calliecwrites

[calliecwrites]

Download

Posted anonymously, 12th of February.

You know that feeling, when you meet someone interesting, and you want to know more? You know there’s more behind what they’re saying – so much knowledge, so much insight? When you can’t get enough, and wish you could connect to their brain and download everything, all at once?

You do know that feeling, right? I’m not the only one who gets that?

I met a girl online, let’s call her Amy. We were into the same things, and hung around on the same servers. I got that feeling. We were on the same wavelength. We sat up all night talking, for months. That was still too slow. The feeling got stronger.

Then, 5th of January: I dreamed that we were both robots. She had a port in her head. I had a cable attached to mine. I connected the cable and started the download.

She wasn’t online the next day or the day after. That was the longest we hadn’t spoken in months. I messaged her every day, but she didn’t reply. A month later, I still hadn’t heard from her.

But every night I dreamed about her. In the dreams, she had moved into town. We had the conversations we would have had online. The dream version of her felt just as real as the real version I was pining for. I knew I was dreaming – unusual for me – but didn’t mention it.

During the day, I found myself thinking about her, and… knowing things. I knew her sister’s address and her mum’s birthday. I remembered her first day at school. She hadn’t told me any of this. I was convinced my mind was making it up, inventing details to use in the dreams.

Sometimes, in the dreams, she said she missed her old town. But, 2nd of February: she sighed in relief and said she was finally free from that. This was her home now.

Three days later, I got a message from her mum. She had gone into Amy’s phone, seen my name and our messages, realised I was someone important to Amy – and now she was breaking the news to me. On the 5th of January, Amy had gone into a coma. On the 2nd of February, her condition had worsened suddenly, and they had switched off the life support. Amy was dead.

I was devastated. I couldn’t tell her that just last night, Amy had told me how glad she was she’d moved to where I lived.

You could say this is when I first broke with reality. But I know better.

My mind went back to the first dream. The download was supposed to be ‘copy’, not ‘move’. Who ever heard of ‘download’ being a destructive operation? That was the fantasy, not this.

You can see how I was already thinking.

I confirmed it when I logged into Amy’s email with the password I knew – that she would never have told anyone – and the password was correct.

The robots were metaphors, but somehow the act was real. I’ve stolen my best friend’s mind, and she doesn’t even realise.

The dream version is the real version now, I’m sure of that. She’s a whole other person inside of me. I can choose when to run her. When she isn’t running, every part of her is accessible to me – all her knowledge, all her memories, all her experience. Just as I wished. I could imitate her words or actions perfectly. And when she’s running, she has no idea that everything there is fake. She has no idea that she’s dead.

How do I tell her? Should I tell her? Should I run her at all?

Probably you don’t believe me. You haven’t seen the proof, after all. Maybe you think I’m making it up to cover something more mundane. Well, humour me. Pretend. I ran away from my home, my life. I’m hiding now. I can’t talk to anyone I know, not about this. I don’t know if I’m safe to be around, or safe to be online. What if I meet someone else, and it happens again? What if I decide I like it, and make it happen again?

I don’t know what to do.

What should I do?

Please help me.

Tag list (tell me if you want to be added):

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@mint-and-authoress @reliableslimegal @sandyca5tle @scrubbinn @theriomythic-lesbian

@void-botanist @wuwojiti @zzzestyy

[calliecwrites]

Virus

You are a mind virus. You spread through prolonged physical contact. Anyone you infect, you can control – though most of the time, you just watch. Their minds are open to you. You know them better than they know themselves. You’ve learned so much from observing how humans live, never knowing you’re there. Sometimes you nudge them one way or another. When people talk about luck, or inspiration, at least some of that is you.

Only occasionally do you take full control. Some people are too destructive – you need humanity to survive, after all. Others come too close to discovering you, and would destroy you if they could. These ones thrash and scream, imprisoned in their own minds, as you live their lives in their place.

And then there are your favourites – the ones who know you’re there, and like it. You can do things to them that no one else can.

They’re varied, these ones. An ascetic convulsing in ecstasy; a madman wracked with visions; a mystic chasing bliss; or a murderer exalting life by destroying it – all were looking for something. All found you, waiting inside. You inflame their lusts more than any mortal ever could. You whisper honeyed words in their ears, and indulge their deepest desires. You push their bodies far beyond the limits of what they could do on their own.

No one believes people like that when they say they’re host to a world-spanning deity. But they know you, they worship you – and you reward them. As it should be.

You’ve had a long time to perfect your methods.

You don’t know where you came from. You’ve been with humanity since the first flickers of fire among the ice – though you were much less subtle, then. They were right to speak of possession and fickle gods. And you’ll be with them, still, when their cities turn to dust, or they go to the stars. Or, maybe, if you find a better host, you’ll destroy them. You are what matters, after all.

Your favourites know this. They know how blessed they are to have even a moment of your attention. They would do anything to ensure you live forever. Poor fools – as if they have any agency in this. They are toys. Because what would eternity be without some fun?

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@void-botanist @wuwojiti @zzzestyy

[calliecwrites]

Everything

From the prompt 'what happened here?' from @flashfictionfridayofficial​. A rather bleak one reflecting how I'm feeling at the moment.

“What happened here?”

Foundation stones. Bare earth.

“A woman used to live here,” the old man said. “She was strong, and people liked her. They took away her money and her freedom. They took away her right to call herself what she was, took away her name, her medicine, and her clothes. When she was starving and sick, they took away her right to live here, and when she couldn’t leave, they took her life. Then they tore down the house and salted the earth, so that nothing could grow here tainted by any trace of her that remained.”

“Why did they do all that?” the boy said.

“Because she was different.”

“Did she hurt people?”

“She never hurt anyone.”

A pause. A scowl. “I don’t understand.”

The old man shrugged. “You’re young. You didn’t live through those times. But by the time you’re old, people will forget, and it will happen again. That’s the way of things.”

Bare earth. No life. The cold wind blew.

