Bioshifter

My pillow-muffled screams eventually die down as the anxiety of staying in bed for too long starts to catch up to me. My mom is going to pop her head into my room any minute now to make sure I'm not oversleeping, and I just can't deal with that so I guess it's time to get up.

I turn over and start dragging myself out of bed, causing my brand new claws to rip up the bedsheets with a loud, horrible tearing noise. I pull my pillow back over my face and start screaming again. If I'm going to be stuck in an isekai anyway, why couldn't I at least be spared from having to continue my original life too!? Or at least let this part of my life be tolerable! What kind of insane mess of a person do I have to be if turning into an extradimensional spider monster in another friggin' universe and getting persistence hunted half to death turned out to have a better conclusion than just waking up in the goddamn morning!?

I curl my toes with frustration and it just rips up even more of the bedsheets, but screw it. Screw it! I don't care! I'm a freak now and I don't know what's going on and I'm just going to have to put up with that! Carefully, I extract myself from my bed, the long claws protruding from my toes having had no issues poking through both my bandages and my socks that I'd futilely left on my feet. Ugh… what time is it? I reach over for my phone and scowl at it. 8:34am. I probably have another hour and a half before my mom actually walks in and starts badgering me, but all things considered I should still get up and get dressed.

I gather up an outfit in my arms and stagger into the bathroom, dropping the clean clothes by the door and quickly stripping out of my dirty ones to drop them by the shower. With every step, even before I remove my socks, my talons click horridly on the hard floor, sending vibrations up my toes that yearn to have commands to tear sent back down to them. I want to break it all, claw it up and feel the strength in my feet as I grip into the porcelain floor, into the wood beneath it, and feel the resistance of proper ding dang traction. The scrabbling is offensive to me; my claws aren't being used right and I know that somehow and it's this horrible, constant brainworm in the back of my head all throughout my shower.

I cut my shower short because of it. I can't even enjoy the most simple pleasures in my life right now. I'm far too busy becoming a monster. But it's fine. It's fine! Worst case scenario I go full cryptid and gallop off into the woods where maybe I can actually relax from time to time before getting shot by some wandering hunters. Or should I say best case scenario?

Gah. No. No entertaining thoughts of suicide. I fortunately don't have much trouble with that, despite my ever-mounting depression. I suppose my prodigious skill at distracting myself with constant work is to thank for that. Move on, one step at a time. It's the only way I can get through anything. It's a strategy that works really well until I encounter a problem that can't be solved in an afternoon of hard labor, and while I realize that's a lot of really important problems it is, by definition, none of my immediate, short-term ones. I kick butt at doing homework, at working my day job, at getting to my appointments on time, and at fleeing from my apparent impending death. These are all things inside my skill set. Long-term planning, though? Not so much. Talons growing out of my feet is not a problem I can just bash my head into until it's solved, and as a result I don't even know where to start with it. I have no idea how to deal with it beyond just ignoring it as best I can, and I know that won't work but I have nothing else. I just feel helpless.

Which is exactly why I need help.

You awake? I text Brendan, tossing my clean clothes over my body.

The response starts immediately, but it's nearly five minutes before Brendan hits send on a single word.

Unfortunately, is the ultimate response. I snort with amusement. Brendan is very much not a morning person.

Everything okay? I ask.

There's this fucking bird, he sends, his next two sentences each individual messages.

Outside my window.

It is a bastard.

Chuckling and shaking my head, I formulate a comforting response befitting my status as his best friend.

Most birds are bastards, considering their lack of marital practice, I send back.

Okay but this one is a bastard and also a fuck. Because it will NOT SHUT UP. It has kept me awake since 4am. I hate it so much.

It's true, most birds also fuck, I agree. It's probably singing in an attempt to do so, actually.

No stop being witty it's too early in the morning for this.

I'm not really being witty so much as smarmy, I argue. Which is totally different.

What if, instead of witty or smarmy, you were murderous, Brendan suggests. Against, specifically, this fucking bird. Because I want it to die.

Killing a bird would be a fowl crime indeed, I point out solemnly.

Damn it you're with the bird aren't you, Brendan realizes. You have joined with it to torment me!

Well obviously there's no better response to that than "Muahahahaha!" so that's what I send back. Brendan wallows in this cruel but inevitable betrayal for a while before I finally ask if I can head over to his place, which he agrees to on the condition that he also needs to shower first. I magnanimously release him from the iron grip of an entirely text-based conversation he can easily walk away from whenever he wants, and contemplate how I'm going to pass the time until I can get out of the house. I guess I should probably eat, but unfortunately that means going downstairs.

Actually… wait. I sniff a bit. Do I smell pancakes?

