User:JonBuck/Eve's Apple
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See the Discussion page for an explanation of why this story starts here. Has to do with a personal Travel Nightmare.
{{#ifeq: User |User| Eve's Apple | Eve's Apple}}[[Title::{{#ifeq: User |User| Eve's Apple | Eve's Apple}}| ]]
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{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Jon Buck | Jon Buck}} | |
{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| JonBuck | JonBuck}} | ||
Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| JonBuck | JonBuck}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| JonBuck | JonBuck}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| JonBuck | JonBuck}}| ]]
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Author: {{#ifeq: User |User| Jon Buck | Jon Buck}} |
Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| JonBuck | JonBuck}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Jon Buck | Jon Buck}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| Jon Buck | Jon Buck}}| ]]
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{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Jon Buck | Jon Buck}} | |
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Authors: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| JonBuck | JonBuck}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| JonBuck | JonBuck}}]]
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{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| JonBuck | JonBuck}} | |
Authors: {{#ifeq: User |User| Jon Buck | Jon Buck}} |
Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| JonBuck | JonBuck}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Jon Buck | Jon Buck}}]]
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}} {{#if:| — see [[:Category:{{{category}}}|other works by this author]]}}
Whoever had loaded the vending machine was an amateur. Instead of neat lines of potato chips, candy bars, and pastries, everything was jammed inside like stuffing in a turkey. There were several dispensers that were obviously hopelessly jammed. The Hostess Lemon Pies and the Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies were both lost causes, mashed against the front glass.
Jim stared at the hopeless machine, bleary-eyed from his long-delayed flight. He'd missed his connecting flight by fifteen minutes, leaving him stranded in Houston without another flight out until eight o'clock. But it was three in the morning and airline food was hardly a decent meal. He counted out the few coins he had in his pocket, and tried to come to a decision of some kind. Four Cokes wasn't enough caffeine to keep him sharp at this time of night. Okay, what isn't all blocked up?
Near the bottom there was a neat line of Nature Valley granola bars for a dollar. Grumbling at the expense he put the coins in, they prayed a little as he pushed the buttons for the selection. The green-wrapped food fell to the bottom. Yawning, Jim groped for it through the dispenser slot and shoved it in his pocket for when his stomach quieted down.
The Coke machine next to it was empty of anything caffeinated. He lurched back towards the seats he'd claimed for a so-called "bed". The airline had thoughtfully provided blankets and a pillow for his overnight stay, though there wasn't enough room to actually lay down. He was the only person left in this concourse. Even the TVs that showed endless Headline News had been shut off two hours ago.
The photographer sighed and grumbled at the airline, and the weather. And if his five thousand dollars in equipment made it to Seattle before him without things going missing. Little things like lenses and camera bodies. Even rune-etched commercial magelocks needed a master key for the TSA these days. And more than a few of them engaged in some quite complex theft. On one occasion, after a flight that had two stops, Jim finally got to the shooting location and one of his most valuable flash attachments simply turned to sand when he'd removed it from the padded case.
A substitution spell. Those didn't come cheap. But neither was that bespoke mana-flash. And whoever had stolen it was smart enough to strip the identifying runes as well. It'd probably sold on eBay for ten thousand dollars.
Still, wandering around the empty airport had made for some passably interesting subject-matter, even in his exhausted state. Shuttered shops and restaurants. Empty vending machines. Empty concourses reduced to puddles of light since much of it was shut off. Janitorial staff pushing their oversized self-propelled vacuums. Two men with tattooed shoulders and don't-mess-with-me frowns, wandering aimlessly.
When an airport cop asked him what he was doing, he showed his press credential and said he was just passing the time while stranded here. The policewoman just frowned, and that was that. Jim headed back to the spot near his gate, but not before telling her about the two thuggish men he'd seen earlier. She'd just rolled her eyes. "We have security cameras all over the place, sir."
"Well, maybe you should still keep an eye on them?" he suggested.
"Look, Mister..."
"Lambert," Jim said.
