Jeff, feeling far more relaxed after his private moment in the bathroom, padded back to his room. He slowed outside the door, hearing the faint hums and whirs of machinery—much like those from a high-end massage chair showroom. When he opened the door, the scene that greeted him was equal parts bewildering and surreal.
Where Paul had stood earlier now sat a large, high-backed black leather massage chair, its seams gleaming and surface faintly rippling with active mechanisms beneath. Planted atop the seat and armrests and slowly oozing down the vinyl sides was a heap of vividly colored, utterly formless plasticine. Drips of peach, blue, yellow, and an especially startling crimson smooshed and swirled together, the mound pressed and spattered into odd humps and dimpled craters. Bits of malleable substance clung to the rollers, some spots kneaded flat and shiny by unseen hands. Not a single feature remained—no face, no limbs—just a slack, gelatinous heap exposed for all to see.
Jeff blinked, wide-eyed, as he scanned the display glowing on the armrest of the chair.
PAUL ONLINE: INTENSE PROGRAM ACTIVE.
Below it, near the base, the sliding text panel read:
OHHH… MIKE FEELS SO SOFT… CAN’T STOP KNEADING HIM…
Numbers flashed with each internal thrust and knead, displaying motion and “user engagement” in real time.
The Chronivac on the desk blinked quietly, its log revealing the last transformations:
Subject: Mike
Status: Material - Plasticine (“Soft”, “Fully Malleable”)
Mobility: Disabled
Voice Function: Disabled
Sensation: Maximum
Jeff stepped closer and, with a start, realized the plasticine heap was his dad—reduced to a boneless, shapeable slab, utterly pliant under the automated caress of what could only be Paul in his new form. Mike’s form, such as it was now, shifted slightly as the massage chair’s mechanisms continued. A ripple of movement pressed through the blob; there was no telling if it was pleasurable, ticklish, or desperate. The computer confirmed that with full sensation, every squish and massage was a world of overwhelming physical feeling for his father.
On the display, a new message scrolled in blocky text, clearly from Paul:
HEY JEFF—YOUR DAD’S HAVING THE TIME OF HIS LIFE… WANT TO CHANGE ANYTHING, OR HELP SHAPE HIM? :)
Jeff stared, equal parts fascinated, awed, and—admittedly—a little tempted by the possibilities, finger hovering over the touchpad as he absorbed the tableau, the scent of new leather and something delightfully, feverishly artificial blending in the air.
Jeff watched as the kneading mechanisms of the massage chair paused mid-cycle, the pile of plasticine that was his dad left squished and dimpled, half-puddled across the broad black seat. The room fell almost silent except for a soft buzz from the Chronivac and the last sticky snap as the chair’s pleasure attachment retracted. On the display, a final message blinked:
PAUSED. AWAITING INPUT.
He crossed his arms with mock sternness, looking down at the formless shape, addressing it as if his father could hear, “Looks like I really will have to teach you some discipline, Dad. Can’t have you melting into a blob in front of guests.”
He moved to the desk, clicking through the Chronivac interface, glancing between a broad list of possibilities: plastic, resin, figurine, doll, action figure. A sly grin curved his lips. He clicked Form: Action Figure, scrolling through the options until he settled on a soldier—classic, broad-shouldered, slightly heroic, decked out in green fatigues and all the accoutrements: helmet, boots, faux gear. He ticked the settings: Material: Plastic, Height: 12 inches, Movement: Articulated joints only, Speech: Pre-recorded catchphrases, Awareness: High. He locked “Obey” and “Discipline” parameters to max, just for fun. For control, he allowed Mike to understand but respond only in his limited, programmed ways.
With one last look at the multicolored puddle—bits of soft blue and peach entwined—Jeff pressed Save and confirmed.
A pulse of energy thrummed from the device. The mass of plasticine seemed to quake, begin to quiver, colors swirling as if stirred by unseen hands. Jeff leaned in, fascinated. The blob pulled inward at a visible speed, twisting and compacting as it lost its soft malleability, flesh-firming, pigment seeping into a strong olive green shade like war paint.
Mike’s new body took sharp shape, swelling up and out. Limbs pinched off from the main trunk, melting upward into thick, muscular arms and legs, with classic, jointed elbows and knees—never quite human, but perfectly soldierly. Glossy olive boots and the shiny black of molded gloves appeared last, giving him a stalwart, plastic-fresh finish straight out of a toy box. His head pressed up from the core in a smooth, heroic jaw, painted hair, steely eyes and a sculpted helmet locking in place. Uniform pockets and ammo belts rose in bas-relief from his torso.
Mike’s hips cinched, thighs dead thick and smooth, and his hands clamped into classic karate-chop and gun-grip shapes. His legs swung up to a seated pose, boots firmly planted, his arms raised—perfect for being posed or equipped with included accessories. Across his face was a frozen, intense soldier’s expression, blue plastic eyes staring just a little too bravely forward.
As the last trace of colored plasticine firmed, Jeff watched a new digital readout spring to life on the Chronivac display:
Subject: Mike
Status: Action Figure—Soldier
Speech: Limited pre-recorded phrases
Movement: Pre-programmed poses only
Obedience: Absolute
The toy soldier flicked, then snapped upright into a parade rest. A small speaker inside his chest crackled to life:
“Reporting for duty, sir!”
He gave a plastic salute, elbow, and shoulder clicking in exaggerated arcs, movements precise but never natural.
Jeff picked up the foot-tall figure and grinned at the transformation. “That should teach you some discipline, Dad,” he said, placing Mike at attention right on his desk next to the still-paused massage chair.
The soldier’s head turned stiffly, eyes locked ahead, voice box repeating another catchphrase:
“Yes, sir! Ready for action!”