My anxiety forgotten, I make sure my shoes are on tight and curl my toes a bit to make sure they won't just get shredded. The soft padding gives way and once again fires waves of pleasure up my toes, but the shoes are tight enough and the soles thick enough that I'm in no danger of clawing my way out the bottom. That's all I really need. Rushing downstairs, I happily slide onto a seat at the dining room table and take in the delicious scent of my mom making pancakes.

"Hannah!" my mother greets me cheerfully. "Just in time. I've got a hot one coming up. You want any sausage with it?"

"Nice!" I cheer. "And yes please!"

A radiant pancake is swiftly deposited on my plate, which I coat with glistening butter (and then a lot more butter once my mom turns around) before topping it all with thick, amber syrup, mixing it with the buttery goodness and happily shoveling it all into my mouth. Pancake pancake, paaaancaaaake! It's impossible to predict when my mother will get the urge to make a big breakfast for everyone, but when she does it's always wonderful. The sausages are deposited on my plate before I'm even half done with the pancake, letting me enjoy devouring them together. An unexpected explosion of savory, salty goodness fills my mouth as I chow down, surprising me with how much I love it to death.

"Is this a new brand?" I ask, immersing myself in the joy of the mystery meat.

"Nope, same as always, honey," my mother informs me.

"Huh," I mutter. "Must be a new batch. It tastes way better than usual."

"Hmm. You think so?"

Well, I'm not going to look a gift sausage in the long-since-crushed-into-a-meat-tube mouth. I'm in heaven, and as I'm learning is probably going to be a trend, I'm very hungry. I devour twice as many pancakes as I usually do, though thankfully no one minds; my mom generally makes a lot of extra ones so we can reheat them throughout the week.

"So, you have any plans today?" my mom asks, and I immediately stiffen a bit, trying to focus on the delicious food.

"I'm, uh, going to Brendan's to hang out," I admit.

"Hmm. Are his parents home?"

"I dunno," I lie.

"Well, you know how I feel about that," my mother says. "Boys that age will take advantage of you if you're not careful."

I grit my teeth. I know she has my best interests at heart and I know she's just worried about me, but we've had this conversation a hundred times before and at some point I will not be able to listen to her baselessly imply my best friend is a rapist.

"I understand," I say. "Like I keep telling you, it isn't like that. He rejected me, remember? We're just friends."

"He's a teenager, honey. You need to be careful. A boy invites you over to his house alone and there's only going to be one thing on his mind."

Yeah, and it's probably Pathfinder. First edition, obviously. This is literally her entire argument: boys like to take advantage of girls, Brendan is a boy, quod erat demonstrandum. And like, yeah, I'm not some ignorant little church girl who doesn't understand that sexual assault happens. I get it. But it's pretty obvious that she keeps saying this because she just doesn't like Brendan, has absolutely no interest in trusting him as a person, and by extension doesn't trust my choice of friends. It doesn't matter that we've known each other since we were eight, it doesn't matter that Brendan has never done anything cruel to anyone because he's the best thing in my entire gosh dang life, she doesn't like him and she doesn't trust him. And she is impossibly stubborn about it, just like she is with everything.

There's no point in calling her out on it. If I get mad she'll play the victim. If I try to explain she'll never be convinced. If I try to vocalize my feelings she'll take offense to the fact that her attempts at protecting me make me feel bad. The worst part about all of it is that she loves me. She loves me a lot. She puts a lot of effort into doing what she thinks is right for me. She makes me food and helps me find good colleges, sure. She'll go full Karen for me if I let her, aggressively going after anything she perceives as a threat to my well-being with all her power as a lawyer. She dotes on me when I'm sick, she pushes me when I'm holding myself back, and she throws her all into planning family vacations that everyone will enjoy. She always has my back. She's not a selfish person at all, and I know if I give her a task, something she can work towards that I think will help me, she will pour her everything into it. It just has to be something concrete, something achievable, and something she can physically do. My mother will work hard at anything other than self-improvement.

She's just like me in that way, and I despise it.

I seethe silently through the rest of the captive conversation, and it's more than enough time for me to finally receive a text from Brendan that he's ready for me to come over. I take that as the perfect excuse to leave the table with the excuse of an obligation (my mom at least values punctuality, even if she doesn't value Brendan) and I start the familiar walk over to his house.

My mom does not, I notice, ever worry about me getting assaulted when I'm off walking alone, but I suppose to be fair to her we live in an extremely nice neighborhood. We're firmly at the tippy-top of upper middle class, what with both of my parents having doctorates and my father even having his own business. Unlike what my food service job's health insurance policy insists on, teeth are not exactly optional bones, and as long as humans keep existing they will keep having cavities and cleanings. And of course my mother makes good money at her law firm, as well… even if she almost certainly makes less than her male co-workers. Funny how even lawyers can't stop their employers from illegally applying a pay disparity. Still, as I wander past the fancy, two-story houses on this pleasant spring day, I can't help but notice again that I am lucky and my life is quite good. I wish my depression would just shut up and pay attention to that fact.

