“Good Morning, Majesty,” a thin, nasally voice sang out loudly above the swooshing sound of heavy velvet curtains being thrown open. There was a wetness behind his voice. Had I been breathing through my own nose, I would have no doubt been choked by the disease that rolled off his festering tongue and filled the chamber air like a poisonous fog. Oh, Gods. My own nose. I wasn’t breathing through my own nose. And what had he called me? Majesty. I told myself to remain calm even as I felt my pulse, his pulse, begin to gallop beneath the suddenly too-thick fabric of my sleeping garments.

Something must have gone hideously wrong. And now I was stuck in this body. A man’s body. I held in the urge to wretch as I listened to the clicking sound of heeled boots swiftly closing in on me.

The solid weight of a metal serving tray being set down at the bed’s end prompted me to open my eyes. The manservant who had spoken before was there as well, bustling around the tray making soft clinks as he opened and closed fanciful little porcelain jars of sugar and milk. His hands trembled slightly as he made my cup of tea, but not out of fear of being in the presence of a King.

At least, some of my senses had remained intact; my initial assessment of him had been correct. He was a squat man of at least forty with a pinched wrinkling face and stringy hair the color of dishwater that had been artfully combed across his prematurely balding head. But, it wasn’t his aging rat-like appearance that told me of his failing health. No, it was the waxy pallor of his yellowing skin and the dark violet smudges beneath his shrewd eyes that told me he would be dead in less than six months’ time. I absentmindedly wondered if I should tell him as he handed me the little cup, keeping his head bowed, still not daring to meet my gaze. The fragrant spiced tea was no doubt made to King Sephiron’s exact liking. My liking now, I supposed.

“Not this morning. I’ll take coffee,” I said as nonchalantly as possible, holding up a palm. Impressively, I’d managed not to wince at the deep booming quality of my new voice.

He looked up then, a confused expression further deepening the lines across his brow.

“Coffee, sire? You never take coffee.”

I pursed my lips, considering if I had already made a grave error that might’ve given me away.

“Do not question your king,” I commanded sternly, willing as much authority into my voice as possible. Though, it wasn’t hard considering the powerful timbre that sharpened this body’s voice like a blade.

The servant dipped his head low again, quickly gathering up the offending tray without another word of protest. He must have known better, then. I hadn’t taken King Sephiron to be a cruel master but… one never knew what happened behind closed doors.

“Milk and sugar, as well,” I called after him with feigned laziness.

I only let myself truly relax back into the luxurious pile of fluffed pillows once he had made his way out of the massive set of golden double doors that led into the hall.

I supposed I could handle being King for another day. Though, I desperately needed to figure out exactly what had gone wrong on my coven’s side of things. I had jumped into King Sephiron’s body yesterday, as a last-ditch effort to defeat the evasive, nomadic coven of witches who had been trying to steal our power. The Elemaeti. But, I was only supposed to stay in this body for a day...just long enough to sign an order for the King’s army to launch an Elemaeti witch hunt, then back into my own body by nightfall.

I’d been chosen because I was the Silverblood coven’s second-in-command. Our High Priestess had volunteered but... I’d known she needed to stay behind to lead our people. It was a sacrifice I’d willingly made, although, considering the position I currently found myself in, it was hard not to wonder if I would’ve chosen differently.

I stared up at the intricate floral weave of the heavily tasseled canopy that hung above my massive bed as I tried to think through my situation. King Sephiron was unwed, which was good. No nagging wife to deal with. I didn’t even want to think about how long I could actually keep up the charade with a woman riding my new white-leopard coattails. A woman would notice a thing like this, any sudden shift in behavior or mannerisms and it would be over for me.

Men, though, courtiers and the sniveling lesser royals only concerned with themselves and their place in the kingdom’s hierarchy? Well, they could be easily deceived. I highly doubted they’d thought about anything other than themselves for some time now, much less deigned to pay attention to the King’s little quirks.

I’d done my research on the King’s closest confidants well enough that I knew all the important names and faces before I’d gone on this godsforsaken mission. Never go in without a back-up plan, I’d learned that over my nine hundred years on this planet. That’s what distinguished the mortals from immortals, and it made sense well enough. Mortals didn’t have much time on this earth and sometimes going into a situation without a way out was the best option simply because it was the quickest.

