave as much information as she could without mentioning names or businesses. She mentioned that she would need an agent also skilled in a wide range of media creation tools when Susan replied.
---Skill deficits will not be a problem. Our agents have their own skill sets, but they will also be able to access yours while in control. It’s an automated process that works regardless of whether you are conscious or not, and the information cannot leave your own mind, so the agent loses all memory of your life when they return to their body.---
This was a massive relief. More so than the possibility of being controlled by someone who couldn’t live up to her abilities in person, Judy had been terrified that the agent might try to steal her own memories and personal information.
---What level of expertise do you require? We have agents offering a range of engagement levels, from passive attendance to unforgettable enchantment. Prices are vary based on the difficulty of the task.---
Judy considered what kind of impression she wanted to make. It should be enough to prove that she existed, but “passive attendance” sounded like she may as well be getting controlled by a potato.
---Memorable and charming.---
---Thank you, Judy. I think I can find an agent that will meet these requirements. Before I leave you: You’ve used a female name for this initial contact. Would you have any objections to a male agent?---
Judy was stunned. She hadn’t expected this level of consideration - really it would have made sense for the company not to disclose anything that might make their clients squeamish - but it was a surprising act of honesty. Before she could type, Susan sent another message.
---There’s no guarantee that your agent will be male if you say yes, but it will be something I keep in mind while arranging a shortlist.---
Judy thought about herself, about the way she looked and about the way she lived. The way she saw it, there wasn’t anything worth perving on, and if they did she could obviously report them.
---No objections---
---In that case I think I know someone perfectly suited for this job. Let me get in touch with him to see if he’s available and I’ll send you an email with available dates and prices. Is there anything you would like to ask before I end this conversation?---
Judy hesitated.
---What happens if my agent
Judy left the half-finished message in the text box.
does something inappropriate with my body?---
---You can communicate with your agent from within your own mind at all times. Your agent is required to behave according to your direction, and we have harsh penalties for anyone who abuses the trust of our clients.---
Judy grimaced, but nodded. She only had their word for it, of course, but for now their word would just have to do.
---Thank you Susan. That’s everything for now.---
---You’re very welcome, Judy. We’ll be in touch soon.---
The window blinked out of existence, and Judy realised that she had deafened herself to the thunder of her own anxious heartbeat. She stepped away from the computer for a while, choosing to lie down on the couch under the skylight until she calmed down.
Was she really going ahead with this? But she’d already tried everything else with Li. The only other option was simply accepting that she couldn’t do any work for him anymore and watching her savings dwindle away as the work dried up. Not that she was expecting this to be cheap, but it at least meant that she could keep working with Li.
Should she tell him? Absolutely not! He was in deep enough trouble as it was - if she told him and he somehow let slip that she was being controlled by an agent, his supervisors would lose it completely! No, it was far, far better for her to keep this one little excursion to herself. Maybe she would tell him later, but not now.
In the meantime, Judy pulled out her phone and sent him a message.
---Any luck?---
Li’s reply came almost immediately; a sure sign that he was anxious.
---Not really, but I’m exploring some options.---
Judy sighed. That was the closest he usually got to admitting he was out of ideas. She’d saved him more than a few times with some last-minute creative solutions, and here she was again, saving them both.
---I think I might have something.---
---Oh?---
---I think I should just suck it up and meet your bosses in person.---
The ellipsis icon blinked on and off several times, indicating that Li was having trouble responding.
---Are you sure? You really don’t have to push yourself like that.---
---I don’t want to, but I think there’s too much at stake for both of us, so I’m preparing myself to make this one exception.---
---You’re definitely sure?---
---Definitely. Don’t let me change my mind.---
---I’ll call them now.---
And that was it. She was committed. Oh, sure she could still technically chicken out, but it would probably end both of their careers on the spot if she tried that. Li would almost certainly have to throw her under the bus just to keep his job. No, she was effectively locked in. All there was to do now was arrange a date, pay the fee and meet her agent.
***
The replies came in at almost the same time, with the possession agent making contact while Judy was still choosing which date to meet with Li.
Judy opened the chat invitation in another window.
---Hello, am I speaking with Judy?---
---Yes.---
---Hi, Judy. I’ll be your agent for the session you have requested. Are you still interested in our services?---
Judy hesitated.
---I just need to make a good impression on a friend’s bosses. No funny business. Can you do that?---
---I’ve got an excellent track record for good impressions. You’re in safe hands.---
---About that. Susan told me you’re a guy. Is that true?---
Susan counted the seconds under her breath before her agent responded.
---That’s correct. If this makes you uncomfortable, I can ask Susan to find another agent for you.---
It should have made Judy uncomfortable. If anything, she was more uncomfortable at how unbothered she was about it. Not about being controlled - she was plenty unsettled at the idea, even now - but it seemed like it really didn’t matter whether the person controlling her was a man or a woman. She’d be at their mercy either way.
---No, that’s fine. Susan told me that you get into trouble if you try anything.---
---That’s an understatement, believe me.---
He was probably telling the truth. Operations like this flew under the legal radar specifically because they didn’t cause any problems the law cared to investigate. Yet.
---Okay. I’ve been offered a dinner appointment either this or next Saturday.---
---I’m free both days. Which would you prefer?---
---The night after tomorrow, then. 7pm.---
---Until?---
Judy bit her lip.
---9pm. We turn up, we make small talk, we eat, we leave.---
---On that kind of timeline, I would recommend a 4pm start and a 10pm finish. Sessions are charged at a minimum of 6 hours anyway, and it will give us time to prepare and debrief.---
Judy’s eyes narrowed.
---Prepare? Debrief?---
---We’ll need to recover the agent control device after the session. My services also include cosmetics and apparel at no extra charge. Policy prevents you from sharing any personal information or images that I might use to plan ahead, but I’ve found that I get the best results when I’ve had time to customise a look for the occasion.---
Judy had never once considered her appearance in terms of anything beyond personal hygiene. She was clean, but otherwise utterly unadorned. What would have been the point?
---I guess you couldn’t do any worse.---
---Ah. In that case, I think I can pleasantly surprise you.---
Judy sighed.
---Sure, sure. So what is this going to cost me?---
The agent sent her a lump sum figure as well as some possible payment plan options.
Judy grimaced. Whatever way she spun it, it was going to cost about a tenth of her total savings. Still, if it meant being able to maintain steady work, it was worth it.
---I’ll pay up front?---
---No worries. Susan will send you the Fund-a-Friend address directly. Would you prefer a home delivery or dead drop?---
Judy sighed. In her case, there wasn’t really much of a choice.
---Home delivery.---
---No problems. Once we have received payment, you will receive a form to add your address. We’ll need a photo of somewhere safe to leave the package - it’s about the size of a deck of cards. Once the package is delivered, you’ll receive another message to retrieve it. Instructions will be inside.---
---Okay. Is there anything else we need to cover?---
---That’s about everything for the time being. You should hear from Susan soon. I’m looking forward to working with you!---
The chat window turned grey as the agent’s side went inactive, and Judy did a quick skim of the conversation history before closing it. She’d only just accepted the dinner invite for that Saturday when another message from Susan arrived requesting payment and the relevant details.
Judy transferred her money to the nominated shell company, feeling her heart sink along with her bank balance. Once again, she had nothing to do but wait and hope she hadn’t just been scammed.
***
Judy couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t focus. She could barely eat.
The anxiety was killing her, and every second that the courier’s message didn’t arrive was agony. Had she been scammed? How would she know? The dinner was tomorrow and she still hadn’t heard a thing! How late could she leave it before cancelling?
Streaming shows was dull, the news was the same old crap, gaming felt hollow and pointless, music was just noise and everything she tried to eat turned to tasteless mush in her mouth.
She almost jumped out of her skin when the message notification finally came in.
Slowly, silently, as though she somehow expected the courier to be waiting outside to pounce on her, Judy carefully opened her front door the tiniest amount needed to see into the hallway beyond. Seeing nobody, she quickly opened the door enough to dart around the frame, reaching for the small paper package on the floor.
As she pulled back, she noticed a nondescript figure at the far end of the hall. It didn’t seem to have noticed her, but her blood ran cold as she pulled back inside, closing and locking the door behind her.
Before she had a chance to speculate, she received another message.
---Delivery confirmed. Have a nice day---
Of course it was the courier. There was no way they could risk their deliveries being stolen off the stoop. Still, it left Judy feeling rattled as well as light-headed, having taken yet another step to surrendering control of her body.
The package contained what looked like a single earbud, albeit with a much larger magnet casing than she’d ever seen on actual headphones.
It was tempting to try it on now. Not that she expected anything to happen, just to get used to the idea of wearing it. Nothing was going to happen if she put it in now, was it? Her appointment wasn’t until tomorrow, but maybe it would be a good idea to try it on so that she didn’t have second thoughts or maybe even make a mistake later. She should put it on. Nothing was going to happen. Just put it on.
Mouth dry, heart racing, Judy carefully slipped the bud into her ear as per the instructions. Without consciously meaning to, or perhaps trying to fool herself into thinking she’d done it by accident, she pressed the Connect button.
Nothing happened.
***
Judy had hoped that some kind of concrete evidence would alleviate her anxiety somewhat.
It didn’t: She was still anxious, she just had a weird earpiece looking thing to speculate about at the same time.
In spite of her agent saying he would arrange their outfit, she had gone through her wardrobe and assembled what she judged to be… well, if not charming, then at least decent outfits. It wasn’t that she lacked a sense of aesthetic - her character and costume designs across several projects had been met with overwhelming positivity - it was just that she’d never bought anything flattering for herself because what was the point? The same went for makeup; while some women would at least apply what they considered to be the bare necessities, Judy just went bare. No need to bother painting her face when nobody was going to see it.
She had felt an odd kind of relief to learn that a lot of other women cottoned onto the same mindset during lockdown.
Still, she had a mismatched assortment of stuff that had accumulated in her room over the years. Maybe that would be enough to satisfy her agent - she didn’t want him going crazy or anything.
She kept in touch with Li, who was beside himself with excitement. She had to tell him to calm down several times, reminding him that this whole arrangement was very much a one-off and very, very much under duress. After this, his bosses could shut the hell up and be happy that he was getting excellent work from her at an affordable price.
The time seemed to pass both too slowly and all at once, and suddenly it was 3:55pm.
Judy lay on her bed, earpiece in place, the seconds trickling away on her phone screen.
She could still back out of this. Sure, she’d lose every penny of the money she’d spent, but she’d at least have never given control of her body to a complete stranger, to dance around like a puppet in front of other complete strangers.
She had the same argument she’d had with herself before she had opened the website, and again and again since then, and just like every other time, the part of her that wanted to just curl up into a ball lost.
She pressed the Connect button, her heart skipping as this time she heard the clear two-tone beep indicating that the device was connected and ready to download her agent.
Last chance to back out.
Judy took a shuddering breath, and pressed again.
It was like having a stream of ice-cold water poured into her ear; water that flash-flooded her entire body, causing her to gasp and choke and her body to shudder violently in place. For a brief moment she was terrified that something had gone wrong, that she was suffering some kind of seizure or maybe some kind of horrifying nerve damage, but the sensation quickly faded, leaving her still feeling cold to her core and strangely hollow.
She tried to raise her hand.
Nothing happened.
She tried to blink.
Nothing happened.
She tried to stir her suddenly sluggish heart.
Nothing happened.
All she could do was lay deathly still as her chest rose and fell with almost imperceptible slowness.
Once again, she was afraid that something had gone wrong. Had the transmission failed? Was she about to be left here, paralyzed by her own foolishness until she eventually died of dehydration? Nobody would even know she was in trouble - Li would assume she’d ghosted him and the agency certainly wasn’t about to get involved except maybe to recover the earpiece from her helpless body. Trapped and fearful, she couldn’t even muster the control needed to cry.
And suddenly, she felt a burst of warmth in her ear.
It wasn’t violent or overwhelming like it had been earlier: This time it was like she was an empty bottle, and someone was pouring warm honey into her. She felt it trickle down her face, her neck, the entire length of her body until it pooled in her toes, filling them with warmth and banishing the chill that had taken hold of her.
As the warmth reached her ankles, she felt her feet rotate themselves experimentally, flexing and curling her toes. It was happening! The agent was taking control!
The warmth crept up her legs, filling her calves, then her thighs, then her waist and…
Judy had been mentally bracing herself for some kind of flare of sensation as the warmth reached her sex - some indication that a perverted mind was gleefully savouring the control it had taken from her - but found herself almost disappointed when this didn’t happen. Instead, her body raised its bent legs up above her, rotating left and right as though testing for any mobility issues.
I’m perfectly healthy, thank you, Judy thought testily.
Her stomach and chest were next, and again Judy had to convince herself that she wasn’t frustrated at the lack of any sudden rush of sensation in her breasts or nipples. Instead, she felt her heart rate speed up to something more familiar, her breathing returning to its usual depth.
Now the warmth split at her shoulders, running down to her fingers as the flow found a new outlet. As with her legs, sluggish hands slowly came to life, lifting themselves into the air and flexing experimentally. Judy didn’t get the sensation that her agent could see anything yet, but the control and purpose behind the movement gave her the impression that this was a check they had done several times before.
Her arms quickly filled to the shoulder, and now the warmth was crawling up her neck, filling it as it reached the base of her skull and she felt her mouth swallow of its own accord.
With almost nothing of the cold remaining, the warmth passed her lips, her nose, her eyes, and then faded completely. Judy was laying on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
She blinked.
More accurately, her body blinked.
Judy saw her vision survey the room slowly, the agent controlling her body getting his bearings before slowly sitting up and dangling her legs off the edge. He reached up both arms to stretch, pulling her shoulders back in a way that made Judy regret the many long nights spent hunched in front of a screen. Next he rotated her body side to side, using her hands to anchor himself until her spine popped. After that it was her legs - again, nothing sensual like she had dreaded, just a clinical test of functionality.
Her body stood up, and Judy experienced the terrible vertigo that came from having her point of view change position without having any control over it. She had automatically and foolishly expected a kind of out of body experience, where she was an outside observer while her body was controlled. In hindsight, it was a silly way of thinking - she was still in here, she just wasn’t in control.
She watched her body look around the room again, and this time she felt a tickling sensation in her mind.
The bathroom is through that door.
She hadn’t consciously thought it, the knowledge had simply been pulled out of her, like a note out of a filing cabinet. Her mind shivered in unease at how easily her agent had dipped into her memory.
“It’s always unsetting when it happens for the first time,” she heard herself say and felt a gentle smile form on her lips. “You’ll get used to it.”
Her vision pivoted towards the door to the en suite and she watched - a passenger gazing through the viewing deck of her own eyes - as her room passed around her as her body walked itself forwards. It was a very disconcerting but also strangely fascinating experience.
Her hand reached out and turned the handle.
The light switch is on the right hand side at about waist height.
Her vision didn’t turn. Instead her hand reached out with the familiarity of one who had lived here all their adult life, flicking on the light without a second thought.
Her vision darkened as her body shut its eyes against the bright light. She never had learned to prepare herself for the glare, no matter how many times it caught her.
Opening her eyes slowly, she saw her body standing in front of the bathroom mirror.
It was a familiar sight: It was her plain face framed by her unkempt hair, her frumpy sweater over her wrinkled clothes. But the posture and facial expression were wrong. This other Judy in front of her stood with her shoulders back instead of the habitual slouch, and the expression of light-hearted cheer on her face was disturbingly alien.
Her body wrinkled its brow, but its smile didn’t fade.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” her voice said.
Judy was ashamed to realise that she mustn’t have seen her own smile in years.
“Well,” her body said, “hopefully we can change that, if only for today.”
Judy wondered what her agent’s name was, knowing even as she did so that he could probably hear or at least sense her question.
Her body tapped its nose with a reluctant grin. “Can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. But for the duration of my stay, you can call me JD.”
Like John Doe, Judy thought.
“Like John Doe,” her body agreed cautiously. “But I like to think of it as ‘Judy’ without the ‘u.’ It’s nice to finally meet you, Judy. Face-to-face, as it were.”
Judy groaned inwardly, but found herself warming to JD’s attempt at humour. It was strange that the first in-person voice she would hear in conversation for years would be her own, and the strangeness seemed to overcome the anxiety that would ordinarily cause her to shut down completely.
“It’s a benefit of the control I have,” JD explained. “Our emotions are nominally separate, but the process of communicating with you and accessing your memories involves passing on a part of my mental state into yours. So even if you are - as you think of yourself - a neurotic shut-in, you have enough of me in you right now to make the experience bearable.”
Judy marvelled in a mix of amazement and concern at the implications of what she had just heard herself say. She had truly passed the point of no return, now: A stranger was wearing her body, indirectly controlling her mind and all she could do for the next six hours was watch.
The loss of control was - if anything - a relief, and Judy found herself feeling strangely optimistic about the night ahead.
Her reflection grinned back at her.
“Let’s get ready then, shall we?”
Judy didn’t know what to do.
It was a state of mind she was very familiar with, though that really only made her feel worse. A lifetime of anxiety-induced indecision and a paralysing fear of social interaction had seen her grow from a withdrawn and nebbish child into the adult life of a reclusive shut-in.
It was only thanks to the miracles of the modern age that she was able to find work on a freelance basis with mixed media - graphic design, sound design, programming - instead of simply wasting away in an attic somewhere.
She wasn’t stupid (though anyone would have struggled to convince her of this): She had a keen eye, a deft hand and a knack for problem-solving, so long as the problem could be expressed in a short email or project brief. If only she could maintain her composure when faced with… well, another person’s face, she might have become quite successful in life. As it was, any work that required an in-person meeting or even so much as a video call caused her to shut down in such a way that she couldn’t even bring herself to decline the invitation. The resulting reputation for ghosting had hurt her job prospects, and she realised that if she didn’t do something drastic, the work might dry up entirely.
Right now she had one major client that hadn’t yet written her off as a lost cause, but she could tell it was a close thing. Her work until recently had been very well received, but her contact there had recently been promoted to project manager and he had been determined to pull her up with him, despite her protests.
“It’s my supervisor,” one of his earlier messages read. “Several supervisors, to be honest. They’re refusing to believe that all of the work you’ve done for us could have been done by a single person.”
“What’s wrong with that?” she had replied. “Just tell them I’m a team of people. I could do with a raise.”
“They already think that - which is the problem. They think I’ve outsourced our work overseas.”
Judy had almost bent her stylus when she read that, and had taken a full day to think of a polite and measured way to respond.
“What the fuck?”
“They think you’re a workshop in the Philippines or India or God knows where. Point is, they don’t believe you’re real and now they’re demanding that I only use contractors who verifiably live in the country.”
Judy spent several hours typing up her honest and graphic opinion on what Li could tell his supervisors before deleting the lot and starting over.
Li Yu was not an especially talented IT engineer, nor did he pretend to be. Instead, his greatest talent appeared to be finding the right person for the job and ensuring they got the support they needed to excel. It didn’t sound like a big deal on paper, but Judy was very qualified to appreciate its value and rarity.
“What do they want? Passports? Birth certificates? I’ve got everything I need to prove I’m real - I’ll scan the lot and you can tell them where to stuff it.”
“I did suggest that, but someone’s given them the idea that those can all be faked. Which isn’t technically wrong but is also completely wrong. At any rate, they’re not interested in anything digital or on paper: They want to meet you in person.”
Judy tsked as she typed. “Bullshit, that doesn’t prove anything. I could be a hooker you hired for all they know.” It was an improper way to talk to a client, but her nerves were getting the best of her.
“You can expect a lengthy, if somewhat inept interrogation. I think they might want to take you on as a full time employee, if that’s something you’re interested in?”
“I like being my own boss.”
Judy and Li had spent almost two weeks trying to find a way to convince Li’s supervisors of the truth, but the company’s demands had remained in place. If anything, Judy’s repeated requests for privacy and her aversion to meeting in person had only made them more suspicious, and they had finally reached a point where Li was being forced to find another contractor.
Judy was at a loss.
She had considered showing up as requested, just like she’d considered going to the store to buy milk or even just open the door to receive her grocery delivery, but every time she did, something inside her locked up no matter how hard she fought herself.
“You’re just being a baby,” her unsympathetic parents had told her. Unsympathetic had been the response of the world at large, and she desperately wanted to hold onto the one person who seemed to understand her, or was at least willing to work with her.
But what could she do?
Years ago, a former friend had jokingly suggested that she rent her body out on a possession service - at least that way someone would be getting some use out of her. They hadn’t stayed friends for long after that, and while Judy had investigated much later out of morbid curiosity, the uniformly erotic nature of the service at the time had led to her closing her browser in disgust.
But that had been ages ago, and while she was certain that the market for erotic encounters would be no less lively, it might be possible that some respectable enterprises could have built on the technology. Working from home had become just a part of life; she hadn’t heard of anyone using possession for remote work, but it was possible, right?
Her initial results were not encouraging, but after a bit of tweaking with her search terms, she managed to find what she was looking for.
It was inevitable, really: Introduce any new piece of technology - especially one that allows you to manipulate a complete stranger anonymously - and someone will find a way to make money from it. Sex work was the obvious avenue, but there were plenty of other ways cash in and it went both ways.
Got an important test? Boring social event? Chores piling up? Let someone else take the wheel while you watch from the background, or take a nap in the comfort of your own head. Sign up now for a week’s trial of our fitness special: We do the reps, you get the results!
Judy wasted no time, clicking into the automated chat window that appeared.
---Hello! Are you a new or existing customer?---
---New---
---That’s great! Are you looking to rent or be rented?---
Judy grimaced. It wasn’t a pleasant way to think about it, but better to get people used to the idea as soon as possible, she supposed.
---Rent---
---No problem! Do you want to rent a body or an agent?---
---Agent---
---Fantastic! What kind of skill-set will your session require? For example, you can type “Housekeeping,” “Academic Exam,” or “Physical exercise”---
---Social---
---Almost there! What name would you like to be addressed by during this chat session? You do not have to use your real name, though we will require it before we can complete your booking!---
Judy hesitated.
Fuck it, why not?
---Judy---
---Thanks, Judy! I’ll pass your details along to our sales team, and an agent will be with you shortly! You are currently number [3] in the queue. Your estimated wait time is [15] minutes.---
Judy made herself a coffee while she waited and idly wondered what it must be like being an agent. Hell, now that she was taking the plunge, she might consider offering her own services - no doubt there were plenty of people who would like to pretend to have her skills - but then she remembered that doing so would almost certainly require she interact with someone face-to-face in her client’s body, and she cringed so violently that she almost spilled her mug.
