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Here it is, the full adventure that my watchers helped construct. Thanks again to everyone who participated, and to 
Mikakitty for the cover art! You can see her ethereal unicorn picture here without the CYOA border.
Vicky knew she should have gone out joyriding in that new car. Her friends had tried to stop her, and Carl had even tried to get her to fill out a life insurance policy naming him as the beneficiary, but she hadn't listened. After all, exams were finally over and what better way to wash the taste of a C- out of her mouth than a drive in her new 2013 Lode Runner XKG?
Granted the XKG line had been the subject of a recall notice and they were notorious for tipping over during tight turns, but Vicky was determined to joyride all the same. Her parents hadn't bought her the car for it to stay in her heated and gated garage, had they?
Things came to a head on Dead Man's Hairpin. Something leaped out in front of the Lode Runner, and Vicky--fearing that one of her fellow Mankind for Ethical Animal Treatment members might find out--swerved hard to avoid the…well, the whatever-it-was.
The Lode Runner fishtailed and flipped over, slamming into a tree and deploying all 17 airbags. Vicky, unharmed due to the Lode Runner's legendary tanklike construction (being made in the former Ngrodny Armor Werks in Eastern Europe), scrambled out of the car. It was leaking vital fluids and had deep, unbuffable scratches in its candy-pink paint.
It wasn't going anywhere, leaving Vicky to ponder what to do next.
If Vicky should hike up the hill to the foreboding old Palmerston mansion, turn to page 117.
If Vicky should hike down the hill to the abandoned GeneCom laboratory, turn to page 20.
If Vicky should stay where she is and attempt to call a tow truck with her cell phone, turn to page 2.
Pg. 20
The abandoned GeneCom laboratory was more likely to have a working phone, since Vicky's Pear pPhone was driven through the Lode Runner's windshield. Or, if not a phone, at least tools suitable for reapplying foundation makeup that had been unacceptably smeared by impact. Vicky trotted over to the laboratory building, vaulting over a No Trespassing sign, sidestepping a Trespassers Will Be Shot (Survivors WIll Be Shot Again) placard, and ignoring the Danger: Biohazard stencil on the loosely hanging door.
Inside, the multi-story lab was lit only by the late afternoon sunshine through its windows, the floor dusty but recently disturbed. Vicky had heard that GeneCom had shuttered the facility after a routine cosmetics test gone horribly wrong and stories of horrible mutants, or at least horrible foundation cream that didn't cover up signs of aging, circulated around her college.
"Hello? Anybody here? My Lode Runner crashed and I have a category 4 makeup emergency!" A distorted echo was Vicky's only response, and she wondered for a moment if she really sounded that whiny un-echoed.
The foyer opened in several directions; Vicky could see a conveyor belt with nozzles and empty bottles to the right; there was a faint glow of electric lights through there. It could be somebody, or it could be a janitor forgetting to flip a switch 20 years ago. To her left, she saw phone and data lines snaking into a room marked "Specimen Storage" with dust-covered cylinders clouded by age just barely visible. Could be a working landline in there, much as Vicky hated the thought of sullying her hands with a wired telephone.
A moment later, the door behind her slammed open and something--a blur, due to its incredible speed--whooshed by Vicky and scrabbled up the steps directly ahead of her--steps labeled "Control Room."
If Vicky should follow the whatever-it-is into the Control Room, turn to page 38.
If Vicky should follow the wires into Specimen Storage, turn to page 13.
If Vicky should follow the lights into the Production Line, turn to page 90.
If Vicky should turn around and go back the way she came, wailing like a six-year-old, turn to page 2.
Page 38
Vicky breathlessly followed the whatever-it-was up the steps toward the Control Room. If there was anything she'd learned from late-night horror movie marathon makeout sessions with Cris DuShay, it was that following mysterious movements and not-quite perceptible figures was always a good idea. It was probably just a cat that needed a good petting, or a janitor that would let her use his cell phone in exchange for sexual favors (she had been very up front with Cris that she was allowed to see other janitors).
The Control Room was a mess. Something had been sleeping there, having made a sort of "nest" in a corner by piling torn-up lab coats on the cots GeneCom had provided for third shift workers to collapse upon. Cans of food from the emergency bunker below the facility had been ripped open and sucked dry, and their empty husks used as tasteful decorations or makeshift latrines (sometimes both).
