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Author's Note:Here we are part 4. Only one more part to go now. I'm almost finished with the sequel as well. After that I think I'm going to take a break from Taylor and her story. There's a story I've been wanting to tell for awhile and quite a few others I have yet to finish.I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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4.

After surviving Typhoon Kayla for the second time in so many hours, he retired to gaming.

He only played for a little bit though before he found himself bored.

Tyler's fingers hovered over the controller, the usual adrenaline rush of headshots and kill streaks feeling oddly flat. His character sprinted across the virtual battlefield, but his mind kept drifting—to the way his collarbones looked sharper in the mirror this morning, to the unfamiliar swish of hair against his neck whenever he turned his head too fast. By his third consecutive death (a record), he tossed the controller aside with a sigh that came out suspiciously close to a huff—another new vocal quirk that felt almost Kayla in nature.

When noon came around, he got hungry.

The waistband of Tyler's jeans bit into his hips before he even managed to fasten the button. He frowned at the mirror, tugging at the denim that had fit perfectly yesterday—now gaping at the waist yet straining across hips that had somehow widened overnight. The pajama pants hadn't lied exactly, but their forgiving elastic had hidden the truth his favorite Levi's now shouted: his pelvis had tilted forward, creating a curve where there'd once been angles.

He turned slightly, doing that all too stereotypical female looking at her butt pose.

Had it gotten bigger? Were his hips wider too?

He groaned, peeling off his favorite jeans. He went back to the dresser and found some sweat pants. When he pulled them on, they fit better but still not perfect. He paired them with a baggy shirt, hoping it was enough.

The refrigerator hummed like a disapproving chaperone as Tyler shuffled into the kitchen, his oversized shirt swallowing what remained of his masculine frame. His mother’s coffee cup froze midway to her lips but she said nothing. The silence was worse.

The refrigerator door hadn't even clicked shut before Kayla's voice sliced through the kitchen like a butter knife through warm margarine. "Oh hell no." Her bare feet slapped against the linoleum as she rounded the island, her critical gaze raking over Tyler's oversized shirt and sagging sweatpants. "You look like a depressed laundry hamper."

"Nothing fits right anymore" he admitted shyly.

Kayla's hands landed on her hips with the precision of a drill sergeant inspecting a sloppy recruit. "First of all," she said, plucking at Tyler's drooping collar with two fingers like it offended her personally, "we're burning this shirt. Like, ceremonially. With gasoline." Her nose wrinkled as she stepped back, taking in the full tragic ensemble. "Did you raid Dad's gym bag or something? Because this is a crime against fabric."

Kayla's fingers snapped like a disgruntled fashion designer as she circled Tyler, her eyes narrowing at each new sartorial offense. "Second of all," she announced, plucking at his sagging sweatpants waistband with two fingers like it was contaminated, "these are going straight to the donation bin." Her nose scrunched. "Are those paint stains? Did you mug a janitor?"

Kayla disappeared upstairs with the urgency of a paramedic responding to a fashion emergency. Tyler heard her footsteps thunder down the hallway, followed by the violent yanking of drawers and the crash of hangers in her closet.

She returned in under three minutes—a record—her arms loaded with fabric like a stylist on deadline. "Okay," she announced, dumping the pile onto the kitchen island with the gravity of a surgeon presenting donor organs. "Strip."

"Kayla!" her mother gasped.

"What?" Kayla asked confused. "We're all girls here"

Tyler choked on air. "I'm not—"

"—yet," Kayla finished with a wink, tossing the bundle of fabric at Tyler's chest before turning dramatically toward the refrigerator. Her bare feet squeaked against the linoleum as she pivoted, her ponytail whipping around like a metronome set to allegro. "But you will be soon enough, and until then?" She yanked open the fridge door with unnecessary force, sending condiment bottles rattling. "You're not leaving this house looking like a rejected extra from *The Walking Dead*."

He didn't actually plan on leaving the house.

"He can't leave actually" Their mother confirmed. "Not until he virus is fully out of his system. At least a month".

Tyler stared down at the heap of fabric in his arms—a soft gray V-neck that smelled faintly of Kayla's vanilla body spray and black yoga pants with a subtle galaxy print. The waistband still held the curved memory of Kayla's hips. He cleared his throat. "I'm not wearing your pants."

"Shut up and put them on" she snapped, annoyed.

He reluctantly did as he was told.

The galaxy-print yoga pants clung to Tyler's thighs in a way no fabric ever had before—not uncomfortably tight, but with an intimate awareness of every new curve. He tugged at the waistband self-consciously, the elastic settling just below his hipbones in a way that felt scandalously natural. Kayla's V-neck draped loosely enough to preserve some dignity, though the neckline kept sliding to expose one sharply defined collarbone.

He felt weird but strangely comfortable.

Kayla's grin stretched wide enough to crack her face when Tyler shuffled back into the kitchen, the galaxy yoga pants clinging to every new curve like they'd been custom-painted on. She circled him with the predatory glee of a sculptor surveying a finished masterpiece, her fingers twitching like she wanted to pinch his waist just to hear him squeak. "Look at you," she crowed, plucking at the V-neck's drooping collar. "Practically edible."

"Great" he deadpanned. "Just what I always wanted".

"Trust me, it's a good thing" she said, practically bouncing with joy.

The sandwich knife scraped against ceramic with a rhythmic screech as Kayla assembled her masterpiece—turkey slices fanned with the precision of a blackjack dealer, avocado mashed to gallery-worthy smoothness. "Okay, first rule of lunch," she announced, wielding the mayo jar like Excalibur, "you never put condiments directly on the bread unless you want sogginess." Her tongue poked between her teeth as she dotted each slice with surgical precision. "Second rule—"

"Kay, I know how to make a sandwich" Tyler interrupted, taking a bite of the sandwich he just made.

She frowned but ignored the comment.