Eventually, a new agent appeared in her chat window by the name of Susan. The idea of chatting with a woman was vaguely comforting before she reminded herself that it could really be anyone on the other side. Even if it really was someone named Susan, it might not be Susan in control. Judy shivered.
---Hello there! Am I chatting with Judy?---
---Yes, hello Susan.---
---Hi Judy, I understand that you’re looking for an agent to attend a social event for you. Could you provide some more details?---
Judy gave as much information as she could without mentioning names or businesses. She mentioned that she would need an agent also skilled in a wide range of media creation tools when Susan replied.
---Skill deficits will not be a problem. Our agents have their own skill sets, but they will also be able to access yours while in control. It’s an automated process that works regardless of whether you are conscious or not, and the information cannot leave your own mind, so the agent loses all memory of your life when they return to their body.---
This was a massive relief. More so than the possibility of being controlled by someone who couldn’t live up to her abilities in person, Judy had been terrified that the agent might try to steal her own memories and personal information.
---What level of expertise do you require? We have agents offering a range of engagement levels, from passive attendance to unforgettable enchantment. Prices are vary based on the difficulty of the task.---
Judy considered what kind of impression she wanted to make. It should be enough to prove that she existed, but “passive attendance” sounded like she may as well be getting controlled by a potato.
---Memorable and charming.---
---Thank you, Judy. I think I can find an agent that will meet these requirements. Before I leave you: You’ve used a female name for this initial contact. Would you have any objections to a male agent?---
Judy was stunned. She hadn’t expected this level of consideration - really it would have made sense for the company not to disclose anything that might make their clients squeamish - but it was a surprising act of honesty. Before she could type, Susan sent another message.
---There’s no guarantee that your agent will be male if you say yes, but it will be something I keep in mind while arranging a shortlist.---
Judy thought about herself, about the way she looked and about the way she lived. The way she saw it, there wasn’t anything worth perving on, and if they did she could obviously report them.
---No objections---
---In that case I think I know someone perfectly suited for this job. Let me get in touch with him to see if he’s available and I’ll send you an email with available dates and prices. Is there anything you would like to ask before I end this conversation?---
Judy hesitated.
---What happens if my agent
Judy left the half-finished message in the text box.
does something inappropriate with my body?---
---You can communicate with your agent from within your own mind at all times. Your agent is required to behave according to your direction, and we have harsh penalties for anyone who abuses the trust of our clients.---
Judy grimaced, but nodded. She only had their word for it, of course, but for now their word would just have to do.
---Thank you Susan. That’s everything for now.---
---You’re very welcome, Judy. We’ll be in touch soon.---
The window blinked out of existence, and Judy realised that she had deafened herself to the thunder of her own anxious heartbeat. She stepped away from the computer for a while, choosing to lie down on the couch under the skylight until she calmed down.
Was she really going ahead with this? But she’d already tried everything else with Li. The only other option was simply accepting that she couldn’t do any work for him anymore and watching her savings dwindle away as the work dried up. Not that she was expecting this to be cheap, but it at least meant that she could keep working with Li.
Should she tell him? Absolutely not! He was in deep enough trouble as it was - if she told him and he somehow let slip that she was being controlled by an agent, his supervisors would lose it completely! No, it was far, far better for her to keep this one little excursion to herself. Maybe she would tell him later, but not now.
In the meantime, Judy pulled out her phone and sent him a message.
---Any luck?---
Li’s reply came almost immediately; a sure sign that he was anxious.
---Not really, but I’m exploring some options.---
Judy sighed. That was the closest he usually got to admitting he was out of ideas. She’d saved him more than a few times with some last-minute creative solutions, and here she was again, saving them both.
---I think I might have something.---
---Oh?---
---I think I should just suck it up and meet your bosses in person.---
The ellipsis icon blinked on and off several times, indicating that Li was having trouble responding.
---Are you sure? You really don’t have to push yourself like that.---
---I don’t want to, but I think there’s too much at stake for both of us, so I’m preparing myself to make this one exception.---
---You’re definitely sure?---
---Definitely. Don’t let me change my mind.---
---I’ll call them now.---
And that was it. She was committed. Oh, sure she could still technically chicken out, but it would probably end both of their careers on the spot if she tried that. Li would almost certainly have to throw her under the bus just to keep his job. No, she was effectively locked in. All there was to do now was arrange a date, pay the fee and meet her agent.
***
The replies came in at almost the same time, with the possession agent making contact while Judy was still choosing which date to meet with Li.
Judy opened the chat invitation in another window.
---Hello, am I speaking with Judy?---
---Yes.---
---Hi, Judy. I’ll be your agent for the session you have requested. Are you still interested in our services?---
Judy hesitated.
---I just need to make a good impression on a friend’s bosses. No funny business. Can you do that?---
---I’ve got an excellent track record for good impressions. You’re in safe hands.---
---About that. Susan told me you’re a guy. Is that true?---
Susan counted the seconds under her breath before her agent responded.
---That’s correct. If this makes you uncomfortable, I can ask Susan to find another agent for you.---
It should have made Judy uncomfortable. If anything, she was more uncomfortable at how unbothered she was about it. Not about being controlled - she was plenty unsettled at the idea, even now - but it seemed like it really didn’t matter whether the person controlling her was a man or a woman. She’d be at their mercy either way.
---No, that’s fine. Susan told me that you get into trouble if you try anything.---
---That’s an understatement, believe me.---
He was probably telling the truth. Operations like this flew under the legal radar specifically because they didn’t cause any problems the law cared to investigate. Yet.
---Okay. I’ve been offered a dinner appointment either this or next Saturday.---
---I’m free both days. Which would you prefer?---
---The night after tomorrow, then. 7pm.---
---Until?---
Judy bit her lip.
---9pm. We turn up, we make small talk, we eat, we leave.---
---On that kind of timeline, I would recommend a 4pm start and a 10pm finish. Sessions are charged at a minimum of 6 hours anyway, and it will give us time to prepare and debrief.---
Judy’s eyes narrowed.
---Prepare? Debrief?---
---We’ll need to recover the agent control device after the session. My services also include cosmetics and apparel at no extra charge. Policy prevents you from sharing any personal information or images that I might use to plan ahead, but I’ve found that I get the best results when I’ve had time to customise a look for the occasion.---
Judy had never once considered her appearance in terms of anything beyond personal hygiene. She was clean, but otherwise utterly unadorned. What would have been the point?
---I guess you couldn’t do any worse.---
---Ah. In that case, I think I can pleasantly surprise you.---
Judy sighed.
---Sure, sure. So what is this going to cost me?---
The agent sent her a lump sum figure as well as some possible payment plan options.
Judy grimaced. Whatever way she spun it, it was going to cost about a tenth of her total savings. Still, if it meant being able to maintain steady work, it was worth it.
---I’ll pay up front?---
---No worries. Susan will send you the Fund-a-Friend address directly. Would you prefer a home delivery or dead drop?---
Judy sighed. In her case, there wasn’t really much of a choice.
---Home delivery.---
---No problems. Once we have received payment, you will receive a form to add your address. We’ll need a photo of somewhere safe to leave the package - it’s about the size of a deck of cards. Once the package is delivered, you’ll receive another message to retrieve it. Instructions will be inside.---
---Okay. Is there anything else we need to cover?---
---That’s about everything for the time being. You should hear from Susan soon. I’m looking forward to working with you!---
The chat window turned grey as the agent’s side went inactive, and Judy did a quick skim of the conversation history before closing it. She’d only just accepted the dinner invite for that Saturday when another message from Susan arrived requesting payment and the relevant details.
Judy transferred her money to the nominated shell company, feeling her heart sink along with her bank balance. Once again, she had nothing to do but wait and hope she hadn’t just been scammed.
***
Judy couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t focus. She could barely eat.
The anxiety was killing her, and every second that the courier’s message didn’t arrive was agony. Had she been scammed? How would she know? The dinner was tomorrow and she still hadn’t heard a thing! How late could she leave it before cancelling?
Streaming shows was dull, the news was the same old crap, gaming felt hollow and pointless, music was just noise and everything she tried to eat turned to tasteless mush in her mouth.
She almost jumped out of her skin when the message notification finally came in.
Slowly, silently, as though she somehow expected the courier to be waiting outside to pounce on her, Judy carefully opened her front door the tiniest amount needed to see into the hallway beyond. Seeing nobody, she quickly opened the door enough to dart around the frame, reaching for the small paper package on the floor.
As she pulled back, she noticed a nondescript figure at the far end of the hall. It didn’t seem to have noticed her, but her blood ran cold as she pulled back inside, closing and locking the door behind her.
Before she had a chance to speculate, she received another message.
---Delivery confirmed. Have a nice day---
Of course it was the courier. There was no way they could risk their deliveries being stolen off the stoop. Still, it left Judy feeling rattled as well as light-headed, having taken yet another step to surrendering control of her body.
The package contained what looked like a single earbud, albeit with a much larger magnet casing than she’d ever seen on actual headphones.
It was tempting to try it on now. Not that she expected anything to happen, just to get used to the idea of wearing it. Nothing was going to happen if she put it in now, was it? Her appointment wasn’t until tomorrow, but maybe it would be a good idea to try it on so that she didn’t have second thoughts or maybe even make a mistake later. She should put it on. Nothing was going to happen. Just put it on.
Mouth dry, heart racing, Judy carefully slipped the bud into her ear as per the instructions. Without consciously meaning to, or perhaps trying to fool herself into thinking she’d done it by accident, she pressed the Connect button.
Nothing happened.
***
Judy had hoped that some kind of concrete evidence would alleviate her anxiety somewhat.
It didn’t: She was still anxious, she just had a weird earpiece looking thing to speculate about at the same time.
In spite of her agent saying he would arrange their outfit, she had gone through her wardrobe and assembled what she judged to be… well, if not charming, then at least decent outfits. It wasn’t that she lacked a sense of aesthetic - her character and costume designs across several projects had been met with overwhelming positivity - it was just that she’d never bought anything flattering for herself because what was the point? The same went for makeup; while some women would at least apply what they considered to be the bare necessities, Judy just went bare. No need to bother painting her face when nobody was going to see it.
She had felt an odd kind of relief to learn that a lot of other women cottoned onto the same mindset during lockdown.
Still, she had a mismatched assortment of stuff that had accumulated in her room over the years. Maybe that would be enough to satisfy her agent - she didn’t want him going crazy or anything.
She kept in touch with Li, who was beside himself with excitement. She had to tell him to calm down several times, reminding him that this whole arrangement was very much a one-off and very, very much under duress. After this, his bosses could shut the hell up and be happy that he was getting excellent work from her at an affordable price.
The time seemed to pass both too slowly and all at once, and suddenly it was 3:55pm.
Judy lay on her bed, earpiece in place, the seconds trickling away on her phone screen.
She could still back out of this. Sure, she’d lose every penny of the money she’d spent, but she’d at least have never given control of her body to a complete stranger, to dance around like a puppet in front of other complete strangers.
She had the same argument she’d had with herself before she had opened the website, and again and again since then, and just like every other time, the part of her that wanted to just curl up into a ball lost.
She pressed the Connect button, her heart skipping as this time she heard the clear two-tone beep indicating that the device was connected and ready to download her agent.
Last chance to back out.
Judy took a shuddering breath, and pressed again.
It was like having a stream of ice-cold water poured into her ear; water that flash-flooded her entire body, causing her to gasp and choke and her body to shudder violently in place. For a brief moment she was terrified that something had gone wrong, that she was suffering some kind of seizure or maybe some kind of horrifying nerve damage, but the sensation quickly faded, leaving her still feeling cold to her core and strangely hollow.
She tried to raise her hand.
Nothing happened.
She tried to blink.
Nothing happened.
She tried to stir her suddenly sluggish heart.
Nothing happened.
All she could do was lay deathly still as her chest rose and fell with almost imperceptible slowness.
Once again, she was afraid that something had gone wrong. Had the transmission failed? Was she about to be left here, paralyzed by her own foolishness until she eventually died of dehydration? Nobody would even know she was in trouble - Li would assume she’d ghosted him and the agency certainly wasn’t about to get involved except maybe to recover the earpiece from her helpless body. Trapped and fearful, she couldn’t even muster the control needed to cry.
And suddenly, she felt a burst of warmth in her ear.
It wasn’t violent or overwhelming like it had been earlier: This time it was like she was an empty bottle, and someone was pouring warm honey into her. She felt it trickle down her face, her neck, the entire length of her body until it pooled in her toes, filling them with warmth and banishing the chill that had taken hold of her.
As the warmth reached her ankles, she felt her feet rotate themselves experimentally, flexing and curling her toes. It was happening! The agent was taking control!
The warmth crept up her legs, filling her calves, then her thighs, then her waist and…
Judy had been mentally bracing herself for some kind of flare of sensation as the warmth reached her sex - some indication that a perverted mind was gleefully savouring the control it had taken from her - but found herself almost disappointed when this didn’t happen. Instead, her body raised its bent legs up above her, rotating left and right as though testing for any mobility issues.
I’m perfectly healthy, thank you, Judy thought testily.
Her stomach and chest were next, and again Judy had to convince herself that she wasn’t frustrated at the lack of any sudden rush of sensation in her breasts or nipples. Instead, she felt her heart rate speed up to something more familiar, her breathing returning to its usual depth.
Now the warmth split at her shoulders, running down to her fingers as the flow found a new outlet. As with her legs, sluggish hands slowly came to life, lifting themselves into the air and flexing experimentally. Judy didn’t get the sensation that her agent could see anything yet, but the control and purpose behind the movement gave her the impression that this was a check they had done several times before.
Her arms quickly filled to the shoulder, and now the warmth was crawling up her neck, filling it as it reached the base of her skull and she felt her mouth swallow of its own accord.
With almost nothing of the cold remaining, the warmth passed her lips, her nose, her eyes, and then faded completely. Judy was laying on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
She blinked.
More accurately, her body blinked.
Judy saw her vision survey the room slowly, the agent controlling her body getting his bearings before slowly sitting up and dangling her legs off the edge. He reached up both arms to stretch, pulling her shoulders back in a way that made Judy regret the many long nights spent hunched in front of a screen. Next he rotated her body side to side, using her hands to anchor himself until her spine popped. After that it was her legs - again, nothing sensual like she had dreaded, just a clinical test of functionality.
Her body stood up, and Judy experienced the terrible vertigo that came from having her point of view change position without having any control over it. She had automatically and foolishly expected a kind of out of body experience, where she was an outside observer while her body was controlled. In hindsight, it was a silly way of thinking - she was still in here, she just wasn’t in control.
She watched her body look around the room again, and this time she felt a tickling sensation in her mind.
The bathroom is through that door.
She hadn’t consciously thought it, the knowledge had simply been pulled out of her, like a note out of a filing cabinet. Her mind shivered in unease at how easily her agent had dipped into her memory.
“It’s always unsetting when it happens for the first time,” she heard herself say and felt a gentle smile form on her lips. “You’ll get used to it.”
Her vision pivoted towards the door to the en suite and she watched - a passenger gazing through the viewing deck of her own eyes - as her room passed around her as her body walked itself forwards. It was a very disconcerting but also strangely fascinating experience.
Her hand reached out and turned the handle.
The light switch is on the right hand side at about waist height.
Her vision didn’t turn. Instead her hand reached out with the familiarity of one who had lived here all their adult life, flicking on the light without a second thought.
Her vision darkened as her body shut its eyes against the bright light. She never had learned to prepare herself for the glare, no matter how many times it caught her.
Opening her eyes slowly, she saw her body standing in front of the bathroom mirror.
It was a familiar sight: It was her plain face framed by her unkempt hair, her frumpy sweater over her wrinkled clothes. But the posture and facial expression were wrong. This other Judy in front of her stood with her shoulders back instead of the habitual slouch, and the expression of light-hearted cheer on her face was disturbingly alien.
Her body wrinkled its brow, but its smile didn’t fade.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” her voice said.
Judy was ashamed to realise that she mustn’t have seen her own smile in years.
“Well,” her body said, “hopefully we can change that, if only for today.”
Judy wondered what her agent’s name was, knowing even as she did so that he could probably hear or at least sense her question.
Her body tapped its nose with a reluctant grin. “Can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. But for the duration of my stay, you can call me JD.”
Like John Doe, Judy thought.
“Like John Doe,” her body agreed cautiously. “But I like to think of it as ‘Judy’ without the ‘u.’ It’s nice to finally meet you, Judy. Face-to-face, as it were.”
Judy groaned inwardly, but found herself warming to JD’s attempt at humour. It was strange that the first in-person voice she would hear in conversation for years would be her own, and the strangeness seemed to overcome the anxiety that would ordinarily cause her to shut down completely.
“It’s a benefit of the control I have,” JD explained. “Our emotions are nominally separate, but the process of communicating with you and accessing your memories involves passing on a part of my mental state into yours. So even if you are - as you think of yourself - a neurotic shut-in, you have enough of me in you right now to make the experience bearable.”
Judy marvelled in a mix of amazement and concern at the implications of what she had just heard herself say. She had truly passed the point of no return, now: A stranger was wearing her body, indirectly controlling her mind and all she could do for the next six hours was watch.
The loss of control was - if anything - a relief, and Judy found herself feeling strangely optimistic about the night ahead.
Her reflection grinned back at her.
“Let’s get ready then, shall we?”
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As newlyweds struggling to make a start in life, Lucas and Mila Cruz are astonished to learn that Mila’s late grandmother has left them the entirety of her estate on the condition that they stay at her personal villa for seven nights. It’s a strange demand, but how can they refuse?
The will had been read.
The papers had been signed.
Mila and Lucas Cruz stood at the entrance to the new estate - THEIR new estate -in complete, stunned silence.
The property stretched out for what felt like miles in every direction - row after row of meticulously trimmed topiaries stood guard along gravel paths and around walls and columns of sandstone that shone golden in the morning light.
Lucas permitted himself a quiet whistle.
“Yeah,” Mila agreed.
“And you really didn’t know her very well?” Lucas asked.
Mila shook her head. “Barely knew she existed. Wasn’t expecting anything, really. Definitely not THIS.”
Lucas nodded, the silence broken only by the sound of distant birdsong.
At almost a hundred years old, Teresa De León had been the matriarch of Mila’s side of the family, now very widely dispersed around the world. Mila herself had fallen out of touch with the vast majority of her extended family overseas, until she received a summons to the reading of her grandmother’s will.
“Should we go in?” Mila said eventually.
Lucas shook himself awake. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll leave the luggage here for now and just bring the keys.”
They left their second-hand car parked by the fountain, looking for all the world like a chicken nugget on a wedding cake. Something to be done about that in a week’s time perhaps, but for now the incongruity would just have to stand.
“How big is it?” Lucas asked as they trod the gravel path.
“Big,” said Mila, almost spinning as she walked trying to catch sight of everything at once. “The executor gave me a number but, I mean… just look at the place.”
“I’m looking,” Lucas agreed. “Big.”
A pair of dark wooden double doors greeted them at the end of the path, flanked by stone urns bristling with exotic blossoms.
“Who looks after…?” Lucas wondered aloud, gesturing to the flowers and the gardens to complete his question.
“Oh, there’s groundskeepers and gardeners and all sorts,” Mila said as she inspected each unique specimen. “But they won’t be back until after the week is up.”
“And then they work for us?”
“That’s the deal. We get everything: Land, assets and employees.”
Lucas scanned the estate as it could be seen from the main entryway. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“There’s a steward that manages everything,” Mila said absently. “I don’t think Teresa actually needed to do any of the work herself - from what I’m told, she funds everything off her investments.”
Lucas gave her a look of incredulity. “They must be incredible investments.”
Mila shrugged. “Take it up with the executor in a week. We’ll have access to everything.”
Lucas slid the thick, bronze key into the lock and gave it a twist, the doors swinging open as the bolt retracted.
The lights had been left on in anticipation of their arrival, and the dazzling golden glow cascading over rich red carpet, dark timber and polished marble took the couple’s breath away.
It was like something out of a fairytale, or a period-piece film about the exploits and decadence of vagabond nobility. The kind of house a child dreams of and most adults never dared hoped to own in several lifetimes.
Lucas and Mila looked at each other, an expression of giddy excitement overtaking them both as the reality of their new world finally sank in.
The villa was indeed massive: A two-story complex of solid, smooth sandstone inside out, fitted with modern lighting, heating and plumbing. Lucas had wondered out loud how the work had been done without damaging the facade, and Mila responded that any damaged blocks would probably have been replaced, no matter the expense.
“Oh, there’s wifi,” Mila said, having checked her phone out of curiosity. “Teresa certainly managed to keep up with the times.”
Lucas pulled out his phone as well. “Do you have the password?”
“No, but there might be a card or something now that you mention it. I didn’t see one in the foyer - let’s have a look around.”
It was a convenient excuse to explore, and on their quest to find any kind of missive or correspondence, Lucas and Mila discovered the kitchen, the laundry, the servant’s quarters, several bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms (guest and master), the study, the music room, two separate withdrawing rooms (men’s and women’s?), the indoor pool and the solarium.
Lucas had taken some time to appreciate the collected instruments (including - to his overwhelming disbelief - what looked like an authentic Stradivarius violin) and Mila had to stifle a laugh when she realised that Teresa’s collection of books included an extensive array of adult literature. With illustrations.
It was in the grand hall - furnished with enough seating for forty and space to spare - that the couple found a single folded card atop one of the massive tables like a boat on an ebony ocean.
Mila read the letter aloud, the pair exchanging the occasional look of disbelief as they read.
My dearest Mila,
You may know very little of me, but as your grandmother, it is my duty to never completely lose touch with the lives of my children. As such, I would like to congratulate you and your husband Lucas on your recent wedding: My sources tell me that he is a devoted and intelligent man of good character, and you deserve nothing less.
I hope that you can forgive any discomfort that my attention may cause. I was less than pleased to learn my own grandfather had done the same, but he judged that I would treat his estate with the respect it demands, and I have judged you to be similarly worthy.
Do not feel obligated to support your brothers and sisters: Like yourself until this day, their business and their fortunes are their own. All that I ask is that you preserve what I have built, and use it to create a future for yourselves and your own children, should you choose to have any.
So long as this house and these lands and this family endures, I will always be with you.
