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Author's Note: I'm back, sorry for the long delay. I just couldn't get anything creative flowing. This one sorta cropped up out of nowhere, another one of my attempts to write a gender virus story. I really like this one. Its set in the not too distant future and I hope to continue it beyond this initial story. This first story is completely done but I felt it got a little too long to post as one story, so I'm breaking it up into pieces. I hope everyone really likes this one. Please don't forget to comment and provide feedback, it helps out a lot :D.
 

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1.

Tyler groaned at his sister's newest post:

A montage of her latest buys from some trendy second hand boutique because in her words "retro was in". It was a blatant lie, most of it she found in the back of their mother's closet, packed away as clothes from her teen days in the 2000s. But it wasn't cool to say you were wearing your mother's old castoffs. It was trendier to say you found it while trying to express your individuality or some such B.S.

He never really understood it.

He didn't really understand much of anything when it came to his sister, Kayla. They were twins but they couldn't be more different.

The difference between them was obvious from the moment they stepped into a room. Kayla had this way of moving—like someone had strung her up on invisible wires, pulling her into perfect posture, effortless grace. Every toss of her honey-blonde hair was calculated to draw attention without looking like she was trying. Meanwhile, Tyler slouched through life, hands shoved in the pockets of his perpetually wrinkled hoodie, shoulders curled inward as if he were trying to fold himself into something smaller, less noticeable.

School only magnified it. Kayla floated through the halls like she owned them, a trail of laughter and whispered compliments in her wake. She had the kind of face that made people stop mid-sentence—big, doe eyes, a symmetrical smile that photographers would’ve killed to capture. Tyler, meanwhile, existed in the margins. He ate lunch in the library, not because he particularly liked books, but because the cafeteria’s noise felt like sandpaper on his skull. His idea of socializing was nodding at the librarian when she stamped his overdue books.

He only had two IRL "friends" if one could even call them friends anymore. The rest of his social life was through a gaming headset.

Kayla was a social butterfly. She had numerous friends at school and multiple followers on all her Socials.

At home, it was worse. Family gatherings were a parade of cooing aunts pinching Kayla’s cheeks, uncles marveling at how much she’d “blossomed,” while Tyler hovered near the snack table, pretending he wasn’t counting the minutes until he could escape to his room. Even their parents, who swore they didn’t play favorites, lit up brighter when Kayla walked into a room. Not that Tyler blamed them. She was sunlight personified; he was the shadow stretching behind her.

Such was the life that he was happy to accept.

His phone buzzed, a text from his "friend" Benny:

You see the news. Some sorry sack in Huntsville caught The Bug.

He felt himself growing pale just from the fear of it.

The Bug was not the official name for the virus of course but no bothered to remember the real one. It cropped up out of nowhere a few years back and was terrifyingly life altering. Much like the Covid pandemic from nearly two decades ago but not as lethal. In fact, The Bug had not intentionally killed anymore. It had changed lives though. It wasn't the usual type of virus in that you got sick in the normal kind of sense.

It was the kind that changed you.

Not in little ways either.

It fundamentally altered you on a chromosome level, changing your gender completely. Boys to girls. Girls to Boys. It didn't care your race or ethnicity. It didn't care about social status. When it struck, it left "no survivors" in its wake. The governments of the world were at a lose. It came out of nowhere, struck a few people then moved on just as quickly as it came. It wasn't even consistent either. It could strike one town, inflict several people or strike another town on the other side of the country and infect one.

The only thing they did know was its target. It struck teenagers. The youngest victim was thirteen, the oldest nineteen.

Tyler stared at Benny’s text, thumbs hovering over his phone. He should’ve been used to this—The Bug was always lurking at the edges of conversation, a boogeyman story traded between classes. But Huntsville was only two hours away. His throat felt dry. He typed back: Yeah. Sucks for them. Then, after a pause, added, Hope it stays there.

Benny: Lot of us are skipping class for a few days, you in?

Tyler stared at Benny’s message, the words blurring slightly as his pulse kicked up. Skipping school sounded tempting—less chance of being crammed in a hallway full of potential carriers—but his parents would lose their minds if he tried. Kayla would probably narc on him too, just to watch him squirm. He typed back: Nah. Mom’d skin me alive.

Benny’s reply was almost instant: Your funeral.

Tyler sighed, tossing his phone on his pillow.

He decide to distract himself with some good ole fashion pve zombie slaying.

The glow of the monitor painted Tyler’s room in flickering blues and reds as he mowed down another wave of pixelated undead. His fingers danced across the keyboard, mechanical clicks punctuating each headshot. It was easy to lose himself in this—the predictable patterns of the zombies, the way they always lurched left before attacking. Real life wasn’t this simple. Real life didn’t have respawn points.

He played for hours before the bing.

A notification popped up in the corner of his screen—Benny’s username blinking insistently. Tyler hesitated, then alt-tabbed to the chat window.

Benny’s message was a single line: Dude. Check the news. NOW.

Tyler’s gut twisted as he pulled up the local news site. The headline screamed in bold: Huntsville Outbreak Spreads—Cases Confirmed in Ridgewood. His throat went dry. Ridgewood was his town.

Shit.

Benny: Still planning to go to school tomorrow?

He tried to concentrate on the game after that but he was too distracted. In the end, he finished up his current match and headed to bed. He spent the rest of the night refreshing the local news feed, in hopes that Benny was just messing with him. Sadly he wasn't. Besides the previous outbreak in Huntsville, the confirmed cases in Ridgewood were now two. It was terrifying to think, especially because he could potentially know the infected.

When he woke that morning, he was sore. He'd been sleeping on his side, his hand still clutching his phone. With a groan, he woke before his alarm clock.

Tyler's bedroom was a study in organized chaos—not messy, but lived-in. The walls were bare except for a single faded poster of a band he'd liked in middle school, corners peeling where the tape had given up. His desk, shoved against the far wall, was cluttered with the detritus of teenage survival: a half-empty water bottle, a crumpled granola bar wrapper, and a tangle of charging cables that somehow always knotted themselves overnight.

The morning light sliced through the gap in Tyler’s curtains, landing directly on his face like a personal insult. He groaned, rolling onto his back, and stared at the ceiling where a single, ancient glow-in-the-dark star clung stubbornly above his bed—leftover from some long-forgotten childhood phase. The rest of the ceiling was bare, not because Tyler disliked decoration, but because committing to tape felt like a declaration he wasn’t ready to make. His room wasn’t messy, just… undecided. The kind of space that hadn’t quite figured out what it wanted to be when it grew up.

Groaning, he sat back up then begrudgingly started his morning routine. It was a week day, so that meant school. He couldn't help but wonder if his mother would even let them go. Knowing that The Bug was out there was a pretty scary thing. While it didn't cause the usual illness side effects, it was still a very scary thing. Especially the rumors.

The rumors were worse than the virus itself.

Tyler had spent too many nights scrolling through forums where survivors—if you could call them that—posted their experiences. Boys who woke up with softer jaws, higher voices, hips that swayed without permission. Girls who found themselves broader, rougher, their laughter deepening overnight. But it wasn’t just the physical changes that terrified him. It was the stories. The *alleged* stories. Boys who became vapid, obsessed with mirrors and lip gloss overnight. Girls who turned into swaggering jocks, flexing in locker rooms they’d never entered before. As if The Bug didn’t just rewrite your DNA—it rewrote you.

He’d seen one post from a guy in Norway who claimed his best friend had turned into a girl and immediately started crying over chipped nail polish. Another from a girl in Texas who swore her sister had morphed into a boy and punched a hole in the wall because “it felt manly.” Tyler didn’t know if they were true. He didn’t *want* to know. But the possibility stuck to him like sweat, itching under his skin.

The Bug didn't just change you, it rewrote you.

Tyler dragged himself into the bathroom, blinking against the fluorescent glare. His reflection stared back—same tired eyes, same messy bedhead. He exhaled through his nose, pressing a palm to the mirror just to feel the cold glass against his skin.

For a brief moment, he wondered what it might be like.

The thought slithered into his brain like an uninvited guest: If I caught The Bug, would I turn into Kayla? Tyler blinked at his reflection—same sharp jawline, same stubborn cowlick at his temple. But for the first time, he really *looked*. His fingers traced the angles of his face, wondering if they'd soften. Would his hips widen? Would his voice climb higher, until it matched hers? The idea should've repulsed him. Instead, it settled in his chest with a weird, fluttery weight, like a moth trapped behind his ribs.

Tyler’s fingers lingered on his jawline, pressing into the bone as if testing its solidity. Would it really change? The mirror offered no answers—just his same tired face, same uneven stubble he couldn’t be bothered to shave properly. But the thought wouldn’t leave. *Identical.* The word buzzed in his skull like a trapped fly. Identical to Kayla. Not just twins—mirrors.

He shook off the thought. Now was not the time to scare himself.

The toothpaste tasted bitter, clinging to Tyler’s tongue as he scrubbed at his teeth with mechanical precision. Spitting into the sink, he caught another glimpse of his reflection—dark circles under his eyes, a crease between his brows from too many nights spent squinting at screens. He splashed water on his face, the cold shock doing nothing to dislodge the uneasy weight in his stomach. The Bug was in Ridgewood. Two cases. Statistically insignificant, except when it wasn’t.

He pushed the thought from his mind as he stripped and stepped into the shower. He didn't want to think about turning into a girl while naked. He managed a thoughtless shower before stepping out, to the mirror again.

He grabbed the towel he left lying nearby.

Toweling off, he caught the sound of Kayla’s laughter drifting down the hall—bright, effortless, like wind chimes. His fingers tightened around the towel. She’d probably already heard the news, already spun it into some dramatic story for her friends. Can you imagine? she’d say, tossing her hair over one shoulder. Turning into a boy overnight? I’d die. Tyler exhaled sharply through his nose. Of course she wouldn’t be scared. Kayla never doubted her place in the world.

With the towel wrapped around his waist, he padded out of his ensuite and back into his room proper.

He grabbed a t-shirt and jeans, dressing in his usual lazy manner before heading downstairs.

Kayla was already perched at the breakfast table like she owned it—because, let’s be honest, she basically did. Her honey-blonde hair was effortlessly tousled in that way that took Tyler forty-five minutes and a YouTube tutorial to almost replicate on bad days. Today, it was half-up in a clip that probably cost more than his entire Steam library, tiny rhinestones catching the morning light like she’d strategically placed them to blind him. She wore a cropped sweater that Tyler was pretty sure used to belong to their mom’s 2003 emo phase, paired with borrowed low-waisted jeans that made her legs look endless. The outfit shouldn’t have worked—like someone raided a thrift store during an identity crisis—but of course it did. Kayla could wear a trash bag and still trend on Instagram by lunch.

Their mother hovered by the coffee maker, still in her robe, scrolling through her phone with the intensity of a detective reviewing evidence. “Two cases,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “Both at Ridgewood High.” Her gaze flicked to Tyler as he shuffled into the room, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. “You’re not going.”

Kayla was the first to react:

"What?" Kayla's fork clattered against her plate, her perfectly plucked brows shooting up. "Mom, you can't be serious. It's two people—out of, like, two thousand." She flicked her hair over her shoulder with practiced nonchalance, but Tyler noticed how her fingers lingered near her collarbone, tapping nervously.

"It only takes one" their mother responded vehemently.

Tyler froze mid-step, his socked foot hovering just above the kitchen tile. His mother's words sank in slowly, like ink dispersing in water. Not going. The relief was immediate, a loosening in his chest he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. But Kayla’s reaction—her sharp inhale, the way her nails dug into the tablecloth—made his stomach twist. He knew that look. It was the same one she’d worn when she’d talked their parents into letting her go to that party last summer despite the “dangerous weather warnings.”

It was always about her image.

"Mom" she whined. "I have to go today. My friends..."

"Are no doubt having this very same conversation with their parents" their mother interrupted. "In fact, Rosemary and I discussed it last night. I assure you, Jessica will not be there"

"This is ridiculous" Kayla huffed, crossing her arms like a petulant child. "Nothing's going to happen"

Tyler stood there, watching the argument unfold like a spectator at a tennis match. His mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, her knuckles white around her coffee mug. Kayla’s face flushed pink, her jaw set in that stubborn way that usually meant she’d win. But this time—this time, something was different. Their mother didn’t budge.

Tyler hovered by the fridge, half-expecting his mother to cave like she always did. But her grip on the mug only tightened. "I've already emailed your teachers," she said, voice firm. "We'll figure out remote learning until this blows over."

There it was. He saw it in his mother's eyes. The final answer. He inwardly sighed. At least Mom was being level headed about it all.

Tyler didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until his lungs burned. He exhaled sharply, watching Kayla’s face twist into something dangerously close to panic. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table like she might flip it—wouldn’t be the first time—but their mother’s stare didn’t waver.

"Kayla Marie Carver" Their mother only used their full names when she was really pissed. "That's enough. Your social life will survive a few days"

Kayla made a big huff as she stood up and stormed out of the room.

Just like a child.

Tyler and his mother pretty much sighed at the same time.

Kayla's bedroom door slammed with enough force to rattle the family photos in the hallway. He exhaled slowly, pressing his palm flat against the fridge door. The cool metal grounded him—something solid in a world that suddenly felt like it was tilting sideways.

"Dramatic much" he said under his breath.

The silence in the kitchen after Kayla’s dramatic exit was thick enough to chew. Tyler’s mother pressed her fingers to her temples, exhaling slowly like she was counting backward from ten. Tyler knew that look—it was the same one she wore after parent-teacher conferences when Kayla’s teachers gushed about her “vibrant personality” while tactfully avoiding the word disruptive. He grabbed a box of cereal from the pantry, shaking it just to fill the quiet.

"Thank you for not fighting me on this" his mother said, dropping into an empty chair at the table.

"Why would I?" he asked, doing the same. He spooned some Fruit Loops. "No offense but I'm not itching to turn into a girl".

His mother softly smiled. "And I'm definitely not keen on having two of her".

They scared a short laugh. There was humor there but so much more as well.

He was able to eat his breakfast in silence for once. Afterwards, he washed his dish and went back upstairs. The soft sound of music throbbed down the hall from the direction of Kayla's room. It was some catching Asian infused pop song.

Tyler paused outside Kayla’s door, the bass line of her music thrumming through the wood. He could picture her sprawled on her bed, scrolling through her phone with that practiced look of indifference—the one that never quite reached her eyes. For a moment, he considered knocking. Then he remembered the way she’d stormed out, the way she’d looked at him like he was somehow complicit in this. His fingers curled into loose fists at his sides before he turned away.

It was better to let her deal with her shit on her own.

Tyler slouched back into his room, the muffled pop music from Kayla’s room still pulsing through the walls like a second heartbeat. He flopped onto his bed, grabbing his phone—three texts from Benny, all variations of DUDE U OK??—and a missed call from someone he never thought to hear from again.

Callie.

His other "friend".

Tyler stared at Callie's name on his screen like it might bite him. They'd been inseparable once—back when life was simpler, when friendship meant sharing popsicles and scraped knees. He could still remember her grinning at him with missing front teeth, dirt smeared across her freckled cheeks as they dug for worms in his backyard. But then middle school happened. Hormones happened. Callie grew curves and confidence while Tyler grew taller and quieter, until one day they were just two strangers who used to know each other's favorite candy.

When they passed in the halls or met in class, they were polite but that was it.

Tyler’s thumb hovered over Callie’s contact, the missed call notification glaring at him like an accusation. They hadn’t spoken in months—not since that awkward group project where she’d paired off with some lacrosse player and Tyler had ended up doing all the work. His stomach knotted. Why would she call now?

He spent a few minutes wondering to call when he finally just did it.

The phone rang twice before Callie picked up, her breath ragged like she'd been running. "Tyler?" Her voice cracked on his name, too loud and too sharp—nothing like the careful, measured tone she used with everyone else now.

"Hey." He rolled onto his back, staring at the lone glow-in-the-dark star on his ceiling.

Hey? Really? That's what he says?

God, I'm an idiot, he thought, mentally kicking himself.

Callie didn’t seem to notice his idiocy. "You—you saw the news, right?" Her words tumbled out too fast, like she’d been holding them back for hours. "About Ridgewood? The Bug?" There was a wet hitch in her breath that made Tyler sit up straighter. Callie didn’t do vulnerable. Not anymore.

"Yeah," he said, gripping the phone tighter. "Benny texted me last night." The silence stretched between them, thick with all the things they hadn’t said for months. Tyler cleared his throat. "You okay?"

A muffled noise came through the line—half-laugh, half-sob. "No." The word cracked open between them. "My parents are freaking out. They won’t let me leave the house, not even to walk the dog." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I think my mom’s crying in the kitchen."

Tyler blinked at the ceiling. Callie’s mom was a no-nonsense ER nurse who’d stitched up his knee when he’d wiped out on his bike in fifth grade without even blinking. The idea of her crying over anything was surreal. "Shit," he said lamely.

"They think it’s already here." Callie’s breath hitched. "At school. They won’t say who—just that it’s someone in our grade." The unspoken question hung between them.

Tyler sat up slowly, the mattress creaking under him. His pulse thudded in his ears. Ridgewood High wasn’t huge—just under a thousand kids. Their grade? Two hundred max. The odds weren’t impossible. "Benny didn’t say anything," he said carefully. Then, because Callie had once known him better than anyone: "You think it’s someone we know?"

A shaky exhale crackled through the speaker. "Jason’s been absent since Tuesday."

Jason. The name dropped into Tyler’s stomach like a lead weight. Jason Whittaker—six feet of lacrosse bro with a jawline that looked like it had been chiseled by someone who took their job *very* seriously. The guy who’d shoulder-checked Tyler in the hallway last year for "looking at Callie too long." The reason Tyler’s lunch period suddenly changed this year without explanation. Jason didn’t just dislike Callie having male friends—he treated them like trespassers on private property.

Tyler pressed the phone harder against his ear, the plastic warming his skin. "Tuesday?" He kept his voice deliberately flat, like he wasn’t mentally scrolling through every hallway encounter with Jason this week. "That’s… before Huntsville even hit the news."

But he hadn't actually seen Jason all week now that he thought about it. He didn't say that out loud though.

Callie made a small, strangled noise. "He texted me Monday night saying he felt 'off.'" The word dripped with irony—the kind you only earned after years of deciphering boy-speak. "Like, 'just a headache' off. Then nothing. His phone goes straight to voicemail now."

Jason caught The Bug?

The image hit Tyler like a punch to the gut—Jason Whittaker with softer features, long lashes framing widened eyes, that trademark cocky smirk replaced by something uncertain. His—her—broad shoulders tapered into a delicate collarbone, the letterman jacket hanging differently on a frame that no longer filled it out. Tyler's breath caught. Would she still strut through the halls like she owned them? Would her voice still drip with that same arrogant drawl, just higher pitched? The thought should've been satisfying. Instead, it left him queasy.

It scared him more than he thought.

A mental image of image of himself as a girl flashed through his head too.

Tyler’s fingers tightened around his phone, the plastic case creaking under his grip. Callie’s breath hitched through the speaker—a sound he hadn’t heard since they were kids hiding in her treehouse during a thunderstorm. "You still there?" she whispered.

Tyler swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "Yeah," he managed, his voice rougher than he intended. The glow-in-the-dark star on his ceiling blurred slightly as he blinked.

He decided to distract her.

They talked about the new zombie game update—how the devs had messed up the loot drops again. About whether pineapple belonged on pizza (Callie was a firm yes, Tyler an emphatic no). About Mrs. Henderson’s painfully slow grading system, and how Tyler was still waiting on his last English essay score from three weeks ago. Anything but The Bug. Anything but Jason.

At some point, Callie’s voice lost that panicked edge, settling into the familiar rhythm of their childhood—easy, effortless, like slipping into well-worn sneakers. Tyler found himself grinning at her impression of Mr. Davies’ infamous “pop quiz face,” the one that always looked like he’d smelled something foul. She snorted mid-sentence, and the sound startled them both into silence before they burst out laughing.

He forgot her laugh. He missed her laugh.

The digital clock on his nightstand blinked from 9:59 to 10:00am, the numbers glowing neon blue in the dim room. Tyler realized with a start that they’d been talking for nearly two hours—two hours where the world outside his bedroom door ceased to exist. No Bug. No Kayla. No looming dread. Just Callie’s voice weaving through his thoughts like sunlight through tree branches.

He should have been in Biology class right now. It was all pretty surreal.

Tyler's phone buzzed against his ear—another call coming in. Benny's name flashed across the screen like a distress signal. He hesitated, thumb hovering over the ignore button. "Uh, Callie? Benny's calling. Probably freaking out."

The line crackled as Callie exhaled. "You should take it," she said, voice softer now—less like the girl who'd just been cackling over Mr. Davies’ eyebrows, more like someone remembering the world outside still existed. "Tell him... I don’t know. Tell him to stop licking doorknobs or whatever."

A SpongeBob reference. He smirked then laughed.

Then they hung up. He called Benny back immediately.

Benny picked up on the first ring. "Dude." His voice was all breathless urgency, like he'd just sprinted up five flights of stairs. "You will not believe—" A loud crash interrupted him, followed by Benny's muffled cursing.

Tyler heard what sounded like Benny tripping over his own gaming chair—again—before his friend’s voice came back, sharper this time. "Jason Whittaker’s Instagram just went private. And his profile pic? Gone. Like, blank silhouette gone."

He sighed. So it was true. Jason had It.

"So Cal was right" he sighed.

Benny's breath hitched through the phone. "Wait—Callie *knew*?" The shock in his voice was palpable. "Since when do you two talk?"

"She just called. She didn't know but she suspected" Tyler sighed, realizing how scared she must be.

Tyler's fingers dug into his mattress as Benny rambled about Jason’s sudden social media wipe—how his Snapchat score hadn’t budged in 48 hours, how the lacrosse team’s group chat had gone ominously quiet. None of it should’ve mattered. Jason was an asshole. But Tyler’s stomach twisted anyway.

Benny's next words came out in a hushed rush. "Dude, someone leaked a screenshot from Jason’s cousin’s private Snapchat story—there’s no way it’s him. This girl has, like, *butterfly clips* in her hair. And she’s wearing his letterman jacket."

Tyler's breath caught in his throat. Three days. Three fucking days. The CDC pamphlets said incubation took weeks—enough time for the fever to spike, for the body to ache, for the changes to creep in slow and inevitable like rust spreading under paint. Jason went MIA Monday night. Today was Thursday morning. There was no way.

"No way" Tyler was shaking his head even though Benny couldn't see him. "Its too early, someone is pranking"

There was a ping, telling him he got a message. Opening it up, he saw the image in question.

There she was, in all her glory.

Tyler’s thumb hovered over the image, the pixels burning into his retinas. The girl in the photo—Jason?—was angled away from the camera, her silhouette unmistakable in the oversized letterman jacket. Sunlight caught the delicate curve of her jawline, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. Butterfly clips held back strands of hair that looked softer than Tyler remembered, the color lighter, almost golden.

The photo blurred as Tyler's hand trembled. He zoomed in—there, just visible beneath the jacket's collar: the faintest hint of Jason's tattoo, the one he'd drunkenly bragged about getting last summer. A Spartan helmet, now stretched slightly across smoother skin. Tyler's stomach lurched. "Holy shit," he whispered.

That stupid tattoo. The school mascot.

Double shit.

"This has to be photoshopped" he said to no one in particular.

"She's cute" muttered Benny on the other end of the phone.

"SHE dunked your head in the toilet last year" he reminded his friend.

Tyler clicked off the image as Benny exhaled sharply. "Yeah, well, *she* can dunk my head wherever she wants now." The weak attempt at humor fell flat.

Tyler stared at the blank spot on his ceiling where the other glow-in-the-dark stars had fallen off years ago. His phone burned against his ear—Benny’s panicked breathing syncing with the pulse pounding in his own temples. The silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap.

"I need to see if Callie is all right" Tyler quickly said before ending the call with Benny.

Tyler didn't even bother texting Callie this time—he just called, pressing the phone to his ear with fingers that still felt vaguely numb. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. His pulse hammered against his ribs with each unanswered ring until—

Callie picked up on the fourth ring, her voice thick like she'd been crying. "Tyler?" The way she said his name—like she was clinging to it—made his chest tighten.

The sound of Callie's ragged breathing filled Tyler's ear, louder than the muffled pop music still pulsing through Kayla's bedroom wall. "You saw it too?" she whispered, voice cracking on the last word.

Tyler pressed the phone harder against his ear as if proximity could somehow bridge the sudden gulf between them. "Yeah," he said, voice low. The photo burned behind his eyelids—Jason’s sharp jawline softened, the arrogant tilt of his chin replaced by something uncertain. "Benny sent it to me. Look its probably just phot---"

"Its real" Callie cut him off. "His sister called and confirmed it"

Shit.

Tyler's fingers went slack around his phone. It slipped from his grip and thudded onto the mattress, Callie's tinny voice still spilling from the speaker—something about Jason's sister finding him curled up in the shower, shaking and feverish, his body changing before their eyes. The words blurred together like watercolors left in the rain.

Tyler scrambled for the phone, his fingers fumbling against the sheets. "Callie—wait, slow down." His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out Kayla’s music from down the hall. "How fast is this thing moving?"

The line crackled with static, or maybe it was just Callie's uneven breathing. "His sister said—" Her voice hitched. "She said it took hours, Tyler. Not days. Hours."

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

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Author's Note: So I decided that this is technically the next week, seeing as I posted the last one on Saturday. I almost decided to wait until this Saturday but I felt the first chapter could good traction. Thanks to everyone for that by the way. This chapter progresses the story along, finally getting to the incident. I can also confirm that this is part 2 of 5. I spent some time yesterday breaking down the story into 5 parts. Some might be shorter or longer than the others but it works out in the end. I can also say that the second story I'm working on is going to be longer. Please don't forget to provide comments or feedback :D.
 

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2.

Shit, Jason was one of the fast ones then. It was all over the Internet. There were some like Jason who contracted the virus and changed quickly.

The silence between them stretched long enough that Tyler could hear the faint tremor in Callie's exhale—like she was holding herself together by sheer willpower. He pressed his palm flat against the bed, the comforter soft and relaxing. "Are you..." He swallowed hard, suddenly unsure what to ask. Are you scared? Are you safe?

"I'm good," she finally said. "Jason was in Seattle last weekend. Family reunion. I haven't seen him since Friday, the night before he left"

That was a relief at least.

His thoughts were interrupted by a text from Benny:

*Second Ridgewood victim is Tori Bishop*

The name "Tori Bishop" flashed on Tyler’s screen like a warning. His thumb hovered over Benny’s text, the letters blurring slightly as his pulse kicked up. Tori—varsity cheer captain, Kayla’s sometimes-friend, the girl who’d laughed when Jason shoulder-checked him last fall. Now she was Patient Zero at Ridgewood High.

Tyler’s fingers froze over his phone screen. Tori Bishop. The name ricocheted through his skull like a pinball. He'd seen her just yesterday in the hallway, tossing her ponytail over one shoulder as she whispered something that made Kayla snort-laugh into her locker. Now she was—what? Changing? Already changed? His stomach lurched at the mental image: Tori’s cheerleader-perfect frame molding into something harder, muscles, broad shoulders.

"Tori is the other one," he said softly to Callie.

The line went dead silent. Tyler could hear Callie’s shallow breaths—too controlled, like she was counting them. Then, barely audible: "Kayla was with Tori at lunch yesterday."

Tyler grunted. "She was in the hall with lots of us yesterday."

Was his sister ok? Was he ok? Was anyone ok?

"Cal, I'll call you later ok" he said and hung up before she could respond.

He spent a lot of time thinking about what any of this even meant. He sat in his room, alone with his thoughts for hours. If Tori was sick then half the school was by this point? His heart was pounding, everything was terrifying.

Before dinner, Benny called again.

"False alarm dude" he said, relieved. "Tori was just looking for clout. She was full of shit Got her expelled. Kicked off the squad. Her parents are pissed."

Tyler let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The tension seeped out of his shoulders like air from a punctured tire. "Are you fucking serious?" His voice came out sharper than intended—half-relief, half-exasperation.

Tyler stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, pressing his fingertips against the smooth skin beneath his jawline. No fever. No swelling. Nothing. The rational part of his brain knew Tori’s false alarm changed nothing—the Bug was still real, Jason was proof—but his lungs expanded easier now, as if someone had loosened the vice around his ribs. He splashed cold water on his face just to feel something besides the lingering static in his nerves.

Tyler's fingers left damp streaks on his phone screen as he tapped out a message to Callie—*False alarm on Tori*—then hesitated before adding, *Benny says she was lying for attention.* The words looked flimsy even as he sent them, like a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. The bathroom light buzzed overhead, too bright, making his reflection look pale and washed-out. He rubbed at his cheekbone absently, half-expecting the skin to feel different under his fingertips.

The clatter of silverware against plates echoed louder than usual in the too-quiet kitchen. Tyler pushed his mashed potatoes into a sad little crater, watching the gravy pool in the center like a microscopic lake. Across the table, his mom stabbed at her chicken with mechanical precision, her fork tines scraping against ceramic with each bite. The absence of Kayla's dramatic sighs and their dad's terrible puns made the room feel cavernous—like they were two survivors at the end of the world, chewing through their last meal before the apocalypse.

"You okay?" His mom's voice cut through the silence, softer than the fluorescent lights humming above them. She didn't look up from her plate when she said it, as if asking the question to her green beans instead of him.

Tyler shrugged, then realized she wasn't watching. "Yeah. Just tired." The lie tasted bland on his tongue, same as the overcooked broccoli. He could've told her about Callie's panic, Benny's hysterical texts, Jason's... transformation. Instead, he watched a single pea roll off his fork and onto the tablecloth, where it left a tiny damp spot.

"Jason was on the news," his mother added.

Tyler’s fork clattered onto his plate. The sound was deafening in the silent kitchen. "What?" His voice cracked like he was thirteen again. His mother finally looked up, her eyebrows knitting together at his reaction.

Tyler's mother set her fork down with deliberate slowness, her eyes never leaving his face. "They interviewed his parents," she said, her voice unnervingly calm. "On Channel 4. About an hour ago." A pea rolled off her plate as she spoke, joining Tyler's abandoned one on the tablecloth like some bizarre vegetable solidarity movement.

The pea stared up at Tyler like a tiny green eye. His mother’s words hung between them—Jason Whittaker, once untouchable, now reduced to a news segment sandwiched between weather updates and a car commercial. Tyler’s fingers twitched toward his phone in his pocket. "What did they say?" he asked, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

His mother's fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against her water glass. "They didn’t show him. Just—his parents talking about how fast it was. Hours. Hours to turn their son...They kept saying ‘he’ but..." Her voice trailed off, eyes darting to the stairs where Kayla’s music still thumped faintly.

Tyler instinctively grabbed his mother's shaking hands.

Tyler's mother squeezed his fingers so tight the knuckles popped. "They showed his—her—hands," she whispered. "Just for a second. The camera zoomed in while she was holding her mother's." Her thumbnail dug into Tyler's palm. "The nails were painted lavender. It was a good shade on her..."

"I'm not very hungry" Tyler finally admitted, then excused himself.

Back in his room, he decided to do some research on The Bug.

Tyler's laptop screen cast a sickly blue glow across his face as he scrolled through forums with names like BugWatch and TransitionTruth. The official CDC site offered sterile bullet points—fever, muscle aches, rapid but painless physiological changes—but the comment sections beneath each post told darker stories. Users named SurvivorGirl17 and FormerDudeNowCutie described phantom limb syndrome for lost masculinity, of waking up screaming when their new bodies didn't match muscle memory.

What he really wanted to know about were the rumored mental changes.

The screen flickered as Tyler clicked on a thread titled Personality Changes: Myth or Reality? His pulse hammered against his ribs as he skimmed through firsthand accounts—people claiming The Bug rewired their preferences overnight, altered their laughter patterns, even shifted their handwriting. One user insisted they'd gone from hating strawberries to craving them daily.

He ignored those. He wanted to know about the real, "scary" shifts.

Tyler’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, the cursor blinking mockingly on a thread titled "The Bug Doesn’t Just Change Your Body—It Changes Your Head Too". He started at the top and scrolled down.

The first post was from someone called NeuroShiftConfirmed—all caps, typos littering the text like breadcrumbs of panic. IT CHANGES HOW YOU THINK, it screamed. I USED TO HATE ROMCOMS NOW I CRY AT THE TRAILERS. MY FRIENDS SAY MY LAUGH SOUNDS DIFFERENT. I DONT FEEL LIKE ME.

Tyler’s breath fogged the screen as he leaned closer, scrolling past NeuroShiftConfirmed’s frantic posts. The next reply was calmer, clinical almost—a user named MedStudentMaybe dissecting reported cognitive changes with bullet points. "No evidence of altered core personality," they wrote. "But subtle shifts in emotional processing and sensory preferences are common. Think puberty 2.0—just faster and weirder."

It was the third user that drew his interest the most, one called GirlyGirl.

The username GirlyGirl glowed ominously on the screen. Tyler’s throat tightened as he read her post:

GirlyGirl's post was timestamped three days ago—just before Jason vanished. "It’s like someone flipped a switch in my brain," she’d written. "One minute I’m arguing about football stats with my brother, the next I’m crying because the way sunlight hit my bedroom wall was ‘too pretty.’ My mom says I even walk different now—less slouch, more hips. And the weirdest part? It doesn’t feel wrong. It feels like I was always supposed to be this way."

She described more quirky things.

The screen blurred as Tyler scrolled further down GirlyGirl’s post history—each entry is a timestamped fracture in someone’s identity. A month ago, her profile pic---BassRat--- had been a blurry shot of a bass guitar propped against a skateboard. Now it was a close-up of glossy lips blowing a bubblegum bubble, filter-drenched and unapologetically pink.

Her earliest posts read like any other teenage boy—grumbling about gym class, bragging about beating Dark Souls without healing. Then, sandwiched between memes about The Bug and a rant about his—her?—mom’s cooking, the shift began.

Day 1 post-fever read the timestamp. "Woke up craving strawberry ice cream??? I hate sweet shit wtf." The next entry, six days later: "Why does my hoodie feel scratchy now. Everything feels wrong." 2 weeks later, GirlyGirl was posting selfies with the caption "Why do I kind of slay with my hair like this??"—the strands tousled in a way that looked accidental but Tyler suspected was painfully deliberate.

She was pretty, real pretty and she was wearing a pink top so tight her new boobs were practically spilling out of it.

Tyler's fingers hovered over the image, zooming in on the transformation—the softened jawline, the way her collarbones now dipped into delicate hollows where muscle used to bulge. The pink crop top clung to curves that definitely hadn’t been there in her profile’s older skate park pics. Her caption—"Guess who finally filled out her favorite new top "—had 4K likes and counting.

Her bio had changed too. Formerly a BassRat. Now I'm Bugged & Loving It , followed by a rainbow emoji and a link to her new TikTok. Tyler clicked without thinking. The first video loaded—GirlyGirl twirling in slow motion, her skirt flaring as she blew a kiss to the camera. "POV: You wake up hotter than your bully," the text overlay read. The comments were a minefield of thirst traps and horror—"Wife material" sandwiched between "This is dystopian".

Tyler felt sick to his stomach.

The room spun—or maybe that was just his head. He pressed his palms against his closed eyelids until neon shapes bloomed in the darkness, trying to erase the image of GirlyGirl’s smug wink.

The laptop screen dimmed to black as Tyler slammed it shut harder than intended. His breath came too fast, nostrils flaring against the stale air of his bedroom. Outside, Kayla’s music had finally stopped—replaced by the rhythmic thump of her doing god-knows-what against their shared wall. Probably some TikTok dance. The normalcy of it grated against his nerves like sandpaper.

He went to bed that night with too many jumbled thoughts.

Tyler woke with the taste of stale panic still clinging to his tongue. He kicked off the sweat-damp sheets, his bare feet hitting the carpet with a thud that felt too loud in the heavy silence. The house hummed with the kind of quiet that made his skin itch. He needed air. Now.

His Mom was in the kitchen, eyes glued to the screen.

The news report finally talked about the second *real* Ridgewood victim. It was some girl named Beth he didn't know. A freshman.

"Mom, I'm climbing the walls" he groaned, hoodie already on, sneakers in hand. "I need to take a walk"

"Your sister hasn't gotten out of bed yet" she muttered, still staring at the TV. A mug of untouched coffee sat in front of her, gone cold. Tyler hesitated—something about her posture, the rigid way her fingers gripped the counter’s edge—made him pause.

"Have you slept?" he asked, concerned.

She ignored the question. "Don't go too far and keep your phone on at all times"

Tyler hesitated, then pulled her into a quick, tight hug. She smelled like stale coffee and stress-sweat. When he pulled back, she didn't meet his eyes—just nodded toward the door.

This new normal was starting to terrify him.

The morning air hit Tyler like a slap—too crisp, too bright. He found himself walking in the direction toward Callie's house, he wasn't sure why.

Tyler’s sneakers scuffed against cracked pavement as he turned onto Maple Street, the rhythmic crunch of gravel the only sound in the unnatural quiet. Normally, this stretch buzzed with morning joggers and dog walkers—now it felt like a ghost town. He pulled his hoodie tighter around himself, suddenly hyperaware of the empty swings creaking in the playground to his left.

Was the virus really scaring everyone like this?

It was one thing for teenagers to run scared but everyone else?

He shook his head. It was kind of silly. After all, only teenagers were affected. Not only that, adults and children couldn't even carry the virus. So all this sheltering in place nonsense was unnecessary.

Tyler rounded the corner onto Callie’s street just as the first raindrops splattered against his forehead. The sky had been clear ten minutes ago—now it hung low and bruise-purple, like the weather couldn’t make up its mind either. He picked up his pace, passing identical ranch houses with drawn blinds, until Callie’s came into view—the one with the chipped blue mailbox and the sagging porch swing where they’d shared their first (and last) awkward kiss in seventh grade.

Callie Marshall, the Girl Who Got Away.

They were never an official couple but he was lying if he said he didn't want it. He was certain she wanted it too. But he was too much of a coward to act on his feelings and Jason swooped in before he knew it. Then all he could do was standby and watch as the Asshat controlled her life. It really pissed him off but the Whitakers were town "royalty". Jason's Mom was the Mayor, his Dad owned a real estate empire. Jason was raised with the belief that what he wanted, he got.

Tyler lost Callie even before the "fight" began.

Tyler's fist hovered an inch from Callie’s front door, knuckles tingling with indecision. The rain had escalated from a drizzle to torrential downpour in the time it took him to cross her yard. Water dripped from his hoodie strings as he inhaled sharply and gently knocked.

When the door finally opened, Callie's Mom was standing there.

"Tyler?" she asked, surprised. She was stunned for a moment until she took in his dripping wet form. "You're drenched. Get inside before you catch a cold"

He nodded as she stepped aside to let him in. "Hi Mrs. M" he said with a smile.

The familiar scent of cinnamon and laundry detergent hit Tyler as he stepped inside, his sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. Mrs. Marshall's eyes darted past him toward the empty street, her fingers tightening around the doorframe. "Callie's upstairs," she said, voice too bright. "She hasn't been sleeping well." The unspoken *since Jason* hung between them like a cobweb.

Tyler wiped his shoes extra carefully on the mat—a habit drilled into him after years of visiting the Marshalls' immaculate home. The embroidered tigers snarling up at him from the doormat were a gift from Callie’s halmeoni, according to Mrs. Marshall, who always pronounced the Korean word for grandmother with deliberate care, like she was balancing a precious heirloom on her tongue.

From the kitchen, the rhythmic chop-chop of a knife against wood echoed. Mr. Marshall stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up to reveal the faded ink of his old Marine tattoo as he julienned scallions with military precision. The air smelled like roasting garlic and the faintest hint of gochujang—a scent Tyler had come to associate with comfort until today, when it just reminded him how many meals Callie had shared with Jason while he lurked awkwardly at the periphery.

The creak of the stairs made Tyler look up just as Callie rounded the landing—barefoot, her toenails painted a chipped lavender that matched Jason's in the leaked photo. She wore an oversized Ridgewood High hoodie that Tyler recognized as Jason's, the sleeves swallowing her hands whole. Her hair—usually sleek and straight—tumbled in messy waves around her face, like she'd been running fingers through it for hours.

Mrs. Marshall pressed a mug into Tyler's hands—hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, his favorite since sixth grade—just as Callie froze mid-step. Her eyes locked onto Tyler with a rawness that made his pulse stutter. The hoodie's drawstrings swayed as she inhaled sharply, her knuckles whitening around the banister.

"You're here" she finally said.

He shrugged. "My feet brought me"

The silence stretched between them like a rubber band pulled too tight. Callie's fingers twitched against the banister, and Tyler found himself staring at the chipped lavender polish on her toes—same shade as Jason's now-delicate hands from the TV last night. The thought lodged in his throat like a fishbone.

"Why don't the two of you talk in the den" her mother suggested.

Callie's fingers twisted the hoodie drawstrings into tight spirals as she led Tyler into the den—the same room where they'd built pillow forts in elementary school and played spin-the-bottle in middle school. The familiarity of the space made the tension worse somehow, like seeing your childhood bedroom painted black. She perched on the edge of the sofa, knees pulled up under Jason's hoodie, while Tyler hovered near the bookshelf.

The den smelled like old paper and the vanilla-scented candle Callie always burned when she studied. Tyler traced the spine of a well-worn Harry Potter book—the one they'd read aloud to each other during the summer before eighth grade, voices cracking with laughter when they messed up the British accents.

"How are you holding up?" he asked after a long silence.

Callie’s fingers trembled as she pulled her phone from the pocket of Jason’s oversized hoodie. The screen flickered to life, casting a pale glow across her face. "I wasn’t going to show anyone," she whispered, voice cracking. "But it’s you. It’s always been you."

Tyler’s breath hitched as she turned the phone toward him. The image was crystal clear—no leaked Snapchat blur, no pixelated distortion. Just Jason Whittaker, transformed.

The girl he saw was drop dead gorgeous. She looked like she could be Jason's twin sister, if he had one.

Jason's face filled the screen—same sharp cheekbones but softened now, the angles rounded into something delicate. Her lips were glossy pink, slightly parted like she'd been caught mid-laugh, and her eyebrows—once thick and unruly—had been reshaped into perfect arches. The photo was casual, just a selfie taken in what looked like a bedroom, but everything about her screamed girl. Her hair fell in loose caramel waves over one shoulder, longer than Tyler remembered, with golden highlights that looked professionally done. A silver heart pendant rested in the hollow of her throat, drawing attention to collarbones that seemed more pronounced now, elegant.

She wore a cropped white tank top that showed off smooth, toned shoulders and—Tyler's stomach lurched—the unmistakable swell of breasts pressing against the fabric. The school mascot was tattooed there, the same one Jason had on his pec.. Her hands rested under her chin, fingers tipped with pearly nails that matched the lavender polish from the TV. The pose was effortlessly feminine, one knee drawn up to her chest, the curve of her thigh visible beneath denim shorts that looked painted on.

This was only after a few days. Tyler shuddered, thinking about GirlyGirl's posts from last night.

Shit.

Callie stuffed the phone back into the hoodie. "She calls herself Jasmine now. She called last night. We talked. Then she..." Callie was tearing up now.

Tyler instinctively pulled her into a hug. She cried with her head on his shoulder. It felt like old times but it didn't make things any easier.

When she finally stopped a few minutes later, she pulled away slightly, wiping her eyes. "Ty, I don't know if I can do this" She sniffled. "When I talked to hi–her, it was like a whole new person. She was bubbly and chatty and so damn nice I wanted to scream. Even when she broke up with me because 'duh, not a lesbo', I wasn't angry, I mourned the loss of my boyfriend."

‘Let's be honest,’ he thought but didn't dare say it, ‘it sounds like an improvement.’

"Shit, that's..." he started, but wasn't sure how to finish.

"Shitty," she finished for him. "This Bug is disgusting and scary and..." She sighed. "Messed up."

"Messed up?" he asked, confused.

"She's hot," Callie finally admitted. "I mean you..."

He did know. He was one of only a few people who did. Callie had confessed to him in 6th grade that she liked girls too. Not even her parents knew. It was also one of the key reasons he never asked her to be his girlfriend. It didn't weird him out but she was one of his best friends and he wanted her to find her own path. He just never thought it would lead her to Jason.

Callie laughed. "It’s also ironically stupid," She ran her fingers through her hair.

"What do you mean?"

Callie bit her lip. "Jason was gay. I was his beard."

Tyler blinked. The words hung between them like a bad punchline—Jason was gay. I was his beard. Rain lashed against the den windows as Tyler’s brain stuttered through the implications. Callie’s fingers twisted Jason’s—no, Jasmine’s—hoodie strings into knots.

"He came out to me over the summer before we dated," she whispered. "His parents would’ve lost their shit. Mayor Whittaker’s kid? In Ridgewood?" Her laugh was hollow. "So we faked it. And then the Bug made him into a girl who likes boys. The universe has a fucked up sense of humor."

Tyler stared at Callie, his mouth slightly open like a fish gulping air. The rain outside hammered against the windows in erratic bursts, matching the staccato rhythm of his thoughts. "So you two were never..." He gestured vaguely between them, unable to finish the sentence.

She shook her head. "I liked him a lot. Not at first, but he grew on me." She twisted the pull strings. "He's not an ass. That was all a tough guy macho act. He was actually really sweet. Even though we weren't real, he treated me like we were." She sighed again. "I fooled myself into thinking—"

Her train of thought stopped mid-sentence. She let out a puff of air and lowered her head. He rubbed her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. Inside, his mind was a mess. Jason was gay and it wasn't a real relationship. All this time he could have...

"If it was fake, why was he so possessive?" he finally asked.

She shrugged. "Maybe some small part of him liked being a dick. I won't even pretend to understand some of his reasons."

Fair enough.

A moment after that, Mrs. Marshall came into the room. "Tyler, your mother called. Figured you might be here. She's worried. I think she wants you back home"

He left Callie's after that, but not before giving her a hug and promising to call later. The rain had stopped, thankfully, but the walk home still felt cold. He couldn't help but think of all the time he wasted not being more open with Callie. He felt robbed–not by her but by Jason. He knew it was selfish and stupid but a small part of him hated Jason even more now.

When he finally got back home, his mother hugged him tightly.

Back in his room, he texted Benny:

Went to Callie's. She showed me a pic of the new Jason.

Benny: And?

Tyler: Its some scary shit, dude

Benny: I don't care about that man. I wanna know if she's really hot. Last image was too blurry to tell for sure?

He groaned and didn't reply.

Things stayed pretty quiet on Friday. He spent most of his free time in his room gaming. Kayla spent most of her time sulking. Outside of gaming, the only other socializing was with Benny and Callie. Mostly through texts. It was nice to reconnect with Callie again, it sucked that something as horrible as The Bug had brought them back together, though. Talking to her was like old times.

By the time Saturday came around, he was practically crawling up the walls again.

He finally ventured out of his room to find Kayla in the living room, on the couch in sweats. When not trying to impress people, she was kind of a slob.

"Look who lives," he joked as he dropped onto the other end of the couch.

"Bite me," she snapped, without taking her eyes off some trashy reality show she was watching.

"Not sure I want to take the risk," he snarked back.

She gave him the finger. That was their relationship in a nutshell.

"So Jason was streaming last night," Kayla finally said, still not looking away from the TV. "Well, Jasmine, I suppose."

Since when did Jason Whittaker have any interest in streaming?

"You're serious?" he asked, she nodded. "That's crazy"

"It was kind of surreal, you know?" Kayla laughed. "Jason was an ass and Jasmine is...well, let's say she won't be winning a Nobel Prize.”

That scared the hell out of him. Jason might have been an ass but he was smart. One of the smarter guys in their year, actually.

Tyler pulled out his phone and googled it. It didn't take him long to find her stream.

The screen loaded with a burst of pastel pink and twinkling fairy lights. Jasmine—formerly Jason—sat cross-legged on what looked like a frilly bedspread, her caramel waves pinned back by those butterfly hairpins. She was mid-laugh at something off-camera, her glossy lips parting to reveal perfectly-aligned teeth. Her new larger assets bounced up and down as she laughed, barely concealed in a pink tank top.

Tyler was speechless. This was Jason Whittaker, former terror.

"OMG, you guyssss," Jasmine squealed, her voice several octaves higher than Tyler remembered. "I totes love the support. You're the best!" She clapped her hands together, her pearly pink nails glinting under the ring light. The chat scrolled furiously to her right, a blur of heart emojis and thirsty comments.

He read a lot of them. Most of it was trash, but some of it was from classmates who all seemed shocked at the transformation.

Jasmine pouted at the screen, tilting her head. "Nooo, I'm not taking requests for outfit changes. Perverts." She giggled, batting her eyelashes. "Unless you're cute. Then maybe." She winked.

Tyler shut off his phone, feeling queasy.

"Twilight Zone, am I right?" asked Kayla, who had been watching over his shoulder. "He asked me out once but I passed. I'm no one's beard.”

Tyler was shocked. "You knew?"

Kayla laughed. "Everyone knew. That boy was too put together".

Tyler wasn't sure what to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "This virus is terrifying".