Tag list (tell me if you want to be added):

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@mint-and-authoress @reliableslimegal @sandyca5tle @scrubbinn @theriomythic-lesbian

@void-botanist @wuwojiti @zzzestyy

[calliecwrites]

The Ship

People talk, even when you work in a top-secret military facility. Area 51, if you like – though that’s not where it is. You hear rumours about what other departments are working on.

I’d worked my way in here, quietly and carefully, over years. They didn’t know what I was. No one did. I’d pretended to be human all my life, and was good at it. But I reckoned that if there was any information about whether there were others like me, it would be here.

So I’d heard about the spaceship, of course. Technology far beyond anything humans could make. It took them years just to figure out how to turn it on. Now they took it out for short flights occasionally, but their best efforts to control it were crude and clumsy. They still didn’t understand how it worked.

Then the incident happened. Somehow they triggered an unknown function, and the ship shrunk, suddenly and irresistibly. The inside shrunk too. That would be no problem for me – I’d just shrink with it – but human bodies aren’t made for that. When they finally pried it open, the pilot had been squashed to paste.

That’s what really caught my attention. A shapeshifting ship? Shapeshifting anything was more than I’d ever found before. So I’d arranged for my transfer – and, well, here I am.

And there it is – a sleek, finned pod. They’ve managed to get it back to human size, somehow. The hatch is open and cables trail everywhere. They’re installing a new interface, the person showing me around says – the old one was crushed with the pilot. They’re being exceptionally careful, just like in the old days. They won’t fall into the mistake of thinking the ship is a known quantity again. It hasn’t been off the ground since the incident.

He shows me the cabin. It’s round, and cramped for a human pilot even at this size. The ship is designed to be controlled through a neural interface, he says – at least that’s their best theory – though not for anything human. He points out crevices all around the interior, filled with something that looks liquid, but is hard as rock. Interface material, he calls it. They’ve drilled electrodes into the material, and taped screens and buttons to the walls. They don’t know what kind of body plan this was designed to accommodate, he says.

I can think of one kind of being that would be comfortable in here – but I don’t say anything, of course. And – solid liquid? Sounds familiar.

I’m allowed into the cabin to touch the surfaces for myself, to feel just how alien the materials are – though I’m warned not to touch the controls. No worries there – the controls aren’t what I’m interested in anyway. I touch the walls – mmm, yes, very unusual – and run my finger over the interface material. I turn the tip of my finger fluid, and probe into it as deep as I can. There’s a moment of recognition.

Then the ship responds, and reaches out to me in turn. All the interfaces liquefy, and the electrodes clatter down. Suddenly I want more. I tear out the controls and the cables – they don’t belong here. The hatch seals, I let go of my form, and expand to fill the whole of the cabin, flowing into every crack. I see what’s going on outside as we merge.

It’s so easy. Me and the ship are one combined being now. Is this what it would be like with another of my kind? The knowledge and experience to use it are just there. People outside are yelling, and they shoot at me, but I activate the defence screen. After a moment, I rise off the ground. They have no idea what this ship is capable of.

There’s no question now – it was made for people like me. Does that mean there are more of us, out there? That I’m not the only one?

I reconfigure the ship – it’s as easy as changing my own form – and blast through the roof. Fighter jets scramble to intercept, but I ignore them. The earth drops away beneath me. The blue sky turns to stars. Is that where I’m from?

The ship’s memory is curiously blank on that. So there’s only one way to find out. I choose a star, any star, and engage the stardrive. I leave Earth – and the long pretence of humanity – far behind.

Tag list (tell me if you want to be added):

@ask-de-writer @avery-victoria-winterlight @dierotenixe @leahnardo-da-veggie @lunadook

@mint-and-authoress @reliableslimegal @sandyca5tle @scrubbinn @theriomythic-lesbian

@void-botanist @wuwojiti @zzzestyy

[calliecwrites]

I keep hearing rumours about tumblr dying, so I'm now on bluesky too. Probably won't use it much for now, but if tumblr dies, that's where I'll be till I find a new home for my writing.

[calliecwrites]

Shifter HRT, part 8 – Return to Hyper City (11 Months)

I’m on the way back to Hyper City. It’s the middle of winter, there’s a bitter wind, and it’s almost dark even though it’s still only afternoon. The bus is empty. Hardly anyone’s heading out this way on a day like this. When I get off at the tiny village, all the shops are already shut. But I’m not here for the village – I’m once again following the ritual that takes me to another world.

Tonight I’m heading to the Hyper Light Festival, the winter festival at the crossroads of reality. This time I’m ready. I am enough, and this time I’m not running away.

Look closely, and it’s clear I’m not human anymore. More of my body has changed, and I’ve been practising. My bones and organs are still the same, so the forms I can take now are mostly ‘human plus’ – little tweaks and additions to the basic human shape. I’m learning, step by tiny step. I’m wearing a few subtle signs of my inhumanity – my ears are a bit longer and pointier, my tongue is slightly forked, and I’ve got a greenish tinge to most of my skin, except for a few parts that still haven’t changed. It’s quite the contrast with my red hair. This is the first colour change I’ve managed to do. Do shifters have a default colour when fluid? I’ve never gotten a clear answer. But if mine was going to be green, I’d be totally fine with that.

Why not bigger changes, when I’ve been playing with arms and legs and all kinds of things? Partly because I still can’t hold the big things for long. Small changes I can hold now with only a little bit of effort. And, uh, partly because my tops don’t have enough sleeves. Who’d have guessed that human clothes aren’t designed for that? But this time I’m wearing my T-shirt with ‘be goo, do crimes’ on it, and damn anyone who makes a fuss. I’ve been running on adrenaline since I stepped out of the house looking not entirely human – but it’s so quiet, there’s been no one here to notice.

