CYOC went around searching for more people to transform, in order to create more chaos in Springvalley.
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Michael was what one might call a conformer. An IT student at the local university, he tried his best to fit in and not stand out from the crowd, at the cost of any meaningful close friendships he may have had. He wanted nothing more than to get by as just another generic member of society.
That afternoon, Michael was sitting at a table, alone, at the local, upscale bar. His outfit was simple: a pair of polished loafers, a set of plain khakis, a gray T-shirt, and a cardigan. Nothing too simple, but nothing that would get him noticed. It complemented his slight, skinny frame, wiry glasses, and his short blonde hair. Michael was drinking a small glass of wine, but he had no intention of getting drunk. He simply liked the atmosphere at the bar; it was great for just… thinking. He knew that no one would bother him there, and the quiet murmur of conversation helped him feel like he wasn’t alone, but that he wasn’t missing out on anything at the same time.
Lost in his thoughts as he was, he didn’t notice the roar of motorcycles approaching the bar until they were almost right in front of it. He looked out of the window to see at least ten burly men get off of their motorcycles and barge into the bar. Based on appearances, the majority of them seemed to be around Michael’s age, although some of them were definitely older than that. Despite that, they all had the same general appearances — black riding boots, worn-out jeans, sleeveless leather jackets covering hairy torsos, but not arms with powerful muscle and a good layer of fat, and sunglasses.
As soon as they swaggered in and ordered their drinks, the volume in the bar increased tenfold. Michael could barely hear himself think! He covered his ears in a fruitless attempt to drown out the noise, and thought about how much he hated bikers. No matter where they went, they always were loud and obnoxious. Not only that, but unlike Michael, they were wholly uninterested in being productive members of society. They simply dressed in their outlandish outfits and drove around all day, caring about nothing but their motorcycles and how “manly” they were.
For a split second, Michael felt a chill run down his back, but it went away quickly and he thought nothing of it. He took a sip of his wine, but quickly noticed how bad it tasted. He grimaced and decided to get something else. His eyes locked onto what the bikers were drinking. Despite how much he loathed them, he couldn’t deny that he craved what they were drinking. He summoned the bartender. “Hey, get me one of what those guys are havin’, will ya?” He raised his voice to be heard, but he didn’t notice how his voice was deeper and more gravelly than before.
The bartender did as he asked, and promptly delivered a bottle of beer to Michael’s table. He grinned as he took hold of it and took a big swig out of it. As he did so, unbeknownst to him, he began to gain muscle on his legs, followed by fat. At the same time, his penis became about six inches long, and thickened considerably. As he downed another gulp, his chest and stomach became similarly well-muscled, with his pecs and abs showing through his increasingly-tight shirt. However, even as this was going on, that area was also gaining layers upon layers of fat. His chest became home to an admirable combination of pecs and moves, while his stomach became a powerful beer gut. As he took a third guzzle, his arms also thickened with both muscle and fat. His fingers became like meaty sausages.
Feeling satisfied, he belched and heartily patted his hirsute stomach. Briefly, he became shocked at this behavior, but then quickly brushed it aside; that was a completely normal reaction to a good drink. Mike looked longingly at the group of bikers. He would have loved to be able to hang out with them and ride his cares away, but he couldn’t just leave his responsibilities behind. He had a life, and he couldn’t just leave it! He was building a good future in his field of… what? Try as he might, Mike couldn’t remember what his major was. However, he shrugged it off and attributed it to the beer. After all, the entire reason he was here at this bar wasn’t to think; it was to drink and forget about his life for a night.
With that in mind, Mike took another huge chug of the beer bottle, which was more than half-empty at this point. With it came more changes. Tattoos began to adorn his arms, a chronicle of a life well-lived. Not only that, but his head was beginning to transform as well. His neck became thicker, and his hair slowly but surely darkened to chestnut brown. Another quaff of beer caused it to grow past his shoulders, but that wasn’t the only place hair was growing. A thick mustache now decorated his upper lip, creating a wonderful sensation as it touched the rim of the bottle. Not only that, but hair was also growing everywhere else — his arms, his legs, his chest, and even his hands. On his stomach, it formed a treasure trail down to his groin. One final swig finished both the bottle and the changes. His cardigan morphed into a sleeveless leather vest, and his T-shirt became a low-riding V-neck, revealing a good amount of chest hair. His khakis became worn-out black jeans, and his loafers became riding boots. A red bandana materialized on his head.