Kayla said nothing.

Tyler went back to his room and gamed until lunch, trying to distract himself again.

An hour later, Benny texted: Sierra Clark is throwing a big party tonight.

Tyler texted back: You're kidding?

Benny: She's calling it The Bug Bash.

Tyler groaned. Only Sierra would do something this stupid and reckless.

Benny: I'm thinking of going.

Tyler responded quickly: I'm thinking of having you committed.

Benny responded with an emoji giving him the finger.

Tyler sighed and tossed his phone on the bed. This was getting way out of hand.

The doorknob rattled at 10:47 PM—not the tentative twist of someone checking in, but the jerky panic of a mother who'd just found an empty bed where her daughter should be. Tyler barely had time to yank his earbuds out before his door burst open, revealing his mother silhouetted in the hallway light. One hand clutched her phone like it might dissolve. "Kayla's gone," she said, her voice stripped raw.

Shit.

Tyler scrambled upright as she thrust her phone at him. The screen displayed Kayla's hastily typed text: Gone to Sierra's. Don't wait up. Below it, a grainy Snapchat screenshot: Kayla grinning in Sierra's vanity mirror, her reflection haloed by neon party lights, and a red plastic cup dangling from her fingers. The timestamp read 9:22 PM.

Fucking Kayla.

"I need you to go and drag her back," his mother demanded.

Crap. Kayla so owed him.

Tyler’s sneakers hit the pavement hard as he jogged toward Sierra’s neighborhood, his hoodie flapping against his ribs in the humid night air. Ridgewood’s streets were unnervingly empty for a Saturday—no groups of kids loitering near the 7-Eleven and no cars cruising with windows down. There was only the occasional flicker of a TV through half-drawn blinds and blue light catching on the Bug-awareness flyers plastered to every telephone pole.

Sierra Clark’s house loomed like a wedding cake left out in the rain—three tiers of beige stucco and faux-stone accents, crowned with gaudy wrought-iron balconies that no one ever used. Tyler slowed to a walk as he turned onto her street, his lungs burning from the jog. Every driveway here was a mini car show—gleaming SUVs with dealer plates still on, one stupidly oversized pickup with tires taller than Kayla. The Whittakers might’ve been Ridgewood royalty, but the Clarks had bought their way into court.

He approached the front door, not expecting to get in. As soon as he rang the doorbell, the door was opened. Some girl he barely knew invited him in.

The bass hit Tyler like a physical shove as he stepped inside, the air thick with the cloying sweetness of cheap vodka and body spray. Sierra’s marble foyer had been transformed into a makeshift coat graveyard—puffer jackets and letterman’s sleeves tangled together in a heap, one stray Converse dangling from the chandelier. Someone had taped a laminated CDC warning about The Bug to the mirror, but it was already defaced with Sharpie mustaches and crude doodles of bugs with boobs.

He squeezed past a grinding couple in the hallway, their laughter drowned by the remix blasting from the living room. The kitchen was worse: a sweating jungle of red cups and sticky countertops, where a shirtless sophomore Tyler vaguely recognized from gym class was doing a keg stand to raucous cheers. A cluster of girls by the fridge squealed as he sprayed foam everywhere, their manicured hands clutching their phones like talismans. One of them—Lindsay Cho, maybe?—had glittery butterfly clips in her hair. The kind Jasmine wore in her stream.

He couldn’t find his sister though. There were too many people, too many bodies.

Finally, he grabbed the shoulder of some kid who shared Math with both him. "You seen my sister?" he asked loudly, trying to get him to hear him over the music.

"Basement," the kid shouted back and pointed toward a door.

The basement stairs groaned under Tyler’s weight, each step swallowing him deeper into a pulsing cave of neon and bass. Strobe lights sliced through the haze of vape smoke, catching the sweat-slick faces of dancers in freeze-frame glimpses—a girl tossing her hair, a guy wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and someone’s abandoned phone glowing on the carpet. The air smelled like spilled Mike’s Hard and that cheap vanilla body spray Kayla used to douse herself in before dates.

He squinted, trying to find his sister in the mass of bodies, but there was no such luck.

Annoyed, he pushed his way in. There were so many people bouncing and undulating to the music, it was like an orgy.

Tyler caught a flash of Kayla’s neon pink headband near the makeshift DJ booth and lunged forward—only for fingers to clamp around his wrist like a handcuff. The girl yanked him backward, his sneakers skidding on sticky basement tiles, and before he could process the whirl of glitter and perfume, her mouth crashed into his.

It was shocking, confusing, and–most of all–dangerous. He thought he saw a face, but couldn't be sure. He thought he saw butterflies, but it could have been a trick of a light. He definitely heard her whisper in his ear after the kiss, though.

"You're going to be so beautiful," she said seductively then she was done.

Wait, what?!

He quickly wiped his mouth, horrified.

Tyler stumbled back, his lips tingling from the stranger's kiss—no, not just tingling. Burning. He wiped his mouth again with the back of his hand, heart hammering against his ribs. The basement lights strobed, catching glimpses of grinning faces that didn’t seem to notice what had just happened. His wrist still pulsed where she’d grabbed him. "Who the hell—" he started, but the crowd had already swallowed her whole.

Tyler's fingers flew to his lips, rubbing them raw as if he could scrub away the phantom pressure of that kiss. His skin prickled with something worse than panic—an invasive warmth spreading from his mouth down his throat, like swallowing sunlight. The music throbbed around him, suddenly distorted, the bass notes punching his eardrums in slow motion.

*****

She saw him in the crowd. Her brother. For a moment, she thought she was seeing things. There was no way a dweeb like him would be here. Then she saw him stagger. She saw some girl disappear into the mosh, leaving Tyler alone. She was pissed. Mom sent him. The little nark. She was going to kick his ass so hard.

A moment later, Kayla was at his side.

"Ty, what the fuck?!" she said, grabbing his shoulder. "Did Mom send–?" As soon as she touched him, she knew something was wrong.

"She kissed me," he gasped, touching his lips.

"What?" asked Kayla, looking around. "Who kissed you?"

"Some girl… she… shit, Kay," he stammered.

Kayla stared at her brother. She was about to make some comment, some remark until she saw it. The look. There was pure terror in his eyes. Whatever animosity she had for him was gone in an instant. She snapped around, angry. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She looked around, frantic. Tyler was next to her, shaking. She snapped back around, he looked at her in a dazed stupor.

‘No, no, no.’

She took him by the arm and dragged him toward the stairs.

‘Shit. Double shit. Triple Shit.’

She dragged him up the stairs. Someone shouted her name, but she ignored them.

‘Mom is going to kill me.’

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

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Author's Note:Another week, another part. Here we are at part 3 of 5. I mentioned last time how some chapters might be longer than others, well this is one of them. It seemed to work out that way when I broke this up into 5 parts. I really like this part, I hope everyone else does too. I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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3.

Tyler woke in bed, his tongue thick and sour like he'd licked a battery. The ceiling fan spun lazy circles above him, its rhythmic click-click-click the only sound in the room. He tried to sit up—and immediately regretted it. His head pounded in time with the fan, a dull ache radiating from his temples down to his jaw. "Fuck," he muttered, rubbing his face.

His fingers twitched against the sheets, the fabric damp with cold sweat. The last thing he remembered was Kayla dragging him through Sierra's pulsing basement, the world tilting like a carnival ride gone wrong. Now his bedroom walls swam in and out of focus, the Avengers poster above his dresser warping into a blur of primary colors. He swallowed—his throat felt lined with sandpaper.

Something flashed into his mind.

A girl.

A kiss.

He absently touched his lips, almost as if he could still feel her lips there.

Tyler groaned as he rolled onto his side, his entire body protesting. Every muscle ached like he'd run a marathon—or gotten hit by a truck. His skin burned one moment and prickled with goosebumps the next. The back of his throat felt raw, like he'd swallowed a cheese grater. He squinted at his phone on the nightstand; the bright screen seared his retinas. 8:17 AM. The party was last night.

Shit. What happened? He couldn't remember a damn thing.

He tried sitting up again and again, his body protested.

He fumbled toward his phone, taking it off the nightstand.

There were several missed calls and texts from both Benny and Callie.  They grew from calm to desperate to scared very fast.

There was a gentle knock on his room door and a moment later, his mother came in. She looked scared and something else he couldn't quite place.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice strained.

His mother hesitated in the doorway. The morning light cut across her face, revealing dark circles under her eyes. "You don't remember?" Her voice was too controlled, the way it got when she was trying not to scream at Kayla.

"Bits and pieces" he said, trying to remember. "Went to the party. Thought I saw Kayla in the basement. Then some girl..." He stopped, touching his lips.

His mother was clutching her hands. "I called the doctor. They want to run some tests..."

Tests? "What for?" he asked, not willing to think of the correct answer.

That's when he noticed his mother had clearly been crying.

Realization was slowly dawning. She suspected. Tyler saw it in the way his mother's fingers tightened around the door handle, white-knuckled. In the forced calm of her breathing. In how her eyes kept darting to his neck, his wrists—any exposed skin—like she was tracking the spread of some invisible stain. His stomach lurched. "Mom," he croaked, "just say it."

His mother’s breath hitched—just once—before she stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind her with unnatural care.

The silence between them stretched like a live wire. Tyler watched his mother's throat work as she swallowed—too many times, too deliberately. Her fingers twitched toward his nightstand drawer, where she'd stashed the thermometer last winter. But she didn't move. Just stood there, breathing through her nose like a bull about to charge.

"You think...?" He couldn't bring himself to say it.

His mother clearly couldn't either. "The doctor will know."

Shit.

He felt sick to his stomach. This couldn't be happening.

Something dawned on him a second later. "What about Kayla?"

"Grounded for eternity" his mother said coldly.

He shook his head. "No, not that. Is she ok? Did she...?"

His mother sighed. "I love that about you honey. Your sister did something unthinkably stupid and you're concerned about her well being" His mother rubbed her temples. "She's fine. No fever. She's just the dumbest person on the planet"

Tyler reached for the glass of water on his nightstand, his fingers trembling against the condensation. The coolness should have been comforting, but his skin felt wrong—too sensitive, like someone had peeled back a layer. He took a sip and winced; even the water tasted different, metallic and thick. His mother was still hovering by the door, her arms crossed so tight her elbows were turning white.

"I'll let you get some rest and call the doctor to see when I can get you in," his mother said, before leaving the room.

He drifted off for a while.

A gentle knock on his door woke him up. He didn't even remember falling asleep but as soon as his eyes were open, he felt like someone had hit him with a truck.

The door opened and his mother came in with two people behind her---a man and a woman---both dressed in white coats with badges hanging from their necks.

He recognized the older man as Dr. Harris, the same doctor his family had been seeing for years. The woman was younger, more crisp and put together.

"Tyler," his mother said softly, "Dr. Harris and Dr. Jones are here to see you."

Dr. Jones stepped forward, her hands in her pockets, her eyes scanning him as if she were studying him under a microscope. "We didn't want you to have to leave the house," she said smoothly. "CDC protocol."

CDC.

"So it's..." he asked, swallowing hard, his head hurting. "Are you sure?"

Dr. Harris sighed, adjusting his glasses. "We can't be sure yet. But given the circumstances..." He glanced at Dr. Jones, who gave a subtle nod. "We'd like to run some preliminary tests. Just to rule things out."

Dr. Jones unzipped her medical kit with a sharp, plastic sound that made Tyler flinch. The contents gleamed under his bedroom light—needles in sterile packaging, vials with purple caps, alcohol swabs that smelled like chemical lemons. She snapped on gloves with practiced efficiency, the latex stretching tight over her fingers. "This will just pinch for a second," she said, but her tone was detached, like she'd said it a thousand times this week alone.

Tyler watched the needle sink into his arm with morbid fascination. His blood flowed darker than he expected, sluggish as syrup, filling the vial in thick pulses. Dr. Jones didn't react when he hissed—just swapped the first vial for a second, then a third. The room tilted slightly; he hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until spots danced at the edges of his vision.

Dr. Harris patted his shoulder. "You're a good, strong boy, Tyler".

The way he said "boy" though with a slight pause almost, it was quite telling.

"How long will it take to be certain?" asked his mother as Dr. Jones stored the samples.

She smiled. "Once upon a time ago, it would take hours. I brought a mobile lab, it should only be a few minutes"

The amazement of modern medicine, thought Tyler, as both doctors left the room.

It was the longest few minutes of his life.

When Dr. Jones returned alone, he knew. He saw it in the way she looked at him.

Dr. Jones didn't speak at first. She just stood there with the tablet in her hands, her polished nails tapping against the screen in a rhythm that matched Tyler's rabbit-quick pulse. The silence stretched until his mother made a small, wounded noise—the kind someone makes when they already know the answer but need to hear it anyway.

The tablet screen flickered as Dr. Jones turned it toward them. A graph pulsed in jagged red lines, but Tyler barely registered it before she spoke. "Positive for Strain Gamma," she said, clinical and precise. "Viral load suggests exposure approximately..." She glanced at her watch. "Nine hours ago."

The Bug.

The tablet's glow painted Dr. Jones' face in cold blue as she recited statistics—viral mutation rates, cytokine markers—but Tyler barely heard her. His fingers crept up to his collarbone, pressing into the hollow where his pulse jumped. His skin felt fever-slick. Different.

"What exactly is Strain Gamma?" asked his very confused mother.

"The fast one" said the doctor in her detached way of speaking.

Dr. Jones' tablet clicked shut with finality. Tyler's mother pressed a hand to her mouth, her wedding band glinting under the harsh bedroom light. "Fast?" she echoed, voice cracking.

"Within 48 hours" Dr. Jones said with certainty.

His mother covered her mouth, trembling.

Tyler felt sick but he tried to remain calm. "What about my sister?"

Dr. Jones shook her head. "There are a few things we leave out of the press. One of them pertains to the various strains of the virus. Strain Gamma is not an airborne variant,” She paused for a moment as if considering her words. “In fact only 0.000001% of the strains are. It is one of the faster variants though, little fuss or muss"

The silence in Tyler's bedroom thickened like drying cement. Dr. Jones' tablet screen dimmed automatically, plunging them into the pale morning light filtering through his half-drawn blinds. Tyler stared at his hands—still his hands, still boy-hands—turning them over as if expecting to see cracks forming in his skin.

Dr. Jones shook her head. "It doesn't quite work that way. Most of the changes will happen while you sleep".

He sighed. That was good at least.

Dr. Jones turned to his mother. "Let's give your daughter some rest now, there are a few things we need to discuss".

Dr. Jones and his mother left.

Daughter.

Hearing it made him flinch. He was a daughter now.

He started to tremble but managed to get his phone. He took a deep breath and called the only person he wanted to tell: Callie.

The phone rang three times before Callie's breathless "Tyler?" punched through the speaker. There was a muffled clatter—books hitting the floor, probably—and the squeak of her bedroom door slamming shut. "Holy shit, I've been texting you since—"

"I was at a party last night. Sierra's. Kayla ran off and..." He took a deep breath. "Some random girl kissed me in the dark"

Callie’s gasp crackled through the phone. "Jesus Christ, Tyler—"

The phone slipped slightly in Tyler's sweaty palm. "Callie, it's—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "The doctors just left. I tested positive. Strain Gamma."

The silence on the other end of the line stretched so long Tyler thought the call had dropped. Then came a sharp inhale, followed by the rustling of fabric as Callie shifted positions. "Gamma," she repeated, voice low and urgent. "That's the one Jasmine had."

He thought it might be.

The phone line hummed with static, or maybe it was the blood rushing in Tyler’s ears. Callie’s breathing hitched—once, twice—before she spoke again. "Okay," she said, too evenly. "Okay. Are you... feeling anything yet?"

"Just sick. Like flu sick" he groaned.

Tyler’s phone buzzed against his ear—Callie texting him a screenshot mid-call. He pulled the phone away, squinting at the image: a blurry selfie of Jasmine from earlier that morning, her lips glossy and parted in a mock pout. The caption read *Day 3 of being a gurl!!!* with a string of heart emojis. His stomach twisted. "She looks..."

Callie sighed. "I've been doing research. About the mental reconditioning"

Tyler stared at Jasmine's photo until his vision blurred. The girl in the picture bore no resemblance to the Jason he'd known—sharp-eyed and sarcastic, always three steps ahead in debate club. This version giggled behind a manicured hand, her lashes fluttering like trapped butterflies. "Mental reconditioning?" he echoed hoarsely.

"It varies from person to person. Some get the extreme like Jason and others get very little" said Callie, sending him another picture.

Another girl.

"Carla Smith from Atlanta. She was a track and field star before the change" Callie said "and one after it as well. No mental changes, other than some subtle nudges"

The second image was a candid shot—Carla running in a track meet. She looked like a normal girl.

She looks slow, Taylor waywardly thought.

"It's about having a strong constitution," Callie clarified. She took a deep breath. "You're strong Tyler. Stronger than Jason. If anyone can..."

He smiled. "Thanks Callie"

Tyler's fingers tightened around his phone. The screen flickered—low battery warning—but he barely noticed. Callie's voice had gone quiet, the weight of unspoken fears pressing between them. He opened his mouth to ask how long Carla had lasted before the changes started, but his bedroom door creaked open again.

His mother stood in the doorway.

"I gotta go Cal, I'll call you later?" he said, noticing the urgency in his mother's look.

The door clicked shut behind his mother with unnatural finality. She held a steaming mug—chamomile, probably, the kind she swore by for nerves—but her hands shook so badly the liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim. "Tyler," she started, then stopped. Her gaze darted to his phone before snapping back to his face like she was afraid it might bite him. "Who were you—?"

"Just Callie, Mom" he said after hanging up and setting the phone down.

His mother set the mug on his nightstand without a sound, her fingers lingering on the ceramic like she was afraid it might shatter. The steam curled between them, carrying the scent of over-steeped chamomile and something medicinal beneath—valerian root, maybe, the stuff she’d started taking after Dad started traveling for work. She perched on the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, but her posture stayed rigid, shoulders squared like she was bracing for impact.

"They’re sending a kit," she said finally, picking at a loose thread on his duvet. "Special vitamins. Electrolyte packets. Some... other things." Her voice hitched on the last word, eyes darting to his chest—just for a fraction of a second—before snapping back to his face. Tyler didn’t need to ask what "other things" meant. The way her fingers twitched toward her own collarbone told him everything.

He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. "How bad is it gonna be?"

His mother’s breath shuddered out in a rush. She reached for his hand, then seemed to think better of it, her fingers curling into a fist on her knee instead. "Dr. Jones says Gamma moves in stages." Her thumb rubbed circles into her palm, a nervous tic he hadn’t seen since Kayla’s appendectomy. "First the fever breaks, then... the reshaping starts." The clinical term sounded grotesque in her mouth, like she’d practiced it in the mirror and still couldn’t make it fit.

"They... they have protocols for this now," she said carefully, her gaze fixed on her own twisting hands. "Once the transformation stabilizes—" The word caught in her throat. She cleared it and tried again. "Once you're through the worst of it, there's a streamlined process. New birth certificate, school records, everything."

Tyler watched his mother's reflection warp in the curved surface of the mug. His throat burned—not from the virus, but from the way she kept glancing at his shoulders, his jawline, like she was memorizing them. Like she thought they might vanish overnight.

Well they actually would sadly.

"The CDC has a fund," she continued, forcing her voice steady, though her fingers plucked at the hem of her shirt. "For... essentials. Undergarments. Skincare." She swallowed hard. "They said most families opt for the prepaid Visa—less paperwork that way."

Tyler's fingernails bit into his palms. Essentials. Like he was packing for some twisted summer camp where they'd teach him how to walk in heels instead of shoot arrows. "What about school?" The words came out hoarse, scraped raw from the inside.

"Extended leave of absence for a while, they have online classes for that kind of thing" his mother sounded hollowed out.

"Did you call Dad?"

She nodded. "He's in Boston. He's booked a flight".

The mug trembled in Tyler’s grip as he took a sip, the chamomile tea scalding his tongue—too hot, too sweet, wrong in ways he couldn’t articulate. His mother’s phone buzzed violently against the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a flood of notifications from the neighborhood watch group. He caught snippets—*confirmed case on Maple*, *CDC checkpoint at the high school*, *keep your teens inside*—before she flipped it face-down with a sharp exhale.

The mug slipped from Tyler’s fingers—not quite falling, but tilting enough that tea sloshed over the rim and onto his sheets. His mother snatched it away with a stifled gasp, but he barely registered the burn spreading across his thighs. The heat felt distant, secondary to the prickle crawling up his spine. His skin no longer fit right—too tight at the wrists, too loose at the neck—like someone had dressed him in a costume two sizes off.

The mug hit the nightstand with a dull thud. Tyler’s hands—still *his* hands, for now—clutched at the sheets as a fresh wave of nausea rolled through him. His mother’s fingers hovered near his shoulder, unsure whether to touch him or the medical bracelet Dr. Jones had snapped onto his wrist moments ago. The plastic tag burned against his skin, its embossed letters spelling out *STRAIN GAMMA* in stark red.

"I'll let you rest some more," she said, standing, taking both her phone and the mug with her.

Tyler was alone again. His own phone beeped, warning him of the low battery. He was too tired to take care of it.

Later, he thought.

Then fell asleep again.

******

Tyler jolted awake with a gasp, his pillow damp with sweat. Something tickled his neck—an insect, maybe—and he reached up to brush it away, only to freeze when his fingers tangled in long, silky strands that hadn’t been there hours ago. He yanked his hand back as if burned, heart hammering against his ribs. The bedroom was dark, but the streetlight outside cast enough glow to see the blonde locks coiled around his fingers, sleek and foreign.

Shit.

Tyler sat bolt upright, his breath ragged as he clawed at the strands clinging to his neck—too fine, too soft, like spiderwebs dipped in honey. The digital clock on his nightstand read 3:17 AM in searing red, hours since his mother had left.

He gently touched his hair, it was soft. Turning on the light near his bed, he slowly sat up. The only good thing about this was that the fever was finally gone. Just like Dr. Jones predicted it would be. He just never expected it to be gone this fast. He grabbed at a mirror that he sometimes kept on his nightstand, turning it slightly to see what he was working with now. There was no denying what he was seeing---his hair was lighter than Kayla's but longer now. Not as long as hers but touching his shoulders at least.

Shit.

The mirror tilted in Tyler's trembling hands, catching the sharp angles of his face—except they weren't sharp anymore. His jawline had softened overnight, the stubborn squareness now yielding to gentle curves. His Adam's apple sat less prominent against his throat, as if someone had sanded down the edges of his body while he slept. But it was his lips that made his breath hitch—fuller, pinker, with a natural Cupid's bow that hadn't been there yesterday. He pressed a fingertip to them, half-expecting the plumpness to deflate like a lie.

He looked like a feminized version of himself. Not quite an identical twin to Kayla but close. He could maybe pass for her androgynous sister now.

He spared a quick glance down and sighed in relief.

His chest was still flat as a board.

The mirror clattered onto the nightstand as Tyler scrambled out of bed—too fast, his vision swimming with black spots. He stumbled toward his ensuite bathroom, his legs feeling oddly uncoordinated, like his knees had been greased.

The bathroom light flickered on with a buzz that made Tyler wince. He braced against the sink, waiting for his vision to clear before daring to look in the mirror. The face staring back was his—but not. The same blue eyes, now fringed with lashes too thick to ignore. The same nose, but softer at the bridge. His collarbones protruded more sharply beneath skin that looked poreless, almost polished.

The hand mirror had not done his inspection justice.

He reached slowly into his pajama pants and was happy that his "little friend" was still there.

For now at least.

He actually read online it was one of the last things to go.

The bathroom tiles were cold beneath Tyler's bare feet as he leaned closer to the mirror, tracing the unfamiliar contours of his face with trembling fingers. His skin was smoother—not just in texture, but in actual structure—as if someone had airbrushed away the roughness of adolescence overnight. He pinched his cheek experimentally, half-expecting the flesh to peel away like clay, revealing something entirely new underneath.

He was pretty. A blessing and a curse. Kayla was well liked and popular, one of the prettier girls in school. He kinda knew what he was getting into because he was her twin after all. He wasn't done changing either, only a few hours in.

The creak of floorboards snapped Tyler’s head around so fast his new hair whipped across his face. Kayla stood frozen in his bathroom doorway, one hand still on the knob, her sleep-mussed hair sticking up in familiar cowlicks. Her mouth hung open slightly, her gaze darting from Tyler’s face to the mirror and back again.

She stared for a long time before she started crying. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry"

Tyler blinked. That wasn't the reaction he expected.

Instinctively, he rushed over to her and hugged her tight. He held her as she sobbed. He wasn't afraid of infecting her because he wasn't contagious, well not unless he kissed her which made him shudder to think about. Instead, he held her as she sobbed into his shoulder. He let her cry long and hard.

Kayla’s tears soaked through Tyler’s pajama shirt, warm against his collarbone where the skin had grown strangely sensitive. He could feel each shuddering breath she took, the way her fingers clutched at his back like she was afraid he’d dissolve if she let go. His own hands hovered awkwardly before settling on her shoulders—lighter than he remembered, the bones more delicate under his touch.

Tyler felt Kayla's grip tighten as her sobs subsided into hiccupping breaths. "You don't have to apologize," he murmured into her hair, which smelled faintly of her strawberry shampoo—the same brand she'd used since middle school. The familiarity of it grounded him, even as the weight of her body against his felt different, the angles of her shoulders fitting against his chest in ways they never had before.

The digital clock ticked over to 3:42 AM when Kayla finally pulled back, wiping her nose with the back of her hand in that unselfconscious way Tyler had seen a thousand times—except now her fingers looked slenderer next to his own, her wrists finer-boned. Moonlight caught the tear tracks on her cheeks as she sniffled. "It's my fault," she whispered hoarsely. "Sierra's party—I shouldn't have gone. I'm a fucking idiot."

Tyler reached out, tucking a strand of Kayla's messy hair behind her ear—a gesture he'd seen their mother do a thousand times, but one that felt oddly natural now. "Stop," he said, his voice softer than he intended. "You didn't know some random girl would shove her tongue down my throat."

Kayla let out a wet, startled laugh at that, her breath hitching as she wiped her eyes again. "God, when you say it like that..." She trailed off, her gaze flickering over Tyler's face—lingering on his fuller lips, his smoothed jawline—awed. "Shit, you're me"

Kayla's fingers hovered near Tyler's cheekbone, not quite touching. "No," she murmured after a moment, tilting her head. "You're like... almost me maybe." Her thumb brushed the corner of his eye—where the lashes now curled without mascara. "Your eyes are still yours, though."

Kayla's eyes were green. It was the weird thing about them. They were not at all close to being identical when they were brother and sister. He was taller, still was apparently. He had blue eyes, hers were green. Her hair was honey blonde, his was almost sun bleached.

The bathroom mirror fogged slightly from their combined breath as Tyler and Kayla stood shoulder-to-shoulder, studying their reflections like mismatched bookends. Tyler's new hair curled slightly at the ends where it brushed his collarbones—lighter than Kayla's honey-blonde, almost platinum under the harsh fluorescent light. Kayla reached out, twisting a strand around her finger. "It's softer than mine," she murmured, her voice still thick from crying. "Does it feel weird?"

He shrugged. "Jury's still out" He brushed a strand absently behind an ear, like she did some times. "This is only after a few hours".

"Almost all day technically" she corrected. "You've been asleep since this morning, it's now technically another whole morning"

He groaned. So almost 24 hours. How had he not noticed that?

Kayla’s fingers twitched toward her phone in her pajama pocket—Tyler knew that nervous tic. She bit her lip. "We should document this," she said quietly. "For science."

Before he could say anything, she took out her phone and snapped a pic of him.

Tyler blinked at the sudden flash, his reflection in the mirror momentarily replaced by the afterimage burned into his retinas. "Did you seriously just—?"

"Day One of Taylor" she said happily.

"Who's Taylor?" he asked, utterly confused.

"You silly" she said, happy with herself.

"You can't just..."

"Well I did," she said triumphantly. "Deal with it"

The flash of Kayla’s phone camera left spots dancing in Tyler’s vision as she grinned at the screen, thumbs already flying across the keyboard. “Stop,” he groaned, reaching for the phone, but she danced back with a smirk, holding it just out of reach—a move perfected over years of sibling rivalry. His lunge sent him stumbling, his center of gravity off-kilter in a way that made his knees buckle. Kayla’s smirk faltered as she caught his elbow, her grip firm despite the new delicacy of his bones.

"I wasn't going to post it, was saving it to a folder" she said, steadying him.

He sighed. She had a point. "As long as they don't pop up all over your socials, I'm ok with it"

The mattress dipped under their combined weight as Tyler and Kayla settled onto his bed, knees brushing in a way that would've felt accidental before but now carried an unspoken awareness of space—his space, her space, the inches between them suddenly loaded with everything unsaid. Tyler plucked at his pajama pants, the fabric pooling differently around his hips now. "So," he started, then stopped, staring at the fraying seam of his comforter.

Kayla flopped backward onto his pillows, her hair fanning out in messy waves. "So," she echoed, stretching the word out until it lost all meaning. She rolled onto her side, propping her head on one hand, studying him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. "Does it hurt?"

Tyler's fingers drifted to his throat, where the skin felt taut and strangely sensitive. "Not... hurt, exactly." He swallowed, noticing how the motion no longer made his Adam's apple bob as prominently. "More like growing pains. But inside out."

Kayla's nose scrunched—their mother's exact expression when confronted with biology homework. "Gross." She reached out, poking his cheek with one finger. "You're warmer than usual."

"Still running a low-grade fever, probably." Tyler caught her wrist before she could poke him again, startled by how slender it felt in his grip. Kayla didn't pull away. Instead, her fingers curled around his, her thumb brushing the newly softened knuckles. The silence stretched, thick with all the arguments they weren't having.

The digital clock on Tyler's nightstand clicked over to 4:13 AM when Kayla finally spoke again, her voice quieter than he'd ever heard it. "Remember when we used to share clothes?"

He groaned. "I remember when you used to force me to wear your clothes!"

Kayla kicked him lightly under the covers, grinning. "You looked cute in that sundress."

Tyler grabbed a pillow and threw it at her face, but there was no heat behind it—just this strange, giddy lightness that made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the virus. Kayla caught the pillow with a laugh, hugging it to her chest as she studied him with an expression he couldn't quite place—not pity, not curiosity, but something raw and unfiltered that made him suddenly aware of how close they were sitting.

"You're still you," she said finally, poking his shoulder. "Just... prettier."

Tyler snorted, shoving her hand away. "Shut up." But he couldn't help glancing at the mirror across the room, catching the blurred reflection of them side by side—his hair catching the dim light in a way Kayla's never had, his profile softer against the sharp angles of her face. He swallowed hard. "Does Mom know?"

Kayla nodded. "She was in here a couple of hours ago"

He blinked. "And?"

Kayla shrugged, picking at a loose thread on his comforter. "She cried. A lot."

Tyler swallowed, staring at his hands—still his, but softer now, the knuckles less pronounced. He flexed his fingers, watching the tendons move differently under skin that looked poreless in the dim light.

"Dad?" he asked.

Kayla sighed. "Flight delayed. He keeps texting for updates"

They sat in silence. The air between them hummed with all the things they weren't saying—the fights, the slammed doors, the cruel words hurled like weapons during one of their endless battles over bathroom time or chores or nothing at all. Tyler realized with a start that this was the longest they'd gone without arguing since middle school.

He wasn't sure what it was actually.

Kayla's fingers lingered on Tyler's wrist—not gripping, not pulling away—just resting there like she'd forgotten how to let go. It was like there was this subtle shift now in their relationship, something tectonic moving beneath the surface of all their old patterns. The usual barbed teasing felt dulled at the edges, the competitive tension replaced by an unspoken vigilance. Tyler realized with a start that Kayla was studying him the way their mother checked the stove burner—three glances to be sure it was really off.

The digital clock ticked over to 4:27 AM when Kayla abruptly stood, her knees popping loudly in the quiet room. "You hungry?" she asked, already heading for the door—not waiting for an answer because she already knew he was. That part hadn't changed. What had changed was the way she paused in the doorway, looking back at him with her brow furrowed like she was memorizing the slope of his new jawline.

Tyler followed her downstairs, his sock feet whispering against the hardwood. His center of gravity felt off—not enough to stumble, but enough that he noticed the way his hips moved differently, the way his shoulders automatically pulled back to compensate. Kayla's head turned slightly as she walked ahead of him, as if she could hear the unsteadiness in his steps.

"C'mon Bambi," she teased.

"Screw you" he said, sticking out his tongue.

She laughed.

Tyler had expected pity, or worse—revulsion—from Kayla when she saw his changes. Instead, she'd slipped back into their old rhythm with unsettling ease, like his feminization was just another quirk to be mocked. It was unsettling in its normalcy. The fridge light bathed Kayla in a sickly yellow glow as she rummaged through leftovers, her movements jerky with restless energy. Tyler leaned against the kitchen island, his hips pressing into the counter's edge in a way that would've bruised yesterday. The tile floor chilled his feet through his socks.

"It's weird, right?" Kayla asked abruptly, slamming the fridge door with her hip. She held two yogurts—strawberry for her, blueberry for him—like nothing had changed. But everything had. "How normal this feels?"

The yogurt container felt foreign in Tyler's grip—his fingers too slender against the plastic, the lid resisting his usual twist-and-pop technique. Kayla watched, eyebrows raised, as he struggled before surrendering it to her with a muttered curse. She popped it open effortlessly and slid it back across the counter, her smirk fading when she noticed the tremor in his hands.

The yogurt tasted like ash in Tyler's mouth, but he forced it down anyway, watching Kayla lick her spoon clean with the same exaggerated relish she'd had since they were six. The kitchen clock ticked loudly—4:39 AM—and somewhere outside, a dog barked.

The two of them sat at the kitchen table, eating their yogurt.

Kayla's spoon clattered against her empty yogurt cup, forgotten. She stared across the kitchen table, her gaze tracing the unfamiliar lines of Tyler's face with an intensity that made his skin prickle. The dawn light filtering through the blinds painted them both in watery stripes—illuminating how Tyler's new hair caught the light in a way Kayla's never had, throwing golden highlights against cheekbones that were hers but not.

"You're staring," Tyler muttered, pushing his half-eaten yogurt away.

"I know," Kayla breathed, unblinking. Her fingers twitched toward his face before curling back into her palm. "It's just—you look so much like me now"

He snorted. "Its that freaky twin thing"

"I know this is going to sound really fucking horrible but I always wished you were my sister" she admitted.

Tyler froze mid-bite, his spoon hovering halfway to his mouth. The yogurt dripped onto the table with a wet plop. "You—what?"

Kayla's cheeks flushed pink as she suddenly found the pattern of the tablecloth fascinating. "Not—not like this obviously." She gestured vaguely at his softening jawline, his longer lashes. "Just... you know. Growing up." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Sometimes I'd pretend."

The admission hung between them like smoke—impossible to ignore, impossible to grasp. Tyler's fingers tightened around his spoon. He'd spent fifteen years orbiting Kayla's sunshine, never guessing she'd wanted him closer. The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the silence—4:43 AM—the minute hand trembling as if unsure where to go next.

Kayla reached across the table, her fingertips brushing the back of Tyler's hand—so lightly he might have imagined it. "Your freckles are gone," she murmured, tracing the space where his summer constellations used to be. Her touch left trails of heat on his strangely smooth skin.

Tyler caught her wrist, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath his thumb. "Which ones did I have?" he challenged, watching her blink in surprise. They'd played this game since kindergarten—mapping each other's moles like star charts—but now his skin was a blank slate.

Kayla's fingers fluttered to his nose. "One here," she whispered, pressing the tip. "Like someone dabbed you with a paintbrush." Her touch drifted to his temple—"Two here, almost touching"—then skated down to his collarbone, making him shiver. "And a cluster here that looked like Orion."

They shared a laugh.

The fluorescent kitchen light buzzed to life with a harsh click, flooding the room in sterile white. Tyler and Kayla jerked apart like guilty conspirators—her fingers still hovering near his collarbone where Orion's freckles had vanished. Their mother stood frozen in the doorway, one hand clutching her robe closed at the throat, the other gripping an empty water glass so tightly her knuckles bleached white.

"Oh," she breathed—not a word so much as punched-out air. The glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the tile with a crystalline crash that made Tyler flinch violently. His mother didn't seem to notice the mess. She took one halting step forward, then another, her gaze locked on Tyler's face with horrified fascination. "Sweetheart, you're—"

"Me?" Kayla supplied helpfully, kicking her chair back with a screech to kneel beside the broken glass.

Their mother shook her head mutely, reaching toward Tyler's cheek but stopping millimeters away, as if afraid he'd dissolve under her touch. Her wedding band glinted under the lights—the same hand that had cradled his feverish forehead yesterday, when his features were still recognizably his. Now her fingers trembled in the space between them, tracing the air where his jawline had softened overnight into something softer, more delicate.

Tyler swallowed hard. "Hey Mom."

"We were eating," Kayla explained as she scooped up some of the broken glass. "She was hungry".

She? Tyler flinched at the new pronoun. He wasn't expecting it, not yet anyway. He knew it was coming of course but he was hoping to hold onto himself a little longer.

The kitchen clock ticked louder in the silence that followed Kayla's casual pronoun slip. Tyler's mother inhaled sharply, her eyes darting between her children—one kneeling in broken glass, the other gripping the table edge with hands that no longer looked like her son's. The refrigerator hummed to life with a sudden buzz, making all three of them jump.

The shards of glass caught the overhead light like jagged stars as Kayla carefully gathered them into her cupped palm. Tyler watched his mother's face—the way her lips trembled, the way her gaze kept flicking between him and the floor, as if unsure where to look.

"It's ok, Mom," he said, reaching forward and patting her hand.

It was too. It was really weird. All week he'd been freaking out about this possibility and now that it had happened, he was calm? How did that make any sense? Even scarier was that he was strangely relieved. It was like this huge weight had been lifted off his chest suddenly. Not that he ever in a million years wanted this but he wasn't pissed about it like he thought he was going to be.

Was it the mental reconditioning?

Kayla threw out the glass then proceeded to dispose of their empty yogurt containers.

The overhead light flickered once—a brief stutter in time—as Tyler's mother exhaled sharply, her fingers finally closing around his. Her grip was warm, familiar, yet everything about the moment felt alien. Tyler watched their joined hands with detached curiosity—his fingers slimmer now, the knuckles less pronounced, his mother's wedding band pressing into skin that no longer bore his childhood scars.

"I think we should all get a few more hours of sleep," his mother finally said after their long moment of silence.

Kayla groaned. "Mom, she's been sleeping all day!"

Tyler's mother flinched at Kayla's pronoun like she'd been slapped, her grip tightening around Tyler's hand. "She?" The word cracked in her throat.

Kayla nodded. "I know it sucks but it's got to happen"

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead as Tyler watched his mother’s face crumple. Her grip on his hand went slack, her fingers retreating to press against her own lips as if holding back a sob.

Tyler looked at his sister. They shared a look but neither said anything.

"Ok Mom" he finally said. "I'll try to get some more sleep"

Even though Kayla was right. He wasn't tired at all.

He and Kayla left the kitchen, heading up the stairs together.

"She's not dealing with this at all" Kayla whispered, shaking her head.

Tyler sighed. "Give her some time"

Tyler turned and started for his room when she grabbed his wrist and dragged him into a hug. She held him softly, burying her face in his shoulder.

"We got this....sis" she said after pulling away and going to her room.

Tyler sighed.

He went over to his bed, sitting on the ledge. He turned and found his phone on the nightstand. He picked it up to check his texts but it was dead.

Tyler stared at the blank screen of his phone like it had personally betrayed him. The charger dangled uselessly from the outlet—he must've forgotten to plug it in during last night's feverish haze. He pressed the power button three times in rapid succession, as if sheer willpower could resurrect the dead device. Nothing.

He started charging it, turning it on as it did so.

A minute or two later, he was greeted by loads of texts. All from Benny and Callie. He groaned, remembering how he hadn't talked to Benny at all. He'd left his best friend in the dark completely.

He checked the time, it was a little after 5am now. He bit his lip, wondering if Benny was even awake. He risked it and called.

Benny picked up on the second ring, his voice raspy with sleep but sharp with concern. "Dude. Where the hell have you been?"

Tyler took a deep breath and let out a "Hey".

There was a pause. "Kay? Why are you on Ty's phone? What happened? Is he ok?"

Tyler was shocked. Did he actually sound like Kayla now?

He cleared his throat. "This isn't Kayla".

Benny's sharp inhale crackled through the phone line. "No fucking way." The mattress springs squeaked violently—Benny sitting up too fast. "Tell me this is Kayla punking me. Tell me you're—"

"Benny, it's me," Tyler said, his voice catching on the words. The sound of his own speech startled him—higher, softer, threaded with unfamiliar cadences.

The silence stretched so long Tyler thought the call had dropped. Then Benny exhaled hard—a rush of static against Tyler's ear. "Jesus Christ." Another pause. "You? When? What happened?"

The phone pressed hot against Tyler's ear as he slumped onto his bed, staring at his reflection in the darkened window—a ghost girl with Kayla's bone structure and his own wide, panicked eyes. "Remember Sierra's Bug Bash?" His voice sounded foreign even to himself—not quite Kayla's crisp alto, but something fluttery and uncertain.

Benny's sharp intake crackled through the speaker. "The one you told me NOT to go to!"

"Yeah well—" Tyler's fingers twisted in the comforter, nails catching on fabric that suddenly felt too rough against his sensitive skin. He swallowed hard, remembering the damp press of bodies in Sierra's basement, the way the unnamed girl ambushed him. "Some girl cornered me. She was—" His throat closed around the memory of her feverish skin, the unnatural gleam in her eyes as she'd whispered *you're going to be so beautiful* before sealing her lips over his.

Benny's muttered curse sounded like it had been punched out of him. "You kissed her?"

"She kissed me!"

The silence stretched thin before Benny exhaled sharply. "That's so fucked up!"

"You're telling me" Tyler sighed. "Its a fast one as you can hear. Like Jason apparently."

There was another pause. "You're not all stupid now, right?"

Tyler felt the idea hit him like a physical force—half impulse, half survival instinct. He pitched his voice higher, letting it go breathy and vacant as he twirled a strand of his new blonde hair around one finger. "Ohmygod Benny," he gushed, batting eyelashes that felt strangely heavy now, "did you see Jasmine’s new lip gloss tutorial? It’s like, soooo fetch."

The silence on the line was absolute. Tyler could practically hear Benny’s brain short-circuiting through the phone. He bit the inside of his cheek—still soft, still unfamiliar—to keep from laughing.

"You're going to be one of those twisted bitches, aren't you?"

They both laughed.

"In all seriousness though, I feel fine" he finally said. "Better than fine, I'm calm. Its really fucking weird".

"Dude, I'd be freaking out," Benny admitted.

The mattress creaked as Tyler shifted, pressing the phone harder against his ear. "I should be freaking out. All week I've been—" His voice hitched. He swallowed, surprised by the lump in his throat. "But now that it's happening? I just feel... relieved."

"That's so weird" Benny mumbled.

Tyler bit his lip, turning the phone and taking a selfie. He debated sending it but did anyway. "No, this is weird" he said seconds after hitting send.

Benny's sharp inhale hissed through the speaker. "Holy shit." The line went staticky with his sudden movement—probably sitting up too fast again. "You look exactly like—"

"Well she is my twin," Tyler laughed.

"Your sister must be freaking out"

"That's the weird bit. She's been really chill about it. We talked this morning. No fighting. Just talking. She was really upset at first, blaming herself but then..." He lowered his voice for some reason even though he was alone. "She admitted she always wanted a sister"

Benny's choked laugh crackled through the speaker. "No fucking way."

"It is what it is," Tyler sighed.

There was a moment of silence before Benny asked the million dollar question. Well at least for him:

"So have your boobs grown yet?"

Tyler sighed and rolled his eyes. "And that is why you don't have a girlfriend"

"Not yet," said Benny.

Tyler laughed. "Bye Benny".

He hung up, shaking his head. A second later, he sent the same selfie with a text to Callie.

Callie called.

The phone buzzed violently in Tyler's palm, Callie's caller ID flashing like a warning light. He hesitated—thumb hovering over the answer button—before exhaling sharply and swiping right.

The phone pressed cold against Tyler's cheek as Callie's voice—unusually breathless—cut through the silence.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Callie whispered through the phone, the words ragged like she'd been running. Tyler heard fabric rustling—her sitting up too fast, sheets tangling around her legs. There was a long pause. "Are you...?"

He knew what she wanted to know. "I'm still me. Well I'm turning into my sister's identical twin now but I'm not different."

Callie sighed in relief. "I'm not sure what would have happened if you became another Jasmine"

"I'm glad too, the thought had me terrified, especially after that stream" Tyler said, relieved.

"How's your family dealing with it?" she asked then added. "I've been talking with Becca, you know Jasmine's sister? Anyway, her parents aren't taking it well."

Tyler nodded. "Mom is...dealing. Dad is still on his way, so who knows".

"And Kayla?"

Tyler bit his lip. "She told me she'd always wanted a sister."

Callie's sharp laugh crackled through the phone. "No fucking way."

The bedroom door creaked open before Tyler could respond to Callie. Kayla stood silhouetted in the doorway, her pajamas rumpled, hair a chaotic halo from tossing in bed. She held two hair ties between her teeth, her fingers busy twisting her own hair into a messy bun.

"Speak of the devil," Tyler said as Kayla flopped onto the bed.

Kayla absently got behind him on the bed and started pulling his hair into a ponytail. Her fingers moved through the unfamiliar golden strands with surprising confidence—separating, gathering, twisting—as if she'd done this a thousand times before. Which, Tyler realized with a jolt, she had. Just never to him. The elastic snapped against his scalp with a sharp sting, making him hiss.

"You ok?" asked Callie, concerned.

"I have a ponytail now apparently" he said, confused.

Kayla snorted, her breath warm against the back of his neck as she adjusted the tension. "Relax, drama queen. It's just hair." Her fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary, tracing the newly exposed line of his nape where baby hairs curled in a dawn humidity. Tyler shivered.

"I think I'm gonna let you sister bond" said Callie with a laugh and she hung up before Tyler could stop her.

The phone screen dimmed as Kayla leaned over Tyler's shoulder, her chin hooking onto the crook of his neck. "Callie?" she asked, her breath tickling his ear—warm and familiar despite everything.

Tyler turned the phone facedown on the mattress, the sudden absence of Callie's voice making Kayla's presence feel heavier. Her chin still rested on his shoulder, her fingers now idly playing with the ends of his ponytail.

The ponytail tugged lightly as Kayla toyed with it, her fingers occasionally brushing the sensitive skin behind Tyler's ear—each touch sending strange little shocks down his spine. He could smell her shampoo—something fruity and artificial—mixed with the sleep-warm scent of her skin. It was unsettling how normal this felt, how easily their bodies rearranged themselves into this new configuration of sisterhood.

"This is weird, right?" he asked, unsure and not used to his sister being this friendly.

Kayla's fingers stilled in his hair. "Only if you make it weird," she said, voice muffled against his shoulder. Then she pulled back abruptly, her knee digging into the mattress as she shifted to face him. "Does it feel weird?"

Tyler studied Kayla's face—her furrowed brows, the way she chewed the inside of her cheek when nervous. Same tell since third grade. "It feels like..." He reached up to touch the ponytail, fingertips brushing the smooth elastic band. "Like I woke up in someone else's life but all the furniture's in the right places."

The sunlight hit Kayla’s freckles differently now—or maybe Tyler was just seeing them differently. She sat cross-legged on his bed, knees bumping against his thigh as she scrolled through her phone with one hand, the other absently twisting a strand of Tyler’s hair around her finger. The motion was absentminded, habitual, like she’d done it a thousand times before. Which she had. Just never to him.

She pulled him close and took a selfie of the two of them before he could respond.

The phone camera flashed, freezing Tyler mid-protest—mouth half-open, one hand raised in futile defense while Kayla grinned triumphantly beside him. She studied the screen with narrowed eyes, tongue caught between her teeth. "Huh," she murmured, thumb swiping to enlarge the image. "Your eyelashes are way longer than mine now. That's bullshit."

Tyler grabbed for the phone, but Kayla twisted away, her knee digging into his thigh as she held the screen just out of reach. "Give it—" His voice cracked mid-sentence, the pitch jumping unpredictably. Kayla's grin widened.

Kayla laughed. "Its folder fodder, more documentation"

The mattress dipped as Kayla flopped onto her stomach beside Tyler, her phone screen illuminating the faint down now dusting his forearms—another change he hadn't noticed until this moment. She zoomed in on their selfie, her thumb smudging the glass. "Your pores are smaller too," she announced, as clinically detached as a dermatologist. "Gamma's weirdly good at skincare."

"I wouldn't know," he said truthfully.

"You will" Kayla stated it as if it was fact. "You're my sister now. You're gonna know it all"

He wasn't sure what to think of that.

"I'm still a boy you know" he said, hoping to deter her.

"For now" she said giggling.