With love that flows across the ages,
Teresa De León
“An intelligent man of character,” Lucas said with a growing expression of smugness. “I suspected Teresa was a lady of taste, but now I know it for certain.”
Mila shot him an unimpressed look before scanning the paper again.
“Less than pleased,” she read out once more. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”
“It’s a bit creepy,” Lucas admitted. “I wonder what sources she could be referring to? I mean, I’m glad they’ve put in a word for me, but still. I hope I don’t owe anyone a favour for the good report.”
“We’ve only just gotten married,” Mila retorted. “If what she says is right, she’s been keeping tabs on me since I was born. BEFORE I was born: She would have been spying on my mother as well!”
“Rich people,” Lucas said as the best explanation he could think of. “Old rich people. Must drive them crazy having that kind of spare time.”
“We do have that kind of spare time,” Mila pointed out. “I mean, we do now.”
Lucas nodded thoughtfully. “Well, we’re rich, but we’re not old or crazy. And I can think of better things to do with our time than spy on our nonexistent grandchildren.”
Mila gave him a sidelong look, picking up on the suggestive tone of voice. “It’s still mid-morning,” she protested.
Lucas grinned. “Like you said: We have plenty of spare time.”
***
They did not, in fact, have sex. Despite Lucas’ enthusiasm, Mila was still unhappy to know that the woman who had inhabited this house before them had been spying on her for her entire life. Worse than that: She now struggled to shake off the unpleasant sense that she was still being watched, as though her gathered ancestors were observing her from beyond the grave.
It was a decidedly un-sexy thought.
They had made it as far as the master bedroom, but Lucas quickly picked up on Mila’s sour mood and instead decided to unpack their belongings from the car.
Mila chose to wander the villa, its majesty now tarnished by the revelation of espionage, and the knowledge that Teresa had suffered a similar indignity in her time brought little comfort.
“When I have kids,” Mila thought, before correcting herself.“If I choose to have kids, I’ll respect their privacy.”
Of course, having kids was the thing to do. Mila’s family had made no secret of the expectations they had of her, and while she had never openly opposed the idea, she had always waved them away with excuses: She was too young. She hadn’t found the right man. She wasn’t financially secure enough to raise a family.
Well she’d grown up, and she’d found a man, and with alarming suddenness she had the financial stability of bedrock. So what now?
The thought of being a vessel just to pump out babies made her skin crawl, and a sudden distaste for her own antecedents gave rise to a sudden streak of defiance.
“Should you choose to have any,” she repeated to herself. As if the old woman had known she would be reluctant. Had Teresa felt the same at her age? It must have felt even worse for her - bad enough the thought of your grandmother spying on you as a child, the thought of a male figure doing the same made her slightly nauseated.
Mila found that she had wandered idly into the study, and was about to turn around when an idea occurred to her. Memory was an unreliable tool at the best of times, and only got worse with age, so it stood to reason that any head of the family honestly devoted to keeping tabs on their descendants would need to keep records of some kind. Despite the building’s modern utilities, Teresa De León had not invested in a personal computer, so surely there must be a diary of some sort hidden in the house.
Wandering up to the desk - a solidly built beast of mahogany and green leather - Mila began to open drawers methodically, flipping through the pages of anything that looked like it might contain reports from Teresa’s spies.
It was an ultimately fruitless search, or at least it became fruitless when Mila found herself entirely distracted by the diaries Teresa kept of her own life. She was shocked to learn that while Teresa had been judged by her own grandfather as studious and conservative, she had not been married at the time of her inheritance. More than that, the sudden influx of wealth seemed to have had a transformative effect on the woman, as she rapidly gained a reputation for hosting outrageous social gatherings with the world’s decadent elite.
The diaries themselves spoke of a sudden sense of freedom, of feeling truly alive after being stifled for what felt like a century. The newly wealthy Teresa had taken lover after lover, men and women in equal measure and sometimes both at once, and the scandal of it all only fostered her reputation.
The young Teresa’s first-hand accounts of her vast and varied exploits compared to the staid and patronising prose of her older self in the letter gave Mila a terrible sense of horrified amusement.
“You little hypocrite,” Mila whispered to the dead woman. She had been trusted to manage the estate “respectfully” by her grandfather and for the greater part of her life appeared to have used it to rope in a carnival carousel of lovers. Evidently she had managed to do so without bankrupting herself, but even so.
At some point, Lucas must have come in with a bowl of something. Mila had thanked him and at some point he had come back for the emptied bowl, but Mila found herself too entranced to look away.
It wasn’t until she reached a blank page of her current book that she looked up and realised that the sun had begun to set. She must have been here for hours! A small pile of tomes to her left attested to the time she had spent, dwarfed by the pile of more, still unread, to her right and then the study’s collection at large. Mila had thought that the illustrated erotica was simply there for rarity or historical value - she now suspected that they may have been a more personal investment.
The clock struck six, and Mila was suddenly overcome by a brief wave of vertigo. No doubt several hours sitting in one position was not good for the body, and while Lucas may have brought her a snack, she probably needed something more substantial.
She stood up, taking a moment to stretch the stiffness out of her joints. It took a bit of effort after being hunched over for so long, but feeling her body working the tension away felt almost liberating. To savour the moment, she took the time to flex each part of her body individually: Rotating both feet, flexing and clenching her toes, rolling each shoulder around before rotating her head this way and that. Within minutes she felt completely revitalised and unaccountably fresh. Maybe she should take up yoga?
Her gaze suddenly fixated on one of the many volumes populating the shelves. It hadn’t stuck out to her earlier, but there was definitely something odd about this particular book: It was just a little bit out of line - a fraction of an inch, if that - and almost seemed to be waving for her attention.
Mila reached out and took hold of the protruding corner, giving it a push as though to slide it back in line with its neighbours. Instead of the smooth action she had expected, she felt a mechanical click through the leather, and the entire bookshelf swung silently into the wall as though on hinges, a walk-in closet of extravagant proportions stretching out beyond.
She could scarcely breathe as she took in the collection suddenly revealed: Shoes and hats and tights and bras and feathers and leather and rubber and lace and tassels and frills and whips and chains and studs and collars and leashes and so, so much more.
Captivated, Mila stepped forward in a dreamlike daze and reached out with a hand, stroking the material of the nearest costume that hung from its peg. The material was like nothing she’d ever felt, almost slippery between her fingers, and it spoke to her of intimate contact, of whispered entreaties and of tantalizing anticipation.
Before she could stop herself, she had stripped completely nude and slipped into the outfit, stopping to admire herself in a full-length mirror that stood in the centre of the collection. Who was this woman staring back at her? She had Mila’s face and her hair and her body, but this style, this pose, this expression… Mila saw a look of ravenous hunger in her own eyes.
Yes, the old woman had spied on her, but so what? She was dead now, and had left all her worldly possessions behind. She’d treat it respectfully alright - more respectfully than Teresa herself had done - but she’d also have fun with it. Nobody could hold that against her, her grandmother least of all.
She tried another outfit next: Something black and strappy held together with silver links.
Another outfit: Something short and tight with a feather in the top.
The last outfit was perfect: Pure white and soft like a bridal gown, but no bride would be seen dead in this except perhaps on her honeymoon.
Mila looked herself over one more time, adjusting the hem just so before stepping out, closing the door behind her and leaving the study in search of her husband.
***
Lucas had been surprised to find his wife poring over old books in the study that afternoon, and even more surprised that she seemed to have shaken off her resentful mood in favour of hyper-focused study. She had enough awareness to thank him when he brought her something he’d cooked up for their dinner and again when he took the empty bowl away, but was otherwise entirely engrossed.
Taking a cue from Mila’s example, Lucas had retired to the bedroom just before six with a novel he’d started shortly before their summons. It wasn’t especially gripping, and it did little to hold his attention when his wife framed herself in the doorway wearing something truly outrageous.
For the longest time, Lucas was lost for words - questions tackling each other on route to his lips so that nothing came out.
Mila smirked at his expression and sauntered slowly over to the bed.
“What-” Lucas managed before Mila hushed him.
“It turns out our dearest Teresa was a little less dutiful than she let on,” Mila purred, swaying her hips as she walked. “And you wouldn’t believe some of the souvenirs she’d collected.”
Lucas remained frozen in place, terrified that any sudden movements might wake him from what was obviously a dream. Mila leaned forward, took the book from his unresisting hands and tossed it aside.
“Don’t move,” she whispered, as if he had the willpower to try. “I’m going to treat my darling husband to something a little special, provided he’s prepared to return the favour tomorrow.”
Mila didn’t wait for a response, choosing instead to nestle herself between Lucas’ outstretched legs, unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly. Lucas’ underwear immediately tented as his painfully constrained cock rose up, and Mila giggled, stroking the tip delicately through the fabric. Lucas let out a hoarse breath, still not sure if speaking or moving would break the spell.
Mila gave him a pitying look. “You’re so sombre, my love. Just close your eyes, let everything disappear until there’s nothing but the feeling of me around you.”
His pants were pulled down, his underwear followed and his dick was exposed to the cool evening air for only a moment before Mila gave it a fleeting lick.
Lucas felt the blood rushing to his groin, making him painfully hard as his body demanded more.
Mila giggled, licking him again and giggling louder when he twitched.
“Close your eyes, darling,” she repeated. “Don’t open them again until I say so.”
Lucas did as he was told and half suffered, half savoured Mila’s furtive teasing. The timing was irregular, such that every lick and kiss felt as fresh as the first, and he actually gasped when he felt the soft warmth of his wife’s lips suddenly slide all the way to the base of his shaft.
They’d made love on their wedding night, naturally. But it had been a clumsy, almost charmingly awkward affair; neither side being quite sure how daring they could or should be with their new partner.
The Mila lashing his cock with her tongue was almost a completely different woman, and he wondered where this side of her had been hiding until now. It was with a shameful perversion that he imagined some unspoken-of twin sister, jealously supplanting Mila to seduce him in this manner and against his will he found himself rushing quickly to orgasm.
Mila seemed to sense it too, as she dove down onto him, swallowing each spurt of his essence as it pumped into her mouth. Even as the throbbing subsided, she held him between her lips; gently sucking him from his softening state back to full hardness.
With a gasp, she finally released him, his cock springing to attention and glistening with her saliva. Lucas opened his eyes to see his wife - an alien expression on her face - straddling his hips and lowering herself onto him.
She was as tight as the night they had married, but soaking wet, and he felt himself slide into her without resistance. The moan she let out was like nothing he had ever heard from her before, and she dug her fingers into his chest as she leaned forwards.
“Yesss!” she hissed. “You’re perfect, my love. Oh, you’re absolutely wonderful! You’ve no idea how exquisite this feels! This moment!”
Lucas was at a loss as to how he should respond, and settled for silently basking in his wife’s apparent ecstasy. And it really was exquisite: Mila had discarded whatever bedroom reservations she may have held before coming here, and this other woman wearing her face was clearly devoted to making the experience a pleasure for them both.
Once again he was overwhelmed by the impression that the woman grinding atop him was someone other than his wife, and again despite the guilt, he found himself rapidly approaching another climax.
Lost for words, he gripped his wife’s thighs and dug his fingers in, trying to convey that she should slow down or they should at least get a condom.
Instead she grasped his hands with hers, panting as she spoke.
“Do it, my love! Fill me! Pour it all into me! I want to feel it! I want to feel all of it!”
Lucas felt his wife’s inner walls convulse around him as she poured himself into her, and she flung her arms around his shoulders, heaving shuddering little sighs into his ear as they came together.
Even after the spasms had ceased, she held him in place, their breathing the only sound in the room.
“We should probably have a wash,” Lucas whispered as he felt himself soften and shrink. “We’ll get the sheets dirty if we stay here much longer.”
Mila sighed. “Oh, bed sheets. I have a thousand bedsheets.” She got up anyway, and while Lucas found her response a bit odd, he said nothing as he followed her into the bathroom.
Their time in the shower together was no less intimate, though it largely consisted of Mila gently massaging and pampering Lucas from head to toe, as though seeing him for the first time. He tried to keep up, but she batted his hands away.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered to him, before returning to her ministrations.
Lucas didn’t know if he would be able to manage an experience like this for his wife, but he was prepared to try his best.
Mila insisted on toweling him dry before doing the same for herself, her gaze constantly wandering up and down his body in a way that seemed almost proprietary.
It was barely eight o'clock when they climbed into bed, snuggled into each other’s arms and fell into a dreamless sleep.
***
Mila woke up to find herself alone in bed, with the curtains drawn and the door to the hallway half open. She might have gotten up to see where Lucas had gone, but the warmth and comfort of the sheets made the thought of getting out of bed unappealing.
And she had a lot to think about.
What on earth had come over her last night? One moment the thought of being intimate in Teresa’s house had made her feel queasy, but reading about the younger woman’s descent into perversion seemed to have turned Mila’s head completely around.
And then she’d found the wardrobe - and what a collection! She hadn’t told Lucas where she’d found the outfit she had been wearing last night, and she hadn’t given him a chance to ask, though he certainly must have wondered. She had tossed the lusty bridal outfit onto the floor before getting into the shower, and it was presumably still there.
Why had she put it on? Curiosity? She remembered the thrill she had felt on discovering the assembled costumes. She had felt like a child playing dress-ups, exploring a world that had until that point only existed for “other” people.
She remembered smirking at her reflection and how wet she had made herself.
Experimentally, she brushed a hand over one breast. She felt the usual tingle of sensitivity, but it was nothing like the overwhelming licentiousness she had felt last night.
And then she had walked into the bedroom, posed in the doorway and… ravished her husband.
Which wasn’t out of the ordinary at all: That’s what married couples did, wasn’t it? Expressed their love through physical intimacy?
Except what she had done to Lucas last night wasn’t intimate. It had been animal. Bestial. She hadn’t lain awkwardly down beside him like she had on their wedding night - all nerves and tittering embarrassment. She had devoured every inch of him with a desperate and feral hunger. Twice.
Mila licked her lips, as though she might still find traces of him. In all her life before meeting Lucas, she’d only ever gone down on a guy once. It had been an uncomfortable and unpleasant experience, enacted out of a sense of obligation when she was young and inexperienced enough to think boys could just tell girls what to do and girls had to obey. She had hated the idea of having a penis in her mouth ever since, and had rebuffed Lucas’ few attempts to suggest it in very definite terms.
And yet with no prompting and no knowledge beyond that one foul encounter, she had lavished and licked and swallowed and suckled on his cock until he came into her mouth, letting every drop pour down her throat.
Where had that come from? Teresa’s diaries? But so what if she’d read her grandmother’s diaries? What the hell had possessed her to debase herself the same way?
And what did Lucas think of her? He’d left the bed this morning without waking her or leaving a note. He was probably wondering what had happened to his straight-laced wife that she would suddenly transform into a cock-thirsty whore. Would he even still believe that he had been her first time? How could he? What virginal wife would have ridden her husband the way she had done?
He must be fretting over their marriage right now, probably drinking his fears away or calling his family to tell them it isn’t working. He may have found the diaries Mila left in the study - or worse, chanced upon the wardrobe himself.
Dreading what she might find, Mila forced herself out of bed and into a bathrobe. She padded quietly from the bedroom to the study, relieved at least to find the secret door still closed and the diaries untouched.
Further down, she picked up the faint smell of cooking food. Following it to the kitchen, she found Lucas at one of the many stoves holding a sizzling frying pan.
Lucas looked up and smiled when he saw her.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said. “I was hoping to have this ready before you got up. You don’t want breakfast in bed?”
Mila shook her head, relieved to find Lucas not brooding over last night’s events but still tensed for any sudden questions.
“Probably best not to make a mess until the staff come back,” Lucas said, nodding. He plated up the bacon and eggs he had been frying just as the toast popped up, and Mila found herself looking at a hearty breakfast including beans, tomato, mushrooms and a glass of orange juice.
“What’s this for?” she asked, confused.
Lucas shrugged awkwardly as he began cooking another portion.
“Well, last night you said you wanted a favour in return for you… you know…”
Mila blushed. She knew all right.
“And I figure,” Lucas continued. “I mean, I’m not a prude, it’s just… I don’t really feel comfortable… but not like that! It’s… I just don’t think I’d be any good at… you know.”
Mila stared at her husband in confusion.
“You know?” she said.
Lucas shrugged helplessly. “I just don’t want you to have a disappointing experience.”
Very slowly, Mila managed to hear the words her husband wasn’t saying.
“You… don’t want to go down on me?”
Lucas smiled apologetically. “Sorry, darling.”
Mila blinked in surprise. “Oh! Oh, no - that’s fine. That’s perfectly fine! I never expected - I mean, I wasn’t even thinking at the time! I don’t even know what came over me!”
Lucas visibly sagged with relief, plating up his own breakfast and sitting down opposite Mila. “Hey, I don’t know what came over you either,” he said with a chuckle.
Mila froze with the first forkful of food halfway to her mouth. “You don’t… you don’t think it was weird, do you?”
Lucas shook his head, chewing and swallowing his own mouthful before speaking. “I mean, I was surprised but I wouldn’t say it was weird. Not in a bad way.”
Mila hesitated, fork still in the air. “You… You don’t have any questions about… about the stuff I did?”
Lucas gave her a long look, sighed and took her wrist in both hands. “Honey, I don’t care if I’m not you first time or whatever. I love you, and that’s all that matters. You don’t have to be embarrassed about your experience - frankly, I’m a little ashamed about how little I have to bring to the bedroom, but I’m happy to learn with you.”
Mila didn’t know what to say. Lucas had completely the wrong idea, but who could blame him, given the evidence of last night? And there wasn’t any point in trying to convince him of the truth.
“Leave the plate in the sink,” Lucas said, his own plate already empty. “I’ll wash up once I’ve had a look around the garden. You take it easy: Today you’re my princess. That’s my favour to you.”
Mila finally began to eat, if only as an excuse not to speak.
Lucas seemed perfectly happy, and Mila should also be happy that he was happy, but the fact that he hadn’t questioned her more insistently left her feeling strangely isolated.
Alone in the kitchen, Mila finished her breakfast and quietly wondered what the hell was happening to her.
The will had been read.
The papers had been signed.
Mila and Lucas Cruz stood at the entrance to the new estate - THEIR new estate -in complete, stunned silence.
The property stretched out for what felt like miles in every direction - row after row of meticulously trimmed topiaries stood guard along gravel paths and around walls and columns of sandstone that shone golden in the morning light.
Lucas permitted himself a quiet whistle.
“Yeah,” Mila agreed.
“And you really didn’t know her very well?” Lucas asked.
Mila shook her head. “Barely knew she existed. Wasn’t expecting anything, really. Definitely not THIS.”
Lucas nodded, the silence broken only by the sound of distant birdsong.
At almost a hundred years old, Teresa De León had been the matriarch of Mila’s side of the family, now very widely dispersed around the world. Mila herself had fallen out of touch with the vast majority of her extended family overseas, until she received a summons to the reading of her grandmother’s will.
“Should we go in?” Mila said eventually.
Lucas shook himself awake. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll leave the luggage here for now and just bring the keys.”
They left their second-hand car parked by the fountain, looking for all the world like a chicken nugget on a wedding cake. Something to be done about that in a week’s time perhaps, but for now the incongruity would just have to stand.
“How big is it?” Lucas asked as they trod the gravel path.
“Big,” said Mila, almost spinning as she walked trying to catch sight of everything at once. “The executor gave me a number but, I mean… just look at the place.”
“I’m looking,” Lucas agreed. “Big.”
A pair of dark wooden double doors greeted them at the end of the path, flanked by stone urns bristling with exotic blossoms.
“Who looks after…?” Lucas wondered aloud, gesturing to the flowers and the gardens to complete his question.
“Oh, there’s groundskeepers and gardeners and all sorts,” Mila said as she inspected each unique specimen. “But they won’t be back until after the week is up.”
“And then they work for us?”
“That’s the deal. We get everything: Land, assets and employees.”
Lucas scanned the estate as it could be seen from the main entryway. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“There’s a steward that manages everything,” Mila said absently. “I don’t think Teresa actually needed to do any of the work herself - from what I’m told, she funds everything off her investments.”
Lucas gave her a look of incredulity. “They must be incredible investments.”
Mila shrugged. “Take it up with the executor in a week. We’ll have access to everything.”
Lucas slid the thick, bronze key into the lock and gave it a twist, the doors swinging open as the bolt retracted.
The lights had been left on in anticipation of their arrival, and the dazzling golden glow cascading over rich red carpet, dark timber and polished marble took the couple’s breath away.
It was like something out of a fairytale, or a period-piece film about the exploits and decadence of vagabond nobility. The kind of house a child dreams of and most adults never dared hoped to own in several lifetimes.
Lucas and Mila looked at each other, an expression of giddy excitement overtaking them both as the reality of their new world finally sank in.
The villa was indeed massive: A two-story complex of solid, smooth sandstone inside out, fitted with modern lighting, heating and plumbing. Lucas had wondered out loud how the work had been done without damaging the facade, and Mila responded that any damaged blocks would probably have been replaced, no matter the expense.
“Oh, there’s wifi,” Mila said, having checked her phone out of curiosity. “Teresa certainly managed to keep up with the times.”
Lucas pulled out his phone as well. “Do you have the password?”
“No, but there might be a card or something now that you mention it. I didn’t see one in the foyer - let’s have a look around.”
It was a convenient excuse to explore, and on their quest to find any kind of missive or correspondence, Lucas and Mila discovered the kitchen, the laundry, the servant’s quarters, several bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms (guest and master), the study, the music room, two separate withdrawing rooms (men’s and women’s?), the indoor pool and the solarium.
Lucas had taken some time to appreciate the collected instruments (including - to his overwhelming disbelief - what looked like an authentic Stradivarius violin) and Mila had to stifle a laugh when she realised that Teresa’s collection of books included an extensive array of adult literature. With illustrations.
It was in the grand hall - furnished with enough seating for forty and space to spare - that the couple found a single folded card atop one of the massive tables like a boat on an ebony ocean.
Mila read the letter aloud, the pair exchanging the occasional look of disbelief as they read.
My dearest Mila,
You may know very little of me, but as your grandmother, it is my duty to never completely lose touch with the lives of my children. As such, I would like to congratulate you and your husband Lucas on your recent wedding: My sources tell me that he is a devoted and intelligent man of good character, and you deserve nothing less.