"I knew this was the right choice," Vicky said to herself. "There's got to be a janitor living here. Why else would the place be such a sty?"
Cracked and fogged windows looked down on Specimen Storage and the Production Line; Vicky could see flashes of membranous wings and mottled fur tails through the suspended animation tubes in the former, and vials of what looked like perfume with epi-pen needles scattered in the latter. Apparently the control room had been used for debugging both; an epi-perfume vial with an illegible note scrawled on it, a miniature suspended animation vat with nothing but fluid remaining, and a half-empty box of unlabeled pills (probably from one of the production floor crates) were sitting on the master control panel.
Something shifted in the shadows near the dark half of the Control Room, and Vicky felt something whiz by her head, shattering on the floor behind her as whatever had thrown it scuttled through the control room exit. Whatever had been chucked had cut Vicky very lightly on one ear; she could feel a little blood oozing down, but there wasn't any pain--just more of a tingling sensation. Well, that and the sudden jerky dance her ears began to do, like a drunken freshman at 2am.
Vicky looked at her reflection in the mirror, her jaw slack as first the cut ear and then its twin pulled themselves into larger, pointed form. "Oh my God!" she cried, feeling the points to make sure they were real. "Oh my God, I look hideous! Like a Vulcan from Star Wars!" Science fiction had never been her strong suit.
Panicking, Vicky looked at the materials on the desk. One of them had to be some kind of pointed-ear antidote, right?
If Vicky should inject herself with the epi-perfume thing, turn to page 83.
If Vicky should douse herself with the suspended animation fluid, turn to page 31.
If Vicky should swallow one of the unmarked pills, turn to page 9.
If Vicky should leave the way she came in, thankful that she is now 1000% more attractive to Star Trek nerds, turn to page 2.
Page 83
Pointy ears were like an allergy, right? And you took an epi-pen for allergies, right? So, naturally, the "epi-perfume" thing would cure Vicky being allergic to pointy ears just like the one in her purse back in the Lode Runner would cure her of hives if she ate water chestnuts, right?
It made sense enough to Vicky, who snatched up the "epi-perfume" injector and jabbed it into her arm. It didn't sting much, not any more then the just-in-case Botox injections Vicky got every other month, and the vial emptied itself into her bloodstream relatively quickly. Nothing happened for a moment, and then Vicky was overwhelmed with the taste of delicious beef tenderloin with tomato sauce and green beans. Had the "epi-perfume" been some kind of meal in a needle, giving all of the flavor and none of the fat? Vicky could get behind that.
But that wasn't all it did. A burning, prickling sensation started to spread from the injection site, and a moment later hair began to sprout along Vicky's arm. It spread like a rumor at a boozy college party, and Vicky could feel it tickling its way up her arm and over the rest of her body. It was, like the hair on her head, platinum blonde, if somewhat more downy; Vicky frantically tried to scratch, peel, or pull it off--her kit for such was still at home. Barring that, she tried to cup her hands along her arm to stop the hairy tide through careful squeezing, but nothing worked. It took only moments for her entire form to be covered.
"Oh my gawd," Vikcy shrieked. "I look like a…a sasquatch, or a…a European!"
Whatever she'd introduced into her system wasn't done, though. Vicky had noticed her jeans getting tighter, but had been too busy trying to combat her new coat to pay it much mind. She certainly noticed when something tore through the seam just below her tattoo, though (the tattoo, which was supposed to say "cutie pie" in Tamil but actually said "century egg, had been swallowed by blonde fuzz). It was a little nub of a tail, about as long as her hand, and it waggled about vigorously now that it was free of cruel constraining denim.
That seemed to be all the epi-perfume had in it for now; Vicky could only examine herself in the Control Room glass, distraught, until she heard something coming from the other direction, the way she'd come in. Horrified that a human being, even a smelly old janitor, might see her like this, Vicky ran out the back exit and down the steps, looking for someplace to hide until she could perform emergency waxing and tucking. A repair bay with disassembled machinery from the Production Line was on her right, some kind of filling station for the suspended animation tubes labeled the Specimen Dispensery was to her left, and dead ahead was the Refuse Room piled high with garbage.
If Vicky should run through the Production Line Repair Bay and chance nicking herself on something sharp, turn to page 11.
If Vicky should charge headlong into the Specimen Dispensery at the risk of a major spill, turn to page 56.
If Vicky should wade into the Refuse Room among discarded bits from throughout GeneCom's supply chain, turn to page 100.
