You look at the can and it is rather scratched. One bit of text you are able to make out states that the effects will wear off after 2 hours.
The sensation is surreal, as if your nose is stretching and pulling, morphing in a way you never thought was possible. It's not painful, but tangible, as though someone is softly kneading dough at your face. You're startled when your nostrils migrate to either side of your bulbous, enlarging new appendage; they shift and spread like butter melting on hot toast. It's disorienting, but oddly, not alarming. Perhaps The second spray comes with a heightened sense of anticipation. The transformation you felt earlier was strangely gentle - a surreal and intriguing experience. You press the spray again, feeling the mist coat your face, and brace for the change that is surely coming.
Almost instantly, you feel your face moving, distorting, shifting - as though invisible hands are reshaping your jaw, moving it forward, while pulling your cheeks upwards, creating a wide, inviting grin. The sensation is peculiar, almost ticklish, but not quite; it's a sensation entirely its own, as if your face was being malleably shaped like it was clay.
Your eyes slide nonchalantly downwards, settling along the sides of your newly-formed, elongated nose. Meanwhile, your mouth takes on the appearance of a jolly, hand-painted face decorating the engine area of the metal plane. The changes ripple outwards, your skin morphing into something harder, glossier, becoming a resplendent, bright red shell, almost like painted metal.
A mirror sits nearby, reflecting the transformation as it occurs. Your cartoonish face is whimsical bordering on comical, not quite human but not machine either; it's as if you've fallen in the realm of anthropomorphism, straddling both worlds. The face of an old fighter plane, high spirits shining through.
The changes of your face no longer feel strange or against nature. They seem to be fitting, the grin on the painted face matching your sentiments to the tee. And surprisingly, you find you can still control your facial expressions. Your metal woodpecker eyebrows arch, your mouth opens and shuts, and your irises somehow invisibly shift like a moving painting. You pull different expressions – surprise, amusement, curiosity – your new cartoonish face enthusiastically mimicking each one.the spray also provides a dose of calm, because you don't panic – not like you expected to.
As your nose settles into its new form, it’s not just pointier, it’s elongated – transformed into the thrusting nose cone of a classical biplane.
In front of the spacious bathroom mirror, you examine your transformation, your eyes drawn to the exquisite golden propeller sitting just above your new air intake nostrils. You can't help but admire the craftsmanship. You tilt your head this way and that, letting the dull bathroom lights flicker over the shining propellers, observing how they shimmer and gleam.
Your propeller, you discover, is immobile. The aerodynamic blades of your nose propeller don't spin, not even a slight shift when you exhale. It's bizarre to think of your face as an inert engine.
There's a sense of expectation hanging in the air - this drastic change to your body speaks of more than aesthetics, it promises capability, power. As you admire the propellers, you imagine yourself powering through the sky, feeling the rush of wind against your face as the propellers roar with life.
But not just yet. There's nothing powering the propeller, nothing to fuel the magic dormant inside you. As you stare at your reflection, the face staring back seems familiar and foreign in equal amounts.
The second spray comes with a heightened sense of anticipation. The transformation you felt earlier was strangely gentle - a surreal and intriguing experience. You press the spray again, feeling the mist coat your face, and brace for the change that is surely coming.
Almost instantly, you feel your face moving, distorting, shifting - as though invisible hands are reshaping your jaw, moving it forward, while pulling your cheeks upwards, creating a wide, inviting grin. The sensation is peculiar, almost ticklish, but not quite; it's a sensation entirely its own, as if your face was being malleably shaped like it was clay.
Your eyes slide nonchalantly downwards, settling along the sides of your newly-formed, elongated nose. Meanwhile, your mouth takes on the appearance of a jolly, hand-painted face decorating the engine area of the metal plane. The changes ripple outwards, your skin morphing into something harder, glossier, becoming a resplendent, bright red shell, almost like painted metal.
A mirror sits nearby, reflecting the transformation as it occurs. Your cartoonish face is whimsical bordering on comical, not quite human but not machine either; it's as if you've fallen in the realm of anthropomorphism, straddling both worlds. The face of an old fighter plane, high spirits shining through.
The changes of your face no longer feel strange or against nature. They seem to be fitting, the grin on the painted face matching your sentiments to the tee. And surprisingly, you find you can still control your facial expressions. Your metal woodpecker eyebrows arch, your mouth opens and shuts, and your irises somehow invisibly shift like a moving painting. You pull different expressions – surprise, amusement, curiosity – your new cartoonish face enthusiastically mimicking each one.
You raise your hands to your face, tentative and curious. The feeling of your fingertips brushing against the painted metal is a surprising contrast. The cold, unyielding touch of the metal is a stark contrast against the warm, pliable flesh you are accustomed to. You trace the sharp contours of your new face, following the rivets and seams as though they were familiar landmarks.
Your fingertips find the aerodynamic blades of your propeller, resting exactly where your nose used to be. The blades are meticulously crafted, their sharp edges curving off into a gentle arc. Each swipe of your fingers against the smooth blade sends a small shiver up your spine, like a melancholy tune made of wind and clouds.
Beneath the ornamental face, you detect the humming purr of an engine where your mouth once was. The vibration is a welcome surprise, a comforting lullaby of potential power. There's no mistaking the feeling of cylinders and pistons – the beating heart of your face, the potential to really take flight. But instead of escalating the surreal transformation, you decide to apply restraint.
You can’t help but lick your lips only to discover you can’t anymore and that somehow you can still talk and taste without a tongue. It’s strange, this new existence of yours - layers of reality folded onto each other, making you question what was absolute.
The excitement has not quite worn off when you make the decision to step back and wait. The potion promised 2 hours, a safe little adventure that could be reversed. You lean against the wall, gazing at your metallic face in the mirror, your eyes softly glowing underneath the canopy. ‘Just 2 hours,’ you whisper to yourself, watching as your painted mouth echoes the sentiment. Now, it's just a matter of time.