CYOC’s transformations continued throughout Springvalley.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-
“No more war! No more war!” Dwight Marrs shouted into his megaphone, along with the hundreds of other Springvalley citizens who were attending the anti-war march. A sophomore in college, he was barely 19, but he had already become a leading figure in the movement in his town, despite his less-than-imposing figure. He had a button nose on a round, childish face, deep brown eyes, and unruly blonde hair that often fell onto his eyes. He was skinny, with neither muscle nor fat to speak of, and his height barely reached 5’6. Right now, he was wearing a black and red T-shirt with the words “NO MORE SPILLED BLOOD” on it, as well as long, khaki pants.
Finally, the march arrived at its destination: Camp Ares, the Army garrison of Springvalley. Although it was surrounded by a barbed wire, chainlink fence, it was also being guarded by dozens of soldiers, each of them holding an automatic rifle that could doubtless rip through any of the protestors in an instant. Dwight grimaced at them. They’re all nothing but weapons of war, he thought.
Once the march reached the gates of Camp Ares, one of the soldiers stationed there shouted, “Do not come any closer or we will open fire!” The marchers heeded his warning, but the protest continued to rally on.
Dwight turned to face the crowd, megaphone in hand. “Come on, guys, let’s show these war hawks that we won’t be intimidated by them!” The crowd roared in agreement, distracting Dwight from the chill that he felt run across his back.
Dwight blinked and turned around, but the moment he did so something strange happened. He could no longer hear the omnipresent shouting of the marchers, and when he opened his eyes, he wasn’t outside of Camp Ares anymore. He was in it.
An undercurrent of fear wracked his entire being. Oh my God, he thought. They’re going to find me on Army property and shoot me! How’d this even happen? Still, he decided the best course of action was to sneak out of the camp before anyone could see him. True, the front entrance was chock full of violent soldiers, but maybe there was a back entrance…
“Hey, you!” A voice rang out from behind Dwight as he tried to sneak through the camp. Heart pounding, Dwight turned around to face the person who had called him. It was an older, bearded man in an army uniform, with his hands behind his back and a stern expression on his face. Dwight couldn’t understand the symbol on the man’s uniform, but everything about him from his harsh voice to his chiseled muscles indicated that he was high-ranking here. Unconsciously, Dwight’s back straightened, and for a second he fought the urge to salute the man.
“What are you doing here?” The man demanded. “We need all hands on deck to keep out those damned protestors!” For a moment, Dwight was confused, but then he realized: the man must think he’s a soldier! He continued, “And you’re not even wearing your uniform! Normally I’d give you a harsher consequence for this but for now, just drop and give me fifty and it’ll be enough.”
“Sir, yes sir!” Dwight barked, saluting for real this time before immediately dropping onto the ground. As his weak arms barely got him through the first few push-ups, Dwight thought for a moment. Wasn’t it kind of weird for him to just obey the man like that? He hadn’t even had time to process his order until he was already doing it, like it was instinct. Then, he realized, What am I saying? Of course I should obey the sergeant, he’s my commanding officer! Dwight found no reason to question that reasoning, ignoring the fact that he wasn’t a soldier and he hadn’t known the sergeant’s rank just one minute before.
As he did the push-ups, Dwight found them getting easier and easier. Unbeknownst to him, that was because his muscles were physically growing larger and larger. It started in his arms, with his sticklike arms transforming into thick rods of muscle with biceps the size of boulders and incredibly broad shoulders. Then, it moved on to his chest, which had previously been flat but was now swelling with pecs that prominently jutted out, along with nipples as hard as cast iron. His stomach was next - previously you could visibly see that his stomach was thinner than his rib cage, but now, it was the location of six-pack abs. Next was his crotch, and like the rest of him, his cock bulked up and thickened significantly. Previously it had been a mere four inches, but now it had been nearly doubled and was approaching eight. His grunts of effort as he did his push-ups became significantly deeper as his balls dropped and increased in size, and then it was onto his legs, which became just as beefy as his arms. They also became visibly longer, making him 6’2, and as that happened his feet became size 12.