Witches though, we had time. Time to plot, and plan, and run through scenarios backward and forwards without caring much about the passage of years or even decades if it took that long to ensure that our plan was successful. And this mission had taken that. Decades, I mean. Ever since the Elemaeti coven had discovered how to diminish our true source of power. Once we had discovered that, well the plotting and planning began. It didn’t really matter which King we jumped into, only that the King had to have enough power over the lands at the time that our plot could be enacted. King Sephiron had just happened to be perfect. A tall, fairly handsome man of twenty-seven, beloved by all, and the ruler of the Tri-Continental Arosian Empire with no surviving family to speak of? The Gods couldn’t have given us a better opportunity if we’d crafted it ourselves.

The root of the Elemaeti’s treachery against us could ultimately be boiled down to jealousy. A human emotion to be sure. Witches like myself, the Silverbloods, were born witches. Witches that had inherent power flowing through our veins from birth that increased with our years and only further strengthened by the lingering traces of our buried ancestor’s magick that still flowed through the lands of our holy grounds.

Witches of my kind rarely died though, usually only after many millennia. And, to kill one of our own is considered the highest of offenses. Not to mention the hideous curse that would surely ensue from such a killing. None of my kind had ever attempted such a thing, but we found out the consequences the first time an Elemaeti dared to tempt fate.

To kill my kind meant death, but not one’s own death. No, it meant the death of everyone and everything around you that was ever unlucky enough to receive your touch. Eventually, the witches who had tried died of starvation, but not before half of the Elemaeti coven had been wiped out. Funny, to think we had believed that might be the end of their persecution of us. Alas, their all too human nature took hold of them and jealousy once again prevailed.

The Elemaeti couldn’t stand that we natural-borns held so much power over them, so they eventually discovered another route of attack. Straight through our ancestors, actually. The Elemaeti are technically siphoners, not at all like real Silverblooded witches. Lecherous, parasitic little humans who have found out how to skim power from the lands through our ancestor’s magick mixed with a little bit of their basic elemental spellcasting.

Pathetic really, and no match for the depth and breadth of our powers. That is until they’d figured out how to diminish our magick without getting that nasty little curse laid upon them. As it turns out, even with our natural-born powers, we still owed a lot more to our ancestors than we had originally thought and digging up and destroying their bodies was just the trick to cutting our powers right to the quick. Which then made them hard to attack, and even harder to kill.

Being a relatively new coven, by comparison, they had no lands to call home, meaning no set place we could strike as they do us. Elemaeti are nomadic, always on the move, always slithering about in the shadows. We had tried to stop them, to ward the holy grounds of our ancestral burial sites, but... by the time we had figured out what they were doing, they had already stolen enough of our magick to break through every barrier we’d tried to put in place. Some rumors have claimed the Elemaeti even eat the ashes of our kind to grow their magick.

Sickening. But, as much as I didn’t want to believe it, even I, of nine hundred years, could feel the power fleeing from my blood as the days slipped past. Subtly, at first, yes, but over the years it became difficult to even perform the most basic of spells, such as human possession. A spell that I could once perform alone with a few candles and the right words had taken what was left our entire coven’s magick pooled together.

Despicable. Still, we did have the advantage of long lives. Though, I didn’t see how that mattered much now if we couldn’t even pull off a simple plan such as this. Another body must have been stolen from our lands. It was the only thing I could think of that would diminish our magick to the point that my soul couldn’t have even been retrieved by my coven. Damn them. And now, Gods save me, I was stuck in a man’s body. In my lifetime, I’d never had much interest in interacting with any human, let alone human men. Dealing with them was mainly considered to be a necessary evil. Usually only done to produce witchling’s but...I’d left that burden for the others in my coven to shoulder. Witchling’s were always female, so, to further the bloodline and keep our numbers strong, human men were sometimes needed. I’d always considered them weak, though. Stupid and self-serving, they were easy prey even for human women, who I consider only to be an infinitesimal step above.

A creak of the door alerted me to the servant’s presence again. The bitter nutty aroma of coffee wafted through the room and I sat up a bit straighter as I waited for the clattering tray to arrive. Once more, the man ascended the dais my bed stood on and began preparing the coffee. I desperately needed time alone to think though, so I stopped him short.