Kayla's knee bumped against Tyler's under the kitchen table—three sharp knocks like Morse code for *pay attention*. "Next up," she announced around a mouthful of turkey avocado, pointing her sandwich at Tyler's torso with the gravitas of a general mapping a battlefield, "we're tackling posture." Her free hand swooped in to prod between Tyler's shoulder blades, forcing him upright with an indignant squawk. "Shoulders back, chin level—Gamma gave you collarbones that could cut glass, might as well show them off."

Tyler laughed but up straighter when Kayla glared.

She smiled. "Good girl".

Things like this went on all afternoon. Tyler finally escaped to his room, exhausted. He loved his sister but she a bit much. He got it though. He saw it earlier---the way she kept clinging to him, the way she kept staring. The way she didn't seem to want to leave his side. She was still feeling guilty.

In his room, he sighed and sat on his bed. He pulled out his phone and finally called Callie. When she answered, he sighed heavily.

"So," Callie's voice crackled through the phone speaker, laced with amusement, "let me get this straight—Kayla's treating your feminization like her personal Build-A-Bear workshop?"

Tyler flopped backwards, the galaxy-print pants stretching tight across his hips as he rolled onto his back. "More like she's Frankensteining me into the sister she always wanted."

Callie laughed. "It's a Girl, It's a Girl!"

They shared a laugh.

"So when do they let you out of the house?" asked Callie after a moment of silence.

"A month" he said with a sigh.

"A month?" she asked, sounding confused. "But Jasmine is out and about now"

Tyler's fingers tightened around the phone. "Wait—what?" The mattress springs creaked as he sat up abruptly, Kayla's borrowed shirt slipping off one shoulder. "Jasmine's outside already? But she transformed, what, five days ago?"

The line went silent long enough that Tyler thought Callie had dropped the call. Then her voice came through, lower now—the kind of tone reserved for sharing secrets in crowded hallways. "She was streaming from some bistro yesterday," A pause. Tyler heard her swallow. "Its like she's a whole different person."

That made no sense. Why does Jasmine get preferential treatment?

Callie grunted. "Guess it pays to be related to the Mayor".

"Are her parents still not dealing?" he asked, worried.

"Apparently" Callie sighed heavily. "Becca says it's freaky. There's a lot of tension. Jason has never had a great relationship with them but this gender flip is causing a whole new set of problems"

That was one of the things that still terrified him. His change wasn't fully over and in the back of his mind, he was still afraid that he might become just like Jasmine. It also scared him how his Mom would deal with something like that. Kayla was difficult but she was sane for the most part. She was a little needy but she wasn't this vapid, fake egirl. The idea of going from some normal, level headed guy into some shallow, self-centered plastic Barbie probably scared most guys.

Callie finally broke the silence. "So" she said, pausing and choosing her words carefully. "How close am I to having a full blooded girl friend?"

Callie couldn't see his shrug. "They said 48 hours, right? Its been about a day or so. So I'm guessing tomorrow or maybe the day after."

"Let me be your first visitor?" she asked, sincerity in her voice.

"Sure" he said, without a second guess.

They talked for a bit more, her mostly talking about returning to school next week. He didn't envy her but he was already getting bored.

The rest of the day, he once again tried to distract himself with gaming but it didn't work. Kayla managed to drag him out of his room before dinner and they sat on the couch. She tried to get him interested in one of her shows but he half paid attention. He started to feel a little warn out and his limbs felt heavy.

He ended up going to bed early, wondering and knowing what tomorrow would probably bring.

The changes wracked his body the whole night but thankfully for him---like the first night---he slept through them all.

Tyler woke to the sensation of fabric clinging where fabric had never clung before. The sheets bunched oddly under his hips—softer, fuller—and when he instinctively rolled onto his side, the weight distribution felt foreign, as if his center of gravity had shifted overnight. His collarbones pressed against Kayla's borrowed pajama top in a way that made the thin cotton suddenly feel like a second skin.

He sat up too fast, his longer hair whipping around his shoulders in a blonde curtain that smelled faintly of the vanilla shampoo Kayla had forced on him last night. The movement made his head swim—not unpleasantly, but with the dizzying lightness of shedding something invisible. His hands flew to his chest, fingers skimming over curves that hadn't been there when he'd collapsed into bed. The softness under his palms was undeniable, the kind of biological reality that made his throat tighten.

Breasts. Heavy. Feeling bigger than they probably were.

Was it done?

He absently reached for his crouch, gently padding there.

There was nothing.

Tyler's feet hit the floor with unsteady precision, his hips automatically adjusting to compensate for the new weight distribution—an instinct he hadn't possessed yesterday. The mirror above his dresser showed only the top of a blonde head as he shuffled toward the bathroom, his steps cautious like he was learning to walk on a ship's deck during a storm. The doorknob felt smaller in his grip, or maybe his fingers had gotten slimmer—both possibilities equally surreal.

Tyler's reflection in the bathroom mirror wasn't a stranger, but it wasn't him either. The girl blinking back had Kayla's almond-shaped eyes, but softer at the edges—less mascara, more bewildered vulnerability. He watched her—*him*—raise trembling fingers to trace the new contours of his face. His jawline had melted into something gently rounded, his Adam's apple gone completely. When he swallowed, the smooth column of his throat moved in a way that felt borrowed from a hundred romantic movie close-ups.

He looked like Kayla but not quite. There was subtle differences. The most striking were her eyes and hair. The eyes were still blue and the hair a lighter shade of blonde, much like it had been before. It was strange and new but familiar too. He expected this. Kayla was his twin after all, he was bound to look like her.

Turning his head, it felt strange to have so much hair now. Whereas yesterday, it had been at his shoulders, now it was halfway down his back. It was straight and silky and soft to the touch. So like his sister but so different. Kayla's hair had a slight wave to it and was like gold.