When I arrive in Hyper City, I stop by the registration office to get my shapeshifter license. I’m still slightly annoyed that I have to do this at all – do they think I’m going to try taking over the city as soon as I can imitate someone important? – but I can’t put it off any longer. I’m now officially a ‘provisional physiological polymorph’, and I’ve got a card to prove it – meaning someone who will, eventually, be able to take on any form as part of how my body works, without using magic. Blob of goo that can turn into anything, basically. They do some kind of scan to identify which world I’m from, and note that down too. And now I’m accepting that there really is magic here – seeing it listed on an official form in a dusty government office is what finally convinces me. It’s not just super-advanced tech, like I’d assumed.

Then I head for the central plaza. I can hear music in the distance, and hints of tantalising smells drift on the wind. By the time I get close, the streets are packed. And the plaza itself is full of… everything.

Hyper City doesn’t just connect to our world, but to many worlds, and all their winter festivals come together here. Yes, the multiverse is real. People changing species isn’t the only mind-boggling thing in this city.

There are stalls selling crafts, people dancing, performing, wearing costumes and masks, music, enchanters, impossible sculptures held together by magic – and more. Unfamiliar and enticing smells waft from stalls selling food from across the worlds. I hear voices in a hundred languages. There are people telling stories, playing games, eating and drinking, all packed in side by side. I spot a giant Christmas tree with glowing globes clustered round it, and it’s only one tiny part of everything.

It’s so much. Almost too much. My mind is drinking in the details. But I’m starting to relax. Enjoying the spectacle. Anonymity in the crowd.

The buildings around the plaza are brightly lit. Globes of light drift overhead, and now and again there are people in the air, too. If I had any doubt there’s actual magic here, it’s gone. I briefly wonder if you can acquire magic if you come from a world without any – something to check up on later. In places, people are gathered around bonfires, or at shrines to more gods than I’ve ever heard of. At street level it’s dim, on purpose I think, and many people carry candles. As they move it’s like a slow river of lights winding between the stalls. Light is a common theme here, and warmth, and protection – light against the darkest time of the year.

Snowflakes flutter on the wind. The parts of me that are still human are cold, but the parts that have changed are comfortable even in this.

And in the crowd, here and there, I spot therians and otherkin at all stages of transition – people who started off with a human body, but were never really human on the inside – people like me. The ones early on are a patchwork of human parts and changed parts, just like I am. We’re still a minority even here, but for once, I don’t feel out of place. It lights me up inside like my first time at Pride. I can’t stop grinning. I mean, technically I could, because I’m a shifter and could rearrange my face enough for that, even at this stage… but you know what I mean. I don’t want to.

Someone catches my eye, over where the crowd is a bit thinner. It’s their colour I notice first – a gloopy orange, almost like syrup. Then I notice their arms are entirely made of goo, translucent and with no bones inside, and so is their hair. They must be a slime! I’ve been reading a few slimes’ transition journals online, and we have a lot in common – we’re on different routes to a similar place. I don’t know if our species are actually related, or if it’s convergent evolution, but either way – someone else who’s a gelatinous blob that can shape themselves however they like? Sounds like someone who gets it!

Before I even think about it, I’m slowly making my way closer through the crowd. And now I’m nervous as hell – going up to some random person in the real world, just because they’re kinda like me? But that was the whole reason for coming here. That’s what I was hoping might happen. The festival was just an excuse, really.

As I get closer, I see that the rest of their head is still opaque and human, aside from the orange tint to their skin. But their fingers are tipped with claws, their bare feet are bird-like with talons, and they have a little blob of goo like a rabbit’s tail on their back. Their clothes look very waterproof, even though it isn’t raining – and oh, that must be to stop their slime soaking into things. I haven’t had that problem yet, but can totally believe it’ll be a thing later.

And then I’m there, grinning nervously – and, yes, with excitement too. I form another arm – a bit awkwardly because of the too-small sleeves – and wave with all three.

“Hi?” I say. “I saw that you’re a slime and uh…”

“Oh, uh, hi!” they reply, waving back. “Uh, yeah, I am a slime… and so are you by the looks of things!” they add with a growing smile.

“Close,” I say, “I’m a shifter! But I’m gooey too.” I turn my third hand fluid for a moment.

They raise an eyebrow. “Oh neat – wait? Like a shapeshifter?”

“Yeah! Actually I guess there must be lots of kinds of shapeshifters here, with the whole multiverse thing. We just call ourselves ‘shifters’ for short. Or, well, sometimes the People of Change if we’re being poetic – ‘fluid as the ocean, wild as the wind’, that kind of thing…” My voice cracks slightly on that phrase, that’s been with me my whole life, focus of so much longing. Then I laugh gently, as I poke my human parts: “Which I’m not, yet, as you can see.”

“Oohh! I do like the ‘fluid as the ocean’ bit, kinda hits very close.” They raise their arm, rippling it like a wave.

I don’t immediately respond, only to realise I’m staring at their arm. I pull my gaze away. “Sorry,” I say, laughing awkwardly, “I think my mind is trying to figure out how to copy your colour, but I don’t know how to do orange yet. I only just figured out green.” I let the green fade away in places, my skin changing back to its original colour, before bringing the green back. “It’s a nice colour.”

The slime looks a little flustered. “Don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before, that they wanna try my colour, or that I have a nice colour, not really sure how to respond to that, but thank you – can say I’m quite a fan, so would definitely recommend it when you can though.” They pause a second before continuing. “But, and, uh, sorry if this is kinda rude, but uh, you still kinda look part human, I was told you had to become something else before you could do shapeshifter stuff?”

“I just got straight on shifter HRT,” I say, shrugging, “there was no mention of anything else. But I’m not going to one of the doctors here – are you at Erian’s clinic?”

They frown a little. “Nah, I didn’t like all the gatekeepery stuff he was doing, so I found another provider who relied on informed consent – they said I had to pick another species first to act as a base for the additional shapeshifter meds. Kinda feeling a little cheated now, even if I’ve been enjoying becoming a slime.”

