Eli stared at his reflection, brows furrowed.
Okay. New parameters. Unexpected subject transfer. Unknown duration. Immediate goal: restoration. Secondary goal: record everything before he forgot.
Eli stood in front of the mirror, eyes sharp behind Sabrina’s long lashes. His breath had evened out. His hands, delicate and feminine now, moved purposefully as he adjusted the collar of the too-tight pink crop top.
He didn’t panic. He didn’t scream. Not because he wasn’t freaking out—he absolutely was—but because he was a scientist. A horny, awkward seventeen-year-old scientist, yes. But still. Process over panic.
“Okay,” he muttered, tapping a fingernail against his phone screen as he pulled up his notes, “consciousness resonance field appears to have imprinted onto the target biological matrix—Sabrina Cross—suggesting either quantum state mimicry or an actual consciousness transposition. Subject: me. Body: hers. Time: 10:22 AM.”
He glanced back at the mirror. The girl staring back at him was flawless. Sabrina had legs for miles, the kind that curved slightly at the calf and caught the light. The crop top clung to breasts that were—he measured them with a quick glance—D-cup, easy. Big, high, and stupidly perky, with just a hint of underboob peeking out. It occurred to him at this point that he didn't get a bra when he turned into Sabrina. He watched how his chest moved with each breath or tug on the top straps. The weight. The sway. The little crease under each heavy breast, where soft skin met even softer skin. And the matching gym shorts down below? They didn’t cover her ass. They presented it.
“Moving on,” he whispered, forcibly refocusing.
He seated himself at his desk—awkwardly, legs pressed together because the shorts rode up so much—and got to work. He reloaded the machine’s debug console, fingers typing rapidly on the keyboard, each keystroke clicking with neatly manicured nails. His hands looked so dainty now. Long fingers, slim wrists, soft palms. No scars. No bitey hangnails. Perfectly moisturized like this body had a standing appointment with an aesthetician. Sabrina probably did, knowing her.
Every bounce of her chest made him aware of the movement, but he kept typing. Every time he shifted, her thighs brushed. The feel of smooth skin under shorts, the way her belly curved slightly inward when she sat upright—it was distracting. But he persevered.
He reviewed the logs. The MindSync generator had logged an unanticipated spike in resonance right as he’d activated the pulse—no doubt triggered by mental fixation. He’d been thinking of Sabrina in that exact moment. Which meant: conscious intent played a role. Mental imagery could have guided the body mapping process.
He tapped his lips thoughtfully. “So if I focus on myself, on my own body... maybe I can trigger a return.”
He stood up, squared his shoulders—which jiggled—and stepped into the resonance field again.
Eyes shut. He pictured himself. Skinny frame. Bad posture. That dumb NASA shirt with pizza stains on it. He pictured his own hands, his clunky feet, the boner he’d had way too often during chemistry.
“Run reset protocol,” he whispered. “Target resonance: Eli Vance. Original host. Original consciousness.”
He paused.
Then: “...God, my voice sounds like sex itself.”
The device hummed. It pulsed. It lit up—
—and then flickered... and sputtered out.
Eli’s eyes flew open.
Still boobs. Still hips. Still the absurd, bouncy, gravity-defying body of Sabrina Cross.
He sighed.
“Well. That’s inconvenient.”
He went back to the desk and dropped into his desk chair—then leapt up again. “Jesus, this ass has bounce.”
He turned, twisting left and right to watch it in the mirror. Perfectly round, upturned, plush without sag.
“Focus. Science. No horny. Or at least... controlled horny.”
He sat back down at the desk, started running his modifications again. It was hard to undo a process you didn't intend to enact the first time, but if anyone could do it... well, he had to hope, right?
He typed in the body frequency logs, pulling up Sabrina’s and comparing it to his own archived mental signature—thank god he’d backed that up. Just a scatterplot of brainwave harmonics, but the patterns were wildly different. Hers were tighter, more rhythmic. His were... twitchier.
“Right. I need a way to counter-saturate the resonance field and override the dominant imprint,” he muttered. “If I boost amplitude on my side and cut hers…”
He got to work, modifying waveform curves, setting up auto-logging sensors. Sabrina’s body moved differently—her fingers typed faster, smoother. Less force, more finesse. She was also more flexible, which he confirmed after bending down for a cable and realizing his chest smushed against his thighs.
“...New side hypothesis: Sabrina Cross is walking ergonomic perfection.”
Finally, he powered the Resonance Generator back up. Time for Attempt 2. Sparks danced along the copper coils, but it was stable. Barely. He slipped the headset on, adjusted the calibration band. Had to raise it three notches—Sabrina’s head was smaller.
“Attempting reversal. Subject: Eli Vance. Body: Sabrina Cross. Hypothesis: identity resonance can be redirected using stored frequency.”
He flipped the last switch. The system began humming again.
If this worked, he’d be back in his awkward-ass body in ten minutes.
But as he stared at the monitor, watching the graphs stabilize, he felt... conflicted.
This was huge. Historic. Unbelievable. He was the first human to pull this off. To become someone else down to the cellular level. The real question wasn’t just can I switch back?
It was: should I switch back right now?
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