I walk up the beautiful garden path that leads to Brendan's house, noting with derision that no one in his family actually maintains it. Unlike what I told my mother, I'm supremely confident Brendan's parents aren't home, and it's for pretty much the same reason that I'd be willing to bet that Brendan sees the groundskeepers more than he sees his own mom and dad. Brendan's parents are landlords and stock traders, making their vast wealth through the unholy magic of late-stage capitalism. As such, a lot of their work involves leaving the state to check up on their many, many properties and investments. Even when they aren't working, though, their favorite pastime is taking long vacations to other countries, and resultantly they are basically never around.

Brendan's parents are another constant reminder of the fact that my parents really aren't that bad. My mother and father are present, helpful in their own ways, and consistently make an effort to do right by me. His mother and father tried raising a kid as a lark and then decided they didn't like it very much when he was barely ten years old, and he's more or less raised himself ever since. And frankly, he's turned out better for it! Brendan's mother actively claims his autism is caused by vaccines and the fact that she's so irrationally angry about that is pretty informative of how negatively she thinks of said autism (to which I'd like to emphatically say 'fuck her'). His father agrees with this general assessment, and is a generally belligerent and self-entitled man who I have nothing but horrible memories of during the many times I've unfortunately had to interact with him over the years.

So, in case I haven't made my opinion on Brendan's family crystal clear: I hope they all eat twelve cases of needle-shaped sticks of deodorant before vomiting it all, mixing it into a stew, and eating it again. My family is pretty much the one thing I never complain to Brendan about, because I know he's got it a thousand times worse.

Anyway, Brendan answers the door seconds after I ring it, the cute dork having probably been sitting on the stairs next to the front door waiting for me. He gives me a goofy grin and invites me inside, and I immediately stare with hesitation at the spot where I'm normally supposed to take off and leave my shoes.

"That bad, huh?" Brendan says, tilting his head to the side a little.

"At least I'm no longer limping, I suppose," I sigh. "Look, it's not really bad so much as… insane, I guess?"

"Huh. Well, you're probably just gonna dance around the issue unless we dive into whatever it is you wanna tell me, so… let's just do that now?"

Dang it, he's totally right.

"...Okay," I allow. "Let's head to the basement first, though."

He nods and leads me there, though of course I know the way. Brendan has basically claimed his house's entire basement for his purposes, and it contains nearly all of his gaming and computer stuff, as well as massive shelves of tabletop RPG books, figurines, and paraphernalia. His computer is open to a drawing program I can't identify, in which a half-finished picture of what I assume is one of his or his party member's TTRPG characters. She appears to be some kind of large-chested dragon woman, and perhaps fittingly for the occasion she does indeed have talons. That's an uncomfortable coincidence, but I suppose I'll give Brendan the benefit of the doubt and won't start to wonder if he's secretly the mastermind of my suffering until I start to grow scales, too.

"So," he prompts.

"So," I answer hesitantly.

"Come on, out with it," he says, putting his hands on his hips. "You're the one who called this meeting, after all."

I'm working up to it! Geez.

"Uh… you're not gonna believe me unless I show you, so… I guess I'll just do that," I say, plopping down on a nearby couch.

"This is gonna be some kind of wacky flesh-eating athlete's foot, isn't it?" he asks as I take my shoes off.

"If only," I grumble.

I peel off my rather useless sock and reveal my horrifying talons, stretching and wiggling my toes as they once again taste freedom. I could be wrong, but the bony area seems like it might have started growing up the toe knuckle, though it's a bit hard to tell. I haven't examined my feet super closely, if I'm being honest. It just makes me too anxious.

Dang it, I want to claw something.

"So, uh—" I start, but Brendan barrels through my words like a freight train.

"Did you get way better at makeup without telling me, or are those real?" he asks.

I blink, not expecting him to jump straight to the 'are they real' question without a bit more skepticism first. Does he know something about this? Or… no. It's Brendan. Best friend code. He would have told me.

"They are, in fact, real," I confirm. "They grew out of my feet in a bloody mess and I don't know what's happening, but it's freaking me out."

Don't make fun of me. Don't doubt me. Please, please don't tell me I'm crazy. I won't be able to take it. Not from you. But he doesn't, of course. Instead he kneels down on the ground, inspecting my freakish foot from a dozen different angles, getting so uncomfortably close to it that I can feel his breath.

"These just… grew," he clarifies.