If Vicky should go back the way she came and face whatever was approaching her, turn to page 2.
Page 100
Garbage in, garbage out. Vicky had never understood that phrase, which her computer teacher had used during high school parent-teacher conferences. But the mountain of garbage in the Refuse Room ahead was clearly her only way out of the predicament of possibly being seen hairy, pointy-eared, and nub-tailed by anything other than a licensed cosmetologist. So she kicked open the door that was hanging limply on its hinges and waded in.
The place was heaped with refuse from the other areas of the GeneCom lab, with discarded epi-perfumes, specimen vials, and other (even stranger) equipment in addition to the used coffee ground and candy bar wrappers one expected to find. An overhead lamp, the only one, flickered and sparked. The footsteps behind her paused, unable (or perhaps just unwilling) to track Vicky through the mound of crud she was skirting, and moved off in another direction. Vicky jumped for joy at the sound, and landed squarely on something that jabbed her in the ankle.
"Ow!" Vicky cried. Her sneakers suddenly felt extremely tight, and she thought for a panicked moment that the needle which had poked her had been filled with water chestnuts. Instead, she watched as the seams of her expensive Nikeah sneaker strained and snapped, undoing the stitchwork of a hundred Siamese orphans. Sharp points writhed within her sock, which held out a moment longer before bursting to reveal scales and claws. The Kardashian Kreme polish Vicky wore flaked off in chunks as her foot rearranged itself into a decidedly reptilian configuration. The other followed suit a moment later, showering Vicky with bits of fabric and plastic.
"Aah!" She stumbled backwards on her new appendages and knocked over a mound of trash behind her. A cracked suspension tube had been laid across it, and it doused her with some kind of liquid before shattering on the ground. The lights went dim for a moment, leaving Vicky to sputter beneath whatever she'd tipped over. It ignited a terrible storm of cramps and pain, accompanied by the same cracking and snapping Vicky had once heard from Steve Castle, who had died from acute boneitis in high school. She felt her ears slither to even more freakish lengths as her entire face pressed outward. She'd been complimented for her cheekbones; in a moment Vicky was all cheekbone as her fine features were distorted into an equine muzzle.
Stumbling toward the exit in the near dark, Vicky grazed herself on something else before emerging into the light beyond, the loading dock area. Her new tail wriggled and writhed frantically beginning to snap and pop itself. "Oh, no, not you too, little tail…" Vicky moaned. In response, it grew six inches and the blonde hair flashed to scales, with the tiniest hint of fins emerging at the end.
Throughout her painful metamorphic debacle in the Refuse Room, Vicky held out hope that a really good plastic surgeon could get her out of it.
If Vicky should leave the GeneCom labs through the loading dock, turn to page 27.
If Vicky should try to leave through the Production Line, turn to page 19.
If Vicky should try to leave through Specimen Storage, turn to page 31.
If Vicky should wait where she is, turn to page 3.
Page 31
Vicky ran through Specimen Storage. She had avoided it earlier, but now she could see that each of the silvery tubes contained a bizarre chimera in suspended animation. Monkeybirds, octoparrots, jackelopes, giraffe-dogs, fish-flies…Vicky paused for a moment to contemplate how they might make good designer handbag pets, especially the smaller ones, before catching a glimpse of her reflection in the glass and stumbling away. Couldn't have those monstrosities talking smack about her new look behnd her back, after all…
A group of vials were set on one of the counters near what looked like a "filling station." Their labels were cracked and faded, but Vicky could make out "EQUISOL: equine solution," "ICTHYSOL: piscene solution," and "SAUROSOL: saurian solution."
"Oh, a solution! Thank goodness they put these out," Vicky breathed through her muzzle. "I'll just take these and they'll solve everything." She cracked open their tops on the side of the counter and poured the contents into an abandoned "Girls Love Splice Guys" jumbo mug. She toasted an armadillo-bat in the nearest specimen jar and downed the mixture, which tasted like a combination of blueberries and sadness.
Her first sign that it was working was her jeans self-destructing; Vicky watched, stunned, as scales appeared in the rapidly widening tears in her pants. "No, no! It was supposed to solve that! Solve it!" Ignoring her, Vicky's legs kept growing in both scaliness and muscle mass. Her feet pushed themselves forward with tendons shrieking and snapping, forcing her to awkwardly assume a digitigrade stance (of course, Vicky wouldn't have known digitigrade and plantigrade from the 1984 film Making the Grade).
