You wander the aisles of Uncle Jack’s shop, running your fingers along the racks of costumes. Your eyes linger on a particularly odd outfit: a black leather vest with broad shoulders, torn at the arms, a faded red bandanna, a pair of tight blue jeans with padded knees, and a chunky black belt with a fake gun clipped in a holster. There are long, heavy black boots with silver buckles, and a spiked wrist cuff sitting just on top of the pile.
You hold the bundle up, turning it over in your hands, trying to imagine who would ever actually wear this. The tag on the vest reads “Biker Rodent – XL.” The whole thing looks tough, intimidating, and more than a little ridiculous.
You call upstairs for Uncle Jack and hold the costume up. He eyes the boots and grins wide.
“Oh, you’ve found one of my favorites!” he says, practically bouncing down the steps, his robe flaring. “That one’s a classic. Believe me, you put that on, and you’ll feel it. For sure. Go on—try it! The dressing room’s right over there.”
He ushers you toward the little room in the corner and closes the door behind you, leaving you alone with the costume. You strip down and begin to slide into the pieces one by one—the jeans first, snug around your thighs, the vest stiff but warm against your skin, the boots heavy as you zip them up. The red bandanna goes around your neck, and you fasten the black cuff on your wrist, feeling the weight of the fake gun hanging at your side.
As you stand there in the mirror, you smirk at your reflection. The outfit sits strangely well on you, almost as if it’s molding itself to fit every contour of your body. For all the oddness, there's something about it—tough, bold—you almost feel like a different person already.
You emerge from the dressing room and Jack gives you a hearty thumbs-up, his eyes all twinkling mischief.
“Well? How do you feel?” he asks, clearly waiting for something more.
You look down at yourself, flex your arm, and start to laugh at how utterly over-the-top the costume is.
You don’t feel any different. Not yet, anyways.
You shift your weight, the heavy boots thunking against the wooden floor. Jack watches you with an eager, almost knowing grin, but nothing seems amiss... at first.
Then, you feel a prickle across your skin, almost like the hairs standing on end before a storm breaks. You glance at your hands, flexing them—your fingers tremble, and you notice the faintest shadow along the back of your hands. At first, you think it’s a trick of the light, but your skin is darkening, adopting a strange tan shade, and it’s becoming... thicker? Coarser?
“What the—?” Your words spill out, shaky, but Jack raises a hand and gestures for you to keep going. His eyes shine with excitement.
You grab the edge of the counter for balance as your fingers pulse and reshape. Nails thicken, dulling, while short brown fur begins to sprout along your knuckles and up your arms, bristling through the vest’s arm holes. Your muscles flex beneath it, swelling and bunching, growing bulkier—denim stretches tight over your newly powerful thighs.
A tremor runs through your face. Cheekbones tingle, your nose itches like mad. You reach up, but your nose is receding, shrinking and flattening. It pushes out at the end, becoming pink, leathery—a muzzle? You blink, confusion rising, and in that motion, your vision shifts. Your eyes widen, warping, and you swear your pupils flatten and gleam in the light.
Your ears twitch—actually twitch, as they swell, pushing up and out. They balloon past your hair, stretching the cartilage, growing round, and sliding up the sides of your head. With a creeping thrill of fear and curiosity, you touch the new ears, feeling their velvety softness and the sensitive flick every time your fingers brush them.
There’s a tearing beneath your belt, and you nearly yelp. You stumble as a long, flexible tail uncoils from the small of your back, flicking in the air, weighty and natural like you’ve always had it. You gasp, half in amazement, half in alarm. “Aw, what the—this is some kinda wild ride, man,” you mutter, and it startles you—your words are rougher, raspier, threaded through with the distinct cadence of a cocky streetwise biker.
More fur creeps over your chest, settling between defined muscles you’re only just noticing. You look at your arms, thick and powerful, easily flexing the way you’ve seen action heroes do. You clench your fists, feeling the natural strength like you could punch through a wall.
You catch your reflection in the mirrored wall. Mouse. That’s what you look like—a muscle-bound rodent, with broad shoulders, massive biceps, and an easy, cocky grin forming without you even thinking about it. The sunglasses resting on your nose are suddenly just... there, sliding comfortably into place. You push them up with a finger, instinctively, grinning at your new reflection.
You should be terrified, but instead, a wild thrill rushes through your blood. The fear fizzles, replaced by a burst of adrenaline and a strange, easy confidence. “Whoo–yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” you say, your voice rough and deep, a cool everyman swagger coming to you naturally. Your new tail flicks in approval.
“Jack!” you call out, and it’s not even your accent anymore. “You gotta tell me where you got these threads—I feel ready to take on the world, bro!”
Jack just laughs. “Told you so.”
You lean back on the counter, boots propped up, gun at your hip, tail swaying behind you, feeling all the world like a lean, mean biker ready for action. And, honestly... this feels pretty damn awesome.