“Leave it,” I commanded with a wave of my burly fingers.

He stopped and straightened his shiny blue waistcoat before sketching a low bow. To my endless frustration though, he apparently hadn’t gotten the hint. He just continued to stand there at the foot of my bed, eyes downcast, twisting his fat meaty hands around in tight nervous circles before him.

I bent forward a bit to grasp one of the thick silver handles of the tray and slid it beside me.

“What is it?”

A bead of sweat rolled down his face, “Th- the war council would like to meet at once t-th-this morning, sire,” he said sheepishly.

I wondered again if King Sephiron was fond of corporal punishment. By the looks of his sweaty bumbling manservant, I would have to assume so.

“After I take my coffee, I will meet with them,” I said dismissively as I glanced around the tray, not bothering to watch as he quickly scurried from the room.

It was absolutely loaded with artfully arranged piles of glistening fruit tarts, sweet biscuits covered in powdered sugar, salted meats, cheeses, and thick hunks of bread already coated with butter and various jams. I put a palm on my belly. It was no wonder the King was carrying around a few extra pounds if he was eating like this every day. I pushed past the rich foods and found the steaming pot of coffee, pouring it into a delicately painted cup before adding two sugars and a splash of milk. I closed my eyes, allowing the rich smell to fill my nostrils before pressing my lips to the golden rim of the porcelain mug. Delicious.

Magick was not the only thing my coven had needed to pool together for our plan. It had also taken an exorbitant amount of money. Mainly to hire round-the-clock guards to protect our burial grounds but... I could see that clearly hadn’t worked out either. Never let a human do a witch’s job.

I hadn’t been treated to anything this luxurious in the countless years it had taken for this plan to finally commence. So, I decided to live a little and let myself enjoy the sweet coffee and warmth of the extravagant feather-topped mattress a little while longer before finally swinging my legs out of the heavy layers of blankets piled atop me.

I wriggled my toes on the plush Persian rug beneath me before stepping down from the bed’s platform to survey the room. I hadn’t taken particular notice of this body yesterday as it was meant to be temporary, but... Gods, my feet were enormous!

I’d jumped into the King during one of his frequent late-afternoon catnaps in the sprawling parlor room, so I hadn’t had the chance to see his bedchamber either. It had only been lit by a few beams of soft flickering candlelight when I’d finally gone to sleep last night.

Red and gold seemed to be the prevailing theme of his chambers. Blood red, I noted with nothing short of sheer delight. The color of Elemaeti blood, human blood. I supposed King Sephiron and I may have more in common than I’d thought.

The walls were set with elaborate gold-trimmed inlay panels that held swirling labyrinths of lacy flowers that wrapped around the central royal crest in a delicate embrace. Art was also dotted sporadically around the room, mostly arrangements of oil paintings depicting the many generations of King Sephiron’s royal predecessors either locked in battle on killing fields or perched atop grand bejeweled thrones. The artist who had painted them had made them look so realistic, so lifelike, I had to take a step closer and blink a bit to ensure they hadn’t blinked back.

Despite the painstaking attention to detail that had been paid on the walls, the bed seemed to be meant as the obvious focal point of the immaculate room. I had to do a double-take to confirm that it was actually, in fact, the only piece of furniture on this side of the chamber. How odd, there wasn’t even a nightstand. I supposed the bed, was enough though. It was a mahogany-stained monstrosity set atop a two-step platform, complete with intricate carvings of vicious-looking beasts, some real and some imagined, decorating its headboard and four rotund posts. The thing could’ve fit five bodies across it easily.

Though the chamber was clearly palatial, it also felt overwhelmingly... bare and impersonal somehow. There was a distinct lack of personality to the space; there were no trinkets or books, or stray boots cast aside anywhere. It almost seemed as if this were a guest room in the castle and not the King’s private quarters, despite the imperial bed.

I tried to step as softly as I could manage across the creaky parquet floor as I rounded the bed to get a glimpse of what lay on the other side of the chamber. Although I knew I was alone in this room, I also knew that a King was never truly alone either. The servants, or whomever else liked spying on the King, would no doubt be listening even now. King Sephiron must have known it as well as I. Which would explain the lack of, well...everything.