Kayla's fingers drummed against Tyler's knee—a rapid staccato that betrayed her excitement despite the forced casualness of her sprawl across his bed. "First rule," she said, holding up one finger with exaggerated solemnity, "you never share your good hair ties. Those are sacred." Her grin turned wicked. "Second rule—when Mom asks who ate the last yogurt, it was always you."

Tyler rolled his eyes, but something warm unfurled in his chest—an odd mix of exasperation and affection. Kayla's knee dug into his thigh as she shifted closer, her phone forgotten on the mattress as she started counting off on her fingers. "Third, you let me do your brows before you leave the house again unless you want to look like a pre-plucked chicken." Her gaze flicked to his forehead critically. "Gamma gave you arch potential, but left the landscaping to me."

The morning light caught the downy hairs along Tyler's jawline—still faint, but noticeably finer than yesterday. Kayla's thumb brushed against them absently as she continued her list, her voice dropping into a mock-conspiratorial whisper.

"And when your period starts—"

Tyler choked on air. "Jesus, Kayla!"

"—which it *will*," she plowed on, ignoring his spluttering, "you steal my tampons from the bathroom cabinet, never the ones in my backpack. Those are emergency stock." Her grin turned sly. "Also? Buy chocolate *before* you need it. You'll thank me later."

"Sage advice?" he asked, amused and more than a bit grossed out.

"There's way more!" she admitted.

Kayla's enthusiasm was bordering on manic as she rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one hand. "Makeup tips," she announced, ticking them off on her fingers. "You don't need foundation yet, but when you do, blend downward or you'll clog your pores. Waterproof mascara only after the tear-duct changes start—trust me, you'll cry at dog commercials." Her finger jabbed toward his chest. "And never let Mom near your eyeliner unless you want to look like a raccoon that fought a Sharpie."

Tyler blinked. "You've put way too much thought into this."

"Not done! Stop interrupting!"

Kayla's knee dug into Tyler's thigh as she leaned closer, her eyes gleaming with the fervor of a cult leader initiating a new member. "Boys are idiots," she declared. "They'll say they don't care about hair products but they'll sniff your shampoo like bloodhounds." Her fingers twitched toward Tyler's ponytail again. "Also, never leave conditioner in overnight unless you want your pillow to feel like a used teabag in the morning."

Tyler opened his mouth—probably to protest—but Kayla steamrolled over him. "Now, bras." She clapped her hands together sharply. "When Gamma finally gets around to those, don't let Mom take you shopping. She'll try to put you in something that looks like Grandma's parachute silk." Her nose wrinkled. "We'll raid my drawer first, then hit up Victoria's Secret during a sale like civilized people."

Tyler laughed. He was overwhelmed and while he should have felt annoyed, he didn't. It was weirdly strange and comforting.

"We'll leave it there for now or at least until you finish being all girlied up" Kayla jumped off the bed, humming to herself as she left.

Tyler groaned, wondering what he just accidentally agreed too.

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

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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

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Author's Note:We are here at least, the end of this story. Its been a lot of fun. I'd really like to thank everyone for their reactions to this, it was a lot of fun to do. I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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5.

Kayla's bedroom was a controlled explosion of femininity that somehow managed to avoid being tacky—probably because she'd spent sixteen years refining the aesthetic. The walls were a soft blush pink, something muted and sophisticated. A gallery wall above the dresser displayed framed concert tickets, Polaroids of Kayla with friends, and one embarrassing middle school dance photo that Taylor vaguely remembered being forced into a suit for. The vanity was a battlefield of half-open compacts and lip gloss tubes, its mirror smudged with fingerprints where Kayla had leaned in too close to apply eyeliner.

The queen-sized bed dominated the space, its fluffy white comforter piled high with decorative pillows in varying shades of cream and rose. Taylor knew without asking that Kayla actually slept with exactly one pillow—the rest got tossed to the floor every night in a ritual their mother had given up fighting years ago. Beside the bed, an overstuffed chair overflowed with discarded outfits from that morning's wardrobe crisis.

"What are we doing here?" Taylor asked from the doorway.

Kayla took her hands, dragging her over to the vanity.

Kayla spun Taylor toward the vanity mirror with a flourish, pressing her shoulders down until she sat. "Phase one," she announced, snapping open a makeup case that smelled of pressed powders and teenage desperation. "Basic survival skills." Her fingers danced over palettes like a concert pianist—burgundy here, champagne there—selecting colors with the precision of a bomb technician.

Taylor recoiled as her sister brandished an eyeliner pencil like a scalpel. "You're not tattooing me."

"Relax, it's just winged liner." Kayla's knee dug into Taylor's thigh as she leaned in, her breath warm against Taylor's cheek. "Unless you want to look like a middle schooler who got into her mom's Clinique bag." The pencil touched Taylor's lash line—a sensation both alien and oddly familiar, like remembering a language she'd never learned.

The mirror reflected Kayla's focused frown, her tongue poking between her teeth the way it did during chemistry exams. Taylor watched her own face transform stroke by stroke—the subtle arch of her brows darkened, lips blotted with a stain that tasted like artificial cherries. Gamma's work became somehow more real under Kayla's ministrations, the girl in the glass settling into her features like they'd always been hers.

Kayla stepped back from the vanity, her fingers twitching near Taylor's face like she wanted to tweak something but couldn't find a flaw. "Holy shit," she breathed, her usual bravado cracking for once. The makeup wasn't dramatic—just enough to accentuate Gamma's handiwork—but the transformation was startling nonetheless. Taylor looked like Kayla's polished doppelganger, the subtle contouring making her cheekbones look sharper, her lips fuller, her eyes somehow brighter.

Kayla snapped a picture. "For the folder" she said and a second later Taylor's phone binged. "One for your Insta too"

"I don't have an Insta" she admitted.

"Not yet sis" Kayla giggled.

Taylor sighed. She had to admit though, the makeup was amazing. For a fleeting moment, she couldn't help but wonder if she could do that too?

Taylor's own phone binged again. A text from Benny:

*You Alive Still, Bro?*

Taylor cursed, realizing she forgot to update him.

"Kay, I gotta talk to Benny" she said, getting up from the chair.

Kayla waved her off. "We'll finish this later, Tay."

Taylor groaned, suddenly realizing why Kayla had insisted on calling her "Taylor".

Kay and Tay.

Shit.

She left her sister's room, moving back toward her own as she called Benny.

"Yo, you all girly now?" asked Benny when he answered.

Taylor rolled her eyes. "Hey to you too".

"Dude, you sound like a chick!" Benny gasped.

"Dude, I am a chick" Taylor said, annoyed.

The silence on Benny's end stretched just a beat too long. Taylor could practically hear the gears grinding in his head through the phone. "So like..." Benny cleared his throat. ""Wait, you actually—"

"They said 48 hours. I'm all girl as of this morning" Taylor explained.

"No shit" Benny said softly.

Benny’s silence stretched long enough that Taylor could hear the faint hum of his gaming PC in the background. Finally, he exhaled sharply. "So you like Kayla's full twin now?"

|"One sec" she said, sending him the pic Kayla had taken of her only minutes ago.

Benny's phone clattered to his desk. Taylor heard the distant thump followed by static-filled cursing. "No fucking way," he whispered when he came back on the line. "That's actually you?"

"I'm a Hottie, right?" he said, mimicking Kayla's voice and tone.

Benny’s breath hitched. “Dude. *Dude.* You look like—holy shit.” The line crackled with his stunned silence before he blurted, “You’re hotter than Kayla!”

She wasn't expecting that.

"Dude" she hissed.

Benny chuckled. "I'm sorry Ty" he said then quickly. "Is it still Tyler?"

"Taylor now" she said, still annoyed that Kayla had tricked her into it.

Benny snorted. "Tay and Kay"

"Bite me" she snapped.

"Gladly"

"Ewww".

Benny laughed. "I call it how I see it"

Taylor felt uncomfortable. "I'm hanging up now"

She ended the call then dialed Callie's number. Callie answered on the second ring.

"Tyler?" her voice was unsure, hopeful.

"Hey Cal" she said, her voice unsure but ready.

Callie sucked in a breath. "You sound a bit like Kayla"

"I look a bit like her too" She bit her lip then sent Callie the photo.

Callie's phone clattered against her desk. Taylor heard a muffled gasp, followed by three seconds of dead air before Callie whispered, "Oh my god." The line clicked—Callie had switched to video. Taylor hesitated, then accepted, watching as Callie's pixelated face morphed from shock to something dangerously close to awe.

"Wow," Callie said, staring. "Kayla, did your makeup?"

"Yeah" Taylor said, unsure about the video call but too late to back out now. "I look ok?"

"You look beautiful," Callie blurted out before she could stop herself.

Taylor blushed.

Callie's fingertips hovered near her screen like she wanted to touch Taylor's image. "So...what do I call you now?"

"Taylor".

Callie giggled. "It's really cute. I like it"

Taylor was strangely relieved. Not just that Callie thought he was cute but also because she still made his stomach flutter. He was scared when things changed and he became a girl, that's he'd stop having a crush on her. Staring at her now---seeing her cute smile---he was glad that wasn't the case.

"You ok?" Callie asked when she realized Taylor wasn't talking.

Taylor blinked. "Yeah and I'm better than good too" She took a deep breath. "I'm happy to say I'm not a Jasmine"

He saw the visible relief on Callie's face.

"I was so scared," Callie said, tearing up slightly.

"Hey it's ok, I'm me" Taylor reassured her. "Well, except I think I'm a gym girl now."

"What?" Callie asked, laughing through her tears.

Taylor sucked in a breath. "I've got abs, Cal. The CDC was here earlier too and I did all this shit without breaking a sweat" She bit her lip. "I want to run too."

Callie's eyes sparkled through the pixelated screen. "Wait—you *want* to run? Like, voluntarily?" She leaned closer, her forehead nearly touching her camera. "You sure you're still not sick?"

Taylor stuck out her tongue. Callie giggled.

She went on to explain the whole of her day to Callie so far. The two of them talked for well over two hours. First it was about Taylor's day then it turned into Callie's day. Callie explained how her parents finally let her go back to school.

"Do they know about me yet?" Taylor asked, concerned.

She nodded. "It was on the news. The CDC also announced that it seems The Bug has moved. With you, Jas and Henry---the last patient---in isolation, there's no more worry."

"They're sure?" she asked, still scared that Callie or Kayla would get sick.

"There hasn't been any new outbreaks since you 3 days ago" Callie clarified. "We're wearing masks, getting regular blood screenings. They're being cautious but they're pretty certain its gone"

She was relieved to hear it.

Now she would just have to survive her new life.

That night, their Dad finally returned home. Taylor and Kayla were watching some mushy rom com that Taylor had no interest in. Kayla was in the kitchen making popcorn when the front door opened.

At first their father thought Taylor was Kayla: "Sweetheart" he said, tired. "I love what you've done with your hair"

Taylor was stunned, not having seen her father in actual months.

Their father was more stunned when Kayla walked out of the kitchen with the popcorn. "Oh hey Daddy" she said casually, dropping onto the couch. "This is Taylor, your new daughter"

And that's how Taylor's reunion with her father went.

Their mother met him at the door with a glass of wine. "Welcome to the Fun House" she said with a laugh.

The rest of the night it was all pretty damn awkward. Taylor felt her father staring at her all night but he didn't say one word to her.

The next morning, Taylor woke to find Kayla perched on the edge of her bed like a manic pixie drill sergeant, already dressed in athleisure wear with a full face of makeup. "Wakey wakey," she announced, tossing a pastel pink sports bra at Taylor's face. "Morning routines are sacred."

Kayla had done some more shopping for her last night. She updated Taylor's bra selection and bought her some clothes that fit her new body properly.

Taylor groaned into her pillow—it smelled faintly of the vanilla-scented shampoo Kayla had forced her to use last night—before grudgingly pulling the bra on. The fabric stretched over her chest with unfamiliar resistance, the snug fit simultaneously comforting and alien. At least this one fit.

"Today's lesson?" Kayla flourished a curling wand like Excalibur. "Basic maintenance."

Taylor eyed the contraption warily. "That looks like a medieval torture device."

"It will be if you don't hold still." Kayla plugged it in with a decisive click. "Gamma gave you the hair, but I'm giving you the skills to not look like you styled it with a weed whacker."

That's how it began and continued.

For the next week, every time she woke, Kayla was there waiting.

Kayla's tutoring sessions unfolded with military precision—each morning began with skincare routines that felt more like chemical warfare, followed by hair styling tutorials where Taylor learned the difference between a beach wave and a "I slept in a dumpster" wave. By day three, she could French braid without cursing, though Kayla still had to intervene when she accidentally tangled half her hair in the straightener.

The strangest part wasn't the techniques—it was how quickly her hands adapted. The Bug had rewired her muscle memory along with everything else. Her fingers automatically twisted strands into perfect spirals, her wrists pivoted at just the right angle to blend eyeshadow. Sometimes Taylor would catch herself humming along to Kayla's playlist while flat-ironing her bangs, moving with an ease that should've taken years to develop.

"You're cheating," Kayla accused during their fourth makeup session, watching Taylor nail winged liner on the first try. She poked Taylor's ribcage. "Gamma gave you built-in tutorials or something?"

Taylor grunted. "I'm a fast study" she admitted.

It was only half right. She had a lot of focus now, more than she ever did as Tyler. What's more, once she seemed to learn something now, she picked up almost instantly.

Kayla huffed, tossing her a tube of mascara. "Try this without stabbing your eye out."

Taylor caught it effortlessly—another perk of Gamma's enhancements—her fingers moving with uncanny precision as she unscrewed the cap. The wand glided over her lashes in smooth strokes, each movement perfectly mirrored from Kayla's earlier demonstration. The mirror reflected lashes so thick and dark they looked photoshopped.

This became their week. Girl Lessons in the morning, then lunch. Followed by more Girl Lessons up to dinner. It was strange and exciting all at once. Better than that was her new relationship with Kayla. They were closer than ever now. Taylor spent less and less time in her room and more time with Kayla, just doing "stuff".

Her nights were spent texting Callie, dodging Benny's pervy texts and setting up her new socials that Kayla insisted she do. They still had to be private though, per the agreement their mother made with the government. Full media blackout until she was officially back at school. That meant no reporters, no interviews but also no TikTok, Instagram or Snapchat.

Everything was going pretty smoothly except Taylor's relationship with her father. They didn't talk and when he was around, it was awkward.

When the second week of her isolation started, Kayla did more of the same but added other little annoyances.

Taylor woke to the smell of jasmine-scented candles—Kayla’s newest obsession—and the sight of her sister contorted into what looked like a human pretzel on the lavender yoga mat they’d dragged into Taylor’s room. "Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," Kayla chirped, her voice strained from holding some impossible pose. "Today we unlock your chakras."

Taylor groaned, pulling a pillow over her face. The fabric smelled like the rosewater toner Kayla had spritzed on her before bed. "It’s seven AM."

"Perfect time for sun salutations," Kayla said, unfurling herself with unnatural grace. She tossed another mat at Taylor’s legs. "Gamma gave you flexibility. Let’s not waste it."

Invoking "Gamma this" and "Gamma that" was starting to get on her nerves but Kayla wouldn't stop.

With yoga now added to her daily routine, she started to feel more flexible as well.

Week 2 dragged on as much as the first but with more to do.

Taylor's phone buzzed with an incoming call mid-downward dog, nearly sending her face-first into the yoga mat. Kayla made an exasperated noise as Taylor wobbled upright, nearly tripping over her own leggings—still not used to the way fabric clung to her hips now—to grab the device. Callie's name flashed on the screen.

Taylor fumbled with the phone, her Gamma-enhanced reflexes the only thing preventing it from smacking her in the face. "Hey Cal," she panted, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand—a gesture that made Kayla roll her eyes and mime proper lady-like blotting with an imaginary handkerchief.

"It's official, no more Bug in Ridgewood" Callie announced with glee. "So when are you officially coming back to school?"

Taylor sighed. "I have one more week"

She could hear the disappointment in Callie's sigh. "I really want to see you, you know?"

There was definitely something unspoken there. Taylor thought Callie was just being her friend like usual but something shifted. That something was with Taylor for years but he was certain Callie had never truly felt that way. Both of them were aware of it but neither of them were brave enough to do anything about it.

The call ended with Callie's unspoken question lingering in the air like static. Taylor stared at her phone screen—now displaying the lock screen photo Kayla had sneakily changed to a mortifying close-up of their matching manicures—until Kayla's socked foot prodded her thigh.

The socked foot jabbed Taylor again. "Earth to Gamma Girl," Kayla said, curling her toes against Taylor's leggings. "You just did the whole staring-into-space-with-a-stupid-smile thing. Callie say something good?"

"Nope, just the usual," Taylor said, turning away.

"You're blushing".

The third week of isolation began with Kayla dumping a Sephora bag onto Taylor's bed at dawn—contents spilling out in a cacophony of plastic-wrapped palettes and jingling brushes. "Advanced warfare," Kayla declared, plucking a liquid eyeliner pen from the pile like Excalibur. Taylor groaned into her pillow, which now permanently smelled of Kayla's vanilla-chai body mist from their nightly skincare routines.

The eyeliner pen hovered dangerously close to Taylor's waterline as Kayla demonstrated the "puppy dog" technique for the third time that morning. "Hold still," Kayla murmured, her tongue poking out in concentration. Taylor blinked—bad move—and felt the cold sting of liquid liner where it shouldn't be. "Dammit, Tay!"

"Sorry," Taylor muttered, dabbing at the smudge with a cotton swab. Her reflection in the vanity mirror showed raccoon eyes that would make a punk rocker proud. Three weeks of this, and she still couldn't nail eyeliner. Meanwhile, her Gamma-enhanced muscles could do one-handed pushups without breaking a sweat. Life wasn't fair.

Kayla snatched the liner back with a huff. "Let's switch to theory." She pulled up a YouTube tutorial on contouring—some beauty guru with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Taylor's phone buzzed. Another text from Benny: *u gonna wear a skirt when u come back?* She rolled her eyes so hard Kayla noticed.

"Problem?" Kayla asked, eyebrow arched.

"Benny being Benny." Taylor turned her screen to show the message.

Kayla grinned. "Well I do have the cutest one that would work with those killer legs of yours"

Taylor grunted. "I told you, Kay, I'm not ready for that"

Her sister pouted but dropped it.

Things continued like that for another few days. Girl Lessons, online school, more Girl Lessons. Then came the day Taylor had been waiting for—her last day of isolation.

The dining room smelled like garlic butter and nostalgia—a combination Taylor hadn’t realized she missed until their father awkwardly placed the takeout containers in front of her with a stiff nod. "Your usual," he muttered, sliding the Styrofoam clamshell across the table like it might explode. The grease-stained container held the last meal she'd ever eaten as Tyler: extra-spicy General Tso’s chicken, the kind that made her chug milk halfway through.

Kayla snorted, poking at her own salad with surgical precision. "Way to commemorate the apocalypse, Dad." Their mother shot her a warning look, but Taylor caught the twitch of her lips. The whole scene was bizarrely normal—if you ignored the fact that Taylor was sitting there in a cropped hoodie that showed off her newly acquired midriff, her hair styled in perfect beach waves courtesy of Kayla’s relentless tutorials.

Taylor hesitated before popping open the container, the steam carrying memories of soccer team dinners and late-night cram sessions. She’d eaten this exact meal a hundred times before, but never with these hands—never with nails painted ballet-slipper pink, never with wrists that looked too delicate to belong to someone who could out-bench their football team. The first bite was unexpectedly painful in its familiarity, the heat flooding her mouth just like always. Except now it made her eyes water in a way that had Kayla tossing her a napkin with an exasperated, "Blot, don’t wipe."

"So excited about school next week?" Their father asked, trying small talk.

The man was struggling with all of this.

Taylor shrugged. "I'm pretty sure its going to be the same old school like usual."

Kayla snorted. "As if"

"What does that mean?" asked Taylor, scared that something new might happen.

Kayla smirked. "It means you're hot now, Tay. People are going to notice"

Taylor groaned as she stabbed at her General Tso’s chicken with chopsticks that suddenly felt too delicate in her hands. The takeout celebration dinner was supposed to feel normal—their parents had even dimmed the dining room lights like it was some fancy restaurant instead of their cramped suburban home. But nothing about tonight was normal, not with Dad avoiding eye contact every time Taylor’s newly manicured fingers reached for another egg roll, not with Mom pretending not to notice when Taylor instinctively adjusted her bra strap through the thin fabric of her hoodie.

This was their new normal now.

On Saturday morning, Taylor's mother silently entered her room. She expected to find her new daughter still asleep but Taylor was sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Dr. Jones called, your isolation has been lifted. You're free to leave the house if you'd like".

Taylor's face lit up. "Seriously?" Her mother nodded, she squealed.

Finally, she'd be able to run without the stupid treadmill.

Taylor's fingers trembled as she tied the laces of her running shoes—brand new neon pink Nikes Kayla had bought her the other day. The morning air through her cracked bedroom window carried the scent of wet pavement and impending rain, making her lungs ache with the need to move. She paused at the full-length mirror Kayla had installed last week, taking in the stranger staring back: leggings hugging unfamiliar muscle definition, a cropped sports bra revealing smooth skin where her new abs were on full display.

There was nothing boy about her now.

Tyler was gone. She'd mourn him but lately, she'd felt a lot more confident and full of energy. She never realized how lonely and lazy her old life had been.

The front door creaked open with the gravitas of a prison gate—Taylor hesitated on the threshold, her neon pink shoelaces catching sunlight like traffic cones. Three weeks of isolation had rewired her perception of air itself; the suburban morning smelled impossibly green, asphalt still damp from overnight rain exhaling petrichor that prickled her enhanced senses. Her first step onto the porch felt like stepping onto the moon.

She walked to the end of the driveway, limbering up.

Their elderly neighbor, Mrs. Finch, was getting her mail from the box.

"Morning Mrs. Finch" she said cheerfully.

"Oh morning, Kayla dear, I haven't see you in weeks. Not since poor Tyler got sick" She paused. "How is he?"

Taylor was embarrassed and smiled. "Actually, I'm Tyler ma'am".

Mrs. Finch's bifocals slid down her nose as she squinted at Taylor. The silence stretched long enough for a leaf to flutter between them. "Oh," she finally said, adjusting her cardigan with trembling hands. "Well. You look... just like your sister."

Taylor laughed. "Well we are twins."

The old woman nodded, turned and started back toward her house.

Taylor started her run.

The pavement blurred beneath Taylor's neon shoes as she lapped the block twice—testing Gamma's limits with each stride that sent her flying past mailboxes in a pink streak. Her lungs burned sweetly, not from exhaustion but from the sheer joy of movement after weeks of confinement. On the third pass, her feet pivoted without conscious thought, carrying her down the cul-de-sac toward Callie's butter-yellow colonial before her brain could protest.

Taylor slowed to a walk as the house came into view, suddenly aware of her sweat-damp sports bra and the way her ponytail had come half-undone during the run. Callie's bedroom curtains were still drawn—of course they were, it was barely 8 AM on a Saturday—but the kitchen light glowed warm behind the bay window. Taylor hovered at the edge of the driveway, torn between knocking and bolting back home like a startled deer.

The decision was made for her when the front door swung open. Callie's mom nearly dropped her coffee mug at the sight of Taylor panting on her porch. "Jesus—" She caught herself, eyes darting from Taylor's Gamma-enhanced curves to the faint remnants of Tyler's features in her face. "Taylor? Honey, you look..."

"Hi Mrs. M" she said, waving awkwardly.

There was a squeal from somewhere in the house, someone made dashing toward them. A moment, Callie leapt past her mother, throwing her arms around Taylor's neck.

Callie's bare feet skidded on the hardwood as she collided with Taylor, the impact sending them both stumbling backward onto the dew-damp welcome mat. Taylor instinctively wrapped her arms around Callie's waist—her Gamma-enhanced reflexes the only thing preventing them from toppling over—and suddenly she was hyperaware of the warmth of Callie's sleep-rumpled tank top against her bare midriff, the strawberry shampoo scent of her hair tickling Taylor's nose.

"You're here" Callie gasped. "You're out then? No more lock down?"

Taylor laughed. "Bug free".

Callie's fingers dug into Taylor's shoulders like she might evaporate if she let go. "Mom, can Taylor stay for breakfast?" The words tumbled out in a rush, her breath warm against Taylor's collarbone. Mrs. M's gaze flickered between them—lingering on how Callie's thumbs brushed the exposed skin above Taylor's sports bra—before nodding slowly.

Callie let go of her neck but grabbed her hand and led her into the house toward the kitchen. Mr. M was already sitting at the table, his toast halfway to his mouth when he saw Taylor.

"Taylor, I assume?" he asked, watching both the girls like a hawk.

"It is now, sir" she said as Callie dragged her to a seat.

The syrup bottle hovered between them like an interrogation lamp. Mr. M poured another precise spiral onto his pancakes while studying Taylor over the rim of his glasses. "So," he said, tapping the spatula against the griddle, "the virus thing. Did it... hurt?"

Callie kicked him under the table. "Dad!"

"No sir," Taylor explained. "I was asleep when they happened. When I woke up both days, the changes were done"

Taylor watched Mrs. M's knuckles whiten around her coffee mug. "And your parents—how are they handling..." Her gaze flicked to Taylor's manicured nails drumming against the maple tabletop.

"Mom's adjusting," Taylor said carefully, tracing the wood grain with her fingertip. "Dad's... still working through it." The understatement burned her tongue worse than the General Tso’s chicken had last night.

Mr. M cleared his throat. "We saw the CDC bulletins. The..." His eyes darted to Taylor's collarbones peeking above her sports bra. "The physical changes are permanent?"

"Yep. Batting for the other team now" Taylor said with a chuckle.

"The better team" said Callie, giving Taylor's hand a gentle squeeze.

Mrs. M's spoon clinked against her cereal bowl. "What about school records? Birth certificate?" Her questions came rapid-fire, the same practical concerns Taylor's own mother had obsessed over during week two of isolation. "Do you still use the same social security number?"

Taylor shrugged. "Got a provisional ID last week. The government seems to be handling all of that."

Mr. M leaned forward, elbows sticking to the maple syrup stains on the table. "And physically...you feel alright?" His eyes darted to Callie's fingers interlaced with Taylor's, then quickly away. "No side effects?"

Taylor had to think about it. "I'm not as lazy as before" She waved at her outfit. "I was out running. It seems I'm pretty athletic now"

Callie grinned and squeezed her hand tighter. "That's insane."

Mrs. M cleared her throat. "And medically? Are you..." Her voice dropped. "Fully functional?"

Taylor blushed. She wasn't really sure how to answer that. She knew the answer from what Dr. Jones had told her but saying it aloud.

"Mom!" Callie chastized her mother. "And with that, interrogation is over. Taylor and I are going to my room now!"

Before any of them could say a thing, Callie grabbed her hand and pulled her from the kitchen.

"Keep the door wide open, young lady!" her father shouted but the two girls were already out of the kitchen.

Callie's bedroom door swung open with the faint creak Taylor remembered from childhood visits, but the space beyond had transformed into something entirely foreign. Posters of boy bands had been replaced with moody indie film prints, the twin bed upgraded to a queen with a wrought-iron frame that looked suspiciously adult. A vanity dominated the far wall, its surface cluttered with more makeup than Kayla owned—which Taylor hadn't thought possible. The air smelled like the vanilla candle flickering on the nightstand, layered with something citrusy from the diffuser humming in the corner.

Taylor noticed some Kpop posters as well.

Callie kicked the door shut with her heel—not quite closed enough to earn parental wrath, but enough to grant them the illusion of privacy. Taylor hovered near the bed, suddenly hyperaware of her own sweat-damp skin and the way her neon running shoes clashed violently with Callie's muted lavender bedroom decor.

"Its really nice" she said as Callie took her hand and sat down on the bed with her.

Callie bit her lip. "If I do something right now, will you freak out?"

Taylor's pulse thudded in her throat—she could feel it against her collarbone where Callie's fingers had brushed moments ago. The morning sunlight through Callie's curtains painted stripes across the comforter between them, highlighting the space where their knees almost touched. "Depends on the something," she managed, her voice sounding oddly high even to her own ears.

Callie's fingers twitched against the comforter before darting forward to hook around Taylor's pinky—a gesture so small it shouldn't have sent Taylor's heart ricocheting against her ribs. "Like this," Callie whispered, her thumb brushing Taylor's knuckle in a way that made the scar from Tyler's bike accident feel brand new.

Taylor's breath caught as Callie's pinky curled tighter around hers—a childish gesture that somehow felt more intimate than anything she'd experienced pre-Gamma. The morning sunlight caught the gold flecks in Callie's brown eyes, making her eyes look like amber trapped in honey.

"I want to kiss you so much right now" Callie found herself saying, catching them both off guard.

"Wait, what?" asked Taylor, surprised.

Callie bit her lip again. "You're absolutely gorgeous. I mean I've always had the tiniest bit of a crush on Kayla but you know, she's Kayla. But you, I liked Tyler a lot..." She paused, taking a deep breath. "And now..."

Taylor stopped Callie talking with her lips.

Callie's breath hitched against Taylor's mouth—a startled little gasp that tasted like maple syrup and morning toothpaste. The kiss lasted longer than she expected. Callie pulled away gently, a big smile on her face.

"That was so not like you" she said, brushing hair behind her ear.

"Sorry".

Taylor was certain she fucked up. She wasn't sure what happened but something inside of her told her to kiss Callie. She'd been scared about her sexual preferences for awhile now. Ever since she changed actually. She'd been doing some research online about it. A lot of Bug girls kept the same sexual preferences as before but some did start liking guys. Many of them ended up bisexual. She wasn't sure how things were going to turn out. She knew she'd been attracted to Callie as Tyler and after their "flirt calls" as Kayla called them, she was convinced she still felt the same.

Now she just confirmed it.

"I'm not mad," Callie finally said. "In fact, I kinda like this new, impulsive person you've become"

Callie leaned in and kissed her again. It was longer and more sensual than before.

Taylor melted into the second kiss. Callie's fingers tangled in the hair at Taylor's nape, the slight tug sending an electric jolt down her spine. When they finally broke apart, Taylor realized her hands had migrated to Callie's waist entirely on their own, thumbs brushing the sliver of warm skin between her sleep shorts and cropped tank top.

"If we don't stop, we might go a little too far" Callie gasped, her arms around Taylor's neck.

Taylor's fingers twitched against Callie's waist—part of her wanting to pull away, the other part wanting to press closer. The logical side of her brain screamed that this was reckless, that they were in Callie's childhood bedroom with her parents just downstairs. Finally she sighed and moved her hands away.

"Hormones suck" she pouted.

Callie giggled, pressing her forehead against Taylor's. "Yeah, well, welcome to girlhood." She traced a finger down Taylor's arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

A dinging text on her Taylor's phone finally broke the mood. Taylor pulled it from the carrier on her arm, checking it.

"Its my Mom. She's wondering where I am"

"I guess I can give you back," Callie said, taking her hand and walking back downstairs with her.

At the bottom of the stairs, she let go, not wanting to alert her parents. Callie was still very much in the closet.

"I'll see you at school on Monday?" Taylor announced. Then as she was going out the door, she shouted. "CYA MR. AND MRS.M!"

She ran back home, making it there in no time.

She was surprised to see Benny sitting on the porch.

Benny leaned against the porch railing with his usual cocky slouch, but his fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the wood—nervous energy betraying his casual facade. His gaze locked onto Taylor's Gamma-enhanced figure the moment she rounded the corner, tracking her movements with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

Taylor slowed, not sure how this was going to go.

Benny was Tyler's friend but he was a bit of a horndog. She'd been avoiding him mostly, keeping their texts and calls pretty short. She wasn't sure how to act around him anymore. They became friends out of convenience, both of them bullied by the assholes of the school like Jason. Benny was that short, heavy set kid that everyone liked to use as a punching bag. He wasn't a bad guy but he talked an awful lot about wanting to "bang" this girl and that.

Upon seeing him there, she felt her skin crawl slightly.

Benny's fingers twitched against the porch railing as Taylor approached, his Adam's apple bobbing like a buoy in choppy water. "Damn, T—Taylor," he corrected himself with visible effort, eyes darting from her neon running shoes, up her running attire to the sweat-damp tendrils of hair clinging to her neck. "You look...wow."

"Was out for a run" she said, absently stretching.

"You run now?" he asked, incredulous.

Taylor shrugged. "Jason became an airhead, I became a runner"

Benny was staring at her exposed abs. "Those are real, right?"

Taylor fought back the urge to roll her eyes.

Taylor crossed her arms over her stomach, suddenly self-conscious under Benny’s stare. "Yeah, they're real. Just like the virus that gave them to me." She edged past him toward the and sat on the top step.

Benny sat down next to awkwardly, making sure there was at least a whole person of space between them.

"I don't bite" Taylor laughed, Benny awkwardly chuckled.

"Just trying to give you your space" Benny said nervously.

That's right. She forgot about that little bit. Even though Benny talked the talk as it were, he was actually terrified of girls. Well not terrified but he generally kept his distance from them. Pretty girls were even harder for him. Which meant...

Poor Benny.

Benny's fingers drummed against his knees—an erratic staccato that matched the nervous flicker of his eyes. "So uh," he cleared his throat, staring resolutely at the porch steps between them, "does it... you know... feel different?" His Adam's apple bobbed violently. "Down there?"

Taylor snorted, flicking a pebble off the step with her foot. "Yeah Benny, it feels exactly like having an entirely different set of genitalia would feel."

He paused for a moment. "What about up there?" He grabbed at imaginary boobs in front of his chest.

Taylor was annoyed and feeling devious. "How about I kiss you and you can find out yourself?"

Benny recoiled, almost falling off the porch.

Taylor burst out laughing.

"I'm not contagious anymore, bozo".

Benny recovered quickly but instead of sitting back down, he stood a foot away. "You're a horrible person, you know that?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Says the guy who just asked a girl about her boobs and..."

Benny waved his hands, interrupting her. "Ok, ok. I get it".

Taylor smirked. "Its a shame, I think you would have made a cute girl."

Benny took another step back, making the sign of the cross with his fingers "How do you know you're not contagious?"

Taylor smiled. "Well one they told me so and two, if I am, you'll have a new male bro to hang out with"

Benny looked confused for a second before it clicked. "Callie? You kissed Callie?" Taylor blushed. "When? How?"

Taylor threw a pebble at him. "A girl doesn't kiss and tell."

"Aww, c'mon dude" Benny whined, getting a look from Taylor. "Ummm, dudette?"

Taylor rolled her eyes, this time letting him see. Nope" she said, getting to her feet. "And don't go asking her either or else I might have to kick your ass".

She flexed a muscle to prove her point.

Benny stared. "Wait, you're ripped. Well not like ripped ripped but you've got one of those bods. How the hell did that happen?"

Taylor shrugged. "Woke up like this."

"Maybe I should get infected," Benny mumbled under his breath.

"I wouldn't try it" Taylor said "I can get periods now."

"Shit" Benny said, taking another step back.

"It could be worse," Taylor admitted, thinking of Jasmine.

Benny seemingly read her mind. "Have you seen her latest stream?"

Taylor nodded. While she didn't want to, it was like watching a car crash over and over again. Every stream, Jasmine seemed to slip further and further away from her previous self. It was scary to see her de-evolution. It was even scarier to think that a twist of fate could have made her the same way.

She shuddered. "The thought terrifies me."

Benny nodded. "It should terrify us all."

Taylor got a text from her Mom: *Dr. Jones called. They want to meet with you at the hospital tomorrow.*

"All good?" asked Benny.

Taylor shrugged. "Just another step in my new life as Taylor apparently."

******

The hospital corridor smelled like antiseptic and bad coffee, the kind that had been sitting in the pot since Friday. Taylor's sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as she followed her mother past the nurse's station—a sound that made her flinch every time. She'd never noticed how loud her footsteps could be before, how the sound bounced off these sterile walls.

They were supposed to meet Dr. Jones with another doctor from the CDC named Dr. Morris.

They met the two doctors in a secluded office room, probably belonging to one of the other doctors at the hospital.

Dr. Morris turned out to be a woman who looked like she'd been assembled from contradictions—early forties but with laugh lines deeper than her professional demeanor should allow, designer heels clicking against hospital tiles while her lab coat flapped with the urgency of someone perpetually late. She smelled faintly of lavender hand sanitizer and something sharper underneath, like burnt coffee left too long on a hotplate.

After they sat on a gray couch, Dr. Jones introduced her colleague.

Dr. Morris leaned forward, her fingers steepled beneath her chin. "First off, Taylor, I want you to know this isn't an evaluation." Her voice carried a warmth that clashed with the clinical white of the walls. "I'm just here to help people navigate what happens when their outsides stop matching their insides overnight." A chuckle escaped her, sudden and unexpected. "Though I'll admit, 'overnight gender-swapping virus' wasn't in my graduate school curriculum."

Taylor stared at the woman.

She was a shrink.

"You're a psychiatrist?" she asked, concerned.

Dr. Morris smiled. "Psychologist actually. I've been asked by the government to speak with you and others like you. To make sure you're adjusting properly"

Taylor leaned back into the couch, arms crossed. "I'm fine."

"I can see that and normally this would have been sooner but Dr. Jones felt you didn't need as much help because you had your sister guiding you" Dr. Morris was smiling as she talked.

"We're not here because we think you're not adjusting" Dr. Jones quickly added.

Dr. Morris' pen hovered over her notepad—the hesitation more telling than any note she might write. "Most Gamma patients experience some degree of dysphoria," she said carefully, eyes flicking to where Taylor's fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against her own knee. "But your file suggests you've adapted remarkably well. Almost... instinctively."

Taylor felt Dr. Morris' observation like a pinprick between her shoulder blades. She uncrossed her arms, forcing her hands to still against her thighs. "Guess I got lucky," she said, aiming for nonchalance but catching the edge of something sharper in her voice. The lavender sanitizer smell suddenly felt cloying.

"Very lucky" Dr. Morris admitted. "The virus has a way of rewriting some patients, making them completely different".

Like Jasmine, Taylor thought but didn't say it.

"Why didn't it change me?" she asked, curious.

Dr. Morris sighed. "Honestly we don't know." She set down her pad and pen. "As you're aware, there are three strains of the virus---Alpha, Beta and Gamma. In the beginning, Alpha was the only strain. It was slow and caused us a lot of problems. Then came Beta, faster but not nearly as effective as Gamma. Gamma is the real beauty. It only started to show its face a year ago and what's more, it has variants."

"Like me and Jasmine?" Taylor asked, Dr. Morris nodded.

"We're not entirely sure how it happens or why" Dr. Morris admitted. "Its why we're here now. The government is trying to figure it out. Between the three variants, yours does the least. You could almost say you and Jasmine are polar opposites in that regard."

Taylor quickly pictured Jasmine, on stream, acting like a ditz. 

She shuddered. "I can't imagine how she must be feeling".

"Normal actually" said Dr. Morris. "The virus rewrites you completely. She knows she was Jason, she knows how she was before but to her, it's like waking from a dream. Her new life is her life now."

Taylor thought about that. "Why didn't it happen to me?"

Dr. Morris sighed. "We don't know"

Taylor caught on quickly. "And that's why I'm here."

Dr. Morris smiled. "You're a smart one." She picked up her pad again. "I want to meet with you twice a week for the next few months. At the beginning and end of your school week. Three times a month we'll also meet as a group"

"A group?" she asked, confused. 

"You and the other two" she said "Jasmine and Henry from your school and the two others from Huntsville".

Henry? So that's what happened to what's-her-face. She felt bad not remembering the other victim but they'd never met before. 

She also wasn't sure she was so thrilled about being in a room with Jasmine.

Her mother grabbed her hand, sensing her unease.

"We don't want to put pressure on you" Dr. Jones finally spoke. "We just want to better understand what's going on. Even after all these years, we still don't understand it."

The way she said "years" made it sound like this had been going on forever. Taylor was sure The Bug had only been around for a decade or so.

She decided not to press it. 

Ok" she finally said. "I think they might actually help honestly. There are some things I'd like to understand too."

Her mother patted her hand, the doctors smiled and nodded. 

The meeting ended there. Dr. Jones and Dr. Morris thanked her and her mother for their time. 

They left the hospital. 

"You hungry?" her mother asked.

"Starving," Taylor admitted, feeling her stomach rumble.

Her mother smiled. "I'll go get the car and bring it around."

As her mother walked off, a text message dinged. Taylor pulled out her phone, expecting it to be from Kayla or her friends. What she didn't expected was a text from an Unknown Sender. She almost didn't open it but curiosity got the better of her.

She opened the text and almost gasped as she read:

I KNEW YOU WERE GOING TO BE GORGEOUS. 

A chill ran up Taylor's spine as realization dawned on her.

TO BE CONTINUED

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

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Author's Note:Here it is the first part of Taylor's second story! This one is all finished too, it will be posted in nine parts, once a week like the first story. Most of it takes place at school, so be prepared for that. I will say that there are some slow, dull patches to this story because school life isn't all that exciting to me. I can also say that I'm currently working on a third story too, which I will pace differently. I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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1.

The mall's fluorescent lights made Taylor squint as she stepped through the sliding doors, the sudden blast of conditioned air carrying the mingled scents of pretzels, perfume, and too many bodies in one space. Behind her, Kayla hip-checked a display mannequin wearing something that looked like a denim nightmare. "That," Kayla announced, pointing at the offending outfit, "is what happens when you let aliens design clothes."

The mall. It had been Kayla’s idea. She was with their mother when she came to pick Taylor up. There was no point arguing with her when she got her shopping fever.

Now she was just along for the ride.

Taylor's fingers brushed against a rack of sundresses, the fabric whispering against her skin in a way that still felt foreign. "You're hesitating," Kayla murmured, appearing at her shoulder with an armful of hangers. "Stop thinking like Tyler. That coral one would make your skin glow." She flicked the tag with a smirk. "And it's 40% off, which Mom will pretend not to care about."

Taylor was apprehensive and terrified. All of this was totally new territory for her. Not the mall of course. She'd been to this mall in Huntsville multiple times. Back then though, she acted just like any other guy. When it was time to shop for clothes, he'd just pick out some generic blue jeans, printed tees and call it a day. Now though, he knew how Kayla shopped.

He was now on the other side of it as it were.

This was Kayla Land.

Kayla started pulling things off various racks, not waiting for Taylor's input.

Taylor's arms buckled under the sudden weight of hangers as Kayla dumped another armful of garments onto her already overflowing pile. A silky emerald blouse slithered off the top, landing on the mall floor with a whisper. "That's the one," Kayla declared, plucking it up before Taylor could react. "Emerald makes your eyes pop—trust me, I've been studying color theory since sixth grade." She thrust the blouse back into Taylor's arms with the precision of a blackjack dealer sliding chips across felt.

"Kayla, I can't possibly—" Taylor began, but her sister was already marching toward the dressing rooms, the plastic soles of her sandals slapping against tile in a staccato rhythm that brooked no argument. Taylor shuffled after her, the mountain of clothes swaying precariously. A saleswoman shot them a wary glance as they passed, her mouth tightening at the edges—probably calculating the odds of having to refold everything later.

The dressing room door clicked shut behind them with finality. Kayla leaned against the mirrored wall, arms crossed. "Strip," she commanded, nodding at Taylor's sweatpants and generic gray top---both provided by the CDC. "We're burning daylight." When Taylor hesitated, Kayla rolled her eyes and snatched the coral sundress from the pile. "Look, either you try these on willingly, or I start dressing you like a life-sized Bratz doll. Your call."

"Leave first and I'll do as you say" she was still feeling pretty self conscious.

Kayla huffed but left.

As soon as she was done, Taylor stripped to her underwear. She grunted in the full length mirror. While the CDC had provided a week or more of fresh clothing, it was all pretty bland. The set she was currently wearing was one that Kayla had bought her---purple, from Victoria's Secret. It was by far the fanciest thing she owned and the MOST embarrassing.

She pulled on the coral dress and sighed. She might have been a girl now but she wasn't looking forward to this---her first dress.

Turning she looked into the mirror.

She wasn't seeing Tyler in a dress. She was a girl now. She was Taylor and she was actually pretty. She also hated to admit she looked good in the dress too.

Damn it.

"Kayla. I'm done" she said softly, still amazed.

Kayla burst into the dressing room without knocking, her gasp loud enough to make Taylor flinch. "Holy shit," Kayla breathed, circling Taylor like a fashion critic assessing a prize-winning design. She stopped behind Taylor in the mirror, their matching hazel eyes locking in the reflection. "You look...better than me in this." The admission slipped out before Kayla could stop it, her fingers hovering near Taylor's waist where the fabric cinched perfectly.

Taylor swallowed hard, watching Kayla's face flicker between admiration and something sharper in the mirror. "It's just the dress," she muttered, tugging at the hem self-consciously. The coral fabric really did make her skin glow—another thing she hadn't anticipated.

"It's not just a dress," Kayla said brightly. "It's your butterfly phase finally showing itself!"

Kayla's hands descended on Taylor's shoulders like a stylist possessed, spinning her away from the mirror. "Okay, new rule—you're trying on everything I picked." She began yanking out things hanging in the dresser room with alarming efficiency. "This wrap dress will make your waist look tiny, these jeans will make your ass look phenomenal—yes, I know you're blushing—and this blouse?" She held up the emerald silk like a matador taunting a bull. "This is going to ruin Callie's ability to form coherent sentences."

Taylor grabbed for the blouse, mortified. "Kayla!"

"What? You kissed her, she's obviously into you—capitalize on it!" Kayla tossed the blouse over Taylor's head before she could protest. "Now arms up, we're doing rapid-fire outfit changes. Mom gave us two hours and we've already wasted twenty minutes on your existential crisis."

I should have never told her about kissing Callie, she thought as she pulled the dress over her head.

The rapid-fire dressing began with the merciless efficiency of a military drill—Kayla tossing garments at Taylor like a quarterback under pressure while Taylor fumbled with zippers and straps she barely understood. "Left arm in—no, your other left—now twist slightly so the fabric drapes properly," Kayla commanded, flicking Taylor's wrist away when she tried to adjust the neckline herself. The emerald blouse clung to Taylor's torso like liquid, the silk cool against her suddenly hypersensitive skin.

"Now pivot," Kayla ordered, snapping her fingers. Taylor spun awkwardly, nearly tripping over a discarded sandal. Kayla's critical gaze swept over her like a scanner. "Hips forward more—you're standing like you're waiting for a punch. This isn't boxing, it's fashion." She jerked Taylor's shoulders back with surprising force. "Posture is free real estate, and you've got the spine for it now. Use it."

Taylor grimaced as Kayla yanked the blouse off her in one fluid motion, immediately replacing it with a wrap dress that smelled faintly of lavender. The fabric slithered around her body with unsettling sentience, tying itself in a way that made Taylor's waist disappear into some sort of-defying optical illusion. "How does this even—"

"Magic," Kayla deadpanned.

The dressing room mirror reflected a stranger—someone with Taylor's face but none of her uncertainty. The girl in the mirror held herself like she'd been born in silk, her fingers lightly tracing the neckline with practiced ease. Taylor blinked. The Gamma variant was doing that thing again—the muscle memory she hadn't earned.

She made a mental note to discuss it with Dr. Morris at their first session.

Kayla flung a pair of high-waisted jeans at Taylor's chest. "These," she declared, "will make your ass look like you invented gravity."

She took off the dress. She then pulled on the jeans, pairing them with a tank top. Looking in the mirror she was mesmerized. Kayla was right, these jeans did make her ass look amazing. The thought kinda scared her. Never in a million years did she think she'd be standing in a dressing room with her sister, admiring how she looked.

"That looks really good," Kayla admitted.

Taylor traced the waistband of the jeans with hesitant fingers, the denim hugging her hips in a way that felt both alien and exhilarating. She twisted slightly, watching the way the fabric curved around her rear in the mirror—a shape that would've made teenage Tyler combust with embarrassment, but now sent a flush of something warmer through her. "I look..." The words died in her throat as she caught Kayla's smirk in the reflection.

Taylor's fingers lingered on the ribbed hem of the tank top, tracing the way it skimmed her waist—higher than she'd ever worn anything before, revealing a sliver of skin that made her breath catch. The jeans hugged her hips with a snugness that should have been uncomfortable but felt oddly... right. She flexed her knees experimentally, marveling at how the denim moved with her like a second skin.

Taylor couldn't stop running her hands down the sides of the jeans, feeling the way the rigid denim yielded slightly under her fingers before springing back into perfect shape. The tank top's spaghetti straps tickled her shoulders—so thin compared to the thick cotton tees she used to wear—and when she breathed deep, she swore she could feel air moving across newly exposed skin at her midriff. "I think..." She swallowed hard, watching her reflection mirror the movement of her throat. "I think this is my favorite."

"I think you might be right," her sister agreed. She then looked at the pile. "We're still taking the rest of course".

Taylor sighed but learned long ago not to argue with Kayla.

The cashier's scanner beeped ominously as Kayla swiped the CDC's prepaid credit card with the casual arrogance of someone who'd never paid a bill in her life. Taylor watched the total climb with mounting horror—three digits, then four—but Kayla just smirked and tapped in the security code like she was entering a cheat for unlimited lives. "Relax," she said, pocketing the receipt. "This is what's for".

