Chapter Text
I crack open an eye, groaning as the morning light assaults my senses. I shove my face deeper into the pillow, trying to escape the damn rooster that insists on crowing at God-knows-what-time in the morning. Honestly, who needs an alarm when you have a feathered jerk with no sense of what civilized waking hours should be?
“Matt!” Mrs. Peterson’s voice barrels through the thin walls of my room. “Time for breakfast!”
I grunt back, a universally accepted 19-year-old dialect for “Go away, I’m sleeping.” The Petersons, they live in some parallel universe where the break of dawn is a perfectly reasonable time for human activity.
“Five more minutes,” I yell back, slightly muffled by the pillow I'm clutching.
I hear a sigh, the kind that's filled with the patience of a saint, and then the thunk-thunk-thunk of her retreating footsteps.
I swing my feet over the edge of the bed, grabbing my Quantum Quest handheld console from the nightstand. The tiny LCD screen blinks to life, and I’m back defending Zircon City, just where I left off. Ah, pixelated perfection.
I shuffle down the creaky staircase, still engrossed in the game. I’m barely aware of bypassing the bathroom door, trailing down the hallway in my rumpled pajamas. Screw showering, I’m on level 35!
Stepping into the kitchen, the smell of sunshine and freshly toasted bread hits my nostrils, but my thumb is poised over the joystick - a boss fight is looming. I plop down on the chair, my eyes glued to the screen, as the other hand blindly reaches out to the plate, grabbing a slice of toast smeared in butter and homemade jam.
Around the table, the Petersons are wolfing down their breakfast - eggs, milk, a variety of bread. A typical, hearty, farm-fresh breakfast. Their tired faces and dusty overalls tell me it's been a busy morning.
"I hope you’re planning to go change, Matt,” Mr. Peterson glances at me, a mix of exasperation and amusement dancing in his eyes.
Sarah snorts, striking a pose, "Yeah. You can't milk the cows dressed like that, city boy."
“Milk the cows?” I nearly drop my console, “I don’t do udders, Sarah. That’s gross.”
Mrs. Peterson's gentle voice drifts my way, "We're not asking you to milk them, dear. Maybe you could help Jack with the manure management?"
I stifle a gag. "Manure management? Is that a polite way of saying 'shoveling shit'? No, thank you."
Even Jack, their burly, silent farmhand, who's wolfing down his third egg, looks at me with raised eyebrows. "Too delicate for farm work, city boy?" he grunts, a corner of his mouth curling into a knowing smirk.
I roll my eyes, my fingers jittering back to the joystick of the console. “This is my world, my work,” I explain, gesturing towards the game. “Let’s not confuse domains, okay?”
There’s a sigh from Mrs. Peterson, a soft hand on my shoulder. “Matt, dear. We understand your... fascination with your games. But engaging with real life is equally important… even if it hurts. You can’t retreat into your digital world forever.”
I grimace, knowing she means well. They all do. It’s not their fault they don’t get it.
I look up, my eyes meeting the earnest expressions around the table and reluctantly, I sigh. “Alright, alright. No milking. No manure. What else you got?”
“The hay bales need to be moved to the cow barn by noon,” Mr. Peterson suggests, looking hopeful.
“Okay, fine. I can handle hay bales.” I huff, finishing off the last crumbs of toast. Begrudgingly, I power off the game and stand up. “I’ll do it. After I beat this boss. Priorities, people.”
—
The scorching afternoon sun casts a lazy, golden haze over the farm as I lug myself towards the hay storage. Quantum Quest clutched in one hand, I push the creaky wheelbarrow filled with prickly bales of hay in another, wishing for a teleportation function to exist in reality just like in my game.
Upon reaching the cow barn, I kick the handles of the wheelbarrow, roughly unloading the hay while my eyes stay glued to the screen. The boss fight in the game is much more important than distributing hay to a bunch of cows, right?