"Yeah, in like a day," I confirm. "Maybe half a day? It was horrifying."

"It's like your bone structure is… hmm. Can I touch you?"

I stiffen up a bit, but I'm already mentally prepared for this particular question. Brendan doesn't touch people basically ever, which is a state of affairs I'm very happy with because I hate to be touched. But I figured he might want to investigate, so I swallow my anxiety and give my consent. He gently pokes around, squeezing the bone and the base of the toe where they meet, feeling out the reality that, yes, that really is part of my skeleton, and it really is protruding from ten different places on my body, and that is not how human skeletons are supposed to work!

"This is incredible," Brendan breathes.

"I know, but I kind of don't like being incredible in this regard?" I whimper. "I'd really prefer someone else was the scientific marvel here."

"O-of course, sorry," Brendan apologizes immediately. "But still…"

He starts poking around near the tip and I go very, very still.

"C-careful," I caution him. "They're really sharp. I—"

"Ah!" Brendan yelps, pulling his finger back in pain despite my warning. "You weren't kidding! Geez, how are your bones that sharp without shattering? They should be too brittle for an edge like that. It's almost as if…"

I don't really hear the rest of it, because I'm too focused on the blood beading on the end of my best friend's fingertip and the horrible verve it seems to fill me with. My heart beats faster. Saliva pools in my mouth. Time seems to slow as the muscles in my legs bunch up, ready to kick out and rip more beautifully red gashes through the skin of the person I love more than anyone.

"Get out," I whisper.

Brendan shuts up and looks at me with surprise.

"What?" he asks.

"Out!" I shout at him. "Go upstairs! Bandage! Now!"

My sudden outburst gets through to him and he skedaddles, leaving me vibrating with murderous energy. I want to chase him! I want to tackle him to the ground and… and… agh! No, no, no! Bad horrible monster instincts! I'm not doing any of those things!

I'm not. It doesn't feel like I'm actively fighting against some terrifying inner beast that's going to rip itself free and commit murders on my behalf or anything. I'm not going to turn into a werewolf and wake up naked in the forest surrounded by corpses. …Probably not, anyway. It feels more like I have an open bag of potato chips nearby, and I know I should probably close the bag and put them away, but I'd really, really like another chip. Like a mild addiction to performing actions I've never even done before. Except in this analogy eating the chip would involve injuring my best friend, and not even Chile Limón flavor is worth that.

…Though maybe if there's something nobody would miss, I suppose I could indulge myself and rip it to shreds. As a little present to myself. Just once, to see what it feels like.

I free my other foot while I wait and carefully flex my toes in an attempt to calm down. Brendan eventually staggers back downstairs holding a massive whiteboard, some dry erase markers clattering down the stairwell to herald his impending arrival. I want to go help him pick them up, but I end up not moving, rooted to the couch by vague anxieties and paranoid terrors that I can tell are patently ridiculous even considering my current absurd circumstances. Oh well. He'll understand.

"Okay!" Brendan announces, setting up the oversized whiteboard on a stand in front of me and uncapping the black marker. "Let's write some stuff out and try to get a handle on the facts! Then we can figure out where to go from there. So… when did you notice something was wrong with your feet?"

"Um… yesterday morning, I guess?" I answer.

"Okay, yesterday…" he mutters to himself, moving to write on the board. The marker, unfortunately, passes across its surface without leaving a mark. Brendan scowls, tosses the black marker to the side, and fails to find any ink in the blue marker next. The red marker suffers the same fate. Only the green marker seems to function, so I guess we're doing this whole thing in green.

"Okay!" Brendan tries again. "Yesterday morning. What happened?"

"Well, my toes started bleeding in the shower when the bone first poked out of them." I say hesitantly. "Er… actually, no. We should probably back up and talk about my dreams."

"The digging ones?" Brendan asks.

"Uh, no," I say. "I mean yes, but not anymore. I… I got to the end of the tunnel, I guess. I finished digging. That's when this all started. Now my dreams are all super vivid and lucid, and I'm like this… spider monster thing? In a weird fantasy world? I guess!?"

Brendan blinks at me for a few long moments before turning back to the whiteboard.

"Well I'm not… I'm not really sure how to put all that into the timeline," he says. "How about you just… tell the whole story?"

So I do. I tell him what I remember about burrowing out of seemingly-infinite wood, catching a wild animal on a strange alien world, the fact that I'm apparently fourth-dimensional, at least in some limited capacity. I describe my horrific dash for my life, my new maybe-friend-maybe-mind-rapist associate Sindri, who gave me the most horrifying experience of my life on complete accident. I explain the limited things I know about the magic system, the whole Order vs. Chaos nonsense, and the offer I got to help three obviously-murderous strangers kill another, allegedly murderous stranger.