Mike attempted to take one more swig of the beer, but noticed that it was all empty. Grumbling, he lumbered over to the table at the head of the bar where all the rest of the bikers were sitting. None of them seemed to be bothered by his intrusion, and as he exchanged his bottle for a new one he felt rather at ease with them. In fact, he felt as though he vaguely recognized some of them. Maybe he’d seen them on the streets on one of the days he’d skipped class to ride on his motorcycle, which was something he had done more often than not back in his college days. Honestly, college wasn’t worth it for a free spirit like him.
Beside him, two of the bikers got into a boisterous discussion about different motorcycles. One of them turned to him. “Hey, Mick,” he said, “back me up ‘ere.”
Mick grinned as he turned to his fellow biker, Steve. Although he didn’t know him too well, he rode with him and the others at the bar often enough to have developed a certain camaraderie with him. “Sure thing, Steve. I—” His sentence was interrupted by a sudden, searing headache. He groaned. “Hold up, I gotta go.”
As he ran to the bathroom, one of the guys teased him good-naturedly. “Aw, can little Mick not hold his beer?” Despite his pain, Mick still found it in him to chuckle at the ribbing. After all, what was a little joking between friends?
As he arrived in the bar’s restroom, Mick clenched the sink and gazed into the mirror. In it, he saw the reflection of a burly biker, with a red bandana covering long brown hair, a mustache on his face, and a sleeveless leather vest over a tight V-neck. He frowned. Something about his reflection didn’t seem… right. But why wouldn’t it? This was who he was, right? Squinting, Mick looked closer at his reflection, and realized something was off. Why were there glasses on his face? He didn’t need no stinkin’ glasses! Snarling, he ripped the glasses off of his face and noticed how much clearer his vision was. However, his headache still remained, and the lights in the bathroom seemed so much brighter than before. He put his glasses back on, not noticing that they’d morphed into sunglasses.
As soon as he perched the sunglasses on his head, his headache went away and everything made sense. Mick looked at his reflection one more time, and reaffirmed that it showed who he truly was — a member of a biker group that happened to be passing through town. He knew that it was where he truly belonged, and loved everything about it — the deep connection he had with the guys and his motorcycle, and the lack of obligations that came with it. Instead of being just another mindless slave of society, he was a free spirit, and nothing mattered to him and his guys but the open road. Nodding, he spit in the sink before exiting the restroom.
Mick rejoined his biker group, and spent the rest of the night drinking with them, loving the loud atmosphere they created in the bar. After the night was up, they all got on their motorcycles and rode away, not needing a destination. Feeling the wind blow against his strong arms and tough face, and seeing his like-minded companions clustered around him, Mick knew that this was the life for him.
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Officer Robert Harris had been on the force for ten years, and he loved every minute of his job. For him, nothing compared to the feeling of taking criminals off of the streets and into prison where they belonged. He simply couldn’t understand why someone would want to break the law. Rules were in place for a reason, and he believed that people who purposely didn’t follow them were a serious problem.
The ones he hated the most, however, were the young ones. All too often he came across high schoolers skipping class to smoke or skate, as if they didn’t care at all about their futures. Of course, that didn’t stop him from bringing them in. The satisfaction of catching criminals more than made up for the hateful looks they gave him when he drove them to the station.
Speaking of which…
Sitting in his patrol car, Officer Harris noticed a group of three teenagers hanging out in an alley. They all looked somewhat similar, with beat-up shoes on top of skateboards, ripped pants, baggy hoodies, and cigarettes in their mouths. They were definitely supposed to be in school, but Officer Harris knew that it was his job to bring them to the police station.