Well, turns out hay has a mind of its own – or at least its own physics. Instead of neatly piling up, the bales tumble out awkwardly, some cracking open on the hard ground and spilling hay all over the barn's entrance. Not that I notice any of it, because right at that moment, 'Quantum Quest' awards me with the much-coveted Hyper Nova Power Boost! Real life, 0; Pixel world, 1.
Resigned to this cumbersome chore, I trudge back for another round of hay hauling, unknowingly leaving an invitation wide open in the form of the unsecured barn door.
The cows, those devious, cud-chewing masses of curiosity, lumber towards the spilled hay, eyes twinkling at their mini feast in the middle of the day. Some bold (or is it just hungry?) ones even trot out, tails swishing excitedly at their newfound territory.
By the time I return, huffing and cursing under my breath, the barn resembles a bovine nightclub. Oblivious, I mutter, "Outta the way, Bessie," shoving aside a particularly large Holstein that's blocking my way.
The cow, affronted by my audacity, bellows in protest. Her massive body jerks, knocking into the wheelbarrow, which teeters precariously before toppling over. The hay bales roll out, bounding towards the open hay storage.
I curse again, but it’s not the chaos that’s got me agitated. It’s my game - my precious console slipped from my hand during the unexpected cow encounter, freezing the screen mid-battle. As I frantically hammer the console, trying to unfreeze the game, the cows continue their hay trail discovery channel, obliviously toppling down the first domino of a farm-wide catastrophe.
With my attention riveted on the game, the real-world slips into a background buzz, and I remain blissfully unaware of the havoc just beginning to unfold around me.
The farm suddenly goes up in chaos, like a scene straight out of a cartoon – and not one of those cute, fuzzy ones. No, this is more like the brutal, slapstick chaos where the viewer's laughing while the character's reality is descending into horror.
The hay bales, now enjoying their newfound freedom, surprisingly display a talent for stealth and agility. They tumble towards the chicken coop, the unsuspecting birds clucking their disapproval before taking flight, feathers dusting up a storm.
Jack, the broad-shouldered farmhand who looks like he could wrestle a bear and win, appears in the eye of the storm. With a stack of seed bags in his arm, he's the unfortunate victim of the feathered frenzy. Losing his footing, the seed bags burst open on impact, showering the ground in a tasteful mix of grains. In an instant, we have a pop-up bird buffet, attracting every feathered creature within a mile radius.
The frenzied flutter of wings creates a chain reaction amongst the free-roaming cows. They moo in alarm and stampede - yes, apparently cows can stampede - towards the equipment shed. It's like watching a bovine version of 'Bulls in a China Shop.' Only replace china with farm tools and add a hell lot more mooing.
Before I can process the magnitude of the chaos, I hear a loud crash. The cows, in their panicked state, knock over a shelf of tools. The impact sends the parked tractor lurching forward. Did those cows just hijack a tractor?
With a mind of its own, the tractor ploughs effortlessly through the sturdy fence, adding a gaping hole to the already impressive list of damages. Now, it's an all-you-can-eat chaos buffet – cows, chickens, goats, and even a couple of stunned rabbits thrown in for good measure.
As I stand there, my game console slipping from my grasp, time seems to slow down. I see Mrs. Peterson, her face aghast, chasing after a particularly agile goat. Mr. Peterson is red-faced, wrestling control of the tractor while Jack is engaged in a tug-of-war with a stubborn cow. Sarah, their usually chirpy daughter, is running in circles, attempting to corral the fleeing chickens.
“Oh, shit! Oh, shit!” I find myself muttering, my brain finally catching up with the apocalypse I've just incited. The Petersons’ farm, which was once a serene scene of rural life, looks like a safari gone horribly, hilariously wrong.
Suddenly, Quantum Quest seems terribly trivial. The color drains from the screen, the console's battery dying out just as the last shred of my dignity on that farm does. As the real world crashes back, I'm left holding a dead console, surrounded by my epic mess. The accusing glares from the Petersons cement the reality of the disaster.