As she wobbled to remain upright, her tail finally decided what it wanted to be when it grew up, and assisted in the demolition of her expensive jeans by shooting out to easily five or six feet in length. Writhing as it grew, a semi-tranparent fin appeared in the middle and unfolded wetly at the end. Gasping for breath, with only her surprisingly extensible panda-bear-print panties covering her lower half. Vicky leaned against one of the tubes as her neck spasmed its way into a proportionately equine length; the corresponding changes in her upper musculature caused her blouse to strain at its buttons.
The tube (containing an antelope-wolf) wobbled; it had cracked at the top, and Vicky found herself doused with a dribble of still more suspension liquid. She grabbed her forehead, which knobbed and kneaded at her touch as two strong but stout horns erupted, and her hands--still mostly human aside from the hair--came away wet. They trembled uncontrollably after a minute, shaking themselves into quasi-canine paws; the last of Vicky's Kardashian Kreme polish was lost as her nails thickened and sharpened, but she was almost as horrified to see the dark and cracked pads emerging on her fingertips and palms--appearing like nothing so much as severely sun-damaged skin.
"M-Mexico…Mexican plastic surgeon…that's all I need…that's what I need." Vicky muttered numbly to herself. "That and…lotion. Lots and lots of…lotion…"
If Vicky should seek refuge under the Specimen Storage drain, turn to page 40.
If Vicky should hide in the Fluid Distribution Pump closet, turn to page 8.
If Vicky should flee into the Production Line, turn to page 25
If Vicky should stay where she is and wait for the surgeon/lotion to come to her, turn to page 2.
Page 25
The Production Line was accessible through a dark tunnel beneath the elevated Control Room. It was full of the "epi-perfume" vials filled with liquids of different colors and at various stages of manufacture; numb as she was with the shock of seeing and moving in her new body, Vicky was glad she hadn't wandered through there before--there were altogether too many sharp needles ready to give her a goat's beard or tyrannosaurus arms or heaven only knew what else.
A definite rustling was audible--whatever had been following Vicky through GeneCom was close. Really close. Like, right next to her close. Vicky let out a whinny from her relatively unfamiliar muzzle as a shape erupted from the shadows behind a conveyor belt, epi-perfumes in hand. Before Vicky could react, or even get a good look, she'd been jabbed multiple times.
"Urrgh…what…agh!" she cried. Her tail grew even longer, even thicker, now at least as long as the rest of her body combined, with fresh fins splatting wetly into being. Legs too expanded, gaining length and girth and thickly corded muscle. The panda panties were overwhelmed, and went away in a flash of white, black, and pink confetti. Vicky's torso strained once more against her blouse before the expensive fabric pulled apart at weak spots on her back and bust, then peeled off like onion skin. She was not thickly furred to her abdomen, where the fuzz gave way to scales on her clawed legs and now-vast tail, while her petite B+ cups were now considerably further down the alphabet.
Vicky looked like nothing so much as a hippocampus of old, though of course she had never encountered that term and would have thought it some kind of finishing school for hippopotamuses if she had.
"What…why did you do that, you jerk?" Vicky cried, pushing her assailant. The creature had an eagle's head, lizardlike hand-claws, and legs ending in hooves, with the scales, feathers, and fur all of the same basic platinum hue and smoothly blended much as the transition between Vicky's own textures. It was wearing a tattered Oceanside State letter jacket, and a class ring on a chain around its neck.
"C…Cris? Cris DuShay? Is that you?" Vicky gasped.
"Yes, it's me," the creature said, in the voice of the Oceanside State lacrosse player that Vicky had been seeing on and off and on and off since sophomore year. "The brothers at Phi Alpha Duush have to spend the night in here as part of our senior ritual, and I accidentally got horribly mutated last week."
"W-why didn't you call?" Vicky cried.
"Because I knew that sooner or later you'd come down that road angry about something and I could crash you and mutate you so we could be together," Cris said, his eyes soulful.
"That makes perfect sense!" Vicky cried. "It doesn't matter that we're horrible freaks of nature, as long as we're together!"
"That's the spirit!" The "hippocampus" and the "hippogriff" embraced, and began the walk out, claw-in-paw.
"Let's grab some of these things for later," Vicky said as an afterthought. "We can mutate ourselves up a whole Greek organization!"
