Integrity Lock Engaged The Remote of Transformation chapter 8 by ThePanswapticon

Back in the lab corner, the Morphisizer sulked in standby. Red error strings crawled the main display.

BIOMETRIC INTEGRITY LOCK: ENGAGED.

REVERSAL REQUIRES CLEAN BASELINE.

BASELINE FOUND: ETHAN_Q_FULLSCAN_A01 // STATUS: INCOMPATIBLE // ACTIVE FORM SIGNATURE OVERRIDE.

He had the baseline. External drive still in its port. The lock refused it because the machine read his current body as the session owner and shut the channel.

He punched for admin bypass.

AUTH REQUIRED: DNA + NEURAL MESH ALIGN.

DNA he could scrape—hair in the old brush, nail bits jar, skin all over the bedsheet. Neural mesh? Screwed. The Morphisizer had re‑keyed to the cranial metrics it grabbed after the blast. Wrong skull, wrong map.

He smacked the casing. His breasts jostled. He fought a fresh rush of arousal because apparently anger now translated to nipple heat.

Fine. Tomorrow. Sleep first. Then figure out how to not orgasm walking downstairs.

His phone pinged.

Marcus: Yo, load‑in for the fair moved to 7:30. Don’t be late or Linh steals your outlet.

Another ping.

Marcus: You good?

Ethan thumbed reply, mis‑hit keys thanks to long nails. He snapped a quick pic to prove he was “busy with last‑minute testing,” meaning he tried to shoot the Morphisizer. He forgot the front camera was active.

He sent a perfect shot of his new cleavage, sweat‑shiny and hard, framed by messed‑up hair and wide “oh shit” eyes.

Three dots. Pause.

Marcus: …who dis

Another pause.

Marcus: Bro??

He scrambled.

Ethan: Prototype mishap. NDA. Don’t freak.

Marcus: I’m freaking. Also nice rack.
Ethan: Focus. Need covering story.
Marcus: Need numbers. You okay?
Ethan: Define okay.

He dropped the phone and paced. The bounce alone dragged his attention south again. He pressed an arm across his chest. Didn’t help. Everything rubbed everything.

A knock hit his bedroom door. Mom’s voice through wood.

“You need food before you short out in there?”

He froze. Heart spiked. Shirt clung transparent and wet. The room reeked of sex and ozone.

“Uh—busy calibrating.” He pitched his voice lower; it still came out smoky feminine.

“You sick?”

“Just tired. Don’t come in. Radiation.”

“Radiation? Ethan!”

“Kidding! Not radiation. Ion—steam. Naked wires. Please.”

Silence. Footsteps retreated. He slumped, knees shaking. Close.