“But you’re at a proper doctor, right?” I say. “Not just… some person who figured out how to make this stuff? In hindsight, I probably should’ve done that – mine is very hands-off, and the whole thing is super experimental – kinda realising that now seeing other people’s stories online. But they’re a shifter too, they’re the only one who does this specific thing, and I was desperate, y’know?”

They nod. “Yeah, proper doctor ’nd all, but I totally get the desperation, fuck, if I’d known I could get straight on shapeshifter stuff I quite possibly woulda gone for that.” They pause for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Although, if it’s shady like ya say, I’m not sure how willing I’d be to trust it, at least the people I’m going through seem safe and all, even if they are kinda delaying/shortchanging me a bit.” Another pause, before, “You sure it’s safe ’nd all? I mean, it seems to be working for you, but,” they shrug, “there’s enough shit we have to deal with without our meds biting us in the ass too.”

“Yeah,” I nod, “that’s it, it is working, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. But my provider’s really secretive – doesn’t want anyone else figuring out the formula. And I’ve hardly had any support, only vaguely know what to expect at each stage, pretty sure they’re using a false name… Actually that does sound pretty bad when I say it. But it’s working, right? And,” gesturing around us, “I didn’t believe this place existed.”

“Does seem very shady, definitely,” they say. “I’ve been having checkups every six months, actually due my third soon. I’d be careful, as I said, don’t want this to bite ya in the ass. That being said, definitely seems like it’s working.” They gesture at my third arm. “Can’t wait to be able to do more altering of my shape, but I need more human parts to get converted.” They point at their chest. “Still got ribs and stuff under my clothes, which sucks, but given how much my stomach melting hurt, I’m worried about how my spine going’s gonna feel, so for once, slowly is actually preferable.”

I wince a bit. “Ooh, that sounds painful. But, yeah, same here,” I say, remembering how overwhelmed by phantom body parts I was last time I was in the city. “Human’s still my default, and I can’t hold big changes for long yet.” I let my third arm dissolve back into my body – it’s starting to get uncomfortable already. “I’m Callie, by the way. She/her.”

“Oh, right, introductions.” They chuckle awkwardly. “I’m Sandy, she/they, nice ta meet ya Callie.” She extends a claw. “I don’t know how much overlap it’ll have, but you’re also kinda gooey, so maybe it’ll help, but I’ve found if you practice taking and holding forms, eventually it becomes like muscle memory, even if I’m running out of muscles, but you can eventually just kinda take and hold stuff easily.” They gesture to their talons and claws. “Been working on these for a bit now, and now they’re second nature.” They quickly shift between a claw and a human hand, her slime suddenly becoming more fluid, before effortlessly switching back.

I’m envious, I can’t deny it – but it’s not the hopeless envy I would have felt before. Now it’s more like anticipation, knowing that soon I’ll be able to do that too.

“Small changes are getting to be easy like that,” I say. “But,” and I hold up my own hand, “it’s still all bones in here.” And then, with a grin, “Can’t wait to try wings though.” I look up at the orbs floating overhead. “I really want to fly – been dreaming about that for years.”

“Gods yes, I can’t wait to have wings.” She follows my gaze up. “Being able to fly up there would be wonderful…” She trails off wistfully. “Just the freedom to soar up in the air, seems just perfect.”

I try to form wings – not for the first time – but I just don’t have enough goo yet, and of course my clothes are in the way. “I’d have to cut holes in this first though,” I say, tapping my T-shirt.

Sandy smiles. “Yeah, I’ve started cutting tail holes in my clothes, now I can actually have one, even if it is only a small one, not looking forward to all the measuring it’ll take for wings. Although I am vaguely aware there are some shops in the city that are actually trying to cater to those of us with… less human physiology. Haven’t had a chance to check them out yet, but might be something to look into.”

“Oh, I will. Actually, that reminds me! Look at this.” I take out my shapeshifter license and show them. “Can you believe we have to have a license?!” And then I add, “But it’s kinda nice seeing it on something official.” I’m feeling a lot better about it than when I filled in the forms – seeing it actually written down, what I am, is making me smile.

Their eyes widen. “Oh? What’s that?” She leans in to get a better look. “‘Provisional Shapeshifter License’? Huh, didn’t know that was a thing. But wait, yeah, why do you need a license, isn’t it just something you do?”

“They think we’re dangerous or something.” I shrug. “I guess we could be if we wanted to. But that’s not going to happen with me, I don’t want power or… any of that. This is just for me.”

Sandy nods. “Yeah, exactly, I don’t want shapeshifting – when I get there – for power, I just want to, well, be whatever, and ultimately me. People get so up in arms about it for no reason.”

“Familiar feeling,” I say. I’m thinking, of course, about being trans back home. “But we’ve got all the others like us, and that’s… something. People who get it.”

“Mmm.” They nod. “It’s nice to have others like us, this whole conversation’s been wonderful, well except for learning that I might’ve been shafted by my supplier. But yeah, it’s been nice meeting other people going through all this stuff and making friends through it all, and it’s been especially nice to meet another shapeshifter… even if I’m not quite there yet, but like, you get it, is the point.”

We talk a while longer, sharing old dreams of shapeshifting, wandering through the plaza and pointing out things we’ve never seen before. Then, at last, it’s time for me to go, if I want to catch the bus home. We agree to keep in touch, and we hug – and I do my best to form two extra arms for that, though it’s still almost the limit of what I can do. We wave goodbye, and I head home smiling. New city, new world, new friend.

First | Previous | Next

This chapter is a collaboration with @sandyca5tle – whose Slime HRT was one of the stories that inspired me to start writing this in the first place – and takes place between the 14 month and 18 month chapters of Slime HRT. Go read it, it’s goo-d! Also featuring the Hyper Light Festival created by @nuggetofthesea.

And here’s how the provisional shapeshifter license looks, using the template from Slime HRT 25 months. The fields are explained fully over there, but briefly, the letters on the bottom row show what you can do now, with the letters in brackets showing what you’ll be able to do at the end of transition.