I hope that you can forgive any discomfort that my attention may cause. I was less than pleased to learn my own grandfather had done the same, but he judged that I would treat his estate with the respect it demands, and I have judged you to be similarly worthy.
Do not feel obligated to support your brothers and sisters: Like yourself until this day, their business and their fortunes are their own. All that I ask is that you preserve what I have built, and use it to create a future for yourselves and your own children, should you choose to have any.
So long as this house and these lands and this family endures, I will always be with you.
With love that flows across the ages,
Teresa De León
“An intelligent man of character,” Lucas said with a growing expression of smugness. “I suspected Teresa was a lady of taste, but now I know it for certain.”
Mila shot him an unimpressed look before scanning the paper again.
“Less than pleased,” she read out once more. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”
“It’s a bit creepy,” Lucas admitted. “I wonder what sources she could be referring to? I mean, I’m glad they’ve put in a word for me, but still. I hope I don’t owe anyone a favour for the good report.”
“We’ve only just gotten married,” Mila retorted. “If what she says is right, she’s been keeping tabs on me since I was born. BEFORE I was born: She would have been spying on my mother as well!”
“Rich people,” Lucas said as the best explanation he could think of. “Old rich people. Must drive them crazy having that kind of spare time.”
“We do have that kind of spare time,” Mila pointed out. “I mean, we do now.”
Lucas nodded thoughtfully. “Well, we’re rich, but we’re not old or crazy. And I can think of better things to do with our time than spy on our nonexistent grandchildren.”
Mila gave him a sidelong look, picking up on the suggestive tone of voice. “It’s still mid-morning,” she protested.
Lucas grinned. “Like you said: We have plenty of spare time.”
***
They did not, in fact, have sex. Despite Lucas’ enthusiasm, Mila was still unhappy to know that the woman who had inhabited this house before them had been spying on her for her entire life. Worse than that: She now struggled to shake off the unpleasant sense that she was still being watched, as though her gathered ancestors were observing her from beyond the grave.
It was a decidedly un-sexy thought.
They had made it as far as the master bedroom, but Lucas quickly picked up on Mila’s sour mood and instead decided to unpack their belongings from the car.
Mila chose to wander the villa, its majesty now tarnished by the revelation of espionage, and the knowledge that Teresa had suffered a similar indignity in her time brought little comfort.
“When I have kids,” Mila thought, before correcting herself.“If I choose to have kids, I’ll respect their privacy.”
Of course, having kids was the thing to do. Mila’s family had made no secret of the expectations they had of her, and while she had never openly opposed the idea, she had always waved them away with excuses: She was too young. She hadn’t found the right man. She wasn’t financially secure enough to raise a family.
Well she’d grown up, and she’d found a man, and with alarming suddenness she had the financial stability of bedrock. So what now?
The thought of being a vessel just to pump out babies made her skin crawl, and a sudden distaste for her own antecedents gave rise to a sudden streak of defiance.
“Should you choose to have any,” she repeated to herself. As if the old woman had known she would be reluctant. Had Teresa felt the same at her age? It must have felt even worse for her - bad enough the thought of your grandmother spying on you as a child, the thought of a male figure doing the same made her slightly nauseated.
Mila found that she had wandered idly into the study, and was about to turn around when an idea occurred to her. Memory was an unreliable tool at the best of times, and only got worse with age, so it stood to reason that any head of the family honestly devoted to keeping tabs on their descendants would need to keep records of some kind. Despite the building’s modern utilities, Teresa De León had not invested in a personal computer, so surely there must be a diary of some sort hidden in the house.
Wandering up to the desk - a solidly built beast of mahogany and green leather - Mila began to open drawers methodically, flipping through the pages of anything that looked like it might contain reports from Teresa’s spies.
It was an ultimately fruitless search, or at least it became fruitless when Mila found herself entirely distracted by the diaries Teresa kept of her own life. She was shocked to learn that while Teresa had been judged by her own grandfather as studious and conservative, she had not been married at the time of her inheritance. More than that, the sudden influx of wealth seemed to have had a transformative effect on the woman, as she rapidly gained a reputation for hosting outrageous social gatherings with the world’s decadent elite.
The diaries themselves spoke of a sudden sense of freedom, of feeling truly alive after being stifled for what felt like a century. The newly wealthy Teresa had taken lover after lover, men and women in equal measure and sometimes both at once, and the scandal of it all only fostered her reputation.
The young Teresa’s first-hand accounts of her vast and varied exploits compared to the staid and patronising prose of her older self in the letter gave Mila a terrible sense of horrified amusement.
“You little hypocrite,” Mila whispered to the dead woman. She had been trusted to manage the estate “respectfully” by her grandfather and for the greater part of her life appeared to have used it to rope in a carnival carousel of lovers. Evidently she had managed to do so without bankrupting herself, but even so.
At some point, Lucas must have come in with a bowl of something. Mila had thanked him and at some point he had come back for the emptied bowl, but Mila found herself too entranced to look away.
It wasn’t until she reached a blank page of her current book that she looked up and realised that the sun had begun to set. She must have been here for hours! A small pile of tomes to her left attested to the time she had spent, dwarfed by the pile of more, still unread, to her right and then the study’s collection at large. Mila had thought that the illustrated erotica was simply there for rarity or historical value - she now suspected that they may have been a more personal investment.
The clock struck six, and Mila was suddenly overcome by a brief wave of vertigo. No doubt several hours sitting in one position was not good for the body, and while Lucas may have brought her a snack, she probably needed something more substantial.
She stood up, taking a moment to stretch the stiffness out of her joints. It took a bit of effort after being hunched over for so long, but feeling her body working the tension away felt almost liberating. To savour the moment, she took the time to flex each part of her body individually: Rotating both feet, flexing and clenching her toes, rolling each shoulder around before rotating her head this way and that. Within minutes she felt completely revitalised and unaccountably fresh. Maybe she should take up yoga?
Her gaze suddenly fixated on one of the many volumes populating the shelves. It hadn’t stuck out to her earlier, but there was definitely something odd about this particular book: It was just a little bit out of line - a fraction of an inch, if that - and almost seemed to be waving for her attention.
Mila reached out and took hold of the protruding corner, giving it a push as though to slide it back in line with its neighbours. Instead of the smooth action she had expected, she felt a mechanical click through the leather, and the entire bookshelf swung silently into the wall as though on hinges, a walk-in closet of extravagant proportions stretching out beyond.
She could scarcely breathe as she took in the collection suddenly revealed: Shoes and hats and tights and bras and feathers and leather and rubber and lace and tassels and frills and whips and chains and studs and collars and leashes and so, so much more.
Captivated, Mila stepped forward in a dreamlike daze and reached out with a hand, stroking the material of the nearest costume that hung from its peg. The material was like nothing she’d ever felt, almost slippery between her fingers, and it spoke to her of intimate contact, of whispered entreaties and of tantalizing anticipation.
Before she could stop herself, she had stripped completely nude and slipped into the outfit, stopping to admire herself in a full-length mirror that stood in the centre of the collection. Who was this woman staring back at her? She had Mila’s face and her hair and her body, but this style, this pose, this expression… Mila saw a look of ravenous hunger in her own eyes.
Yes, the old woman had spied on her, but so what? She was dead now, and had left all her worldly possessions behind. She’d treat it respectfully alright - more respectfully than Teresa herself had done - but she’d also have fun with it. Nobody could hold that against her, her grandmother least of all.
She tried another outfit next: Something black and strappy held together with silver links.
Another outfit: Something short and tight with a feather in the top.
The last outfit was perfect: Pure white and soft like a bridal gown, but no bride would be seen dead in this except perhaps on her honeymoon.
Mila looked herself over one more time, adjusting the hem just so before stepping out, closing the door behind her and leaving the study in search of her husband.
***
Lucas had been surprised to find his wife poring over old books in the study that afternoon, and even more surprised that she seemed to have shaken off her resentful mood in favour of hyper-focused study. She had enough awareness to thank him when he brought her something he’d cooked up for their dinner and again when he took the empty bowl away, but was otherwise entirely engrossed.
Taking a cue from Mila’s example, Lucas had retired to the bedroom just before six with a novel he’d started shortly before their summons. It wasn’t especially gripping, and it did little to hold his attention when his wife framed herself in the doorway wearing something truly outrageous.
For the longest time, Lucas was lost for words - questions tackling each other on route to his lips so that nothing came out.
Mila smirked at his expression and sauntered slowly over to the bed.
“What-” Lucas managed before Mila hushed him.
“It turns out our dearest Teresa was a little less dutiful than she let on,” Mila purred, swaying her hips as she walked. “And you wouldn’t believe some of the souvenirs she’d collected.”
Lucas remained frozen in place, terrified that any sudden movements might wake him from what was obviously a dream. Mila leaned forward, took the book from his unresisting hands and tossed it aside.
“Don’t move,” she whispered, as if he had the willpower to try. “I’m going to treat my darling husband to something a little special, provided he’s prepared to return the favour tomorrow.”
Mila didn’t wait for a response, choosing instead to nestle herself between Lucas’ outstretched legs, unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly. Lucas’ underwear immediately tented as his painfully constrained cock rose up, and Mila giggled, stroking the tip delicately through the fabric. Lucas let out a hoarse breath, still not sure if speaking or moving would break the spell.
Mila gave him a pitying look. “You’re so sombre, my love. Just close your eyes, let everything disappear until there’s nothing but the feeling of me around you.”
His pants were pulled down, his underwear followed and his dick was exposed to the cool evening air for only a moment before Mila gave it a fleeting lick.
Lucas felt the blood rushing to his groin, making him painfully hard as his body demanded more.
Mila giggled, licking him again and giggling louder when he twitched.
“Close your eyes, darling,” she repeated. “Don’t open them again until I say so.”
Lucas did as he was told and half suffered, half savoured Mila’s furtive teasing. The timing was irregular, such that every lick and kiss felt as fresh as the first, and he actually gasped when he felt the soft warmth of his wife’s lips suddenly slide all the way to the base of his shaft.
They’d made love on their wedding night, naturally. But it had been a clumsy, almost charmingly awkward affair; neither side being quite sure how daring they could or should be with their new partner.
The Mila lashing his cock with her tongue was almost a completely different woman, and he wondered where this side of her had been hiding until now. It was with a shameful perversion that he imagined some unspoken-of twin sister, jealously supplanting Mila to seduce him in this manner and against his will he found himself rushing quickly to orgasm.
Mila seemed to sense it too, as she dove down onto him, swallowing each spurt of his essence as it pumped into her mouth. Even as the throbbing subsided, she held him between her lips; gently sucking him from his softening state back to full hardness.
With a gasp, she finally released him, his cock springing to attention and glistening with her saliva. Lucas opened his eyes to see his wife - an alien expression on her face - straddling his hips and lowering herself onto him.
She was as tight as the night they had married, but soaking wet, and he felt himself slide into her without resistance. The moan she let out was like nothing he had ever heard from her before, and she dug her fingers into his chest as she leaned forwards.
“Yesss!” she hissed. “You’re perfect, my love. Oh, you’re absolutely wonderful! You’ve no idea how exquisite this feels! This moment!”
Lucas was at a loss as to how he should respond, and settled for silently basking in his wife’s apparent ecstasy. And it really was exquisite: Mila had discarded whatever bedroom reservations she may have held before coming here, and this other woman wearing her face was clearly devoted to making the experience a pleasure for them both.
Once again he was overwhelmed by the impression that the woman grinding atop him was someone other than his wife, and again despite the guilt, he found himself rapidly approaching another climax.
Lost for words, he gripped his wife’s thighs and dug his fingers in, trying to convey that she should slow down or they should at least get a condom.
Instead she grasped his hands with hers, panting as she spoke.
“Do it, my love! Fill me! Pour it all into me! I want to feel it! I want to feel all of it!”
Lucas felt his wife’s inner walls convulse around him as she poured himself into her, and she flung her arms around his shoulders, heaving shuddering little sighs into his ear as they came together.
Even after the spasms had ceased, she held him in place, their breathing the only sound in the room.
“We should probably have a wash,” Lucas whispered as he felt himself soften and shrink. “We’ll get the sheets dirty if we stay here much longer.”
Mila sighed. “Oh, bed sheets. I have a thousand bedsheets.” She got up anyway, and while Lucas found her response a bit odd, he said nothing as he followed her into the bathroom.
Their time in the shower together was no less intimate, though it largely consisted of Mila gently massaging and pampering Lucas from head to toe, as though seeing him for the first time. He tried to keep up, but she batted his hands away.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered to him, before returning to her ministrations.
Lucas didn’t know if he would be able to manage an experience like this for his wife, but he was prepared to try his best.
Mila insisted on toweling him dry before doing the same for herself, her gaze constantly wandering up and down his body in a way that seemed almost proprietary.
It was barely eight o'clock when they climbed into bed, snuggled into each other’s arms and fell into a dreamless sleep.
***
Mila woke up to find herself alone in bed, with the curtains drawn and the door to the hallway half open. She might have gotten up to see where Lucas had gone, but the warmth and comfort of the sheets made the thought of getting out of bed unappealing.
And she had a lot to think about.
What on earth had come over her last night? One moment the thought of being intimate in Teresa’s house had made her feel queasy, but reading about the younger woman’s descent into perversion seemed to have turned Mila’s head completely around.
And then she’d found the wardrobe - and what a collection! She hadn’t told Lucas where she’d found the outfit she had been wearing last night, and she hadn’t given him a chance to ask, though he certainly must have wondered. She had tossed the lusty bridal outfit onto the floor before getting into the shower, and it was presumably still there.
Why had she put it on? Curiosity? She remembered the thrill she had felt on discovering the assembled costumes. She had felt like a child playing dress-ups, exploring a world that had until that point only existed for “other” people.
She remembered smirking at her reflection and how wet she had made herself.
Experimentally, she brushed a hand over one breast. She felt the usual tingle of sensitivity, but it was nothing like the overwhelming licentiousness she had felt last night.
And then she had walked into the bedroom, posed in the doorway and… ravished her husband.
Which wasn’t out of the ordinary at all: That’s what married couples did, wasn’t it? Expressed their love through physical intimacy?
Except what she had done to Lucas last night wasn’t intimate. It had been animal. Bestial. She hadn’t lain awkwardly down beside him like she had on their wedding night - all nerves and tittering embarrassment. She had devoured every inch of him with a desperate and feral hunger. Twice.
Mila licked her lips, as though she might still find traces of him. In all her life before meeting Lucas, she’d only ever gone down on a guy once. It had been an uncomfortable and unpleasant experience, enacted out of a sense of obligation when she was young and inexperienced enough to think boys could just tell girls what to do and girls had to obey. She had hated the idea of having a penis in her mouth ever since, and had rebuffed Lucas’ few attempts to suggest it in very definite terms.
And yet with no prompting and no knowledge beyond that one foul encounter, she had lavished and licked and swallowed and suckled on his cock until he came into her mouth, letting every drop pour down her throat.
Where had that come from? Teresa’s diaries? But so what if she’d read her grandmother’s diaries? What the hell had possessed her to debase herself the same way?
And what did Lucas think of her? He’d left the bed this morning without waking her or leaving a note. He was probably wondering what had happened to his straight-laced wife that she would suddenly transform into a cock-thirsty whore. Would he even still believe that he had been her first time? How could he? What virginal wife would have ridden her husband the way she had done?
He must be fretting over their marriage right now, probably drinking his fears away or calling his family to tell them it isn’t working. He may have found the diaries Mila left in the study - or worse, chanced upon the wardrobe himself.
Dreading what she might find, Mila forced herself out of bed and into a bathrobe. She padded quietly from the bedroom to the study, relieved at least to find the secret door still closed and the diaries untouched.
Further down, she picked up the faint smell of cooking food. Following it to the kitchen, she found Lucas at one of the many stoves holding a sizzling frying pan.
Lucas looked up and smiled when he saw her.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said. “I was hoping to have this ready before you got up. You don’t want breakfast in bed?”
Mila shook her head, relieved to find Lucas not brooding over last night’s events but still tensed for any sudden questions.
“Probably best not to make a mess until the staff come back,” Lucas said, nodding. He plated up the bacon and eggs he had been frying just as the toast popped up, and Mila found herself looking at a hearty breakfast including beans, tomato, mushrooms and a glass of orange juice.
“What’s this for?” she asked, confused.
Lucas shrugged awkwardly as he began cooking another portion.
“Well, last night you said you wanted a favour in return for you… you know…”
Mila blushed. She knew all right.
“And I figure,” Lucas continued. “I mean, I’m not a prude, it’s just… I don’t really feel comfortable… but not like that! It’s… I just don’t think I’d be any good at… you know.”
Mila stared at her husband in confusion.
“You know?” she said.
Lucas shrugged helplessly. “I just don’t want you to have a disappointing experience.”
Very slowly, Mila managed to hear the words her husband wasn’t saying.
“You… don’t want to go down on me?”
Lucas smiled apologetically. “Sorry, darling.”
Mila blinked in surprise. “Oh! Oh, no - that’s fine. That’s perfectly fine! I never expected - I mean, I wasn’t even thinking at the time! I don’t even know what came over me!”
Lucas visibly sagged with relief, plating up his own breakfast and sitting down opposite Mila. “Hey, I don’t know what came over you either,” he said with a chuckle.
Mila froze with the first forkful of food halfway to her mouth. “You don’t… you don’t think it was weird, do you?”
Lucas shook his head, chewing and swallowing his own mouthful before speaking. “I mean, I was surprised but I wouldn’t say it was weird. Not in a bad way.”
Mila hesitated, fork still in the air. “You… You don’t have any questions about… about the stuff I did?”
Lucas gave her a long look, sighed and took her wrist in both hands. “Honey, I don’t care if I’m not you first time or whatever. I love you, and that’s all that matters. You don’t have to be embarrassed about your experience - frankly, I’m a little ashamed about how little I have to bring to the bedroom, but I’m happy to learn with you.”
Mila didn’t know what to say. Lucas had completely the wrong idea, but who could blame him, given the evidence of last night? And there wasn’t any point in trying to convince him of the truth.
“Leave the plate in the sink,” Lucas said, his own plate already empty. “I’ll wash up once I’ve had a look around the garden. You take it easy: Today you’re my princess. That’s my favour to you.”
Mila finally began to eat, if only as an excuse not to speak.
Lucas seemed perfectly happy, and Mila should also be happy that he was happy, but the fact that he hadn’t questioned her more insistently left her feeling strangely isolated.
Alone in the kitchen, Mila finished her breakfast and quietly wondered what the hell was happening to her.
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For all of his ten years on earth, Nick’s dearest wish was to become a superhero just like his sister, Dana. His ordinary family want nothing more than an ordinary life for him, but extraordinary circumstances throw those plans into disarray. Nick suddenly finds himself becoming a superhero, but maybe not in the way he had hoped for.This is a strictly PG story due to the age of the characters involved, and I've needed to exercise some creative license to tie the requested plot points together into a coherent series of events
Nick Miller loved superheroes. In fairness, everyone Nick’s age loved superheroes - anyone who didn’t was boring and dumb - but Nick was one of the few that genuinely aspired to a career of costumed crime-fighting while others aspired to be brain surgeons or astronauts.
His family mostly tried to discourage him, but found it difficult to convince him that superheroes weren’t real, because every effort to do so was tacitly misinterpreted by Nick to include a wink and a nudge because everyone knew real superheroes needed to be kept a secret.
Nick’s older sister did NOT discourage him, much to their relative’s annoyance. Dana had given up a promising life as a banking clerk to pursue a career in both cosplay and martial arts - a life decision that had functionally excommunicated her from the family except on special occasions.
This attempt to shield Nick from outlandish influence proved to be ironically counter-productive, as it lent Dana’s few appearances in Nick’s life a mythological quality and allowed her to lean into her stage persona as the Amazing Danamite whenever they met: Yes, she’d been on lots of adventures since their last meeting. This year she had defeated invading aliens from the Negaverse, but not before fighting off assassins sent by the League of Villains. Nick believed every word of it and pinkie-promised that he would never tell anyone about Dana’s true identity, ever, ever, ever, and in return, for Christmas after his tenth birthday, Dana would begin training him as a real life superhero.
***
It had not gone well.
The training had started off with a lot of promise - Nick’s very first lesson in being a superhero was how to survive. Most kids might have baulked at this - demanding instead to be taught how to throw devastating punches or summon giant robots - but Dana had impressed upon him the vital importance of staying alive. The superheroes you know about are the ones that learned to survive; you don’t hear about the other ones, because they didn’t learn.
It had actually been a lot of fun. Dana was a strong girl (she was a superhero, so of course she was) and once Nick had learned the basics of landing safely, she had spent the afternoon picking him up and throwing him around the grass while he practised his tucks and rolls. Neither of them noticed the growing crowd of disapproving relatives, though it wasn’t until Dana started teaching Nick how to block a punch that someone ran off to get their dad.
Harlan Miller did not love superheroes. Harlan Miller loved waking up early, working hard and getting everything he needed to know about the world from the newspaper. But more than anything else, Harlan loved telling his kids they wouldn’t amount to anything if they wasted their time doing literally anything he wasn’t doing when he was their age.
There had been a lot of shouting. Nick was afraid that it might have even come to a fight, and while he knew that Dana was a superhero, he also knew that Harlan was their dad, and dads didn’t need to be superheroes - they were already dads.
By the end of the argument, nobody was hurt, but Dana had come over to him with her eyes still red and puffy, gave him a big hug and then gotten in her car without saying anything.
Nick had stood by the side of the road watching her disappear down the street, ignoring his family’s demands that he come back into the house.
That might have been the last time he ever saw his sister, if his house hadn’t suddenly exploded.
***
Nick hadn’t heard the strange whistling noise, nor did he hear the angry demands of his family change to cries of terror. He never remembered the explosion, or being picked up by the shockwave and thrown like a tumbleweed.
Nick woke up on his back to the stink of burning asphalt in his nose and the sound of distant screaming.
The sudden sense of danger made him jump as quickly to his feet as he could, various scrapes and bruises stinging as he did so.
Everything was black smoke and green flames, and for a moment he stood in a daze, completely lost as to where he was or where he should be running. Eventually a black shape took form in one direction, and silhouetted against the flames, Nick realised it must be some kind of… thing. A made thing, like a building or a car.
Edging cautiously towards it, Nick began to make out a shape and form that suggested it was some kind of vehicle; a guess that was confirmed when a blackened glass panel was smashed open and a hulking body tumbled out, a scattering of debris falling to the ground with it.