Taylor clutched the shopping bags to her chest like a shield as Kayla steered them toward the cosmetics department with terrifying purpose. The perfume counters loomed ahead like minefields, their floral-clouded air thickening with every step. A sales associate in a pristine white lab coat materialized before them, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. "Looking for anything special today?" she purred, eyes darting between their matching faces.

Taylor looked around. "Where's Mom?" she asked.

"She said she'll meet us in the food court after we're done" her twin said as if it was a common occurrence.

The sales associate looked annoyed at being ignored. "How can I help you, ladies?" she asked again, the annoyance clear in her voice.

"We need the essentials" Kayla said without missing a beat. "And I mean ALL of them".

Taylor groaned. This was going to take forever. Kayla's version of essentials included everything from primer to setting spray and everything in between.

Kayla grabbed Taylor's arm and pulled her toward the display counters. "First, we need to find your foundation shade," she said, pushing Taylor down onto a stool with the authority of a seasoned sergeant. The sales associate—her nametag read 'Janice'—perked up at the prospect of a big sale.

Janice circled Taylor with professional detachment, tilting her chin toward the lights with gloved fingers. "Cool undertones," she murmured, swiping testers along Taylor's jawline. Taylor sat frozen, acutely aware of every brushstroke against skin that still felt foreign. The foundation smelled chemically sweet, triggering a phantom memory of watching Kayla do this ritual through their shared bathroom mirror for years.

Taylor tuned them out mostly. Thanks to Kayla's tutelage over the month, she could do her own makeup in her sleep.

Janice pulled out another shade. "This one matches perfectly," she announced, holding up a mirror.

Taylor blinked at her reflection—the foundation erased every trace of boyhood sunburn and unevenness, leaving behind skin so flawless it looked airbrushed. Kayla leaned in, inspecting Janice's work with a critical eye. "Good call on the neutral palette," she said, already grabbing concealers and blushes. "We'll take the full line—primer to setting spray."

Things progressed like this until they were at the cash register, buying their purchases.

"You know you need to know this stuff" said Kayla, nudging her.

Taylor shrugged. "You taught me a bunch already"

"Not enough" said her sister, grabbing her arm and steering her some place else.

Taylor froze mid-step when she saw the neon "Piercings" sign flickering above the kiosk, its garish pink light reflecting off trays of surgical steel jewelry. "No way," she said, backpedaling so fast she nearly tripped over a stroller. Kayla's fingers closed around her wrist with the precision of a bailiff serving papers.

"Oh yes way," Kayla grinned, dragging her toward the kiosk where a bored-looking woman with a septum ring was buffing her nails. "You already have the lobes—Gamma gave you those for free—but we're upgrading you to a full set."

Taylor's pulse thundered in her newly sensitive ears as Kayla shoved her onto the piercing kiosk's stool with the enthusiasm of a cult recruiter. The vinyl seat stuck to her thighs through the thin fabric of her new jeans—another sensation she hadn't anticipated needing to process. "Second lobes only," Kayla announced to the piercer, tapping Taylor's left earlobe with a manicured nail. "And make them symmetrical, or so help me—"

The piercing gun's mechanical whir made Taylor's newly-feminized nerves jangle like loose change in a dryer. She clutched the stool edges as the piercer—introducing herself as Marla with all the enthusiasm of someone who'd seen too many teenagers faint—swabbed her earlobes with antiseptic that smelled like a dentist's office. "Relax," Kayla murmured, squeezing her shoulder. "This'll feel like a mosquito bite."

The gun's pneumatic hiss made Taylor's stomach flip before the sharp pinch registered—a brief, bright pain that radiated through her skull like a tuning fork. She hissed through her teeth, fingers digging into the stool as Marla worked with robotic efficiency. Cold metal clicked against her earlobe, followed by the scent of alcohol and something coppery. "One down," Marla intoned, already swiveling to the other ear. Taylor barely had time to process before the second piercing gun pressed against her flesh.

"All done!" Kayla clapped excitedly.

The cold metal studs felt alien against Taylor's fingertips when she gingerly touched her newly pierced lobes—like discovering extra buttons sewn onto a favorite shirt. Marla handed her a care sheet with the solemnity of a pharmacist dispensing controlled substances, but Taylor barely registered the instructions over the dull throb radiating from each earlobe. "No swimming, no touching, rotate twice daily," Kayla recited from memory, pocketing the paper before Taylor could read it. "Basic stuff. You'll forget they're there in a week."

Not likely, she thought, already feeling the foreign things in her ears.

The food court's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a swarm of lethargic bees as Taylor clutched her pierced earlobes, the cold metal studs still throbbing dully with each heartbeat. Kayla strode ahead with the confidence of a general returning from battle, their shopping bags swinging like trophies from her arms. Taylor's stomach twisted—not just from the lingering sting of the piercings, but from the impending maternal judgment awaiting them at the plastic food court table where their mother sat stirring a rapidly cooling cup of coffee, a plate of fries in front of her untouched.

"Jesus, did you buy out the entire mall?" Their mother's eyebrows disappeared beneath her bangs as Kayla dumped the bags onto the table with a theatrical flourish. Taylor winced when one of the Sephora bags toppled over, spilling lip gloss tubes that rolled across the greasy surface like radioactive marbles.

Kayla shrugged, stealing a fry from her mother's tray. "CDC's paying. Besides—" She nudged Taylor forward with her hip. "Check out our masterpiece."

Taylor stood frozen as her mother's gaze traveled up from her new jeans—the ones that "invented gravity"—to the emerald blouse that clung to her frame like liquid. The silence stretched three heartbeats too long before her mother's coffee cup clattered against the table.

"Taylor... you look..." Her voice cracked.

"Like me, but hotter," Kayla supplied, popping another fry into her mouth.

Taylor looked at the food in front of her sister. When did she grab one of those?

Their mother's coffee cup hit the table with a sharp clack, brown liquid sloshing over the rim. Her lips parted, then pressed into a thin line as her gaze flickered between Taylor's new piercings and the mountain of shopping bags. Taylor fought the urge to cover her ears—the studs suddenly burning like brand marks.

"You got her pierced?" Their mother's voice was dangerously calm, the way it got before thunderstorms of maternal fury. Taylor instinctively took a half-step behind Kayla, the unfamiliar sway of her hips making the movement awkward.

"Mom, she's 15" Kayla said, not backing down. "I had mine pierced at 8. Do you honestly expect her to go to school tomorrow without them pierced?"

Taylor watched their mother's fingers tighten around her coffee cup. The argument hung suspended between them—the unspoken truth that Gamma had already rewritten Taylor's body more drastically than any piercing gun. Their mother exhaled sharply through her nose, the fight draining out of her shoulders. "At least tell me you went somewhere sterile."

Marla's kiosk flashed in Taylor's memory—the peeling "Certified Piercer" sticker barely clinging to the counter. She touched her earlobes again, the metal already warming against her skin. "It was fine," she lied.

Their mother's sigh dissolved into the food court's greasy air. She pushed her untouched fries toward them—a white flag. Taylor reached for one just as Kayla stole three, the familiarity of the gesture settling something in her chest.

While the fries looked enticing, thanks to Kayla's insistence on eating healthy, she couldn't stomach things like that. Besides, they just didn't taste the same to her anymore. Not since becoming Taylor.

"I'm going to go look for something edible," she said, getting up from the chair.

"I'll come with" said Kayla, moving to stand.

Taylor held up a hand, stopping her. "I'm a big girl".

Kayla frowned but didn't press the matter.

Taylor was inwardly relieved. She loved her sister but Kayla was starting to get clingy. She was grateful to her sister and especially to all the help she'd been providing. She was also a little overwhelmed too. Their new found closeness was something she cherished at first but after a month of it, Taylor needed her space too.

She walked away, her sneakers squeaking on the polished tiles as she navigated the labyrinth of food stalls. The scent of frying oil and sugary syrups clashed in the air, but none of it appealed to her anymore—not since her taste buds had shifted along with everything else. Then she smelled it—the rich, earthy aroma of slow-cooked vegetables and spices. Her stomach growled in response, guiding her toward the Mediterranean kiosk tucked between a pretzel stand and an Orange Julius.

The Mediterranean kiosk's overhead menu swam in Taylor's vision—hummus, falafel, tabbouleh—each word triggering a visceral response she couldn't explain. Her fingers twitched toward the laminated counter as if pulled by some deep-coded craving, her new biology overriding fifteen years of pizza-and-burgers programming.

"First time?" A voice cut through her daze—low and amused. Taylor turned to find a leany boy leaning against the condiment station, his faded band tee riding up to reveal a strip of tanned stomach. His dark eyes tracked her movements with unnerving precision. "You're doing the thing," he said, gesturing vaguely at her face. "The 'what-the-hell-is-this-food' squint."

He was tall, taller than her. He had a mop of sandy blonde hair and one of those laid back surfy boy attitudes. He had lean compact muscles. She looked at his biceps. He had spent time in the gym but he wasn't one of those heavy weightlifters. If she had to guess, he was probably a soccer player or on the track team.

"Am I that obvious?" she asked, trying to be polite and make small talk.

"Might I make a suggestion?" he asked, pointing to something on the overhead menu.

Taylor followed his finger to the lamb gyro. She wrinkled her nose. She'd never eaten lamb before.

Travis grinned. "Trust me."

Taylor hesitated, then nodded. "Okay."

"You're new, right?" he asked, still standing closeby. "I've never seen you in school before."

They were in Huntsville. That was understandable.

"I go to Ridgewood," she said, trying to clear things up.

The boy nodded and smiled. "Travis," he said, extending his hand.

"Taylor" she said but didn't take his hand.

She might have looked like a sweet and innocent girl but she was a boy before. She knew exactly what he was doing and unfortunately for him, it wasn't going to work. She wasn't going to shoot him down though. Not because she was interested, far from it but because she'd been here before. Well, in his shoes. She knew what it was like to "put yourself out there" as a guy ad she felt kind of bad for him in that sense.

Travis grinned, unphased, and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Taylor," he repeated, like he was testing the name on his tongue. "So, Ridgewood, huh? That's like, what, twenty minutes from here?"

She nodded. "Give or take"

He grinned. "Never seen you here before."

"Come here often then?" she asked.

Travis laughed, leaning against the counter. "Enough to know the best things to order."

"And the new girls apparently".

He grinned, flashing white teeth against his tan skin. "Only the interesting ones."

Ugh. Ok, so he was definitely not like her old self.

This guy didn't need her pity.

Taylor folded her arms—a defensive gesture that felt different now with the way her elbows pressed into soft curves instead of angular bone. "Look, Travis—"

"Order for Taylor!" The cashier's call sliced through whatever smooth line Travis had been about to deliver. His grin widened as he gestured toward the counter like he'd personally arranged the interruption.

Taylor grabbed her gyro with a muttered thanks, the warm pita almost burning her fingertips through the wax paper. The scent of garlic and cumin hit her like a physical force, making her mouth water in a way frozen pizzas never had before. She barely registered Travis falling into step beside her as she headed back toward the seating area.

"Can I get your number at least?" he asked, trying to keep step with her.

Taylor sighed. "I don't think my girlfriend would like that very much".

Travis stopped mid-step. "Girlfriend?" he repeated, blinking.

Taylor nodded. "Sorry bud, better luck next time."

She left him standing there, gaping like a fish as she walked back to her family's table.

The gyro almost slipped from Taylor's fingers when she saw Kayla's raised eyebrow—the same one she'd perfected for interrogating tardy boyfriends. Their mother's lips twitched as she sipped her coffee, the steam long gone. "Find anything interesting?" Kayla drawled, stretching the last word into three syllables.

Taylor shoved a bite of pita into her mouth to buy time, the flavors exploding across her changed taste buds in ways she still couldn't process. "Just food," she mumbled through the mouthful.

"Does the food have a name?" asked their mother with a hint of amusement.

Kayla leaned forward, elbows on the table. "He was cute. He ask for your number?"

Taylor shot her a look. "Girlfriend line worked."

Their mother nearly choked on her coffee. "Girlfriend?"

Taylor shrugged. "Not yet but here's hoping".

Kayla's grin turned predatory as she leaned forward. "Tell me, does Callie know about this arrangement?"

"I think so" Taylor said with a smile. "After all, she kissed me back".

Their mother sighed, rubbing her temples. "I'm not sure which part of this conversation concerns me more—that my daughter just used another girl as a human shield against unwanted attention, or that she's apparently already kissing girls with no prior dating experience."

"I've dated..." she started but her mother stopped her.

"No," her mother said, clarifying. "Tyler dated. You're not him anymore. This is a whole new ball game now."

Kayla smirked, twirling a fry between her fingers. "And what a ball game it is. Our little Taylor's batting for both teams now."

"One team" she quickly corrected her sister.

Though, she had to admit, the attention was kind of nice.

******

The bedroom door clicked shut behind Taylor as she flopped onto her bed, the mountain of shopping bags spilling their contents across the duvet in a waterfall of tissue paper and price tags. She stared at the coral sundress pooled in her lap—the same one Kayla had forced her to try in the dressing room—and ran her fingers along the delicate straps with hesitant fascination. Her phone buzzed against the mattress before she could overthink it.

Callie's contact photo flashed on screen—a selfie from last summer where Taylor could still see Tyler's sunburnt shoulder pressing against the frame. She hesitated for half a heartbeat before swiping accept. "You will not believe what Kayla made me buy today," Taylor blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush she didn't recognize coming from her own mouth.

A beat of silence. Then Callie's laughter—bright and startled. "Wait, who is this? Did Kayla steal your phone?"

"Haha, very funny".

"No seriously" Callie insisted, laughing. "This is Taylor right? Because you sound... different."

Taylor blinked at her reflection in the full-length mirror—at the way her fingers unconsciously twisted a lock of hair around one finger, at the unfamiliar lilt in her own voice. She cleared her throat, but the girlish cadence remained when she spoke again. "Yeah, it's me. I just... got excited about this stupid sundress, okay?"

"Excited," Callie repeated slowly, drawing out the word like she was tasting it. "Taylor Carver, excited about clothing. Pinch me, I'm dreaming."

Taylor rolled her eyes, but her fingers kept tracing the sundress's floral pattern with something dangerously close to reverence. "It's just... the way it fits," she muttered, holding the fabric against her torso. The coral brought out the golden undertones in her skin—something Kayla had lectured about for twenty minutes at Sephora. "Like it was made for me."

She stopped, catching herself. "Shit" she muttered, letting go of the dress. "What is actually wrong with me?"

Callie's chuckle came through the line, warm and teasing. "Nothing's wrong. You're just being honest about liking something for once." A pause. "It's kinda refreshing, actually. Like watching a robot learn to feel."

"Does not compute" she replied, doing her best robot voice.

Callie snorted. "See? Still you."

"It's really weird though, Cal and scary" She sighed.

She then told her about meeting with Dr. Jones and Dr. Morris this morning.

Taylor flopped onto her bed, staring at the ceiling while tracing the raised pattern of her new bedspread—another Kayla-approved purchase that somehow felt *right* in ways she couldn't explain. The phone pressed against her newly pierced ear, the stud cool against her skin. "Dr Morris said I was different than Jasmine, that the variant I got had very little mental changes but..."

"And you're afraid she's wrong?" Callie asked.

Taylor hesitated. "Think about it. I hate playing games now. I want to run all over the place. I didn't want fries today. I went and got a gyro of all things. Then there's this whole shopping thing. It's such a girly thing and I pretended to hate it but I really liked it, Cal"

"Well newsflash, Tay, you are a girl now" Callie said, stating the obvious.

'Its just terrifying the fuck out of me" she sighed. "Then that shit with Travis."

Crap. She blurted that out without thinking.

"Travis?" Callie's voice immediately sharpened. "Who's Travis?"

"Some guy from Huntsville. He hit on me. I tur..."

"Some doofus was hitting on my girl?" asked Callie defensively.

Taylor blinked at the unexpected possessiveness in Callie's tone. Her fingers stilled on the sundress fabric. "You're not actually... jealous, are you?"

A pause filled only with the faint static of the phone line. Then Callie huffed a laugh that sounded forced. "Please. Like I'd waste energy being jealous over some mall rat named Travis." The bed creaked on Callie's end, as if she'd shifted abruptly. "What'd he look like, anyway?"

Taylor rolled onto her stomach, the sundress crumpling beneath her as she kicked her feet in the air—a habit she'd picked up from Kayla that now felt disturbingly natural. "Tall. Blond. Soccer player shoulders. Kept smiling like he'd practiced in a mirror."

"Ew." Callie's nose scrunch was practically audible. "Sounds basic."

"Totally".

They both shared a laugh.

Taylor paused for a moment. This. This is what he was talking about. Tyler didn't do this. She was acting like a girl.

She was behaving like a girl.

The realization hit Taylor mid-sentence—she was sprawled across her bed with one knee bent, idly twirling a strand of hair around her finger while gossiping about Travis. She froze mid-motion, staring at her own hand like it had betrayed her. The hair slipped from her fingers as she sat up abruptly, the sundress still lying underneath her.

"Taylor?" Callie's voice sounded distant through the phone. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just..." Taylor swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight. She looked down at herself—the way her legs were tucked neatly to one side, the smoothness of her crossed ankles, the absent way her thumb rubbed against her newly polished nails. Every inch of her body language screamed 'girl' in a way that made her skin prickle.

She remembered Tyler's sprawl—how he'd always occupied space with careless abandon, limbs flung wide like he owned every inch of air around him. Now she sat folded in on herself, shoulders slightly rounded, elbows tucked close. She experimentally tried to sprawl like she used to, but her hips protested the angle and it felt awkward.

"Taylor?" Callie's voice pulled her back.

"I just..." Taylor's fingers found the hem of her tank top, rolling the fabric nervously. "I'm sitting here playing with my hair. Talking about some guy who hit on me. With fucking..." She reached up to touch her earrings, the cold metal confirming their reality. "What happened to me?"

The silence stretched long enough that Taylor checked if the call dropped. Then Callie exhaled softly. "You're still adjusting. It's been, what, three, four weeks? Cut yourself some slack."

Taylor flopped onto her back, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars Kayla had insisted they stick to the ceiling when they were eight. Tyler's half had peeled off years ago. "It's not just the big stuff anymore," she murmured. "Yesterday I caught myself humming along to some pop song in the shower. Me. The guy who only listened to death metal."

Callie's chuckle was warm syrup. "That's horrifying. Should I stage an intervention?"

"Seriously, Cal." Taylor pressed her palms to her eyes until colors bloomed. "This morning I cried at a fucking yogurt commercial. Full-on ugly sobbing because the little girl shared her snack with her dad."

The phone line crackled with Callie's sudden inhale. "Okay, that's objectively funny."

Taylor kicked the sundress off the bed. It floated to the floor in slow motion, straps fluttering like surrender flags. "Its... so why am I—" She caught herself bouncing one crossed leg, the motion fluid as a metronome. Her bare toes were painted shell pink. When had that happened?

A memory surfaced—Kayla commandeering her feet during last night's movie, the brush strokes tickling between giggles. Taylor flexed her toes now, watching the polish catch the lamplight. The vanity of it should've repelled her. Instead, she noted how the color complemented her skin tone. Her breath hitched.

This was all so damn crazy.

The realization crept in like dawn—subtle, then undeniable. Taylor caught herself rubbing her wrists together absentmindedly, the way Kayla did when nervous. Her fingers traced the delicate bones there, thinner now, more pronounced. She used to crack her knuckles constantly. The urge was gone, replaced by this... this fiddling.

Taylor rolled off the bed and stood before the full-length mirror—really *looked*. The girl staring back tilted her head in perfect unison with her. She mirrored the motion when Taylor smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her tank top. When Taylor tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, so did her reflection. Except—

Except it wasn't just mimicking anymore. The gestures came naturally now, fluid as breathing. Taylor pressed a hand to her sternum, feeling the rapid flutter beneath. Her nails—short but neatly filed, painted that shell pink—grazed the dip between her collarbones. A shiver ran through her.

I'm going nuts, she thought.

She went back over to the bed and flopped down on it.

Taylor stared at her phone screen where Callie's face still waited, eyebrows raised. "You still there?" Callie asked, voice tinny through the speaker.

She needed to change the subject. "I called you my girlfriend" she blurted it out without thinking.

The silence on the line stretched long enough that Taylor pulled the phone away to check if Callie had hung up. When she put it back to her ear, she heard a soft intake of breath. "You... what?" Callie's voice had gone strangely high.

Taylor winced at the silence stretching through the phone. She could practically hear Callie's brain short-circuiting. "Uh," she started, then stopped, her fingers twisting the hem of her tank top tighter. "It just kinda slipped out? Like, Travis wouldn't take a hint, and I panicked—"

Callie's choked laugh crackled through the phone—half hysterical, half something Taylor couldn't name. "You used me as your fake girlfriend?"

"Well we did kiss....twice...and I thought maybe..." She was stumbling and stuttering and wondering how she suddenly got to here from where they were just moments before.

The silence stretched like taffy. Taylor pressed the phone harder against her ear, listening to Callie’s uncharacteristically quiet breathing. The bed creaked as she rolled onto her side, knees pulling up instinctively—another new habit that would’ve been impossible with Tyler’s lanky frame.

Callie's exhale came through the phone like she'd been punched. "You thought maybe... what?"

Taylor swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. The words had sounded so casual in her head, but now they hung between them like a live wire. "Maybe..." She tugged at the neckline of her tank top, the fabric sticking slightly to her collarbone where she'd started sweating. "Maybe it wasn't... fake?"

The phone line hissed with static—or maybe it was just Callie's shocked breath. Taylor pressed her forehead against the cool screen of her phone, the tension in her shoulders making the straps of her tank top dig in. She could see the faint reflection of her own wide eyes in the black mirror of her phone's display.

The silence stretched long enough that Taylor's stomach twisted into knots. She could hear Callie shifting on the other end—the rustle of sheets, a soft intake of breath—but no words came. Taylor's fingers tightened around the phone, her freshly painted nails tapping nervously against the case.

Callie's voice came through the phone at last, softer than Taylor had ever heard it. "You mean that?" The question hovered between them, fragile as a soap bubble.

Taylor's pulse pounded in her newly pierced ears. The silence on the line stretched tight as a rubber band about to snap. She opened her mouth, closed it, then blurted: "I don't know." The words tasted sour—too honest, too vulnerable. She scrambled to sit up, her hair tumbling over one shoulder in a way that still startled her. "I just... the way I feel around you now is different than before. But I don't know if that's the virus or—"

Wait. That was a lie. It wasn't different and it wasn't a lie.

She bit her lip. "I'm lying. I've always felt that way about you" she admitted. "I think the virus and this change just finally gave me the courage I was lacking before"

The moment the confession left Taylor's lips, her stomach dropped like she'd missed a step in the dark. The phone pressed against her ear suddenly felt scorching hot. She jerked it away slightly, staring at the screen where Callie's contact photo—that sun-drenched summer snapshot—now seemed impossibly bright.

The silence stretched so long Taylor thought the call had dropped. Then—static. A shaky breath. The sound of fabric rustling violently, like Callie had grabbed her phone with both hands.

"Shit," Callie whispered—barely audible, more breath than word. Taylor could hear her pacing now, the rhythmic creak of floorboards betraying her agitation.

Taylor clutched the phone tighter, her pulse hammering in her throat. The silence stretched like taffy—sticky and endless—until Callie's sharp inhale crackled through the speaker. "You—" A choked pause. "You're serious." Not a question. A revelation.

"I've never been more serious" she admitted and meant it.

Taylor's pulse hammered against her ribs as Callie's silence stretched into eternity. The phone slipped slightly in her sweaty palm. She could hear faint shuffling on the other end—Callie moving, breathing—but no words came. Just as Taylor opened her mouth to retract everything, Callie's voice cut through, softer than she'd ever heard it:

"Ok" she said softly at first then louder, "Let's do it!"

The word hung between them like a firework frozen mid-explosion. Taylor's fingers tightened around the phone until the plastic casing groaned. "Wait—just like that?" Her voice cracked embarrassingly high.

Callie’s laugh burst through the phone—bright and sudden, like sunlight breaking through clouds. "Uh, yeah? Did you expect me to throw down a gauntlet or something?" Her voice dropped to a mock-serious whisper. "Taylor Carver, you must best me in combat for my heart—"

Taylor's breath caught—half-laugh, half-sob—as she clutched the phone tighter. "You're ridiculous," she managed, voice wobbling between relief and disbelief. The coral sundress lay forgotten on the floor where she'd kicked it, straps twisted like dropped reins.

There it was. Callie wanted to be her girlfriend. It was the most amazing thing in the world. She felt like doing one hundred backflips or running a marathon or...

She sighed, calming down. "That's cool."

"Cool" Callie said, echoing her words.

Taylor's finger hovered over the 'end call' button when her stomach lurched—she'd completely forgotten about the text. "Wait, Cal—" Her voice came out sharper than intended.

"What?" Callie's playful tone instantly sobered.

Taylor's fingers froze mid-air, her thumb hovering over the disconnect button. The glow of her phone screen cast eerie shadows across her face as realization slammed into her—she'd been so distracted by the Travis encounter and the girlfriend confession that she'd completely forgotten the reason she'd texted Callie to call her later.

"Cal—" Taylor's voice cracked, suddenly dry. "There's something else."

The mattress springs squeaked as she sat up too fast, her freshly pierced ears throbbing with the sudden movement. Her phone slipped slightly in her sweaty palm as she fumbled to reopen her messages. The anonymous text glared back at her in cold white letters:

*I KNEW YOU WERE GOING TO BE GORGEOUS*

Callie's impatient sigh hissed through the speaker. "Spit it out, Tay."

Taylor swallowed hard, her throat clicking. "I got this... text." She rubbed her thumb over the screen as if she could erase it. "No number. No contact name. Just..."

"Just what?" Callie's voice sharpened like a knife edge.

Taylor's fingers trembled slightly as she pulled the phone away from her ear to read the message aloud, her voice unnaturally steady: "'I knew you were going to be gorgeous.'"

The silence on the line turned electric. Taylor could practically hear Callie's brain whirring—the same way it did during debate tournaments when she'd identified a flaw in an opponent's argument.

"No signature?" Callie finally asked, her tone all business now. "No 'sent from' identifier?"

"Nothing." Taylor traced the blank space where a contact name should be with her thumb. "Just... appeared in my inbox this morning as I was leaving the hospital."

"You think...?"

"Yeah" Taylor said, remembering the encounter in the dark at that party, the kiss, the girl telling her she was going to be beautiful. There was no doubt in her mind. "It was her. The girl who gave me The Bug."

Callie's sharp inhale hissed through the speaker. "Shit"

"That's exactly what I thought too" Taylor ran her sweaty palms on her jeans. "She knows who I am. I mean she probably knew me when she kissed me. I haven't really thought about it that much with everything going on but..."

Callie said it for her. "She targeted you."

It hung in the air for a moment.

Someone had deliberately given her the virus.

The phone line hummed with static—or maybe it was just the blood rushing in Taylor's ears. Her thumb hovered over the screen, the anonymous message glowing ominously.  She'd been avoiding thinking about that night—the sweaty press of bodies at Sierra's party, the stranger's lips brushing hers in the dark.

"Its messed up" Callie finally said. "I mean like all kinds of fucking twisted. What kind of psycho does that to someone?"

Well Taylor knew one, even if she refused to say it aloud.

Jason.

Well she supposed Jasmine.

But was she cruel and twisted enough to do something like that?

"I think that killed the mood" she finally admitted. "I'm sorry for being a buzzkill"

Callie's scoff crackled through the speaker. "Don't apologize for having serial killer stalkers, Taylor. That's like, basic self-preservation." Her tone shifted—softer now, with that protective edge Taylor recognized from whenever someone messed with their debate team. "We should—"

"I'll tell Dr. Morris" she finally decided. "We'll let them deal with it."

"Good plan" said Callie then she paused. "Shit. My Mom needs me to help her with something. I'm sorry to leave like this but..."

"Go" Taylor said, before she looked at the mess of shopping bags now scattered about. "I got stuff to do anyway."

They hung up, promising to call later.

Taylor's fingers trailed along the edge of her dresser, catching on a layer of dust coating the empty space where Tyler's gaming crap used to stand. The vanity mirror reflected the changes back at her—pastel makeup palettes clustered where energy drink cans once gathered, hair products lining the shelf that previously held sports deodorant. She nudged a stray bobby pin with her toe, watching it skitter across hardwood that hadn't seen dirty socks in weeks.

The bed creaked differently now—softer, without Tyler's habitual sprawl. Taylor caught herself smoothing the quilt automatically, fingers lingering on the embroidered flowers Kayla had picked out last week. Even the air smelled different—vanilla body spray lingering where Axe once hung like chemical warfare.

This was distinctively becoming a girls' room now.

Some of the furniture was still Tyler---her dresser, her bed.

But everything else?

Tyler was slowly being erased.

Taylor turned her head slightly to look at her vanity, the mirror reflecting her soft features back at her. It had been Kayla's idea—"You need space for your makeup, Tay"—and now it stood where Tyler's gaming desk used to be. The surface was cluttered with lip glosses, foundation bottles, and a small tray of jewelry. A hairbrush lay tangled with strands of white-blonde hair, a reminder and her future.

Taylor folded the last silk camisole with exaggerated care, her fingers lingering on the delicate fabric before placing it in the drawer that once held Tyler's faded band tees. The cardboard box at her feet gaped open—a maw swallowing the last remnants of her former self. Athletic shorts, graphic tees with stretched-out collars, a single pair of dress slacks worn exactly once for Freshman pictures last year—all stuffed unceremoniously beneath the shoebox containing Tyler's old sneakers.

Walking into her ensuite, she noticed how her new life had completely invaded there as well.

The bathroom smelled like vanilla and lavender—a scent so aggressively feminine it made Taylor's nose twitch. Her bare feet stuck slightly to the tile floor where stray droplets of body spray had congealed. The shower curtain, a floral monstrosity Kayla had picked out last weekend, hung slightly askew, revealing a rainbow of bottles lined up along the tub's edge—shampoos with French names, conditioners promising "silky perfection," a razor perched precariously on the rim that definitely hadn't been there a month ago.

She winced at the memory of shaving her legs the first time. Something she never thought she'd do in a million years.

She winced worse at the box of tampons.

She had yet to use those but she was told it would probably be any day now.

Taylor sighed and leaned against the counter, her reflection staring back at her with an expression caught between resignation and reluctant acceptance. The bathroom counter was a battlefield of femininity—foundation bottles standing at attention like tiny soldiers, lip gloss tubes scattered like spent cartridges, a lone eyeliner pencil rolling dangerously close to the edge. The entire scene was bathed in the unforgiving fluorescence of the vanity lights that somehow made every pore visible while simultaneously flattening her features into something resembling a mannequin.

This is my life now, she thought and left the room.

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

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Author's Note:Sorry about the delay of a couple of days, there was a plumbing issue in my apartment that is still ongoing. I was preoccupied. This chapter starts first day back to school, a true first day for Taylor, which will definitely be different than any that Tyler has ever experienced.I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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2.

She got up early Monday morning, an hour before her alarm. Part of was a bit of anxiety, the other part was on Kayla's insistence.

She was so used to her morning routine, it did it on autopilot. She got out of bed, peed, brushed her teeth and took a shower. Showers were something she always enjoyed but they were an experience now. Her skin was softer, more sensitive and the new body wash had a fragrant cherry odor that was fast becoming her favorite.

Climbing out, she wrapped a towel around her body, wandering over to the mirror. The girl staring back at her was not a stranger anymore, not that she ever really had been. Maybe when it first happened but now it was just her. The white blonde hair, the sparkling blue eyes, the face that looked ever so slightly like her twin but also like her old self.

She went through her morning routine skincare routine. Kayla had hammered it into her head a million times or so it seemed. Cleansing, moisturizer. A few other things.

Leaving the bathroom, she dried her hair while she sat at her vanity.

Taylor's fingers moved with practiced ease over the array of cosmetics spread across her vanity—no hesitation, no second-guessing. The muscle memory was there, as though she'd been doing this routine for years instead of weeks. She dabbed concealer under her eyes with precise pats, blending it seamlessly into her fair skin without needing to check a mirror. The brush swept peach blush across her cheekbones in quick strokes, depositing just enough color to highlight her newly delicate bone structure.

Taylor's eyeliner pencil moved with the steady confidence of a seasoned artist—no shaky first attempts, no smudged corrections. The black wing tapered to a sharp point at the outer corner of her eye in one fluid motion, as natural as breathing. She blinked at her reflection, the dark line accentuating the blue of her irises in a way that still surprised her. No tutorial videos. No practice sheets. Just skill now from Kayla's tutelage.

Taylor's fingers moved with eerie precision as she dusted shimmering highlighter across her cheekbones—three quick strokes, no wasted motion. The pink-gold powder caught the morning light perfectly on the first try, which should've felt impossible for someone who'd needed YouTube tutorials to apply sunscreen correctly two months ago. She blinked at her reflection, watching her newly feminine features sharpen under the expertly applied cosmetics. No smudged eyeliner. No clownish blush. Just... effortless.

She used a soft tone for her lips.

The lip gloss tube clicked shut with finality. Taylor pressed her lips together—strawberry-scented and slightly sticky—but perfect.

It was eerie how efficient at all of this she was now. A month ago, she would have been terrified if someone told her how things were. The idea of getting up before her alarm, showering with girly body wash, shaving her legs, applying moisturizer and makeup---it was all crazy. It was something a girl did, something she did.

She smiled at her reflection, calming her nerves.

Walking over to her closet, she stared at the outfit Kayla wanted her to wear—a cute skater dress. It was girly and made a statement according to her twin. She closed the closet door, shaking her head. It was also something she was not ready for. She secretly loved it but wasn't there yet. Instead, she went to her dresser, grabbing some simple underwear. She put it on with practiced ease, no longer bothered by the weight of her breasts nor the new curve of her hips.

She found something simple to wear: a tank top and jeans.

Taylor tugged the tank top over her head, the soft cotton whispering against her newly sensitive skin. It settled comfortably across her shoulders—not too tight, not too loose—the way clothes never quite fit her old male body. She caught herself twisting slightly to check the mirror, not out of insecurity but curiosity. The jeans hugged her hips in a way that still felt novel, the waistband sitting snug where Tyler's pants used to sag. She hooked a finger through one belt loop absently, the gesture unexpectedly natural.

There were two pairs of sneakers sitting by her door. No she bought specifically for running, other she got for everyday use. Another complaint of her sister's. Kayla wanted her to be fashionable, wear sandals or some other such nonsense. At least she compromised and let her sister get her some heels that were currently hidden in the closet.

Taylor didn't want to be a fashionista.

She wanted to be comfortable.

The bedroom door burst open before Taylor could lace her sneakers. Kayla stood silhouetted in the doorway, her gaze flickering from the discarded skater dress still hanging on the closet door to Taylor's tank-and-jeans ensemble with theatrical disappointment. "Seriously?" She held up two fingers like a referee calling a foul. "That's your rebellion outfit? You look like you're going to mow a lawn."

Taylor crossed her arms, the hem of her tank top riding up slightly with the motion. "You sound like Mom when she—" She froze mid-sentence as Kayla's outfit registered—cropped sweater, pleated mini skirt, and the white platform sneakers Taylor had categorically refused to try on yesterday. "Wait. Are you wearing my—?"

Kayla twirled on the spot, the skirt flaring just enough to show off the stolen sneakers. "Borrowed," she corrected with a smirk. "And before you whine—yes, they fit perfectly. Almost like we're identical twins or something." She tossed Taylor a scrunchie from her wrist. "If you're going to slum, at least do it with a ponytail".

Taylor caught the scrunchie mid-air. She rolled her eyes but obediently gathered her hair into a high ponytail, fingers working with the same unconscious efficiency they'd applied to her makeup earlier.

The scrunchie snapped against Taylor's wrist as she finished twisting her ponytail into place. She caught Kayla's reflection smirking in the vanity mirror—that particular brand of smug satisfaction that meant trouble. "What?"

Kayla tossed a tube of mascara onto the vanity with a dramatic sigh. "You're missing the point, Tay. First day back at school as the hot twin and you're dressing like a PE teacher." She flopped onto Taylor's bed, sighing dramatically.

"I'm not out to be Miss Teen Popular," Taylor admitted, standing and stretching. "I'm being practical. It's not a contest".

Kayla snorted. "Maybe Boy World wasn't a contest but sis, you're in Girl World now" She sat up from the bed. "EVERYTHING is a contest!"

Taylor rolled her eyes. "Dramatic, much?"

Kayla got off the bed. "You'll soon see my young padawan."

The two of them left the room and headed down to the breakfast table. Their mother was now used to this earlier morning routine, anticipating her daughters. She was sitting at the table, sipping her coffee like usual, alone.

"Where's Dad?" asked Taylor as she found some grapefruit.

The grapefruit juice dripped down Taylor's fingers as she froze mid-bite, realizing what she'd just asked. Their mother's coffee cup hesitated halfway to her lips—that slight tremor in her wrist the only indication of discomfort. Kayla's fork clattered against her plate with deliberate loudness, breaking the silence. "Another trip," she said through a mouthful of pancakes, kicking Taylor under the table. "He left early this morning."

His usual since coming home. He'd been present since he came back but not truly present. They were close when they were father and son, well as close as they could be. She and her Dad had never really connected in the sense that most sons and fathers did. She wasn't into sports as Tyler. She was actually pretty unmotivated, except for games and schoolwork. But he was present back then when he was home.

Now it was like he was a total stranger even when they were sitting next to one another.

She didn't have to be a genius to figure it out.

Her father wasn't dealing.

"His loss," Kayla said out of nowhere, giving her sister a gentle hug.

The grapefruit juice tasted sharper than usual—or maybe it was just the tension lingering in the air between bites. Taylor watched her mother's fingers tighten around the coffee cup, knuckles whitening for half a second before she forced a smile.

"Pass the syrup, would you?" Kayla's voice cut through the silence like a knife through frosting, her outstretched hand wiggling impatiently. She'd piled her pancakes into an absurd tower, whipped cream threatening to slide off the sides. "I'm building a carbohydrate monument to my future regrets."

"What's with the pancakes?" Taylor asked, handing over the syrup.

Kayla was the one who made her eat a "light" breakfast after all.

"Because some of us look like a Greek Goddess" Kayla grunted then flexed an arm. "While other peasants like myself wish they had your abs"

Taylor couldn't argue. Its not like she asked for abs. Though she wasn't going to complain. She loved her new body. She loved the way it moved, the way it made her feel. She never realized how out of shape she was before as Tyler. She couldn't imagine going back to an existence like that either.

"So you're carb loading?" she asked.

Kayla nodded. "Can't let my little sis show me up"

Taylor snorted. "First time for everything"

There was no denying that as Tyler he had lived in her shadow.

Kayla was popular, outgoing, energetic. Tyler had been laid back, focused on games, keeping a small circle of friends and being comfortable. Tyler had been happy with that existence and never saw a need to push himself into anything else. Ok so maybe happy was not the right word. Content. She had been content as Tyler but also oblivious too. Or maybe ignorant. She didn't want to sound lazy though.

Now things are changing.

Taylor was a whole different being now.

She watched her sister wolf down the pancakes while she nibbled at her grapefruit.

A car honked, interrupting their tranquil family moment. 

Right on time, Taylor thought, as if nothing had changed. 

It was the signal that life was returning back to normal. Back to the way things had always been. It was the sign that Kayla was going back to her world—after taking the month off to help her---and Taylor was going back to hers. 

"That's Jess," said Kayla, standing and leaving her pancakes half finished.

She grabbed her backpack. Taylor looked at the clock on the wall, wondering how much time she had before the bus came. She got up, grabbing her own backpack. She started for the living room. Maybe she could watch some morning cartoons or something before...

"Where are you going?" asked Kayla.

Taylor stopped, turning. "The couch"

Kayla rolled her eyes. "Why? Jess is waiting. Let's go".

Taylor's fingers tightened around her backpack straps as Kayla's words registered—not just the words, but the casual assumption behind them. That Taylor would ride with Jess. That she belonged in that car now. That her world wasn't separate anymore. The realization hit her like a skipped heartbeat: she wasn't being left behind this time.

Taylor's sneakers scuffed against the kitchen tile as she hesitated. "Wait—you want me to ride with—"

Kayla rolled her eyes. "Duh. C'mon".

They left the house together.

There was a large black SUV waiting, Jess's older brother Curtis behind the wheel. None of them were old enough to get their license after all. Curtis was a senior. As Tyler she'd only known him in passing and by reputation. He was a football player but he was a pretty cool guy. He wasn't one of those asshole jocks like Jason had been.

The SUV's passenger door swung open before Taylor could reach for the handle. Curtis leaned across the center console with his arm still outstretched from pushing it ajar—his posture freezing mid-motion as his gaze landed on Taylor for the first time. His eyebrows shot up beneath his messy brown bangs, mouth slightly agape like someone had pressed pause on his reaction.

Curtis's hand hovered in midair, fingers still curled around the phantom door handle he'd just released. His gaze flickered between Taylor and Kayla with the slow, dawning horror of someone realizing they'd walked into an optical illusion. "Holy shit," he breathed, leaning further across the console. "You're like... clones now."

Jess's head snapped around so fast her seat belt locked with an audible *click*. Her jaw went slack as Taylor slid into the backseat—not just at the mirrored resemblance between the twins, but at how *natural* Taylor looked in Kayla's stolen scrunchie and secondhand confidence. "Oh my god," Jess whispered, reaching out to pinch Taylor's cheek like she might be a hologram. "You're *prettier* than Kayla."

"Hellooo, right here you know" Kayla said dramatically as she got into the vehicle too.

"Oh hey Kay" Jess remarked offhandedly before turning her attention back to Taylor. "Glow up of the century!"

She pulled out her phone before Taylor could react, snapping a pic. "Sierra and the rest of the squad are going to freak"

Taylor sighed heavily, forgetting what she just stepped into. Jessica was one of the biggest gossip queens in the school. She had no doubt that that innocent pic would make its way around the whole school before they even left the driveway.

"It's a shame about the whole Tomboy thing though" Jessica shook her head. "Tragic".

"Tell me about it," Kayla sighed. "I had this cute little dress all picked out for her and she went with that."

Taylor rolled her eyes. "This is more me."

Kayla sighed again. "Wherever did my cute little sister from yesterday go?"

Taylor grunted. "Still here just not ready for the world yet".

"Well the world is ready for you!" Kayla, gushed, wrapping her arms around Taylor tightly.

"So cute" Jessica practically squealed from the front seat.

"Ok, driving now," Curtis announced, interrupting all of them.

The SUV started and pulled out of the driveway.

Taylor was keen to notice how Curtis kept taking quick glances in the rear view.

Curtis's fingers drummed against the steering wheel in a nervous rhythm as he stole another glance at Taylor through the rear view mirror—this one lasting a second too long. The SUV swerved slightly before he jerked it back into lane. "Jesus," he muttered under his breath, adjusting his grip. Taylor caught his reflection watching her with the same bewildered fascination someone might give a zoo exhibit.

The SUV's interior smelled like vanilla air freshener and the lingering musk of a teenage boy—a scent Taylor recognized instantly from Tyler's memories of gym locker rooms. Curtis cleared his throat awkwardly as they turned onto Ridgewood Avenue, his grip visibly tightening on the wheel. "So uh..." His eyes flicked to the rear view again, lingering on Taylor's reflection for half a heartbeat too long. "You feeling okay? After... everything?"

Jessica gave her brother a weird look before turning around in the front seat again. "You seem pretty normal actually. You're not all..."

"Jasmined" Kayla said, turning the name into a verb apparently. She then puffed up proudly. "Tay did not get whatever that is"

The SUV hit a pothole hard enough to make Jessica’s phone clatter to the floor—but Curtis didn’t even flinch. His fingers stayed locked on the wheel at ten-and-two, eyes darting back to Taylor in the rear view for the fifth time in as many minutes. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Seriously though," he tried again, voice cracking slightly. "No weird side effects? No... urges?"

Taylor shrugged. "Nothing too weird".

Kayla snorted. "Except she's like a super Runner girl now. She laps the block like ten times a day."

Jess twisted fully around in her seat, seat belt straining. "Wait, Runner Girl? Like—" She mimed exaggerated running motions with her arms. "Superhero shit?"

"Not superhero," Taylor said quickly. "Just... faster than before." She flexed her arm absently, watching the way her bicep shifted beneath smooth skin. "And stronger, I guess."

Jess's eyes widened as she practically climbed over the seat back. "Wait, The Bug makes you stronger?" Taylor shrugged. "No shit. Why don't they say that shit on TV."

"Probably because every kid out there would want to catch it then" Curtis supplied, curbing his sister's enthusiasm. "And would you really give up all of you, become a guy, just for the slim chance of something like that?"

"Well maybe if it gave me laser eyes or...." She started but stopped when she noticed Taylor staring. "Oh sorry, Tay, that was insensitive."

"It's fine" she said and meant it. "It's not like I meant for this to happen and honestly, I don't hate it."

Jess raised an eyebrow. "You don't?"

Taylor shrugged. "It was weird at first but I adjusted quickly. After a month, it's just me now."

Kayla gave her another hug. "The better you!"

That one stung a bit but Taylor didn't say that aloud. Kayla made it sound like Tyler was flawed or less than. There was nothing wrong with her before. Did her sister really think she was better of now than before? She made a mental note to talk with her about it later.

They arrived at school five minutes later.

Taylor's phone binged several times with texts. She pulled it out. There were a lot from Benny. There were a few from Callie. There were also some from people she didn't know. She checked Benny's first, already knowing what to expect from him. They were frantic, like bursts of energy:

*Dudette.*
*You're all over the school.*
*Everywhere.* 
*Everyone is talking.*
*People stunned.* 
*Saying you're hotter than Jasmine.*
*Hotter than Kayla.*

Taylor groaned. Great. This is not what she needed. She knew it was going to be different but she wasn't expecting this.

Kayla leaned over his shoulder, reading the texts. "That prick" she grunted, after she read the last text. "Remind me to kick his ass the next time I see him".

"He's harmless" she said before reading the single text from Callie.

It was just a simple, *"Are you ok?"*. Taylor smiled and texted back: *All good. Just pulled up to the school now.*

Callie: *Be prepared. When Jasmine came back last week, it was circus.*

Great.

Taylor took a deep breath as the SUV pulled into Curtis's usual spot in the parking lot. Kayla grabbed her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

The moment Taylor entered the school, whispers rippled outward like shock waves. Heads turned in synchronized motion—locker doors left half-open, backpacks abandoned mid-zipper. Curtis muttered "Jesus Christ" under his breath as he walked ahead, deliberately shielding Taylor with his broad shoulders. It didn't help. The crowd parted unnaturally, creating a corridor of wide-eyed stares and raised phones.

"Breathe," Kayla whispered, fingers tightening around Taylor's wrist—not guiding, just anchoring.

Taylor's sneakers squeaked against polished linoleum as the whispers crescendo-ed—not the scattered murmurs she'd braced for, but a relentless tide of "*Ohmygod*" and "*That's really her?*" Curtis's attempt at shielding her backfired spectacularly; his football jersey might as well have been a spotlight framing her.

A sophomore boy she vaguely recognized from geometry dropped his binder directly in her path. Papers fanned across the floor as he froze, mouth slightly open. His gaze didn't even flicker to the mess—just locked onto Taylor's chest with the glazed intensity of someone witnessing a solar eclipse.

"Eyes up here, Sinclair," Kayla snapped, stepping between Taylor's line of sight. The boy flinched, scrambling to gather his papers with scarlet ears.

Taylor exhaled through her nose. This wasn't just curiosity—it was hunger. The kind Tyler had seen directed at Kayla a hundred times but never understood until now. A junior leaning against lockers straightened abruptly as Taylor passed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Damn," he breathed, too loud, to his friend. "I'd *pay* to—"

"She was a dude," his friend said.

"Not anymore" The first guy said, leering slightly before Curtis glared.

Taylor's locker was already surrounded when they turned the corner—a cluster of pastel hoodies and glossy ponytails that parted like theater curtains as Sierra stepped forward. Her smile stretched too wide, lips glossed pink enough to glow under the fluorescent lights. "There she is!" Sierra sang, arms outstretched like Taylor was a prize she'd won at the fair. The girls behind her erupted in synchronized squeals, their collective gaze crawling over Taylor's body with the intensity of forensic examiners.

Never in a million years would a group of cheerleader assemble to greet him when he was Tyler.

Sierra's manicured fingers curled around Taylor's wrist before she could react, pulling her into a cloud of vanilla body spray and synthetic strawberry gum. "Look at you!" she squealed, spinning Taylor like a mannequin for her squad's inspection. The motion sent Taylor's ponytail whipping against her cheek—too practiced, too fluid for someone who'd only worn their hair up for a month. Sierra's squad erupted in approval, their collective gaze dissecting Taylor's outfit with the precision of fashion police.

"Girl what are you wearing?" one of them asked with a disapproving tone.