Push-ups finished, Dwight easily pulled himself back onto two legs. He had easily done fifty push-ups, seemingly without even breaking a sweat, and as he gazed down at his brawny body he briefly questioned if something was different. He dismissed that thought from his head, though. He was the same muscular man he’d been since high school. After all, it made sense for a member (albeit a lower-ranking one) of an anti-war movement to be intimidating! He resisted the urge to flex, since he was in front of the sergeant and he didn’t want to be disrespectful. A part of Dwight’s mind was screaming, Since when have you respected warmongers? But to Dwight, even if he still disagreed with war on principle (although that would soon change), the thought simply did not occur to him to not obey the bearded man.
The sergeant nodded with approval. “Good. Now go and get your equipment, quickly! You’re going to need it.” Dwight saluted instinctually and jogged in another direction. He didn’t know why he was going this way, but his steps were purposeful as he headed that way. What am I thinking? Dwight thought. I’m going this way because my equipment is this way! He didn’t know what his equipment was, all he knew was that he was going to obtain it.
As he ran through the camp, the wind blowing through his long blonde locks, something strange began happening. His hair began falling out and drifting away behind him as he jogged. But it wasn’t just that: where there had been blonde hair before, the hair that was growing back extremely rapidly was midnight black. On the side of his head, the hair that grew remained as stubble, while on top of his head the hair grew out slightly longer and styled itself so that it had a flat top.
His face was also experiencing changes. His blonde, delicate eyebrows, which had previously been so slight they’d blended into his skin, were matching his new hair color, and were becoming thick and bushy. They now displayed prominently on his brow, which had jutted out significantly, casting a shadow over his now-blue eyes. His nose became hawklike, and his round face was becoming angular and masculine, with a cleft chin. Finally, across his body, his previously-pale skin was becoming tan and slightly ruddy.
Meanwhile, his clothes were also transforming. His T-shirt was changing color, the black lightening to tan and the red lettering seemingly flowing out of the fabric. However, it didn’t just disappear; instead, it manifested as a jacket covering the sand-colored shirt as its own color morphed into a mottled mix of green, beige, and brown. That same camouflage pattern was leeching into his pants, which became much baggier while remaining form-fitting upon his muscular legs. Their original khaki color was displaced down to his shoes, which were becoming combat boots. Finally, a patrol cap materialized on his altered head.
All of these changes, of course, were lost on Dwight. As far as he was concerned, he had always had black hair, it had always been cut into a flattop, he had always had blue eyes and a strong brow, and wearing combat scrubs was a perfectly normal part of his routine. He was having a hard time reconciling that with his anti-war ideology, though. Wait, anti-war? He thought. I may not fully support everything that goes down during those wars, but there’s nothing wrong with war on principle, and besides we should respect the defenders of our country! This thought would have been completely alien to the Dwight of not even ten minutes ago, but to Dwight now it was completely normal.
Finally, Dwight arrived at his destination: the armory. It was indistinguishable from the surrounding buildings, so really he should have had no idea that this was where he was supposed to be, but he did all the same. The door was closed and looked heavy, but Dwight knew he was strong enough to open it, so with a grunt he pushed the door open, causing his muscles to bulge visibly against his jacket, and walked inside.
The armory wasn’t empty, for there were rows and rows and rows of guns and grenades and other military equipment, but for Dwight it might as well have been because instantly his attention was drawn to two items in particular. Lying on the floor, seemingly haphazardly placed there, was a military-grade rifle as well as a dog tag. Dwight’s mind may have been addled then, but at that moment one thing was clear: he needed those things. As he stepped closer and closer to them, that feeling only increased.
The first thing he did was arm himself with the gun. Instinctually, he strapped it around his shoulders, the ammo falling comfortably across the valleys of his chiseled chest. As soon as the rifle was nice and comfortably in its place, it was as if a dam broke in his brain. Memories of being trained to aim it, to fire it, to kill with it were invading his mind, and he eagerly took it all in. It was all so clear to him now. War wasn’t just a duty; participating in a war was an honor! It was an honor to serve one’s country!