It was man shaped, thick-limbed, scaly and wearing some kind of rubbery jumpsuit. It had claws and beady red eyes and a mouthful of fangs. In short, everything about it screamed to Nick’s sensibilities that it was a Bad Guy.
It was injured, but it levered itself up onto its arms and for a moment Nick was terrified that it would attack him. That’s what Bad Guys did to little kids. But instead, its gaze focused on something small with glowing green lights on the ground a few yards away and began painfully dragging itself forwards.
Nick didn’t know what the creature was or where it had come from or what the thing it was crawling towards did, but his ironclad belief in superhero conventions told him that letting the creature get to the thing was a bad idea.
Heart racing, Nick lunged forward, snatching the tiny gadget up in one hand before scurrying back to a safe distance. He flinched when the creature bellowed at him, and when it began violently dragging itself toward him, he turned and ran blindly through the fumes.
Stumbling, choking and weeping in fear, Nick found himself running towards the red glow of ordinary flames and the panic-stricken cries of familiar voices.
One of them suddenly stopped and turned towards him, lunging out of the gloom to pick him up in both arms.
“Nick!” his mother cried. “Nick, oh my God, you’re okay! Oh my God, Nick, you’re okay!”
Nick tried to choke out a warning about the creature in the smoke, but Sally Miller carried him to where his younger siblings and cousins were huddled together in the blood-red light of the setting sun.
“Stay here!” his mother ordered. “Stay here and don’t go anywhere!”
Nick looked around that part of his family more or less his age. Most of them were crying quietly to themselves or staring mutely at the flames consuming a nearby house.
Nick realised with horror that it was in fact his own house, and that of all the shouting silhouettes around the flames, his father wasn’t among them.
“Did he come out the back way?”
“It’s all collapsed! He must have come out of a window!”
“None of the windows are open! He’s still in there!”
Nick recognised the terrified face of his sister lit up by the flames. She’d come back when the fire had started, but why wasn’t she rushing in? Their dad was still in there!
A suddenly very loud crackling noise pulled his attention away, and Nick looked down to see the green thing in his hand begin blinking erratically.
---VTLS-CSD---
---LNK-TRMNTD---
---GREETINGS, NEW OWNER---
The voice was loud to the point of being intrusive, and Nick looked around at his siblings in fear of how they would react. None of them had so much as turned to look at him.
As though sensing his question, the voice returned.
---THIS MESSAGE IS BEING BROADCAST BY TELEPATHIC LINK---
---NO-ONE BUT THE BEARER OF THIS DEVICE CAN HEAR THIS MESSAGE---
Nick looked back down at his hand. New owner? Then that thing back at the ship must have been…
---PLEASE ENTER ACCELERATION PARAMETERS---
Nick boggled in confusion. He had no idea what half of those words meant.
---PLEASE ENTER ACCELERATION PARAMETERS---
Nick looked back at his sister and considered shouting out to her. She’d know what to do. Superheroes always knew what to do.
???WHAT IS [SUPERHERO]???
Flabbergasted by such a stupid question, Nick found himself unable to think of any lucid answer, pointing instead mentally towards his sister. Dana Miller. Dana Miller was a superhero.
---USER>SUPERHERO---
???YES/NO???
Yes!
Nick felt something buzz in his brain.
Nick passed out.
***
Nick woke up standing with the bellowing heat of flames against his face.
The distant shouting was also closer now, and as he tried to figure out how he had suddenly moved closer to the fire, a passing figure angrily pushed him back.
“Get out of the way! Go home!”
One of Nick’s Uncles ran past with a pair of empty buckets, and Nick was stunned at how short the man suddenly seemed. The house too, despite being on fire, seemed much smaller than it usually did.
With a sudden lurch of fear in his stomach, Nick looked down at himself to find not the same ten-year-old body he was used to seeing below his neck, but the body of a well exercised martial artist.
His sister’s body.
In the confines of his own mind, he screamed.
---USER=SUPERHERO---
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
No! He hadn’t meant like this!
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
Nick was about to say yes when he realised that he was suddenly in a position to save his father. He wasn’t sure why Dana had hesitated, but he could charge into the building, save Harlan and then everyone…
He looked at the crowd of people, half of them ineffectually trying to douse the fire with a bucket chain while the other half looked on in horror.
Nobody knew Dana was a real superhero. She’d told him to keep it a secret. Superheroes had to keep their identity a secret.
As slowly as he dared, Nick backed away from the flames into the growing darkness of the street.
Dana couldn’t break into the building without everyone seeing her. Keeping her secret identity was important… but not as important as saving their dad, right? Maybe she was waiting to see if the firefighters would get there in time, but the myriad fires burning across the neighbourhood told Nick that help was a long way away.
He didn’t want his dad to get hurt, but it felt wrong to expose Dana’s superhero identity when she was clearly trying to keep it a secret even now.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
Nick blinked. It could do that?
---CONFIRMED---
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
How?
Nick’s cry of surprise was muffed by the sudden growth of a rubber black layer that seemed to come out of his own - Dana’s own - skin. It stopped as quickly as it had started, covering every part of Dana’s body like a padded ninja suit including a visor that closed over his eyes.
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
Without bothering to wonder, Nick flew back towards the house. He dimly registered cries of alarm from the crowd as he bolted towards the burning front deck, only to recoil from the heat as he got too close.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
This wasn’t right - superheroes were meant to be tough!
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
A sudden cooling sensation rushed underneath Nick’s rubbery outer skin, and he found the heat suddenly bearable. He waded through the burning wreckage of the deck, squared up against the blacked front door and kicked.
The door belched out a cloud of smoke and embers, but did not move.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
Superheroes are meant to be strong!
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
Nick kicked again, and the door disintegrated, revealing the hellish red glow of the burning building beyond.
Nick was momentarily frozen at the horror of seeing something he’d take for granted his entire life so utterly destroyed, but forced himself onwards. The house seemed to be completely alight, and he was at a loss as to where he might find his father alive when his next footstep went right through the charred floorboard-
-and onto solid concrete. That’s right! The basement!
With his home burning around him, Nick punched his way through a nearby wall, opening up a path to the staircase leading down.Some of the debris had tumbled down the stone steps, but it was otherwise completely dark. Dark with smoke.
Nick pushed onwards, and it wasn’t long before he found the crumpled figure of Harlan prone in the furthest corner. There hadn’t been any way out from here, so the only option left to him had been to stay put and wait for rescue or death.
Nick shook him desperately.
“Dad! Dad! Wake up! We need to get out of here!”
The strangeness of hearing his sister’s voice coming out of his mouth was lost in the terror of losing his father, but Harlan didn’t stir.
Nick had often pictured what his first heroic rescue would look like. He imagined how good it would feel to see the hope on people’s faces, to stand before them and tell them everything would be alright now that he was there to save them.
He had never imagined the gut-wrenching fear of what he would lose if he failed.
Despite their size difference, Nick cradled his dad in his sister’s arms and tried to think of a way out.
***
Nick’s family were still fighting a losing battle against the fire when emergency services began to arrive. With fires and panic spread throughout the neighbourhood, there were far too many emergencies and not enough responders to deal with them. A pair of squad cars pulled up outside, and the police began to order the family away from the flames, leading to an argument as buckets were dropped and tempers began to flare.
The shouting was cut short when the nearest wall of the house exploded in a cloud of smoke and embers, and two soot-blackened figures tumbled out; one carrying the other. Everyone recognised the larger form as that of an unconscious man, but the second figure was some kind of bloated, rubbery monster with the apparent ability to carry someone twice its size.
Nick lowered his father to the ground and looked up to see expressions of horror in the eyes of his family and four police with their guns drawn.
He immediately threw his hands up in the air, looking around him to see what they were aiming at, only to realise that they were aiming at him!
All four of them were shouting.
“Don’t move!”
“Hands on your head!”
“Down on the ground!”
“Get back!”
Nick tried to shout in a muffled voice that he wasn’t a bad guy, but the suit muffled his voice and he could barely hear himself over the adults yelling and the flames.
He tried to back away slowly, but slipped, causing him to stagger. The sudden movement was enough for one of the cops to fire, and the sudden crack of gunfire made Nick spin around and scramble into the darkness, more wild shots chasing after him.
Nick ran away from the house, jumping over the fence and then over the roof of the house next door, turning away from another fire and sliding into the narrow space between a brick wall and a shed. His heart was pounding, his breath coming in gasps and whimpers and as he strained his ears for the sounds of pursuit, he felt a dull pain spreading out from his right shoulder.
In the poor light he could barely see anything, and he pawed at the rubbery suit around him trying to reach Dana’s phone.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
He needed to see what was wrong! Was he hit?
---PROGRAM REVERTED---
The strange material deflated back into Dana’s exposed skin, revealing her clothes and freeing up access to her pockets. With shaking fingers, Nick pulled out his sister’s phone and turned the flashlight towards where the pain was coming from, revealing a rapidly colouring bruise.
No! No! This wasn’t right! Cops weren’t meant to shoot heroes! And Dana was hurt! He’d gotten his sister hurt! What was he going to do?
With the smokey light of distant fires and the echoing cries of panicked neighbours around him, Nick felt tears well up in his eyes and was about to begin sobbing when he gritted his teeth and rubbed his face.
Heroes had to be tough, even when things weren’t going great. He wasn’t going to become a real hero if he let a little scare and bruise like this get the best of him. Besides, he’d done what he needed to do: His dad was safe now and that was something to be proud of.
Still aching but in much better spirits, Nick got gingerly to his feet and headed back home.
***
He had only been hiding for a few minutes and everyone was practically where he had left them. A pair of paramedics were doing paramedic stuff on his dad while his mum and aunt fretted. The house was still burning, though it had almost completely collapsed. The police were gone, and he felt a little ashamed at how relieved he was. Nobody paid attention to him as he crept his sister’s body over to where the other kids had fallen asleep around his real one.
He knelt down in the grass and looked at himself. He was so small from his sister’s point of view, and he wondered how she could possibly think he’d be able to be a superhero at his size.
But he had to go back. This was his sister’s body, and he’d already gotten it into enough trouble.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
He needed to be himself again.
---PROGRAM TERMINATED---
***
New year’s day was little cause for celebration for the Millers. With no house and widespread accommodation shortages due to the large number of people also without homes, they had tried to squeeze in with an aunt who lived nearby with very little success.
Contrary to his typical disinterest in the news, Nick insisted on watching every report about the incident, which authorities claimed was caused by debris from a rogue satellite falling out of orbit. That kind of explanation went over Nick’s head, but he watched anyway waiting for them to mention what he was now confident had been a spaceship or escape pod and the alien that had been inside it.
They never did, causing him to get more and more frustrated with every report until he came to the chilling realisation that the adults might be keeping it a secret. Evil aliens were definitely already on earth, but you never heard about them in the news, so it made sense that this time would be no different; he’d just happened to be there for this one.
The strange gadget had still been in his hand when he had woken up with Dana slumped over him, and he had kept it a secret ever since. Any adult would absolutely have taken it from him if they ever found out, and he knew he’d need it if he ever needed to be a hero again.
Dana had woken up with a sizeable bruise and fractured upper arm, forcing her to take time off work. Nick didn’t learn the full nature of her injury or about her needing to take time off sick until the new year’s get-together, at which point he immediately offered to stay with Dana and help her around the house.
Ignorant of his sudden guilty conscience, there had been some chuckles about Nick’s uncharacteristic chivalry, but the cramped arrangement at his aunt’s meant that his parents were all too happy to let him stay with Dana for the rest of the holidays, and Dana couldn’t bring herself to refuse.
It was actually really cool to hang out with his sister at her place. She had to take time off from being a superhero and he didn’t have to go to school, so they got to just cook meals, go shopping, play games, watch shows and talk about stuff. Dana even took him to the gym where she trained one night, and Nick was immediately convinced that half of the people at her gym were also superheroes in disguise. How could they not be?
One of the other women recognised Dana and casually walked over.
“Thought you were off?” she said, motioning towards Nick with her head.
“Just the shoulder,” Dana replied, patting Nick on the shoulder and winking. “Superheroes gotta stay in shape.”
Nick saw the light of understanding dawn on the other woman’s face. “Ah, so you’re Nick, huh? You been keeping your sister safe?”
Nick nodded dumbly, desperately wanting to seem cool and aloof but also just itching to ask every question he could possibly think of.
The woman knelt down and flexed an enormous bicep. “They call me Callie, but my real name is Bronze Hammer. You can keep that a secret, can’t you?”
Nick nodded again.
Callie grinned at his sister, returning her wink. “I think he’ll be one of the best once he’s grown a bit. Eat your protein, Nick. Uh, and your vegetables,” she added, seeing the look on Dana’s face. “But also your protein.”
Nick followed Dana around the gym as she introduced him to the people she knew. A woman named Titania (but you can call me Tina) with thighs thicker than his chest offered to let him try holding a weight she was curling one-handed, and with Dana’s cautious permission he held his hands out while it was lowered into his grasp. He immediately found himself almost tipping forward, but caught himself by bending his knees instead of falling over.
“Good instincts,” the Titania had said, leaving Nick feeling much better about almost embarrassing himself.
“Okay, I’m just doing legs today,” Dana said when the tour was complete. “It’s probably safe for you to hop onto a treadmill if you want?”
“Nah, I’m gonna take a nap in the car,” Nick lied.
“Oh, did you want to go home?” Dana asked. “I can come back later if you’re tired.”
“No!” Nick almost shouted, then scolded himself. “No, that’s fine. We already came here, I’ll just have a lie down and wait for you to finish.”
Dana seemed uncertain, but walked him out to the carpark and unlocked the car.
“Lock it again when you close the door,” she said. “I won’t be long.”
Nick did lock the door, and then watched his sister walk back into the gym. He wasn’t tired - in fact his heart was racing from the anticipation. He’d been waiting for exactly an opportunity like this to try using the gadget again, and it had worked out in his favour that they had decided to visit the gym at night. Now he had the perfect excuse to stay in the car, and in the dark, nobody would notice him unless they came right up to the windows and looked inside.
Fingers almost shaking with anticipation, Nick took the gadget out of his pocket and started pressing against anything that looked like it might be a button.
---GREETINGS, OWNER---
He found it! What had he done last time? Everything had been so crazy, he could barely remember.
---PLEASE ENTER ACCELERATION PARAMETERS---
He had thought about wanting to be a superhero, and when the gadget had asked him what that meant, he’d thought of-
Nick felt something buzz in his brain.
Nick passed out.
***
Nick found himself on his back at an odd angle, his feet planted against something heavy. Opening his eyes, he realised that Dana had only just gotten into position on the leg-pushing machine thingy. He hadn’t had the opportunity to really take in his sister’s body back at the house, and he marvelled at how strange it was to see her legs in front of him, chest chest below him and her hands in front of his borrowed face.
Experimentally, he gave the plate a push with his feet, feeling the muscles of his well-trained body flexing to shift the heavy weight. He tried to reposition his back and felt a twinge from his shoulder, the shock of the pain causing him to lose concentration and the weight to fall back onto him, pushing his legs against his chest.
“You alright?” a concerned voice said.
It was Titania, observing from where she was doing her own weights.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Nick said.
Titania’s look of concern didn’t soften. “You need to be careful if you’re going to keep working out with your shoulder like that.”
Nick nodded, not wanting to say anything that might give him away. Dana had taught him about rolling and moving around, but she hadn’t taught him about how to move safely when injured. There hadn’t been any need.
Without wanting to accidentally get her hurt even more, Nick considered his options. He wanted to practise training more, but doing so in Dana’s body wasn’t an option. But that was fine, because he was surrounded by plenty more.
Looking back at Titania, who had put her weights down and was stretching, Nick focused his concept of a superhero on her instead.
Nick felt something buzz in his brain.
Nick passed out.
***
He wasn’t getting used to the sensation, but at least it wasn’t especially disorienting or painful. Nick found himself standing, one arm still braced across his chest by the other. He relaxed, letting the held arm swing to one side and feeling the flesh on his very different chest fall back into shape.
Looking back at his sister, he saw her much as she had been when he first left her body after controlling her the first time: Kind of slumped forwards in a daze.
“Dana?” he said cautiously, thrown off by the comparatively deeper voice of the body he was in.
Dana seemed to shake herself awake.
“Huh? Yeah? What?”
“You alright?” Nick said, doing his best to mimic Titania’s manner of speech.
Dana nodded, wincing as her shoulder injury prevented her from raising her arm properly. “Yeah, just spaced out there for a second.”
“You need to be careful if you’re going to… uh, keep working out with your shoulder like that,” Nick parroted Titania’s advice.
“I know, I just need to get the blood pumping or I feel like I’ll turn into pudding.”
Nick didn’t know how to respond to that, so he quietly made his way off of the gym floor and into the locker rooms, having to stop himself from walking through the boy’s door.
The room was empty, and Nick headed for the nearest mirror to marvel at his reflection.
Not his actual reflection, but the reflection of Titania gaping back at him.
She was huge: Taller even than his dad with muscles that visibly bulged and flexed as he moved her arms around experimentally. He tried out the poses he’d seen bodybuilders use to show off and was mesmerised at the sight of Titania showing off her strength.
He hoped he’d be this strong himself someday, but for now this was the next best thing.
“Nice delts, Tina,” a voice called out, and Nick had to fight the urge to cover himself up as if he’d been caught doing something dirty.
One of the other gym-goers had walked in without him noticing, and he realised with alarm that she was about to start taking her clothes off.
Face rapidly turning red, he hurried silently out of the changing rooms and back into the gym proper, only to find that Dana had already ditched the leg machine thingy and was halfway towards the door.
Nick managed to stop himself before he called out or ran after her. He needed to act as normally as possible or people would get suspicious, so he walked Titania’s body back to the bench she had been practising at and pictured his sister’s superhero persona in his mind.
***
The switches were definitely getting easier, and Nick let out a sigh of relief when he opened his eyes to find himself suddenly outside and back in Dana’s body.
The relief was short-lived when he saw four figures gathered around Dana’s car, and his heart was gripped with a sudden anxiety when all of them looked up at his approach and walked towards him.
If they had been random thugs, he might have been excited: Dana probably beat up bad guys like that just as a warm up. But not only was she injured, these didn’t look like regular bad guys. They were in costumes for a start, and regular henchmen didn’t usually get costumes.
“Is she the one?” one of them said - a man with broad shoulders that towered above Nick in his sister’s body. He had a costume of rich blue and red with gold trimming - the classic colours of a leader type character.
“Yep,” said a dark-skinned woman, wearing two shades of green and black goggles. “Relax,” she said to Nick. “I saw what you did at the fire yesterday. We know you’re one of the good guys.”
Nick didn’t say anything. Did they even know it was Nick, or did they just see Danamite?
The leader spoke again. “Did you see anything strange before the fire that night? Any… vehicles? Or creatures?”
Nick automatically shook his head in silence. It was wrong to lie, but he didn’t know if he could trust these people with the truth, or if it might get him or Dana in trouble if he told it.
The leader grimaced and sighed. “Well, it’s not going to be easy to hear this, but those fires weren’t… what did the news call it?”
“Gas explosion,” another man behind him said, this one mostly in navy blue.
Leader man grunted. “Well, it wasn’t that. We’ve been tracking… I may as well be honest: Aliens. It doesn’t seem to be an organised invasion, but every time one lands, they bring something with them and cause all sorts of trouble.”
Nick said the first thing that came to mind. “Just you?”
The fourth person - a much younger woman maybe about Dana’s own age wearing totally ordinary clothes - suppressed a laugh.
Leader shook his head. “Not just us. We’ve networked with others like us all over the country - all over the world. People who learned they were different in ways that could help those in need when things got bad.”
Nick turned the speech over in his head. It sounded almost familiar.
“So… you’re superheroes?” he said.
Leader chuckled and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess we are. Though we try to stay secret when we can. So, would you like to become a superhero?”
“Oh, I’m one already,” Nick blurted out before he could stop himself.
Leader raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s your name?”
“Ni- Uh, Danamite,” Nick said, having suddenly backed himself into a corner.
Mister leader looked quizzically at the others, who all shrugged or shook their heads.
“Have you been on the scene for long?”
Nick shook his head. He knew Dana had been working for a long time, but it was clear she’d kept herself just to her close friends until now, and the fact that he’d blown her cover to complete strangers made him cringe with guilt.
“Well, stay out of trouble and we might get in touch if we need you,” Leader said. “What can you do?”
“Um… I’m… I’m strong,” Nick managed through a suddenly dry mouth.
Leader raised an eyebrow. “Anything else?”
“And… I’m tough?” Nick squeaked.
Leader looked back at the green lady, who nodded. “Elevated strength and endurance. She busted through a burning building and shook off a bullet.”
Leader nodded. “Maybe stay away from the police in future,” he said. “They’re on edge at the best of times, so it’s best not to upset them.
Nick nodded mutely.
“You can call me Captain Keen,” the leader said before pointing to the green lady, white man and ordinary looking girl. “This is Nightsight, Satellite and Audie.”
Audie waved with a big grin on her face. Nick nervously waved back.
“Alright, I think we’ve wasted enough of your time. Get home safe and stay on your toes - we’ll be seeing you soon enough, I expect.”
Nick nodded again, not trusting himself to speak.
And just like that, three of them were gone. There had been a flurry of movement, causing him to flinch, and when he opened his eyes, only Audie remained.
Nick felt himself tensing to fight or run as Audie approached him, the same grin never leaving her face.
“So, it looks like you’ll be joining the league of heroes soon. Feels good to know you’re not the only one, huh?”
Nick nodded, desperately wanting her to go away so he could just get back into his body and go home. As though sensing his thoughts, Audie looked back at the car.
“Care to explain why you’ve left a young boy asleep in the car at night in a strange neighbourhood?”
“I-I’m just- I mean, he was just tired!” Nick stammered. “I’m taking him home now.”
Audie looked like she was going to say something, but shrugged instead.
“Hey, it’s cool. You’re not the only one who isn’t who they say they are, and it pays to keep at least a few secrets, especially among superheroes.”
Nick didn’t trust himself to speak, watching in silence as Audie sauntered back to the car and peered into a window.
“I’d think very carefully before committing to the superhero lifestyle. It gets awfully difficult trying to save the world while also looking after… yourself.”
With a wink, Audie strolled over to a nearby motorcycle, kicking it into life and roaring out of the carpark and down the street.
