Same Old Walcott, New Look The Remote of Transformation chapter 5 by deleted_user

Ethan stared at his reflection, the six-pack of Coors Light in his nervous grip. He had a job to do. Mr. Walcott, or whatever he was now, was just across the lawn. The man—now a woman—was a jazz lover. The music was already blasting from his house, a smooth trumpet solo cutting through the suburban calm. Ethan took a deep breath and marched across the street.

He knocked on the front door, the cans rattling against each other. The music stopped. The door creaked open.

There stood Mr. Walcott. He was a perfect ten on the outside, but he was still the same old grump inside. He was wearing a faded band t-shirt that hung loose and a pair of cargo shorts that still had some kind of stain on the thigh. But the shirt wasn't hiding the full, high breasts beneath, and the shorts did nothing to disguise the long, muscular legs and a surprisingly tight butt. He had a face etched with the same frown lines Ethan had seen a thousand times.

"What do you want, kid?" he grunted, folding his arms across his chest. The motion made his new biceps ripple.

Ethan stammered, holding up the beer. "I-I just thought you might want a beer. You know, to, uh, beat the heat."

Mr. Walcott's eyes narrowed, studying the six-pack and then Ethan's face. A hint of a smile touched the corner of his lips. "What'd you do, break one of my windows again?"

"No!" Ethan blurted out. "I just... felt like being a good neighbor."

Mr. Walcott let out a short, sharp laugh and stepped aside. "Get in here."

The house smelled like stale cigar smoke and old books. Nothing had changed. The same worn-out leather sofa and creaky armchair. Photos of a younger, mustachioed Mr. Walcott in a military uniform lined the mantelpiece.

"Got any money on you?" he said, plopping down on the sofa with a groan that seemed to echo in the wrong way.

Ethan, his mind reeling, pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. Mr. Walcott took the money without a word and pointed at Ethan.

"Sit," he commanded. Ethan sank into the armchair.

As he twisted the cap off one of the beers, Ethan couldn't help but notice the small, unladylike behaviors. Mr. Walcott scratched his butt, then sniffed his fingers. He belched loudly after taking a long swig of beer. It was like watching a beautiful, exotic bird trying to act like a construction worker.

"So, you just gonna sit there and stare at me, or are we gonna talk?" he asked, taking another long drink.

Ethan cleared his throat. "I, uh… I saw you out in the yard earlier. Did you… feel anything strange?"

Mr. Walcott cocked his head, a thoughtful look on his face. "Strange? Yeah. A few minutes ago, my gut felt a little weird. Like that potato salad from the grocery store. Gave me gas." He patted his flat, toned stomach.

Ethan cleared his throat. "I meant, like... did you feel any different in your body? Like, did anything change?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes darting between Walcott’s face and the curve of his—her—chest.

Walcott stopped scratching his ear and looked at Ethan like he was a few fries short of a Happy Meal. "Change? What are you talking about, kid? I'm the same as I ever was. A little older, a little slower, but that’s just how it goes." He took another long swig of beer, then let out a sigh of contentment, resting the can on his stomach—which was, jarringly, as flat as a tabletop. "Speaking of old, my back's been acting up. Must've slept on it funny last night."

Ethan's mind raced. He was looking at a living paradox. A man who was a woman but was completely unaware of it. It was like a bug in the universe, one that only he could see.

"But... look at yourself," Ethan urged, gesturing vaguely. "Do you see anything different?"

Walcott squinted down at his body. He looked at the t-shirt, the shorts, and the shapely legs stretched out in front of him. "It's the same clothes I had on this morning. You think I’m gonna go gallivanting around in some new get-up? My wife would kill me. God rest her soul." He paused, looking nostalgic. "She liked to go shopping. All those shoes… a guy can't keep up with that."

Ethan felt a knot of frustration tighten in his stomach. The Morphisizer didn’t just change the body—it changed the user’s memory of their body. It was a complete, top-to-bottom rewrite of reality. Walcott didn’t think anything was odd because to him, nothing was. His mind had simply filled in the blanks, convincing him that the legs were his, the shirt was his, and the breasts beneath were just… part of him.

"So," Ethan said slowly, "you don't feel… heavier? Lighter? Nothing at all?"

Walcott grunted. "The beer's filling me up, I'll give you that." He patted his stomach again, then let out a small burp. He looked at Ethan with suspicion. "You know, you're being a little weird, kid. What's the deal? You spying on me or something?"

Ethan shook his head quickly. "No! I just… you seemed different from over there." He gestured vaguely toward his own house.

Walcott finished his beer and crushed the can in his hand with a satisfying pop. "Well, I can tell you right now, I'm the same man I was this morning. Now if you'll excuse me, I got a new episode of Pawn Stars to catch up on." He stood, the motion a little less graceful than it should have been. As he turned to walk away, Ethan got a full view of his new form: the tight butt, the surprisingly graceful curve of his back, and the broad shoulders that had once been Mr. Walcott's, but were now so perfectly suited for this new body.

Ethan felt a strange mix of awe and terror.