And now that we’re approaching the one-year mark, more changes are on the way – coming soon, in Part 9: Hunger!

Tag list (tell me if you want to be added):

@ask-de-writer @avery-victoria-winterlight @botgirl-lilith @dierotenixe @leahnardo-da-veggie

@lunadook @mint-and-authoress @noizepushr @reliableslimegal @sandyca5tle

@saros-system @scrubbinn @the-gender-fae @theriomythic-lesbian @void-botanist

@wuwojiti @zzzestyy

[calliecwrites]

I wrote a little poem for the Sabine Flyover collab:

A shadow passes— Wings on the horizon, A flicker of flame As the new day dawns; You know their name, The one who went before, Who showed the way To the path you're on; Now all their pain set down, All their struggle, done, Peace and freedom— Flying over, gone.

Goodbye Dragon HRT, and the world you started lives on.

"Please don't let them see me

Sure there's nothing left to try"

-Twenty One Pilots, The Line

Dragon HRT Part 25:

The End.

This took us months so please excuse me if the art quality and style is a bit different between pages lol

Huge thanks to @nyxisart for helping us by making the main background art of the cave entrance, and everyone who supported uswhile we were struggling to finish this. And of course to everyone who enjoyed this story and showed us with comments and fanarts!

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[calliecwrites]

Shifter HRT, part 7 – Tipping Point (9 Months)

Things are finally going – or should I say goo-ing. It’s like I’ve been pushing a boulder uphill, and now I’ve reached the top and it’s rolling down on its own. My body is finally catching up with my mind. Just existing isn’t a struggle anymore. I’m a weird gooey mess, and, yes, there’s plenty that’s uncomfortable, but I’m doing good. It’s way too long since I’ve been able to say that.

I ache all over. Parts of me have changed completely, mostly skin and muscles. My organs are still mostly untouched – but even there the filaments of fluid are everywhere, and they’re getting denser all the time. My whole body is equally sensitive to touch now. Before, my hands and face were the most sensitive, as usual, but now it’s all the same. I can feel the same amount of detail wherever.

And the parts that changed? That’s where things get interesting.

When I’m not paying attention, they stay as a sort of smooth shiny version of human skin, and underneath have the same texture as human flesh. At a glance, you might not notice the difference, not with human senses. My shifter body is defaulting to human form, which I suppose makes sense since it needs to keep the human parts of me alive until everything is converted. Wouldn’t want it all falling apart half way through.

When I do pay attention, I can make things change. I relax – but it’s not my muscles I’m relaxing, it’s my form. There’s no other word for it. The parts of me that changed get softer and more flexible. Let go completely, and they turn completely fluid.

And now for the goo-d part!

To my hands (which are still human), the fluid feels viscous, but not wet or oily or sticky – there’s no residue. When completely relaxed, it’s almost as thick as syrup. It’s cooler to the touch than normal human body temperature, but that feels fine. Right now it’s always slightly paler than my skin – I haven’t figured out how to change colour yet. I can push my fingers – or other things – all the way into the fluid, and the pressure is comfortable. Squeeze it between my fingers, and it’ll slowly mould into shape against them.

Except this is part of me. I don’t just have to squish passively around things – I can change shape on purpose, and resist external forces. Right now my hands are stronger than the fluid – I can mess up any form I’m trying to hold just by squeezing it with my fingers – but I’ve got the feeling that’s going to change. I can feel everything I touch, in more detail than I could with my human fingers before all this started.

When I tense up fully – not really the right word, but it’s the best I’ve found – it all becomes solid again. I’m back in my usual human form. I’m aware that I’m actively holding this form now – it’s no longer just a passive default. For this form, it’s almost effortless. Other forms are harder. That’s going to take practice.

* * *

I lie down on the sofa. I relax, and let go of my form. All the parts of me that can be fluid, are. I focus on one part, and stretch it out over the nearby skin. My human parts can only move how the muscles and joints allow, but the fluid is completely flexible, and I can move or shape it in any direction. There is no difference between moving and shaping – they’re the same thing.

I stretch out further to form a little tentacle, curling out from my side, and lift it up to poke at other parts of my body – which I’m fully aware of because of my sense of form. I feel my way over the sofa to a little table. Occasionally I can taste what I’m touching – which my brain still insists is coming from my mouth, just to confuse things. The table is wooden, which tastes weird – though not bad, like I imagine it would if I tried to bite it. There’s a lamp there, and closer to the lamp, I can tell it’s lighter – eventually that’ll become sight. I try to push my way into a join in the wood, but can’t. I’m limited to big blobby shapes for now – fine control will come later.

But the biggest limit is that I’m working with a fixed amount of fluid. Shifters can get much bigger or much smaller, so that’ll change eventually – and don’t even ask how the physics of that works – but for the moment, anything I move into one place has to come from somewhere else. If I want a bigger tentacle, say, something like the length of my arm, I’ll need a whole bunch more goo than I’ve got in any one place.

So I stretch my tentacle towards another patch of goo, and stretch out that patch till they’re touching. Now there’s an arch of goo between two parts of my body. Then I let go at the bottom of the second patch, and it all merges together into one longer limb. And that’s fine – goo is goo, it doesn’t belong in one place or another – though now there’s a big gap in my side where I took it all from, right down to the level that’s still human. A thin layer of fluid that I can’t move holds the human parts in, and the network of tendrils spreads out from there through the inside of my body. Not that I’m bothered by the gap – the shifter part of me already doesn’t have a fixed form, and as long as the human parts aren’t disturbed, I feel comfortable however.

But one thing I noticed pretty quickly – all the parts of me that have changed, whether fluid or solid, have to stay connected to each other. Still-human patches of skin, like my hands, don’t count as connected, which is why I have to move the fluid around the way I do. I can’t disconnect any of it completely from the rest of me. I’ll be able to do that eventually, but right now even thinking about that feels like a really bad idea, at a deep level I’m not going to mess with. That’ll come later.