"And then I went to sleep in that world, so now I'm back in this one," I conclude. "Now I'm here."

"Damn," Brendan sighs. "Is it weird that I'm jealous?"

"Not at all, but you definitely shouldn't be," I insist. "All of this is horrific and terrible."

"But magic, though!" Brendan exclaims, throwing up his hands. "And super cool claws!"

I bristle a little at that.

"You think these freakish bone growths are cool?"

"Extremely, yes!"

I sigh, trying to ignore the slight flush on my cheeks. I should have expected that. Brendan is such a dork for fantasy stuff. I love him so dang much, I was completely serious when I tried to date him. Like… he's not attractive at all, not physically. But I don't click with anyone the way I click with him, and… gah! It sounds dumb to say but I don't know how to describe it other than 'he's not like other guys?' He doesn't creep me out the way most of them do, even when he sometimes not-so-subtly checks me out. What would be revolting from anyone else is flattering from him, and I don't really get why. I don't wanna have sex with him, but I want to do… I don't know. Everything else, I guess? Whatever that is? But he doesn't, because he knows I'm not really into him that way, and he's fine with that because he's wonderful but like… gah! I should not be thinking about this right now! Or at all! He's right, I'm way too gay for a relationship to work out, and I know that, it's just… ugh. Being a girl nerd is already a pain in the butt because all the guy nerds are constantly trying to get in my pants but I'm actually stuck with the same problem they're stuck with! There just aren't enough girl nerds!

"Hannah?" Brendan asks. "Are you listening?"

"Huh?" I ask with a jolt. "Uh, sorry, nope. I missed all of that. What were you saying?"

"I was asking about the predatory urges you mentioned."

"Um… I'm not really sure what there is to say," I hedge.

"You said you wanted to claw things?"

Yes. Desperately. I need to rip something open with my feet and I don't know why.

"I mean, it's just a random intrusive thought," I say. "It's not really a big deal."

Brendan taps his chin.

"Let me get you one of the big dog toys Fartbuns doesn't use anymore."

"Where is stinky 'ol F-Buns anyway?" I ask.

"Asleep, probably. I'll be right back."

Fartbuns is, naturally, Brendan's dog. He's named as such because Brendan got said dog for his thirteenth birthday despite being absolutely terrified of dogs. He hated them as a kid. Being slobbered on and especially loud barking tends to set off his sensory overload, and to this day he hates the way they smell. Hence he bequeathed his 'thoughtful present' the scathing title of Fartbuns, although I'm sure there's something else his parents put on the collar as his 'real' name.

Thankfully for Fartbuns, Brendan has grown to love the perpetually happy little fuzzball over time. The huge Alaskan Malamute is pretty well-behaved as long as he gets his exercise, and thankfully our neighborhood has some great dog walking trails whenever the absolutely massive yard Brendan's home features isn't enough. Also thankfully for Fartbuns, he's unlikely to miss any given piece of his infinite mountain of dog toys, which is good because I am getting increasingly excited at the prospect of destroying one.

Brendan eventually returns with what is pretty much just a teddy bear, except for how it's styled to look ferocious instead of cuddly. Also, it squeaks.

"Here you are," Brendan says, tossing it at me underhand. "Go nuts."

I snatch it out of the air and stare at it. I suddenly realize I'm, uh, not actually sure what to do? I've never torn something open with claws before. Should I like… pin it between my feet while I'm sitting, or something? No, that's dumb, how would that even work? I'm not ripping it apart like plastic wrapper, I'm… I'm slaughtering prey.

I toss the bear to the ground, standing up slowly as I feel my breath get heavy. Instinct floods my motions in an intoxicating haze and I feel myself lifting up on the balls of my feet, my body coiling for violence. I carefully lift up a foot, balancing on my other leg as I line up my kill, and stomp down.

The floor protests and my body sings as my talons easily pierce into the fluffy stuffing of my hapless prey, causing it to let out a terrified squeak. My curved blades easily hook into its body, so when I lift my foot off the ground once again I bring the little bear with me, dragging it into the sky where I then stomp down on it again, and again and again until I finally smash the bladder making that defiant squeaking noise! Its struggles ceasing, I pin what remains of my catch to the ground and dig my free foot deep into its neck, ripping the skull from the body. I am victorious! Now I can… I can…

…I can clean up all the stuffing I got everywhere, I guess!? Um. Yeah, wow, let's not get ahead of ourselves, Hannah, that was a flippin' teddy bear. I blush furiously at the thought of how thoroughly I enjoyed that, sneaking an embarrassed glance at Brendan. He seems to be downright jubilant about the whole process of my budding monsterdom, and I'm not sure if that's less embarrassing or more.