Sierra frowned but only slightly. "When I heard you got infected at my party, I freaked. I felt so bad" She fake pouted. "I was wreck. Then Jess sent me that pic and I thought, "Damn maybe I accidentally did you a favor".

Taylor forced a smile at the superficial nature of it.

Never mind the fact that she hadn't actually invited HIM to the party. She also was quick to note how Sierra made it about herself too. She was also the one who was currently responsible for this whole crazy circus right now.

Taylor's fingers twitched at her sides as Sierra's grip lingered—too tight, too performative. The cheerleader's acrylic nails dug crescent moons into her wrist. Behind the saccharine smile, Sierra's pupils dilated with something predatory. "We *have* to get you on the squad," she purred, thumb brushing Taylor's pulse point.

Taylor vomited a bit in her throat. "Thanks but I'm not really interes..."

Taylor's protest died in her throat as Sierra's grip tightened—not painfully, but with the unshakable certainty of someone used to getting their way. The squad's synchronized coos of approval turned sharp when Taylor tried to step back, their pastel-clad bodies subtly closing ranks like glitter-coated sharks.

"You sure?" she asked, sugary sweet.

Taylor's throat tightened as Sierra's perfume—overwhelmingly sweet with notes of artificial coconut—clung to her nostrils. The cheerleader's fingers traced feather-light circles on her wrist, a gesture that felt less like camaraderie and more like ownership. Behind Sierra's veneer of concern, Taylor caught the glint of something calculating in her gaze—like a collector appraising a rare doll.

"She's sure," Kayla interrupted, pulling Taylor free.

The hallway's fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Sierra's grip lingered in the air where Taylor's wrist had been. A muscle twitched near Sierra's perfectly contoured jawline—the only crack in her pageant-ready composure. "We'll revisit this," she chirped, batting her eyelashes at Curtis before sauntering away, her squad falling into formation behind her like pastel-clad ducklings.

Taylor exhaled as Sierra's retreating ponytail disappeared around the corner, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. Kayla nudged her with an elbow. "Welcome to my world," she muttered, rolling her eyes.

"They don't call them The Pastel Mafia for nothing" Curtis grunted with a laugh then looked down the hall, the crowd of onlookers were finally dispersing. "You guys good now?"

Kayla nodded. "We can take it front here. Thanks for the help Curtis"

Curtis nodded. His eyes lingered on Taylor for another moment before he disappeared down the hall, leaving the three girls alone now.

Taylor's fingers twitched against the strap of her backpack as the hallway cleared, the residual energy of Sierra's encounter prickling along her skin like static. Jess bounced on her toes beside them, vibrating with unspent gossip. "Holy shit," she whispered, eyes darting between Kayla and Taylor. "Sierra *never* recruits personally. You're basically royalty now."

Jess's phone buzzed violently in her grip, the screen flooding with notifications. "Oh my god," she gasped, thumb scrolling frantically. "You're already trending on Ridgewood Confessions. Someone snapped you in the parking lot—hashtag GammaGlowUp is exploding." She tilted the screen toward Taylor, revealing a photo of her stepping out of Curtis's SUV, sunlight catching the honey-gold strands in her ponytail. The caption read: *TFW the hottest girl in school used to sit behind you in Algebra.*

Taylor’s stomach dropped as Jess swiped to reveal the flood of comments—emojis and exclamation points blurring together with phrases like *"upgrade unlocked"* and *"Gamma glow-up is REAL."* A particularly vivid comment—*"Bet she gives good head too"*—made Taylor’s fingers at her sides. Kayla snatched Jess’s phone away with a sharp *"Jesus, Jess,"* but the damage was done. The screen had burned the words into Taylor’s retinas.

Kayla turned to her sister. "Ignore the asshats" she said reassuringly. "Most of them will get taken down once the teachers see it".

Taylor shrugged it off. "I was a guy, Kay. I have thick skin. Besides its locker room shit, nothing I'm not used to."

Her sister frowned. "Yeah but you've NEVER been on this end of it before"

The bell rang, shattering the moment.

Taylor sighed. "Off to my meeting of doom" she joked.

Kayla frowned again. "I can go with?"

She waved it off. "I'm fine. I'll catch up with you later."

Kayla looked reluctant to leave her but nodded and finally did. Jess looped her arm through hers and the two of them wandered off down the hall, leaving Taylor alone.

Taylor sighed heavily and adjusted her backpack on her shoulder, heading off towards the office.

Her sneakers squeaked against the freshly waxed linoleum as she walked, the sound echoing slightly in the now-empty hallway. She could still feel the lingering stares from the students who'd lingered behind to watch her go, their whispers carrying just far enough to make her shoulders tense.

The principal's office loomed at the end of the administrative wing, its door slightly ajar. Taylor paused just outside, taking a deep breath before knocking lightly.

"Come in," Principal Hendricks' voice called from inside.

She pushed the door open to find Principal Hendricks seated behind his desk, Dr. Morris in one of the guest chairs, and—to her surprise—a boy she didn't recognize sitting in one of the other chairs.

"Ah, Taylor," Dr. Morris said with a warm smile, rising slightly from her seat. "Right on time."

Taylor hesitated in the doorway, her fingers tightening around her backpack strap. The unfamiliar boy turned slightly in his seat to look at her—dark hair, sharp jawline, green eyes. There was something maybe familiar about him but she couldn't place it.

"Come in, have a seat," Principal Hendricks gestured to the empty chair beside the boy.

Taylor sat, her knee accidentally brushing against the boy's. He didn't move away—didn't react at all, really—but something about his posture stiffened slightly.

Dr. Morris leaned forward, clasping her hands together. "Taylor, this is Henry" she said, gesturing gently to the boy. "He's another V63 recover-er like you."

Henry. Taylor's eyes widened slightly. Dr. Morris had mentioned him yesterday. So he was the one who got infected shortly after Jason did. Taylor studied him. This was the first time he'd met a boy with V63. Heck, he still hadn't met with Jasmine officially so technically. Henry was the first person that she'd met that had The Bug like her. It was eye-opening. This guy was like her but in reverse. Staring at the boy sitting there—flannel over a white t-shirt, jeans, combat boots. It was hard to believe he'd ever been a girl.

Then again, she still found it hard to believe she'd been a guy a month ago.

Taylor tried not to stare as Henry turned back to face her. He had a strong jawline, thick brows, broad shoulders, a slight muscular frame—similar to her own. He was handsome in a rugged way—almost like a lumberjack. But there was something else there, something she couldn't quite place. His eyes---they looked haunted somehow.

Dr. Morris continued. "Henry here contracted Strain Beta about a month ago—just after Jason did---but his progression was slower than yours, Taylor. His changes only completed last week."

That surprised her. "He's already back in school?" she asked.

"Just actually," Dr. Morris explained. "Beta is a bit different. The patient is only contagious 72 hours after the first initial stages of the infection. But the process of the change is slower. There was no longer a need for Henry to be isolated."

Taylor nodded, understanding. Then remembered something else. "Wait, wasn't Jasmine supposed to be meeting with us too?"

Last night, when Dr. Morris called, she had told her that she initially wanted all three of them to meet in the principal's office before class on Monday (today). It was her attempt to introduce the three of them to make it less awkward and to perhaps allow them to make friends and potentially rely on one another.

The principal cleared his throat. "Jasmine has excused herself".

In other words, the new "princess" didn't want to be bothered. With the kind of money her father threw around town, she could get away with it too.

Henry's fingers tapped an arrhythmic pattern against his knee—too forceful to be nervous, too erratic to be intentional. Up close, Taylor noticed red around his knuckles, the kind earned from fistfights rather than feminine hobbies. It was fresh. His voice, when he finally spoke, was deeper than she expected, roughened at the edges like gravel under tires. "Guess we're the unlucky ones," he muttered, not quite looking at her.

Dr. Morris cleared her throat, trying to move the conversation along.

Principal Hendricks took the time to say his piece.

Principal Hendricks leaned forward, his polished desk reflecting the fluorescent lights like a shallow pool. "First off," he said, fingers steeped, "we want you both to know Ridgewood High has a zero-tolerance policy regarding harassment of any kind—especially for students in your... unique circumstances." The pause before 'unique' lasted a millisecond too long.

Henry's scoff was barely audible, but the principal's eyes darted toward him anyway. Taylor noticed the way Henry's combat boots dug into the industrial carpet, his shoulders tensing like coiled springs beneath his flannel. Dr. Morris's clipboard tilted slightly in her lap—the only outward sign she'd caught the reaction.

"The school board has implemented several protective measures," Hendricks continued, sliding two laminated pamphlets across the desk. Taylor's fingertips brushed the glossy surface—Supporting Transformed Students: A Guide for Faculty. Henry didn't touch his copy. "All staff have undergone sensitivity training, and we've established a dedicated hotline for reporting incidents directly to my office." He tapped the embossed school crest on the pamphlet, as if this legitimized everything.

Taylor traced the embossing absently. The pamphlet smelled faintly of toner and false reassurance. Across from her, Henry's jaw worked silently—she could practically hear his teeth grinding.

Hendricks adjusted his tie. "We're also offering priority scheduling for restroom access—"

"Why?" asked Henry, annoyed. "I've got a dick now. It works like any other guys. I pee standing up instead of down".

Taylor bit her lip to keep from laughing. Hendricks' face twitched. "Right. Well, Taylor—"

"I think hers functions the same as mine used too" Henry interrupted again.

Dr. Morris cleared her throat. "The government has taken a stance to treat V63 students like transgender students in the past"

Henry scoffed again. "Yeah. Except we didn't choose this."

Dr. Morris's pen made an audible click as she retracted it, her gaze darting between Henry's clenched fists and Principal Hendricks' whitening knuckles on the desk. "What Henry means," she interjected with practiced calm, "is that involuntary transformation requires distinct considerations." Her clipboard tilted toward Hendricks like a peace offering. "Perhaps we could focus on the peer support group we discussed? A safe space to process shared experiences."

Taylor watched Henry's shoulders drop half an inch—not relaxation, but tactical retreat. His combat boots scuffed the carpet as he turned slightly away from Hendricks, the motion making his flannel sleeve ride up. Fresh scratches laddered his forearm, the kind left by desperate fingernails rather than thorny bushes.

Those peer groups. Were they the ones she mentioned yesterday? The sessions where she and the others met?

"I don't want to sit around with others discussing my feelings," Henry snapped. "I want to be treated like normal, like before. I'm a guy, it sucks. She's a chick, I bet she hates it too. Haven't we suffered enough?"

Dysphoria "There is nothing normal about this situation. I have to reassure the safety of the other students..."

"Safety!?" Henry raised his voice. "We're not dangerous. We're not contagious. We're people."

"People who are different now" the principal interjected.

Taylor watched with interest and concern. Henry was right. She just wasn't sure if it was her place to say anything.

Dr. Morris's clipboard landed on her lap with a soft thump, her fingers spreading like she was physically smoothing the tension from the air. "Gentlemen," she began, then caught herself with a quick glance at Taylor. "*Everyone*. Let's refocus." Her voice had that therapist cadence—soothing but firm, like a kindergarten teacher separating fighting toddlers. "Henry, Taylor—you're pioneers here at this school. The first and hopefully the last to navigate something unprecedented. That deserves acknowledgment, not bureaucracy."

Henry's combat boots scuffed the carpet again, but his shoulders lost some of their defensive hunch. Taylor noticed how Dr. Morris didn't say "it'll be okay" or "you'll adjust"—just acknowledged the suckage without sugarcoating. Refreshing.

Principal Hendricks cleared his throat, adjusting his tie again—Taylor counted three tugs so far. "Of course, of course. We merely want to ensure proper—"

"Protocols?" Henry interrupted, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because locking us in glass boxes worked *so well* for the kids in the past."

It was pretty common knowledge that the first victims of The Bug were treated pretty damn badly. So bad in fact that a couple actually ended up killing themselves.

Dr. Morris's pen tapped against her clipboard—three quick strikes like a judge's gavel. "What Henry needs," she said with deliberate emphasis, "is autonomy." Her gaze flicked to Taylor. "What both of you need is agency in how this transition is handled." She leaned forward, elbows on knees. "So let's try this again—what would help *you* feel safe here?"

The question hung in the air like smoke after a gunshot. Henry's fingers flexed, the fresh scabs on his knuckles stretching taut. Taylor noticed how his throat worked when he swallowed—like there were words caught behind his Adam's apple, sharp enough to cut coming up.

"Stop treating us like exhibits," Henry finally ground out. His combat boot nudged the untouched pamphlet off the desk edge. It fluttered to the floor between them, the glossy *Supporting Transformed Students* face-up like a discarded museum placard. "No special groups. No faculty 'sensitivity' whispers when we walk by." His green eyes locked onto Hendricks'. "Just... fucking normal."

Taylor cleared her throat, the ghost of comments still pressing around her. "What happened in the hallway earlier—" She stopped when Henry's head snapped toward her, his green eyes sharp with unexpected interest.

Dr. Morris leaned forward. "Would you like to share?"

She sighed heavily. "I felt like I was in a zoo, everyone's faces pressed up against the glass, staring, ogling."

Henry's fingers twitched against his knee—not quite a flinch, but close. "Yeah," he muttered, voice scraping low. "Like you're some lab rat they're waiting to dissect." His thumb traced the fresh bruises on his knuckles, the motion too deliberate to be casual. Taylor recognized the gesture instantly—it was the same way Kayla toyed with her necklace when trying not to cry.

Dr. Morris’s gaze softened, her clipboard lowering slightly. "That's exactly why we need structured support—to counteract that isolation."

Henry's laugh was a short, bitter bark. "Structured support? You mean more staring." His combat boots hit the floor with a thud as he leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. "The only thing worse than being a freak show is being a *mandatory* freak show."

Dr. Morris was ready for that too. "I understand your concern, Henry and its unfortunate but we can't stop people from being people. Its in their nature. If something doesn't fit, they try to remove it. We can strive to make it easier for you but we can't force people to accept you."

Henry's fingers curled into fists. "So what? We just take it?" His voice cracked like ice underfoot—a sound Taylor recognized instantly, the same brittle edge her own voice had carried those first few mornings staring at her reflection.

Principal Hendricks cleared his throat. "No, you report it and let the proper authority handle it."

Taylor watched Henry’s jaw tighten—the muscle flickering like a live wire under skin. There was something raw in the way he held himself, like every cell in his body was braced for impact. She recognized that tension. It lived in her own shoulders now, ever since the hallway.

Report it. Right.

“What about online harassment?” Taylor asked, suddenly remembering the crude remark about the BJ on Ridgewood Confessions.

“Have you received any?” asked the principal, surprised.

“Check Ridgewood Confessions” Taylor sighed. “You’ll find someone quite interested in what kind of oral sex I might be able to provide”.

The principal’s face darkened. “I’ll have someone look into it”.

Dr. Morris watched them for a long moment before turning to the principal. "Perhaps forcing them to use different designated restrooms and locker rooms isn't the answer. I understand your concern but if we don't treat them like every other student, there will be severe consequences to their mental health."

The principal sighed. "The School Board is not going to be happy."

Dr. Morris gave him a severe smile. "Let the government handle the school board. You worry about the safety of your students" She looked at Taylor and Henry. "All of them".

The principal lowered his head, brow beaten and defeated. "I'll see what I can do"

"That's all we ask" Dr. Morris said, standing. "Now unfortunately, that's all the time I have for now" She turned to Taylor and Henry. "I'll contact you tonight via email to schedule individual appointments and to organize our first proper group session. I hope the both of you have a good day".

She shook both their hands then left.

The principal cleared his throat "Yes, well, once again, welcome back" He straightened his tie for the fourth time. "Talk to Mrs. Chambers on the way out, she has some info packets and a revised class schedule for the both of you."

With that they were dismissed.

Taylor and Henry left at the same time. They both met with the secretary, Mrs. Chambers. The older lady gave Henry a standoffish look while she gave him his papers. He scoffed and left without saying a word.

Mrs. Chambers smiled warmly at her. "Aren't you the prettiest thing, you look just like your sister."

Taylor smiled and thanked her.

She then handed Taylor her papers. "Oh honey," she murmured, leaning in close enough for Taylor to smell her lavender perfume, "you just tell me if anyone gives you trouble."

Taylor smiled again, thanked her again and left the office.

She ignored the other papers for a moment but stared at her "revised" schedule. The classes were all the same except her Study Hall and Gym period had been swapped.

Girls PE. 

Well that's going to be fun, she thought with dread.

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

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Author's Note:Taylor's first day of school continues. She meets a new friend. She conquers PE class. Also it turns out our plumbing issue was actually a AC condensation pipe leak, fun times. I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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3.

Taylor made it to her first period English class with about ten minutes left in class.

When she opened the door, all eyes---including the teacher, Mr. Anderson---were on her. She felt so embarrassed.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a swarm of judgmental wasps as Taylor hovered in the doorway. Thirty pairs of eyes snapped toward her—some curious, some hostile, most just hungry for drama. Mr. Anderson's chalk froze mid-sentence on the blackboard, his eyebrows arching toward his receding hairline. A stifled giggle came from the back row where Sierra's friends sat like a tribunal in matching plaid pleated skirts.

"Ah," Mr. Anderson said, dusting chalk from his fingers with exaggerated slowness. "Miss... Carver, is it now?" The pause before her new name made Taylor's stomach twist. She clutched her schedule tighter, the paper crinkling like dry leaves underfoot.

"Sorry, sir" she said softly before scooting into the room and taking her seat.

Those students who hadn't seen her in the hall or seen her photo from earlier, gasped at the realization that she was in fact once Tyler. No one said anything but she could feel their stares on her back. She wanted to slouch under the desk.

The desk creaked under Taylor’s white-knuckled grip as Mr. Anderson resumed his lecture—something about *Romeo and Juliet* that suddenly felt too on-the-nose. Being alone in this class, without Kayla or anyone else she was "friends" with made it all the more harder.

"Hey" said a voice from the chair next to her.

She turned and saw a red haired girl sitting there. Tyler had sat next to her all year but this was the first time she' ever spoken to Taylor. Taylor thought her name was Liz but she wasn't quite sure. She'd seen the girl around, outside of class. She thought she was on the volleyball team. The girl had the build for it---lean, a bit of muscle like Taylor's own physique.

Taylor blinked at the redhead, caught off-guard by the sudden acknowledgment. Liz—if that was her name—twirled a pen between freckled fingers, her gaze darting between Taylor’s face and the empty notebook in front of her. "You missed the pop quiz," she whispered, sliding a photocopied worksheet toward Taylor. 

"Thanks" she mumbled, taking the paper.

When class finally ended, Taylor gathered her papers with deliberate slowness, half-hoping to keep her head down and disappear into the crowd—until a freckled elbow nudged hers. "So," Liz said, falling into step beside her as if they'd shared every passing period for years, "you're officially my new favorite conspiracy theory." Her grin showed a chipped canine tooth. "Tyler Carver turning into his twin sister overnight? That's some *X-Files* shit."

Taylor's throat tightened around a laugh that came out more like a wheeze. Liz's sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as she matched Taylor's hesitant pace, her chin length hair bouncing with each step. 

Liz hip-checked a freshman who gawked at Taylor a second too long. "Eyes front, dweeb." Her tone was light, but Taylor noticed how Liz subtly positioned herself between Taylor and the worst of the hallway's staring. 

“It's some serious alien shit though” Liz continued as they walked. “This virus. Turning boys into girls and girls into boys. You’re all hot too. Like seriously hot. I think I'm in love” She batted her eyes like a cartoon character.

“Thanks, I think” Taylor wasn’t sure how to handle Liz. 

"You realize you're now legally required to tell me everything," Liz said, steering Taylor around a cluster of girls whispering behind their textbooks. One girl's manicured finger twitched toward Taylor like she was pointing at a zoo exhibit. Liz flipped her off without breaking stride. "Starting with—does The Bug give you, like, secret girl superpowers? Can you smell emotions now? Do you cry glitter?"

Taylor laughed. She liked her instantly but was a bit confused. "Sorry, umm..."

Liz smirked. "Why is this weird girl suddenly talking to you?" Liz was direct. "Simple. You looked like a deer in headlights. I thought, hey this chick needs a hand. You know?"

Taylor smiled softly. "Thanks."

Why did she keep thanking this girl?

Liz nodded, leading her down the hallway. "Don't thank me yet. I'm gonna ask you shitloads of invasive questions."

Taylor laughed. "Fair."

They turned the corner and Taylor saw Sierra's group clustered around her locker. Taylor tensed.

Liz immediately grabbed her wrist, pulling her left down a side hallway instead. "Shortcut," she lied smoothly.

"How do you know where I'm going?" Taylor asked as she dragged along.

Liz raised an eyebrow. "We have like three classes together".

Shit.

"Sorry," Taylor said, embarrassed. "I'm not...I mean, I wasn't very aware of my surroundings back then."

"Men" Liz scoffed, shaking her head. "You got the better tradeoff"

Taylor didn't know what to say to that. She wasn't sure she disagreed. But it was still a weird thing to hear.

They reached their second period class---Biology---right before the bell rang. There were no assigned seats, so Liz dropped into the one next to her.

"After class, you're telling me all about the weird girly shit" she said.

The forty minutes of Biology class was awkward with more stares and whispers. Taylor could feel them like physical touches—the quick glances from the back row, the stifled giggles whenever the teacher mentioned reproductive systems. She couldn't wait for the class to end. The constant drone of Mr. White's voice and every looking at her whenever she moved her head, it was infuriating.

When the class finally ended, she was happy to get out of there.

The hallway between Biology and Math felt narrower than usual, the overhead lights flickering like a bad omen. Liz kept pace beside Taylor, her shoulder bumping Taylor's whenever someone stared too long—a silent *I got you* without the awkwardness of saying it out loud.

"So the girly shit?" asked her new "friend".

Taylor exhaled through her nose, adjusting the strap of her backpack as they rounded the corner toward the math wing. "What exactly qualifies as 'girly shit' to you?"

Liz grinned, tapping her chin with a pen. "Oh, you know—suddenly caring about skincare routines, crying at dog commercials, feeling the urge to organize your closet by color gradient." She wiggled her fingers dramatically. "You know Bug magic."

Taylor snorted, almost tripping over her own feet as Liz mimed casting a spell. "I haven’t cried at a dog commercial yet," she admitted, "but I went shopping with my sister yesterday and absolutely fell in love with this dress. When I realized what was happening, it scared the hell out of me".

Liz’s grin widened as she hip-checked a water fountain to avoid a group of whispering sophomores. "Dress shopping? Oh, we’re definitely circling back to that." She tugged Taylor into an alcove near the math wing, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But first—truth bomb. Did Gamma give you, like... phantom boob pain? Because Jasmine told Mary Wilson who told a shit ton of other she woke up screaming when hers came in."

Taylor rolled her eyes. "Jasmine is full of shit. At least I'm pretty sure she is. I was actually asleep when these" She pointed at her boobs. "Showed up."

Liz looked at Taylor's larger chest. "Yeah, anyone would notice those growing in".

The third-period math bell screeched overhead like a fire alarm, making Taylor flinch. Liz didn't seem to notice, too busy examining Taylor's chest with the clinical detachment of a biologist cataloging a new species. "They're, like, perfectly symmetrical," she mused, tilting her head. "The Bug's got better quality control than Victoria's Secret."

Taylor snorted again as they made their way into third period Math class. Mrs. Schultz up front gave them the side eye but said nothing.

Math class was boring and Taylor was itching to continue the weird conversation with Liz.

It was weird. Taylor had known Benny since middle school, but their friendship had always been built on shared gaming marathons and occasional lunch table banter—never the kind of easy, unfiltered back-and-forth she was suddenly having with Liz, a girl she'd officially met 80 some odd minutes ago. Liz jabbed her pen against Taylor's forearm, pulling her attention back to the half-solved equation on her worksheet. "Earth to Bug Girl," she whispered, "you're staring at the quadratic formula like it insulted your mega rack."

The bell's shriek snapped Taylor out of her daze—she'd been counting ceiling tiles for fifteen minutes straight while Liz doodled cartoon viruses in her notebook margins. Mrs. Schultz collected their worksheets with the enthusiasm of a tax auditor, her gaze lingering on Taylor with an unsatisfactory shake of her head before wandering back to the front of the class.

"Alright, execution's over," Liz muttered, slamming her textbook shut with finality. She hip-checked Taylor's chair as she stood, sending it skidding sideways with a screech of metal legs on linoleum. "Meet you at lunch?"

Taylor blinked up at her. "You—wait, really?"

Liz rolled her eyes so hard her entire skull tilted backward. "Yes, really. Unless you'd rather sit with..." She jerked her chin toward the window where Sierra's clique clustered like vultures, their manicured fingers flickering against phone screens in perfect sync.

Taylor followed her gaze and felt her throat tighten. One girl was openly filming her from three tables away, the phone angled to capture Taylor's bewildered expression in high definition.

"Lunch it is," Taylor muttered.

Liz flashed a victorious grin and tossed her a crumpled napkin—presumably meant to be a makeshift map—before vanishing into the hallway's tide of bodies. Taylor unfolded it to find a hastily drawn floor plan with "FOOD HERE" scrawled over the cafeteria and a stick-figure Liz waving from a corner table.

Taylor made her lonely trek to fourth period World History. She was pretty down in the dumps when something new and different dawned on her.

She had History with Callie.

The fluorescent buzz of the history classroom’s lights suddenly felt like a spotlight as Taylor hesitated in the doorway. Callie’s dark ponytail was already visible three rows back—the same seat she’d occupied all semester when this was still Tyler’s life. Taylor’s fingers tightened around her notebook. Girlfriend. The word ricocheted in her skull like a pinball.

Callie’s head snapped up the moment Taylor crossed the threshold, her espresso-brown eyes widening. A heartbeat of silence stretched between them before Callie scooted her bag off the adjacent chair with a sharp jerk of her wrist—an unspoken invitation. Taylor’s pulse hammered as she slid into the seat, their knees brushing beneath the desk. Callie smelled like jasmine shampoo and the spearmint gum she always chewed when stressed.

"Hey" Callie said, blushing slightly.

"Hey back" Taylor blushed just as red.

Taylor's pencil slipped from her fingers as Callie leaned in closer, the scent of spearmint sharpening between them. "You okay?" Callie whispered, her breath warm against Taylor's ear. The question sent a shiver down Taylor's spine—half-pleasure, half-panic. Mr. Greeley droned on about the Treaty of Versailles, completely oblivious to the tectonic shift happening in the third row.

"I'm good now," she admitted, knowing Callie was referring to all that crap from the morning, including the asshole on Confessions.

Callie's fingers brushed Taylor's wrist under the desk—brief, electric. "That dude pissed me off. I wanted to bust his face".

"Just some rando hiding behind a keyboard," Taylor sadly admitted. "I told the principal, so hopefully it's handled".

History used to be pretty boring. Technically it still was but it was a lot better with Callie there. Well to be fair, she was always there but usually she sat with...

Taylor remembered and turned around.

There she was in all her "streamer" girl glory, Jasmine.

Jasmine lounged three rows back like she owned the classroom, one leg crossed over the other with the deliberate casualness of someone who knew every angle of her body was camera-ready. Her outfit was a meticulously curated blend of soft pinks and creams—a cropped cashmere sweater hugging her torso just tight enough to highlight the swell of her breasts, paired with a pleated skirt that flirted with the boundary between school-appropriate and scandalous. The diamond-studded choker around her throat caught the fluorescent lights with every slight turn of her head, scattering tiny prisms across her collarbones.

Taylor’s gaze snagged on Jasmine’s knee-high socks—designer, with tiny embroidered hearts climbing toward her thighs—before darting away when Jasmine caught her staring. A smirk curled Jasmine’s glossy lips as she uncrossed and recrossed her legs with exaggerated slowness, the movement drawing Taylor’s attention back like a magnet. Even her damn socks were weaponized femininity.

It was hard to believe that she used to be Jason. That dude had been the poster boy for Toxic Masculinity. Now here she was, the most feminine girl in the room. It made Taylor shudder to think of what might have happened if she had gotten the same variant of The Bug that Jason had got.

She turned to Callie, whispering. "So that's Jasmine these days?"

Callie rolled her eyes, whispering back. "She's been back in school for a week. She sits there like a queen. She lets other people take her notes, makes others do her homework. It's like the lacrosse player I fake dated for a year has been swallowed by the Bermuda Triangle".

Right. Taylor had completely forgotten they were essentially each other's Beard.  She was still processing the whole "Jason was actually gay" thing.

When the bell rang, the two of them headed out together. One thing led to another and somehow they were holding hands. She didn't mind though. She thought it was pretty out there for Callie. She was certain she was trying to keep the whole being gay thing on the down low but apparently not.

Someone scoffed from behind them.

The scoff turned into a sharp, familiar laugh—one that made Taylor’s stomach twist before she even turned around. Jasmine stood with one hip cocked, her manicured fingers tapping against the strap of her designer backpack. "Well, isn’t this adorable," she drawled, her voice dripping with saccharine venom. "Trading down, I see?"

Callie’s grip tightened around Taylor’s hand, but she didn’t let go. "If I remember correctly, you're the one who dumped me?" she shot back, chin lifting.

Jasmine’s smirk widened, her glossy lips parting to reveal unnaturally white teeth. "Oh, honey, that was business." She flicked her gaze to Taylor, raking it up and down her body with deliberate slowness. "But this? This is just sad."

Taylor realized it right there. She was taller than Jasmine. That surprised her. When she transformed, she remained her usual five ten. Jason had actually been a few inches taller then him back when they were both guys. It was actually kind of funny and ironic. Taylor stepped up to her, Jasmine's head an eyeline with her new bust.

The moment was not lost on Jasmine, who took a cautionary step back.

The role reversal in this scenario was amazing.

Taylor smirked, looking down at Jasmine. "What's wrong? You used to be a master class at this manipulation."

The realization suddenly dawned on Jasmine. She squinted, finally noticing. "Carver?" she whispered, apparently not recognizing Taylor.

Callie was quick to jump in. "You're serious, Jas? She looks just like her sister? How did you not know who she was?"

Jasmine looked confused for a moment. Almost as if she couldn't process before she responded.

Taylor smirked, enjoying Jasmine's discomfort. "Guess I'm not important enough to recognize."

Jasmine recovered quickly, flipping her hair over one shoulder with practiced ease. "Oh, please. I just didn't expect *you* to be the one holding hands with my leftovers." Her gaze flicked between them, lingering on their intertwined fingers. "Although, I guess beggars can't be choosers."

"And trash is just trash" said a new voice.

Kayla’s heeled sandals hit the linoleum with a sound like a gunshot, her sudden appearance at Taylor’s shoulder so abrupt Jasmine actually flinched. Jess materialized beside her, arms crossed.

The backup caused Jasmine to scoff before she turned with a hair flip and sauntered off.

Jasmine's retreating back was a study in forced nonchalance—her hips swaying just a fraction too wide to be natural, the glint of her choker catching the light like a distress signal. Taylor exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her fingers still tangled with Callie's in a damp knot of adrenaline and confusion.

Jasmine’s exit left a vacuum of silence in the hallway, punctuated only by the distant chatter of students and the squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Kayla didn’t bother watching her go—her focus was laser-locked on Taylor and Callie’s intertwined hands. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face. "Well, well," she drawled, nudging Jess with her elbow. "Looks like someone finally figured out how to use their hands for something other than button-mashing."

Both Taylor and Callie blushed.

Jess gasped, grabbing her phone, ready fire off a text. Kayla snatched it out of her hands.

"Let them have this one, Jess?"

Jess nodded and Kayla gave her back the phone.

"For the hundredth time, I didn't know Sierra was going to spread that photo everywhere!" She sounded sincere but she was the biggest gossip around.

The four of them walked to lunch together.

The cafeteria noise hit Taylor like a wall of static as they pushed through the double doors—a swirling chaos of lunch trays and shouted conversations. Kayla marched ahead like a battleship clearing a path, her sandals slapping against the linoleum with military precision. Jess trailed behind, already tapping furiously on her phone despite Kayla's earlier confiscation threat. Callie's fingers stayed intertwined with Taylor's, their palms sticking together in the late September heat.

"So where's your VolleyBro?" Kayla asked, scanning the tables.

VolleyBro is what everyone called the girls volleyball team members. It was an inside joke because of how they partied after every match, win or lose. Like a bunch of frat boys.

Taylor spotted Liz immediately—not because she was waving (she wasn't), but because her neon-green high-tops were propped up on the cafeteria table like territorial flags. Liz sat slouched in her usual posture of aggressive relaxation, demolishing a chicken patty with the focus of a surgeon performing an amputation. When their eyes met, Liz didn't smile so much as twitch her eyebrows upward before jerking her chin toward the empty benches beside her.

"This should be entertaining" mumbled Kayla, knowing how balls to wall that Liz could be.

Kayla hip-checked Taylor out of the way to claim the seat directly across from Liz, her tray hitting the table with a clatter that made three freshmen at the next table flinch. Jess slid in beside her, already hunched over her phone like it contained the secrets of the universe. Callie hesitated—just long enough for Taylor to notice—before tugging her toward the remaining spot beside Liz's sprawled limbs.

Liz's gaze flicked between them all like she was tallying points. "So," she said around a mouthful of fries, "we doing introductions or just pretending this isn't the weirdest lunch table in Ridgewood history?"

Taylor opened her mouth, but Kayla got there first. "Jess. Me. You've met my suddenly hotter twin." She jabbed a plastic fork toward Callie. "And that's Taylor's upgrade from gamer chair makeouts."

Callie's grip tightened around Taylor's fingers under the table. Liz barked a laugh so loud the lunch monitor glared from across the room. "Jesus, you're all terrible at this," Liz said, wiping grease from her chin with the back of her hand. She pointed at Jess with a half-eaten fry. "Texting your entire contacts list about this, obviously." The fry moved to Kayla. "Queen Bitch energy, classic." Then to Callie. "Panicking internally." Finally to Taylor: "And you're just along for whatever fresh hell this is."

Taylor blinked. "How are you this accurate after knowing us for five seconds?"

"Genius-level social perception," Liz deadpanned, stealing a carton of chocolate milk from Kayla's tray without asking. "Also your sister's Instagram is public".

Kayla lunged halfway across the table. "Give that back before I—"

"—before you what?" Liz arched an eyebrow, deliberately taking a slow sip. "Drag me to the mall and brow beat me with a halter top?"

Jess snorted milk through her nose while Taylor marveled at Liz's uncanny ability to weaponize Kayla's own tactics against her. The standoff lasted exactly three seconds before Kayla collapsed back onto the bench with grudging respect—the first time Taylor had ever seen someone outmaneuver her sister in verbal combat.

The conversation spiraled into a whirlwind of hair products and dating disasters—exactly the kind of discourse Tyler would've tuned out or escaped months ago. But now, with Liz stabbing a fry toward Taylor's face to punctuate a point about keratin treatments, and Callie's knee brushing hers under the table as she debated lip gloss longevity, Taylor found herself leaning in instead of checking out.

It was like this all throughout lunch and she paid rapt attention.

It was the weirdest thing.

The lunch bell shattered their fragile bubble of camaraderie. Taylor watched as Liz vaulted over the bench with a mock salute, Jess melted into the hallway crowds texting furiously, and Kayla vanished toward the science wing with a backwards wink that promised future interrogation. Only Callie lingered—just long enough to squeeze Taylor’s hand once before murmuring, "You’ll survive PE. Probably." Her smirk did nothing to ease the knot in Taylor’s stomach.

Taylor's fingers hovered half an inch from the locker room door, her reflection warped in the brushed metal surface. The laminated "Girls Only" sign above the handle might as well have been neon. She could hear the muffled chaos inside—lockers slamming, flip-flops slapping against tile, the occasional shriek of laughter that made her shoulders tense.

"New rule," came Liz's voice suddenly beside her ear, making Taylor jump. "You stand there any longer, people will think you're casing the place for pervy reasons." Liz hip-checked the door open with zero hesitation, dragging Taylor inside by the strap of her backpack. The sudden assault of floral body sprays and coconut shampoo hit Taylor like a physical force—along with thirty pairs of eyes that flicked toward the doorway.

"Wait, where the hell did you come from?" Taylor was surprised because she was sure she was the only one who had PE this period out of their new group.

Liz shrugged, walking backwards into the locker room like she owned it. "Free period. Figured you'd need a tour guide through Girl Hell." She snapped her fingers in front of Taylor's frozen expression. "Breathe, Carver. Nobody cares as much as you think they do."

Free Periods at their school could be spent doing anything. Most people just used them as a free study hall. Taylor's was actually next period. She just never thought that anyone would want to spend it taking an extra class of PE.

Taylor stepped across the threshold like she was entering a crime scene—shoulders hunched, gaze darting between clusters of girls in various states of undress. A sophomore she recognized from math class paused mid-bra-clasp to stare. Someone's deodorant can clattered to the tile floor near her feet.

Liz stepped up. "What, never seen a girl with tatas this big?" She stepped behind Taylor, grabbed her boobs from behind and gave them a gentle squeeze. "I assure you they're very real!"

Taylor went 100 shades of red.

The locker room erupted into scattered laughter—some nervous, some genuine—but the tension shattered like dropped glass. Taylor stood frozen, Liz's hands still cupping her breasts with theatrical emphasis.

"Jesus Christ, Liz!" Taylor hissed, twisting away as Liz finally released her with a shit-eating grin. The laughter around them faded into scattered whispers, but the stares lingered—curious now, rather than hostile.

"And that is how you do it?" Liz said with a smug look, pointing at a locker. "I'm over there"

Taylor followed, still mortified.

The locker room was a warzone of femininity—a humid, perfumed jungle where every surface seemed slick with hair product and stolen glances. Taylor caught the sharp tang of aerosol deodorant underneath the cloying sweetness of vanilla body spray, the scents mingling with the damp musk of sweat-dampened sports bras hung haphazardly on locker doors. Girls moved in fluid packs, their laughter ricocheting off the tiled walls like bullets, their conversations layering over each other in a dizzying cacophony of inside jokes and half-finished gossip.

Liz navigated the chaos with the ease of a battlefield medic, shoving aside backpacks and stepping over discarded knee socks like they were landmines. She jerked her chin toward a row of lockers near the showers—far enough from the main thoroughfare to offer some privacy, but close enough to the exits for a quick escape. "Home sweet hell," she announced, kicking open a locker door with her neon-green high-top. The metal clang echoed ominously.

Taylor hesitated, her fingers tightening around the strap of her backpack. Everywhere she looked, girls were in various states of undress—peeling off shirts, wiggling out of leggings, adjusting bra straps with the casual intimacy of lifelong familiarity. A senior near the mirrors arched her back to French-braid her hair, her sports bra riding up to reveal a strip of tanned stomach. Someone's phone blared a TikTok trend from a bench littered with hair ties and bobby pins.

So this was the girls' locker room.

So many boys would be so disappointed.

She sat down a bench, taking her gym clothes from her bag.

The gym shorts were shorter than Taylor had expected—not indecent, but definitely riding higher on her thighs than anything Tyler would’ve ever owned. Navy blue with white piping, they had an elastic waistband that dug slightly into her hips when she moved. Kayla had insisted they were "standard issue," but the way the fabric clung to her new curves felt anything but standard. The matching sports bra was worse—a racerback monstrosity with enough compression to make breathing feel optional. Taylor tugged at the straps, suddenly hyperaware of how much skin it exposed across her shoulders and back.

There was a shirt at least, it was a pretty standard issue work out one. At least Kayla didn't muck that up.

Taylor started doing some stretches, limbering herself up.

Taylor’s hamstring stretch turned heads—not because she was particularly flexible (she wasn’t), but because the lean muscles in her legs caught the fluorescent light in ways that made several girls pause mid-conversation. She pretended not to notice the stares tracing the defined curve of her quadriceps as she bent forward, palms flat on the tile. Someone’s water bottle hit the floor with a plastic clatter.

"Jesus, Carver," Liz muttered beside her, loud enough to carry. "Save some tendons for the rest of us." She punctuated it with an exaggerated groan as she attempted the same stretch, her own legs wobbling like a newborn deer’s. The tension shattered into scattered giggles—some nervous, some genuinely amused—but Taylor caught the lingering glances at her biceps as she reached overhead.

She had seen Liz a moment ago. Both of them had Instagram fitness bods. She wasn't sure what Liz was complaining about.

Taylor rolled her shoulders, trying to ignore the way her sports bra straps dug into her skin. Liz caught her adjusting them for the third time and smirked, tossing a hair tie at her head. "Stop fussing. You look like a baby giraffe trying to walk in heels for the first time."

The locker room door swung open into the gymnasium’s cavernous space like the gates of some fluorescent-lit underworld. Ms. Poole stood at center court, her whistle glinting under the industrial lights as she scrutinized her clipboard with the intensity of a general surveying battlefield plans. Taylor lingered near the back of the pack, acutely aware of how her gym shorts rode up with every step.

"Carver." Poole’s voice cracked like a whip before Taylor’s sneakers had fully crossed the threshold. "Front and center."

A ripple of whispers spread through the class as Taylor shuffled forward, her pulse hammering in her throat. Poole’s gaze raked over her with clinical detachment—not the predatory leer Taylor had braced for, but the same dispassionate assessment she’d give any piece of gym equipment. "Modified routine for you today. Doctor’s orders." She thrust a sheet of paper at Taylor without breaking eye contact. "No contact drills. No heavy weights. Monitor your heart rate."

Liz sidled up beside Taylor, peering at the restrictions with exaggerated dismay. "Damn. She’s treating you like you’re made of glass."

No, Taylor thought, someone talked to her. Probably Dr. Morris. Ms. Poole exactly what Taylor was capable of. She saw it in the way the woman looked at her.

It was a shame too because Taylor had missed her run this morning. She'd been antsy all day and thought maybe she'd get a free workout in PE.

Taylor crumpled the doctor's note in her palm, the paper crackling like a threat. Across the gym, Sierra's cheer squad stretched in synchronized perfection—their leggings riding high enough to make the basketball team trip over their own feet. One girl arched into a backbend that defied physics, flashing Taylor a smirk over her upside-down shoulder.

She'd seen these girls all day with no sign of their ringleader Sierra.

The gymnasium smelled of sweat and rubber mats, the kind of scent that clung to Tyler's memories—except now Taylor's lungs filtered it differently, sharper somehow. Poole blew her whistle, scattering the class into warm-up laps. Taylor fell into step beside Liz, their sneakers squeaking in unison against the polished hardwood.

The first lap was easy—too easy. Taylor's legs burned with unused energy, her muscles twitching against the constraints of Poole's restrictions. Liz kept pace beside her, breathing steady, but Taylor could see the question in her sideways glance. "Quit holding back," Liz muttered as they rounded the corner near the bleachers. "Your doctor didn't say crawl."

Taylor grinned—a sharp, feral thing that made Liz stumble mid-stride. "You asked for it."

She exploded forward like a snapped rubber band, legs pumping in perfect, terrifying sync. The gym blurred around her—muted gasps, Poole's aborted shout, Liz's choked laugh—as she hit the second lap at a dead sprint. Her ponytail whipped behind her like a banner, sneakers slapping the hardwood with rhythmic precision. Taylor didn't just outpace the class; she lapped them halfway through the third circuit, blowing past Sierra's cheer squad with enough force to ripple their hair.

Liz was wheezing by the bleachers when Taylor skidded to a stop beside her, barely winded. "Jesus," Liz gasped, clutching her side. "What the fuck are you?"

Taylor grinned, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand—a gesture that still felt foreign without the rough scrape of stubble. "Same as you," she lied smoothly. "Just better." The words tasted like stolen confidence, but she rolled her shoulders back anyway, watching Poole's narrowed gaze track her every movement from across the gym.

Poole's whistle cut through the gym like a knife. "Carver!" The coach's glare could've melted steel. "I said *modified* routine, not Olympic trials."

Poole marched toward them, clipboard clutched like a weapon. Liz stiffened beside Taylor, but the coach stopped just short of toe-to-toe contact, her nostrils flaring. "You think this is funny?"

Taylor met Poole's glare without blinking, adrenaline still singing in her veins. "Wasn't trying to be funny." She wiped her forehead again, hyperaware of every bead of sweat trickling down her temple. "Just testing limits."

Poole's grip tightened on the clipboard until the plastic creaked. "Limits," she repeated, voice low and dangerous. "You wanna test limits?" She jerked her chin toward the climbing ropes dangling from the gym's ceiling—thick, knotted things that even the football team struggled with. "Show me your *limits*, Carver."

The climbing ropes swayed slightly under the gym's fluorescent lights, their frayed ends brushing the hardwood like accusing fingers. Taylor's palms itched with phantom memories of rope burns—Tyler had never made it halfway up in middle school. But the ache in her fingers felt distant now, drowned out by the drumming of her pulse.

The rope hung there like a dare, its rough fibers catching the fluorescent light in a way that made Taylor’s palms tingle. Poole’s smirk was textbook intimidation—the kind that used to make Tyler shrink. But Taylor just cracked her knuckles and rolled her neck, feeling the stretch of unfamiliar muscles down her spine.

The rope fibers bit into Taylor's palms as she leapt upward, her body coiling with an unfamiliar kinetic precision. The first pull came effortlessly—her shoulders flexing in ways that would've shattered Tyler's collarbones. She ascended in smooth, rapid jerks, the rope barely swaying beneath her momentum. Below, the scattered gasps of her classmates blurred into white noise as her focus narrowed to the rhythmic burn in her forearms.

The gymnasium’s air thickened as Taylor hit the fifteen-foot mark—higher than any girl had climbed all semester.

The rope fibers groaned under Taylor’s grip as she passed the twenty-foot mark—higher than even the football team's best climber had managed last semester. Her muscles burned, but it was a clean burn, the kind that sang instead of screamed. Below, Poole's clipboard hit the floor with a clatter as the coach's jaw went slack.

Then the whistle blew. Taylor sighed, knowing she could go higher.

The whistle's shrill echo still hung in the air when Taylor loosened her grip—just enough to slide down the rope in controlled bursts, her sneakers skidding slightly against the hardwood as she landed. The gym had gone unnaturally quiet, save for the faint squeak of rubber soles shifting nervously on polished floors.

Poole's whistle clattered to the floor as Taylor landed with catlike precision, her ponytail whipping forward over one shoulder. The silence was thick enough to choke on—until Liz's slow clap shattered it like a brick through glass. "Well, that settles it," she announced to the stunned crowd. "We're officially replacing the school mascot with Taylor."

The laughter that followed Liz's comment was strained—half admiration, half unease. Taylor wiped her palms on her shorts, the rough fibers of the rope still imprinted on her skin. Poole hadn't moved, her whistle dangling uselessly from its lanyard.

"Is that your limit?" asked the teacher.

Taylor smiled. "Not even close, ma'am".

******

The bell's shrill ring cut through the gymnasium's lingering tension like a dull knife. Taylor grabbed her backpack with hands still throbbing from rope burns, fingers flexing instinctively around the straps. Liz fell into step beside her, tossing an arm over Taylor's shoulders with the ease of someone who'd known her for years instead of weeks. "So. That happened."

The fluorescent lights in the computer lab hummed like drowsy insects, their glow reflecting off the rows of glossy monitors. Taylor slumped into her usual seat near the back, her muscles still thrumming with leftover adrenaline from PE. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard—Tyler’s old login credentials staring back at her from the screen like a ghost. She hesitated, then deleted the username and typed “taycarver” instead. The system accepted it without protest. Small victories.

This was a forced elective. Most kids her age took it for an easy A. It was a relic from an era when computers were still something new and foreign. Somehow the school failed to remove it from their curriculum year after year. Most kinds used it as a free time to check their socials or do some normal web browsing.

Taylor spent the 40 minutes reading some sci-fi web novel that she started months ago. She had thought it was pretty damn interesting as Tyler but now she couldn't really understand what drew her interest to it. That made her kind of sad. She used to love reading these kind of things. She made a mental note to add it to the growing list of things that she as Taylor didn't like now as opposed to what she as Tyler did.

She was very sad to say that crunchy peanut butter was on that list as well.

The virus was cruel.

Thankfully the ringing of the final bell of the day brought her solace from her boredom.

Taylor's sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as she shouldered her backpack, the scent of disinfectant and old textbooks thick in the hallway air. The classroom door swung shut behind her with a pneumatic hiss—just in time to reveal Sierra Dawson leaning against the lockers opposite, flanked by her Pastel Mafia in coordinated perfection. Sierra's bubblegum-pink nails tapped against her phone case in a slow, deliberate rhythm that set Taylor's teeth on edge.

How had she known where to find her?

The realization quickly dawned on her. It was Sierra's minions. She hadn't been fully paying attention but now that she thought about it, there was at least one in every one of her classes today.

Taylor sighed and walked over to Sierra, annoyed. "Are you stalking me?"

Sierra's lips curled into a practiced smirk as Taylor approached, her bubblegum-pink nails still drumming against her phone. The Pastel Mafia—a synchronized trio in mint, lavender, and baby blue athleisure—flanked her like pastel-hued bodyguards. "Stalking implies effort," Sierra drawled, pushing off the lockers with a hip roll that made her pleated skirt sway. "Tracking your schedule took, like, two taps." She held up her phone, the screen displaying Taylor's class timetable in meticulous detail.