So I repeat the process all over my body, till: tentacle complete! And now for phase two:

I reach over to the table, wrap my tentacle around a glass, carefully pick it up, and take a sip. It’s taken me days to get this far without spilling things everywhere. I put the glass down – and can’t help giggling. It worked! Callie the tentacle monster!

I know exactly what I want to try next. I manage to split the end of my tentacle in two. Because what’s an arm but a tentacle with fingers, after all?

I form the rough shape of a hand. Five fingers is too much to focus on all at once, so four will have to do. Bones would be helpful here, too. I know how bones feel, because I know how everything in me feels. I tense up to make the middle of each section more solid – though the fingers are so small that’s really pushing the limits of what I can do. Then I manage to solidify the outside into shiny smooth ‘skin’.

However hard I try, I can’t do fine details yet, so it ends up looking more like a cartoon arm than a human one. But it’s unmistakably an arm.

I move it slowly, making sure to hold the form as I do, and close the fingers around one of my other arms.

And if three arms, why not more? Collect more goo, repeat, and:

I’ve got four arms! Oh my god I’ve got four arms! And it wasn’t even that hard – since I already know what an arm feels like, and this is just… more of them. And it feels great! My mind has no problem at all adapting, as long as I remember to hold the form. I get up and walk around, slightly giddy. I grin at myself in the mirror. I pick things up, shake my own hands crosswise, hug myself – and I’d hug someone else, too, if there was anyone around. I take a few photos – though I use my old hands for that; wouldn’t have the dexterity yet in my new ones – and guess who’s got transition photos, at last!

After a few minutes I’m exhausted, and let everything go. I’m aching all over again. My arms turn fluid, and I slowly pull it all back to my body. I slump on the sofa, goo hanging out all over the place. Yeah, I’m a mess. There are gaps all over my body where I’ve taken the fluid from. But I’m grinning, and can barely believe I actually did it.

Now that I’m not holding a form, the fluid is balancing out, slowly moving through the filaments inside my body till all the gaps are filled and I look human again. Back to the default, for now. But even though I’m limited, even though I can’t do much yet, there’s a huge difference between ‘fixed form’ and ‘default form’, and I’m already so much more comfortable. Now just to wait for the rest!

* * *

When the urge to absorb things comes on, well, I still can’t, but now at least I can go half way. I can flow around things, hold them inside my body, squeeze them as tightly as I can, until I’ve fitted myself to all the details down to the limits of what I can feel. I think that’s all the detail I could handle right now. And it helps. The dysphoria isn’t as bad, and at least I can do part of what my body wants. Things with complex shapes and lots of little holes are best. I can sit there for hours just doing that. I’m easily entertained.

I’ve told more of my friends, and even hinted to some of my family. As for work, fortunately I’ve been working from home since my job went remote during lockdown, so once again it’s put on a safe face for the camera while absolutely anything could be going on off screen, just like in my first transition – and oh boy, if only they knew! How many arms or legs have I got today? They don’t need to know! Or pretending to be all serious with my boss while twisting and flowing through half a dozen gratings I picked up somewhere – they have no idea! No idea at all.

And as for the rest – I’m tired now. Shapeshifting takes a lot out of me when I’ve never done it before, who’d have guessed. But I’m definitely not human anymore – and now no one can deny it.

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It's back! I won't be posting as regularly as the first time round – but hopefully there won't be any more months-long gaps between posts like with this one. So: coming soon, Part 8: Return to Hyper City!

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[calliecwrites]

Shifter HRT interlude – Restless

Sometimes the restlessness comes, And you want to bound and roll in the snow, To dive in the deep, To stretch your wings and soar Under the ice-blue sky. Instead you doze by the fire, Twitching claws you do not have, Wrapped in wings and tail that are not there, Drifting in not-quite-memories, Waiting for what will not be.

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I've started working on the main story again – so hopefully it won't be too long till Part 7. In the meantime, here's some restless yearning :)

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[calliecwrites]

Reposting a poem this time - with some inspiration from an old classic. Will Santa make it, or is Christmas doomed?

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Crisis at Christmas

’Twas the night before Christmas, And up on the hill, Rudolph the reindeer Was feeling quite ill. His nose had turned green, He forgot how to fly; The elves, all a-panic, Said, “The end is nigh!” And Santa came running, All a-huff and a-puff, Cried, “All of my planning Is never enough! Oh what will we do? What a terrible sight! How will we deliver Our presents tonight?”

They called the Avengers, But they were all out; The X-Men were missing And Spidey had gout; No help for them there. They called Starfleet instead, But Captain Picard Was already in bed. Batman was busy, The Joker was drunk; “Oh what will we do?!” Santa cried in a funk, And the elves all around him Gave out a great sigh: “It’s just like we told you— The end is nigh!”

Back he ran, forth he ran, Up on the hill; All in a panic, Santa couldn’t stay still, Till, “I’ve got it!” he cried; “They won’t think it’s nice, But we can save Christmas With the help of the mice!” Mice came by the millions, Took the presents away, Put them all in the houses Before break of day, Till not a creature was stirring; And in each cosy house, There would still be Christmas, Thanks to a helpful little mouse.

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[calliecwrites]

Reposting an old Christmas story, one of my favourites.

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All I Want for Christmas

‘Deer Satan, all I wunt fr Crismas is a poaniee…’

Children are really bad at spelling. Have you ever noticed that? They aren’t born with the skills they need for life, but have to learn. That doesn’t seem fair. Their lives are so short anyway, and they have to waste years learning that the order of the letters matters, that ‘Santa’ and ‘Satan’ are not the same thing, even though they have the same letters in them. Not like us demons; we’re the personification of abstract concepts, we’re born with all the skills we need; and we’re immortal, so it wouldn’t matter even if we did have to spend a few years learning.

So I know just fine that when we get a letter addressed ‘Satan Claws’, that’s not what the child had in mind. But the address on an envelope is a sacred contract, and even when you know it’s wrong, you have to act as if it isn’t.