"S-sorry," I mutter, kneeling down to start collecting my fuzzy victim's wool viscera.

"Are you kidding?" he grins. "That's the biggest smile I've seen out of you in ages! Something about that really… I dunno, nailed it home for me, I guess? That was just not a Hannah thing to do at all. You're really turning into a monster girl, huh? I gotta admit, I'm jealous."

"Don't be jealous," I hiss. "This is completely messed up!"

"Oh, definitely, but at least it's in a really cool way," Brendan says cheerfully. "Like… wow. Wow! I can't fucking believe this is happening, this is insane. Do you think you're going to keep mutating or evolving or whatever?"

"I don't exactly have any precedent to compare myself to," I grumble. "But I doubt I'm lucky enough for the changes to stop here."

"This is so fucking cool," he whispers.

"It's not cool!" I snap at him. "Brendan, please! This is terrifying! I have no idea what's happening to my body, I have no idea what caused this, I have no idea what it's going to do to me, and I have no idea what anybody else is going to do to me because of it! And it's… it's infecting my mind! You just saw that, you said so! That… that wasn't a Hannah thing to do!"

I point a shaky finger at the eviscerated teddy bear, feeling my breathing start to accelerate dangerously.

"So stop being happy about this!" I demand desperately. "It's wrong and it's going to ruin everything! I don't need you to fanboy over me, I need a solution! A… a plan! Some way to hide all this before… before… before whatever the fuck is going to happen when this gets found out!"

Brendan frowns at that, seeming to contemplate for a moment.

"Oh," he finally says. "Okay. Sorry about that. Um… I mean, I guess I've thought about how I might handle something like this before, so I have a few ideas."

"...You've thought about this specific situation?" I ask incredulously. "Really?"

He shrugs.

"Not like, exactly this situation, but yes I've thought about what I'd do in a bodily transformation situation."

"Why…?"

"For the same reason I'm excited about it happening to my best friend: I think it's cool. Anyway, the first strategy is to become as open and public about it as possible, as quickly as possible."

"That sounds like the absolute worst strategy ever," I grumble.

"Hear me out," he insists. "It's 2022. It's the information age. And while there are certainly still crazy people and religious bumpkins out there in the world that will see you as a monster and nothing else, the vast majority of the world is going to see you as a human girl with a strange condition that categorically deserves the exact same fundamental human rights as everyone else. That means privacy and control over your medical records, that means protection from discrimination, that means continuing your life mostly as-is, and most importantly that means protection from being kidnapped or murdered. If we presuppose that there are other people like you and they're unknown due to some sort of dangerous masquerade enforcement system, be that the government or the magical society itself, then while going public draws their ire, going public enough means that they're only painting a bigger target on their backs if they make you disappear. As long as you don't go public too slowly, they won't have a window to get rid of you and will likely be better served by obfuscating your situation with pseudoscience and propaganda until people collectively lose interest in the fact that your body is strange."

"That… seems like a lot of assumptions," I point out.

"Of course it's a lot of assumptions," he counters. "Everything I have to offer is going to be like, eighty percent assumption. We know nothing, we can only extrapolate chains of logic based on whatever seems most reasonable to us. I'm not the one metamorphosing, you can't expect me to know any more than you do."

"Right, right," I sigh. "Yeah, that makes sense. What's your next idea, then?"

"My next idea is the opposite. Publish pictures of your talons online, with a link to like… a dummy account people can PM you on, but nothing identifying. Then hope someone who knows what's happening to you reaches out."

"Nope, I hate that idea," I shudder. "I'm just gonna get messaged by creepy fetishists and you know it. Plus, the hypothetical masquerade people would have to be able to dox the crap out of offenders in order to do their job, which means there's nothing stopping them from coming after me. What's your next idea?"

"Pretend to be a furry."

"What!?"

"As long as your transformations remain as things that could reasonably be a costume of some sort—and you could definitely manage that with your talons, as long as you don't let anyone get too close—you can just be kind of eccentric and people will happily assume that's all there is to it."

"Okay, but what if the changes get worse?" I ask. "Like, way worse."

"I mean, there's a lot you can probably hide behind a veneer of just being a little weird, but yeah at a certain point you're screwed, I suppose. Of course, we don't know how bad your changes are going to get, or if they'll even progress at all, and it's not like we can't change strategies if one of them becomes untenable."

"...I guess so," I grumble. "I'm not really a good actor, though."

"True, you're terrible at it."

Um? I know I said it first, but still. Ouch.