"What about them?" Taylor asked, pointing to the other girls.

Sierra shrugged. "I'm not their keeper. They go where they please."

Taylor's fingers twitched at her sides, acutely aware of how Sierra's gaze flickered to the movement. The hallway noise faded into a dull roar—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking—as Sierra took a deliberate step forward, close enough for Taylor to smell her vanilla gloss. "Relax," Sierra murmured, tilting her head. "We just want to talk."

Taylor's spine straightened instinctively as Sierra invaded her personal space, the vanilla gloss smell triggering a strange mix of irritation and reluctant attraction. "Talk," Taylor repeated flatly, crossing her arms in a way that made her biceps flex. The Pastel Mafia exchanged glances—Taylor caught Mint Girl's eyes flickering to her arms before she looked away.

Taylor watched Sierra’s smirk deepen, the practiced tilt of her head making the overhead lights catch the shimmer in her highlighter. “You looked good in PE today,” Sierra said, voice dripping with something between admiration and calculation. “Like, *really* good. Better than half the guys on the basketball team.” Her gaze trailed deliberately down Taylor’s frame, lingering on her legs. “Bet you could do some damage on the cheer squad.”

Of course it was about the squad.

"I told you before I'm not interested," she said flatly.

Sierra's grin didn't waver—if anything, it sharpened. She twirled a strand of hair around one finger, the motion practiced and precise. "See, that's what you *said*," she conceded, leaning back against the lockers with exaggerated ease. "But then you went and climbed that rope like Spider-Girl on Adderall." Her gaze flicked to Taylor's hands, still faintly red from the friction. "People are gonna notice that. They already are."

Sierra held up her phone. There was a video on it of Taylor running around the gym. It cut to her climbing the rope.

Shit.

"Its already viral," Sierra smiled.

Taylor's stomach dropped as she stared at Sierra's phone screen—her own face, flushed and determined, staring back at her from the viral video. The comments scrolled by in a blur: *"Who IS she??" "Girl can CLIMB" "Bet she could wrap those legs around—"* She jerked her gaze away before she could read the rest.

"You're the golden goose" Sierra was gushing with excitement. "We're down a girl. You'd look real good replacing her."

Well Tori was a fucking idiot, she thought but didn’t say it.

"I'm not interested," Taylor said flatly again.

She didn't give Sierra a chance to respond before she turned and headed down the hall.

A text from Kayla binged a second later:

*Where r U?*

Taylor replied quickly, *OMW*

She sighed heavily.

Her first day back was officially over.

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

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Author's Note:I forgot to post this chapter yesterday. I don't know what else to say.I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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4.

Taylor's phone buzzed for the twelfth time in five minutes, the glow of the screen casting jagged shadows across her bedroom walls. She lay sprawled on her bed, one socked foot tapping restlessly against the headboard as the video played again—her own body ascending the gym rope with inhuman precision, the muscles in her arms flexing in ways that still didn't feel entirely real. The view count ticked upward like a stopwatch with a broken hand.

Kayla's voice drifted through the wall, muffled but unmistakably annoyed. "Would you quit thumping? Some of us are trying to study." Taylor stopped tapping her foot immediately, but the silence that followed felt heavier than the reprimand. She muted the video—not that it helped, since she'd already memorized the exact second when the camera zoomed in on her sweat-damp collarbone.

What's worse is that someone had identified her in the comments, so everyone knew she was one of the girls from Ridgewood that had The Bug. From there it didn't take long for YouTubers to find everything they needed to know, including the specific strain and variant.

The name "GammaGirl" was now trending just as much as the video was.

She groaned, running her fingers through her hair. Her mother had gone to such great lengths working with Dr. Jones and the CDC to keep her out of the media. No interviews, no photos, no news stories of any kind. Then she went and blew it all in one day. She even promised her mother she'd keep a low profile and act like a normal teenage girl.

The bedroom door creaked open without warning—Taylor barely had time to slam her phone face-down before Kayla's head appeared in the doorway, her eyebrow arched in that particular twin-telepathy way that meant *I know what you're doing.* "Mom's home," Kayla announced, leaning against the doorframe with exaggerated casualness. "And she's got that look."

Shit.

Taylor’s phone hit the mattress with a muffled thump as Kayla stepped fully into the room, her arms crossed. The overhead light caught the faintest shimmer of Kayla’s lip gloss—the same shade she’d borrowed from Taylor’s dresser that morning without asking. "You gonna tell her," Kayla said, tilting her head toward the hallway, "or should I?"

Taylor scoffed. "The way I'm trending, I bet she's already seen it"

The sound of their mother's footsteps climbing the stairs made Taylor's pulse spike—each creak of the wooden steps louder than the last. She sat up abruptly, tossing her phone onto the pillow as if it had burned her. Kayla smirked, leaning against the dresser with arms crossed, her socked foot tapping impatiently against the carpet. "You're screwed," she mouthed.

The footsteps paused outside Taylor's door—one heartbeat, two—before the knob turned with deliberate slowness. Their mother stood silhouetted in the doorway, her work blazer still on, phone clutched in one hand with the screen lit by Taylor's climbing video paused mid-frame. The silence stretched thin enough to snap.

Taylor's mother stepped into the room, her expression unreadable in the dim bedroom light. The glow from her phone screen illuminated the fine lines around her eyes—lines that hadn't been there before Gamma. She didn't speak immediately, just held up the device so Taylor could see her own frozen image mid-climb, ponytail whipping behind her like a banner.

Taylor’s mother exhaled through her nose—a slow, measured sound that made the air between them feel charged. The phone screen dimmed as she lowered it, casting half her face in shadow. "You promised," she said quietly, each syllable precise. "No attention. No spectacle."

Taylor's fingers curled into her bedsheets, the fabric bunching under her grip as her mother's disappointment settled over her like a weighted blanket. "I didn't mean to—" she started, but her mother's raised hand silenced her mid-sentence.

Taylor's mother didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to—the quiet disappointment in her eyes was worse than any shouting. She tapped her phone screen once, and the video of Taylor climbing the rope filled the room with tinny gymnasium echoes. "Eight hundred thousand views in four hours," she said, her thumb hovering over the pause button. "The CDC media team just called me. They're scrambling to contain this."

Shit.

Taylor's mother sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. The phone screen went dark as she turned it face-down on her lap, her fingers tightening around it briefly before relaxing. "Do you understand what this means?" she asked, her voice softer now, almost resigned. "The media knows. After everything I did to protect you, to keep them circling like they did with Jasmine".

"I don't know what happened, Mom" she admitted honestly "I was in PE. I was doing my thing and then the teacher started goading me after I ran. I didn't mean to put my all into it but there's something about me, something competitive that I never had before. When Ms. Poole goaded me up the rope, I couldn't stop myself."

Taylor's mother reached out, her fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind Taylor's ear with a tenderness that made Taylor's throat tighten. "I know it wasn't intentional," she murmured, her thumb tracing the curve of Taylor's cheekbone—a gesture so familiar it ached. "But intention doesn't matter to the people who are going to dissect this frame by frame." Her gaze flicked to Kayla, still leaning against the dresser. "Either of you."

Taylor's breath hitched as her mother's fingers lingered against her cheek—the same way she used to comfort Tyler after scraped knees or failed tests. Kayla shifted uncomfortably by the dresser, her socked feet scuffing against the carpet. "What do you mean, *either of us*?" Kayla's voice cracked on the last word, her usual bravado fraying at the edges.

"You have the same face, right?" Their mother stated a fact. "Its not easy to tell you two apart if they don't know"

Taylor's stomach twisted as the implication landed—Kayla's widened eyes mirroring her own realization. Their mother sighed, rubbing her temples with fingers still clutching the phone. "The CDC wants both of you off social media until this blows over. No posts, no tags, nothing that could lead reporters to start digging deeper." She paused, her gaze flicking to Taylor's laptop open on the desk, its screen frozen mid-scroll on a Reddit thread titled *GammaGirl IRL??* "Especially you."

Their mother left, leaving them alone.

"Sorry Kay" she said, her eyes starting to water.

The moment she started to full on cry---her first real tears since becoming Taylor---Kayla was at her side.

Kayla's arms wrapped around Taylor with unexpected fierceness, her chin digging into Taylor's shoulder. "Stop apologizing, idiot," she muttered, but her grip tightened when Taylor shuddered against her. The scent of Kayla's shampoo—strawberry and something synthetic—flooded Taylor's senses, overwhelming in its familiarity. This was the first time they'd really hugged since the transformation.

Kayla's grip loosened slightly, her fingers tracing the back of Taylor's t-shirt where the fabric had ridden up. "You're getting snot on my hoodie," she grumbled, but didn't pull away. Taylor huffed a wet laugh against Kayla's shoulder, the tension in her ribs easing just enough to breathe. The smell of Kayla's strawberry shampoo mixed with the faint chemical tang of her deodorant—a scent so intrinsically *sister* it made Taylor's chest ache differently than before.

"So" said Kayla, trying to lighten the mood. "Does this make me internet famous too?"

Taylor wiped her nose on the back of her hand, smearing tears across her knuckles as Kayla finally pulled away. The damp spot on Kayla's hoodie glistened under the bedroom light. "Internet famous for being the boring twin," Taylor muttered, kicking at a crumpled sock on the floor.

Kayla snatched the discarded sock off the floor and whipped it at Taylor's face. "Boring twin? Please. I was trending before you even had boobs." She flopped backward onto Taylor's bed, her hair fanning out across the comforter in a messy halo.

Taylor flopped down on the bed next to her sister.

Taylor stared at the ceiling, her fingertips brushing against Kayla’s sleeve where their arms lay parallel on the bed. The silence between them was comfortable—a rarity since the transformation—until Kayla abruptly rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. "So," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "did you at least have fun?"

Taylor blinked at the ceiling, Kayla's question hanging in the air like static. The taste of gymnasium disinfectant still lingered in the back of her throat—that sharp, medicinal tang that clung to her skin no matter how many times she showered. "Fun?" she echoed, rolling the word around like a foreign object. Her fingers twitched against the comforter, remembering the burn of rope fibers against her palms. "It felt... like winning."

The bed creaked as Kayla shifted, her elbow digging into Taylor's ribs with deliberate playfulness. "Winning, huh?" Her smirk was audible. "Guess Gamma gave you more than just a killer ass." Taylor swatted at her, but Kayla caught her wrist mid-air—their hands hovering in the space between them, palms pressed together in a mirror image that made Taylor's breath catch. Same fingers, same freckle near the thumb. Different calluses now.

That was it. She sat up, realizing. It was her thing. Jasmine had whatever happened to her and Taylor had this massive, impulsively competitive streak.

"It did change me," she whispered.

Kayla's fingers tightened around Taylor's wrist, her grip warm and familiar. "Yeah, no shit," she snorted, but her eyes flicked down to their joined hands—the same freckle on both their wrists, the same crooked pinky fingers from when they'd broken them falling off the jungle gym in third grade. Taylor's palms were smoother now.

"It's not just physical," she murmured, pressing her palms flat against her thighs—the fabric of her sweatpants rough under her fingertips. "Gamma rewired my brain too."

"You mean the competitive thing?" Taylor nodded. Kayla thought for a moment. "That's still not Jasmine crazy though"

Kayla rolled onto her stomach, kicking her feet up behind her like she used to when they'd binge-watch cartoons as kids. The familiarity of the motion made Taylor's chest tighten. "So what else?" Kayla prodded, chin propped on her hands. "Besides suddenly wanting to crush everyone at PE like some anime rival. Any weird cravings? Sudden urge to organize my closet by color?"

She scoffed. "I'm afraid of getting swallowed whole if I step in there".

Kayla lightly punched her arm. Then she sat up, satisfied. "My mission is done".

"What?" asked Taylor as Kayla scrambled off the bed. "What mission?"

Kayla smiled. "Cheering you up".

Taylor grabbed a pillow and threw it at her but Kayla dodged it and darted out the door.

She laughed, shaking her head.

Then her phone with a text. She grabbed it from where she'd tossed it earlier, expecting either Callie or Liz.

It was Benny.

Three letters: WTF.

She groaned, sucked it up and dialed him. It rang more than four times. She was certain he wasn't going to answer but he finally did.

"What the fuck do you want?" snapped her pissed off friend.

The venom in Benny's voice made Taylor's fingers tighten around her phone. She'd heard him pissed before—when she'd accidentally overwritten his Minecraft world back in eighth grade, when she'd laughed at his failed attempt to ask out Hannah Chen—but this was different. This had teeth.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by Benny’s ragged breathing on the other end of the line. Taylor clutched the phone tighter, her freshly manicured nails digging into her palm. "Benny," she started, but he cut her off with a sharp exhale.

The line crackled with Benny's sharp inhale. "Don't 'Benny' me," he spat, his voice cracking on the last syllable. Taylor flinched—he'd never sounded like this, not even when his dad walked out two years ago. "You ghosted me all day. Then I see you doing fucking Cirque du Soleil shit on YouTube like nothing happened?" A thump echoed through the phone, like he'd punched a wall. "What the *actual* fuck, Ty—Taylor."

Tyler. He was about to say Tyler.

"It's Taylor, Ben," she said, her voice cool and calm. "I'm not Tyler anymore."

"And that's the problem" Benny snapped again. "Ever since the virus, ever since becoming a fucking chick, you've all but fucking ignored me. We used to game all night, we used to text like a hundred times a day. But now, now its like you're a whole different fucking person!"

She took a deep breath. "I am a different person, Ben. It's hard to put into words but I'm different. It's not just the gender thing either. I hate games now Benny. I eat grapefruit for breakfast and fucking salads for lunch. I went shopping yesterday and fell in love with a dress. Some guy hit on me in the food court and I'm not going to lie, I kind of liked the attention. I do this stupid thing with my foot when I sit and...and... I HATE crunchy peanut butter now!"

There was a long silence.

"Seriously?" Benny finally said. Then another long silence. "Have you tried eating it with jelly? Maybe if you..."

She grunted. "Tried that, it still sucks".

She could hear Benny laughing away from the phone. It went on for a whole minute before he got back on.

"I'm pissed at you, stop making me laugh" he sulked.

Taylor pressed the phone closer to her ear, catching the faint rustle of bedsheets—Benny shifting positions in that way he always did when he was trying not to admit he'd been worried. "You could've *told* me," he muttered finally. "Like, 'Hey Ben, I'm turning into Spider-Girl, gonna go climb shit now.' A heads-up would've been nice."

She grunted. "Its messed up. I'm all weirded out by it. Its not just the running thing either or the climbing. Its..." She paused, picking at a loose thread on her blanket. "I want to win. Ms. Poole goaded me to test my limit and so I did. I crushed it and I felt so fucking pumped afterwards"

Benny took a moment. "So Jasmine got Ditz and you got Jock Rage?"

"Eww, that sounds like a crotch fungus or something" She crinkled up her nose.

She heard Benny spit out whatever he was drinking and start coughing. 

She pulled her knees close to her chest on the bed. A gesture completely feminine and completely unlike her old self. But she didn't give a fuck anymore. 

"I'm sorry I forgot to find you today" She sighed. "The day was just a fucking mess. Fucking Jess sent my picture to Sierra then that dumb bitch posted it to Confessions. Some asshole said he wanted me to suck him off or something..." She shuddered. "Everyone kept staring at me all day"

"Well dweeb turns into hottie I kind of a big deal" Benny laughed then paused. "You weren't in lunch either. I was forced to sit with Henry. He used to be kind of cool before but now..."

Wait. What.

"Hold on a sec, you know Henry?" she asked, confused.

"Duh" Benny said "You do too. He was Clara".

Clara?

"Doesn't ring a bell" she finally admitted.

Benny grunted. "Clara Wilkes. We spent the whole summer with her at Camp Meadow Lake. You know---short girl, big glasses, brown hair, kind of pudgy?"

She tried to picture said girl but it was coming up nothing. "Nope, sorry"

"Well anyway, she was only in our grade for a year," Benny quickly explained. "Her parents got divorced. She went with her Mom first but moved back here at the beginning of the year to live with her Dad. She was totally different, lost the glasses and the wait, she was kind of hot actually..."

She tried to picture a girl like that. First as a kid then as their age but she was still drawing a blank. "Still can't remember her".

"Henry is one of those hard cases," Benny continued. "Dude bitched about injustice all through lunch. I think The Bug did her dirty."

She sighed, remembering Henry from this morning. "We met".

"It scared me" Benny finally confessed after another long period of silence. "I so a friend acting so different and after everything today---you ignoring me---I thought maybe..."

Taylor sighed. He was right. She had been ignoring him but it wasn't intentional. "I'm a shitty friend." 

"Yes you are" Benny said triumphantly as if he won a prize. "So as a shitty friend, I demand you give me a pic of your bo..."

"Not on your life" she interrupted, Benny chuckled.

She was pretty sure he was joking around this time.

"In all seriousness though, today sucked. For you and me both. I'll try to be a better friend too. I don't want to lose you."

His sincerity surprised her. 

She thanked him for keeping her honest before hanging up. She then sighed heavily, tossing her phone on her bed again. No sooner than it hit the mattress, it rang again.

She wanted to scream out loud.

Taylor's phone buzzed against the comforter like a trapped insect, the screen flashing with the one number she'd been avoiding all week. CDC-Atlanta. Dr. Jones' direct line. She let it ring three times before exhaling through her nose and swiping answer with a fingernail that still had flecks of midnight-blue polish on it.

She took a deep breath before speaking, trying to keep her voice polite and calm. "Hello."

The phone crackled with Dr. Jones' usual brisk professionalism, but Taylor caught the undercurrent of something sharper beneath his clipped syllables. "Miss Carver. When we made the arrangement with your mother to keep you out of the spotlight, we were under the impression you'd stay out of the spotlight."

Taylor sighed heavily. "It wasn't my intention, it just sorta happened"

Dr. Jones didn't waste words. "Breaking a shoelace just happens, Taylor. Beating both your school's track record and rope climbing in a gymnasium does not just happen."

"I beat the track record?" she asked, surprised.

Dr. Jones sighed heavily. "We told your mother it was going to be hard to keep you under the radar. It was one thing with Miss Whittaker, our hands were tied" Taylor could only imagine what with Jasmine's Dad and all. "You're not like Jasmine though. She's an attention seeker by nature, for you it was only a matter of time."

"What does that mean?" she asked, not understanding.

There was a pause. "That's even scarier" She could hear Dr. Jones clicking away at her keyboard. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you this but you are a very attractive young woman now. Might I add much prettier than Miss Whittaker and your little stunt is only going to make it worse. Have you seen what they're saying online about you?"

"Some of it" Taylor had only seen the "GammaGirl" bits actually. 

There was another long pause. "Agent Kellogg is arriving tomorrow evening with some associates. They're going to discuss your situation going forward. The CDC doesn't have the resources to handle something like this" She sighed. "I'm afraid its going to get more complicated for you now."

Great, she thought, as if it wasn't complicated enough.

"There's also that other matter of yours" Dr Jones added, sounding almost like she had a headache. 

Other matter?

Then Taylor remembered. The text message. After she and Callie had talked about it and decided to let the government handle it, she had sent an email to Dr. Jones. With everything that had been going on, she completely forgot about it.

"Did you guys find the girl?" she asked, hopeful.

"I don't know the exact details because Agent Kellogg is handling the investigate. I'm sure he'll brief you on it tomorrow" She paused. "For what its worth, I hope they find whoever it is so someone can be punished. Its a terrifying thing if there really is someone out there who deliberately infected you."

After that Dr. Jones wished her luck, said she'd keep in touch and ended the call. 

She no sooner got off the phone when Kayla shouldered her way into the room with a look of determination on her face. "Was that Dr. Jones?" she asked, Taylor nodded.

"The government is coming here tomorrow, they want to discuss what happened at the gym today" Taylor explained as Kayla flopped onto her bed. "They're going to be doing some damage control."

"Me too" her sister announced, getting off the bed with a purpose.

One that was leading her right to the closet it seemed.

Taylor raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Today a tomboy came to school" She said, pulling a few things out. "Tomorrow a princess is coming"

She held up a dress.

Taylor groaned and threw a pillow at her sister. Kayla dodged it, tossing the dress onto Taylor's bed with a dramatic flourish. "You're wearing what I pick for tomorrow," she declared, hands on her hips. "No arguments."

The dress landed on Taylor's lap like a surrendered flag—silky emerald fabric pooling over her sweatpants. She stared at it, fingertips brushing the cool material. "I'm not wearing a dress."

Kayla crossed her arms. "You're not going looking like a bum either"

The emerald dress lay draped across Taylor's lap like an accusation. She flicked the fabric with two fingers, watching the way the silky material shimmered under her bedroom light—an effect that would undoubtedly make her look like some kind of fairy princess. Exactly the opposite of what she wanted. "Absolutely not," Taylor said, tossing it back at Kayla. "I'll wear jeans."

"Jeans?" Kayla scoffed, draping the dress over her forearm like a salesperson. "You might as well staple ‘I’m insecure’ to your forehead."

"A lot of girls wear jeans" she said, her arms crossed.

"Yes but I think you need to distance yourself from Tyler" Kayla said, pulling out a pleated skirt much like the ones she liked to wear. "I'm not saying long term but right now, everyone is looking at you. They're judging you, questioning you."

Taylor stared at the skirt dangling from Kayla’s fingers—forest green with crisp pleats, the kind that swished when you walked. It looked expensive. "You want me to wear that?"

Kayla sighed. "I want you to wear something that makes people stop thinking about you being a boy."

Taylor blinked at Kayla like she'd grown a second head. "No one thinks I was ever a boy," she said, plucking at the hem of her sweatshirt. The words tasted strange—too big for her mouth. "Even Benny calls me Taylor now." The cafeteria chatter, the locker room whispers, Sierra's predatory interest—none of it had been about her past. Just her present.

Kayla tossed the skirt onto the bed where it landed with a soft *whump*. "That's only what you saw" She sighed. "I heard what happened in the locker room. Liz had to save your butt because those girls were afraid you were still a guy on the inside."

Taylor's fingers froze mid-air. The memory hit like a gut punch—Liz's hand grabbing her breasts, the nervous laughter that followed, the way the other girls had stared at her stretching in the too-tight gym clothes. She'd thought it was about her body. Not her... past.

"Sure, they started to accept you" Kayla continued "but they doubted you. They saw the boy you were, not the girl that you are".

Taylor stared at the skirt on her bed—its pleats catching the light like folded paper wings. The silence stretched until Kayla exhaled sharply through her nose and grabbed Taylor’s wrists, pressing their palms together. Same freckle near the thumb. Different calluses. "Look," Kayla muttered, "I’m not saying you have to wear skirts forever. Just tomorrow. While they’re still deciding what box to shove you in." Her grip tightened. "Make it harder for them."

Taylor looked at the skirt and thought about what Kayla just said. Finally she sighed. "Fine, I'll wear the damn skirt".

Kayla squealed and pulled her into a hug. "I have the perfect accessories for it too!"

Taylor groaned. 

She knew she was going to regret this.

*****

Taylor flopped onto her bed with an exaggerated sigh, staring at the ceiling where a single glow-in-the-dark star from childhood still clung stubbornly near the light fixture. The room smelled faintly of Kayla's strawberry shampoo and the fabric softener their mom always used—familiar scents that somehow made everything feel both comforting and alien at the same time. She flexed her hands above her face, studying her manicured nails in the dimming afternoon light. The polish was chipped at the edges from climbing ropes and gripping lockers—little crescent moons of midnight blue clinging to nail beds that were somehow both hers and not hers at all.

Pressing her palms against her eyelids, she sighed. She did it until colors bloomed in the darkness—a childhood habit that felt wrong now with the unfamiliar softness of her fingers against her face. The bed shifted under her weight, the mattress responding differently to her new hips. She could still feel the phantom burn of rope fibers against her palms, the memory of her own strength both exhilarating and terrifying.

She rolled onto her side, pressing her cheek against the cool side of her pillow. The clock ticked louder than usual—or maybe she was just noticing it now that her hearing had sharpened. She could hear Kayla humming in the shower down the hall, the pipes groaning as hot water hit cold metal. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds. The kind of background noise she'd tuned out for fifteen years but now registered with crystalline clarity.

Today was rough, she thought.

She was expecting a lot less to happen than what actually did. She'd been a total idiot to think otherwise too. She had honestly thought she could just go back to her life like everything was fine and normal. Sure she was a boy who turned into a girl but she as stupid enough to think it didn't make a difference. That was in fact her biggest mistake of the day. Not the crap in PE. Not the whole confrontations with Sierra and Jasmine. No, it was her thinking that she was still Tyler.

Or rather, that she could still be like him.

Like him.

It was weird. When did she really start to think of him as a completely different person?

The memory surfaced slowly—not as a revelation, but as something half-remembered, like the tail end of a dream. It had been four days after the transformation, when she'd caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror while brushing her teeth. The toothpaste foam dripped down her chin as she froze, staring at the girl staring back—same blue eyes, same freckle near her left eyebrow, but softer jawline, fuller lips. And then she'd *smiled* at herself. Just a little. Just to see. Sure she'd smiled a lot as Taylor but it was something in that smile, something that told her this was her now.

She rolled onto her stomach, pressing her face into the pillow. That couldn't have been it, could it? Some stupid, insignificant moment like that?

Groaning, she sat up out of bed. She stared at the closet, it was still half open from Kayla's frenzy earlier. That's when she saw it, the dress.

Her dress.

The coral sundress.

She bit her lip and without even thinking, it was as if she was pulled to it. She stripped off her sweatshirt as she walked. Then did the same with her sweatpants.

The coral sundress slid over Taylor's skin like liquid sunlight, the fabric whispering against her thighs in a way that made her breath catch. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed this—the way the straps settled perfectly on her shoulders, the way the skirt flared just enough to make her feel like she was floating. Twirling slowly in front of the mirror, she watched the hem kiss her knees, the color making her summer-touched freckles glow like gold dust.

The coral fabric settled against Taylor’s skin like a second heartbeat, familiar and yet electrifyingly new. She hadn’t planned this—hadn’t even fully registered reaching for the dress—but now that it was on, she couldn’t bring herself to take it off. The way the straps framed her collarbones, the way the skirt swayed when she shifted her hips—it felt like wearing sunlight. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror and froze.

That's when she realized it. 

It wasn't the toothbrushing and the smile in the mirror. 

It was this dress.

It was that moment that she first saw herself in the dress. 

That's when Tyler became another person. 

That's when she truly felt like herself. 

She stepped forward, cocking her hip ever so slightly. She touched the glass of the mirror, moving her fingers down her face. She didn't smile this time though, she frowned a bit. 

I'm sorry Tyler, she thought to herself.

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

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Author's Note:Another week, another chapter. In the last story this was the end point but there's 4 more chapters after this. I will admit that they might be a little shorter than the ones before them, I ended them where I felt it made sense. I am writing a third story but its slow going as I'm struggling to bring this narrative to an end. The third story will be the last for Taylor as it currently stands. I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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5.

The alarm buzzed at 5:03 AM—three minutes early, far earlier than Tyler used to set it. Taylor's hand shot out from under the covers, fingers fumbling across the nightstand until they found the silence button. For a moment she lay there, blinking at the dark ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the house sleeping around her.

She was already getting antsy.

Taylor's bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor with a soft thud, her toes curling instinctively against the chill. She'd set the alarm early for this exact reason—to steal these quiet, predawn moments where the world still belonged to her alone. The coral sundress from last night lay draped over her desk chair like a discarded second skin, watching her as she pulled on black leggings and a sports bra with the same clinical detachment Tyler might have used to assemble gaming peripherals.

She pulled her hair back into a tight, high ponytail.

The first light of dawn hadn't even touched the windows when Taylor slipped out the front door, her breath fogging in the crisp autumn air. She stretched at the bottom of the porch steps, feeling every muscle awaken—not with Tyler's old stiffness, but with Gamma's coiled readiness. The neighborhood lay silent except for the distant hum of a garbage truck three streets over. Perfect.

Taylor's sneakers slapped against the pavement in a rhythm that felt more natural than breathing now—left, right, left, right—each impact sending a jolt up her legs that grounded her in the moment. The predawn air burned her lungs in the best way, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of dew-damp grass and distant woodsmoke. She'd just rounded the corner onto Maple Street when a second set of footsteps synced with hers.

"Thought you'd never show," Liz panted from beside her, her chin length red head flopping in the breeze. There was a black girl flanking her left—tall, with coiled black braids and a runner's build, her brown eyes scanning Taylor with clinical interest.

Taylor didn't break stride. "Since when do you run before sunrise?"

"Since forever" Liz said, struggling to keep stride. "We VolleyBros got to stay in shape after all"

Taylor snorted—VolleyBros was the self-deprecating nickname the volleyball team used, despite being district champions three years running. The new girl wasn't wearing team gear though—just black leggings and a cropped hoodie that showed off abs Taylor would've killed for pre-Gamma.

"This is Tasha, one of my team mates" Liz introduced the other girl. "When she learned we became friends yesterday, she was super jealous"

Taylor nodded, breathing evenly. She sized up the newcomer—her arms had definition that suggested weight training, and she carried herself with the coiled readiness of someone who expected to be challenged.

Taylor matched Tasha's pace effortlessly—another Gamma perk—but kept her breathing deliberately audible to avoid showing off. "Morning," she said between strides, noting how Tasha's gaze lingered on her calves. "You play varsity?"

Tasha smirked, matching Taylor's stride effortlessly. "Juniors captain," she said, tossing her braids over one shoulder. "And you're the girl who climbed the ropes like Spider-Man in heels."

"There were no heels" Taylor scoffed, having read the crazy rumors that had sprung up quickly.

Tasha's smirk widened as she effortlessly matched Taylor's pace. "Metaphorical heels," she clarified, her gaze flicking down to Taylor's sneakers with amusement. "Though I heard Poole made you climb in ballet slippers."

Taylor rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress the grin tugging at her lips as they turned onto the bike path circling Memorial Park. The first gold streaks of dawn painted the duck pond's surface, and the rhythmic slap of their sneakers against pavement created an odd camaraderie. Tasha increased their pace subtly—a challenge Taylor recognized from a hundred playground races with Tyler's old friends.

Liz was doing her best to keep up.

Taylor's breath hitched as Tasha surged ahead, her braids streaming behind her like battle flags. The unspoken challenge crackled in the morning air—Gamma-enhanced reflexes versus varsity discipline. Taylor dug her toes into the pavement, feeling the familiar burn in her thighs as she accelerated.

Taylor's competitive fire ignited like a struck match—Gamma surging through her veins with an electric hum she'd been suppressing so far. Her strides lengthened effortlessly, sneakers barely kissing pavement as she blew past Tasha's left shoulder. The wind tore at her ponytail, carrying Liz's distant "holy shit!" like a victory cheer.

Tasha's startled laugh rang out as Taylor surged past her—not the mocking tone Sierra used, but the delighted surprise of an athlete recognizing unexpected skill. "Oh hell no," Tasha gasped, digging in to chase. Taylor felt the exact moment Tasha's competitive switch flipped; the air between them charged like before a thunderstorm.

Tasha couldn't keep up though.

Taylor breezed through the rest of the park and went two blocks before stopping to sit on a bench and wait for the other two. Her lungs burned pleasantly, not with exhaustion but with the thrill of exertion—like her body was a finely tuned engine finally being allowed to roar. She stretched her legs out in front of her, watching the way her calf muscles flexed under smooth skin that still surprised her sometimes. The bench's cold metal seeped through her leggings as she tilted her head back, letting the rising sun paint her face gold while she waited.

Tasha arrived, winded but not willing to admit. She didn't say anything though, instead taking a drink from the water bottle she was holding.

Liz arrived second, staggering around the corner with her hands on her knees, wheezing dramatically. "Jesus Christ," she gasped, sweat-darkened red hair plastered to her forehead. "Were you trying to kill us?"

Taylor grinned at Liz’s dramatics, tossing her ponytail over one shoulder. "You challenged me, remember?"

Tasha finally looked at her. "You were still holding back yesterday?"

Taylor smiled and nodded. "A tiny bit".

Tasha's water bottle froze halfway to her lips. The morning sunlight caught the droplets trailing down her chin as she studied Taylor with new intensity. "A tiny bit," she repeated slowly, like the words were a puzzle piece that didn't fit. Behind her, Liz collapsed onto the bench with a groan, fanning herself with shaky hands.

The bench creaked under Tasha's weight as she dropped beside Taylor, close enough that their shoulders brushed—a proximity that would've made Tyler flinch, but Taylor barely registered. "You're telling me," Tasha said between gulps of water, "that freakshow rope climb was you *holding back*?" A droplet escaped her lips, tracing the line of her throat before disappearing under her hoodie's collar.

Taylor shrugged, watching a lone leaf skitter across the pavement. "Didn't want to scare Poole any worse than I already had." The truth pinched harder—she'd been terrified of her own strength, of how good it felt to push Gamma's limits.

The silence stretched thick between them until Liz whistled low. "Well shit," she said, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Sierra's gonna piss herself when she sees you at tryouts today."

"Tryouts for what?" Taylor asked, confused.

"Volleyball of course" said Liz as it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"When did I agree to that?" Taylor asked.

Liz's grin stretched wide enough to show molars as she leaned in, the scent of sweat and strawberry gum thick between them. "You didn't," she admitted, flicking a sweaty strand of hair from Taylor's shoulder. "But Tasha here captains junior varsity, and after that little display?" She jerked her thumb toward the park trail still steaming with their footprints. "Consider yourself drafted."

Taylor sighed heavily. "I can't".

Tasha arched an eyebrow. "Can't or won't?"

"Definitely can't" she said, remembering how she tested off the charts during the impromptu fitness test the CDC gave her in her family's weight room.

There was no way it would be fair for her to compete against "normal" people.

Taylor twisted the hem of her running shirt between her fingers, the fabric damp with morning sweat. The truth sat heavy in her chest—Gamma hadn't just reshaped her body; it had rewired her reflexes, her stamina, her explosive power. She'd seen the numbers on Dr. Jones' tablet: reaction times bordering on precognitive, vertical leaps that defied physics, endurance that made marathon runners look sedentary.

"Its just..." She sighed. "Hard to explain."

Liz and Tasha exchanged a look but didn't pursue it further.

They finished the rest of the run in relative silence. Liz and Tasha were visibly disappointed but didn't push it. The three of them split up a couple blocks from Taylor's house, agreeing to meet up at school later.

Taylor's sneakers scuffed against the sidewalk as she slowed to a walk, her breath coming in steady clouds that dissolved into the crisp morning air. The three-block sprint home felt effortless—just enough to keep her muscles warm without breaking another sweat. She rolled her shoulders, feeling the pleasant ache of exertion, and marveled again at how different her body felt now. Tyler had hated running; every step had been a chore, lungs burning, knees protesting. But Taylor? Taylor could run for miles and still crave more.

Taylor paused at the front door, fingertips hovering over the knob. The house smelled of brewing coffee and toast—her mother's usual breakfast routine, unchanged since childhood. Except now the scent of strawberry shampoo lingered too, woven into the fabric of the home in ways Tyler's old Axe body spray never had. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The coffee pot hissed as Taylor stepped into the kitchen, still flushed from her run. Her mother's spoon froze halfway to her lips, yogurt dripping back into the bowl with a soft *plop*. "You're... up." Her mother's gaze flicked from Taylor's running gear to the window, where dawn was just beginning to pink the sky. "And were outside?"

"Went for a run" Taylor explained, wiping some sweat with a paper towel.

Kayla came into the kitchen, still groggy. She gave her sister a look and grunted. "You're like a machine".

"I'm going to take a shower now" Taylor announced, heading up the stairs.

The shower water hit Taylor's skin like liquid electricity, every droplet registering with crystalline clarity as she scrubbed the morning run from her pores. She'd turned the temperature up hotter than Tyler ever could have tolerated—another Gamma quirk—letting the steam curl around her shoulders as she massaged shampoo into her scalp.

Back in her room, the outfit Kayla had picked for her to wear last night was lying on her bed already. She groaned, wondering when Kayla had secretly put it there.

Taylor stared at the pleated skirt and blouse combination Kayla had laid out—forest green fabric paired with a crisp white button-down that screamed private school chic. The outfit looked like something Kayla would wear to impress visiting grandparents, not something Taylor wanted to face government interrogators in. She poked the blouse with one finger. "You realize I'll look like I'm cosplaying you, right?" she said silently to her empty room.

Taylor tugged the blouse's sleeves down to her wrists three times before giving up—the fabric kept slithering back to mid-forearm no matter how she adjusted it. The pleated skirt swished against her thighs with every slight movement, a sensation that still made her pause halfway through buckling her shoes. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror and froze—not at the stranger staring back, but at how naturally the stranger's hands smoothed invisible wrinkles from the blouse. The motion was pure Kayla, down to the slight tilt of her chin while checking her profile.

"Damn," Taylor murmured, turning sideways. The skirt flared just enough to emphasize curves Tyler had never possessed, while the blouse tucked neatly into the waistband accentuated her newly defined waist. She looked... put together. Polished. Like someone who belonged in the yearbook's "Most Likely to Succeed" column rather than the gaming club's group photo.

"You need tights or knee highs with those" Kayla announced from her doorway.

Taylor jumped, clutching her chest. "Ever heard of knocking?"

Kayla tossed a rolled-up pair of white knee socks at Taylor's head—she caught them on reflex, Gamma-enhanced reflexes making the movement seamless. "Mom says Kellogg's here early," Kayla said, leaning against the doorframe. "He's wearing, like, a full suit. You might actually be underdressed."

Taylor turned toward the window. It was strange, he hadn't heard the car pull up.

Taylor's fingers hesitated on the curtain edge, her reflection ghostly against the glass as she peered down at the black sedan parked at the curb. No government plates—just an ordinary car with tinted windows dark enough to swallow the morning light whole. "Did he say why he's early?" she asked, her breath fogging the cool glass.

She shrugged. "He's not alone. There's another agent with him and some woman".

Taylor sat on the edge of her bed, kicked off her shoes and put on the knee highs. Kayla was right, they did complete the outfit.

Taylor descended the stairs with exaggerated slowness, her knee socks catching on the carpet fibers with every step. The murmur of voices from the living room cut off abruptly as her foot hit the bottom step—that unnatural silence where you just know you've become the topic of conversation.

Agent Kellogg stood near the fireplace with the practiced stillness of someone accustomed to waiting—his charcoal suit blending into the wood paneling, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

Agent Cross stepped forward before Kellogg could speak—his navy suit pulling taut across shoulders that strained the fabric, his handshake brisk enough to make Taylor's fingers tingle. "DHS," he said by way of introduction, the acronym hanging between them like a warning. His grip lingered half a second too long, his thumb pressing against Taylor's pulse point in what might have been assessment or threat.

Homeland Security?

Taylor felt a bit of fear creep up her back. What was he doing here?

Agent Kellogg cleared his throat before introducing the fashionable young woman next to him as simply Hannah from some PR firm.

The woman—Hannah—smiled with the warmth of a seasoned talk-show host, her coral manicure flashing as she gestured toward the couch. "I'm here to help navigate your new... circumstances." Her gaze flicked to Taylor's pleated skirt and knee socks with professional approval. "That's a lovely ensemble, by the way. Very collegiate."

Taylor instinctively smoothed the skirt, then caught herself and stopped.

Agent Kellogg's knuckles whitened around his coffee mug as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Let's be clear—your rope-climbing video went viral in twelve countries," he said, his voice low and measured like a doctor delivering bad news. "We can't put that genie back in the bottle, but Hannah's going to teach you how to shake its hand instead of getting strangled by it."

Hannah crossed her legs with the precision of a ballet dancer, her coral-painted nails tapping against a tablet. "Think of me as your hype woman and damage control rolled into one," she said with a smile that didn't reach her hazel eyes. She swiped the screen and Taylor's own face stared back—footage from the gym, frozen mid-leap with ropes coiled around her thighs like vines. "This? Gold. But the comment section?" Another swipe revealed a cesspool of conspiracy theories and hormonal drooling. "Toxic waste."

Taylor's fingers dug into the couch cushions. Across from her, Kayla snorted into her orange juice. "Told you boys would lose their minds," she muttered, earning a sharp look from their mother.

Agent Cross cleared his throat—a sound like a gun being cocked. "Here's the play." He tossed a manila folder onto the coffee table, photos spilling out: paparazzi camped at the school gates, news vans outside their dentist's office, a drone shot of their backyard. "You're officially a DHS-protected individual now. That means surveillance details, press blackouts, and—" his gaze flicked to Taylor's knee socks with clinical detachment "—a curated public persona."

Hannah leaned forward, her jasmine perfume clashing with the stale coffee smell. "First rule: no more athletic displays outside controlled environments." She tapped the screen again, pulling up a mockup Instagram profile. "We'll feed the beast with staged content—you studying in the library, volunteering at animal shelters, that sort of wholesome nonsense."

Taylor's stomach lurched. The account already had 1.2 million fake followers. "I didn't agree to—"

"This will go up in 2 hours" Hannah continued, scrolling through the account, showing pictures that Taylor had definitely not taken.

Agent Cross's knuckles rapped against the coffee table. "You don't have a choice." His voice carried the finality of a judge's gavel. "That video's sending the wrong message. There's already boys out there wanting to get infected because they think they all can become Captain America with tits. Its a Goddamn shitshow"

Taylor's fingernails bit into her palms. She knew exactly which forums he was talking about—the same ones Tyler used to lurk. The realization curdled in her gut like spoiled milk.

Agent Kellogg cleared his throat. "Right now, we can't control V63. We can't contain it..." He paused, switching gears. "We can't predict where its going to prop up next. There is no vaccine, there is no natural immunity. The only thing we have going for us now is that the Goddamn thing isn't airborne".

"Wait, what?" asked Taylor and Kayla at the same time.

Agent Kellogg looked like a man who realized he just slipped up.

Taylor's pulse roared in her ears louder than Kellogg's sudden silence. The agents exchanged glances—that subtle, practiced shift of weight that meant damage control. Hannah's coral nails froze mid-tap against her tablet.

Kellogg adjusted his tie with practiced nonchalance, but Taylor saw the tremor in his fingers. "Complicated," he said, too quickly.

"You said it wasn't airborne!" Kayla gasped, pointing a finger at him. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Kellogg's sigh carried the weight of a man who'd just lost control of the briefing. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his wedding band glinting under the living room lights. "Simplest terms?" His voice dropped into the cadence of a parent explaining death to a child. "V63 spreads through fluid exchange. Saliva, blood, semen—"

Kayla's orange juice glass hit the coffee table with a sharp *clink*. "So kissing? Like how Taylor—" She caught herself, frowning at her part in it.

"Primary transmission vector, yes." Kellogg's thumb brushed his lapel where a CDC badge should've been. His gaze locked onto Taylor. "But airborne means coughing, sneezing, breathing the same air. This isn't that. Yet."

Yet? That was a scary thought.

It was even scarier that they'd been lied too for years. "So you're lying to us all then?"

Kellogg's sigh fogged his glasses as he removed them. "Standard containment protocol," he said, polishing the lenses with meticulous care. "Panic spreads faster than any virus." The lenses caught the morning light when he replaced them, turning his eyes into opaque rectangles. "Imagine schools shutting down nationwide because kids shared soda bottles. Or—" his gaze flicked to Kayla "—locker rooms becoming hot zones from sweat contact."

Their mother spoke up then. "So it passes from person to person" She looked at Kayla then Taylor. "Was it all just unlucky circumstance then?"

Agent Cross cleared his throat with the sound of a revolver's hammer cocking. He pulled out a manila folder worn at the edges, its surface mottled with coffee stains and what might have been dried blood. The documents inside whispered against each other as he spread them across the coffee table—pages so heavily redacted they looked like abstract art, black bars obscuring everything except random prepositions and the occasional ominous "WARNING."

Taylor leaned forward, her pleated skirt brushing against the manila folder's edge. One document caught her eye—a grainy surveillance photo paperclipped to a nearly blank page. The girl in the image couldn't have been older than sixteen, her dark curls framing a face frozen mid-laugh, one hand raised to tuck hair behind an ear. Completely ordinary except for the timestamp in the corner reading "12HRS POST-EXPOSURE" and the medical tag around her wrist.

12 hours? How?

"Do you recognize this girl at all?" Asked Cross, Taylor shook her head.

"Who is she?" she asked, still staring at the girl in the photo.

"Moira Bowen" Agent Cross said simply. "Subject Zero".

Taylor's breath caught in her throat—the words "Subject Zero" carried a weight that made the room tilt slightly. She reached for the photo, her fingers brushing the edge where the girl's—Moira's—smile was already fading at the corners under her touch. The timestamp glared up at her: 12 hours.

"Is she like me then?" she asked, concerned.

Agent Cross sighed. "Moira was one of the first, maybe even the first. There's a lot to sift through. She was an Alpha. I'm sure the media told you that it takes weeks for Alphas to change but that's a lie. Moira was infected and changed in twelve hours."

Taylor swallowed hard, glancing at Kayla—her sister's face had gone pale. Twelve hours. That was faster than any timeline they'd been given. Faster than Taylor's own transformation.

Agent Cross tapped the photo with a blunt fingertip. "Moira's transformation wasn't gradual. It was violent." His voice dropped, carrying the gravelly weight of someone who'd seen too much. "First gen Alphas didn't just change—they *erupted*. Bones reshaping overnight, muscle tissue regenerating faster than their skin could contain it." He flipped to another page—a medical scan showing what looked like a human silhouette caught mid-explosion, limbs elongated at grotesque angles. "Twelve hours after exposure, Moira Bowen could bench press a Harley Davidson."

Taylor's knee socks suddenly felt suffocating. She crossed her ankles tighter under the coffee table as Cross continued, "Initial containment was a joke. We treated them like quarantine cases—hospital gowns, IV drips, the works." A grim smile twisted his lips. "First Alpha broke through three-inch safety glass like it was cellophane. Ripped a steel door off its hinges to get to a male orderly."

Kayla made a small, strangled noise. Their mother's knuckles had gone white around her coffee mug.

Hannah's coral nails clicked against her tablet. "Media blackout kept it contained. I'm sure you remember all the business about the first kids being put in glass cages?"

"There was a horrible fire right, they all died?" Taylor said, remembering the tragedy.

Agent Kellogg rubbed his temple. "Officially, yes."

Agent Cross leaned forward, the leather couch creaking under his bulk. "Unofficially? We had seventeen Alphas secured in Facility Twelve when the northeast blackout hit. Backup generators failed—just for ninety-three seconds." His thumb traced a crescent-shaped scar on his palm absently. "Ninety-three seconds was all Moira needed."

Taylor's Gamma-enhanced hearing caught the tremor in Cross's breathing as he continued. "Security footage showed her snapping the titanium restraints like twigs. She didn't run—just walked down the corridor unlocking every cell." His coffee mug trembled slightly. "By the time emergency lights came on, all we found were bent bars and two security guards with dislocated jaws from where she'd... persuaded them to hand over keycards."

Kayla's orange juice sloshed as she set the glass down hard. "Jesus. Where are they now?"

Agent Kellogg looked at Agent Cross, who nodded. "Of the 17 who escaped, 3 were killed, 6 were caught and are currently in a secure, undisclosed location"

"And the others?" asked their mother.

Cross sighed. "They scattered to the wind. Infecting people here and there, making sure the virus spread. Every time we get close to one of them, they disappear" He looked directly at Taylor. "The only person in this room to ever run into one is you."

The color drained from Taylor's face. "I don't know..."

"Are you sure?" asked Agent Cross, raising an eyebrow.

Suddenly she knew. The girl. The one who kissed her.

She instinctively touched her lips. Kayla grabbed her other hand.

"We traced the text message you received" Agent Cross explained. "It was from a burner phone. Agents found it eventually in the trash. We lifted prints" He leaned forward and flipped a page in the file on the coffee table, showing fingerprints. He tapped them. "They were a match for Moira"

Taylor's fingers trembled against her lips—the same lips Moira had pressed hers against at Sierra's party. The memory unfolded with sudden, brutal clarity: the girl's dark curls brushing Taylor's cheek, the scent of cherry ChapStick, the way she'd whispered "You're going to be so beautiful" before pulling away.

Taylor's knees buckled, her pleated skirt brushing the carpet as she sank onto the couch's edge. The coffee table's cold surface pressed against her palms—real, solid, anchoring her against the vertigo of realization. "She kissed me," Taylor whispered, her voice cracking on the admission. "At Sierra's party. Just... just walked up and—"

Agent Cross sighed heavily. "I'm truly sorry this happened to you."

Taylor's vision tunneled, the agents' voices distorting as if underwater. The photo of Moira swam in her vision—that ordinary girl with her laughing eyes and medical bracelet—now rewritten in her mind as patient zero. The girl who'd kissed her. The girl who'd made her.

"Where is she now?" she finally asked.

Agent Cross exchanged a glance with Kellogg before answering. "We don't know," he admitted, the words landing like stones in the silent living room. "Moira's been off-grid since infecting you. But we have leads." He tapped another photo—a blurry CCTV still of a dark-haired figure scaling a fire escape with spider-like grace. "She favors university towns. College parties provide... ideal transmission environments."