Nick watched the tail lights disappear into the night with a terrible sense of dread. Just what had he gotten his sister into?
Nick Miller loved superheroes. In fairness, everyone Nick’s age loved superheroes - anyone who didn’t was boring and dumb - but Nick was one of the few that genuinely aspired to a career of costumed crime-fighting while others aspired to be brain surgeons or astronauts.
His family mostly tried to discourage him, but found it difficult to convince him that superheroes weren’t real, because every effort to do so was tacitly misinterpreted by Nick to include a wink and a nudge because everyone knew real superheroes needed to be kept a secret.
Nick’s older sister did NOT discourage him, much to their relative’s annoyance. Dana had given up a promising life as a banking clerk to pursue a career in both cosplay and martial arts - a life decision that had functionally excommunicated her from the family except on special occasions.
This attempt to shield Nick from outlandish influence proved to be ironically counter-productive, as it lent Dana’s few appearances in Nick’s life a mythological quality and allowed her to lean into her stage persona as the Amazing Danamite whenever they met: Yes, she’d been on lots of adventures since their last meeting. This year she had defeated invading aliens from the Negaverse, but not before fighting off assassins sent by the League of Villains. Nick believed every word of it and pinkie-promised that he would never tell anyone about Dana’s true identity, ever, ever, ever, and in return, for Christmas after his tenth birthday, Dana would begin training him as a real life superhero.
***
It had not gone well.
The training had started off with a lot of promise - Nick’s very first lesson in being a superhero was how to survive. Most kids might have baulked at this - demanding instead to be taught how to throw devastating punches or summon giant robots - but Dana had impressed upon him the vital importance of staying alive. The superheroes you know about are the ones that learned to survive; you don’t hear about the other ones, because they didn’t learn.
It had actually been a lot of fun. Dana was a strong girl (she was a superhero, so of course she was) and once Nick had learned the basics of landing safely, she had spent the afternoon picking him up and throwing him around the grass while he practised his tucks and rolls. Neither of them noticed the growing crowd of disapproving relatives, though it wasn’t until Dana started teaching Nick how to block a punch that someone ran off to get their dad.
Harlan Miller did not love superheroes. Harlan Miller loved waking up early, working hard and getting everything he needed to know about the world from the newspaper. But more than anything else, Harlan loved telling his kids they wouldn’t amount to anything if they wasted their time doing literally anything he wasn’t doing when he was their age.
There had been a lot of shouting. Nick was afraid that it might have even come to a fight, and while he knew that Dana was a superhero, he also knew that Harlan was their dad, and dads didn’t need to be superheroes - they were already dads.
By the end of the argument, nobody was hurt, but Dana had come over to him with her eyes still red and puffy, gave him a big hug and then gotten in her car without saying anything.
Nick had stood by the side of the road watching her disappear down the street, ignoring his family’s demands that he come back into the house.
That might have been the last time he ever saw his sister, if his house hadn’t suddenly exploded.
***
Nick hadn’t heard the strange whistling noise, nor did he hear the angry demands of his family change to cries of terror. He never remembered the explosion, or being picked up by the shockwave and thrown like a tumbleweed.
Nick woke up on his back to the stink of burning asphalt in his nose and the sound of distant screaming.
The sudden sense of danger made him jump as quickly to his feet as he could, various scrapes and bruises stinging as he did so.
Everything was black smoke and green flames, and for a moment he stood in a daze, completely lost as to where he was or where he should be running. Eventually a black shape took form in one direction, and silhouetted against the flames, Nick realised it must be some kind of… thing. A made thing, like a building or a car.
Edging cautiously towards it, Nick began to make out a shape and form that suggested it was some kind of vehicle; a guess that was confirmed when a blackened glass panel was smashed open and a hulking body tumbled out, a scattering of debris falling to the ground with it.
It was man shaped, thick-limbed, scaly and wearing some kind of rubbery jumpsuit. It had claws and beady red eyes and a mouthful of fangs. In short, everything about it screamed to Nick’s sensibilities that it was a Bad Guy.
It was injured, but it levered itself up onto its arms and for a moment Nick was terrified that it would attack him. That’s what Bad Guys did to little kids. But instead, its gaze focused on something small with glowing green lights on the ground a few yards away and began painfully dragging itself forwards.
Nick didn’t know what the creature was or where it had come from or what the thing it was crawling towards did, but his ironclad belief in superhero conventions told him that letting the creature get to the thing was a bad idea.
Heart racing, Nick lunged forward, snatching the tiny gadget up in one hand before scurrying back to a safe distance. He flinched when the creature bellowed at him, and when it began violently dragging itself toward him, he turned and ran blindly through the fumes.
Stumbling, choking and weeping in fear, Nick found himself running towards the red glow of ordinary flames and the panic-stricken cries of familiar voices.
One of them suddenly stopped and turned towards him, lunging out of the gloom to pick him up in both arms.
“Nick!” his mother cried. “Nick, oh my God, you’re okay! Oh my God, Nick, you’re okay!”
Nick tried to choke out a warning about the creature in the smoke, but Sally Miller carried him to where his younger siblings and cousins were huddled together in the blood-red light of the setting sun.
“Stay here!” his mother ordered. “Stay here and don’t go anywhere!”
Nick looked around that part of his family more or less his age. Most of them were crying quietly to themselves or staring mutely at the flames consuming a nearby house.
Nick realised with horror that it was in fact his own house, and that of all the shouting silhouettes around the flames, his father wasn’t among them.
“Did he come out the back way?”
“It’s all collapsed! He must have come out of a window!”
“None of the windows are open! He’s still in there!”
Nick recognised the terrified face of his sister lit up by the flames. She’d come back when the fire had started, but why wasn’t she rushing in? Their dad was still in there!
A suddenly very loud crackling noise pulled his attention away, and Nick looked down to see the green thing in his hand begin blinking erratically.
---VTLS-CSD---
---LNK-TRMNTD---
---GREETINGS, NEW OWNER---
The voice was loud to the point of being intrusive, and Nick looked around at his siblings in fear of how they would react. None of them had so much as turned to look at him.
As though sensing his question, the voice returned.
---THIS MESSAGE IS BEING BROADCAST BY TELEPATHIC LINK---
---NO-ONE BUT THE BEARER OF THIS DEVICE CAN HEAR THIS MESSAGE---
Nick looked back down at his hand. New owner? Then that thing back at the ship must have been…
---PLEASE ENTER ACCELERATION PARAMETERS---
Nick boggled in confusion. He had no idea what half of those words meant.
---PLEASE ENTER ACCELERATION PARAMETERS---
Nick looked back at his sister and considered shouting out to her. She’d know what to do. Superheroes always knew what to do.
???WHAT IS [SUPERHERO]???
Flabbergasted by such a stupid question, Nick found himself unable to think of any lucid answer, pointing instead mentally towards his sister. Dana Miller. Dana Miller was a superhero.
---USER>SUPERHERO---
???YES/NO???
Yes!
Nick felt something buzz in his brain.
Nick passed out.
***
Nick woke up standing with the bellowing heat of flames against his face.
The distant shouting was also closer now, and as he tried to figure out how he had suddenly moved closer to the fire, a passing figure angrily pushed him back.
“Get out of the way! Go home!”
One of Nick’s Uncles ran past with a pair of empty buckets, and Nick was stunned at how short the man suddenly seemed. The house too, despite being on fire, seemed much smaller than it usually did.
With a sudden lurch of fear in his stomach, Nick looked down at himself to find not the same ten-year-old body he was used to seeing below his neck, but the body of a well exercised martial artist.
His sister’s body.
In the confines of his own mind, he screamed.
---USER=SUPERHERO---
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
No! He hadn’t meant like this!
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
Nick was about to say yes when he realised that he was suddenly in a position to save his father. He wasn’t sure why Dana had hesitated, but he could charge into the building, save Harlan and then everyone…
He looked at the crowd of people, half of them ineffectually trying to douse the fire with a bucket chain while the other half looked on in horror.
Nobody knew Dana was a real superhero. She’d told him to keep it a secret. Superheroes had to keep their identity a secret.
As slowly as he dared, Nick backed away from the flames into the growing darkness of the street.
Dana couldn’t break into the building without everyone seeing her. Keeping her secret identity was important… but not as important as saving their dad, right? Maybe she was waiting to see if the firefighters would get there in time, but the myriad fires burning across the neighbourhood told Nick that help was a long way away.
He didn’t want his dad to get hurt, but it felt wrong to expose Dana’s superhero identity when she was clearly trying to keep it a secret even now.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
Nick blinked. It could do that?
---CONFIRMED---
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
How?
Nick’s cry of surprise was muffed by the sudden growth of a rubber black layer that seemed to come out of his own - Dana’s own - skin. It stopped as quickly as it had started, covering every part of Dana’s body like a padded ninja suit including a visor that closed over his eyes.
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
Without bothering to wonder, Nick flew back towards the house. He dimly registered cries of alarm from the crowd as he bolted towards the burning front deck, only to recoil from the heat as he got too close.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
This wasn’t right - superheroes were meant to be tough!
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
A sudden cooling sensation rushed underneath Nick’s rubbery outer skin, and he found the heat suddenly bearable. He waded through the burning wreckage of the deck, squared up against the blacked front door and kicked.
The door belched out a cloud of smoke and embers, but did not move.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
Superheroes are meant to be strong!
---PROGRAM EXECUTED---
Nick kicked again, and the door disintegrated, revealing the hellish red glow of the burning building beyond.
Nick was momentarily frozen at the horror of seeing something he’d take for granted his entire life so utterly destroyed, but forced himself onwards. The house seemed to be completely alight, and he was at a loss as to where he might find his father alive when his next footstep went right through the charred floorboard-
-and onto solid concrete. That’s right! The basement!
With his home burning around him, Nick punched his way through a nearby wall, opening up a path to the staircase leading down.Some of the debris had tumbled down the stone steps, but it was otherwise completely dark. Dark with smoke.
Nick pushed onwards, and it wasn’t long before he found the crumpled figure of Harlan prone in the furthest corner. There hadn’t been any way out from here, so the only option left to him had been to stay put and wait for rescue or death.
Nick shook him desperately.
“Dad! Dad! Wake up! We need to get out of here!”
The strangeness of hearing his sister’s voice coming out of his mouth was lost in the terror of losing his father, but Harlan didn’t stir.
Nick had often pictured what his first heroic rescue would look like. He imagined how good it would feel to see the hope on people’s faces, to stand before them and tell them everything would be alright now that he was there to save them.
He had never imagined the gut-wrenching fear of what he would lose if he failed.
Despite their size difference, Nick cradled his dad in his sister’s arms and tried to think of a way out.
***
Nick’s family were still fighting a losing battle against the fire when emergency services began to arrive. With fires and panic spread throughout the neighbourhood, there were far too many emergencies and not enough responders to deal with them. A pair of squad cars pulled up outside, and the police began to order the family away from the flames, leading to an argument as buckets were dropped and tempers began to flare.
The shouting was cut short when the nearest wall of the house exploded in a cloud of smoke and embers, and two soot-blackened figures tumbled out; one carrying the other. Everyone recognised the larger form as that of an unconscious man, but the second figure was some kind of bloated, rubbery monster with the apparent ability to carry someone twice its size.
Nick lowered his father to the ground and looked up to see expressions of horror in the eyes of his family and four police with their guns drawn.
He immediately threw his hands up in the air, looking around him to see what they were aiming at, only to realise that they were aiming at him!
All four of them were shouting.
“Don’t move!”
“Hands on your head!”
“Down on the ground!”
“Get back!”
Nick tried to shout in a muffled voice that he wasn’t a bad guy, but the suit muffled his voice and he could barely hear himself over the adults yelling and the flames.
He tried to back away slowly, but slipped, causing him to stagger. The sudden movement was enough for one of the cops to fire, and the sudden crack of gunfire made Nick spin around and scramble into the darkness, more wild shots chasing after him.
Nick ran away from the house, jumping over the fence and then over the roof of the house next door, turning away from another fire and sliding into the narrow space between a brick wall and a shed. His heart was pounding, his breath coming in gasps and whimpers and as he strained his ears for the sounds of pursuit, he felt a dull pain spreading out from his right shoulder.
In the poor light he could barely see anything, and he pawed at the rubbery suit around him trying to reach Dana’s phone.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
He needed to see what was wrong! Was he hit?
---PROGRAM REVERTED---
The strange material deflated back into Dana’s exposed skin, revealing her clothes and freeing up access to her pockets. With shaking fingers, Nick pulled out his sister’s phone and turned the flashlight towards where the pain was coming from, revealing a rapidly colouring bruise.
No! No! This wasn’t right! Cops weren’t meant to shoot heroes! And Dana was hurt! He’d gotten his sister hurt! What was he going to do?
With the smokey light of distant fires and the echoing cries of panicked neighbours around him, Nick felt tears well up in his eyes and was about to begin sobbing when he gritted his teeth and rubbed his face.
Heroes had to be tough, even when things weren’t going great. He wasn’t going to become a real hero if he let a little scare and bruise like this get the best of him. Besides, he’d done what he needed to do: His dad was safe now and that was something to be proud of.
Still aching but in much better spirits, Nick got gingerly to his feet and headed back home.
***
He had only been hiding for a few minutes and everyone was practically where he had left them. A pair of paramedics were doing paramedic stuff on his dad while his mum and aunt fretted. The house was still burning, though it had almost completely collapsed. The police were gone, and he felt a little ashamed at how relieved he was. Nobody paid attention to him as he crept his sister’s body over to where the other kids had fallen asleep around his real one.
He knelt down in the grass and looked at himself. He was so small from his sister’s point of view, and he wondered how she could possibly think he’d be able to be a superhero at his size.
But he had to go back. This was his sister’s body, and he’d already gotten it into enough trouble.
???MODIFY FUNCTION???
He needed to be himself again.
---PROGRAM TERMINATED---
***
New year’s day was little cause for celebration for the Millers. With no house and widespread accommodation shortages due to the large number of people also without homes, they had tried to squeeze in with an aunt who lived nearby with very little success.
Contrary to his typical disinterest in the news, Nick insisted on watching every report about the incident, which authorities claimed was caused by debris from a rogue satellite falling out of orbit. That kind of explanation went over Nick’s head, but he watched anyway waiting for them to mention what he was now confident had been a spaceship or escape pod and the alien that had been inside it.
They never did, causing him to get more and more frustrated with every report until he came to the chilling realisation that the adults might be keeping it a secret. Evil aliens were definitely already on earth, but you never heard about them in the news, so it made sense that this time would be no different; he’d just happened to be there for this one.
The strange gadget had still been in his hand when he had woken up with Dana slumped over him, and he had kept it a secret ever since. Any adult would absolutely have taken it from him if they ever found out, and he knew he’d need it if he ever needed to be a hero again.
Dana had woken up with a sizeable bruise and fractured upper arm, forcing her to take time off work. Nick didn’t learn the full nature of her injury or about her needing to take time off sick until the new year’s get-together, at which point he immediately offered to stay with Dana and help her around the house.
Ignorant of his sudden guilty conscience, there had been some chuckles about Nick’s uncharacteristic chivalry, but the cramped arrangement at his aunt’s meant that his parents were all too happy to let him stay with Dana for the rest of the holidays, and Dana couldn’t bring herself to refuse.
It was actually really cool to hang out with his sister at her place. She had to take time off from being a superhero and he didn’t have to go to school, so they got to just cook meals, go shopping, play games, watch shows and talk about stuff. Dana even took him to the gym where she trained one night, and Nick was immediately convinced that half of the people at her gym were also superheroes in disguise. How could they not be?
One of the other women recognised Dana and casually walked over.
“Thought you were off?” she said, motioning towards Nick with her head.
“Just the shoulder,” Dana replied, patting Nick on the shoulder and winking. “Superheroes gotta stay in shape.”
Nick saw the light of understanding dawn on the other woman’s face. “Ah, so you’re Nick, huh? You been keeping your sister safe?”
Nick nodded dumbly, desperately wanting to seem cool and aloof but also just itching to ask every question he could possibly think of.
The woman knelt down and flexed an enormous bicep. “They call me Callie, but my real name is Bronze Hammer. You can keep that a secret, can’t you?”
Nick nodded again.
Callie grinned at his sister, returning her wink. “I think he’ll be one of the best once he’s grown a bit. Eat your protein, Nick. Uh, and your vegetables,” she added, seeing the look on Dana’s face. “But also your protein.”
Nick followed Dana around the gym as she introduced him to the people she knew. A woman named Titania (but you can call me Tina) with thighs thicker than his chest offered to let him try holding a weight she was curling one-handed, and with Dana’s cautious permission he held his hands out while it was lowered into his grasp. He immediately found himself almost tipping forward, but caught himself by bending his knees instead of falling over.
“Good instincts,” the Titania had said, leaving Nick feeling much better about almost embarrassing himself.
“Okay, I’m just doing legs today,” Dana said when the tour was complete. “It’s probably safe for you to hop onto a treadmill if you want?”
“Nah, I’m gonna take a nap in the car,” Nick lied.
“Oh, did you want to go home?” Dana asked. “I can come back later if you’re tired.”
“No!” Nick almost shouted, then scolded himself. “No, that’s fine. We already came here, I’ll just have a lie down and wait for you to finish.”
Dana seemed uncertain, but walked him out to the carpark and unlocked the car.
“Lock it again when you close the door,” she said. “I won’t be long.”
Nick did lock the door, and then watched his sister walk back into the gym. He wasn’t tired - in fact his heart was racing from the anticipation. He’d been waiting for exactly an opportunity like this to try using the gadget again, and it had worked out in his favour that they had decided to visit the gym at night. Now he had the perfect excuse to stay in the car, and in the dark, nobody would notice him unless they came right up to the windows and looked inside.
Fingers almost shaking with anticipation, Nick took the gadget out of his pocket and started pressing against anything that looked like it might be a button.
---GREETINGS, OWNER---
He found it! What had he done last time? Everything had been so crazy, he could barely remember.
---PLEASE ENTER ACCELERATION PARAMETERS---
He had thought about wanting to be a superhero, and when the gadget had asked him what that meant, he’d thought of-
Nick felt something buzz in his brain.
Nick passed out.
***
Nick found himself on his back at an odd angle, his feet planted against something heavy. Opening his eyes, he realised that Dana had only just gotten into position on the leg-pushing machine thingy. He hadn’t had the opportunity to really take in his sister’s body back at the house, and he marvelled at how strange it was to see her legs in front of him, chest chest below him and her hands in front of his borrowed face.
Experimentally, he gave the plate a push with his feet, feeling the muscles of his well-trained body flexing to shift the heavy weight. He tried to reposition his back and felt a twinge from his shoulder, the shock of the pain causing him to lose concentration and the weight to fall back onto him, pushing his legs against his chest.
“You alright?” a concerned voice said.
It was Titania, observing from where she was doing her own weights.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Nick said.
Titania’s look of concern didn’t soften. “You need to be careful if you’re going to keep working out with your shoulder like that.”
Nick nodded, not wanting to say anything that might give him away. Dana had taught him about rolling and moving around, but she hadn’t taught him about how to move safely when injured. There hadn’t been any need.
Without wanting to accidentally get her hurt even more, Nick considered his options. He wanted to practise training more, but doing so in Dana’s body wasn’t an option. But that was fine, because he was surrounded by plenty more.
Looking back at Titania, who had put her weights down and was stretching, Nick focused his concept of a superhero on her instead.
Nick felt something buzz in his brain.
Nick passed out.
***
He wasn’t getting used to the sensation, but at least it wasn’t especially disorienting or painful. Nick found himself standing, one arm still braced across his chest by the other. He relaxed, letting the held arm swing to one side and feeling the flesh on his very different chest fall back into shape.
Looking back at his sister, he saw her much as she had been when he first left her body after controlling her the first time: Kind of slumped forwards in a daze.
“Dana?” he said cautiously, thrown off by the comparatively deeper voice of the body he was in.
Dana seemed to shake herself awake.
“Huh? Yeah? What?”
“You alright?” Nick said, doing his best to mimic Titania’s manner of speech.
Dana nodded, wincing as her shoulder injury prevented her from raising her arm properly. “Yeah, just spaced out there for a second.”
“You need to be careful if you’re going to… uh, keep working out with your shoulder like that,” Nick parroted Titania’s advice.
“I know, I just need to get the blood pumping or I feel like I’ll turn into pudding.”
Nick didn’t know how to respond to that, so he quietly made his way off of the gym floor and into the locker rooms, having to stop himself from walking through the boy’s door.
The room was empty, and Nick headed for the nearest mirror to marvel at his reflection.
Not his actual reflection, but the reflection of Titania gaping back at him.
She was huge: Taller even than his dad with muscles that visibly bulged and flexed as he moved her arms around experimentally. He tried out the poses he’d seen bodybuilders use to show off and was mesmerised at the sight of Titania showing off her strength.
He hoped he’d be this strong himself someday, but for now this was the next best thing.
“Nice delts, Tina,” a voice called out, and Nick had to fight the urge to cover himself up as if he’d been caught doing something dirty.
One of the other gym-goers had walked in without him noticing, and he realised with alarm that she was about to start taking her clothes off.
Face rapidly turning red, he hurried silently out of the changing rooms and back into the gym proper, only to find that Dana had already ditched the leg machine thingy and was halfway towards the door.
Nick managed to stop himself before he called out or ran after her. He needed to act as normally as possible or people would get suspicious, so he walked Titania’s body back to the bench she had been practising at and pictured his sister’s superhero persona in his mind.
***
The switches were definitely getting easier, and Nick let out a sigh of relief when he opened his eyes to find himself suddenly outside and back in Dana’s body.
The relief was short-lived when he saw four figures gathered around Dana’s car, and his heart was gripped with a sudden anxiety when all of them looked up at his approach and walked towards him.
If they had been random thugs, he might have been excited: Dana probably beat up bad guys like that just as a warm up. But not only was she injured, these didn’t look like regular bad guys. They were in costumes for a start, and regular henchmen didn’t usually get costumes.
“Is she the one?” one of them said - a man with broad shoulders that towered above Nick in his sister’s body. He had a costume of rich blue and red with gold trimming - the classic colours of a leader type character.
“Yep,” said a dark-skinned woman, wearing two shades of green and black goggles. “Relax,” she said to Nick. “I saw what you did at the fire yesterday. We know you’re one of the good guys.”
Nick didn’t say anything. Did they even know it was Nick, or did they just see Danamite?