But there was still one more object lying on the floor: the dog tag. Even without reading it, Dwight knew that it was his, so without hesitation he scooped it up off the ground and hung it around his neck. If equipping the rifle had given him a flood of knowledge, then putting on the dog tag was like a tsunami. Every aspect of Dwight’s scattered brain rearranged itself to create something wholly different from what it had originally been, but to him, all that happened was that he finally remembered what was going on.
He was Private Dwight Marrs, and he had enlisted in the army right out of high school, his powerful body having made him a perfect fit. It had been almost two years since then, and he was loving every moment of it. He was intensely patriotic, and wanted nothing more than to defend his country. He respected those who had fought in wars past, and his greatest wish was to serve just as they once had. The original Dwight had been staunchly anti-war, but this new Private Marrs couldn’t even fathom thinking that way. To him, the battlefield was the only way to prove your worth.
With all of his memories firmly in place, Private Marrs jogged back to the front entrance of the camp, where his fellow soldiers were doing their best to keep the protestors out of the camp. The private grimaced at the marchers. They don’t understand what it means to love their country, he thought sadly.
“You’re all nothing but weapons of war!” One marcher shouted, spit flying through the chainlink fence.
Private Marrs smirked at the protestor. “I may be a weapon of war, but I’m damn proud to be one.”
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-
Sam was many things, but most prominently he was a staunch atheist. Not only did he reject the concept of gods and afterlives, but he absolutely despised any and all religions. Christianity, Judaism, Islam… he hated them all. Not only that, but aside from that Sam still had a rotten personality. His face wore a perpetual scowl, with his green eyes always harsh and angry and his black hair styled in a way that just screamed “I’m an asshole.” His pale frame was slightly chubby, and currently he was just wearing a black tank top, khaki shorts, and flip flops, none of which were very flattering. Indeed, even though he was only 20, thanks to his personality Sam was absolutely despised by practically everyone in town… and it was mutual.
It was a cloudy day that found Sam walking through a random part of town when he came across something that made his blood boil. It was an unassuming building, clearly built in Asian style, with red-painted wood and a green, curved roof. This was not what made Sam angry. No, what made Sam angry were the words above the doorway of the building: Springvalley Buddhist Temple. Here he had been, minding his own business, when his day had been ruined by what he considered to be essentially religious propaganda.
“What’s even the point of religion?” he fumed, not noticing a slight chill run down his back. “Why would anyone believe in something that’s not real?” Sam was considering spitting on the building when quite suddenly, it began pouring rain. Not wanting to get soaked, especially while wearing a tank top and shorts, Sam decided, reluctantly, that his best course of action would be to take refuge in the Buddhist temple. Dashing up the wet stairs, he entered the building.
It was devoid of people. The interior was mostly royal red - red carpet, red walls, red chairs. Everything that wasn’t red was gold, including the large statue of the Buddha in the middle of the sanctum. Despite himself, Sam couldn’t help but think it was… peaceful, in a way. It was completely silent save for his own breathing and the soft pitter-patter of rain outside. Of course, he mentally corrected himself, that’s the point. They want to draw you in so they can trick you into believing something designed to keep you from critically thinking.
Still, Sam mused, as far as religions went Buddhism wasn’t too bad. At the very least, he liked their interpretation that all life is suffering, even if he thought that their views on what causes suffering were silly, and he wholly disagreed with the concept of reincarnation. It wasn’t like he was every going to become a Buddhist though, so there was no harm in acknowledging the good and bad aspects of it.
Overall, Sam thought that Buddhists definitely had the right view of life, especially compared to every other religion. In his mind, all other religions just expected you to blindly follow a higher power in order to end suffering, but Buddhism was different. It didn’t claim that praying to a god would make everything better, it just offered a guideline to take matters into your own hands. Sam liked that. If he were forced to follow a religion, it’d probably be Buddhism. As far as belief systems went, the teaching that suffering is caused by desire was pretty believable to Sam. And even if he didn’t believe in reincarnation, he definitely agreed with the idea that actions have consequences even after death.