"Mister Lambert. It's big place, but there's more than one of me and we've got all sorts of 'magic' surveillance," she stifled a laugh. "Arcane crap the TSA makes us use now. Don't worry about nothin'. That's my job."
Yes, ma'am, he thought, grumbling irritably to himself. Lack of sleep and a fragile stomach were going to make this a grindingly boring night. There was no way he was going to allow himself to fall asleep. Most of his equipment was going in the baggage compartment, but he had an expensive digital setup with him as a carry on. If he fell asleep there was nothing to stop someone from running off with it. He simply didn't trust the airport cops to do their jobs, or the honesty of cleaning staff.
The other bag he had with him contained the portfolio he was using to shop his skills around as a freelancer. Business was down lately--way down. His new editor hadn't even given him anything to go on other than "something's missing, Jim." And wouldn't elaborate beyond a single word: demographics. Martha Winston had just given him a Look that said if he couldn't figure it out, there was obviously something wrong with him.
He'd wandered far enough from his gate that resting was a good idea anyway. Like most hub airports, Houston was spread out over miles of corridors. As luck would have it, the gate he'd come in was at the very end of this terminal. Fully half a mile from the departure gate, if he was any judge. There were more people on this side of the airport than on his. A family with two young children, who were still running around and screaming. The bespectacled father gave him a long-suffering look, while he and his wife tried once more to get the kids to wind down. Jim just shrugged. He was single and liked it that way, for just that reason.
The other person was a woman wearing a dark green dress. She had short brunette hair, and light green eyes that glowed dimly in the half-lit terminal. Oh, a witch. Or possibly an Arcanist, or whatever they're calling themselves now, he thought. Anyone who "awoke" their magic talents were marked in some way. Glowy eyes were just the latest fashion.
Jim checked his watch. Assuming the weather cooperated it was still over six hours before he could even board the plant. In no hurry to return to his gate for now, he sat down and took a few examples out of his portfolio. Just in time for the kids to settle down. He found a seat under one of the few lit fluorescent lights. "Demographics," he muttered, laying out some 8x10s on the seat next to him. "What's missing?"
"What's missing is you being quiet!" the father hissed from right next to him. "Please, can you look at your pictures somewhere else?"
The photographer was tired enough, and petulant enough at this stage, to not want to move again. Sighing, he gathered up this things again and moved down two more rows of seats. The light wasn't as good here, but he didn't have to endure parental scowls.
It was then that the witch's phone rang. It wasn't one of those irritating ringtones, but a decent facsimile of an old-fashioned bell. Their glare instantly transferred to her. She flipped open her phone. "It's two in the morning! What could you possibly want at this hour?" she said in a whisper still loud enough for Jim to hear, making the children stir and earning yet more scowls.
The witch stood up and half-jogged far enough down the concourse to be out of earshot. Jim couldn't help but watch, since her jerky movements revealed she obviously wasn't wearing a bra. Nature girl, he thought, not uncharitably. That'll keep me awake for a while.
Some time later, a polite cough made him look up. They glowy-eyed witch was smiling at him. "Those are very good," she said in a near-whisper. "Are you a professional? You look like it."
"I am," he replied evenly, keeping his eyes firmly on her face. She surveyed his pictures. "I like that one." She pointed at a close-up photo of a single dewdrop on a cup-shaped leaf. "The light and detail is just stunning."
"Wish my editor agreed with you, um...?"
"Ilene Reynolds, traveling Botanical Arcanist," she said, tapping her chest. "You?"
Jim introduced himself, then went on. "Wish I knew, Miss Reynolds. My boss is a very stubborn woman. Demographics! I've shopped these around for weeks but I haven't gotten any offers."
The woman sat down across from him, on the other side of the photo spread. She carefully picked each one up, making sure not to get fingerprints on the emulsion. Her nails were short, and polished a shade between red and pink. Besides the leaf, there were photos of landscapes (Mt. Rainier, the Grand Canyon), some wildlife, architecture, sailboats. She seemed particularly drawn to a photo of a huge anchor being pulled in by a cargo ship. "Stunning. I can't see why you're having so much trouble, Mr. Lambert. But I don't know your business very well."