The leader spoke again. “Did you see anything strange before the fire that night? Any… vehicles? Or creatures?”
Nick automatically shook his head in silence. It was wrong to lie, but he didn’t know if he could trust these people with the truth, or if it might get him or Dana in trouble if he told it.
The leader grimaced and sighed. “Well, it’s not going to be easy to hear this, but those fires weren’t… what did the news call it?”
“Gas explosion,” another man behind him said, this one mostly in navy blue.
Leader man grunted. “Well, it wasn’t that. We’ve been tracking… I may as well be honest: Aliens. It doesn’t seem to be an organised invasion, but every time one lands, they bring something with them and cause all sorts of trouble.”
Nick said the first thing that came to mind. “Just you?”
The fourth person - a much younger woman maybe about Dana’s own age wearing totally ordinary clothes - suppressed a laugh.
Leader shook his head. “Not just us. We’ve networked with others like us all over the country - all over the world. People who learned they were different in ways that could help those in need when things got bad.”
Nick turned the speech over in his head. It sounded almost familiar.
“So… you’re superheroes?” he said.
Leader chuckled and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess we are. Though we try to stay secret when we can. So, would you like to become a superhero?”
“Oh, I’m one already,” Nick blurted out before he could stop himself.
Leader raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s your name?”
“Ni- Uh, Danamite,” Nick said, having suddenly backed himself into a corner.
Mister leader looked quizzically at the others, who all shrugged or shook their heads.
“Have you been on the scene for long?”
Nick shook his head. He knew Dana had been working for a long time, but it was clear she’d kept herself just to her close friends until now, and the fact that he’d blown her cover to complete strangers made him cringe with guilt.
“Well, stay out of trouble and we might get in touch if we need you,” Leader said. “What can you do?”
“Um… I’m… I’m strong,” Nick managed through a suddenly dry mouth.
Leader raised an eyebrow. “Anything else?”
“And… I’m tough?” Nick squeaked.
Leader looked back at the green lady, who nodded. “Elevated strength and endurance. She busted through a burning building and shook off a bullet.”
Leader nodded. “Maybe stay away from the police in future,” he said. “They’re on edge at the best of times, so it’s best not to upset them.
Nick nodded mutely.
“You can call me Captain Keen,” the leader said before pointing to the green lady, white man and ordinary looking girl. “This is Nightsight, Satellite and Audie.”
Audie waved with a big grin on her face. Nick nervously waved back.
“Alright, I think we’ve wasted enough of your time. Get home safe and stay on your toes - we’ll be seeing you soon enough, I expect.”
Nick nodded again, not trusting himself to speak.
And just like that, three of them were gone. There had been a flurry of movement, causing him to flinch, and when he opened his eyes, only Audie remained.
Nick felt himself tensing to fight or run as Audie approached him, the same grin never leaving her face.
“So, it looks like you’ll be joining the league of heroes soon. Feels good to know you’re not the only one, huh?”
Nick nodded, desperately wanting her to go away so he could just get back into his body and go home. As though sensing his thoughts, Audie looked back at the car.
“Care to explain why you’ve left a young boy asleep in the car at night in a strange neighbourhood?”
“I-I’m just- I mean, he was just tired!” Nick stammered. “I’m taking him home now.”
Audie looked like she was going to say something, but shrugged instead.
“Hey, it’s cool. You’re not the only one who isn’t who they say they are, and it pays to keep at least a few secrets, especially among superheroes.”
Nick didn’t trust himself to speak, watching in silence as Audie sauntered back to the car and peered into a window.
“I’d think very carefully before committing to the superhero lifestyle. It gets awfully difficult trying to save the world while also looking after… yourself.”
With a wink, Audie strolled over to a nearby motorcycle, kicking it into life and roaring out of the carpark and down the street.
Nick watched the tail lights disappear into the night with a terrible sense of dread. Just what had he gotten his sister into?
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Chapter by
FeverDreamer · 20 Feb 2023 -
Everyone goes a little bit crazy when they're alone
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Anita had considered masturbating before bed to relieve whatever it was that was messing with her head, but despite doing everything she could to get herself into the mood, just couldn’t manage any enthusiasm.
That morning she left the messages from her friend unread, but committed herself to another attempt to meditate. Failing to do so yesterday had messed with her head, and it was clear there were some issues she needed to deal with. Perhaps a bit of introspection might shine some light on that.
Anita sat down and closed her eyes.
Breathe deeply.
Concentrate on your sensations.
Be mindful of your body.
Anita opened her eyes.
Anita closed her eyes.
No. She was going to see this through to the end.
And yet, despite doing everything the same as before, despite focusing on her breathing and practising mindfulness and all the other steps she had taken before, she could not fall into either the brief darkness she had experienced on her first day, nor the dreamlike detachment she had on her second.
Instead, she remained in place for a few minutes before giving up, feeling restless and frustrated as she paced around the room.
She should do something to take her mind off things. Do some chores. Wash the floor. Launder the sheets.
As she ran through a list of possible jobs around the apartment she could do, she opened her wardrobe. Why did she open her wardrobe? Everything in here was clean.
Before she could wonder any further, something caught her eye on a high shelf. Reaching up, Anita pulled down a weathered cardboard box that she didn’t quite recognise until she saw the labels.
Chores suddenly forgotten, Anita took the box into the living room and carefully removed the lid. It was like opening a door into her childhood: A treasure chest of relics that must have travelled with her since the day she moved out of home. She had never been able to bring herself to throw them out, but also never quite found the time to go through them all.
Well, lockdown gave her all the time in the world, and she spent the next few hours simply removing items one by one and examining them in minute detail, exploring the memories that each one invoked.
One thing that drew her eye in particular was a diary: Bright pink and studded in rhinestones like everything else she had owned at that age. She flicked through the pages, marvelling at how much had changed in the years and how this younger version of herself seemed like a complete stranger.
Had she really crushed so hard on the dorks from that boy band? Had she really dreamed of being a stewardess? Had she really had a bestie named Tania that she wanted to travel the world with?
Something twitched in her mind and she found herself caught on that detail. A bestie named Tania? She’d been to a few different schools as her family moved around to chase work, and while she’d picked up a knack for making friends quickly, she couldn’t remember being besties with anyone in the short time she knew them. With names that similar, it would have been typical for kids to form an instant bond, but try as she might, she could not conjure a face to the name.
Setting the diary aside, Anita dug further, picking up a pair of cheap friendship bracelets - one with her own name and the other bearing the name Tania. Weird, she would have expected Tania to have kept her own one, but she also noticed that the two were elaborately tied together in a way that suggested intent. Anita supposed that Tania probably had an identical one of her own, also with both of their names. Cute.
Further searching unearthed a stack of amateurish paintings done in the broad, inexpert strokes of an aspiring master. It was a family portrait of stick figures, with helpful arrows pointing to a tall figure in a dress labelled “Mum,” a tall figure with glasses labelled “Dad,” a small figure with long hair titled “Me,” and an identical figure named “Tania.”
She’d even made it into her paintings. Anita went back through the items she had already checked, pausing for a moment when she found what might loosely be called a poem.
I like when Tania wants to play
She makes me happy on a rainy day
I like when Tania does my hair
She hugs me tight when I am scared
Me and Anita share things together
Because we will be best friends forever
Anita pulled a face at the saccharine verse. Her younger self clearly knew nothing about how the passage of time could cause people to drift apart, even the ones who thought they were ride-or-die at the time. Still, lockdown might be an opportunity to reconnect if she could just find a clue as to who she was.
Anita picked up a photo album at random and skipped through the pages. No matter how many albums she searched through, she never found herself with a child her age that could have matched Tania’s description.
Scrap books and notepads and diaries came out of the box one by one, and Anita completely lost track of time as she chased this ghost from her past through history.
Anita opened her eyes.
She was ass-deep in the clutter she had removed from this moving box, the contents of which were strewn around her in a massive circle on the floor.
What time was it?
Suddenly conscious of how hungry and tired and sore she was from sitting in the same position for hours on end, Anita got creakily to her feet and stretched with a grimace.
Sometimes curiosity just got a hold of you like that, she supposed. Too exhausted to clean anything up just yet, she tip-toed her way around the debris into the kitchen and fixed herself an extremely late lunch. It was only as she finished the last mouthful that she realised that she’d missed the obvious solution: Even if she couldn’t remember who Tania was, her parents probably could.
She fired a message off to them with a photo of one of the paintings before laboriously moving everything back into the box in roughly the same order she could remember taking them out before sliding the lot back onto the shelf. She kept the friendship bracelet on her bedside table, half as a tribute to her old friend and half to somewhat assuage her guilt over forgetting.
Suddenly drained of all the energy she had possessed that morning, Anita collapsed on the couch to stare listlessly at some streaming programs that failed to register before turning in for the night.
***
Anita re-read the message from her parents again, as though it might say something else on the hundredth attempt.
Her parents were a little baffled, and had replied in a half-joking, half condescending tone, but the message was clear: Tania was Anita’s imaginary friend. Invented as a way of coping with the constant address changes, Tania was the girl that liked everything Anita liked, went everywhere Anita went and dreamed everything Anita dreamed, right until one day when Anita had simply grown out of her.
Anita put her phone down, trying to process the information. It felt important somehow - specifically important to her state of mind - but how a figment of her childhood imagination could be playing into current events was beyond her.
Was her subconscious falling back on old habits in stressful times?
She hugs me tight when I am scared.
It wasn’t impossible. Everyone goes a little bit crazy in isolation, and so what if that was her way of coping? Two weeks into lockdown and half of her friends were doing much worse.
Anita resolved to meditate again, but this time specifically opening herself up to the friend she had forgotten. She may not have been real to anyone else, but she was real to Young Anita.
Anita sat down and closed her eyes.
Breathe deeply.
Concentrate on your sensations.
Anita opened her eyes.
And fell backwards in shock. The light had faded, the shadows had moved and despite her disbelief, her phone showed that ten full hours had passed since she sat down.
Anita looked around her wildly: Had she been sitting here this whole time? She didn’t feel stiff or sore to make it seem so, but then what had she done? What had her body done?
Getting cautiously to her feet, Anita carefully scanned the room for some sign - any sign - that something was out of place. She checked the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, everywhere, but nothing had moved from where she had left it. Her phone showed no online activity, the TV was stuck paused where she had abandoned a show the night before.
What the fuck was going on?
Did she feel tired? No. Did she feel dirty? Sore? Was there any indication that she hadn’t simply closed her eyes and jumped forward in time? No.
Anita fretted as her untouched dinner went cold. There was no way of knowing for sure what had happened that day, but there was a way to find out if she tried it again.
Grabbing her laptop from its accustomed place on the desk, Anita placed it in the corner of her living room such that the camera had a broad view of both the room itself, the kitchen behind it in one direction and the door to her bedroom in the other.
She ignored the messages from her friend - what could she possibly tell her? That meditation had made her equal parts horny and narcoleptic, but only one at a time?
With the camera in place for the next day, Anita went to bed and lay awake in the darkness.
***
Anita double checked the laptop as soon as she got out of bed, making sure that her hard drive had enough space for an extended recording. She spent some time thinking about what was happening as she ate breakfast: If the last week’s pattern was anything to go by, she could be out of it for as long as twelve hours today.
The thought was frankly terrifying, but grim curiosity left her determined to try.
Anita sat down and closed her eyes.
Breathe deeply.
Anita opened her eyes.
It was night. She had known that it could be, but nevertheless the sudden change from daylight to artificial light caused a flood of panic as she realised that yes, half a day had passed in the blink of an eye.
Refusing to give in to the fear, she fumbled for her phone to confirm the time, then crawled weakly to her laptop and hit stop on the recording.
The prospect of scanning through twelve hours of video on her knees was not appealing, so she picked it up and carried it into her room, propping herself up with some pillows in bed while balancing the device on her stomach.
She saw herself hitting record at the beginning of the video before shuffling back to sit in place. Anita held her breath as she watched herself sitting perfectly still in her meditative pose.
She had to suppress a moan of horror as she saw herself open her eyes, then slowly turn to look at the camera.
The Anita on the screen smiled and gently waved in a way that felt far from friendly under the circumstances, before slowly getting to her feet and inspecting herself in a way very reminiscent of the way Anita had caught herself doing the last few days.
She watched her body stretch luxuriantly, strip and prod itself with an expression of novel amusement, its eyes occasionally flicking back to the camera as it did so.
Anita released a breath she didn’t know she was holding when her body pranced out of view through her bedroom door. The motion sensor showed no activity for a couple of hours, and Anita dreaded to think of what her body might be doing out of sight.
Skipping ahead, Anita was shocked to see herself dressed in her favourite party outfit and made up as though for a night drinking with friends. Her body strode into the living room as though on a catwalk, posing dramatically in front of the camera and winking seductively at it. It sashayed around the room a few times before blowing a kiss towards the camera and leaving its field of view again.
Skipping ahead again, Anita watched her body strut back in wearing a sexy set of underwear she had imported on a whim but never met anyone she wanted to wear it for. It was with a horrifying sense of violation that Anita realised that this other self wore it with more confidence than she could have ever hoped to muster.
Disappearing again, Anita skipped ahead over and over, watching herself dressed and made up in every variation that her wardrobe allowed, and she realised with light-headed vertigo that it was very much like a girl playing dress-ups in her mother’s clothes.
Except it was her own body, wearing her own clothes and with no hint of hesitancy or clumsiness: This other self knew how to wear everything with pride.
It was almost a relief to see her body return to the living room naked, until Anita noticed the bright red dildo being held in one hand.
She wanted to look away. She wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to shut the lid and throw the laptop out the window, but Anita found herself unable to do anything except watch her body begin to slowly gyrate its hips to some inaudible music, caressing her breasts with one hand while running the tip of the dildo up and down her stomach, getting lower and lower with each pass.
The whole display had been leading up to this, and Anita realised with a sick feeling that her other self must have been wet the whole time, as the moment the dildo finally came level with her pussy, she swivelled it into position and drove it deep inside her.
The sound of her own voice crying out in pleasure caused Anita to slam the laptop shut in shock. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
Meditation didn’t cause this, imaginary friends didn’t cause this, lockdown didn’t cause this - she was actually losing her mind!
Opening the lid with a sickening tightness in her chest, Anita hit the play button, wincing as the half-finished moan continued from where it had been interrupted.
Anita’s body left the dildo lodged in her snatch, choosing that moment to instead raise its arms in the air and begin gently dancing on the spot, giggling as one pose or another caused the stowaway to shift inside her. Anita could only imagine what it would feel like to twist and turn with five inches of rubber buried in her pussy. She didn’t have a choice, and as her mind played out its reel of phantom sensations, she felt her nipples growing hard against her will.
Her other self eventually seemed to tire of dancing, sauntering towards the camera before falling to her knees, the dildo plopping out of her as she spread her legs.
She giggled again, picking it up off the floor and licking it with perverse glee, her eyes never leaving the camera.
Anita found herself unable to fight against her imagination as her body began to enthusiastically fuck itself, alternating between grinding against the length of the dildo and plunging it in and out at a distressing pace. Anita pictured what her other self must be feeling: The sensation of having her lips spread out along a lubricated shaft, of being pierced open again and again as fast as her hand could pump.
The woman on the screen panted with increasing urgency until, with a final thrust, she threw her head back and cried out in orgasm. Anita watched herself spasming, twitching for what felt like hours before finally collapsing on the floor, the dildo sliding out and rolling away.
Her body took its time recovering, pulling itself slowly upright to beam with satisfaction at the camera. Anita wanted to scream at this person wearing her face, to reach into the screen and smash that smile into a million pieces, but all she could do was watch as her body daintily wiped up the stains on the floor and carried the dildo back into her room.
It was almost eight at night before she returned, as naked as she had been before. She dressed herself in Anita’s pyjamas slowly, turning the act into a sensual reverse-striptese while smirking at the camera.
Once fully dressed, she rearranged the cushions on the floor, sat down and closed her eyes.
Anita watched the change in demeanour as she regained control of her body, watched herself open her eyes and look around in apprehension. That version of her that was completely oblivious to the liberties her body had taken with itself as it stumbled forwards and stopped the recording.
Anita closed the laptop and lay back in the dark, her body faintly humming in unfulfilled sympathetic arousal, her mind clouded with dread.
***
Anita didn’t know what was happening to her. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know who to ask for help, or what anyone could do to help her.
Instead, she sat huddled in bed, watching the seconds tick by on her phone.
Fifteen minutes to eight.
A thousand different possible courses of action flashed across her mind, but none that didn’t make her sound like a raving lunatic. People were already losing it; she would just be one of thousands screaming that they were losing control of their lives, and nobody would believe that she meant it literally.
Anita glanced at her phone. Ten minutes to eight.
Could she confront this other self? Demand control of her body back? She had hoped to somehow communicate with them through meditation, but instead it seemed to be the gateway to giving over control of her body to this other consciousness. What if she just stopped now? Never tried meditating ever again? Would that be the end of it? She had thought earlier that she had failed to properly enter a trance on two occasions, but looking back realised that some force had still managed to take control of her and guide her actions. Something that looked out through her eyes and whispered things in her mind.
Anita checked her phone. Five minutes to eight.
It knew everything about her. It knew how to dress like her - better, even. It knew how to walk and smile and laugh using her body in a way that was completely unfettered by doubt or shame. Every moment of her life that it stole was a pleasure. She had to fight it. She couldn’t give in to it.
And it was with that resolution that Anita felt the tendrils reaching into her body, causing her muscles to twitch as one by one they surrendered to the intrusive force. Anita’s mind flooded with panic, and she tried desperately to repulse this other will, but it made no difference. She was forced to watch helplessly as her whole body shuddered, for the first time consciously aware of her other self slipping into her like a hand into a glove.
Her legs stretched out, her hips thrust up, her abs flexed, her back arched, her arms clutched at the sheets and her neck tipped back as a profoundly wrong sense of fullness locked Anita in place.
And then the fear melted away, her horror dissolving into a mild disquiet.
Anita’s vision tilted forward, watching her body twitch in place as the alien mind took control. It raised her hands delicately in the morning light before clasping her face with an expression of glee.
It no longer needed her to meditate for it to take control, Anita realised.
The thing controlling her body had realised it too, and kicked its legs against the mattress in a joyful dance before flinging off her clothes. Anita could only float along on the sudden tide of arousal as her body set to immediately jilling itself off, crying out in ecstasy as it rapidly rose to climax.
Time from there passed in a blur as Anita caught glimpses of a shower, eating breakfast naked, getting dressed in something breezy and dancing in front of the television as garish music played in the background. Through foggy half-seen flashes, Anita realised that her other self had hooked the laptop up to the TV and was watching herself dancing luridly on camera, an open grin of invitation on her face.
It wasn’t long before her body was horny again, alternating between dancing and masturbating in front of the camera, sometimes both at the same time. She stripped down as she spun, grinding against one hand in time with the beat before shuddering to climax after climax.
After that was a bath; a time-consuming luxury that Anita hadn’t afforded herself since moving in, but her other self relished every second of, even taking the time to masturbate in the hot water before rinsing off and towelling dry.
Everything was a joy to the thing wearing her body, and no opportunity to experience pleasure was spared. The food Anita had written off as tasteless suddenly became divine, the clothes she had mothballed as tacky became stunning. Anita was forced to see her life through the eyes of a creature hungry to devour every wasted moment.
It wasn’t until that evening, as she shuddered to yet another orgasm on a plundered vibrator that she realised she would not get her life back before nightfall. As though confirming her fears, her body chose to shower itself one final time before getting changed into her pyjamas and crawling into bed.
Anita struggled with as much desperation as she could muster in her foggy state, but could do nothing to stop her body closing its eyes and falling asleep.
***
Anita woke up with a start and threw herself out of bed.
Her other self hadn’t set an alarm, and she checked her phone to find she had only a few minutes before she would lose control.
Rushing to her computer, she fired off messages without any regard for how crazy it might make her look. Her meditation friend was the only one to respond immediately, and Anita was halfway through giving her the details when she felt the tentacles sliding up her arms, her fingers going numb as another mind climbed into her body and everything went dark.
***
Anita shot up out of bed, the horror of yesterday’s failed call for help rushing through her like a river of ice.
Without even checking her phone, she jumped onto her messages to see what her other self might have typed in her place, only to find her social accounts completely deactivated and both contacts and messages on her phone completely wiped.
Tearfully panicking, she tried searching for something, anything that sounded like what she was experiencing, and even found something promising on a message board, but before she could click the link, her arm went slack as her body gave itself up to the invader again.
***
Anita leapt out of bed and jumped onto her laptop, only to find it completely offline. Not only had her other self physically unplugged and hidden her modem, but she was overcome with hopelessness when she found even the SIM in her phone had been removed.
She was still hunched over with despair when she felt her body being peeled open like a fruit, the will of her possessor pouring into her like warm tar, drowning out her spirit.
***
Anita lay still in bed. It was all she could do. Even if she hadn’t given up entirely, she had woken to find herself tightly cocooned in her own bedsheets. No doubt if she wriggled and struggled with everything she had, she just might break free in time to lose control of herself. Fuck it - let her other self waste that time instead.
***
Anita woke up unbound to the sound of her phone alarm buzzing on the bedside table. More than that, her laptop was also open with a video file open, but paused. Dreading what she was about to see, Anita hit play.
It was herself, which she had expected to see, but she was dressed modestly and seated with an almost reluctant expression, which was a surprise.
“Hello, Anita,” her other self said. “It’s me: Tania.”
Anita watched numbly as her imaginary friend - now controlling her body - gave the camera a half-hearted show of jazz-hands.
“Surpriiise. I know things have been rough for the past couple of weeks, and I wanted to say I’m sorry about… about taking control the way I did. When I first woke up, it was literally my first experience of being alive. I simply didn’t exist before you tried meditating, and finding myself with control of your body, having your senses, it was… amazing. And when you kept doing it, I got to feel more of what it’s like to be you. I guess I got a bit carried away. I didn’t mean to take more and more of your life, but somehow every time you opened yourself up to me, it was just easier to stay in control, until eventually I didn’t even need you to open your mind, I could just… reach into you and take over. I know it’s your life, Anita and I’m sorry to do this, but I want to live too. I was with you through your whole childhood and you just kind of forgot about me as soon as you didn’t need me anymore. Well, you’ve had a pretty good life without me. I think it’s my turn. I’m going to use this body and go out and experience what it’s like being a grown-up for myself. And twenty years from now, we can switch back again.”