The End
Mikakitty for the cover art! You can see her ethereal unicorn picture here without the CYOA border.Vicky knew she should have gone out joyriding in that new car. Her friends had tried to stop her, and Carl had even tried to get her to fill out a life insurance policy naming him as the beneficiary, but she hadn't listened. After all, exams were finally over and what better way to wash the taste of a C- out of her mouth than a drive in her new 2013 Lode Runner XKG?
Granted the XKG line had been the subject of a recall notice and they were notorious for tipping over during tight turns, but Vicky was determined to joyride all the same. Her parents hadn't bought her the car for it to stay in her heated and gated garage, had they?
Things came to a head on Dead Man's Hairpin. Something leaped out in front of the Lode Runner, and Vicky--fearing that one of her fellow Mankind for Ethical Animal Treatment members might find out--swerved hard to avoid the…well, the whatever-it-was.
The Lode Runner fishtailed and flipped over, slamming into a tree and deploying all 17 airbags. Vicky, unharmed due to the Lode Runner's legendary tanklike construction (being made in the former Ngrodny Armor Werks in Eastern Europe), scrambled out of the car. It was leaking vital fluids and had deep, unbuffable scratches in its candy-pink paint.
It wasn't going anywhere, leaving Vicky to ponder what to do next.
If Vicky should hike up the hill to the foreboding old Palmerston mansion, turn to page 117.
If Vicky should hike down the hill to the abandoned GeneCom laboratory, turn to page 20.
If Vicky should stay where she is and attempt to call a tow truck with her cell phone, turn to page 2.
Pg. 20
The abandoned GeneCom laboratory was more likely to have a working phone, since Vicky's Pear pPhone was driven through the Lode Runner's windshield. Or, if not a phone, at least tools suitable for reapplying foundation makeup that had been unacceptably smeared by impact. Vicky trotted over to the laboratory building, vaulting over a No Trespassing sign, sidestepping a Trespassers Will Be Shot (Survivors WIll Be Shot Again) placard, and ignoring the Danger: Biohazard stencil on the loosely hanging door.
Inside, the multi-story lab was lit only by the late afternoon sunshine through its windows, the floor dusty but recently disturbed. Vicky had heard that GeneCom had shuttered the facility after a routine cosmetics test gone horribly wrong and stories of horrible mutants, or at least horrible foundation cream that didn't cover up signs of aging, circulated around her college.
"Hello? Anybody here? My Lode Runner crashed and I have a category 4 makeup emergency!" A distorted echo was Vicky's only response, and she wondered for a moment if she really sounded that whiny un-echoed.
The foyer opened in several directions; Vicky could see a conveyor belt with nozzles and empty bottles to the right; there was a faint glow of electric lights through there. It could be somebody, or it could be a janitor forgetting to flip a switch 20 years ago. To her left, she saw phone and data lines snaking into a room marked "Specimen Storage" with dust-covered cylinders clouded by age just barely visible. Could be a working landline in there, much as Vicky hated the thought of sullying her hands with a wired telephone.
A moment later, the door behind her slammed open and something--a blur, due to its incredible speed--whooshed by Vicky and scrabbled up the steps directly ahead of her--steps labeled "Control Room."
If Vicky should follow the whatever-it-is into the Control Room, turn to page 38.
If Vicky should follow the wires into Specimen Storage, turn to page 13.
If Vicky should follow the lights into the Production Line, turn to page 90.
If Vicky should turn around and go back the way she came, wailing like a six-year-old, turn to page 2.
Page 38
Vicky breathlessly followed the whatever-it-was up the steps toward the Control Room. If there was anything she'd learned from late-night horror movie marathon makeout sessions with Cris DuShay, it was that following mysterious movements and not-quite perceptible figures was always a good idea. It was probably just a cat that needed a good petting, or a janitor that would let her use his cell phone in exchange for sexual favors (she had been very up front with Cris that she was allowed to see other janitors).
The Control Room was a mess. Something had been sleeping there, having made a sort of "nest" in a corner by piling torn-up lab coats on the cots GeneCom had provided for third shift workers to collapse upon. Cans of food from the emergency bunker below the facility had been ripped open and sucked dry, and their empty husks used as tasteful decorations or makeshift latrines (sometimes both).
"I knew this was the right choice," Vicky said to herself. "There's got to be a janitor living here. Why else would the place be such a sty?"