"Well if you don't like any of those, my last idea is to just try to hide all the changes," Brendan continues, shrugging. "Which is what you've been doing. The problem is that you're putting your reveal to chance; if you do end up getting revealed, it'll be in a situation you have zero control over. Furthermore, while you're most heavily denying the possibility of people coming to hurt you, you're also denying the possibility of people coming to help you. It's the low-risk, low-reward strategy that just kind of leaves the situation stagnant."

"Sounds perfect for me," I grunt.

"Uh… I mean, I know you meant that as a joke, Hannah, but—"

"I'll just keep hiding," I conclude firmly. "At least for now. Like you said, we can always switch the strategy later, and if we wait a little longer we'll be able to see if any other changes start to happen to my body or not."

"I… suppose waiting for a week or two to gather what information we can would be prudent," he agrees hesitantly. "I'm just worried you'll keep hiding a lot longer than you should because it's easy."

I pout mightily, but Brendan is too powerful for it.

"...Yeah, okay, that's fair," I admit. "If you don't push me I probably will. That's… why I'm here, I guess."

He smiles slightly, letting the conversation come to a natural close. As usual, I feel better about it now that I've talked with him, even though we didn't really come up with a plan. I knew that going in, though. There's no way to plan with no information available. There's no way to seek information without risk. And I'm far too terrified and too overwhelmed to try bringing strangers into it anyway. But talking to Brendan helps dull the panic of the situation, the feeling of isolation, and brings in one of the only people I truly, deeply care about into the mix.

I wish I could say anyone in my family falls into that category, but for whatever reason they never have. Which is another one of those things I haven't told anyone other than Brendan; the idea that I've never loved my own family makes me feel like a monstrous sociopath. They clearly love me. They're not abusive, they're not negligent, and while they have their problems they're not outright awful in any way. And yet I read so many stories about how family is important, about how people love their family no matter what, about how people that are put through horrible abuses far worse than my own still love their family despite all that, and I, meanwhile, just feel… nothing.

I suspect the only thing I'll feel at their funerals is a dull horror at the knowledge that I don't feel anything else. In many ways, I know that makes me even more of a freak than my feet do. Valuing your family is the right thing. The human thing. But… I don't. And I don't know why.

"Well… this is all pretty crazy, huh?" Brendan eloquently summarizes.

"Yep," I sigh. "I'm still not totally sure I'm not in a psychiatric ward somewhere."

"That's fair," Brendan grimaces. "That's definitely fair. Um… can I ask… what it felt like? To grow them, I mean."

I glance down at my feet, wriggling my toes as I idly note how quickly I seem to be getting used to them.

"...There's not much to say," I admit. "It just hurt. A sharp pain from them cutting open the skin, and a duller ache from the growing pains, I guess. That was about it."

"No flash of mana or whatever?" he asks with a grin.

"I don't even know if mana is a thing," I admit. "I'll keep you apprised on the magical details as I work them out, I suppose."

"You'd better! I've got dibs on being the first person you teach spells to. Archmagi Hannah and Brendan shall drive this world into darkness!"

"Okay, I'll pencil in 'conquering the world with arcane might' immediately after 'actually learning the names of the other kinds of magic.'"

"Haha, okay, fair," Brendan admits, glancing at the whiteboard. "We've got, what, six kinds? Order, Chaos, Space, Light, Pneuma and you said he also briefly mentioned Motion. Unless Motion is the opposing element to Pneuma, which wouldn't make much sense, there's probably quite a bit more than that. And considering how vague the categories are, you've seemingly got either a really soft magic system or a poorly understood magic system, both of which are ripe for exploitation and abuse!"

"That's not reassuring," I grumble. "If the magic system can be abused, it's probably already being abused by people a lot more powerful and knowledgeable than I am."

"What, you don't think you can use basic logic to immediately become the best at a system that entire societies have already been using for thousands of years?"

"Well I didn't get any mental notifications about experience points or skill upgrades, so no, I doubt it's going to be that easy. I don't even have magic, I just sorta am magic in a weird fourth-dimensional way that mostly seems good for hiding. Which I will probably need to do a lot because I am tiny and weak."

"Yeah… you'll be okay, Hannah," Brendan assures me. "You'll figure things out and make it through this."

"Well, if I randomly die in my sleep you'll know I didn't," I answer sardonically.

We sit on the couch in silence for a little while longer, but Brendan stands up before I can wallow for too long.

"Let's go get Fartbuns up and take him to the backyard," he suggests.

I sigh and nod, grabbing my socks.

"Nah, leave your shoes and stuff off," Brendan suggests. "The only thing bigger than our yard is the fence surrounding it, nobody'll see."

I frown at that.

"I don't exactly like seeing my feet like this," I remind him. "I'd prefer the shoes."

"Humor me?" he suggests.