I’m one of the sorters in the mailroom in Hell. We don’t get much mail here – most people don’t know you can write to Hell. But it’s a comfortable life. It’s a bit smoky, and sometimes the brimstone smell gets a bit overwhelming, but give me that any day over the freezing North Pole. Then Christmas comes, and we’re overrun. I read the letters, and forward them on to the best department. The easiest ones go on to Curses & Jinxes. The demons over there love concocting cruel twists on what the children asked for. Want a pony? You’ll get one, but it’ll die within a week. Or maybe it’ll be a literal nightmare that haunts your dreams for the rest of your days. As for the juiciest letters, the soppiest ones, they get passed on up to the old Boss himself. No one thinks up a twist like him.

And me? The closest thing I have to a soul is the love of order, efficiency, and a job well done. The others say I’m barely demonic at all. They say I’m nowhere near nasty enough. Maybe they’re right. So I keep my head down, do a good job, and hope they don’t look too closely.

Because there’s a special letter, you see. One I wait for every year. This kid knows what she’s doing. She was eight the first time it happened – I have no idea how she learned what she knew, so young. But she was good. Not ‘good’ as in ‘who’s been a good girl this year’, but ‘good’ as in, I’m impressed. More than that, I’m caught.

Every year her letter’s the same. ‘Dear Satan’, it starts, and that’s no spelling mistake, ‘all I want for Christmas is you’. Except – that’s no ordinary writing. The ink is made from the blood of a dozen pitiful creatures – mice, usually. The paper is stitched together from the confessions of a dozen broken hearts. And the writing is surrounded by eldritch sigils so powerful that it hurts just to think about them. Like I said, the kid’s good.

What demon could possibly resist?

Being eight, I don’t think she quite understood that Satan wouldn’t be opening all his mail personally. Instead, her spell of binding fell on the first demon to read it.

That would be me.

I had to do what she asked. I couldn’t not. Fortunately, we get time off at Christmas. We’re supposed to go attack Santa and his elves, to stop them delivering presents, or at least swap the real ones for our cruel tricks. I was never much of one for that, myself – it was too inefficient, too disorderly. So I slipped away when the others were occupied, and went down to the ramshackle old house where the girl lived. I slipped down the chimney, and hid myself in a present under her Christmas tree, just as she had asked.

In the morning, she unwrapped me, and she was delighted. This terrifyingly-powerful eight year old, who’d be able to twist the world to her whim once she had a mind to, just wanted a friend. She was lonely. She’s never had much luck with other humans, so instead she turned to the one thing she was good at: the dark magic she’d been learning from all the books her parents left lying around, ever since she’d been old enough to walk. Her parents weren’t even there, poor thing. They’d gone off on their own, like they did every Christmas, leaving her all alone. Except this time, she had me.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her I wasn’t actually Satan, that I was just a lowly mail-sorter. I didn’t have a heart at all. But I could see that she was sad, and that I could make her happy, that I could do it efficiently, and call it a job well done.

At the end of the day, she cried, and hugged me, and said it was the best Christmas ever. I’d made her a cake, and told her stories (hellish ones, though that seemed to delight her even more), and played games. She asked me to stay, but I couldn’t. I had a job to do, and the others would notice if I was gone too long. So she said I’d hear from her again next year, and she’d miss me until then.

She kept her word. The next year, the same letter arrived again. I opened it, and I was bound. We spent Christmas together, and I made her happy however I could.

Each year, she sent the same letter. I waited for it to arrive, and made sure I was the one to open it. Each year, her writing was steadier, and the spell was more elegant, and more powerful. She was growing up. Such a human thing to do.

But when she was fourteen, her letter was different. The paper and the ink were ordinary. There were no sigils, and no magic in it at all. Just the words, the same as always: ‘Dear Satan…’. The other letters had been commands; this one was a request. I wasn’t bound by it. But why the change? Was something wrong? I didn’t have to go, but I went anyway.

On Christmas morning, she unwrapped me, and hugged me even tighter than usual. She was crying. “You came,” she said. “I had to know.” She had grown a lot this year – she was almost as tall as me, now. “You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not a person,” I said.

“Technicality.”

She pulled back and studied me.

“I’m not actually Satan, you know,” I said, and she giggled.

“I know. I figured that out years ago.”

“But the letters—”

“That’s just a game. It isn’t Satan I want, it’s you. The last few years I tweaked the spell so it wouldn’t work on anyone else.”

“And this year?” I said.

Her smile dropped.

“Things are bad. My parents are fighting. They’ll take it out on me. I’m worried I might have to hurt them.” With all the magic she had, that would be easy. “I can’t stay here – I’ve got to go, somewhere.” Then she looked me in the eye: “Will you come with me?”

She had woven magic into everything she wore. But there was no magic in her words, no compulsion. Like the letter, this was a request. I could say no.

I didn’t.

What did I feel towards her? Love? Demons can’t experience love. I could list off all the typical human behaviours that go with it, but I don’t understand why they do those things. Friendship, then? I’m not too sure on that one, either. But I could make her happy, and it was satisfying when I did. Any demon could do my job in the mailroom, but only I could do this one, so of course I’d go with her. I’d stay with her the whole of her life, if that’s what it took, and never mind the punishments the other demons would line up for abandoning my post. And when she’d eventually die, as all humans must, happy with the life I’d given her, I’d go back to Hell knowing I’d been orderly, and efficient, and with the satisfaction of a job well done.

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[calliecwrites]

Understanding

From the prompt 'make me understand', for writemas day 2 by @agirlandherquill.

I was human. She wasn’t.

The loneliness was on her again, as bad as I’d ever seen it.

“How long is it since you saw another of your own kind?” I said.

She didn’t say anything. It was years, at least. Maybe a lot longer.

“You’re not meant to be alone,” I said. “And you don’t have to be.”

This wasn’t the first time I’d brought this up.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she said.