Cracked and fogged windows looked down on Specimen Storage and the Production Line; Vicky could see flashes of membranous wings and mottled fur tails through the suspended animation tubes in the former, and vials of what looked like perfume with epi-pen needles scattered in the latter. Apparently the control room had been used for debugging both; an epi-perfume vial with an illegible note scrawled on it, a miniature suspended animation vat with nothing but fluid remaining, and a half-empty box of unlabeled pills (probably from one of the production floor crates) were sitting on the master control panel.
Something shifted in the shadows near the dark half of the Control Room, and Vicky felt something whiz by her head, shattering on the floor behind her as whatever had thrown it scuttled through the control room exit. Whatever had been chucked had cut Vicky very lightly on one ear; she could feel a little blood oozing down, but there wasn't any pain--just more of a tingling sensation. Well, that and the sudden jerky dance her ears began to do, like a drunken freshman at 2am.
Vicky looked at her reflection in the mirror, her jaw slack as first the cut ear and then its twin pulled themselves into larger, pointed form. "Oh my God!" she cried, feeling the points to make sure they were real. "Oh my God, I look hideous! Like a Vulcan from Star Wars!" Science fiction had never been her strong suit.
Panicking, Vicky looked at the materials on the desk. One of them had to be some kind of pointed-ear antidote, right?
If Vicky should inject herself with the epi-perfume thing, turn to page 83.
If Vicky should douse herself with the suspended animation fluid, turn to page 31.
If Vicky should swallow one of the unmarked pills, turn to page 9.
If Vicky should leave the way she came in, thankful that she is now 1000% more attractive to Star Trek nerds, turn to page 2.
Page 83
Pointy ears were like an allergy, right? And you took an epi-pen for allergies, right? So, naturally, the "epi-perfume" thing would cure Vicky being allergic to pointy ears just like the one in her purse back in the Lode Runner would cure her of hives if she ate water chestnuts, right?
It made sense enough to Vicky, who snatched up the "epi-perfume" injector and jabbed it into her arm. It didn't sting much, not any more then the just-in-case Botox injections Vicky got every other month, and the vial emptied itself into her bloodstream relatively quickly. Nothing happened for a moment, and then Vicky was overwhelmed with the taste of delicious beef tenderloin with tomato sauce and green beans. Had the "epi-perfume" been some kind of meal in a needle, giving all of the flavor and none of the fat? Vicky could get behind that.
But that wasn't all it did. A burning, prickling sensation started to spread from the injection site, and a moment later hair began to sprout along Vicky's arm. It spread like a rumor at a boozy college party, and Vicky could feel it tickling its way up her arm and over the rest of her body. It was, like the hair on her head, platinum blonde, if somewhat more downy; Vicky frantically tried to scratch, peel, or pull it off--her kit for such was still at home. Barring that, she tried to cup her hands along her arm to stop the hairy tide through careful squeezing, but nothing worked. It took only moments for her entire form to be covered.
"Oh my gawd," Vikcy shrieked. "I look like a…a sasquatch, or a…a European!"
Whatever she'd introduced into her system wasn't done, though. Vicky had noticed her jeans getting tighter, but had been too busy trying to combat her new coat to pay it much mind. She certainly noticed when something tore through the seam just below her tattoo, though (the tattoo, which was supposed to say "cutie pie" in Tamil but actually said "century egg, had been swallowed by blonde fuzz). It was a little nub of a tail, about as long as her hand, and it waggled about vigorously now that it was free of cruel constraining denim.
That seemed to be all the epi-perfume had in it for now; Vicky could only examine herself in the Control Room glass, distraught, until she heard something coming from the other direction, the way she'd come in. Horrified that a human being, even a smelly old janitor, might see her like this, Vicky ran out the back exit and down the steps, looking for someplace to hide until she could perform emergency waxing and tucking. A repair bay with disassembled machinery from the Production Line was on her right, some kind of filling station for the suspended animation tubes labeled the Specimen Dispensery was to her left, and dead ahead was the Refuse Room piled high with garbage.
If Vicky should run through the Production Line Repair Bay and chance nicking herself on something sharp, turn to page 11.
If Vicky should charge headlong into the Specimen Dispensery at the risk of a major spill, turn to page 56.
If Vicky should wade into the Refuse Room among discarded bits from throughout GeneCom's supply chain, turn to page 100.
If Vicky should go back the way she came and face whatever was approaching her, turn to page 2.