Lesser royals were always vying for the throne in the shadows, any bit of personal information could potentially be used as leverage or blackmail. Best not to have any at all, then. Still, I wasn’t quite finished with my snooping yet. He may have the cunning to outsmart his enemies, but his enemies weren’t witches. If there was something to find here, I would find it. Any extra facts I could gather about the King would help make this act believable. Though I still highly doubted anyone would ever suspect the King was currently being possessed, I didn’t like taking chances.

Outside, beyond the massive floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the far wall, the creeping orange fingers of sunrise were just breaking across the shedding hedges that lined the perimeter of the palace’s lush gardens. Several servants were already moving about, pushing wide long-handled brooms across the cobblestones of the many weaving pathways, diligently clearing away the dead foliage even as it continued to fall to the earth in steady waves. It seemed a futile act, but I mentally tucked the observation away. The King was a perfectionist, got it.

I turned my attention back to the right side of the chamber. Along the windows, in one corner of the room, sat an imposing desk with another menagerie of beasts carefully carved into the front and sides, a perfect match to the bed. In the opposite corner sat a grand piano of a pretty pearly-white hue, gleaming faintly in the morning light. No visible dust across the keys... a lover of the arts then, too. Another set of tall golden double doors stood proudly between the two… a dressing or bathing room perhaps. Feeling uncomfortable beneath the male gaze of my servants, I’d undressed myself last night. So, I hadn’t gotten the chance to see the King’s other private rooms. Still not wanting to alert any prying ears to my movements, I ignored the temptation of finding out what was behind them and crept towards the desk.

An unused quill sat beside a little clay pot of black ink and a fresh sheath of thick creamy parchment. I flicked through the stack quickly. Nothing, every page was blank. I rounded the desk and perched atop the squat leather stool that sat beneath it as I rifled around the drawers. Replacement quills, a hefty velvet-lined box of pricey cigars from the Southern continent, extra nibs, four sealed pots of ink, more blank paper, the royal stamp seal, an ancient-looking cigar cutter, a full box of matches, and a bundle of blood-red wax held together by a thin piece of twine.

When I tried the third drawer, however, it wouldn’t budge. I pulled on the curved edge of the cupped handle as hard as I could, to no avail. Locked, then. I doubted a desk as splendid as this would have warped drawers. What are you hiding Sephiron? I stooped down to face the drawer at eye-level, looking for any signs of a keyhole when… yes, there.

Barely visible beneath the handle was a small notch in the wood. I grasped it with the tip of my fingernail and pried. A small circle of wood popped off easily, clicking softly as it hit the floor.

The lock looked far too intricate to attempt to pick and… Damn this body! I wished more than anything I’d had my magick back. Now I would actually have to find the blasted key. I focused on channeling my frustration into a deadly calm. Think, think, think.

I thought of all the places I would hide a thing like that. Close. A witch would keep it close. Most likely on her at all times. Hidden, of course, but always on her. A human woman might put it in the floorboards or in some hidden compartment beneath the bed or piano. He may be cunning, but...he was still a man. Yes, he was still a man, and men don’t like to waste time looking for things. A man would keep it close as well, but... not in the same way a witch would. No, he would keep it here, close to the drawer. Hidden in plain sight.

I immediately thought of the cigar cutter, made of rusting iron and old chipped wood. Far too simple an object to belong to a King. Unless it had some sentimental value, which, by the cold minimalist style of the decor in his chamber, I doubted. No, he was not a sentimental man and it was the one thing that was out of place here. It had to contain the key. I fished it back out of the drawer and held it up to my ear as I gave it a little shake. A sly smile leeched across my mouth as I heard the dull rattle of metal hitting against hollow wood. I looked at the thing again, a bit closer this time, feeling for any tale-tell niche in the handle and pulled until I felt wood separate from metal and a delicate key dropped into my hungry palm.

The drawer was stuffed to the brim with folded-up letters and boring royal decrees. I sorted through them quickly looking for any pertinent information. A stained letter with a crumpled black seal near the bottom caught my eye… The Elemaeti seal, I would’ve known it anywhere. They’d sent our coven many, mostly threatening, letters over the years, taunting us about our inevitable defeat. I couldn’t wait to get my hands around that Elemaeti bitch of a High Priestess’s neck. A chill of pleasure from the thought ran down my spine, but I quickly brushed it away, remembering the task at hand and began to read.