"Call me Jim, if you like. I don't know, either. Demographics, she says," he said.
Ilene bit her lower lip thoughtfully, then looked through the portfolio again. "I'll let you know if I come up with anything before your flight leaves, Jim. Deal?"
Jim brightened. "Sure. I'm not going to be able to pay my bills if this goes on much longer." Then he yawned. "Afraid I'm going on my thirty-sixthed hour without sleep, though. Can't concentrate worth a damn right now. I'm going to wander back towards my gate. I'm way over at C39..."
"And you walked all the way over here?" the witch said. "You are bored, if you were willing to go through security again, twice."
Jim shrugged and smiled what he hoped was a charming way. "I don't have anything else to do. Is this your gate?"
"Well, it was my gate, until a few minutes ago. I have no idea where I'm going to be off to now! You wouldn't believe the trouble my profession is in these days. Everything's in flux. I mean, that's what mana really is. Raw change, but I rarely even see the inside of my house these days..."
Jim let her go on and on for a while, too tired to try and get a word in edgewise. When she finally paused, he groped for something to say. Some response. "Well, there has to be a way to spend more time at home, right? Maybe you could..."
Ilene's expression hardened in a disturbingly familiar way. Martha gave him the same "you don't get it" expression every other meeting these days. "No offense, but I'm not really asking for help at the moment. I just needed to vent, and you seemed receptive. Was I wrong about that?"
Fatigue made the alarm bells in Jim's head less urgent than they should be. "Nnnno... it's just..."
"Thanks for listening, Jim. I'll still let you know if I think of anything. I could use a walk, anyway. Goodnight." She got up and returned to her seat nearer the gate.
Trying to keep his disappointment hidden, Jim gathered up his things and headed for his gate.
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It felt like being halfway under anesthetic, everything felt distant, from the padded vinyl against Jim's cheek after he had slowly fallen over, to the way his body felt. Delirious, he felt both lighter and heavier, as the rest of his body sent a tingling sensation, as if every nerve had fallen asleep. The granola bar that he dimly suspected had caused this sat three-quarters eaten on the floor in front of him.
Then he was lifted up and shaken, and a familiar voice from down a long tube called his name. "Jim? Jim! Oh God... it's Bloom, it has to be. Hold on, man! I'll be right back..." He was gently let down again, only to get an impossibly saggy sensation on his chest. Dreamily, he forced his unresponsive neck muscles to get working again.
Ilene returned an unknown amount of time later. Seconds, minutes, hours, Jim couldn't guess. Years had passed in an instant. But the paralysis was actually starting to fade. Once more he was propped up as Ilene sat down beside him and wrapped one arm around his shoulders. Jim found his voice "What did I do to... to deserve..."
That didn't sound right at all. Now a little more awake, Jim tried clearing his throat, raising his hand in front of his mouth. Or was it his hand? It had to be Ilene's, but there was no nail polish. He flexed his fingers, the feminine digits moved in kind. The mental fog began to clear. Feeling a pressure, Jim looked down.
"Hold on, Jim. Don't panic," Ilene said in a soothing voice, hugging him tight. "Don't panic. Yes, they're yours."
Jim looked at his chest, then at her chest. Back and forth, the fog slowly clearing from his mind. His polo shirt was stretched tautly between impossible flesh. He wiggled his shoulders, only to have them both wiggle in kind. Numbly, he reached up to feel one of the peaks that was sending a rough, scratchy sensation. He pinched it. "Owwww!" he hissed.
The pain finally coalesced the distinct sensations from outlying regions into an alarming whole. There was nothing down there. His hips were too wide, his waist too small, and the sight below could only be what breasts looked and felt like, from the inside. Even his hair felt long and heavy. New hormones coursed through his veins, his emotions in such overwhelming turmoil that if this really was reality, and those breasts were real, and that inverted sensation below wasn't just bad acid... She looked up at Ilene's glowing eyes. "I'm... I'm a woman? Why am I a... a woman?" She blinked in confusion. "Wait, am I supposed to be..?"
