There is a metal detector in an airport. It doesn’t get much use these days, what with body scanners being the preferred method of screening travelers. And that’s probably a good thing, because this metal detector is cursed.
This curse causes those who step through the metal detector to slip through reality, emerging as a completely different person, with their entire body and mind and worldview shifted. The result can be dramatic.
Anyone stepping through will remember their life up to that moment, who they were and what they were doing and where they were going, but they’ll also have an entirely new set of values, and a new personality, new goals and plans.
Only they remember their old life. It’s as if reality itself has been rewritten. To everyone else they’re just the new person.
On an ordinary Tuesday afternoon the wait for the body scanners became backlogged. A chipper TSA agent diverted a handful of travelers to pass through the scanner. The first was Andre Poste, a balding 36 year old man traveling to a conference on estate planning and living trusts. Overweight and pudgy and so pale as to be nearly translucent, Andre was dressed in a neat black suit and wearing a bright red tie. He held a heavy briefcase. His mind was focused on a difficult tax shelter he was creating for a wealthy family as he stepped through the detector.
As she emerged Emily Poste shook her head in disorientation. Her body felt exactly as it should, her large fake tits bouncing in her tight top, her faded jeans clinging to her hips, her mocha skin on her hands familiar and warm. “I’m Emily?” she muttered, shaking her head. “Aren’t I Andre?”
“Move along, ma’am,” hissed the TSA agent, and she complied, trying to reconcile her old identity with her new.
Tim Jones was next, relieved to be passing through security, hoping the agents didn’t find the brick of cocaine in his backpack. He was thinking about getting to Minneapolis and delivering the coke, getting paid, and maybe sticking his dick in a hooker. Tall and skinny with a reddish goatee he stepped through the detector, his dirty running shoes lifting from the ground propelling him forward, her sleek black dress shoes making contact with the other side. Tammy James stopped and brushed her pilot’s uniform, mentally taking stock of her agenda, to serve as copilot for flight 634 to Phoenix. She grabbed her roller bag as it emerged from the xray machine, smirking a bit as she thought about the several thousand dollars of cocaine that she knew no longer existed. Rubbing her legs together as she thought of maybe getting laid in the cockpit from her copilot. She felt her pussy twitch, and licked her lips, even as part of her reacted to revulsion at the thought of a penis inside her. “Shush, Tim,” she muttered. “Tammy’s in charge now…”
The day continued and more people would pass through