“To His Honorable Majesty The Reigning King Sephiron of The Tri-Continental Arosian Empire,

The Elemaeti Coven of the Capital Continent, Lillistad, implore his Majesty to provide aid in fighting the Silverblood scourge that threatens to poach from us our magick that is widely used across this Great Continent for healing purposes and crop growth. If our magick were to be stolen from us, it is our great fear that many of your Empire would suffer immensely. The Silverblood coven is selfish and has never wished to bestow gifts on humankind as we have. In fact, as it is our coven’s primary mission to help others, our destruction would surely mean certain death for many helpless citizens across your Empire. As a hunted coven, we are forced to live in exile as a nomadic people. We do not stay in one place for long out of fear of persecution by the Silverbloods. We beg of your Majesty to respond posthaste to help us prevent such a tragedy from ever occurring. We can be reached at the Felbian Farm along the outskirts of the Madrian Capital City in Lillistad two weeks from this letter’s postdate.

Your ever-loyal servants,

The Elemaeti Coven”

Bitches. Lying bitches! Even as the never-ending stream of foul words and curses formed on my lips, I found myself clutching the letter with nervous shaking palms to flip it over. Gods be with me.

Eleven days. The letter had been sent eleven days ago. I let loose a primal, ear-splitting roar of victory. Prying ears be damned. I wanted everyone to hear my triumph, to feel my triumph, somewhere deep within their bones as I felt it now.

Surely enough both sets of golden doors in the room flung open, followed by panicked streams of red-faced servants all rushing towards me like a tidal wave of silky blue waistcoats. Sneaky bastards. They had been here all along. I brushed off the flurry of worried hands and questioning mouths, commanding I be dressed right away. I had a war council meeting to attend to.

Apparently though, being King still didn’t mean you got everything you wanted. At least, not right away. After two hours of arguing and deliberating and wasting precious time I could’ve spent removing the heads of Elemaeti witches, my councilmen finally agreed to side with me on the matter. It was a good thing too because I was never going to back down on the issue, no matter how long it took.

The attack would be launched immediately. I was assured that four hundred of my best commanders and soldiers would be conducting the mission, though, I still wanted to be there to participate in the bloodshed myself. However, I’d also learned King Sephiron, apparently, didn’t have much of a taste for carnage. He had never ridden out with his men to battle before. Not even once.

Many on the council had insisted it would be too dangerous for a King. “A King’s place is in his castle”, or some nonsense like that. Obviously, I then had to reference the many paintings of my ancestors depicted on killing fields hanging proudly in my chamber and produced a heartfelt speech about how I needed to be a King of my people, a strong fierce King that stood alongside his army. The hateful little men on my war council, lesser-royals that were in line for the throne, had been oh-so inspired by my theatrically impassioned appeal and overturned the decision that I was not permitted to go. Just as I’d predicted the self-serving bastards would.

I was dressed in the finest fighting leathers I’d ever seen within the hour, armed to the teeth, and astride the kingdom’s most prized stallion. He was an enormous beast of silky midnight with rippling muscles and cunning eyes called Maelstrom. I could only hope he lived up to his name. I was practically salivating for a taste of that red Elemaeti blood on my tongue by the time we neared the dead and barren-looking fields of the rundown Felbian Farm. So much for the Elemaeti’s “crop growth” magick.

The council and I had agreed that a meeting with the coven at night would seem suspicious. Though, since the coven had written to me and told me of their whereabouts, it wouldn’t seem too unlikely that the King himself might drop in for a little afternoon visit, especially when discussing a matter as delicate as this.

A messenger had been sent ahead, notifying them of the imminent rendezvous, along with the promise of four hundred of my best men to help aid them in their cause. And with the King by their side, who never went to war, they would never be suspecting of an attack. Genius, really. I’d even had the brief thought that perhaps mortal men weren’t as daft as I once believed.

Like clockwork, the royal trumpeters flanking me announced our arrival on the putrid little rat-hole they’d decided to call home this week, and the whole Elemaeti coven flooded out of their decrepit, rotting barn to greet us, shouting cheers of victory, arms all piled high with gifts for their King and his men.