The witch sounded very sympathetic. "No, Jim, you're not. That's just the Bloom talking. In all likelihood it won't be for long. Just hold tight. Here comes the airport police with the A-EMTs."
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No dream could have hands that cold, Jim decided. "Doctor, did you chill your hands over an air conditioning vent before you started today?" the photographer asked, trying to sound upset, but worried she was coming across as merely bitchy.
"Transformation leaves skin very sensitive, Miss Lambert. It's only partly a result of your sex change," the curly-haired man replied. "You're fortunate that you didn't consume more than half of that second granola bar. That one was treated with a psychoactive curse that could have essentially killed you."
"That's new to me," Jim said, awkwardly folding her arms as the doctor finished with the stethoscope. "I felt a little strange for a while, like this body was almost normal. Now I'm back to feeling things no man should know firsthand."
"Well, you may have to get used to it anyway, in the short term," he said. "Here's my diagnosis as a Medical Arcanist and Doctor. If your friend hadn't arrived when she did your most pressing worry would probably be what color nail polish to wear. Mentally you're fine, there's only a few residuals. Nothing to worry about. In fact, you may get used to your body faster. From your reactions, you still feel like you."
"Me, if I was a brunette woman," Jim grumbled, fidgeting uncomfortably on the hard infirmary bed in the half-open hospital gown. She still couldn't quite believe this was happening. I mean, it happened to other people, sure. But to her... him? Whatever. She still felt very confused. She knew she wasn't supposed to be female, but nevertheless thought of herself as a she. At least for now. "What I'd like to know is why I'm still a sexy brunette woman?"
"You ate the other granola bar fully. And frankly, you're fortunate that you consumed that one first. Otherwise you'd be a woman trapped in a man's body and we would've had no choice but to 'correct' your physical shape. But since it happened the other way around, this physical curse is setting in. We can't undo it without sending off some test results to some specialists and getting a counter-curse made. I'm afraid we'll have to send you home this way, Miss Lambert."
"I wish you wouldn't use 'Miss'. That's a little presumptive," Jim reproved. "Anything from the police yet?" She'd spent over an hour giving them a statement. A mortifying hour in front of a pair of female detectives who couldn't stop snickering. Jim had remained stiffly formal through the whole interview. But the physical exam was worse. "What else?"
"Physically, you're a twenty year old woman, and quite healthy enough to travel. If you want to leave Houston, we can probably send you home on the next plane to wherever you're going."
Jim slid off the exam table, and realized she was a good four inches shorter than the doctor. "Please! No offense, Doctor, but I never want to see Houston again."
He pocketed his stethoscope. "Let me call a nurse in to help you with your clothing, then. You'll need something that fits on the flight home. I'll send her in."
The bra took some time. Jim learned just what those bra measurements actually meant by going through a half dozen before she finally found one that fit. The nurse showed her how to adjust the straps. "Now, how does that feel?" the kindly woman said. "Don't be embarrassed, dear. This is hardly the first time I've seen something like this. Overdosed Bloom addicts get stuck all the time."
"I don't even want to know what that means, frankly," Jim said. "Look, I'm not supposed to have these things, and I doubt I'll have them for very long. So I don't care what you put me in. I just want to go home, okay?" Home. Familiar surroundings. And sleep. Jim felt like she could sleep for two days. A pair of panties, shorts, sneakers, and tee shirt later, she headed for the infirmary door with paperwork in delicate hand.
"Hey, wait!" Ilene called from one of the waiting room chairs. She dropped her magazine and leapt up to meet her before she reached the door. "Don't rush out so fast. Done already?"
"I'm going home," Jim said stiffly. "I'm not dealing with this well. I've been groped in places I didn't have twelve hours ago."
"Where is home, if I may ask?"
"Bellevue, Washington. I just... ugh." It was like Jim's emotions were all crowding in all at once, threatening to make her break down right in front of total strangers.
The witch's green eyes lit up. "Really? I'm heading home myself. Decided to take your advice. Olympia."
