ZAP! The ray gun’s beam exploded in a swirl of sickly green light and sulfurous mist, hitting Blue Boxer square in the chest. He staggered back with a grunt, arms raised instinctively to shield his face, but the beam seemed to wrap around him—almost like it had a mind of its own.
Beside him, Ken shouted, diving toward his mentor, but the beam arced wildly, striking them both.
The room filled with the sound of rushing wind, a deep, crackling hum, and somewhere beneath it all—a faint, prolonged burp.
Blue Boxer tried to move, but suddenly his body didn’t feel right. His gloves felt loose. His utility belt began to slide. His voice cracked as he gasped, blinking through the haze.
“What the—my boots! They’re—” His voice was higher.
Across from him, Ken was groaning, clutching his head. His gi shirt ripped slightly at the shoulder seams as his muscles bulged beneath it, his spine stretching upward with a sudden pop-pop-pop.
“Ughhh—what’s happening to me—?” Ken’s voice rumbled out, now deeper, gruffer—a man’s voice. A forest of hair spread across his body. His cock throbbed to attention as testosterone pumped through his blood.
The light faded. The hum stopped. And when the green mist cleared, two very different figures stood where the vigilante duo once had.
Blue Boxer—formerly a broad-chested 40-year-old urban legend—was now a scrawny teenager, maybe 16, barely filling out his oversized tactical suit. His domino mask was too big for his face, sliding down one side. His combat boots were like canoes. His voice squeaked as he looked down at his gloved hands—now small, smooth, pale. “No no no—oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” he shouted. “I’m a teenager!"
Ken, meanwhile, blinked down at himself in stunned silence. He stood tall—well over six feet, with a square jaw, five o'clock shadow, and a khaki gi shirt that was now snug across his sculpted chest. His cargo pants were suddenly full-length and perfectly fitted. He looked like a lean, thirtysomething martial arts instructor who just stepped off the set of a Grit City fitness ad. He looked at his hands—then at his newly deep, rumbling reflection in a broken vault mirror. “...Whoa. I’m... ripped.” He flexed then looked over at his now-teenaged mentor. “Uh... dude?”
Blue Boxer glared up at him. “Ken? Is that you in there?” A surge of teenage hormones suddenly coursed through young Ethan's body, and he found himself staring at the masculine Karate Master.
“I think so,” Ken said, voice gravelly, eyes wide. “I feel... older. Like, I kind of want to start paying taxes.”
From the other end of the vault, a delighted wheeze broke the stunned silence. “Magnificent!” Flatulent Fatso clapped his plump, gloved hands. “Absolutely delicious! What a reversal! The mighty Blue Boxer, reduced to a pipsqueak in his own pants! And the boy... now a man.”
Blue Boxer stumbled forward, tripping over his bunched-up utility belt, his gloved fists fumbling to keep his pants up. “You... you freakin’ fart wizard! You’re gonna fix this, right now!”
Flatulent Fatso raised a pinky to his lips and let out a dainty, mocking toot.
“Oh, but why would I? I’ve won, dear Boxer. You’re outmatched, undersized, and entirely out of deodorant. Good day.” He turned, belly swaying like a gelatinous wrecking ball, and began waddling toward the vault exit—confident, composed, and blissfully smug.
Ken—now the adult—cracked his knuckles and looked down at his new biceps. “You want me to stop him?”
Blue Boxer—now barely taller than a gym towel rack—fumed, face flushed. “Oh yeah. But be gentle. We still need him to reverse this!”
Ken lunged.