—
The sun sets, casting a reddish-orange hue over the farm, making the aftermath look eerily beautiful. Even after hours of cleanup, the once neat and orderly barnyard is a panorama of chaos. Hay bales toppled, cracked open, spilling hay everywhere. The fencing has been battered by fleeing cows, leaving gaping holes that would probably take days to repair. The tractor is halfway through the collapsed fence, having engine problems.
Mr. Peterson’s once calm and composed face is a picture of disappointment and fury, his mouth set in a grim line. Jack, his arms crossed against his muscular chest, is looking at me like I'm the biggest nuisance he has ever encountered. Even cheerfully chirpy Sarah is seething, her face pale and her eyes flashing with anger.
And in the middle of it all, I stand, unable to utter a single word of defense.
After giving me the silent treatment, Mr. Peterson starts, his voice steady but the fury evident. “You may not care about this farm, or the animals, or us, for that matter. But you should at least respect the effort it takes to keep all this running.”
“Your parents...” Mrs. Peterson’s voice chokes as she cries silently, “they would’ve wanted you to learn. They wanted you to grow into a responsible person, not… not this.”
She gestures vaguely around the destroyed barnyard, her words cut deeper than I thought they could. The mention of my parents, the memory of them wanting more for me stings.
“You're right,” I snap, my voice thick with desperation and a hint of anger. “They would've wanted something for me. But not this. Not shoveling shit. Not playing farmhand.”
I leave them standing there, a cloud of disappointment and fury lingering behind me. As I stomp off to my room, I can hear them talking about the damages.
“The fence will need to be replaced. We’ll have to call in the contractors,” Mrs. Peterson sighs heavily. “And the tractor’s clutch… it’s acting up. Something must've happened when it crashed through the fence. A mechanic will need to check it.”
“And the animals,” Jack grumbles, glancing worriedly towards the cows that are slowly being coaxed back into their barn. “They’ll be stressed after all that. The milk production will take a hit.”
They talk about phoning in the losses to their insurance, about the hands they’ll have to hire to fix everything up, the vet they’ll need to check on the traumatized cows, and the damned console that caused this catastrophe. Despite the anger, despite the disappointment, they are already thinking about fixing it, about patching up and carrying on.
It's then that it hits me, the intensity of what I've just caused. The damage, the expense, and the disappointment. For the first time, I feel a pang of regret stronger than my need to retreat into my digital world.
—
As I rub the sleep from my eyes the next day, I hear the spinning of saw blades and the rhythmic thump of hammers. The quiet morning peace is scarred by the sounds of construction and repair.
I stumble out of bed, my mind still trapped in the remnants of a peaceful dream, only to be harshly awakened by the scene outside. What was once a ruined barnyard is now buzzing with activity. There are people, a lot of them, milling around.
Walking around the crew of workers, I notice that they seem to be from a contracting company. Their rough hands, calloused by years of manual labor, are surprisingly gentle as they mend the broken fences.
A group of mechanics hunch over the tractor, their brows furrowed in concentration. Their hands, greasy and stained, work deftly to replace the damaged clutch. Amidst the cloud of dust and diesel fumes, a sense of purposeful determination hangs in the air.
The Petersons, usually so self-reliant, have called in reinforcements. The sight of the bustling activity baffles me. When did they find the time or the money to arrange all of this? I didn't even realize they had that many contacts in the city.
As I try to make myself useful - or at least try to look the part - Mrs. Peterson directs me towards a particularly challenging piece of fence. The wires are twisted, the posts are shattered, and I haven't the faintest idea about how to fix it. But I fumble around with pliers and a spool of wire anyway, my ineptitude standing out painfully amidst the experienced workers.
As the afternoon sun climbs higher, its intensity matching the bustling activity, I notice a convoy of unfamiliar trucks pulling up to the farm. They unload strange machinery – shiny, complex contraptions that I can't make head or tail of. The workers carry them off to an unused part of the farm, obscured by a cluster of trees.
The day drags on, a blur of sweat and swearing. Despite my surly mood and the seemingly endless toil, a strange energy pulses through the farm, a sense of revival, of coming back stronger. The scornful stares have lessened, replaced by curt nods. It's not forgiveness, but it's a start.