Taylor's fingers twitched against her skirt pleats, the fabric suddenly feeling too thin, too flimsy against her thighs. The room's air thickened with unspoken implications—Moira wasn't just patient zero. She was hunting.

He showed another still but a different girl, in a different place. It was a party scene too and the boy she was getting close with was...

"Jason" Taylor gasped.

"He was at a family reunion in Seattle" Agent Cross said, Taylor nodded, remembering what Callie had told her. "He and his cousins were out partying. From what he tells us, the girl tried to come onto him, he pushed her away because of his sexual preferences and she spit in his face."

Taylor didn't like the jackass, she liked Jasmine even less but that was pretty low.

"What about Henry?' she asked, trying to piece things together.

"Some girl---most likely Moira---faked an injury. Blood all over. Henry got infected that way" Agent Kellogg whistled low. "We think she infected the two in Huntsville as well."

So the virus really wasn't airborne. It was carried by these fucktards and spread intentionally.

That was fucking messed up.

Taylor was floored. "So its them, its all?"

"At first yes" Agent Carson looked defeated. "Its got a mind of its own now. Sometimes accidents, sometimes on purpose. They started it but they're not the full cause. The virus is constantly mutating on its own as well. Your Gamma strain is different than from Moira's Alpha one. We're not sure why. All we know is that she and her friends like to create their own hotspots and watch the chaos roll out."

Taylor's fingers twitched "So I'm just... collateral damage?" The words tasted bitter—like chewing aluminum foil.

Neither Agent said anything. Kayla squeezed her hand tighter.

"You're you" her sister finally said. "Fuck Moira. Fuck all those other assholes. You're better than them in every possible way."

Agent Kellogg smiled. "She's not wrong actually" This time he flipped to another page in the file, this one less redacted than the others. "These are Moira's vitals, Moira's fitness tests. You're better than her. Stronger. Faster. Superior."

That was a scary thought. "Doesn't that put a target on me?" she asked, looking at them, waiting for someone to disagree.

Agent Kellogg finally spoke. "It was one of the reasons we hoped you would keep a low profile" He sighed. "We can't change that now. What we can do is protect you. Monitor you, keep an eye out for her."

Agent Cross leaned forward, his navy suit pulling taut across shoulders that suddenly seemed less like government-issue and more like prison bars. "Surveillance protocol starts now." He tapped his tablet, and a holographic grid shimmered above the coffee table—their neighborhood rendered in cold blue lines. "Three teams rotating eight-hour shifts. Plainclothes only. That black sedan?" He zoomed in on their street. "Gone within the hour. Next vehicle will be a UPS truck."

The hologram would have been cool if things weren't so damn scary for her.

Agent Cross's finger traced the holographic grid, his nail leaving temporary distortions in the blue light. "Bedroom windows are your weak points," he said, zooming in on Taylor's second-floor window with clinical precision. The hologram rendered her curtains as translucent veils—useless against high-resolution surveillance. "Assume every keystroke on your laptop is logged. Every text message archived." His gaze flicked to Kayla. "Yes, even the ones you delete."

Agent Cross tapped his tablet again, and the holographic neighborhood grid dissolved into a schematic of their house—every room glowing with pulsing red dots. "Motion sensors in every doorway," he said, pointing to the kitchen entryway where a dot blinked lazily. "Pressure plates under carpets—don't rearrange furniture." His finger slid to Taylor's bedroom, where three dots formed a triangle around her bed. "Audio pickups here, here, and here. They're sensitive enough to catch a whisper from thirty feet."

Agent Cross tapped his tablet again, and the holographic schematic rotated to display their backyard in lurid green wireframes. "Perimeter's rigged with microwave motion detectors," he said, pointing to ghostly lines that pulsed along the fence. "Step past the property line after curfew, and you'll trigger silent alarms at three separate command centers." His eyes locked onto Taylor's. "Not that you'd hear the sirens—response teams deploy with noise-dampened engines."

"What about my morning runs?" she asked, nervous they'd cancel them outright.

Agent Cross's smile didn't reach his eyes as he tapped his tablet—the hologram dissolving into a real-time satellite feed of their street. "Your runs are already mapped," he said, zooming in on Taylor's usual route with unsettling precision. Red dots pulsed at regular intervals where plainclothes agents would station themselves. "Think of them as invisible mile markers. Stray outside the corridor..." His thumb swiped, the map tilting to reveal an aerial view of the park where she'd raced Liz and Tasha. Three black SUVs materialized at the perimeter like chess pieces. "We'll redirect you gently."

Shit.

"One more thing, no more unnecessary physical displays to draw attention to yourself"

Agent Cross tapped his tablet again, summoning a holographic wristband that hovered above the coffee table. "You'll wear this," he said, rotating the image with a flick of his finger. The sleek silver band looked innocuous—like something Kayla might buy at the mall—but the pulsing green light at its center betrayed its purpose. "GPS, vitals monitor, and panic button all in one." His thumb brushed the hologram, making it expand to reveal microscopic needles lining the inner surface. "Microdermal adhesion. Can't be removed without triggering alerts."

"No sports either "Agent Kellogg added.

Hannah's coral-tipped fingers swiped across her tablet with practiced ease, her smile widening as she intercepted the tension. "Before you panic," she said, voice smooth as fresh ice, "let me show you the upside." The screen bloomed into a carousel of logos—Nike, Adidas, Lululemon—each sliding past with dollar amounts that made Taylor's throat tighten. "Endorsement offers started pouring in the moment that rope-climb video hit two million views."

Kayla snatched the tablet, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. "Holy shit—Under Armour wants to pay you six figures just to wear their sports bras?" Her finger stabbed at the screen before flipping to the next offer. "And Victoria's Secret wants you for their new 'Athletic Elegance' line?"

Hannah reclaimed the tablet with a chuckle, swiping to a familiar magazine masthead. "But this one's my favorite." Sports Illustrated's iconic cover template appeared, blank except for the words "Future Swimsuit Edition" and a placeholder silhouette. "They want you for next year's shoot. First non-professional athlete ever featured." Her manicured nail tapped the blank space where Taylor's transformed body would soon grace newsstands worldwide. "Historic."

Their mother finally spoke up. "I thought you wanted her to keep a low profile" She waved her hand at the tablet. "That is hardly low to me"

Agent Cross sighed. "We know" He looked at Taylor. "We can't stop it now. Our only play is to control it"

Taylor's fingers traced the edge of her pleated skirt, the fabric suddenly feeling both too heavy and too flimsy. The idea of millions seeing her—judging her—made her stomach flip. "I don't know how to model," she admitted softly.

Hannah's laugh was a practiced tinkle. "Sweetheart, with that bone structure?" She swiped to another screen—a side-by-side comparison of Taylor's face and a famous young supermodel named Vivienne. "You're genetically engineered for this. Literally." Her coral nail tapped the Sports Illustrated mockup again. "This isn't just money—it's narrative control. We put you in tasteful athletic wear instead of letting the internet Photoshop you onto porn sites."

"Can I think about it?" Taylor asked, not sure what to say or how to respond.

"Sure" Hannah said, shooting a look at Agent Cross before he could protest. "I'll send you the details. Let you and your mother go through it together. We don't have to rush this. You do what you want and when you say NO, that's the final answer"

Agent Kellogg looked at his watch. "I think we have to stop it here unless the girls want to be late for Taylor's second day back to school?"

Their mother sighed, standing abruptly. "Fine. But we're continuing this conversation tonight." She shot a look at Agent Cross that could've melted steel. "Full disclosure. No more surprises."

"Yes ma'am" the agent said with an apologetic bow. "It was not our intention to blindside you all like this"

They excused themselves after that and left.

Well the two agents left, Hannah was still there.

"I'm your ride for today" she said as if it was already decided.

Taylor and Kayla exchanged glances—another decision made for them.

"Guess I'm texting Jess to let her know" she said, taking out her phone to text her friend.

They waited while Kayla texted then turned to them with a big smile. "All good. So what do you drive?"

Hannah smiled. "You're gonna love it!"

It was then that Taylor realized that Hannah was no more than 25. She wasn't sure why she hadn't noticed before.

Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad after all, she thought, hopefully.

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

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Author's Note:I totally didn't forget that today was Wednesday AGAIN. Its just one of those days in the week that is all stealthy and sneaks up on ya. I apologize for the short chapters from this point on. I just found good places to end them. I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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6.

Stepping out of the house, the March morning clung to them like a stubborn ghost of winter—no snow, just a razor-thin chill that slipped under Taylor’s knee socks and made Kayla huff into her cupped hands. Hannah’s ride idled at the curb, its matte black paint absorbing the weak sunlight like a void. A Mercedes that probably cost more than a small apartment.

"Jesus," Kayla breathed, dragging a finger along the hood. "This thing got machine guns?"

Hannah pulled out her keys with a grin. "Just heated seats." The car unlocked with a sound like a vault disengaging.

Taylor hesitated at the passenger door—still adjusting to the instinctive way her body now moved in skirts, the way her thighs brushed together when she walked. She took a breath, trying to remember how to girls got into a car while wearing a skirt. She'd seen Kayla and even her mother so it a thousand times.

She felt the cold air bite her bare legs as she gripped the door handle. The leather seats looked frigid—black and unforgiving.

Kayla smirked, already sliding into the backseat with practiced ease. "Just tuck and pivot," she stage-whispered. "Ass first."

Taylor shot her a glare but followed the advice, twisting her torso in a way that felt alien yet somehow natural. Her pleated skirt settled around her as she sank into the front seat, the leather exhaling cold air against her thighs.

The engine purred to life with a vibration that traveled up Taylor’s spine. Hannah adjusted the rearview mirror—not to check traffic, Taylor realized, but to scan the street behind them. "Seatbelts," Hannah said lightly, though her knuckles were pale around the steering wheel.

The Mercedes' climate control blasted warmth across Taylor's knees as Hannah pulled away from the curb with unsettling smoothness—no lurch, no engine noise, just the faint hum of expensive machinery doing exactly what it was designed to do. Through the tinted window, Taylor caught a flash of movement near their neighbor's azalea bushes—a man in a UPS uniform pretending to adjust his earpiece.

"I'd like to talk a bit more about our plan" Hannah announced while driving.

Taylor shifted in her seat, the leather creaking softly as she turned toward Hannah. The Mercedes' dashboard glowed with muted blue light, casting sharp shadows across Hannah's cheekbones as she navigated the suburban streets with effortless precision.

"We're positioning you as the 'girl next door with grit,'" Hannah began, tapping the steering wheel in time with some internal rhythm. "Think vintage tennis skirts paired with cropped hoodies—wholesome enough for Parents Magazine but edgy enough that Teen Vogue will bite." She glanced at Taylor with a quick, assessing look. "Your Gamma physique gives us natural athletic credibility, but we're leaning hard into the prep school aesthetic to soften the... otherness."

Kayla snorted from the backseat. "So you're selling her as a rich bitch who can do pull-ups?"

Hannah's smile didn't waver as she merged onto the main road. "More like the valedictorian who accidentally became captain of the volleyball team." She reached across the console to tap Taylor's knee—a gesture that should have felt patronizing but somehow didn't. "We did focus groups. Teen boys respond to your strength if it's framed as 'elegant power.' Teen girls respond if we emphasize how approachable you are."

"Its only been a day" Taylor said, astonished there was already a solid plan in place. "You have focus groups from one video?"

Hannah's fingers tightened around the wheel. "We had preliminary profiles ready the moment Gamma-3's athletic enhancements were confirmed." The admission hung between them—another reminder of how long Taylor had been someone else's project. "Your rope climb just... accelerated things."

Kayla leaned forward between the seats, her ponytail brushing Taylor's shoulder. "So what's the angle? Because right now it sounds like you're packaging her as some Stepford athlete."

Hannah's manicured nails tapped a syncopated rhythm against the leather. "Think less robot, more... accidental icon." She glanced at Taylor with surprising intensity. "We're leaning into your duality—the gamer who became an athlete, the sister who outgrew her own shadow." The car slowed at a stoplight, revealing a billboard of a soccer star mid-kick. "That viral moment wasn't just strength—it was you biting your lip in concentration while your skirt fluttered. Raw and real."

"I wasn't wearing a skirt" Taylor corrected.

Hannah grinned. "Details." She accelerated smoothly, the Mercedes humming beneath them. "Point is, we're not erasing Tyler—we're letting Taylor eclipse him naturally." Her tone shifted, businesslike but not unkind.

The Mercedes turned into the school parking lot with predatory grace, rolling past clusters of students who paused mid-conversation to gawk. Taylor caught sight of Liz leaning against a bike rack—her neon orange hoodie clashing violently with the car’s matte black finish. Liz’s eyebrows climbed into her hairline as she mouthed *what the fuck* through the window.

"No reporters?" asked Kayla, almost disappointed.

"They wouldn't dare" Hannah said with a triumphant smirk. "We have a media blackout for another 48 hours and your friend Agent Cross threatened them pretty nicely if they didn't honor it."

Taylor was glad for the privacy because she had a pretty good idea what was coming as soon as she walked into the school. The whole ride in fact she'd been ignoring the numerous amount of texts she'd been getting.

There was a rap of knuckles on the car window, Liz announcing herself.

Taylor barely had time to pop the door handle before Liz was yanking it open, her orange hoodie flooding the Mercedes with daylight like a safety flare. "Holy shit, you rolled up in *this*?" Liz's gaze swept from the matte-black dashboard to Hannah's designer sunglasses. "Who dies in your backstory to afford this?"

Liz's fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against the car door as Taylor unfolded herself from the seat, her pleated skirt catching briefly on the leather before settling. "You look like a goddamn spy movie," Liz muttered, eyeing Hannah with undisguised suspicion. "Who’s the fed?"

"Not a fed" Taylor clarified. "Hannah, this is Liz. Hannah is my new PR person."

"Liz's eyes widened. "You have people now?"

Taylor shrugged. "Apparently"

The Mercedes door clicked shut behind Taylor with a sound like a vault sealing, cutting off the scent of Hannah's vanilla perfume. Liz grabbed her elbow with urgent fingers, dragging her toward the school steps before spinning to face her. "Okay, spill," she hissed, eyes darting to where Kayla and Hannah were still extracting Kayla's backpack from the trunk. "Why do you look like you just survived a government abduction?"

"I had a meeting this morning" Taylor explained as they walked.

"A meeting?" Asked Liz with a raised eyebrow.

Taylor sighed. "Punishment for not keeping my low profile".

"And the outfit?" asked Liz, giving her  a once over.

"Kayla is cruel" Taylor deadpanned.

The school doors swung open like floodgates bursting, and Taylor immediately felt the tidal wave of attention hit her—not the scattered glances from yesterday, but a coordinated surge of phones lifting in unison, screens glowing like fireflies in the dim hallway. Someone actually gasped. Liz stiffened beside her, muttering, "Oh, this is fucking surreal," as whispers coiled around them like smoke: *That's her—no way—did you see the video?*

Taylor's Mary Janes clicked against the linoleum, the sound absurdly loud in the sudden hush. A sophomore she'd never spoken to leaned too close, phone angled for a selfie-with-Taylor before Liz shouldered between them with a sharp *back the hell up.* Kayla materialized at Taylor's other side, her grip on Taylor's elbow equal parts protective and proprietary.

"Callie said she texted" Kayla said, looping her arm protectively through her sister's.

Taylor felt bad, not meaning to ignore her girlfriend.

Callie was leaning against Taylor's locker when they rounded the corner, her Doc Martens tapping an anxious rhythm against the tiles. The moment she spotted Taylor, her whole posture relaxed—shoulders dropping, lips quirking into that lopsided smile that always made Taylor's stomach do something complicated. "There you are," Callie breathed, pushing off the locker.

Callie's eyes swept over Taylor's outfit—the pleated skirt, the crisp green blouse tucked neatly at the waist, the knee socks hugging calves that still felt foreign yet somehow right. "Damn," she breathed, reaching out to straighten Taylor's already-perfect collar with playful fingers. "Who knew uniform chic could look this *cute*?" Her thumb brushed the hollow of Taylor's throat, sending an electric shiver down her spine.

Taylor’s cheeks burned under Callie’s touch, acutely aware of the hallway’s lingering stares. "Don’t encourage Kayla," she muttered, though the warmth in Callie’s fingers made her lean in despite herself.

Callie's fingers lingered at Taylor's collar, her thumb tracing the edge of the blouse's fabric in a way that made Taylor's breath catch. The hallway's murmurs crescendoed around them—whispers of *did you see her arms in that video?* and *no way that's natural*—but Callie's gaze remained locked on Taylor's, steady as a lighthouse beam.

"You miss my text?" Callie asked as Taylor opened her locker.

"Hectic morning. I'm sorry".

Taylor started putting away books and folders and grabbing the ones she needed.

The ringing of the bell disrupted any further attempt at a conversation with Callie. She gave her girlfriend's hand a squeeze before she and Liz went to their first period class together.

"So what's this meeting you had?" Liz asked as they walked, pushing their way through the crowd.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Liz steered Taylor through the crowded hallway, her grip tightening whenever someone got too close. "Government people showed up at my house," Taylor muttered, ducking her head as a group of freshmen openly gawked. "They've got my whole neighborhood under surveillance now."

"No shit" Liz grumbled "I told you, fucking X-Files!"

Taylor grunted. "They want to do the same to our house but its kind of you know".

Liz’s fingers dug into Taylor’s sleeve as they rounded the corner toward their classroom. "So what, you’re just cool with being their science experiment now?" she hissed, glancing over her shoulder at the lingering stares.

"Not really" she said, annoyed and numb at the same time.

"Then say No to the Truman Show" Liz said, giving her a shoulder bump. 

Classes went by like a breeze up until lunch—not because the work was easy, but because Taylor existed in a bubble of hushed murmurs and sidelong glances that made each fifty-minute block feel suspended in amber. Her pen moved mechanically through notes, her handwriting now an unconscious hybrid of Tyler’s angular scrawl and the looping cursive Kayla had bullied into her during middle school. Even the brutal pop quiz in Algebra II barely registered—just numbers sliding into place with eerie precision.

The cafeteria smelled like overcooked green beans and industrial-strength disinfectant—same as always—but the moment Taylor stepped through the double doors with her tray, the ambient chatter dipped into a hush that made her skin prickle. Liz was already waving her over with exaggerated arm motions, her orange hoodie glowing like a beacon against the sea of navy uniforms. Their usual table had expanded—Callie sandwiched between Kayla and Jess, with Benny hovering awkwardly at the end while Tasha sprawled across two chairs like she owned them.

Taylor's tray clattered onto the table louder than intended. "So you made it!" she said happily, looking at Benny.

Liz raised an eyebrow. "This cute little butterball with you?"

Benny looked uncomfortable, his ears blushing red.

"The VolleyBros are multiplying like rabbits too," Kayla huffed, looking at Tasha.

"What's up, doc?" Tasha deadpanned.

Liz snorted, Kayla rolled her eyes.

Taylor was sad that Henry didn't want to join. She asked him earlier when they passed in the hall but all he did was grunt and say, "Not my thing".

The conversation around the table was nonsensical. Taylor was happy to see that the others were easily letting Benny slide into the conversation when he wanted. She could see it was kind of awkward for him, what with his aversion to girls and all. Liz was a real champ with it though, constantly pulling him into it even if it wasn't something he was interested in.

When lunch ended, Taylor was proud that her new friends had easily accepted her oldest one.

She gave him a gentle hip bump as they were leaving. "And that is lunch with the girls."

"I think I miss sitting with Henry" he joked, giving her a hip bump too.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of hushed conversations and stolen glances, but PE was where things got interesting. Coach Poole—her buzz cut glinting under the gym lights like a warning beacon—cornered Taylor the moment she stepped into the locker room. "New rules," she muttered, her breath smelling faintly of peppermint and disapproval. She shoved a clipboard into Taylor's hands with enough force to make the metal clip rattle. "Modified workouts. No rope climbs, no timed sprints, no anything that'll land you on YouTube again." Her eyes flicked to the security camera in the corner, its red light blinking like a silent alarm. "We clear?"

Taylor rolled her shoulders as Coach Poole's whistle shrieked across the gymnasium—not the usual piercing blast signaling laps, but a staccato warning shot aimed squarely at her. The volleyball nets sagged between their poles like defeated flags, their white tape frayed from years of half-hearted games. Across the court, Liz caught Taylor's eye and mimed strangling herself with an imaginary rope, earning a snort from Tasha that made Poole's neck tendons bulge.

Other than that, everything went pretty smooth.

When the final bell of the day rang, Hannah was waiting outside for them again.

"What's she doing here?" asked Kayla, eying the Mercedes.

Hannah leaned against the matte-black Mercedes, tapping her tablet against her thigh. "Thought we'd grab smoothies before heading home," she said, as if this were a normal after-school ritual and not the third act of a spy thriller. Her sunglasses caught the sunlight, reflecting twin miniature versions of Taylor’s bewildered face.

The twin sisters got into the car without questioning it. The ride to the smoothie place was quiet. Taylor wasn't sure what to say. She wasn't expecting Hannah to pick them up from school too.

The smoothie shop smelled like synthetic fruit and crushed ice—too sweet, too cold. Taylor watched Hannah slide a twenty-dollar bill across the counter without looking at the menu, her coral-tipped fingers tapping impatiently. "Banana-strawberry for our athlete," she announced, like it was preordained.

The smoothie shop's booth cushions sighed under them like deflating lungs as Hannah slid in first, her tablet clicking onto the table with military precision. Taylor watched a droplet of condensation slide down her straw—banana-strawberry, exactly as ordered—before Hannah cleared her throat. "Your mom and I had a *chat*," she began, tapping the tablet awake to reveal a scanned handwritten list titled *RULES* in their mother's looping script.

Kayla snorted, stabbing her straw through the lid of her mango smoothie. "Let me guess—no more secret government meetings before breakfast?"

"Pretty much" Hannah chuckled. "She also apparently went to town on the government too. All that mumbo jumbo, its gone"

Taylor blinked. "Gone?"

Hannah tilted her tablet toward them—the screen displayed a scanned copy of their mother's handwritten ultimatum, the furious pen strokes nearly tearing through the paper. *"No more surveillance inside our home. No more unannounced visits. No more treating my daughters like lab rats."* Taylor traced the looping signature at the bottom—their mother's name signed with the same flourish she used on permission slips and birthday cards.

Way to go Mom, she thought, fist pumping under the table.

"Where does this leave all the PR image stuff?" she asked, wondering if she was still going to some kind of model still or what.

"We agreed that that is up to you" Hannah said, then slurped her strawberry smoothie.

Taylor frowned. "You're not going to push me into it?"

"Nope" Hannah shrugged. "Your mom made it very clear that anything related to your image was your choice. No pressure, no strings."

Hannah tapped her tablet again, swiping through glossy mockups that made Taylor's stomach twist. The first image froze her mid-sip—her own face Photoshopped onto a lithe gymnast's body mid-backflip, draped in some designer's idea of "athleisure" that involved more sequins than sportswear. The tagline screamed *ELEGANT POWER* in cursive gold letters.

Taylor crinkled her nose.

"Ok, not a fan of that one" Hannah laughed, swiping to another one.

The next ad showed a digitally-enhanced version of Taylor—her Gamma-toned legs stretched in a split between two chairs, biting a protein bar wrapper with exaggerated coyness. Kayla nearly spat out her smoothie. "Oh my god, they made you *thirsty!*"

"They do know I'm 15, right?" Taylor asked, feeling embarrassed looking at the image.

Hannah shrugged. "They're banking on you aging into it." She swiped again—Taylor's face superimposed on a volleyball player mid-spike, muscles flexing under a cropped jersey. "This one's from Nike. Seven figures if you say yes."

"I don't want to lie to people" Taylor said, looking at her as a volleyball player. "You said sports were off the table, that's a little misleading".

Hannah sighed but nodded.

She swiped again—Taylor in a sundress, laughing with exaggerated spontaneity while holding a yogurt cup. The tagline read *NATURALLY YOU*. "Dannon wants you for their probiotic line. No athletics, just... girl-next-door vibes."

"That's actually cute" Kayla gushed.

"I'm not sure I want to be anyone's spokesperson" Taylor admitted.

She was still getting used to be the center of attention at school. She didn't like it one bit actually. The idea of posing for pictures, showing up in magazines and commercials, it sent shivers down her spine. It didn't matter how much money they were offering her.

"I'm just not really interested in any of it" she said honestly.

Hannah looked crestfallen, Kayla squeezed her hand under the table.

Hannah tapped her fingers against the tablet screen, the glow casting sharp shadows across her face. "Okay," she said slowly, like she was tasting the word. "No endorsements, no modeling—got it." She swiped the mockups away with a decisive flick. "But what *do* you want?"

Taylor shrugged. "I just want to be normal".

The smoothie shop's hum of blenders faded into an uncomfortable silence as Hannah studied Taylor. "Normal," she repeated, tapping her acrylic nails against the tablet case. She scoffed. "Honey, there's nothing normal about you. Not anymore."

They left the shop after that. The ride home was quiet. Hannah didn't even say goodbye when she dropped them off.

Their mother was in the kitchen when they walked through the door. "Was today any better?" she asked.

Taylor huffed, shrugged and went up to her room.

Her mother didn't say anything.

Kayla's knock came fifteen minutes later—three sharp raps that sounded more like a challenge than a request for entry. She didn't wait for an answer before barging in, her arms loaded with two steaming mugs and a sleeve of Oreos clamped between her elbow and ribcage. "Fuck Hannah," she announced, kicking the door shut with her heel.

"I'm not sure she swings that way" Taylor mumbled.

Kayla scoffed. "To get the cut they probably offered her, I bet she'd fuck sheep".

Taylor laughed. "I'm not going to be able to unsee that now."

Kayla put a whole Oreo in her mouth. "Look I get it" She said and she chewed. "You don't want that kind of crap. Its not you. Me, I'd be all over it."

Taylor sighed. "Do you think I'm stupid for turning it down?"

Kayla snorted, crumbs spraying from her lips as she flopped onto Taylor's bed with the grace of a drunk flamingo. "Stupid? Please. You're just allergic to being happy." She lobbed an Oreo at Taylor's head and she caught without thinking. "See? That right there? Normal people don't catch flying cookies like Jackie Chan."

Kayla scooted closer, pressing her knee against Taylor's like they used to when they'd build pillow forts as kids. "Remember that time you tried out for the soccer team?" she asked, nudging Taylor's shoulder with hers. "And tripped over your own feet during tryouts?"

"Don't remind me" she groaned.

It was the first and last time she tried out for sports.

"What did you learn from it though?" asked Kayla.

Taylor scoffed. "I suck at soccer".

The Oreo crumbled between Taylor's fingers, chocolate dust settling on her skirt like dark snowflakes. "No, genius," Kayla said, rolling her eyes hard enough to strain a muscle. "You learned that forcing yourself into shit you hate just to fit in is—and I quote—'a fucking waste of  time.'" She mimed air quotes with sticky fingers. "Sound familiar?"

Taylor stared at the Oreo crumbs on her lap, Kayla's words sinking in like stones in water. Outside, the late afternoon sun painted golden rectangles across her bedroom floor—same as it had when this room belonged to Tyler. Same bedframe, same window, completely different life.

"So what do I do then?" she asked, hoping for sage sisterly advice.

Kayla nudged her shoulder. "Whatever the fuck you want!"

Kayla left, taking the rest of the Oreos with her.

Taylor stared at the Oreo crumbs scattered across her lap like constellations of a life she couldn't recognize anymore. The evening light painted stripes across her bedroom floor—same hardwood, same cracks between the boards, but everything else felt like it belonged to someone else. She flopped backward onto her bed, the mattress sighing under her weight. What *did* she want? The question coiled around her ribs like a sleeping snake.

She laid there for a long time, maybe an hour or more. She stared at the ceiling, thinking and wondering.

Then her phone buzzed.

Her phone screen lit up briefly as she flipped it over, illuminating a text from Callie: *You alive in there?* followed by a pixelated gif of a hamster eating its own foot. The corners of her mouth twitched despite herself. That was the thing about Callie—she never let Taylor spiral for too long without throwing some absurd lifeline.

She typed back: *Think I'm gonna turn down those endorsement deals. You think its dumb?*

The reply came instantly: *Dumb?*

Her phone rang a second later, Callie of course.

She answered.

"Are you kidding?" Callie's voice crackled through the phone with enough energy to power a small city. "Taylor, I would've noped out so fast they'd see my dust trail from orbit." She paused, and Taylor could practically hear her girlfriend's dramatic eye-roll through the receiver. "Remember when Mrs. Henderson tried to recruit me for yearbook committee because I 'take nice Instagram pics'? I fake-coughed so hard I threw my back out."

Taylor's laughter bounced off her bedroom walls, sudden and bright like a firework. She rolled onto her stomach, kicking her feet idly against the mattress. "Yeah, but this is like... actual money. Nike money."

"Cool," Callie shot back without hesitation. "And when has Nike ever been right about anything? Their shoes give people blisters and their sweatshops give people existential crises." There was a rustling noise—probably Callie flopping onto her own bed in that boneless way she had. "Look, if you wanna do it, do it. But if you're only considering it because you think you *should*... then screw that. And screw Hannah's weird corporate makeover fantasies."

She had told Callie and the others everything over lunch today. She didn't care if she wasn't supposed too, her friends were a sounding board no one else could give her. They were the ones that had actually helped her have the courage to say what she did to Hannah earlier at the smoothie place.

Taylor traced the stitching on her quilt with a fingernail. "What if I regret it later? Like... what if this was my one shot at something big?"

"Then you'll invent something better," Callie said simply. "Or you'll become a firefighter. Or a professional cookie taster. Taylor, you're literally *built different* now—you think Nike's the ceiling for you?" She snorted. "Please. You could probably *leap* past ceilings."

Callie's confidence was contagious, but it didn't erase the nagging what-ifs scratching at the back of her skull.

"Okay but—"

"Nuh-uh," Callie interrupted. "You're doing that thing where you spin in circles until you puke. Stop. Breathe." There was a muffled sound like she was rolling over, her voice softening. "Do you *want* to be on billboards?"

Taylor pressed her forehead into the quilt. The thought made her stomach clench—not stage fright exactly, but the visceral wrongness of becoming someone's marketing daydream. "Not even a little."

"Then *why* are we still talking about Nike?" Callie's laugh fizzed through the phone. "Look, if you wake up tomorrow dying to sell overpriced yoga pants, cool. But right now? You sound like you're trying to convince yourself to eat broccoli because it's 'good for you.'"

There it was, her answer.

Taylor exhaled, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. "You're right. I'd hate every second of it." The admission lifted something heavy off her chest. "I just... don’t know what I *do* want yet."

Callie laughed. "We're 15. We're not supposed too"

That was fair, Taylor thought.

They talked about random things after that.

"There is one thing about your future I do know though" Callie said slyly.

"Oh and what's that?" Taylor asked, playing along.

"You're going on a date Friday night. There's this really hot girl who wants to take you to dinner then the movies."

Taylor's fingers froze around her phone, the Oreo crumbs on her skirt suddenly forgotten. "Wait—you mean you're asking me out? Officially?" Her voice cracked on the last word, betraying the flutter in her chest.

The phone went silent for three heartbeats—long enough for Taylor to wonder if Callie had hung up—before her girlfriend's laughter bubbled through the receiver. "Duh," Callie said, her voice warm with amusement.

Taylor's grip on the phone tightened as warmth flooded her cheeks. "You couldn't have led with that?" she managed, kicking her legs against the mattress like an overexcited kid.

"I needed to build up to it, I've never actually asked anyone out before, missy" Callie mused.

Taylor's heartbeat thrummed against her ribs like a bird trapped in a cardboard box. She pressed the phone closer to her ear, as if Callie's words might escape otherwise. "So... what time Friday?" she asked, trying—and failing—to sound casual. The quilt under her fingertips suddenly felt impossibly textured, every thread hyper-real.

"I'm thinking 6 for dinner then a 7 o'clock movie" Callie said it was like the most normal thing in the world. "I'm paying too."

"What, why?" Taylor asked, feeling like she should be the one to do so.

"I asked, I pay" Callie said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

They ended the call after that.

There were butterflies in her stomach as she sat up, setting the phone beside her. She turned to the closet and knew it.

A date and I know exactly what to wear.

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

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Author's Note:Here we are, Ch.7. The story is slowly winding itself down now. Two more chapters to go after this one. Sadly Book 3 is going slower than I want. I am writing something else in the meantime while I try to figure it out. Maybe I'll start posting that new one until I can work on how to progress with Book 3. I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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7.

When the final bell rang on Wednesday, Taylor took a deep breath.

Today was meant to be her first official meeting with Dr. Morris after school.

"You want me to go?" asked Kayla, as they walked toward the school counselor's office.

"I think I'll be ok alone" Taylor admitted, even if she was a little apprehensive with it all.

"Text me if you need me" her sister squeezed her shoulder, leaving with both Jess and Callie, both of whom had also stayed behind.

Alone, Taylor made her way to the counselor's office. Dr. Morris had emailed her last night, telling her that the school had been nice enough to let her use it to her convenience.

Taylor hesitated outside the door—the same frosted glass panel she'd walked past countless times as Tyler, never once considering what lay behind it. Through the blurry glass, she could make out a silhouette moving inside. Taking a deep breath, she knocked twice.

"Come in."

Taylor stepped into the office, finding the warm face of Dr. Morris.

"Taylor" she said, smiling. "Its good to see you again. Take a seat, get comfortable"

Her voice was warm, professional, but Taylor felt anything but comfortable as she settled into the plush chair. 

Taylor sat delicately in her skirt, keeping her legs close together like her sister had taught her.

Dr. Morris smiled again. "How have your first few days been?" she asked, "finally happy to be back?"

Taylor nodded, "Yeah, its been ok"

Dr. Morris hummed, nodding as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "And how have things been with Kayla?"

"Great, better than great. She's been awesome" Taylor enthused.

"And your friends?" Dr. Morris checked her tablet. "Benny and Callie, right?"

This woman knew more than Taylor thought.

"It's been..." Taylor thought about how to word it. "Different".

"How so?" asked the doctor.

Taylor shrugged. "I was close with Benny before but I would have never really called us friends in the sense that most people are. We hung out together sure, ate lunch at the same table, gamed with each other online."

Dr. Morris chuckled. "I think that's the very definition of a friend actually."

Taylor paused for a second. Was it? "Why didn't Tyler think so."

Dr. Morris raised her eyebrow. "You refer to yourself in the third person?"

"No," Taylor corrected. "But I'm not Tyler anymore. He's gone."

"Is he?" asked Dr. Morris. "As far as I can tell, other than a change of name and gender, you are in fact still very much Tyler Carver."

Taylor was confused. "Doesn't changing gender make me different?"

Dr. Morris smiled, amused. "You tell me?"

Taylor blinked at Dr. Morris's question, her fingers tightening around the hem of her skirt. The office smelled like lavender air freshener and stale coffee—too floral, too bitter. "I don't know," she admitted. "Everything feels different now, but also... not?" She gestured vaguely at herself. "Like I'm wearing someone else's skin that fits better than my own ever did."

Dr. Morris's stylus hovered over the tablet. "Interesting," she murmured, more to herself than to Taylor. "Tell me—when you look in the mirror now, who do you see first? Taylor, or Tyler?"

"I see me," she responded. "Taylor."

"And what about before?" asked the doctor.

Taylor shrugged. "I saw Tyler."

Dr. Morris smiled. "Do you think they're two different people then?" She tapped the stylus against the side of her tablet. "You just admitted that you saw yourself as Tyler when you were Tyler and you see yourself as Taylor now that you're Taylor."

Dr. Morris's stylus clicked against her tablet—once, twice—like a metronome counting the seconds while Taylor's thoughts scrambled. The counselor's office felt suddenly smaller, the motivational posters on the walls ("Reach for the Stars!" "Mistakes Are Proof You're Trying!") pressing in with their hollow cheer. Taylor's thumbnail caught on a loose thread in her skirt seam, unraveling it further. "I don't know," she said finally. "It's like... Tyler was a bad translation of me. And now the words finally make sense."

"Why?" asked Dr. Morris.

Taylor shrugged. "I don't know. I never really thought about it before The Bug. But afterwards, looking into the mirror, something felt right suddenly."

The stylus stopped mid-click. Dr. Morris leaned forward, her perfume—something sharp and botanical—cutting through the lavender air freshener. "Tell me about 'right.'"

Taylor's fingers stilled against the unraveling thread in her skirt. "Right," she repeated, tasting the word like a foreign candy. "Like... when you're wearing shoes that fit perfectly?" She huffed a laugh at her own clumsy metaphor. "No, that's stupid—"

"Actually," Dr. Morris interrupted, tapping her stylus against her chin. "That's remarkably apt. Your body used to pinch in places you didn't realize until it stopped pinching." She tilted her head, studying Taylor like a particularly fascinating equation. "When did you first notice?"

Taylor smiled. "The first day I went shopping with Kayla. There was this dress..." Her face lit up at the memory of wearing the coral sundress for the first time. "When I looked at myself in the dressing room mirror wearing it, I knew then."

The office chair creaked as Dr. Morris leaned back, her burgundy skirt stretching taut over crossed knees. "That dress," she mused, stylus hovering. "Describe the moment you put it on."

Taylor's breath caught as the memory unfolded behind her eyelids—the coral sundress's fabric whispering against her newly sensitive skin, Kayla's rare grin in the dressing room mirror, how the straps had settled perfectly on her shoulders like they'd been designed for her. "It wasn't just the dress," she murmured, tracing the seam of her school skirt. "It was how..." Her hands fluttered vaguely at her collarbones. "Everything lined up."

The stylus clattered onto the tablet as Dr. Morris suddenly straightened. "Ah," she said, like she'd just solved a puzzle. "Gender euphoria." The words hung in the air between them, unfamiliar yet instinctively correct. Taylor's chest tightened—she'd never heard the term before, but it resonated like a struck tuning fork.

'What does that mean?" she asked, confused and curious.

Dr. Morris tapped her tablet awake, pulling up a diagram that looked like a rainbow-colored fever chart. "It's when your external presentation aligns with your internal sense of self," she explained, rotating the screen toward Taylor. "For some people, that happens naturally. For others..." She gestured at Taylor's coral-painted nails. "It takes a virus. Or hormone therapy. Or both."

Taylor stared at the diagram—neon lines zigzagging across categories labeled "Social," "Physical," "Mental." The colors blurred as Dr. Morris continued, "Most people experience this alignment gradually. You..." She smirked. "Took the express lane."

Taylor stared at the screen. "You think....you think, I wanted to be a girl?"

Dr. Morris set the tablet down gently. "I think Gamma-3 didn't change who you are—it just removed the static between who you've always been and how the world sees you." She tilted her head, watching Taylor's reaction like a biologist observing some rare creature. "Tell me honestly—when you played video games as Tyler, did you ever choose female characters?"

Taylor twitched. Maybe not in the shooter games because it didn't matter but in all the other games...

Taylor's fingers twitched against her skirt fabric as the realization hit—every RPG, every character creator, every avatar she'd ever customized flickered through her mind like a highlight reel of denial. "Not always," she muttered defensively, then swallowed hard when Dr. Morris's eyebrow arched. "Okay, usually. But that's just—stat bonuses! Female elves get better agility modifiers!"

Dr. Morris's smirk widened as she tapped her stylus against the tablet's edge. "Mmm. Of course. Stat bonuses." She leaned forward, her burgundy skirt whispering against the chair. "Tell me, Taylor—when you dreamed at night before Gamma, who were you in those dreams?"

Taylor's breath caught in her throat like a hooked fish. The office walls seemed to ripple—"Reach for the Stars!" shimmering into sudden clarity. Not all her dreams. Not most. But the ones that lingered, the ones that left her cheeks hot and her chest aching in the morning darkness... "I was Kayla," she whispered. The admission tasted like stolen candy, sweet and shameful.

"Are you sure it was Kayla?"

Taylor's fingers went numb against the chair arms. The lavender air freshener scent turned cloying, thick in her throat. "What?" The word came out cracked—like old pavement splitting under sudden pressure.

Dr. Morris's stylus hovered, her gaze unwavering. "Think carefully. When you dreamed of being Kayla—were you *her*, or were you *yourself*?" The question hung in the air like a held breath.

She thought about and at first, rationalized it had to be Kayla. In her dreams she was her sister, same face, same blonde hair, same blue eyes.

She gasped.

Kayla's eyes were green.

Taylor's stomach dropped like a stone. The realization twisted through her—sharp and undeniable. Those dreams hadn't been about Kayla at all. They'd been about *herself*, seen clearly for the first time.

"I was me" she said softly, surprised and confused. "I don't understand. I never wanted to be a girl, I never even voiced it. I was happy being a guy, I liked being Tyler."

Dr. Morris set her tablet aside with deliberate slowness, the stylus rolling toward the edge. "Taylor," she said, her voice impossibly gentle, "do you remember being upset when puberty hit?"

She shook her head. "I remember being annoyed that Kayla stopped playing with me. We used to be real close when we were younger but as soon as puberty hit, she changed. She pushed away and we grew apart"

Dr. Morris's gaze softened. "And how did that make you feel?"

Taylor's fingers dug into the chair's upholstery as the memory surfaced—Kayla slamming her bedroom door shut after Taylor tried to join her and her friends for a sleepover, their mother sighing about "natural changes." The hollow ache in her chest back then mirrored the one she felt now. "I hated it," she whispered. "But not because I wanted to be a girl. Because I lost my best friend."

Dr. Morris's office chair creaked as she leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. "Loss and change often get tangled up," she said, her voice low and steady. "Especially when the person changing is you."

Taylor stared at her hands—smaller now, the knuckles less prominent, nails painted coral like the sundress that had started this whole revelation. Her pulse throbbed in her throat. "So what are you saying? That I was... supposed to be a girl all along?" The words felt dangerous, like stepping onto thin ice.

Dr. Morris shook her head. "No one knows that for sure" She picked up the tablet again, scrolling then showing her the screen.

Dr. Morris turned the tablet toward Taylor, displaying a heat map of brain scans pulsing with neon blues and reds. "We've studied thousands of Gamma cases," she said, tapping a region that flared gold. "See this? The anterior cingulate cortex—it lights up differently in people who transition smoothly versus those who struggle." Her stylus circled another area. "And here? The insular cortex shows activity patterns we now associate with latent gender dysphoria."

Taylor's fingers tightened around the chair arms as she stared at the glowing images. "So you're saying..." Her voice wavered, unsure of what to ask.

"Not saying—observing." Dr. Morris zoomed in on a neural pathway that branched like coral. "People who adapted easiest to Gamma's changes? Their pre-infection brains already had these structures wired for gender fluidity." She met Taylor's wide-eyed gaze. "Your neural architecture was primed for this shift long before Moira kissed you."

It made sense she supposed.

"What about Jasmine?" she asked. "I mean Jason was gay before, so he clearly..."

Dr. Morris shook her head, tapping the tablet screen to bring up another scan—this one pulsing with jagged red patterns. "Jasmine's case is different. Gamma didn't align her neural pathways—it overwrote them." She swiped to a side-by-side comparison, the left scan smooth and branching, the right fractured like broken glass. "Jason identified as male, but his brain showed no latent female patterning. His transition was..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Violent. Like forcing a square peg through a round hole."

"Is that why she's so..." Tyler was trying to struggle for the right word, other than "bimbo" or "ditz".

"Spirited" Dr. Morris said, clearly struggling for the proper word herself, before continuing. "Jasmine is what we call a 'disruptive transition'—someone whose neural pathways didn't align with their new gender identity. Think of it like..." She tapped her stylus against her lips, searching for the metaphor. "Your brain was always wired for Taylor, you just didn't know it. Jason's brain was wired for Jason, period."

"What about Henry?" She asked, wondering if Cara had wanted to be a boy before.

Dr. Morris swiped to another set of scans—these showed smoother transitions between colors. "Henry's case mirrors yours," she said. "His pre-infection scans already showed latent masculine patterning. Gamma simply...completed the circuit." She tilted her head. "Why do you ask?"

"He's angry a lot. He doesn't seem like he wants to be a guy" Taylor said, sighing.

Dr. Morris sighed and nodded. "Just because its there, doesn't necessarily mean it was meant to be for her."

The silence in office stretched like taffy, thin and sticky. Taylor stared at her hands—smaller than Tyler's had been, the veins less pronounced under skin that now smelled faintly of vanilla body wash instead of Axe spray. "So what now?" she asked, tracing the coral polish on her thumbnail.

"That depends on you" Dr. Morris said then paused. "I heard the government was making some arrangements for you. There were some endorsements offered?"

Taylor shook her head. "I'm turning those down. I don't want to be puffed up and paraded around like a sideshow for their entertainment"

Dr. Morris leaned back with an approving nod, her burgundy skirt whispering against the chair. "Good for you," she said, tapping her stylus absently against the tablet. "Though I suspect they'll keep pushing. Gamma survivors are political gold right now." She tilted her head. "Speaking of—how's your father handling everything?"

"He left again. Work was more important" she said bitterly.

Dr. Morris's stylus froze mid-tap. The office air conditioner hummed too loudly in the silence that followed. Taylor watched a drop of condensation slide down the counselor's water bottle, tracing a crooked path like the tear tracks she'd wiped away last night.

The condensation droplet hit the desk with a quiet *plink*. Dr. Morris cleared her throat, setting her stylus down with deliberate care. "That must be difficult," she said, though her tone suggested she already knew the depth of that difficulty. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No" Taylor said quickly, coldly.

Dr. Morris nodded. "Fair enough. Perhaps we can do so at our next session then."

Taylor stood abruptly, her skirt swirling around her knees. "Is that all?" she asked, fingers twitching toward her phone in her pocket. She needed air—needed to text Callie, needed to not be in this lavender-scented interrogation room anymore.

Dr. Morris’s stylus tapped against her tablet once—twice—before she set it aside with a deliberate motion. "For today, yes," she said, her gaze lingering on Taylor’s tense posture. "But we have a lot more to unpack. Next session, we’ll discuss coping strategies—especially with your father’s absence."

Great, she thought.

"Friday, we'll have our first group session with the others" she said as she led Taylor to the door. "I think it might really do you all some good if you sit around and talk about everything"

Taylor nodded. She thanked her and told her she'd see her on Friday.

She walked through the quiet hall, lost in her thoughts.

Taylor pushed through the school doors into the afternoon sunlight, her skin prickling with the residue of Dr. Morris’s revelations. The parking lot asphalt shimmered with mirage-like waves—too bright, too real—as she fumbled for her phone. She fumbled out a text to Kayla---*I'm done*.

Taylor looked across the parking lot, not sure how she missed the SUV before. Kayla and Jess were both outside of it, waving. She could also see Curtis behind the wheel.

She walked toward them, her skirt swirling around her knees with each step—still not quite used to how fabric moved differently now. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the asphalt, stretching Curtis's black SUV into something vaguely predatory-looking. Kayla leaned against the passenger door, idly kicking a pebble while Jess balanced on the curb like a tightrope walker, her arms outstretched.

"You look like you got hit by a bus," Kayla announced as Taylor approached. Not *How did it go?* Not *Are you okay?* Just that blunt, brutal honesty only a twin could deliver.

Taylor forced a weak smile. "I'll tell you about it when we get home?"

Kayla raised an eyebrow, like she wanted to say something but nodded instead.

Jess hopped off the curb and intercepted Taylor with an exaggerated curtsy. "Milady," she teased, gesturing toward the SUV's open door like a chauffeur. The absurdity of it punched through Taylor's lingering tension—she snorted despite herself, swatting at Jess's shoulder as she climbed in.

The SUV's air conditioning blasted Taylor's face as Curtis pulled out of the parking lot, the vents humming louder than necessary. She pressed her forehead against the cool window glass, watching the school shrink in the side mirror—Dr. Morris's words still buzzing in her skull like trapped flies.

The SUV's tires crunched over gravel as Curtis turned onto the main road, the radio humming some pop song Taylor didn't recognize. Kayla twisted in the passenger seat, studying her with that laser-focus only twins could manage.

No one said anything to her, no one asked questions.

The ride home was in relative silence. Jess waved them goodbye as the SUV drove off, Kayla promising to text her later.

When they got home, the house was empty. Their mother's leave of absence from work---the month or so long one she had taken---was over. She was back at work now, so the twins had the house to themselves.

Taylor dropped her backpack by the door with a thud that echoed through the empty house. Kayla nudged it aside with her foot—same old choreography, just different shoes now. "So," Kayla said, popping the 'o' like bubblegum, "you gonna spill or what?"

"I'm a girl" Taylor said hollowly.

"Well duh" Kayla said with a snort. "Anyone can see that."

Taylor shook her head. "No, Kay, I've always been a girl apparently."

Kayla froze mid-step, one sneaker hovering above the staircase. "Wait—what?" Her voice cracked like ice under sudden pressure.

Kayla's sneaker hit the step with a dull thud as she spun around, her ponytail whipping against her shoulder. "Hold up—what did the shrink *say* exactly?"