Before he went out to confront them, Officer Harris made sure to check himself out in his rear-view mirror. He adjusted his cap, making sure it fit perfectly on his head of short, sandy brown hair. His uniform was free of wrinkles, his taser was perfectly placed in his belt, and his badge was polished to a golden shine. Although his frame was slight, he still felt as though he gave off enough of an impression of authority to scare the truants into coming with him.
Discreetly, he parked his patrol car a few yards away from where the kids were smoking. They hadn’t noticed him yet. He got out, and walked over to them. “Well, look what we have here,” he said as he approached them, smiling at how their heads whipped towards him in fear. “Seems to me that you kids are doing something you really shouldn’t.”
“Oh, shit!” one of the kids exclaimed. “It’s the cops!”
“Run!” another shouted.
With that, the three took off on their skateboards, smoke still drifting in the wind. Officer Harris took off after them, but was slowed down somewhat as the smoke got into his eyes and mouth. Coughing, he was forced to stop as he cleared the smoke away and his eyes watered. Although the kids were getting farther away from him every second, Officer Harris still felt compelled to chase after them, as he didn’t want to give criminals the impression that they were above the law. And so he set out after them on foot, not even noticing the brief chill that went down his spine.
As he ran, Officer Harris noticed that his shoes seemed a lot less restricting than they usually were. Normally, as a police officer, his black shoes were always polished to a shine. However, looking at them now, he noticed that they seemed very roughed-up, as if he’d never bothered to replace them. This, Officer Harris knew, was absurd: whenever his shoes showed the slightest hint of disrepair, he replaced them immediately. However, he found himself questioning that line of thinking. Why would he do that? They were just shoes. It wasn’t like anyone was going to notice if they were falling to pieces. Plus, everyone knew that just made them more comfortable.
As this was going on, other changes were happening across his body. His sandy brown hair was darkening and turning nearly black, and it was growing longer and messier. Tufts of hair were peeking out of his hat, which was becoming increasingly-displaced on his head as he ran. He didn’t bother replacing it; after all, he was running, so he shouldn’t be expected to keep it perfectly straight all the time. Not only that, but slowly, he was becoming shorter. Sure, it wasn’t a lot — Officer Harris had lost maybe four inches at most — but it definitely had a noticeable effect on his clothes. As he ran and shrank, his uniform became more and more baggy and disheveled.
Running out of breath, Robert stopped and gasped for breath. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window of a nearby store. His messy black hair was no longer covered by his police cap, which was no longer on his head. His blue uniform appeared baggy on him, and his pants in particular looked like they were close to ripping. His badge seemed like it could fall off of his shirt any second. Despite the fact that he looked like the exact opposite of a calm, composed police officer, Robert didn’t really care that much. In all honesty, even though he’d just joined the force, he’d already become disillusioned from it, and he sympathized with the “criminals” he was often forced to arrest. He didn’t agree with how the force imposed the law on everyone, regardless of circumstances. It would be much better if they just let people do their things. With that thought in mind, Robert decided to abandon his chase of the three kids.
As he walked back to his patrol car, more changes were happening to Robert. His work pants were becoming denim jeans, riddled with holes, which extended down to his ratty sneakers. His blue polo shirt became a comfortable too-large long-sleeved T-shirt, and his badge slowly stretched over his whole torso to become a baggy hoodie. His taser on his belt morphed into a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. After a while, he came across his cap, laying on a sidewalk. However, when he blinked, it became a skateboard.
Robbie grinned. That was were his board went! The seventeen-year-old hopped on and began gliding through the streets, glad he had decided to skip school that day. After a few minutes, he got bored, and decided to light up a cigarette. He knew that it was technically illegal, but he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, it was his life and he deserved to decide what to do with it.
As he smoked and skated without a care in the world, he noticed a cop car. He peeked inside, and saw that it was empty. Grinning, he leaned against the vehicle and took in a deep drag of his cigarette. Robbie internally sighed with satisfaction. Nothing like sticking it to the cops, especially when his other option was being stuck in math class. Other people might have been worried about whatever sucker cop owned this car coming back and discovering him, but not Robbie.
Even if he was caught, what would the police do? Arrest him? As if.
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Even as CYOC drew pleasure from the changes and the chaos they wrought, it still wasn’t enough. It needed more.