He finally tore himself away from the mirror as his bladder angrily protested. He looked at the toilet, groaned and built up the courage.

He peed as if on autopilot.

After flushing he headed back into his room and checked the clock, it was 6:04am.

Tyler sank onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping differently under his new weight. He pressed his palms flat against his thighs—Kayla's borrowed pajama pants now fitting with disturbing accuracy—and took a slow inventory. His ribcage felt narrower when he breathed, the expansion of his lungs pressing against unfamiliar softness higher up. The waistband of the pants dug slightly into the new inward curve above his hips, a sensation both alien and inexplicably right.

His fingers crept up to trace the neckline of his shirt, hovering where the fabric gaped to reveal smooth skin that had been rough with stubble yesterday. The absence of his Adam's apple still made his throat click when he swallowed. Every inhalation carried the faintest hint of something sweet—not perfume, just his own scent changed, mingling with Kayla's shampoo in his hair. He lifted a blonde strand between two fingers, marveling at how it caught the dawn light filtering through his curtains. It was like seeing color for the first time.

A soft knock at the door startled him. Kayla's voice came through, hushed but vibrating with barely contained energy. "Tyler? You awake?" The doorknob turned before he could answer, revealing his sister already dressed in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, her hair piled messily atop her head. She froze mid-step, her eyes widening as they raked over him from head to toe. "Oh," she breathed, the syllable packed with too much emotion. "Oh wow."

"Hey sis" he said, his voice no longer his own.

"Right back at ya" she said, walking slowly into the room and dropping absently onto the bed next to him.

Kayla's fingers hovered just above Tyler's shoulder—close enough to feel body heat but not quite touching—as if he were a museum exhibit behind glass. "Your collarbones are perfect," she murmured, her clinical tone belied by the tremor in her fingers. "Like, magazine perfect. Mine always stick out weird when I slouch."

Kayla's fingers finally made contact, tracing the slope of Tyler's—no, *Taylor's*—collarbone with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics. Her touch lingered at the dip between bone and shoulder, mapping unfamiliar territory with the precision of an explorer claiming new land. "God," she breathed, "Gamma did you *right*."

Tyler sighed. "It's a bit much," he said softly.

"Whelp, let big sis take a look" she said, taking charge.

Big sis by only 3 minutes but he didn't say that aloud.

Kayla's gaze swept over Tyler with the clinical detachment of a doctor conducting a physical—until her eyes caught on the subtle differences that made her breath hitch. Her fingers twitched as she cataloged each deviation from her own reflection: the softer arch of his brows, the slightly fuller lower lip, the way his eyelashes curled just a fraction more at the outer corners.

When her scrutiny dropped to his chest, her own shoulders lifted unconsciously in comparison. "You bitch!" she gasped, poking one of his new breasts. "What the hell is this?"

Tyler couldn't resist a playful remark of his own. "Looks like I'm the BIG sister now"

Kayla gasped dramatically before pushing him back onto the bed, straddling him as she pinned his wrists above his head—a move perfected through years of childhood wrestling matches. But now their bodies aligned differently, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his narrower hips. Her victorious grin faltered when she noticed his pajama top had ridden up, exposing a strip of smooth stomach where subtle abs were.

"You have a six pack" she said, smacking his belly.

"What?"

Kayla jabbed a finger into Tyler's stomach, her nail catching on the faint ridges beneath his—*her*—skin. "Gamma gave you *abs*?" Her voice cracked with betrayal. "I've been doing Pilates for three years and mine still look like a sad potato!" She leaned closer, her ponytail brushing his cheek as she inspected the unexpected musculature.

Tyler lifted his shirt slightly and looked. Sure enough, there was muscle tone there. He was just as shocked as his sister.

He wasn't exactly the most athletic guy around. After all, he did spend all his free time eating junk and gaming. He wasn't fat but he wasn't in shape either. He was lanky and tall, hardly someone fit for a gym.

"Get up," his sister ordered, crawling off the bed. "I need to see something"

Tyler barely had time to register the command before Kayla's fingers closed around his wrist, hauling him upright with surprising strength. The sudden movement sent his new center of gravity tilting dangerously—his hips swayed instinctively to compensate, a move so fluid it startled him more than the unexpected muscle tone.

As soon as he was on his feet, he saw it. He was still tall.

Kayla was about five foot six. He'd been five ten before and apparently he still was. So it turns out The Bug didn't mess with his height.

"This is so fucking unfair!" his sister fake pouted.

Kayla's hands planted firmly on Tyler's—*Taylor's*—hips as she spun him toward the full-length mirror on the back of his door. The morning light caught every new curve in high definition, turning his silhouette into something out of a fashion editorial. Her chin hooked over his shoulder, eyes darting between their reflections with forensic intensity. "Okay, objectively?" She poked his flat stomach again. "This is bullshit. You ate an entire pizza last night."

He stared. He had one of those Instagram bodies. Like one of those girls who filmed exercise videos on Tiktok.

No shit.

"Little Miss Hottie" Kayla squealed, playfully pinching his side.

Tyler flinched at the pinch, his skin buzzing where Kayla's fingers had touched—too sensitive, like every nerve ending had been scrubbed raw overnight. He stared at their reflection, the unfamiliar girl in the mirror mimicking his slack-jawed expression. Kayla's grin in the glass was borderline feral, her fingers already digging through the clutter on his dresser.

"Hopeless" she grumbled as she went for the door. "But I've got the perfect stretchy top for those melons"

Kayla barged back in without knocking, arms laden with fabric that spilled over her forearms like liquid neon. "Emergency intervention," she declared, dumping the pile onto Tyler's bed with the solemnity of a surgeon presenting a transplant organ. The stretchy top she'd mentioned slithered to the top of the heap—a buttery-soft thing in deep cobalt that caught the morning light like polished metal. Beneath it, the yoga pants coiled like a snake ready to strike, their high-waisted design screaming *athleisure* with a side of *we own your hips now*.