Page 100
Garbage in, garbage out. Vicky had never understood that phrase, which her computer teacher had used during high school parent-teacher conferences. But the mountain of garbage in the Refuse Room ahead was clearly her only way out of the predicament of possibly being seen hairy, pointy-eared, and nub-tailed by anything other than a licensed cosmetologist. So she kicked open the door that was hanging limply on its hinges and waded in.
The place was heaped with refuse from the other areas of the GeneCom lab, with discarded epi-perfumes, specimen vials, and other (even stranger) equipment in addition to the used coffee ground and candy bar wrappers one expected to find. An overhead lamp, the only one, flickered and sparked. The footsteps behind her paused, unable (or perhaps just unwilling) to track Vicky through the mound of crud she was skirting, and moved off in another direction. Vicky jumped for joy at the sound, and landed squarely on something that jabbed her in the ankle.
"Ow!" Vicky cried. Her sneakers suddenly felt extremely tight, and she thought for a panicked moment that the needle which had poked her had been filled with water chestnuts. Instead, she watched as the seams of her expensive Nikeah sneaker strained and snapped, undoing the stitchwork of a hundred Siamese orphans. Sharp points writhed within her sock, which held out a moment longer before bursting to reveal scales and claws. The Kardashian Kreme polish Vicky wore flaked off in chunks as her foot rearranged itself into a decidedly reptilian configuration. The other followed suit a moment later, showering Vicky with bits of fabric and plastic.
"Aah!" She stumbled backwards on her new appendages and knocked over a mound of trash behind her. A cracked suspension tube had been laid across it, and it doused her with some kind of liquid before shattering on the ground. The lights went dim for a moment, leaving Vicky to sputter beneath whatever she'd tipped over. It ignited a terrible storm of cramps and pain, accompanied by the same cracking and snapping Vicky had once heard from Steve Castle, who had died from acute boneitis in high school. She felt her ears slither to even more freakish lengths as her entire face pressed outward. She'd been complimented for her cheekbones; in a moment Vicky was all cheekbone as her fine features were distorted into an equine muzzle.
Stumbling toward the exit in the near dark, Vicky grazed herself on something else before emerging into the light beyond, the loading dock area. Her new tail wriggled and writhed frantically beginning to snap and pop itself. "Oh, no, not you too, little tail…" Vicky moaned. In response, it grew six inches and the blonde hair flashed to scales, with the tiniest hint of fins emerging at the end.
Throughout her painful metamorphic debacle in the Refuse Room, Vicky held out hope that a really good plastic surgeon could get her out of it.
If Vicky should leave the GeneCom labs through the loading dock, turn to page 27.
If Vicky should try to leave through the Production Line, turn to page 19.
If Vicky should try to leave through Specimen Storage, turn to page 31.
If Vicky should wait where she is, turn to page 3.
Page 31
Vicky ran through Specimen Storage. She had avoided it earlier, but now she could see that each of the silvery tubes contained a bizarre chimera in suspended animation. Monkeybirds, octoparrots, jackelopes, giraffe-dogs, fish-flies…Vicky paused for a moment to contemplate how they might make good designer handbag pets, especially the smaller ones, before catching a glimpse of her reflection in the glass and stumbling away. Couldn't have those monstrosities talking smack about her new look behnd her back, after all…
A group of vials were set on one of the counters near what looked like a "filling station." Their labels were cracked and faded, but Vicky could make out "EQUISOL: equine solution," "ICTHYSOL: piscene solution," and "SAUROSOL: saurian solution."
"Oh, a solution! Thank goodness they put these out," Vicky breathed through her muzzle. "I'll just take these and they'll solve everything." She cracked open their tops on the side of the counter and poured the contents into an abandoned "Girls Love Splice Guys" jumbo mug. She toasted an armadillo-bat in the nearest specimen jar and downed the mixture, which tasted like a combination of blueberries and sadness.
Her first sign that it was working was her jeans self-destructing; Vicky watched, stunned, as scales appeared in the rapidly widening tears in her pants. "No, no! It was supposed to solve that! Solve it!" Ignoring her, Vicky's legs kept growing in both scaliness and muscle mass. Her feet pushed themselves forward with tendons shrieking and snapping, forcing her to awkwardly assume a digitigrade stance (of course, Vicky wouldn't have known digitigrade and plantigrade from the 1984 film Making the Grade).