Gah. Fine. I follow him upstairs, carefully keeping my toes off the ground so I don't ruin the hardwood floors. Brendan easily wakes the family fuzzball with promises of "outside time!" and we head out the backdoor together, Fartbuns bounding happily ahead of us and quickly finding a nice spot to piss in the grass. The yard isn't very exciting; there's a decently-sized patio complete with a sizable gas grill, and pretty much everything else is a vast green field of wasted water. When we were little they had more things here; a miniature playground, a trampoline, and an inflatable pool in the summer. But that's all gone now, so everything is just grass, grass, and more grass.

Tennis ball in hand, Brendan plays a halfhearted game of fetch with Fartbuns as the two of us silently appreciate the beautiful weather. Once out in the grass I let myself relax a little, lowering my talons into the soft earth and relishing in the feeling of grip I get from it. I rock back and forth on the balls of my feet to my heels, trying to ignore my ever-growing instincts to chase the dog every time it runs off to grab the ball.

"You doing okay, Hannah?" Brendan asks.

"No," I tell him. "I feel weird. Really weird. I just…"

Brendan tosses that dang ball again and Fartbuns dashes off after it, causing me to instinctively crouch a little lower, preparing to run. Agh, I want to… I don't know! I want to move, to run, to feel the dirt in my toes and… and it's weird! It's weird and freaky and wrong, but like… it's just me and Brendan here. Is there any reason I shouldn't? As long as I don't claw Fartbuns, obviously.

"You just what?" Brendan asks, retrieving the ball from a returning Fartbuns.

"Just… just don't judge me," I beg, and when he throws the ball again I'm right behind the dog.

I don't generally like exercise. I'm certainly not a fan of running, and my recent experience of nearly running so hard that I die will forever get an honorary spot on my bulging shelf of traumatic memories. But nonetheless, as my feet grip into the ground and my legs explode my body forward at speeds I've never achieved before, I feel raw, unfettered elation.

Fartbuns quickly loses interest in the ball as I barrel after him, panting excitedly as he dodges around my charge and happily accepts this apparent upgrade to playtime. I pounce at him again and again until eventually, after a near-miss, the big happy doggo retaliates. He playfully nips my hand as I reach out to grab him, which is just the opportunity I need to double-down my assault and wrap my arms around my favorite fluffy boy. We roll in the dirt, eliciting another nip on my arm, to which I respond with the only thing a rational woman can do in this situation.

I bite him back. I don't even know why, I just get the sudden urge to chomp and I roll with it, winning a mouthful of dog fuzz and a light, toothy pinch on my new playmate. It's fun! Then Fartbuns quickly wriggles free of my grip and bounds happily around me, and the dance resets. I think at some point I start laughing, and I can't really bring myself to care.

I don't know how much time passes, but eventually Fartbuns and I are both left panting in the grass, my outfit ruined by countless green stains and my toes caked with three layers of dirt. Giggles still occasionally bubble up from my chest as I stare up at the blue sky, the back of my mind constantly jolting with terror at the question of 'what if someone sees me like this!?' But there's no one here but Brendan and I, and it's okay for him to know. It's okay.

I… had fun. I haven't had fun like that in a long time.

Brendan's towering figure eventually moves to loom over me, offering a hand to help me to my feet. I take it, still grinning like an idiot.

"Thanks," I tell him. "For… for all this. For being you, I guess."

"I'm glad I could help," he answers. "And Buns really appreciated it too, it seems."

"Yeah, I… I kind of hate how much I loved that?" I admit.

"Well don't," he says. "You're not allowed to hate any part of my best friend. She's too cool for that."

I smile wider.

"God. How are you not absolutely freaking the heck out, Brendan?" I ask. "I… how can you so blithely accept this?"

He shrugs.

"I guess I'm just better at freaking out on the inside."

I laugh. What else can I do? All of that was… I don't know. I don't know if this is a good thing or not. I'm happy now, sure, but… this changes nothing about the horror of the situation. I'm still afraid it's all going to keep getting worse.

"I need to feel normal for a while," I declare. "Let's go play Super Smash Brothers."

"Sounds good to me," Brendan agrees as I try to wipe all the grass off my body. "You gonna stream today?"

"Yeah," I confirm. "But starting a little late won't kill anyone."

"You're not worried about suddenly mutating on camera?"

Oh, fuck. I mean, I am now.

"...My talons took a whole day to grow in and they hurt like hell," I hedge. "It's probably fine. I'm sure I'll notice before anything gets too wild."

"If you say so."

We head back inside and I put my shoes and socks back on, whiling away the next few hours playing video games. Eventually I can't justify staying any longer, though, so before long I'm heading home, feeling just the slightest bit better about my situation. I'll go home, I'll get my work done, and soon enough it'll be time for bed.

And then it'll be time to learn magic.