He groaned and looked at the shopping bag. "What's that?"

He was dreading what was inside.

Kayla upended the shopping bag onto Tyler's bed with the flourish of a magician revealing their grand finale. A cascade of pastel fabrics spilled out—lace-trimmed bralettes, seamless panties still tagged with price stickers, and something that looked suspiciously like shapewear. "Welcome to your new reality," she announced, plucking a mint-green bralette from the pile and dangling it from one finger like a trophy. "Because those," she pointed at his chest with her free hand, "require *infrastructure*."

He went pale. Of course it was bras and panties.

"Though minor miscalculation on my part" she said, holding up a bra that was clearly too small.

Kayla tossed the too-small bra over her shoulder with a theatrical sigh, then snatched up a pale pink bralette instead. "Okay, arms up," she ordered.

She gripped the end of his borrowed pj top---her top---and pulled it over his head before he could react. Instinctively his hands covered his new breasts.

Kayla rolled her eyes and batted Tyler’s hands away with the impatience of someone who’d seen it all before. "Oh please, we shared a womb—modesty died nine months before we were born." She stretched the bralette between her fingers with practiced ease, the fabric expanding like a slingshot. "Arms. Up. Unless you want these things swinging free all day?"

Tyler hesitated, his arms hovering awkwardly at his sides as Kayla brandished the pink bralette like a battle standard. The morning air prickled against his bare skin—cooler than he remembered, more sensitive in ways that made his stomach flip. "This is stupid," he muttered, but lifted his arms anyway, his shoulders curling inward instinctively.

Kayla's fingers brushed Tyler's ribs as she maneuvered the bralette into place, her touch clinical until she hit a ticklish spot that made him squawk. "Hold *still*," she hissed through laughter, looping the straps over his shoulders with the precision of someone who'd done this blindfolded since middle school. The elastic settled against his skin with a soft snap—strangely comforting despite the absurdity.

The bralette’s fabric hugged Tyler’s chest with an intimacy that made his ears burn. Kayla stepped back, appraising her handiwork with the critical eye of a sculptor inspecting wet clay. "Damn," she breathed, reaching out to adjust the left strap by a millimeter. "Gamma gave you *perky*. It's like you won the genetic lottery while I got stuck with Mom's sad pancakes."

Tyler groaned, not wanting to hear any of that.

The bralette's seams pressed unfamiliar lines into Tyler's skin as Kayla circled him like a fashion designer assessing a runway model. Her fingers suddenly pinched the fabric near his armpit, making him flinch. "Side boob spillage—totally normal for first-timers," she announced, as if diagnosing a common cold. Before he could protest, she'd hooked two fingers under the band and yanked it downward with a sharp *snap* that stung. "Band's supposed to sit *here*, dumbass. Not where your third rib used to be."

She then scrutinized the fit. "Small but we'll fix that later, should be fine for now".

"Where did you get this?" he asked, noticing the tag still on it.

"I went shopping for my little sis yesterday" she said as if it was the most normal thing in the world. She pulled the tag off. "Wasn't expecting you to be all mega melons though"

He flushed.

Kayla’s hands landed on Tyler’s shoulders with the force of a WWE wrestler, spinning him back toward the mirror before he could process the "mega melons" comment. The girl in the reflection blinked back at him—*her*—with Kayla’s bralette cutting a pale pink line across unfamiliar skin. Tyler’s fingers twitched toward the straps, then froze. It fits. Somehow, it *fit*.

"Drop those grungy boxers and put them on" she said as if she was a woman on a mission.

Tyler's fingers hovered at the waistband of his boxers—Kayla's impatient tapping against her thigh sounded like a metronome counting down to his humiliation. "Turn around," he muttered, kicking at a discarded sock near his foot.

"We're both girls now dumbass" she said, tossing the panties at him. "Hurry up"

The panties hit Tyler square in the chest—a scrap of lilac fabric that clung briefly before sliding down his torso like a surrender flag. He caught them reflexively, fingers sinking into the impossibly soft material.

Thankfully they were pretty plain and boy cut.

Tyler's fingers fumbled with the waistband of his boxers, the elastic snapping against his hips in a way that felt foreign now—too loose where it had once fit snugly. He shot Kayla a glare, but she just smirked, arms crossed, one foot tapping like she was timing him. He pulled them down and kicked them off.

"Tick-tock, sis. Unless you wanna rock the commando look?"

The panties slipped up Tyler's thighs with an unsettling ease, as if his body had been waiting for this exact moment to betray him completely. He yanked them into place, the elastic waistband settling just below the dip of his hips—an inch lower than Kayla wore hers, but already feeling more natural than his old boxers ever had. The fabric breathed differently against his skin, a whisper of belonging that made his stomach twist.

Kayla's grin widened as Tyler adjusted the waistband with tentative fingers. "See? Not so bad," she said, plucking at the lilac fabric with a triumphant flick. "Though we might need to size up—you're packing more back there than I accounted for." Her hands landed abruptly on his hips, turning him sideways toward the mirror. "Seriously, did Gamma give you *all* the good genes?"

Kayla’s fingers traced the curve of Tyler’s hipbone through the thin fabric of the panties, her touch feather-light but electric. "Look at this," she murmured, half to herself, dragging her fingertip along the newly pronounced dip where his waist narrowed before flaring into hips. "It’s like someone photoshopped you into existence."

He'd seen it.

Kayla shoved the stretchy top into Tyler's hands with the urgency of a bomb squad technician passing off a live grenade. "Put this on before I lose my mind," she ordered, fanning herself dramatically. "God gave you *those* and me *this*?" She gestured wildly between Tyler's chest and her own with exaggerated despair.

