This is a new story about a SHAPESHIFTER
The lore is mostly pulled from the show Supernatural with influences from Norse mythology. I claim no higher or better knowledge on shifters; I just liked this particular brand of lore. And if you ever want to discuss lore, PM me because I know nobody who likes it D:
The First Time I was a man
I nearly vomited, shuddering and falling back against the guard rail. The thoughts were still colliding like comets behind me eyes, bursting with supernova brightness in my brain. His emotions were so strong, surging up and into me with a ravenous hunger. It was so much easier, a few moments ago, when I borrowed his thoughts like tools to use against him. Like his stinking up my head now, I had been in his and dragging him to his knees.
He was probably still in the gas station bathroom—gripping his head because I can feel it pounding in mine, as his, I don’t even know. He was probably still in that stupid bathroom where he tried to feel me up before I shut him down. The opportunity just landed in my lap and I went with it, crashing into his head until I was buried waist deep. Then I left him, on the floor, his nose bleeding a little, and locked myself up in the bathroom next door. The transforming into him hurt like hell. The skin was harder to pull off this time and my bones had to break so much more. At one point I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t because, God, I was half in and half out of him. It was weird, fucking weird and it fucking hurt. It was also a whole hell of a lot worse due to Ryan’s wretched whimpering that filtered through the wall between us.
When I finished shifting, I wasted no time sliding into his car and taking it out to the highway. The distance felt good, real good, but that ended shortly. I had just pulled over, a few seconds ago, because Ryan had to have finally gone into a full-blown panic. I could hardly place any of my thoughts among his and I was lucky enough to get the car off the road. A huge part of me wanted to kill him—to go back there and rip his fucking brain out so it’d stop screaming in mine. I couldn’t, though; I just needed to get to the airport, jump a new skin, and leave.
I took a few deep breaths, trying to steady everything out. I pushed Ryan away and to the edges until he was just a numb panic finely threaded through my thoughts. With substantially more peace of mind, I keyed the airport into the GPS and discovered the terminal wasn’t too far away. Nevertheless, a huge part of me feared the cops would catch me, that Ryan had already reported his car stolen, but I looked at my face in the rear view mirror and was surprised at the ease with which I smiled. “No, I’m Ryan Hertega, what do you mean I reported the car stolen? That’s silly.” And I touched his wallet, his phone, and everything else in his pockets, sans twenty bucks, on the seat next to me. “I’m sorry for the trouble officer,” I said to myself, biting back a laugh as some of Ryan’s hysteria washed over me too strongly. “But I’m pretty sure I’m driving my car.”
From then on, the drive became easier and easier as distance was put between us. I definitely would make a habit of grabbing people I didn’t know because, even if distance makes the heart grow fonder, it makes the thoughts go a lot quieter, too. It, of course, didn’t stop me from seeing into Ryan’s thoughts, residual lumps I unconsciously harvested from among his neurons. He was a bit of a creep, which made my skin crawl, and he got ahead in the world by kicking ass and exploiting interns. Luckily, the skeletons in his closet were long since denitrified and the only bits of rotting flesh on the bones stank of dubious consent. He was a mean man with an insatiable lust and, despite the wretched character, his disposition was making it easier, too. As I became Ryan and me; as we joined into a formless, shapeless lump of pride and greed and need; I could breathe without my breath hitching: I was finally a little more okay with the shape-shifter thing.
The voice, the voice that said I was Bridget and screamed for me to call mom; it was getting dimmer and dimmer. Sure, my old thoughts were there and my old life sat like a shadow cast on Ryan’s memories, but something else was being borne. It was malicious and malignant; it was the monster in me that knew how to shed its skin. It wasn’t a voice or a thought but rather a lifestyle that was slowly sinking in.
By the time I made it to the airport, Ryan’s easy confidence was contagious and I easily skated into the terminal. At the late hour of eleven, it was pretty vacant, but a few business travelers were buzzing around between the food, luggage-carousel, and waiting areas. I saw one man, crossing the polished floor to the men’s restroom- he immediately had my attention. He was dressed smartly in a well-fitted suit and looked a little harried but amiable. A slow smile crossed my face as I followed him, the man being chivalrous enough to hold the door to the men’s restroom open for me.
Overall, the third time I shifted was a lot easier. I took my time, first of all: I let the man go about his business and sidled up to him by the sinks. I asked him about the weather, calling on Ryan’s interpersonal skills. In a friendly gesture, I had touched his shoulder, which sent a jolt through my body I had hardly expected. It was good, though—what I needed. Something in me warmed to a hundred degrees and spread like wildfire.
Before he left –before John left—I threw a question after him, my voice friendly to a fault: “When is your flight?”
He dutifully checked his watch, shifting his blazer out of the way with a twist of his arm. “In another twenty minutes.” I smiled, showcasing a toothy smile.
“Mine leaves in an hour, you lucky devil.”
He responded with a chuckle, leaving the bathroom in a flare of black suit. I wondered, briefly, if letting him get away was for the best. If I had locked him up, I could have taken his flight; it would have expedited things. Then again, glancing around the acoustically-inclined bathroom, I quickly realized what a heinous mistake that would have been. I would not have made it far and how could I prove I was the real John Tamus? I didn’t have his ID, which I was beginning to realize was the all important clincher.
I had Ryan’s ID, though, and his credit cards. If I just; if I got on the plane as Ryan and left as John Tamus, then this could work. With my new course of action set, I left the men’s washroom, intent on the ticket window. The emotions that rose like floodwaters in me—a cacophony of crashing ‘wrong’ and ‘monster’ and ‘fucked up’ and ‘we can’t live like this’—were only a minor part in the tsunami of vicious glee.
I was becoming what I was meant to become; a creature without a name and without a home. So far I had not broken any moral codes (except for the Ryan-panicking thing, which was only a grey area at most), thus I considered myself safely humane, not really a monster. But, it was clear, I was no longer human; I was inexorably caught in the slow process of shedding my humanity.