Finally, as the day starts fading into a cool evening, I hear a jingle in the distance – the all-too-familiar jingle of an ice cream truck. It's an unusual sight in these parts, especially at a dairy farm. But as the colorfully painted truck titled 'Parlour Tricks' pulls up, I see the workers drop their tools and make a beeline for it.
Mr. Peterson is deep in conversation with the driver, a lanky man with a quirky grin and an even quirkier British accent – a certain Rojer Braithwaite. They're laughing and talking over a cone of ice cream, their lively chatter filling the air.
I watch from a distance, nursing my bruised ego and blistered hands. Until Mrs. Peterson calls, a hint of warmth in her voice that I haven't heard since... since I wrecked their farm.
"Matt, come get some ice cream."
Nodding silently, I trudge over. The ice cream truck’s wacky British driver hands me a perfectly swirled vanilla cone, his smile broad and inviting. The ice cream looks heavenly, the promise of wistful childhood summers dripping down the cone.
The first mouthful is a blast of flavors – the sweet creaminess offset by a strange, tantalizing note that makes my taste buds dance. As compliments float around, everyone agrees that it's the best ice cream they've ever had, I find myself nodding along. This stuff could give favorite video game a run for its money.
As I savor the unusual dessert, I chomp into something unexpected. There's something in the ice cream. I choke, coughing violently as I accidentally swallow it. Hands pat my back, a glass of water is shoved into my hands, but the moment is over as quickly as it had come.
With laughter resounding around me, I go back to my ice cream, the strange interruption forgotten amidst the melt-in-your-mouth goodness.
As I take another lick of the ice cream, an inescapable heat begins to creep up my spine. It's slow, like an ember, but it's there, smoldering, growing. There's a tight feeling in my chest, a sudden shortness of breath. My skin feels prickly, as if each hair on my body is standing on end.
I stumble, my gaming-savvy but otherwise untrained legs giving way under me. The ground beneath me shifts and I'm left clutching at the air. My hands reach out to steady myself, but the world is spinning, tilting me off-balance.
The workers around me start to blur, their laughter distorted, their voices stretched into grotesque echoes. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it'll tear through my chest. Sweat pours down my face, soaking my shirt, the salty tang of it filling my nostrils.
The burning sensation intensifies, spreading from the base of my spine to the rest of my body. My muscles spasm uncontrollably, every nerve screaming in protest. My bones ache, as if they're being stretched and warped. The pain is unbearable, a thousand times worse than any injury I'd ever had.
"Hey, city boy," I hear Jack’s voice, shaky and distant, "You look like you've seen a ghost."
I can't answer him, can't focus on the words. All I know is that I need to move. I push past Jack, my vision blanking out as I try to navigate the winding steps to the house. The stone stairs dig into the soles of my feet, sharp and unyielding. I stumble, my breath hitching as my body convulses.
Lurching into the house, I scramble up the stairs, the wooden steps creaking under my shaking legs. My vision is a kaleidoscope of fractured images - the worn-out carpet, the dusty family portraits, the peeling wallpaper.
I reach the bathroom just as my stomach lurches, the taste of the sweet ice cream turning bitter in my mouth. But when I lean over the sink, it's not vomit that leaves me, it's a rush of warmth. I can only watch in horror as my chest seems to inflate, the skin stretching, the curve of my previously flat chest becoming more pronounced.
I reach out to steady myself, my fingers brushing against something foreign.
Just as I'm trying to comprehend the sight before me, a sudden surge of heat engulfs me. It's like being set on fire, a burning sensation that starts at my core, spreading outward. I can practically hear my heart pounding in my ears, a throbbing sound track to my unimaginable agony as my bones shift in an explosive dance under my skin.
I'm panting now, air coming in short, shallow gasps as I clutch the bathroom sink. Through the haze of pain, I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. Dark eyes, almond-shaped, framed by thick, long lashes stare back at me. My face... It's none I recognize. It's softer now, rounder, with an oval shape that reeks of femininity. The face that I've known for all my life is gone, replaced by an Asian one, porcelain skin that glows under the harsh bathroom light.