The stretchy top slithered over Tyler's arms like a second skin, the fabric clinging to his torso with terrifying accuracy. He tugged at the hem instinctively—it stopped just above his bellybutton, exposing a strip of smooth skin that made his stomach flip. "This is too small," he muttered, twisting to see his reflection.

Kayla snorted, flipping her ponytail over one shoulder. "That's the *point*, Einstein." She grabbed Tyler's wrists before he could yank the top down further, forcing his arms up in a sudden, mortifying stretch that made the fabric ride even higher. "Look at that waist!" she crowed, spinning him toward the mirror again. "You're literally built like a damn hourglass. Meanwhile I—" She broke off with a theatrical groan, pulling her sweatshirt taut across her own torso in comparison.

Kayla's fingers dug into Tyler's waist, measuring the span between hands with a hum of approval. "Twenty-four inches, easy," she declared, as if quantifying his femininity somehow made it more real. "Mom's gonna lose her shit when she sees you." Her grip shifted upward, tracing the slope of his ribs with clinical fascination. "Your bones are literally rearranged—how does that even *work*?"

He wish he knew. His was every guy's wet dream now.

The cobalt top clung to Tyler's new contours like liquid paint, highlighting every shift in musculature beneath the fabric. Kayla stepped back, hands on her hips, surveying him with the critical eye of a gallery curator assessing a new installation. "Okay, objectively?" She jabbed a finger at his exposed midriff. "This is bullshit. You inhaled a family-sized bag of Doritos last week."

Tyler's fingers twitched at the hem of the too-short top, desperate for more fabric that wasn't coming. "This feels illegal," he muttered, watching the cobalt material stretch taut across his chest with every breath.

"Wait until these" she said, holding up the yoga pants. "Get a hold of that ass!"

The yoga pants hit Tyler's chest with a soft *whump*—black fabric so thin he could practically see through it. Kayla bounced on her toes, her grin bordering on manic. "These bad boys have *memory*," she announced, as if that explained everything. "They'll remember your ass long after you take them off."

The yoga pants stretched between Tyler's fingers like alien skin, the fabric unnervingly cool against his palms. He turned them inside out, inspecting the seams with exaggerated suspicion. "These look like torture devices," he muttered, holding them up to the light where they shimmered faintly.

The yoga pants slid up Tyler's legs with disturbing ease, the fabric tightening around his thighs like a second skin before snapping into place at his waist with an audible *shhhk*. Kayla let out a choked noise halfway between a gasp and a scream. "Oh my *God*," she whispered, clutching her own hips as if physically pained.

Tyler rolled his eyes. "Not like I asked for this"

Kayla went quiet for a moment and then hugged him from behind. "I know and I'm really sorry..."

He sighed. "Again, not your fault"

"Well when I find the bitch who did do this to you, I'm busting her face!" she announced protectively.

Kayla's arms tightened around Tyler's waist, her chin digging into his shoulder blade as she peered over him at their reflection. The yoga pants did, in fact, "get ahold of that ass"—the high-waisted fabric sculpting his silhouette with an almost comical precision. "Seriously," she murmured, her breath warm against his neck, "whoever engineered Gamma had a *type*."

Engineered.

There was a lot of talk about that on the internet. A lot of people were convinced The Bug was some government experiment that got out of control. Even its official name---V36---sounded like something out of sci-fi movie. It didn't help that it had various strains too. It was all kinds of messed up and laced with paranoia.

Kayla smacked his butt. "I can't help with your shoes for now but seeing as you're not going anywhere for a month, that should be fine for now"

The thought of leaving the house, of showing everyone the new him, it was daunting. Though a small part of him was excited about the prospect. What's more, that feeling of climbing the walls had returned. He never used to feel that way but ever since his mother pulled them out of school days ago, he was feeling antsy. It felt amplified now. Almost like he could run a marathon or something crazy like that.

"Now then" his sister said, taking his arm and pulling him away from the mirror. "Let's go show Mom her new daughter"

The kitchen smelled of burnt toast and reheated coffee—their mother's signature "I was up all night worrying" breakfast. Tyler hesitated in the doorway, his fingers twisting the hem of Kayla's cobalt top into a nervous knot. Their mother's back was to them, her shoulders rigid beneath a rumpled cardigan as she stabbed at her phone with one finger.

Their mother's phone clattered onto the Formica countertop when Kayla cleared her throat. The slow pivot of her chair was a study in delayed reactions—first the creak of worn hinges, then the stiff turn of her shoulders, finally the upward tilt of her chin that brought Tyler's transformed body into her line of sight. Her coffee mug froze midway to her lips, the steam curling around fingers that had gone bone-white around the ceramic.

To say she was stunned was an after statement.

Kayla rushed forward, taking the mug from her mother's hand. "We don't want to break anymore tableware" she said, gently placing it on the table.

"Hi Mom" Tyler said with his new voice, giving her an awkward wave.

It was clear their mother was processing what she was seeing. She had a daughter and son before. It was easy, it was simple. When Kayla brought Tyler home that night and he looked like death, everything simple had vanished in a heartbeat. When Dr. Harris and Dr. Jones told her that her son had The Bug, it felt like half her life was gone. She wasn't able to process it. Even after seeing the first changes in Tyler yesterday, her mind convinced her it wasn't quite real. An illusion or a dream.

This was no illusion though.

There was no dream.

Standing before her in a blue top and black yoga pants was Tyler but not Tyler. The girl looked a lot like him but a bit like Kayla too.

"Tyler?" she gasped, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs. "You sure you're..."

He sat down in the chair next to her, taking her hands. "It's me, Mom. Still me"

She nodded. She'd been reading for days. She'd seen the stories. All those boys turning into airheads and things. She blinked and stared at this girl. She had Tyler's bleach blonde hair. She had Tyler's vibrant blue eyes. She also had Tyler's smile.

"Honey, you're beautiful," she said softly, gently touching his face.

"The word you're looking for is Hottie!" Kayla corrected proudly. "I mean you see her fucking abs, they're unreal!"