Taylor sank onto the bottom stair, fingers twisting in the hem of her skirt. "Dr. Morris showed me brain scans," she began, voice hollow. "You know how Jasmine is a massive ditz and everything?" Kayla nodded, Taylor sighed. "Its because Jason's brain fought against the change, it didn't want to be a girl."

Kayla sat beside her, knee bumping against Taylor's. "And yours...?"

Taylor traced the coral polish on her thumbnail—chipped from nervous picking during the session. "Mine didn't fight." She swallowed hard. "Dr. Morris said my brain was already wired for... this." Her gesture encompassed her whole body. "Like I was always supposed to be Taylor."

"I don't understand", Kayla frowned. Taylor sighed, staring at her hands.

Taylor's nails—painted coral like the sundress that started it all—tapped a uneven rhythm against her knee. "Remember when we were kids?" she asked abruptly. "That princess phase you had in third grade?"

Kayla wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, don't remind me. Glitter glue in my hair for weeks."

"You made me play the prince." Taylor's voice was oddly quiet. "Every single time."

Kayla froze, a slow realization dawning. "You... you never complained."

"You let me play the princess once" she said, remembering it like it was some lost forgotten memory.

Kayla's fingers twitched against the stair railing. "Yeah, and you wouldn't stop spinning in that stupid pink tutu Mom bought you." Her laugh died in her throat as Taylor's eyes met hers—wide and vulnerable. "Oh. Oh shit."

Taylor nodded. "I just thought it was always fun but what if...what if..."

Kayla's hands found Taylor's shoulders, her grip firm like when they were kids and Taylor would panic during thunderstorms. "You think...?"

Taylor nodded, tears streaming down her cheek. "Kayla things are starting to make sense...puberty...some of my dreams...my jealousy".

Kayla said nothing, just pulled her into her arms and held her as she cried.

Taylor's tears soaked into Kayla's shoulder, the familiar scent of her sister's strawberry shampoo mingling with the salt. Kayla held her tighter, fingers digging into the fabric of Taylor's blouse like she could physically anchor her to reality. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked louder than usual, each second stretching like taffy.

Kayla's grip loosened slightly, her breath warm against Taylor's temple. "Okay," she whispered, more to herself than to Taylor. "Okay, I need to tell you something." She pulled back just enough to meet Taylor's red-rimmed eyes, her own gaze flickering with something between fear and relief. "I was confused for a long time when I was little. I remember asking Mom why you couldn't wear the same clothes as me and she told me you were a boy, I didn't understand. I asked her why and she said that's how it was, I remember crying and throwing a tantrum."

Taylor blinked, a stray tear clinging to her lashes. "What?"

Kayla's fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against Taylor's shoulder blades—three quick beats, then two slow ones. "I used to sneak my dresses into your dresser," she admitted in a rush. "When we were seven. Mom would put them back in my closet and I'd just...move them again." Her laugh sounded wet, tears forming. "I thought if I could get you to wear them enough, you'd just...turn into my sister."

Taylor's breath hitched. The memory surfaced like a bubble from deep water—Kayla's stubborn insistence that they trade pajamas, the way she'd sulk when their mother made them change back. "I thought you just hated your purple nightgown."

Kayla snorted, swiping at her own cheeks. "It was ugly as sin, but that's not why." She hesitated, then blurted: "I thought it would look cuter on you".

Taylor groaned. "We're a mess."

The strange is, Taylor barely remembered most of it. She wouldn't tell her sister that though. If she had to guess, she probably blocked a lot of it out. She could only recall vague instances where Kayla tried to force her to dress as a girl back then. As far as she knew, it had never happened. But after leaving Dr. Morris's office, she remembered that it with the princess dress clearly. She was shocked she hadn't remembered it until then.

The grandfather clock chimed four times—too loud, too final—as Taylor pulled away from Kayla's embrace. Her sister's strawberry shampoo lingered in her nose, mixing with the salt of drying tears. She stared at Kayla's scuffed sneakers, at the frayed hem of her own skirt, anywhere but at the twin who'd just cracked her childhood wide open.

Kayla reached out, her fingers brushing Taylor's wrist. "You okay?" she asked, voice softer than Taylor had heard in years.

Taylor's laugh came out shaky, more breath than sound. "I just found out I secretly wanted to be a girl and that my sister was secretly trying to make it happen." She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing mascara in a way that would've horrified her yesterday. Today, it just felt honest.

"Wish granted" Kayla said with a laugh, bumping into Taylor's shoulder with her own.

"Must have gotten lost in translation all those years" Taylor admitted.

Kayla bit her lip. "When I saw you that night, after the changes first starting happening, I thought to myself, 'What took you so long?' and I felt horrible thinking it."

Taylor bit her own lip too. "That day in the dressing room at the mall, I think I unknowingly thought the same thing too."

They hugged and had another good cry.

When their mother came home, they were sitting on the couch, watching TV and laughing.

"How did your first session go?" she asked Taylor, having been concerned all day.

"I'm a girl!" Taylor said, throwing her hands up in the air.

Both sisters laughed like it was some inside joke.

Their mother gave them a strange look but said nothing.

*******

Thursday at school things were still annoying but it was winding down some too. It got even better when she saw Sierra and her friends sitting with Jasmine at lunch. It appeared they finally decided to give up on pursuing Taylor, which made her more than thrilled. 

"Jasmine is actually a perfect fit for them" Callie commented, following Taylor's line of sight.

"Hey as long as its not me" Taylor grunted.

The rest of the day passed without incident—no ambushes by Sierra’s squad, no invasive questions from nosy classmates, no government handlers materializing in the hallway. Just the mundane rhythm of high school: the squeak of markers on whiteboards, the rustle of notebooks, the occasional snort of laughter when Mr. Henderson mispronounced "photosynthesis" for the third time. Taylor caught herself doodling coral-colored dress designs in her notebook margins, then quickly scribbled over them when Liz peeked over her shoulder with a smirk.

When the bell rang, she and Taylor got a ride home from Jess and her brother.

Later that night, found Taylor in her room. Tomorrow's date with Callie kept looping through her mind.

She pulled the coral sundress from her closet—the same one that had sparked her first moment of visceral gender euphoria. She undressed to her underwear as it was the most normal thing in the world. Seeing a girl standing there in a pale yellow bra and panties was normal now too. The fabric whispered against her skin as she slipped the dress on, the straps settling perfectly over her shoulders like they'd been waiting for her.

Taylor spun once, watching the skirt flare out just enough to brush her thighs. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror—the way the dress hugged her waist before cascading down, how the coral brought out the pink in her cheeks. She giggled, covering her mouth with her hands before twirling again, this time adding an exaggerated curtsy that sent her hair tumbling over her shoulders.

The dress made her feel overwhelmingly girly.

She imagined Callie's reaction tomorrow—would she notice how the straps crisscrossed in the back? Would she compliment the way it matched her nail polish? Taylor bit her lip, smoothing the fabric over her hips with hands that still sometimes felt foreign but were becoming more familiar each day.

A soft knock interrupted her third twirl. Kayla leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed but expression soft. "You're gonna wear a hole in the floor," she teased, nodding at Taylor's bare feet. "Also, you're standing like a flamingo."

Taylor looked down—one knee bent, toe pointed. She hadn't even realized. "Shut up," she mumbled, but her cheeks flushed warm. Kayla's smirk widened as she stepped inside, plopping onto the bed with the ease of someone who'd claimed this territory since childhood.

"It's cute," Kayla admitted, tugging at the skirt hem. "But isn't it kinda... much for a movie date?"

Taylor shrugged. She didn't want to admit it made her feel girly but she did anyway.

Kayla rolled her eyes. "You're such a girl," she groaned, but there was affection in it. She flopped backward onto Taylor's pillows, sending a stray hair tie flying. "So. Nervous?"

"About tomorrow night?" she asked, Kayla nodded. She shrugged. "Its weird. I never really went on a date as Tyler and now, here I am in a dress, acting like the girl."

Kayla snorted. "You're not *acting*." She reached up to tug playfully at Taylor's hem. "This is you now. Deal with it."

Taylor stuck her tongue out but twirled again anyway, the skirt flaring perfectly. She paused mid-spin when she caught sight of her reflection—the way the light caught the dress's subtle shimmer, how her collarbones peeked above the neckline. Strange how familiar this felt now.

Like this had been her all along.

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

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Author's Note:Ch.8. I bet everyone thought it was going to be the date chapter but I'm evil. This is a shorter chapter as is the next one, the last of one which will be next week. Prepare for the group meeting! ADDED: A few people had a bit of a problem with a new character. I have my reasons. The story isn't over with yet. I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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8.

Friday felt like it dragged longer than the usual 7-8 hours of most school days.

It was made even longer during lunch when she got a text from Dr. Morris informing her the group meeting was back on.

When school finally ended, there was a black government SUV waiting for her outside. Henry was already there, leaning against the hood as she approached.

"Wait, who's the hottie?" Kayla asked as they walked out of school together.

Kayla grabbed Taylor's arm. "Introduce us!"

Taylor groaned.

Henry looked annoyed until he saw them approaching. He perked up for a moment, his eyes tracking from one sister to another, lingering for a slight moment longer on Kayla than Taylor. He looked away quickly though, not wanting to be a creep.

"Hey Henry" Taylor waved as they reached them. "You remember my sister, right?"

Henry shrugged. "Sure, we used to have a few classes before."

"What a glow up" Kayla blurted out before thinking then quickly clamped a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, I didn't..."

"Its fine" Henry grunted, before opening one of the doors and getting inside the SUV.

The driver never even moved.

"You sure you're going to be ok with him and..." Kayla asked, probably referring to Jasmine.

"I'm fine" Taylor meant it too even if she knew it was going to be annoying too.

Taylor suspected Jasmine was going to a problem today. Originally this meeting had been cancelled because of her. Her mother---the mayor---had some clout after all. But apparently, the Head of DHS had more. Taylor didn't know the details, only that in Dr. Morris's email she had mentioned the higher ups had overridden Jasmine's absence.

Taylor was starting to get into the front seat of the SUV when she heard the distinctive tap of Jasmine's heels.

The staccato click of heels on pavement cut through the murmurs of departing students like a knife through butter. Taylor didn't even need to turn around—that particular cadence of footsteps, deliberately loud and punctuated with unnecessary hip swings, could only belong to Jasmine.

Jasmine's arrival was a performance—all exaggerated hip swings and perfectly-timed hair flips. She'd dialed her "egirl" persona back up to eleven, her candy-pink platform boots clicking against the pavement like a metronome counting down to chaos. "Oh my gawwwwd," she drawled, flipping her bleached curls over one shoulder as she approached the SUV. "Are we, like, carpooling now?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm sweet enough to give everyone cavities.

Kayla was still standing nearby, her arms crossed. "Hey Jay, we're the only ones here, cut the shit."

Jasmine's smile didn't waver, but her grip on her sequined backpack tightened until her knuckles matched her bubblegum-pink nails. "Ugh, rude much?" She flicked her bangs out of her eyes with a practiced motion. "Some of us are trying to maintain brand consistency here."

Kayla rolled her eyes, turning to her sister. "You sure you don't want me to go along?"

Taylor sighed. "I'll be fine".

"Why do you get to ride shotgun?" Jasmine whined, her cleavage bouncing with her tiny, exaggerated pout.

Taylor rolled her eyes and got into the backseat instead. Jasmine performed again, clapping happily. Again, there was no one around but them. Her theatrics were tiring already.

The ride to the community center where the group session was being held, was fairly quiet. Other than Jasmine chatting with her "fans" on her phone.

When they arrived, an agent was waiting.

The community center smelled like lemon-scented disinfectant and decades-old disappointment. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow over the peeling posters for long-past bake sales and Zumba classes. Taylor's fingers twitched against the vinyl seat as she scanned the room—government-issue folding chairs arranged in a too-perfect circle, a water cooler gurgling ominously in the corner, and Dr. Morris standing by a flipchart looking entirely too cheerful for someone about to mediate between hormonal teenagers and their existential crises.

The two victims from Huntsville were already there.

A teen boy and girl.

The boy lounged in his chair like a bored lion—all golden hair and sharp cheekbones that belonged on a CW show rather than a government-mandated therapy circle. His fingers drummed against his knee in a rhythm Taylor vaguely recognized from some TikTok trend. Beside him, the Hispanic girl sat with perfect posture, her dark curls cascading over one shoulder like a shampoo commercial. Her nails—painted cobalt blue—tapped impatiently against her thigh, the only betrayal of her otherwise serene expression.

They were both gorgeous.

Taylor was beginning to notice that the virus seemed to have a type.

"Please take a seat" Dr. Morris said, pointing to the three empty chairs.

Taylor hesitated at the circle's edge. Jasmine bulldozed past her, claiming the seat beside the Hispanic girl with a dramatic hair flip. Henry silently took the chair on the other side of the girl, leaving Taylor to see next to the dazzling golden boy.

Dr. Morris clapped her hands together—a sound that somehow managed to be cheerful and ominous simultaneously. "Let's begin with introductions," she announced, gesturing to the golden-haired boy lounging like a sunbeam in human form. "This is Christopher Moore—"

"Chris," the boy interrupted with a lazy grin that showcased perfect teeth. His voice was deeper than expected, smooth like honey poured over gravel. "Unless you're my mom with a wooden spoon." He winked at Taylor, who felt her cheeks warm inexplicably.

Dr. Morris continued unfazed. "And this is Luna Morales." She indicated the Hispanic girl, whose dark eyes flicked up briefly before returning to examining her cobalt nails.

Then she introduced Taylor, Henry and before she could introduce Jasmine, the attention seeker introduced herself.

"Jasmine Whittaker!" she announced, flipping her hair with practiced precision. "TikTok verified, obviously." She smiled at Chris, who blinked slowly like a disinterested cat.

Jasmine looked a bit annoyed when Chris didn't immediately fawn all over her.

He instead turned his attention to Taylor. "So you're the famous Gamma Girl, huh?"

Taylor's fingers dug into her thighs as Chris's gaze lingered—not with the invasive curiosity she'd come to expect from strangers, but with something closer to recognition. "Not sure about famous," she muttered, acutely aware of Jasmine's glare boring into her temple.

Dr. Morris cleared her throat. "I want today's first session to be informal. Just a quick 'getting to know you' session. Something simple and easy. You five are very unique in that this is the first large outbreak so close together like this in a few years now."

Chris stretched his arms behind his head, muscles flexing under his fitted t-shirt. "What's to know? We all got screwed by the same bug." His tone was light, but Taylor noticed how his fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against his knee—three fast, one slow.

Dr. Morris ignored him. "Let's go around—share something about yourselves that isn't related to the virus."

Luna sighed, tucking a curl behind her ear. "I play cello." Her fingers twitched as if plucking invisible strings. "Used to, anyway. Before..." She glanced down at her cobalt nails, suddenly fascinated by their shine. "As soon as I became a girl, I sorta lost interest."

Jasmine perked up instantly. "That's so tragic! You should totally—"

"Stay on topic" Dr. Morris interrupted. "Henry?"

Henry grunted. "I hate wasting my time more now than ever."

Dr. Morris gave him a look before moving onto Chris. "What about you, Chris?"

He looked right at Taylor. "I never used to be interested in pretty girls before and now..." He smiled, flashing a bright, white smile.

Dr. Morris coughed. "Moving on."

Taylor shifted in her seat, hyperaware of Chris's lingering gaze. The vinyl chair squeaked under her thighs—a sound that suddenly felt obscenely loud in the heavy silence. She focused on the scuff marks on the linoleum floor, counting the black streaks like they held the secrets of the universe.

"I have a twin sister" she shared, understanding the assignment.

Chris leaned in. "So you're like identical twins now?"

"Not identical, there are some differences," Taylor admitted.

"I'd like to see those," Chris smirked.

"Thank you, Taylor" Dr. Morris said with a smile, before turning to Jasmine. "Now Jasmine, how about you?"

Jasmine flipped her hair with practiced precision. "I have a million followers on TikTok, which is totally worth mentioning, even if you said nothing about the virus. And I'm super into makeup now which is like totally weird because..."

"Thank you, Jasmine" Dr. Morris interrupted, earning a frown from the self centered twit.

The vinyl chair let out another embarrassing squeak as Taylor crossed her legs—a sound that made Luna's lips twitch in suppressed amusement. Chris's gaze flicked down to Taylor's knee, then back up with a smirk that promised trouble.

The water cooler's gurgling filled the silence as Dr. Morris adjusted her clipboard. Taylor traced the condensation trails on her plastic cup—little rivers mirroring the sweat creeping down her spine. Chris's knee brushed hers under the pretense of stretching, and she jerked away so fast her ponytail whipped her own cheek.

Now" the doctor continued. "I wanted to take the time in this first session to start with questions. I know this all can be a scary and difficult experience for everyone. So does anyone have any questions about the virus or things that pertain to it?"

The silence stretched like taffy, thick enough to chew. Taylor watched Luna pick at her cobalt nails—three quick flicks against each cuticle—while Chris drummed his fingers against his thigh in that same TikTok rhythm.

"I have one" Jasmine said quickly. "Why is Taylor suddenly Superwoman?"

This piqued the interest of the others as well, even Henry seemed to react.

Dr. Morris's pen paused mid-air for exactly one second—Taylor counted—before she set it down with deliberate calm. "Jasmine," she said, voice smooth as the conference table between them, "that's an excellent question about variant differentiation." Her fingers laced together, forming a neutral barrier. "But perhaps we could rephrase it to focus on personal experiences rather than comparisons?"

Jasmine was having none of that though. "I got infected first and she gets all the perks." She crossed her arms, her breasts pushed up as she did. "We all saw the video, she was super fast and she climbed like some kind of monkey and she's....she's....not...."

"Dumb" Henry inserted, Jasmine glared.

The others smirked and suppressed laughs, even Taylor.

Dr. Morris was quick to try and defuse the situation. "Let's stay focused" she said, trying her best to keep her own emotions in check. "We discussed this privately, Jasmine. Some individuals are effected by the virus differently than others."

Jasmine huffed, pouting. "Its not fair though"

"Its not about fairness" Dr. Morris countered, her tone firm but not harsh. "Its just how the virus works. Some peoples' bodies are more receptive to its effects."

"Why did it make us all hot then?" asked Luna, finally no longer interested in her nails. "I mean I have sisters and" She paused then grabbed her boobs. "None of them are stacked like this."

Jasmine perked up. "Yeah and like, why am I suddenly obsessed with makeup?"

Dr. Morris took a deep breath. She had dealt with enough Gamma patients to know where this was going. "We've studied that the virus seems to enhance certain... traits based on latent neural pathways. For some it manifests in physical ways" She looked quickly at Jasmine. "For others it can be mental"

"I was a straight A student before" Jasmine admitted "but now I can barely focus" She dropped the act for a moment. "Its frustrating."

Chris snorted. "Yeah well, I went from being a cheerleader to..." He waved a hand over his new body. "It was a bit of a shock"

Dr. Morris nodded, tapping her pen against her clipboard. "The virus amplifies latent traits—whether physical, mental, or emotional. Taylor’s neural pathways were already aligned with feminine structures, so the transition was smoother. Jasmine, your brain had to rewire entirely." She paused, glancing at Henry. "And for some, like Henry, the changes reinforce preexisting masculinization patterns."

Henry huffed. "Bullshit"

"I have no issues" Luna added. "You're all freakish. I'm normal" She was saying it while filling her nails, her legs crossed like a diva.

Normal?

Dr. Morris tapped her clipboard with the precision of a metronome. "Let's clarify something—'normal' doesn't exist here." She gestured to the circle with her pen, its cap clicking like a tiny judge's gavel. "Gamma doesn't follow human rules. It rewrites them." The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows as Luna's cobalt nails stilled mid-file. "I'm not one of the scientists who can explain all that. My job is to make sure you lot adjust to the changes your bodies and, mostly your minds have gone through."

The vinyl chairs groaned in unison as everyone shifted—Jasmine with an exaggerated sigh, Henry with a stiff shrug, Chris with a lazy stretch that made his shirt ride up just enough to reveal a strip of toned stomach. Taylor focused intently on her own knees, suddenly fascinated by the way her skirt draped over them.

The water cooler's rhythmic gurgling filled the silence as Dr. Morris set down her clipboard with deliberate calm. Taylor caught Chris watching her again—not with the clinical curiosity of scientists or the invasive stares of classmates, but with something closer to amusement. Like they shared a private joke only virus survivors could understand.

Taylor's fingers tightened around the plastic cup, condensation dripping onto her thighs as Chris leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "So doc," he drawled, the fluorescent lights catching the gold flecks in his eyes, "what's the deal with the super reflexes? Because I swear to god, I caught a falling vase last week like it was nothing." He snapped his fingers—the sound sharp in the stale air—and grinned at Taylor. "You ever do that?"

"Both Taylor and Chris received physical enhancements after their transformations" Dr. Morris explained.

"Him too?" whined Jasmine. "That's so unfair!"

Taylor stared at Chris. He's like me, she thought, absently brushing a strand of hair behind her hair.

Chris's grin widened as Taylor's fingers paused mid-air, still tangled in her own hair. "Yeah, me too," he said, flexing his hands in a way that made the tendons stand out sharply. "Caught my baby brother mid-tumble off the couch last Tuesday. Kid didn't even cry—just giggled and called me Spider-Man." His voice dropped conspiratorially. "You get the weird muscle memory stuff too?"

He was like her.

"There are some notable differences" Dr. Morris continued to explain. "Taylor is stronger, has more stamina. Chris is much more agile and flexible and his reflexes are far more enhanced".

Dr. Morris cleared her throat with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd spent years redirecting hormonal teenagers from volatile topics. "Let's shift focus," she announced, tapping her pen against a fresh page on her clipboard like a conductor cueing the next movement. "Physical changes are just one aspect. Today, I want to discuss"—her gaze swept the circle—"how you're navigating social dynamics post-transition."

Taylor's fingers traced idle patterns on her knee as the conversation meandered through school complaints and parental drama—Jasmine's exaggerated sigh about her parents still "not dealing", Luna's dry commentary about her sisters stealing her clothes now that she had "the good tits." The words blurred together like watercolors, her attention snagging every time Chris shifted in his seat, the vinyl creaking under his weight.

His laugh cut through the drone of conversation—warm and unexpectedly rough, like gravel under sunlight. Taylor caught herself staring at the way his throat moved when he spoke, how his Adam's apple bobbed with each chuckle. It was stupid, this fixation. She'd seen handsome boys before. But Chris carried his new body with an ease that made her chest ache—like he'd never known anything else.

Wait, did she just think of him as handsome?

The realization hit Taylor like a static shock—sudden, sharp, and impossible to ignore. Chris leaned forward to grab a water bottle, his sleeve riding up to reveal taut forearm muscles flexing beneath golden skin, and her stomach did this... thing. This fluttery, traitorous thing that made her press her knees together tighter under the pretense of adjusting her skirt.

What the hell was that?

Chris was a boy. She didn't like boys. She liked Callie. Callie was her girlfriend. So why was this boy making her go all weak in the knees?

Shit.

 The session ended there.

The folding chairs screeched against linoleum as everyone stood to leave, the session's abrupt ending lingering in the air like a bad joke. Taylor hurried toward the exit, her ponytail swinging like a pendulum counting down her escape.

"Bolting right away?" said Chris as he fell into step with her.

"Not bolting" she lied, her chest fluttering. "Just gotta be somewhere."

It wasn't a lie. She needed to raise home in time to get ready for her date with Callie tonight.

"Hey I can give you a lift if you want" he said, pointing to a car as it pulled. "Well its my Mom's car but..." He rubbed the back of his head. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

Taylor stopped. He was a persistent one. She took a deep breath. "I have a girlfriend."

There she said it. Now he'd leave her alone.

Chris didn't miss a beat. "Cool," he said, hands sliding into his pockets with an easy shrug that made his shoulders look broader under his thin hoodie. "I didn't ask you out." His grin was all teeth and no apology. "Just offering a ride to someone who, y'know, actually gets it." He jerked his chin toward Jasmine, who was dramatically taking selfies. "Unlike *that*. What is her deal anyway?"

Taylor scoffed as they stopped in front of Chris's mother's car, leaving Jasmine with her favorite person---herself. "She was a real asshole as a guy. Rich, full of himself. His mother is the mayor."

"Oh one of those" Chris scoffed. "Dated a guy like that. Really self absorbed."

His mother beeped her horn. "Christopher" she shouted out of the window.

Chris smiled. "Let me give you a ride?"

Taylor bit her lip and nodded. She took out her phone, texting her Mom that she got a ride and would be home soon.

The car smelled like vanilla air freshener and old McDonald's fries—a weirdly comforting combination that made Taylor relax slightly against the cracked leather seats. Chris's mom turned out to be a freckled nurse with the same gold-flecked eyes as her son, humming along to a Fleetwood Mac song as she navigated afternoon traffic.

Chris sat in the backseat next to her. "Your city is quiet" he said, looking out the window. Then as an after thought. "Its kinda unsetting how your whole world changes but the rest of the world goes by without even noticing."

"Some notice" Taylor said, thinking about the reactions she got when she returned to school.

When Chris spoke again, it was with a quieter tone. "My friends didn't understand. I was this pretty, popular kind of girl. Then I wasn't" He rubbed his hands on his jeans. "It was hard to deal with, you know?"

She knew. She nodded. "I only had two friends. I think my best friend didn't really know how to act, he made some jokes about my boobs, weird but awkward nonetheless. My other friend" She smiled. "We started dating."

"Really?" Chris said, turning to her. "How's that? Weird?"

Taylor hadn't really thought about it. She'd always had a thing for Callie. She always wanted to get up enough courage to ask her out and when she finally did, Jason beat her to it. She knew now it was all fake but she didn't know that at the time. She felt robbed. She was happy it finally happened. 

"Its good. I had a crush on her for a long time but..." she said, surprising herself.

But? Why a but?

"But" Chris said, nodding. "That was the old you, right?" Chris patted her hand. "You're lucky in a way. My boyfriend, he didn't take it well. Bastard took a swing. I'm not sure what pissed him off more, the fact that I deflected it " He smirked. "Or that my return punch laid him on the ground."

They both laughed but it was kind of hollow. 

Shared.

They finally stopped in front of Taylor's house.

"Can I have your number?" he asked, holding up his phone.

Taylor raised an eyebrow. "I just said..."

He waved his hands. "Not to ask you out, just to talk. Luna isn't really chatty and frankly, I don't really want to be friends with the other two but you" He sighed. "I feel like you and I can get along real well?"

She smiled. "Sure".

She gave him her number then left the car. 

They promised to talk soon.

She watched the car as it pulled away.

Her stomach fluttered and her heart skipped a beat.

Shit, no, shit.

There is no way that she liked a boy. 

No way.

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

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Author's Note:Here it is finally, the last chapter of this story. I had every intention of having another story written by now but I hit a rut when writing it. I have about 4 chapters of the next story done but I ran out of steam with it and it fizzled. I have some ideas for it but I just don't have the drive to write it. So for now, this is all there is for Taylor. I hope to get back to the 3rd story in the future. I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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9.

"He was cute," Kayla gushed as Taylor walked into the house.

She groaned. Of course Kayla had been watching from the window.

"Who is he?" asked her sister, bouncing behind her.

"Chris," she said, going up the stairs, Kayla following close behind. "From Huntsville".

Taylor's bedroom door clicked shut just a fraction too late—Kayla's slippered foot wedged in the gap like an overeager puppy. "Spill," she demanded, wiggling through the opening before Taylor could protest. "Tall, blond, and vaguely demigod-looking doesn't just drop you off without context."

Taylor tossed her bag onto the bed with more force than necessary, the straps slapping against her floral duvet cover. "It's not like that. He's just another Gamma survivor—got enhanced reflexes instead of strength." She flopped onto the mattress, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars still clinging to her ceiling from middle school. "His mom gave me a ride. End of story."

"He gave you his number though," Kayla said with her signature, knowing smile.

Taylor grabbed a pillow and smothered her face with it, muffling a groan. "He asked for mine," came her distorted reply. The mattress dipped as Kayla flopped beside her, fingers already prying the pillow away with sibling persistence.

The pillow tore away with a *whump* of displaced air, revealing Taylor's flushed face. Kayla's grin widened dangerously. "Oh my god," she whispered, like she'd discovered buried treasure. "You *like* him."

"What? Bullshit. I'm with Callie," she said, a little too quickly.

The silence stretched between them like taffy—thick, sticky, and impossible to ignore. Kayla's knowing smirk widened as she tapped her fingers against Taylor's knee in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "Uh-huh," she said, drawing out the syllables like a detective cornering a suspect. "You can still like other people while dating someone. You're not going to act upon it, so it's not an issue."

Taylor's phone buzzed against her thigh—Callie's name flashing across the screen with a heart emoji. She swallowed hard. "I don't like him," she muttered, more to herself than Kayla. "I barely know him."

Kayla huffed, laying on the bed now, propped up on her elbow. "You said he's like you thought right?" Taylor nodded. "So you've got mutual experience. I can see that. Someone like you to talk to?"

Taylor's phone buzzed again—another text from Callie about their date tonight—and she rolled onto her stomach to hide the screen from Kayla's prying eyes. "It's not like that," she mumbled into the comforter, "...exactly." The words tasted strange in her mouth, like trying to name a color she'd never seen before.

Kayla sat up. "Boring."

Taylor smacked her with a pillow. "Hey!" Kayla laughed, locking the soft weapon. "Violence isn't denial, it's *confirmation*."

"I need to get ready now. Go away," Taylor said, not really meaning it.

"Ok, but we're not done talking," Kayla said as she playfully hopped off the bed and darted out of the room, dodging a throw pillow.

The shower water hit Taylor's skin like liquid static—hot enough to turn her shoulders pink but not enough to wash away the weird flutter in her stomach. She scrubbed vanilla-scented body wash over her arms, watching soap suds swirl down the drain and wondered why Chris's stupid gold-flecked eyes kept appearing in her mind's eye. *Stop it*, she scolded herself, turning the knob colder. Callie was picking her up in an hour, and she wouldn't—couldn't—arrive distracted by some random boy's smirk.

Toweling off in front of the fogged mirror, Taylor wiped a clear circle with her palm and studied her reflection. The girl staring back had Kayla's nose, sure, but the way her damp hair clung to her collarbones was distinctly *hers*. She twisted sideways, watching the way her waist dipped in before flaring at her hips—a silhouette that still startled her some mornings. The coral sundress waited on her bed like a promise, its spaghetti straps delicate against the rumpled duvet.

Makeup was easier now than those first shaky attempts with Kayla hovering over her shoulder. Taylor blended peach blush across her cheekbones with practiced swipes, the bristles of her brush catching the late afternoon light slanting through her blinds. A flick of mascara—one, two—and her lashes framed her eyes like parentheses around a secret. She leaned closer to the mirror, tongue poking between her teeth as she lined her lips with a rose-pink pencil. *Pretty*, she thought, then immediately felt silly for cataloging her own appearance.

Hair took longer. Taylor sectioned damp strands with her fingers, the curling iron hissing as it transformed straight locks into soft waves. The scent of heat-protectant spray lingered in the air—coconut and something chemical—as she pinned back one side with a silver clip Kayla had "borrowed permanently" from their mom's jewelry box. A final spritz of hairspray, and she shook her head gently, watching blonde waves settle around her shoulders like a living shawl.

The sundress slithered over her skin, cool and smooth, its fabric whispering secrets against her thighs as she adjusted the hem. Strappy heels clicked against hardwood when she tested her balance—three quick steps from dresser to bed—before she caught herself grinning at nothing. Her toes wiggled against the insole, the straps biting just enough to feel secure. *Girly*, she admitted silently, spinning once just to feel the skirt flare.

She stopped to look at herself in her mirror. She smiled. This was definitely NOT how she imagined her first date would go.

The doorbell rang at precisely 4:45 PM—Callie was never late, but never obnoxiously early either. Taylor took one last steadying breath, her fingers hovering over the doorknob when Kayla materialized behind her with a wolf whistle. "Damn," she murmured, plucking at Taylor's spaghetti strap. "Callie's gonna swallow her tongue."

The door swung open before Taylor could retaliate, revealing Callie standing on the porch with a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in one hand. Her breath audibly hitched—just for a split second—before she grinned. "Wow," she said, blinking rapidly as her gaze traveled from Taylor's curled hair to her strappy heels. "You look... wow."

"I feel weird," she admitted, toeing the carpet. "I never thought I'd be the girl in this scenario."

Callie giggled. "Good thing you're a cute one."

She took Taylor's arm and led her out down the driveway where Callie's mom was waiting in her Prius.

"Your mom cool with this?" she asked, knowing that Callie had been hiding being bisexual from her parents.

"She's dealing," Callie admitted as they approached the car. "It wasn't easy but she told me she’d suspected for a while. Apparently, Jason wasn't very good at pretending to not be gay."

Taylor laughed. "Kayla said the same thing."

The Prius smelled like old newspapers and lavender sachets—familiar and comforting as Callie’s fingers laced through Taylor’s. Callie’s mom adjusted the rearview mirror with a knowing smile. “So, girls,” she said, pulling onto the street, “dinner and a movie, or just dinner?”

"The first one," Callie said, sitting next to Taylor in the backseat.

The neon sign outside Tony’s Pizza flickered like a dying firefly, its intermittent buzz syncing with the arrhythmic drip of the malfunctioning soda machine inside. Callie’s mom dropped them off with a wave and a *"Text if plans change!"*—leaving Taylor standing on the cracked sidewalk, suddenly hyperaware of how her sundress clung to her thighs in the humid evening air.

"Relax," Callie murmured, her thumb brushing Taylor’s wrist as she tugged her toward the entrance. "It’s just pizza. Not, like, a Michelin-starred interrogation." The door jingled obnoxiously as they entered, announcing their arrival to the handful of bored teenagers scattered across red vinyl booths.

The few who knew them looked but didn't react.

Taylor exhaled through her nose. Right. Just pizza.

Tony’s hadn’t changed since middle school—same sticky floors, same flickering Pac-Man machine in the corner, same smell of burnt pepperoni and industrial cleaner. Callie led them to their usual booth by the window, the one with the duct-taped tear in the vinyl that always snagged Taylor’s clothes. Except now it was her skirt catching, not Tyler's jeans.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been here. It used to be their hangout place, but after Callie started dating Jason, she stopped coming.

"So," Callie asked after they ordered a Chicken Finger pizza to share. "How was the group session?"

Taylor stabbed a straw into her soda with unnecessary force, watching the ice swirl. "Weird," she admitted. "There was this guy—Chris—who got enhanced reflexes like me. And Jasmine complained the whole time." She hesitated, stirring her drink absently. "They kept comparing changes like it was some messed-up competition."

The pizza arrived—a steaming, greasy, glorious mess of cheese and chicken fingers that made Taylor's stomach growl despite her nerves. Callie grabbed a slice without hesitation, the cheese stretching comically before snapping. "So this Chris guy," she said around a mouthful, eyes twinkling with mischief. "He cute?"

Shit.

"Yeah," Taylor admitted, grabbing a piece of her own. "But we all are, apparently. The other girl, Luna, is a bit stacked like me. Real pretty too. A bit intense too."

Taylor's straw squeaked against the plastic lid as she fiddled with it, the sound louder than intended in the lull of conversation. Callie's gaze was steady—not probing, just... present. Like she could see the gears turning in Taylor's head before Taylor herself understood them.

Taylor's fingers trembled slightly as she picked at her pizza crust, the cheese suddenly tasting like cardboard in her mouth. Callie's question about Chris hung between them like a neon sign she couldn't ignore.

The pizza parlor's fluorescent lights flickered as Taylor's pulse thudded in her ears. Callie's expression remained unreadable—no accusation, just quiet curiosity. Taylor swallowed hard. "He asked for my number," she admitted, shredding a napkin beneath the table. "Just to talk. About... all this." Her gesture encompassed her body, the sundress, everything. "He was a cheerleader before. Had a shit time with his former friends and boyfriend after."

Callie’s fingers stilled around her soda can, condensation dripping onto the checkered tablecloth. "Huh," she said finally, tilting her head. The neon light from the pizza sign outside painted her cheekbones pink. "So he gets it." She took a slow sip, eyes never leaving Taylor’s. "That’s... actually kinda nice."

The pizza grease had congealed into waxy swirls on their plates when Callie finally broke the silence. "You gonna text him back?" she asked, twirling a straw wrapper between her fingers. The casualness of her tone didn't match the intensity in her hazel eyes—like she was bracing for impact.

"Yeah, it might be nice to talk to someone who gets it, as you say," she said, taking a sip of her drink.

Callie nodded, smiling. "Good."

They ate the rest of their dinner, laughing and talking about other things.

They finished with enough time to walk the block or so to the movie theater, arm in arm.

Callie's fingers brushed Taylor's as she pulled two crumpled bills from her jeans pocket, the Korean characters on her woven bracelet catching the theater's neon lights. "I asked you out," she declared, squaring her shoulders in mock masculinity that made her collarbones jut sharply under her tank top, "so I'm being the guy tonight." Her smirk softened as she added in a conspiratorial whisper, "I've always wanted to say that."

Taylor smirked, but said nothing.

The movie theater’s AC blasted too hard, raising goosebumps on Taylor’s bare arms as they shuffled toward their seats. Callie’s hand found hers in the dark, warm and grounding.

The soda hit Taylor's bladder at exactly the worst possible moment—right as the movie's protagonist delivered their dramatic monologue. She shifted in the plush theater seat, knees pressing together as she tried to ignore the pressure. Callie's fingers tangled with hers, warm and reassuring, but all Taylor could focus on was the growing urgency between her thighs.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. By the time the villain appeared onscreen, Taylor's foot was tapping an anxious rhythm against the sticky floor. "I gotta—" she whispered, leaning close enough that her lips brushed Callie's ear. "Bathroom."

The neon EXIT sign cast eerie pink light across Callie's smirk as she squeezed Taylor's hand. "Don't fall in," she murmured, before releasing her grip.

The hallway outside the theater was eerily quiet compared to the bombastic soundtrack still rumbling through the walls. Taylor's heels clicked against linoleum as she approached the women's restroom, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears. She paused outside the door, hand hovering near the push bar. Even after weeks of living as Taylor, using the girls' bathroom still sent a jolt of nerves through her stomach.

A trio of giggling teens burst through the door just as Taylor reached for it, forcing her to step aside. Their perfume lingered in the air—something sweet and synthetic—as they disappeared down the hall without glancing at her. Taylor exhaled sharply through her nose and pushed inside.

The bathroom smelled like industrial cleaner and peach-scented hand soap. Taylor hesitated at the sinks, catching her reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, sundress straps slightly crooked from squirming in the theater seat. She adjusted them automatically, then froze when a stall door creaked open behind her.

"Hey there, princess," said a voice that sent a chill down her spine.

A figure stepped up to the sink next to her, washing her hands. Taylor was frozen in fear, shaking uncontrollably. It was her, that voice, that smile.

The one who kissed her.

The one who gave her V63.

"Moira," she said, recognizing the same face that the agents showed her from that grainy file photo.

Moira smiled, still washing her hands. "You look real cute in that dress," she said, her voice calm. "Your girl is cute too."

Taylor wanted to scream, she wanted to run but all she could do was stand there.

"Leave her alone," she finally managed to get out.

Moira smirked. "Relax. I'm not here to fight."

"What do you want?"

It wasn't the question Taylor wanted to ask. In fact, she had hundreds. The most important one being why did Moira infect her in the first place. But right now, her most important question had to be what she was doing here and what did she want. Moira was not only Subject Zero but probably the person on the top of the DHS's Most Wanted list.

"Just wanted to drop in, meet ya face to face." Moira was still washing her hands. "You really did turn out well. Really cute, like I said before."

Taylor was seething. "Why?" she finally asked.

Moira laughed. "Yeah, I'm not going to answer that. Not right now anyway."

The faucet squeaked as Moira turned it off, the sudden silence pressing against Taylor's eardrums like deep water. Drips fell from Moira's fingers as she shook them casually over the sink—each droplet hitting porcelain sounding like a gunshot in the tense air. "You're handling it better than most," Moira said, examining her nails with clinical interest. "Not many girls adapt this smoothly. Then again..." Her eyes flicked up, catching Taylor's reflection, "you're like me."

Like her?

"Is that why you targeted me?" asked Taylor, Moira shrugged.

How did she know that Tyler might have been trans before? It didn't make any sense.

Moira smiled, cocky and surprised. "You haven't figured it out yet. Have you?"

The bathroom's fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Taylor's breath hitched. Moira's grin widened—a predator circling wounded prey. "Oh, this is precious," she purred, leaning against the sink with effortless grace. "You really don't know." Her polished fingernail tapped the mirror where their reflections overlapped.

"Don't know what?" Taylor asked, confused.

Moira leaned toward the mirror, taking out some lip gloss to redo her lips. "The enhancements aren't the only thing that the drug gave us."

What did that mean?

"I don't understand," she said and didn't.

Moira smirked. "You're a smart girl, Tay Tay. You'll figure it out," She reached into her leather jacket, pulling out a simple business card. "When you do, call this number."

Taylor picked up the card. It was plain white, the only thing on it a phone number.

Moira started toward the bathroom door, but stopped and turned to her. "Oh, and word to the wise, don't trust the government and their lies. There's a lot more going on here than you can possibly know."

Then Moira walked out the door.

Taylor rushed to catch up with her. She tore out of the bathroom but Moira was long gone.

The bathroom door swung shut behind Taylor with a hollow click, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. Her fingers trembled around the business card—edges digging into her palm—as she scanned the corridor left and right. Neon lights buzzed overhead, casting flickering shadows where Moira had vanished. Gone. Like she'd never been there at all.

What the hell?

Taylor had only been behind her by seconds, and it was like she vanished into thin air.

Taylor's hands were still shaking when she pushed open the theater door—the business card safely in her clutch. Callie's silhouette was barely visible in the dim light, her head turning sharply as Taylor stumbled back into their row.

"Whoa," Callie whispered, catching Taylor's elbow as she tripped over someone's abandoned popcorn bucket. "You look like you saw a ghost."

"I just did," Taylor said quietly, dropping into her seat.

"Wait, what?" asked Callie, concerned at the ashen look on her girlfriend's face.

"She was here, Callie," Taylor whispered, feeling hollow. "Moira, the girl did this to me, she was in the bathroom."

Callie's grip tightened on Taylor's wrist hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents from her nails. The movie screen flashed an explosion—bright enough to illuminate the panic widening Callie's pupils. "Here?" she hissed, scanning the darkened theater as if Moira might materialize between rows of teenagers. "Right fucking now?"

"In the bathroom." Taylor was still pretty numb.

Callie stood up. "We're leaving," she said, pulling Taylor up from the seat. "You're calling Agent Kellogg right now."

The neon EXIT sign buzzed overhead as Callie dragged Taylor through the theater's emergency exit, setting off a shrill alarm neither of them cared about. Cold night air hit Taylor's bare arms—her sundress suddenly paper-thin against the wind whipping through the alleyway.

The alleyway smelled like rotting garbage and cigarette butts—sharp enough to make Taylor's nose wrinkle as Callie fumbled for her phone. The emergency door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the theater's blaring alarm with a metallic clang.

Callie turned to Taylor. "Call him!"

Taylor nodded numbly, pulling out her phone and called the number of the CDC agent.

The phone rang exactly twice before Kellogg answered with a terse, "Talk." Static crackled in Taylor's ear as she pressed the device harder against her cheek, her other hand gripping Callie's wrist like an anchor.

"She's here," Taylor choked out, the words tasting like battery acid. "Moira. At the—at the movie theater."

Kellogg's breath hissed through the receiver. "Stay exactly where you are." The line went dead before Taylor could respond. She stared at her phone's glowing screen, the CDC agent's last words ringing in her ears.

Twenty minutes later, a police cruiser arrived. The officer didn't say anything, just sat and waited with them.

Forty-five minutes later, a black government issue sedan arrived. Agent Carson was there. He rolled down his window, staring at the two teenagers. "Get in," he barked, not a request, an order.

The sedan's tires screeched against asphalt as Carson took a corner too fast, throwing Taylor against Callie's shoulder. Streetlights strobed through the windows—flashbulb bursts illuminating Carson's grim profile in the rearview mirror. Callie's nails dug into Taylor's thigh, both their breaths coming too quick.

The sedan screeched to a halt in front of Taylor's house, tires spitting gravel onto the manicured lawn. The porch light burned too bright—a harsh spotlight illuminating her mother's silhouette in the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest. Agent Carson killed the engine with a twist of his wrist, the sudden silence pressing against Taylor's eardrums like deep water.

The front door flew open before the sedan had fully stopped, Taylor's mother rushing down the porch steps in bare feet. Her bathrobe flapped like panicked wings as she yanked Taylor into a crushing embrace—the scent of lavender laundry detergent and stale coffee clinging to her trembling frame. "They called me," she whispered into Taylor's hair, fingers digging into the coral sundress fabric. "They said she found you."

"I think she always knew where I was," Taylor said into her mother's shoulder.

"Is that what she said?" asked her mother. Taylor nodded.

"Not out here," Agent Carson said, ushering Taylor, Callie and Taylor's mother toward the house.

Inside, Kayla rushed over, crushing both her mother and sister in a hug.

Agent Carson cleared his throat with the subtlety of a foghorn, his polished shoes tapping impatiently against the hardwood. The family hug reluctantly dissolved like mist—Kayla's fingers lingering on Taylor's elbow as they migrated to the living room. The agent positioned himself in front of the fireplace like a grim substitute for holiday decor, his shadow stretching across the coffee table.

"Start from the beginning," Agent Carson said, perching on the edge of the armchair like a bird of prey. His government-issue tablet glowed ominously in his lap. "Don't leave anything out—not even what seemed insignificant."

Taylor explained about Moira being in the bathroom, complimenting her and Callie. Callie gripped her hand on that. Then how Moira said she wasn't there to hurt her, she just wanted to talk.

Agent Carson's pen froze mid-scrawl when Taylor described Moira's cryptic comments about Gamma's hidden effects. His head snapped up so fast his neck audibly cracked. "She said *what* exactly about the enhancements?"

"That there's more to them than we know," Taylor whispered, fingers tracing the edges of the business card still clutched in her palm. The embossed numbers left faint indents on her skin. "She called me... like her."

Agent Carson rubbed the back of his head, nodding. "Moira's psyche profile had suggested she was transgender beforehand as well."

"She doesn't seem to like you guys," Taylor continued. "Said you were liars."

"Liars?" asked Carson, raising an eyebrow. "Did she say about what exactly?"

Taylor shook her head. She didn't mention how Moira told her not to trust them though. There was something in her tone, something that didn't sound crazy.

"Was there anything else?" Agent Carson asked.

Taylor thought about the business card. "No," she lied, not sure why.

The interrogation lasted until midnight. Agent Carson's pen never stopped moving—scratching across his notepad like a frantic seismograph recording Taylor's every tremor. His questions circled back three times to Moira's exact phrasing, four times to her appearance ("No, she wasn't wearing gloves"), and once, bizarrely, to whether Taylor noticed any unusual smells ("Just... peach soap?").

Callie fielded her own volley with clenched fists, her answers clipped and defensive whenever Carson probed about Moira's comment on their relationship. "I didn't meet her," she kept saying. Her knee bounced against Taylor's under the coffee table, a silent morse code of solidarity.

When Carson finally snapped his notebook shut, the sound made everyone jump. "We'll have agents sweep the theater," he said, rising with the stiffness of a man twice his age. His shadow loomed against the wall as he pocketed Taylor's hastily scribbled description of Moira's outfit—black leather jacket, ripped jeans, chipped red nail polish. "Don't share details of this encounter. Not with friends, not online." His gaze lingered on Kayla, who rolled her eyes but nodded.

Then he was gone.

"Callie, I'll give you a ride home," Taylor's mother announced.

Callie and Taylor stood up together. "I'll call when I get home," Callie said, then kissed her.

Taylor didn't want to let go but she did.

When they were alone, Kayla sighed heavily. "So much for your perfect first date."

Taylor snorted. "I'm going to bed."

Taylor's bedroom door clicked shut behind her with finality, the sound too loud in the sudden stillness. She peeled off her sundress like shedding skin, letting the coral fabric pool at her feet as she stood trembling in front of the full-length mirror. Moonlight sliced through the blinds, painting zebra stripes across her transformed body—a body that Moira had given her.

Her skin crawled but she didn't hate it. She also hated to admit that after all of this, she honestly owed Moira a favor. It was horrible to think about, given how it happened, but now that it had, she didn't hate it.

She wandered over to her bed where her clutch was sitting. She sat down, picked it up and took out the business card.

She held it between her fingers, staring at it.

She wasn’t sure why she didn't tell Agent Carson about it, but something told her not to. She remembered Moira's words, telling her that the government were liars and not to trust them. She almost didn't want to believe her, but some strange part of her actually did. It didn't change the way she felt about Moira but it did make her think about a whole lot of things.

Especially Moira calling the virus "a drug."

Is that what she meant about not trusting them?

Was it not a virus after all, but something else entirely?

She groaned, flopping backwards onto the bed.

Things had suddenly gotten very, very complicated.

TO BE CONTINUED.

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