And not only that, but when Sam really thought about it, he actually admired how Buddhists seemed to usually have the right intentions. They were willing to completely disengage from the world in order to contemplate their philosophy, which was essentially what Sam had done with his atheism. But not only that, they still remained committed to kindness and compassion. Sam was so caught up in contemplating this that he didn’t notice at first that all of his hair was falling out. By the time he noticed, his head was completely smooth. For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to care. It was just hair. It was a material object, and thus didn’t matter.
Sam also liked how Buddhists always seemed to use just the right speech. They were never rude, they never lied, they never gossiped… it was amazing. It seemed that all of this positive thinking about Buddhism was impacting how he viewed other religions, as well. No longer did he hate them; he just found them misguided and wished to help them find true enlightenment… wait, what? As all of this was happening, Sam’s physical appearance was also changing further. His upper eyelids partially folded in on themselves, giving him epicanthic folds and consequently making him appear Asian. This effect was confirmed as his skin darkened slightly, marking him as someone from Southeast Asia. For some reason, Sam did not seem to notice these changes.
Sam also found himself awed by the right conduct of the Buddhists. They didn’t kill, they didn’t steal, and they didn’t even have sex, keeping with their commitment to forgoing the material world. They weren’t hypocrites, and they never took half-measures. Sam approved of that. In fact, he made a promise to himself right then and there to adhere to those same standards. After all, he agreed that suffering was caused by worldly attachment, so who knew? Maybe the Buddhists actually had it right. As if in response to this, his clothes morphed into loose saffron robes. Notably, his undergarments disappeared, meaning he was going commando. His dick (which seemed slightly shorter, but also much thicker?) twitched in response, and though his first thought was to indulge it, he resisted the temptation. He wouldn’t want to ruin the lovely serene beauty of the temple with his seed, or his robes for that matter. Where had he gotten the robes? He didn’t remember, but it didn’t really seem to matter.
In keeping with their morals of rejecting anything material, Sam mused, Buddhists also committed themselves to living the right livelihood. That meant eating no unnecessary food, and eating only what was given to you. That just made sense to Sam. What was the point of eating more food if it would just lead to health problems and social stigma? Not just that, but if everyone ate less food, there would be less need for polluting farms. So really, Sam couldn’t remember why he hand’t been eating the minimum his whole life. With that thought, his body adjusted so that he had. His fat drained away, replaced with a skinny, bony body. He could feel his ribcage through his robes, and his veins and tendons also became a lot more visible. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. After all, a good Buddhist should only eat when necessary. That’s what Sam was, right?
Sam was thinking about all of the right effort put into achieving enlightenment by Buddhists like him, when suddenly he experienced his biggest change yet. In the blink of an eye, his mind was obliterated and put back together again. He was no longer Sam, he was Samnang, and he was not a white American, but a Cambodian. All of this thoughts were no longer in English, but rather he spoke and thought in perfect Khmer. Of course, this all made perfect sense to Samnang. He had, after all, lived in Cambodia his whole life. He especially distinctly remembered being ordained as a Buddhist monk, like all of the boys of his village, at a young age. He looked around himself. Ah, this temple reminded him of his childhood. But that was forty years ago, he mused as new wrinkles marked his sudden doubling of age.
Samnang made sure to give himself the right mindfulness required to be in a holy place like this. And just like that, all of the pieces fell into place for him. He suddenly had knowledge of all the many Buddhist teachings: The Four Noble Truths, the Eightfold Path, the Five Hindrances, the Seven Factors of Awakening, and more. He understood the concepts of karma, and anicca, and dukkha, anatta, and dhammas and dhyana. How could he not? As soon as he’d been of age, he’d been ordained as a Buddhist monk, this time for good. That was twenty years ago, though, and over time he’d come closer and closer to enlightenment.
Samnang sat cross-legged in front of the Buddha statue as he settled into the right samadhi. He was at peace with his identity as a Cambodian Buddhist monk, dedicated to the teachings of the wise Buddha and to following the Noble Eightfold Path to the letter. He had come to America in order to help others find nirvana. As he meditated, he heard a group of others come in, chattering away in English instead of his native Khmer, and he knew he would do exactly that. He would show them the path to enlightenment.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-
CYOC knew it would never stop transforming people.