Tyler and his mother both rolled their eyes, used to Kayla's enthusiasm.

"You're sure you're ok?" she asked, still touching his face. "I saw that Jasmine girl on the news last night. Her poor family. Jason was a smart boy and she..."

"Is dumb as a box of rocks" Kayla added for her.

Their mother shot her a look but said nothing.

The kitchen clock ticked three times before their mother exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around Tyler’s—no, *Taylor’s*—hands. "You still feel like my kid," she murmured, more to herself than to them. Her thumb brushed over Taylor’s knuckles, tracing the unfamiliar smoothness where calluses used to be.

Tyler was relieved. He was scared his mother might not be able to handle it. Like Jason's parents. Like so many other parents he'd read about online.

"So" he finally asked. "What happens now?"

"Now" his mother said. "We eat some breakfast then I have to make some phone calls." She paused and looked at him. "You are all...?"

"Yeah" he said, embarrassed.

Kayla took charge of breakfast, insisting they can now finally eat healthier. She set about immediately, surprising both their mother and Tyler. Neither knew she could actually cook and what she was cooking actually smelled real good to Tyler.

Kayla slid a plate across the breakfast table with the precision of a blackjack dealer—one perfectly poached egg, avocado slices fanned out like green poker chips, and a single piece of whole-grain toast cut diagonally.

"Am I on some weird diet?" he asked, looking at the food.

Kayla stabbed her fork toward Tyler's untouched avocado slices with the intensity of a prison warden enforcing meal compliance. "Gamma may have given you a metabolism cheat code, but we're not testing those limits with Pop-Tarts," she declared, flicking a crumb off his plate with surgical precision. Their mother's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline as Kayla nudged a glass of green sludge toward Tyler—something pulsing ominously with chia seeds.

Tyler poked at the suspiciously green smoothie with his spoon, watching a chia seed slowly emerge like a creature from the depths. "This looks like something that escaped from a lab," he muttered, glancing at Kayla's expectant face.

He reluctantly drank the sludge and ate what was on his plate.

With breakfast over, the twins cleared the plates while their mother made her calls.

******

The doorbell chimed at precisely 8:17 AM—a crisp, bureaucratic sound that made Tyler's stomach lurch. Through the peephole, Dr. Jones' familiar salt-and-pepper bun was visible, flanked by two broad-shouldered men whose identical navy suits screamed *federal agent* louder than any badge ever could. One adjusted his sunglasses despite the overcast sky while the other clutched a leather portfolio tight enough to crack the binding.

"Showtime," Kayla whispered, her fingers digging into Tyler's shoulder as their mother smoothed her cardigan with trembling hands before opening the door.

Dr. Jones stepped inside with clinical efficiency, her sensible flats leaving damp prints on the foyer tile. "Mrs. Carver," she nodded, then froze mid-stride when she spotted Tyler hovering behind the couch. Her medical bag hit the floor with a thud. "Oh. *Oh my.*" Her professional mask slipped just long enough for Tyler to see the calculations happening behind her eyes—weight distribution, hip-to-waist ratio, the subtle feminine cant of his stance. "Incredible," she murmured, retrieving her bag with slightly unsteady hands.

The two men in suits exchanged looks.

The taller one—Agent Something-with-an-R—flipped open his badge with practiced ease. "Ma'am, we'll need to verify containment protocols." His gaze flicked to Tyler's exposed midriff, then away just as fast. "Given the... rapid progression."

Agent R's stylus hovered over his tablet like a surgeon's scalpel—precise, impersonal, ready to cut Tyler's life into neat bureaucratic segments. "Standard V63 protocol mandates thirty days of isolation post-transformation," he recited, eyes never leaving the screen.

Dr. Jones stepped forward. "We'll run some tests, make sure everything with her is functioning properly"

Their mother nodded, leading them all over to the living room couch.

The stethoscope's bell pressed against Tyler's chest like an accusation, cold enough to make him flinch. Dr. Jones' eyebrows knitted together as she listened—not to the heartbeat, but to the absence of something. "Remarkable," she murmured, sliding the stethoscope downward where ribs had reshaped themselves overnight. "Cardiac position matches female anatomical norms perfectly." The words landed like medical poetry Tyler hadn't consented to star in.

Kayla leaned over the back of the couch, her chin digging into Tyler's shoulder. "Bet her resting heart rate's better than mine too," she stage-whispered, earning a glare from Dr. Jones. The doctor's fingers prodded Tyler's throat next, checking the thyroid with clinical detachment that didn't quite mask her fascination. Tyler swallowed against the pressure, acutely aware of how the motion no longer caught against an Adam's apple that no longer existed.

The tourniquet snapped around Tyler's bicep with familiar discomfort—at least phlebotomy hadn't changed. Dr. Jones tapped the crook of his elbow with two fingers, frowning at the suddenly prominent veins. "Strain Gamma seems to have enhanced vascular visibility," she noted, labeling the first vial with a string of numbers that meant nothing to Tyler. The needle slid in effortlessly, drawing dark red that looked no different than it ever had. Except now it carried chromosomes Tyler hadn't woken up with yesterday.

"Can I ask a question?" asked Kayla and didn't wait for permission. "Why isn't she like Jasmine? You know all 'look at me' girly idiot?"

Agent R cleared his throat, suddenly finding his shoes fascinating. The shorter agent—Agent K, his badge read—shifted uncomfortably. "Different strains manifest differently," Dr. Jones cut in smoothly, pressing cotton to the puncture wound. "Strain Gamma appears to preserve baseline cognition while altering physiology." She peeled back the cotton to reveal unmarred skin—no bruising, no mark. Tyler blinked at the spot where the needle had been. Healing had never been that fast before.

"Isn't that what Jasmine had?" asked Kayla, confused.

"Same strain, different variant" Dr. Jones clarified.