Tania raised her little finger into the air, and Anita realised that she was wearing the entangled friendship bracelet on that wrist.
“Pinky promise,” she said with a smile, before reaching forward and stopping the recording.
Anita looked down at her own wrist in stunned silence. The bracelet was still attached.
There wasn’t anything she could say
There wasn’t anything she could do
She felt it at the base of her spine first: A splitting sensation, as though her body were being unzipped all the way up to her neck. The tendrils spilled into her, causing her body to freeze as she gasped - the last voluntary action her body allowed her.
She felt Tania’s legs sliding into her first, and they really felt like legs now: The moments of her life that Tania had stolen from her had given her spirit form, and Anita could even feel each individual toe as they slid into her like a pair of stockings.
Her legs moved on their own, planting themselves on the mattress and forcing Anita to roll flat on her back, to stare down at herself as she slowly lost control. Her legs brought themselves up, crossed at the knee as thought to show themselves off to her. But they weren’t her legs anymore.
A feeling of fullness in her ass and groin made her pussy convulse, and Anita realised Tania had claimed her sex, separating her from the entire lower half of her body. She felt like a circus act - the one where a magician would cut two people in half, but put the wrong halves back together.
The sense of alienage from her own body crawled up her stomach and chest, and she felt herself breathe easily again as the tendrils reached into her lungs.
The tickling reached the base of her neck, shooting down her arms to her fingers which spasmed before raising themselves in the air, flexing this way and that before cupping her breasts tenderly.
And that was that. Anita looked down at a body that she was attached to but no longer owned. She felt her head filling like a teacup as the last of Tania poured into her, sliding her own face into Anita’s as though putting on a mask.
Anita heard her voice cry out in exultant victory, feeling a delighted smile break out on her face and the spark of orgasmic joy running up and down the body that was once hers.
As her vision darkened, all she could do was hope that Tania would keep her promise in twenty years time.1 / 1Loading...Loading...- Anita had considered masturbating before bed to relieve whatever it was that was messing with her head, but despite doing everything she could to get herself into the mood, just couldn’t manage any enthusiasm.
That morning she left the messages from her friend unread, but committed herself to another attempt to meditate. Failing to do so yesterday had messed with her head, and it was clear there were some issues she needed to deal with. Perhaps a bit of introspection might shine some light on that.
Anita sat down and closed her eyes.
Breathe deeply.
Concentrate on your sensations.
Be mindful of your body.
Anita opened her eyes.
Anita closed her eyes.
No. She was going to see this through to the end.
And yet, despite doing everything the same as before, despite focusing on her breathing and practising mindfulness and all the other steps she had taken before, she could not fall into either the brief darkness she had experienced on her first day, nor the dreamlike detachment she had on her second.
Instead, she remained in place for a few minutes before giving up, feeling restless and frustrated as she paced around the room.
She should do something to take her mind off things. Do some chores. Wash the floor. Launder the sheets.
As she ran through a list of possible jobs around the apartment she could do, she opened her wardrobe. Why did she open her wardrobe? Everything in here was clean.
Before she could wonder any further, something caught her eye on a high shelf. Reaching up, Anita pulled down a weathered cardboard box that she didn’t quite recognise until she saw the labels.
Chores suddenly forgotten, Anita took the box into the living room and carefully removed the lid. It was like opening a door into her childhood: A treasure chest of relics that must have travelled with her since the day she moved out of home. She had never been able to bring herself to throw them out, but also never quite found the time to go through them all.
Well, lockdown gave her all the time in the world, and she spent the next few hours simply removing items one by one and examining them in minute detail, exploring the memories that each one invoked.
One thing that drew her eye in particular was a diary: Bright pink and studded in rhinestones like everything else she had owned at that age. She flicked through the pages, marvelling at how much had changed in the years and how this younger version of herself seemed like a complete stranger.
Had she really crushed so hard on the dorks from that boy band? Had she really dreamed of being a stewardess? Had she really had a bestie named Tania that she wanted to travel the world with?
Something twitched in her mind and she found herself caught on that detail. A bestie named Tania? She’d been to a few different schools as her family moved around to chase work, and while she’d picked up a knack for making friends quickly, she couldn’t remember being besties with anyone in the short time she knew them. With names that similar, it would have been typical for kids to form an instant bond, but try as she might, she could not conjure a face to the name.
Setting the diary aside, Anita dug further, picking up a pair of cheap friendship bracelets - one with her own name and the other bearing the name Tania. Weird, she would have expected Tania to have kept her own one, but she also noticed that the two were elaborately tied together in a way that suggested intent. Anita supposed that Tania probably had an identical one of her own, also with both of their names. Cute.
Further searching unearthed a stack of amateurish paintings done in the broad, inexpert strokes of an aspiring master. It was a family portrait of stick figures, with helpful arrows pointing to a tall figure in a dress labelled “Mum,” a tall figure with glasses labelled “Dad,” a small figure with long hair titled “Me,” and an identical figure named “Tania.”
She’d even made it into her paintings. Anita went back through the items she had already checked, pausing for a moment when she found what might loosely be called a poem.
I like when Tania wants to play
She makes me happy on a rainy day
I like when Tania does my hair
She hugs me tight when I am scared
Me and Anita share things together
Because we will be best friends forever
Anita pulled a face at the saccharine verse. Her younger self clearly knew nothing about how the passage of time could cause people to drift apart, even the ones who thought they were ride-or-die at the time. Still, lockdown might be an opportunity to reconnect if she could just find a clue as to who she was.
Anita picked up a photo album at random and skipped through the pages. No matter how many albums she searched through, she never found herself with a child her age that could have matched Tania’s description.
Scrap books and notepads and diaries came out of the box one by one, and Anita completely lost track of time as she chased this ghost from her past through history.
Anita opened her eyes.
She was ass-deep in the clutter she had removed from this moving box, the contents of which were strewn around her in a massive circle on the floor.
What time was it?
Suddenly conscious of how hungry and tired and sore she was from sitting in the same position for hours on end, Anita got creakily to her feet and stretched with a grimace.
Sometimes curiosity just got a hold of you like that, she supposed. Too exhausted to clean anything up just yet, she tip-toed her way around the debris into the kitchen and fixed herself an extremely late lunch. It was only as she finished the last mouthful that she realised that she’d missed the obvious solution: Even if she couldn’t remember who Tania was, her parents probably could.
She fired a message off to them with a photo of one of the paintings before laboriously moving everything back into the box in roughly the same order she could remember taking them out before sliding the lot back onto the shelf. She kept the friendship bracelet on her bedside table, half as a tribute to her old friend and half to somewhat assuage her guilt over forgetting.
Suddenly drained of all the energy she had possessed that morning, Anita collapsed on the couch to stare listlessly at some streaming programs that failed to register before turning in for the night.
***
Anita re-read the message from her parents again, as though it might say something else on the hundredth attempt.
Her parents were a little baffled, and had replied in a half-joking, half condescending tone, but the message was clear: Tania was Anita’s imaginary friend. Invented as a way of coping with the constant address changes, Tania was the girl that liked everything Anita liked, went everywhere Anita went and dreamed everything Anita dreamed, right until one day when Anita had simply grown out of her.
Anita put her phone down, trying to process the information. It felt important somehow - specifically important to her state of mind - but how a figment of her childhood imagination could be playing into current events was beyond her.
Was her subconscious falling back on old habits in stressful times?
She hugs me tight when I am scared.
It wasn’t impossible. Everyone goes a little bit crazy in isolation, and so what if that was her way of coping? Two weeks into lockdown and half of her friends were doing much worse.
Anita resolved to meditate again, but this time specifically opening herself up to the friend she had forgotten. She may not have been real to anyone else, but she was real to Young Anita.
Anita sat down and closed her eyes.
Breathe deeply.
Concentrate on your sensations.
Anita opened her eyes.
And fell backwards in shock. The light had faded, the shadows had moved and despite her disbelief, her phone showed that ten full hours had passed since she sat down.
Anita looked around her wildly: Had she been sitting here this whole time? She didn’t feel stiff or sore to make it seem so, but then what had she done? What had her body done?
Getting cautiously to her feet, Anita carefully scanned the room for some sign - any sign - that something was out of place. She checked the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, everywhere, but nothing had moved from where she had left it. Her phone showed no online activity, the TV was stuck paused where she had abandoned a show the night before.
What the fuck was going on?
Did she feel tired? No. Did she feel dirty? Sore? Was there any indication that she hadn’t simply closed her eyes and jumped forward in time? No.
Anita fretted as her untouched dinner went cold. There was no way of knowing for sure what had happened that day, but there was a way to find out if she tried it again.
Grabbing her laptop from its accustomed place on the desk, Anita placed it in the corner of her living room such that the camera had a broad view of both the room itself, the kitchen behind it in one direction and the door to her bedroom in the other.
She ignored the messages from her friend - what could she possibly tell her? That meditation had made her equal parts horny and narcoleptic, but only one at a time?
With the camera in place for the next day, Anita went to bed and lay awake in the darkness.
***
Anita double checked the laptop as soon as she got out of bed, making sure that her hard drive had enough space for an extended recording. She spent some time thinking about what was happening as she ate breakfast: If the last week’s pattern was anything to go by, she could be out of it for as long as twelve hours today.
The thought was frankly terrifying, but grim curiosity left her determined to try.
Anita sat down and closed her eyes.
Breathe deeply.
Anita opened her eyes.
It was night. She had known that it could be, but nevertheless the sudden change from daylight to artificial light caused a flood of panic as she realised that yes, half a day had passed in the blink of an eye.
Refusing to give in to the fear, she fumbled for her phone to confirm the time, then crawled weakly to her laptop and hit stop on the recording.
The prospect of scanning through twelve hours of video on her knees was not appealing, so she picked it up and carried it into her room, propping herself up with some pillows in bed while balancing the device on her stomach.
She saw herself hitting record at the beginning of the video before shuffling back to sit in place. Anita held her breath as she watched herself sitting perfectly still in her meditative pose.
She had to suppress a moan of horror as she saw herself open her eyes, then slowly turn to look at the camera.
The Anita on the screen smiled and gently waved in a way that felt far from friendly under the circumstances, before slowly getting to her feet and inspecting herself in a way very reminiscent of the way Anita had caught herself doing the last few days.
She watched her body stretch luxuriantly, strip and prod itself with an expression of novel amusement, its eyes occasionally flicking back to the camera as it did so.
Anita released a breath she didn’t know she was holding when her body pranced out of view through her bedroom door. The motion sensor showed no activity for a couple of hours, and Anita dreaded to think of what her body might be doing out of sight.
Skipping ahead, Anita was shocked to see herself dressed in her favourite party outfit and made up as though for a night drinking with friends. Her body strode into the living room as though on a catwalk, posing dramatically in front of the camera and winking seductively at it. It sashayed around the room a few times before blowing a kiss towards the camera and leaving its field of view again.
Skipping ahead again, Anita watched her body strut back in wearing a sexy set of underwear she had imported on a whim but never met anyone she wanted to wear it for. It was with a horrifying sense of violation that Anita realised that this other self wore it with more confidence than she could have ever hoped to muster.
Disappearing again, Anita skipped ahead over and over, watching herself dressed and made up in every variation that her wardrobe allowed, and she realised with light-headed vertigo that it was very much like a girl playing dress-ups in her mother’s clothes.
Except it was her own body, wearing her own clothes and with no hint of hesitancy or clumsiness: This other self knew how to wear everything with pride.
It was almost a relief to see her body return to the living room naked, until Anita noticed the bright red dildo being held in one hand.
She wanted to look away. She wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to shut the lid and throw the laptop out the window, but Anita found herself unable to do anything except watch her body begin to slowly gyrate its hips to some inaudible music, caressing her breasts with one hand while running the tip of the dildo up and down her stomach, getting lower and lower with each pass.
The whole display had been leading up to this, and Anita realised with a sick feeling that her other self must have been wet the whole time, as the moment the dildo finally came level with her pussy, she swivelled it into position and drove it deep inside her.
The sound of her own voice crying out in pleasure caused Anita to slam the laptop shut in shock. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
Meditation didn’t cause this, imaginary friends didn’t cause this, lockdown didn’t cause this - she was actually losing her mind!
Opening the lid with a sickening tightness in her chest, Anita hit the play button, wincing as the half-finished moan continued from where it had been interrupted.
Anita’s body left the dildo lodged in her snatch, choosing that moment to instead raise its arms in the air and begin gently dancing on the spot, giggling as one pose or another caused the stowaway to shift inside her. Anita could only imagine what it would feel like to twist and turn with five inches of rubber buried in her pussy. She didn’t have a choice, and as her mind played out its reel of phantom sensations, she felt her nipples growing hard against her will.
Her other self eventually seemed to tire of dancing, sauntering towards the camera before falling to her knees, the dildo plopping out of her as she spread her legs.
She giggled again, picking it up off the floor and licking it with perverse glee, her eyes never leaving the camera.
Anita found herself unable to fight against her imagination as her body began to enthusiastically fuck itself, alternating between grinding against the length of the dildo and plunging it in and out at a distressing pace. Anita pictured what her other self must be feeling: The sensation of having her lips spread out along a lubricated shaft, of being pierced open again and again as fast as her hand could pump.
The woman on the screen panted with increasing urgency until, with a final thrust, she threw her head back and cried out in orgasm. Anita watched herself spasming, twitching for what felt like hours before finally collapsing on the floor, the dildo sliding out and rolling away.
Her body took its time recovering, pulling itself slowly upright to beam with satisfaction at the camera. Anita wanted to scream at this person wearing her face, to reach into the screen and smash that smile into a million pieces, but all she could do was watch as her body daintily wiped up the stains on the floor and carried the dildo back into her room.
It was almost eight at night before she returned, as naked as she had been before. She dressed herself in Anita’s pyjamas slowly, turning the act into a sensual reverse-striptese while smirking at the camera.
Once fully dressed, she rearranged the cushions on the floor, sat down and closed her eyes.
Anita watched the change in demeanour as she regained control of her body, watched herself open her eyes and look around in apprehension. That version of her that was completely oblivious to the liberties her body had taken with itself as it stumbled forwards and stopped the recording.
Anita closed the laptop and lay back in the dark, her body faintly humming in unfulfilled sympathetic arousal, her mind clouded with dread.
***
Anita didn’t know what was happening to her. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know who to ask for help, or what anyone could do to help her.
Instead, she sat huddled in bed, watching the seconds tick by on her phone.
Fifteen minutes to eight.
A thousand different possible courses of action flashed across her mind, but none that didn’t make her sound like a raving lunatic. People were already losing it; she would just be one of thousands screaming that they were losing control of their lives, and nobody would believe that she meant it literally.
Anita glanced at her phone. Ten minutes to eight.
Could she confront this other self? Demand control of her body back? She had hoped to somehow communicate with them through meditation, but instead it seemed to be the gateway to giving over control of her body to this other consciousness. What if she just stopped now? Never tried meditating ever again? Would that be the end of it? She had thought earlier that she had failed to properly enter a trance on two occasions, but looking back realised that some force had still managed to take control of her and guide her actions. Something that looked out through her eyes and whispered things in her mind.
Anita checked her phone. Five minutes to eight.
It knew everything about her. It knew how to dress like her - better, even. It knew how to walk and smile and laugh using her body in a way that was completely unfettered by doubt or shame. Every moment of her life that it stole was a pleasure. She had to fight it. She couldn’t give in to it.
And it was with that resolution that Anita felt the tendrils reaching into her body, causing her muscles to twitch as one by one they surrendered to the intrusive force. Anita’s mind flooded with panic, and she tried desperately to repulse this other will, but it made no difference. She was forced to watch helplessly as her whole body shuddered, for the first time consciously aware of her other self slipping into her like a hand into a glove.
Her legs stretched out, her hips thrust up, her abs flexed, her back arched, her arms clutched at the sheets and her neck tipped back as a profoundly wrong sense of fullness locked Anita in place.
And then the fear melted away, her horror dissolving into a mild disquiet.
Anita’s vision tilted forward, watching her body twitch in place as the alien mind took control. It raised her hands delicately in the morning light before clasping her face with an expression of glee.
It no longer needed her to meditate for it to take control, Anita realised.
The thing controlling her body had realised it too, and kicked its legs against the mattress in a joyful dance before flinging off her clothes. Anita could only float along on the sudden tide of arousal as her body set to immediately jilling itself off, crying out in ecstasy as it rapidly rose to climax.
Time from there passed in a blur as Anita caught glimpses of a shower, eating breakfast naked, getting dressed in something breezy and dancing in front of the television as garish music played in the background. Through foggy half-seen flashes, Anita realised that her other self had hooked the laptop up to the TV and was watching herself dancing luridly on camera, an open grin of invitation on her face.
It wasn’t long before her body was horny again, alternating between dancing and masturbating in front of the camera, sometimes both at the same time. She stripped down as she spun, grinding against one hand in time with the beat before shuddering to climax after climax.
After that was a bath; a time-consuming luxury that Anita hadn’t afforded herself since moving in, but her other self relished every second of, even taking the time to masturbate in the hot water before rinsing off and towelling dry.
Everything was a joy to the thing wearing her body, and no opportunity to experience pleasure was spared. The food Anita had written off as tasteless suddenly became divine, the clothes she had mothballed as tacky became stunning. Anita was forced to see her life through the eyes of a creature hungry to devour every wasted moment.
It wasn’t until that evening, as she shuddered to yet another orgasm on a plundered vibrator that she realised she would not get her life back before nightfall. As though confirming her fears, her body chose to shower itself one final time before getting changed into her pyjamas and crawling into bed.
Anita struggled with as much desperation as she could muster in her foggy state, but could do nothing to stop her body closing its eyes and falling asleep.
***
Anita woke up with a start and threw herself out of bed.
Her other self hadn’t set an alarm, and she checked her phone to find she had only a few minutes before she would lose control.
Rushing to her computer, she fired off messages without any regard for how crazy it might make her look. Her meditation friend was the only one to respond immediately, and Anita was halfway through giving her the details when she felt the tentacles sliding up her arms, her fingers going numb as another mind climbed into her body and everything went dark.
***
Anita shot up out of bed, the horror of yesterday’s failed call for help rushing through her like a river of ice.
Without even checking her phone, she jumped onto her messages to see what her other self might have typed in her place, only to find her social accounts completely deactivated and both contacts and messages on her phone completely wiped.
Tearfully panicking, she tried searching for something, anything that sounded like what she was experiencing, and even found something promising on a message board, but before she could click the link, her arm went slack as her body gave itself up to the invader again.
***
Anita leapt out of bed and jumped onto her laptop, only to find it completely offline. Not only had her other self physically unplugged and hidden her modem, but she was overcome with hopelessness when she found even the SIM in her phone had been removed.
She was still hunched over with despair when she felt her body being peeled open like a fruit, the will of her possessor pouring into her like warm tar, drowning out her spirit.
***
Anita lay still in bed. It was all she could do. Even if she hadn’t given up entirely, she had woken to find herself tightly cocooned in her own bedsheets. No doubt if she wriggled and struggled with everything she had, she just might break free in time to lose control of herself. Fuck it - let her other self waste that time instead.
***
Anita woke up unbound to the sound of her phone alarm buzzing on the bedside table. More than that, her laptop was also open with a video file open, but paused. Dreading what she was about to see, Anita hit play.
It was herself, which she had expected to see, but she was dressed modestly and seated with an almost reluctant expression, which was a surprise.
“Hello, Anita,” her other self said. “It’s me: Tania.”
Anita watched numbly as her imaginary friend - now controlling her body - gave the camera a half-hearted show of jazz-hands.
“Surpriiise. I know things have been rough for the past couple of weeks, and I wanted to say I’m sorry about… about taking control the way I did. When I first woke up, it was literally my first experience of being alive. I simply didn’t exist before you tried meditating, and finding myself with control of your body, having your senses, it was… amazing. And when you kept doing it, I got to feel more of what it’s like to be you. I guess I got a bit carried away. I didn’t mean to take more and more of your life, but somehow every time you opened yourself up to me, it was just easier to stay in control, until eventually I didn’t even need you to open your mind, I could just… reach into you and take over. I know it’s your life, Anita and I’m sorry to do this, but I want to live too. I was with you through your whole childhood and you just kind of forgot about me as soon as you didn’t need me anymore. Well, you’ve had a pretty good life without me. I think it’s my turn. I’m going to use this body and go out and experience what it’s like being a grown-up for myself. And twenty years from now, we can switch back again.”
Tania raised her little finger into the air, and Anita realised that she was wearing the entangled friendship bracelet on that wrist.
“Pinky promise,” she said with a smile, before reaching forward and stopping the recording.
Anita looked down at her own wrist in stunned silence. The bracelet was still attached.
There wasn’t anything she could say
There wasn’t anything she could do
She felt it at the base of her spine first: A splitting sensation, as though her body were being unzipped all the way up to her neck. The tendrils spilled into her, causing her body to freeze as she gasped - the last voluntary action her body allowed her.
She felt Tania’s legs sliding into her first, and they really felt like legs now: The moments of her life that Tania had stolen from her had given her spirit form, and Anita could even feel each individual toe as they slid into her like a pair of stockings.
Her legs moved on their own, planting themselves on the mattress and forcing Anita to roll flat on her back, to stare down at herself as she slowly lost control. Her legs brought themselves up, crossed at the knee as thought to show themselves off to her. But they weren’t her legs anymore.
A feeling of fullness in her ass and groin made her pussy convulse, and Anita realised Tania had claimed her sex, separating her from the entire lower half of her body. She felt like a circus act - the one where a magician would cut two people in half, but put the wrong halves back together.
The sense of alienage from her own body crawled up her stomach and chest, and she felt herself breathe easily again as the tendrils reached into her lungs.
The tickling reached the base of her neck, shooting down her arms to her fingers which spasmed before raising themselves in the air, flexing this way and that before cupping her breasts tenderly.
And that was that. Anita looked down at a body that she was attached to but no longer owned. She felt her head filling like a teacup as the last of Tania poured into her, sliding her own face into Anita’s as though putting on a mask.
Anita heard her voice cry out in exultant victory, feeling a delighted smile break out on her face and the spark of orgasmic joy running up and down the body that was once hers.
As her vision darkened, all she could do was hope that Tania would keep her promise in twenty years time.No more chapters.
Delicious and dark!
This was well worth supporting for!