“Because I don’t understand?”

“No one does—”

“We’ve been together for years. I’ve seen more of you than anyone.” Then, quietly, “You’ll never be understood if you’re surrounded by humans.”

I held her hand, doing what I could to comfort her. It wasn’t enough. It never was.

“You don’t want to be what I am,” she whispered.

“You learned that trick from humans – ‘don’t’ and ‘shouldn’t’ are different. You wouldn’t have switched them round before.”

She flinched a little at that. You don’t have to pretend with me, I’d told her so many times – but she’d trained herself so well to mask that it was hard to let it go, sometimes.

“You know what’s in my dreams,” I said, “even if you pretend not to. I know this is within your power.”

She looked at me. I could only imagine what was going on in her mind. But I thought I could see something shifting.

“You wouldn’t be human anymore,” she said at last.

“I know. I’m counting on that.”

“It’ll hurt,” she said.

“I want this.”

I could see the longing in her eyes – how desperate she was not to be alone. How scared she was of letting go.

“I’m ready,” I said. “Make me your equal. Make me understand.”

There was a very long pause.

Then she put her hand on my head, closed her eyes, and everything changed.

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[calliecwrites]

It's that time of year again!

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[calliecwrites]

The Ferryman

The water was sluggish and smelly. Tyres and shopping trolleys were snagged on the weeds. I’d read enough to recognise where I was – the river Styx, boundary of the underworld – but this wasn’t the afterlife I’d been expecting. And certainly not looking like this.

I picked my way across the rubbish on the shore to where the ferry waited. It was a rusted old skiff, patched and listing. A microwave had been strapped where the motor should have been, doorless cavity pointing down at the water.

The skeleton at the tiller had seen better days. Eye sockets followed me as I climbed onboard.

“Charon?” I said. He nodded. “What happened here?”

He made the motion of spitting over the side. “Capitalism fucks us all, my man.”

“I’m not a man.”

He shrugged. “It’s all the same to me. Give me your battery.”

“Is that what this is?” I took the metal disk out from under my tongue. A coin cell. I’d known it was there since I’d arrived, but I’d felt no need to remove it. It wasn’t like I could swallow it and die. “Isn’t this supposed to be a coin?” I said.

“Times change.” He took it and weighed it in his hand. “That’s all you’ve got? Well, it’s better than nothing.”

He adjusted a receptacle until it was the right size for the battery, and popped it in. The microwave came on. The platter turned. The water behind the boat began to boil, and pushed the boat forwards.

Which was ridiculous. A tiny battery can’t power a microwave. A microwave can’t propel a boat. But this was the liminal space between life and death, so who was I to say what was possible?

Then the microwave dinged, and we stopped. He pulled out the battery and tossed it over the side.

“All done,” he said. “That’s as far as we go.”

“But we’re not even halfway there!” I said. “Can’t you paddle?”

“See anything to paddle with? You’re going to have to swim the rest of the way.”

I took a long look at the murky water, and the tyres, and the trolleys.

“Is that safe?”

I was only seeing what poked above the surface.

“You’re already dead,” he said. “What’s the worst that can happen?” Somehow that wasn’t reassuring. “Just don’t look back, or you’ll turn into a pillar of salt.”

“Isn’t that from a different mythology?”

He gave me a look – or would have if he’d had any eyes.

“You’re talking to a blind skeleton driving a boat powered by a microwave. Mythological consistency is the least of your problems.”

And then a minute later: “Are you going or not? Can’t stay here forever.”

The far shore was hazy. Was it any better than the shore I’d left? Hard to say. But Charon was right.

So I braced myself, took a deep breath, and jumped in.

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[calliecwrites]

The Void

From the prompt 'utter darkness', for writemas day 1 by @agirlandherquill.

It was dark. Not just the absence of light, but the absence of the possibility of light. Light couldn’t exist here. I had no eyes, because matter couldn’t exist here. I had nothing, was nothing, except me.

I didn’t know how long I had been here. There was nothing outside myself to measure time by. There was nothing outside myself at all.

But I still had my memories. I still had my imagination. I imagined touching wood. A table. I imagined the shape of the edges. I imagined the texture under my fingers. I imagined so hard I could almost feel it. I reached out – when had I started having hands? – and imagined harder still – and it was real.

I imagined sounds and smells – a bird outside the window, bread baking in the oven. I imagined the carpet under my feet, the clothes on my back, the heart beating in my body. I had a body now. Each of these I held in my mind, and pushed beyond, and made real. These things implied other things, and everything cascaded out from there. I was starting to understand where I was, and what I was.

But something was still missing. I knew, now, that all I had to do was open my eyes.

And there was light.

There's a state in dreams that I call the void, that's exactly like this.

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[calliecwrites]

"But you look human most of the time!"

So? 'Most common form' isn't the same as 'true form'. Neither is 'default form'. I'm a blob of goo that can turn into anything - but what makes you think 'blob of goo' is any truer than 'turn into anything'?

Haven't you heard what we say about ourselves? That we're as fluid as the ocean, wild as the wind, and cannot be contained? That we are the people of change? - no true nature, no true name, never stay the same.

We are not like you.

people will really go up to shapeshifters like "oh what's your true form? oh but what do you really look like?" are u hearing yourself. do u hear how insane u sound

[calliecwrites]

I had a dream where one of my relatives was the Cult Leader of the Goddess of Strawberries - and the Cult was clearly up to something. She kidnapped me and tried to recruit me, not knowing that I was secretly the most powerful being on the planet - the one who stops the alien invasions, cures the plagues, and generally stops people wrecking the place. In most worlds I'm open about that, but apparently not in this one. And so there I am, casually passing all the hard tests she gives me, she's thinking she's found the perfect recruit, and meanwhile I'm giving her goddess a Significant Look: try anything, little fruit deity, and you'll have me to deal with.

I have no idea how she was going to use strawberries to try taking over the world, and I kinda wish I'd let her, just to find out.