Kayla snorted. "So Gamma's got versions now? What is this, software?"

Dr. Jones sighed, pressing her fingers against Tyler's wrist—his pulse point smoother now, veins tracing unfamiliar paths beneath skin that had softened overnight. The sphygmomanometer's cuff inflated with a hiss, squeezing his bicep where muscle had redistributed into something sleeker. "Variant Gamma-3, to be precise," she said, watching the mercury column drop. "Jasmine was Gamma-1." The numbers settled at 110/70—perfect for someone who'd supposedly spent last week mainlining energy drinks and pizza rolls. Dr. Jones' pen hesitated over her clipboard. "Your cardiovascular system appears to have... optimized itself."

Tyler flexed his fingers, watching tendons glide beneath skin that no longer bore the nicks and calluses from years of skateboarding. "Optimized," he repeated flatly. The word tasted clinical, sterile—like something ripped from a lab report rather than a description of his body.

Agent K cleared his throat, stepping forward with a tablet outstretched. "We'll need biometrics for the registry." His gaze flickered over Tyler's cobalt-clad torso with the wary fascination of someone assessing an exotic animal. "Facial recognition first." The tablet's camera flashed, capturing Tyler's bewildered expression—high cheekbones flushed pink, lips slightly parted in protest. The screen populated with side-by-side comparisons: Tyler Carver, male, Ridgewood High ID photo from September; and whatever the hell he was now.

Agent K’s tablet emitted a soft chime as the facial recognition software completed its analysis—98.7% match between Tyler’s old ID photo and the girl now fidgeting on the couch. A bureaucratic miracle, considering the circumstances. "Well," Agent R muttered, scrolling through the results, "at least we won’t need witness protection." His stylus tapped against the screen with rhythmic precision as he pulled up the National Identity Registry form. "Full name?"

Tyler opened his mouth, but Kayla beat him to it. "Taylor," she declared, draping herself over the back of the couch like a particularly possessive cat. "Taylor Elise Carver." The middle name was pure improvisation—something floral and undeniably feminine that made Tyler’s toes curl inside Kayla’s borrowed socks.

Tyler looked at his Mom. "Is that ok with you?"

His mother nodded. "The question should be is it ok with you?"

He shrugged. Kayla had actually been calling him that the last couple of days. He was kind of used to it by now. There was a subtle shift. He wasn't sure why or how but he could be Taylor. It was a nice name and he---no she---needed to get used to it.

"Taylor Elise Carver" she said aloud. "It's nice."

"Perfect!" Kayla clapped her hands, already mentally planning the monogrammed towels.

Agent K's stylus hovered over the tablet's touchscreen. "Date of birth remains unchanged?" The question landed awkwardly—as if unsure whether Tyler's transformation warranted a new birthday.

Dr. Jones intercepted smoothly. "Biological age aligns with chronological records." She flipped through Tyler's—no, *Taylor's*—medical file, her pen circling a hemoglobin value. "Remarkably stable vitals considering the..." Her gesture encompassed Taylor's entire body, the unspoken *complete cellular overhaul* hanging in the air.

Taylor watched as Agent R tapped his earpiece, murmuring codes into the microphone. A printer hummed to life in the kitchen, spitting out crisp sheets that smelled of government-issue toner. Birth certificate. Social security card. Even a provisional driver's license featuring Taylor's bewildered new face—already updated with Ridgewood High's automated photo system. The efficiency was terrifying.

"You'll receive permanent documents after isolation," Agent R said, sliding the papers into a thick envelope. His eyes flicked to Taylor's midsection where Kayla's cobalt top rode up slightly. "Assuming no... complications."

Kayla snorted. "Unless Gamma 4.0 drops next week." She draped herself over Taylor's shoulders, fingers teasing the ends of her twin's newly silky hair. "Think they'll make you fill out another W-9 if you grow wings?"

No one laughed.

Agent K cleared his throat and tapped his tablet. A holographic keyboard materialized above the screen. "We need to establish baseline preferences for your federal profile." His tone suggested this was as routine as renewing a library card. "Hobbies?"

Taylor shrugged. "Well it was gaming but..."

Kayla's face lit up. "But what?!"

"But it's like I'm suddenly losing interest in it" she said, not sure why.

Kayla fist pumped the air. "YES!"

Agent K’s stylus hesitated midair. "Hobbies?" he repeated, glancing between Taylor’s slumped shoulders and Kayla’s triumphant grin. The tablet’s holographic keyboard flickered like a dying firefly.

"I don't know," Taylor admitted with a sigh.

Agent K's stylus hovered over the holographic form, waiting for an answer that wouldn't come. The silence stretched until Dr. Jones cleared her throat. "Common side effect," she murmured, tapping her tablet. "Gamma recipients often report shifts in interests aligning with their new physiology."

"Well" Kayla was enthusiastic again. "We'll just have to find her some new ones!"

Taylor could see the wheels in her sister's head turning. She knew that look. Nothing good was going to come from this.

"We need to do some physical exercises now" Dr. Jones announced. "The CDC wants to understand what Taylor can handle"

"Our Dad has an exercise room set up in the basement" Kayla happily informed them.

The basement stairs creaked underfoot as Kayla led the procession downward—Agent R's polished oxfords, Dr. Jones' sensible flats, and Taylor's hesitant bare feet padding across the worn oak steps. The air grew cooler, tinged with the faint metallic tang of disuse and the ghost of their father's aftershave lingering in the corners. Motion-activated fluorescents flickered to life, illuminating a space caught between gymnasium and time capsule.

Taylor's toes curled against the rubberized flooring as she took in the room—racked dumbbells gleaming like chrome soldiers, a treadmill hibernating beneath a dust cover, their father's faded Green Bay Packers towel still draped over the weight bench. The mirror spanning the far wall reflected back a scene that didn't belong: a girl who looked like Kayla's clone standing where Tyler used to deadlift. A single cobweb trembled between the ceiling-mounted pull-up bar and the exposed ductwork.