That was about seventy miles out of Jim's way, but that they were in the same state was a blessing. "Are we on the same flight? Continental, ten a.m. or so?"
"No, but I don't mind switching. I don't feel right, leaving you alone anyway. Let's get you through security."
"Hold on, Miss Lambert. We have an escort for you," the nurse called.
Their escort turned out to be the same female cop who had flippantly disregarded her concerns the night before. Jim felt like gloating, but with the unhappy look on the cop's face, she knew she'd be lucky to get through the next ten minutes without some kind of defensive rant. Someone had replaced one of the granola bars in that vending machine with one spiked with Tiresias Bloom pollen. Someone who could have "killed" Jim in mind, if not in body. No curse is perfect, and there could have been some small part of her watching in horror as the new persona took over.
"I'll buy my ticket and meet you at the gate, Jim," Ilene said. "Just hold tight."
"Not a word out of you," the cop said stiffly. "Not a single word."
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The airport thronged with people now. Jim sat, hunched over, in a chair between two very large men tapping away on their laptops. She kept her arms folded over her breasts for as long as it was comfortable, but there was a compression that made them sore after a while. The bra wasn't helping, the way the straps dug into her shoulders. To say nothing of the experience of just walking to the gate from the infirmary. They had spoken with the airline, and was with the pre-board group. That was still at least a half hour away.
Then four hours on an airliner.
And a half hour home. Maybe.
Jim looked at the faces of the people around her. Most were absorbed in whatever they were doing. Talking on their cell phones, tapping away on laptops, completely oblivious to the fact that the girl in front of them hadn't been, a few short hours ago. For a moment Jim felt like shouting. Screaming "I'm a man!" to the world at large. Sanity prevailed.
"There you are!" It was Ilene again, waving excitedly. "Come on, Jenny. I've found some better seats."
Jenny? Jim sighed. Fine, whatever. She gathered her now-heavier bags and followed the witch to the two seats she'd claimed nearer the gate. It was quieter over here, and a few burned out lights gave them a little privacy. The twelve year old girl putting nail polish on was the only bad point. The sharp chemical odor was just that bad. And it was the kind of polish that changed color randomly, making the young girl's fingers look like they were flashing in mesmerizing patterns.
"Look, don't call me that," Jim said. "I'm not going to be this way long enough to need it."
"I have to call you something, Jenny. You're making waves enough with a body like that. Whoever made that curse made you thoroughly attractive. What do you think so far?"
"What do I think about what?" Jim said, feigning ignorance.
"About..." Ilene gestured at her chest, and her hips. She seemed genuinely curious.
The new woman sighed and folded her arms again, squishing her breasts. "Later, okay? Once we're on the plane we can talk about it. Maybe."
"I'm way back in Coach, though. It was the only ticket I could get." She leaned closer. "I'm trying to make this an enjoyable experience for you. You may only be a woman a few days and I think you'll benefit from the change in perspective. Female hormones, a female brain, and if I know my Bloom pollen, you'll find yourself acting like one of us anyway. So, what do you think so far? What does it feel like?" Her eyes literally sparkled.
Jim's expression flattened. Whether Ilene was right or not simply didn't matter. The curse would be gone in a few days at most. "This is about my photos, somehow, isn't it?"
"I figured out what you were missing. People."
"Later, okay. I'm just not in the mood," Jim said tersely. She thought of the last quarter mile down the corridor. And the fact that no matter how she moved her arms, they always brushed against her breasts. The way her hips rolled around the strangeness that was now her genitals. It was one thing to read magazine articles about men who did this for recreational purposes. And in some psychotherapy circles it was a popular treatment. Mostly it was just Not Talked About.
It never even occurred to Jim that something like this could happen. Who could do such a thing to someone? A malicious prankster, or something more sinister? Until the counter-curse was finished, Jim's life would be even more a shambles than it was now. Though for the life of her she didn't think it'd impact her photographic skills. But it was going to be much harder to focus on selling photos when she hadn't even looked at herself in a mirror yet.
Jim wasn't going to drink very much until she got in her front door.