Jake heard the dorm room door swing open, the familiar sound of Mike's sneakers scuffing the linoleum floor.
"Hey, Mike!" Jake called out, his eyes darting between his roommate and the computer screen, "If you could have any job in the world, what would it be?"
Mike tossed his backpack onto his bed and chuckled as he flopped down beside it. "Oh, you know, the usual boring stuff. But seriously, how cool would it be to be a jet fighter pilot?" he said with a smirk, humor lacing his voice.
With an impish grin spreading across his face, Jake turned back to his computer and typed 'Jet Fighter Pilot' into the occupation tab of the Chronivac program. He hesitated for just a second before his fingers hit 'Enter'. The computer beeped in acknowledgment, and Jake looked up at Mike, who was still unpacking, oblivious to Jake's actions.
Suddenly, the air around Mike seemed to shimmer, the first signs of the transformation starting to take effect. Jake watched in awe as Mike's casual clothes began to morph in front of his eyes. His t-shirt stretched and contracted as the fabric morphed, deep blues and dark greens weaving themselves into the pattern of a sleek, military-grade flight suit.
The suit clung to Mike's body, outlining his now more defined muscles. Panels of reinforced padding appeared, strategically placed to provide protection while allowing flexibility. Various patches materialized, including a name tag over his left chest that read 'M. Evans' in bold embroidery, and an insignia of a majestic eagle, its wings spread wide, the symbol of a prestigious fighter pilot squadron. Zippers and pockets were positioned for practicality, and a survival knife sheathed on his left thigh completed the look.
On the right side of his chest, close to his heart, a pocket formed, crafted to fit an oxygen mask, with a hose that trailed up to connect to the helmet. The utility belt that cinched the suit around his waist boasted an assortment of pouches, undoubtedly for essentials a pilot would need when taking to the skies.
As Mike's jeans and sneakers became a part of the suit's base, boots of supple yet sturdy leather configured to secure his feet. They were detailed with straps and buckles designed for quick adjustments, the soles patterned for grip and etched with grooves that spoke of high-quality craftsmanship.
Before Jake or Mike could react further, a helmet materialized in the air before Mike's astonished eyes. It was the pièce de résistance: a glossy, obsidian helmet with a golden visor that reflected the light of the dorm room. It appeared to be lightweight, yet Jake knew it was likely reinforced with advanced composite materials for protection. The visor hinted at a sophisticated heads-up display that would project critical flight information directly before the eyes.
Mike's gaze was drawn to it, and as if in a trance, he reached out and took the helmet in his hands, his fingers tracing over the smooth surface and the intricate communication devices embedded along the sides.
"Jake... what the hell..." Mike muttered, his voice a mixture of wonder and disbelief as he held the helmet, not quite ready to slip it over his head.
"Dude, how...?" Mike's words hung in the air, his jaw slack as his hands held the helmet like a sacred artifact. His flight suit stretched taut across his chiseled physique, clearly a testament to the Chronivac's handiwork.
"It's this program," Jake revealed, pointing to his laptop screen. "The Chronivac. It can... change things. You're looking at proof."
Mike turned towards Jake, taking in his altered appearance with a mix of confusion and exhilaration. "So I'm a fighter pilot now, just like that?" His voice was tinged with incredulity as he took a closer look at his new outfit: the snug leather gloves, the patches, the meticulously crafted boots. He even tested the weight of the helmet in his hands. "And this...?"
"Yeah, that seems to be part of it." Jake leaned in, equally curious. "I guess you should put on the helmet for the full experience?"
Mike nodded slowly, his adventurous spirit ignited by the surreal turn of events. "There's only one way to find out what happens next." Carefully, he placed the helmet upon his head. As the visor clicked into place, Jake watched his friend's expression change from shock to wonder.
"Wow, Jake. There's a whole menu in here!" Mike exclaimed, eyes scanning unseen vistas. "I can control it just by thinking about it..."
"What kind of options do you have?" Jake squatted next to him, trying to catch a glimpse through the visor that now obscured Mike's eyes.
"There's 'MODEL', 'SIZE', and 'TRANSFORM'. Let's see..." Mike mentally navigated the menu, his brows creased in focus. "Alright, I'm in the 'MODEL' submenu now. There's an F-35, F-22, J-20, and even a Su-37. This is insane."
Jake was practically bouncing with anticipation. "So which one are you choosing?"
"The F-35A. It's state-of-the-art." Mike's voice was almost reverent. "And for 'SIZE'..." He laughed, a bit nervously. "It ranges from the full 15.7 meters down to 15 centimeters. Given our dorm room, I'm going with 15 centimeters."
A twinge of electricity seemed to pass through the room, and Jake felt it too. "Hit 'TRANSFORM', Mike."
With a gulp, Mike selected the option. His entire being began to reorganize. He felt his human form dissolve, his body contorting in ways that defied nature. The sensation was alien, but not painful. Rather, it felt purposeful, each change a step towards something new.
His back broadened, engines forming a powerful tunnel between his shoulders, converging at his buttocks. His arms melded into his torso, flattening out to create sleek, aerodynamic wings. The sensation of his feet sprouting wheels was bizarre but fascinating, as his legs reduced to form the jet's undercarriage.
The most peculiar feeling was his privates migrating up to his chest, becoming the front wheel. His face elongated, morphing into the F-35A's nose cone, with the helmet seamlessly integrating to shape his cockpit and canopy. Stabilizers unfurled from his lower back, the transformation completing with a soft whir as his internal systems booted up.
For an instant, Mike was suspended in darkness, his consciousness rebooting. Then, with a burst of clarity, his world was once again illuminated—not through eyes, but through sensors and displays. He could adjust his exterior, his skin now an array of screens. Opting for a personal touch, he chose a simple animated face to express himself.
"Jake, this is... unreal," Mike's voice emanated from the plane, an odd metallic timbre to it.
Looking down at the miniature F-35 on the floor, its detailed livery impeccable, Jake reached out hesitantly. "Can I pick you up?"
"Go for it," Mike agreed, his newfound levity echoing in the confines of their room.
Jake carefully lifted the small jet, marveling at the intricacies of the design—the insignias, the proportional cockpit with miniature controls and gauges. It was Mike, but in the form of an exquisite, living machine.
"You wouldn't happen to want to take off from the linoleum?" Jake joked, meeting the animated eyes on Mike's fuselage.
Mike's digital laugh tinkled through the cockpit. "Nope. Though I feel like I was born to fly."