"Daddy doesn't use it much anymore because of all his business traveling," Kayla said, walking over to the cabinet on the wall. "There are some yoga mats in here though"

"We won't need those," Agent R grunted. He pointed to the treadmill. "That on the other hand".

Kayla flipped the dust cover off with dramatic flair, revealing a top-of-the-line model with more buttons than a spaceship console. "Zero to fifteen percent incline," she bragged, tapping the display. "Dad splurged after his cholesterol scare."

The treadmill's belt hummed to life beneath Taylor's bare feet, the sudden motion making her stumble backward into Agent R's waiting hands. "Easy," he muttered, steadying her with the detached professionalism of a flight attendant demonstrating seatbelts. The speed increased incrementally—5 mph, then 6, then 7—yet Taylor's breathing remained eerily steady, her ponytail swaying like a metronome set to some internal rhythm Gamma had installed.

Dr. Jones' tablet nearly slipped from her grip when the display hit 9 mph. "Her gait..." she murmured, watching Taylor's hips adjust fluidly to the increasing speed. No wasted motion, no awkward compensation—just seamless biomechanics that made Kayla's jogging form look like a toddler's first steps.

Taylor felt on exhilarated as she ran.

This was it. This was the itch she'd been feeling before.

The treadmill's digital display blinked 10.2 mph—a speed Taylor had never sustained for more than thirty seconds in PE class—yet her lungs weren’t burning. Her legs moved with unnatural precision, each stride calibrated to some internal algorithm that made running feel like gliding. Across the room, Kayla’s jaw hung slightly open, her fingers frozen mid-air where she’d been adjusting her ponytail.

Agent R's grip tightened on the treadmill's emergency stop cord, his knuckles whitening as Taylor's pace climbed to 11.5 mph without breaking a sweat. The machine whined in protest, its motor struggling to keep up with her effortless strides. Dr. Jones' tablet chimed—Taylor's heart rate holding steady at 122 bpm, lower than Kayla's resting pulse despite the exertion.

"She's beaten the record already" Agent R mumbled to the doctor.

The treadmill's emergency stop cord snapped taut in Agent R's fist, jerking the belt to a sudden halt that should have sent Taylor sprawling—except her knees bent effortlessly, absorbing the momentum like coiled springs. She stood there panting, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer exhilaration thrumming through her Gamma-enhanced muscles. Across the basement, Kayla's water bottle hit the floor with a plastic clatter.

"This virus is incredible" Dr. Jones gasped, losing her composure again.

"Let's move on," Agent R announced.

Taylor barely had time to catch her breath before Agent K gestured toward the pull-up bar mounted between exposed ceiling joists. The metal gleamed dully under the fluorescents, its surface pitted from years of their father's sporadic workouts. Taylor flexed her fingers—smooth now, lacking the calluses that used to protect his palms from gym equipment—and approached dread curled in her stomach stomach.

Kayla bounced on her toes behind them. "Dad did twenty-seven last Thanksgiving," she volunteered, as if this were some sacred family record.

Agent R's tablet hovered expectantly. Taylor jumped, grabbing the bar with hands that felt too small, too soft. She expected the familiar burn of shoulder muscles straining—but her body moved differently now. Her elbows bent smoothly, chin clearing the bar without the usual grunt of effort. Three. Six. Nine. The numbers ticked upward in Agent R's monotone count while Taylor's arms pumped mechanically, like pistons in an engine she didn't know how to operate.

"Twenty-eight," Agent R announced as Taylor dropped down, not even winded. Kayla's mouth formed a perfect 'O' behind her.

They went through push-ups, sit ups and jumping jacks. None of them winded her.

Agent R was about to suggest free weights when Dr. Jones cut him off. "Its going to have to wait, I still need to take her measurements and we're running out of time"

The measuring tape snaked around Taylor's ribcage with clinical precision, its cold metal tip brushing the newly sensitive skin beneath her sports bra. Dr. Jones' fingers trembled slightly as she noted the number—28 inches, a measurement that made Kayla groan dramatically from her perch on the weight bench. "Gamma cheats," she muttered, twisting a strand of hair around her finger.

The measuring tape scraped against Taylor's spine as Dr. Jones stretched it vertically from floor to crown. "Five foot ten," she announced, sounding almost disappointed—as if Gamma's genetic wizardry had somehow fallen short by not granting supermodel height.

Its what she and Kayla had figured out in the bedroom this morning, so that didn't surprised her.

What did was her weight.

"135" Dr. Jones announced after Taylor stepped off the scale. The doctor was satisfied. "Given your height and current muscle mass, that's ideal"

She marked it all down, including some of the other misc. measuring she took.

They all returned upstairs where they found Agent K in kitchen drinking a cup of coffee with their mother.

"We're done here" Dr. Jones announced then she turned to Taylor. "We'll send a package in the next few days. There should be some clothing and other essentials".

Taylor nodded. "Thanks".

"I can get her those" huffed Kayla, arms crossed.

The front door clicked shut behind Dr. Jones and the agents, leaving the house suspended in sudden silence. Taylor stared at her reflection in the hallway mirror—still not quite believing the girl staring back was her. Kayla's yoga pants clung to her hips in a way that felt foreign yet... right.

Kayla grabbed her hand. "Now it's my turn" She announced, pulling Taylor toward the stairs.

"Turn for what?" Taylor asked, scared.

Nothing good ever came when Kayla dragged her off.

"Girl lessons, duh" she said, dragging her new sister up the stairs.

Author’s note: As I’m sure all of you know, comments are life blood to an author. I’m not begging or demanding, but I certainly would appreciate anything you have to say (or ask). It doesn’t have to be long and involved, just give me your reaction to the story. Thanks in advance...EOF