But it's my chest... Oh God, my chest. It's still growing. With each heartbeat, each drawn breath, my chest swells, my shirt stretching further and further to accommodate the sudden mass. A tear splits through the fabric of my shirt as my chest keeps growing, the buttons popping off one after another, sailing through the room. My muscles spasm, my navel retracting. The sensation is nothing short of mind-numbing, a horrifying mix of pleasure and pain.
Amidst the chaos, my body temperature spikes, my skin turns slick with sweat. I rip off the remnants of my destroyed shirt, the cold air hitting my overheated skin, providing a momentary reprieve. But the relief is short-lived as my chest continues its monstrous growth. I can see my nipples, small and dark against the swollen mounds of flesh. They harden under my gaze, a tingle shooting through them making me gasp.
Just when I think it can't get worse, a strange sensation grips me - my scalp tingles, a burning at the back of my neck. I scream, a raw, primal sound that echoes in the small room. My short, brown hair starts to grow rapidly, sprouting like a wild, black waterfall. The hair grows till it reaches the middle of my back, brushing against my bare skin, sending shivers down my spine.
I don't recognize the whimpering, the pleading for it to stop. But it's my voice, hitched and choked with pain. I'm begging, screaming out into the sterile cold of the bathroom as my body continues to morph, bend, and twist in ways that shouldn't be possible. I can't think, can't comprehend the horrific transformation that's taken hold of my body. My legs give out, the tiles cold against my skin as I collapse.
The pain is relentless, a tempest raging inside me. Every cell of my body feels like it’s being torn apart and then stitched back together. It's a raw, visceral pain that blinds me, crumples me into a trembling mess on the bathroom floor.
Then, as suddenly as it started, it stops. The pain, the heat, the shifting - it all just ends, leaving me panting and trembling on the floor, my mind a whirl of confusion and fear. In the deathly silence that follows, I can't bring myself to move, to process what's just happened. But the one thing that registers, echoing loud and clear in my ears, is the undeniable fact that I'm not the same. My body... it's not mine anymore.
I force myself up from the bathroom floor, feeling heavy and awkward. My legs feel jelly-like and unsteady, my knees buckling as I pull myself up with the help of the bathroom countertop. With a final heave, I rise and stare back at the horror-stricken face in the mirror.
Asian. The word floats through my mind, cold and harsh. I reach out with a shaking hand, ghosts of the heat still clinging to my skin. My reflection mimics me, the face so alien, yet matching every micro-expression. My fingers trace the smooth contours of my face, the tiny nose, the plump lips, the wide eyes. I squeeze them shut tightly, hoping to rid myself from this nightmare. But when I reopen them, all I see is the same, unfamiliar face staring back at me.
What the hell is happening? The question reverberates in my mind, a quiet mantra against the harsh reality. I feel the weight of my chest, a heavy burden that pulls me forward. I cradle them, my hands dwarfed by their immense size. They're hot, pulsating with a strange warmth.
A whimper escapes my lips as I feel a wetness trickle down my torso, soaking the band of my pants. I look down, my heart pounding in my ears. A thick, yellowish fluid is leaking from my nipples, staining my skin and fabric alike. I touch it, my fingers coming away sticky and wet. It's warm and has a faint sweet smell that makes my head spin.
Fear surges through me, raw and primal. I'm leaking, dripping this unknown substance from my ridiculously huge tits. It's bizarre, obscene even. I can't help but stare in disbelief at the globs of yellowish fluid that are slowly soaking my pants.
The horror of it all crashes down on me like a tidal wave, leaving me gasping for air. It's wrong, so gruesomely wrong.
I can't breathe, can't think. All I know is that I want it to stop, to go back to being me. But the relentless dripping from my nipples, the alien reflection in the mirror, and the odd sense of fullness in my chest are stark reminders of a horrifying truth - this is real.