As she wobbled to remain upright, her tail finally decided what it wanted to be when it grew up, and assisted in the demolition of her expensive jeans by shooting out to easily five or six feet in length. Writhing as it grew, a semi-tranparent fin appeared in the middle and unfolded wetly at the end. Gasping for breath, with only her surprisingly extensible panda-bear-print panties covering her lower half. Vicky leaned against one of the tubes as her neck spasmed its way into a proportionately equine length; the corresponding changes in her upper musculature caused her blouse to strain at its buttons.
The tube (containing an antelope-wolf) wobbled; it had cracked at the top, and Vicky found herself doused with a dribble of still more suspension liquid. She grabbed her forehead, which knobbed and kneaded at her touch as two strong but stout horns erupted, and her hands--still mostly human aside from the hair--came away wet. They trembled uncontrollably after a minute, shaking themselves into quasi-canine paws; the last of Vicky's Kardashian Kreme polish was lost as her nails thickened and sharpened, but she was almost as horrified to see the dark and cracked pads emerging on her fingertips and palms--appearing like nothing so much as severely sun-damaged skin.
"M-Mexico…Mexican plastic surgeon…that's all I need…that's what I need." Vicky muttered numbly to herself. "That and…lotion. Lots and lots of…lotion…"
If Vicky should seek refuge under the Specimen Storage drain, turn to page 40.
If Vicky should hide in the Fluid Distribution Pump closet, turn to page 8.
If Vicky should flee into the Production Line, turn to page 25
If Vicky should stay where she is and wait for the surgeon/lotion to come to her, turn to page 2.
Page 25
The Production Line was accessible through a dark tunnel beneath the elevated Control Room. It was full of the "epi-perfume" vials filled with liquids of different colors and at various stages of manufacture; numb as she was with the shock of seeing and moving in her new body, Vicky was glad she hadn't wandered through there before--there were altogether too many sharp needles ready to give her a goat's beard or tyrannosaurus arms or heaven only knew what else.
A definite rustling was audible--whatever had been following Vicky through GeneCom was close. Really close. Like, right next to her close. Vicky let out a whinny from her relatively unfamiliar muzzle as a shape erupted from the shadows behind a conveyor belt, epi-perfumes in hand. Before Vicky could react, or even get a good look, she'd been jabbed multiple times.
"Urrgh…what…agh!" she cried. Her tail grew even longer, even thicker, now at least as long as the rest of her body combined, with fresh fins splatting wetly into being. Legs too expanded, gaining length and girth and thickly corded muscle. The panda panties were overwhelmed, and went away in a flash of white, black, and pink confetti. Vicky's torso strained once more against her blouse before the expensive fabric pulled apart at weak spots on her back and bust, then peeled off like onion skin. She was not thickly furred to her abdomen, where the fuzz gave way to scales on her clawed legs and now-vast tail, while her petite B+ cups were now considerably further down the alphabet.
Vicky looked like nothing so much as a hippocampus of old, though of course she had never encountered that term and would have thought it some kind of finishing school for hippopotamuses if she had.
"What…why did you do that, you jerk?" Vicky cried, pushing her assailant. The creature had an eagle's head, lizardlike hand-claws, and legs ending in hooves, with the scales, feathers, and fur all of the same basic platinum hue and smoothly blended much as the transition between Vicky's own textures. It was wearing a tattered Oceanside State letter jacket, and a class ring on a chain around its neck.
"C…Cris? Cris DuShay? Is that you?" Vicky gasped.
"Yes, it's me," the creature said, in the voice of the Oceanside State lacrosse player that Vicky had been seeing on and off and on and off since sophomore year. "The brothers at Phi Alpha Duush have to spend the night in here as part of our senior ritual, and I accidentally got horribly mutated last week."
"W-why didn't you call?" Vicky cried.
"Because I knew that sooner or later you'd come down that road angry about something and I could crash you and mutate you so we could be together," Cris said, his eyes soulful.
"That makes perfect sense!" Vicky cried. "It doesn't matter that we're horrible freaks of nature, as long as we're together!"
"That's the spirit!" The "hippocampus" and the "hippogriff" embraced, and began the walk out, claw-in-paw.
"Let's grab some of these things for later," Vicky said as an afterthought. "We can mutate ourselves up a whole Greek organization!"
The End
Category Story / Transformation
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 772 x 1280px
File Size 174.3 kB
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