A plump, elderly woman dressed in a tattered red cape with a cruel face and long black hair pulled into braid announced herself as the Elemaeti’s High Priestess and gave us her fervent thanks. I’d already made sure to tell my men to save her for me. I'd been waiting far too long not to have the pleasure of feeling her insignificant life slip away from her weak human body.

Her coven was vastly outnumbered, but I continued the charade, smiling the soft benevolent smile of a beloved gentle King as I watched them all weave between our ranks, approaching my soldiers with their pathetic little offerings. As I approached the High Priestess, heart thudding wildly, nearly about to burst from my chest with excitement, I finally let every single one of my nine-hundred years leech into my still-smiling face like ink through water.

Her sharp weathered face dropped about ten feet as she suddenly realized who I was, or I suppose, who I wasn’t. All too late, though. Before she could even form the words to warn her people, I swiftly thrust two fingers up into the air, signaling my men, then slashed my wickedly sharp blade down hard in a fierce arc, too fast for the old human to have ever seen coming. All of my men dutifully followed suit. The dull roar of bodies thudding to the earth simultaneously rippled across the field. Stragglers who, somehow, still lived, threw out terrified and uncontrolled bursts of green Elemaeti magick. Amateurs. It did more harm to them than it did us, in the end. The horses began bucking and thrashing wildly, trampling the last of their surviving coven into the mucky blood-soaked dirt.

The battle was surprisingly quick and deathly silent. I would’ve preferred a bit more resistance, maybe some screams of terror, and definitely a lot more carnage myself, but… I was relieved my people could finally be free of these lascivious, thieving humans who had ever dared to call themselves witches in the first place.

As I rode home, completely drenched from head-to-toe in that sweet dried-up Elemaeti blood, I couldn’t help reaching down to pat the still-silently screaming severed head of The High Priestess I’d tucked into my freshly red-stained satchel. A smile of pure, unabashed satisfaction seemed to be permanently plastered across my face even as the sprawling palace finally came into view over the rolling autumn-kissed hills of my Empire. I could already feel the comforting familiar burn of magick returning in my veins, coming back to me. I would be in my own body by the morning, but…

Man, it feels good to be King.

I was racing in a race vehicle,

and had become a male.

Realised that still I was a female,

when the car toppled,

and fell down to ground.

I was in a nightmare, plunged.

From the cot had fallen on to the ground

Quinn groaned as she was forced to roll onto her side, chest aching.

Sleeping on their stomach was never a problem as a boy, but they didn't expect this Shift on a Friday.

Everyone knows that girl is a Tuesday and Thursday gender! She thought. Today supposed to be a boy day, for crying out loud! I even planned out the suit I was going to wear!!

The phone on Quinn's nightstand buzzed, the fanfare of a ringtone that sounded from it forcing her to pick it up. This was a work phone calling.

"Metamorph, we need you in Sector 12, ASAP. Mantis is sending in his Hench-Mutants on the streets again!"

"Coming," she muttered, scrambling to find her Female suit.

Infa-Red, the Telepathic Hero on the other side of the phone, immediately picked up what was going on. "Are you going to be okay fighting today? We can move you to Sector 6 guard if--"

"I'm fine!" Metamorph aggressively zipped up her bodysuit. "In fact, you know that this is better than usual, since most animals have larger females than males."

"Well, yes, I just--"

"Was underestimating me? Was being slightly sexist?" Quinn had only half of her anger on Red, as she remembered that, for a reason everyone knew but didn't say aloud, the women's bodysuit only zipped up so far in the front.

She was going to have to fix that later. The Shapeshifter knew that she had bigger problems to deal with at the moment.

"Metamorph, out onto the field." While the suit was also illogically revealing in the back, she admitted that it was perfect for wings.

Quinn was an Animalia-Shapeshifter, but one of those odd quirks that came with the ability was the occasional gender-swapping, that was found to have a weekly pattern. While they could, theoretically turn into any known animal, it had to be of that certain sex. Metamorph learned a long time ago that, if they attempted to break this unwritten rule, the consequences would be them Shifting from a healthy person into a person in agonizing pain.

Once, even a dead person. Necro-Dancer, the Reanimator of the team, had been a literal lifesaver on that one.

Quinn shook her head of the memory, trying to focus on the threat of the day. Mantis was Poly-Powered, with abilities ranging from Invisibility to Super-Strength and Speed to Enhanced Vision. Technically speaking, all of the capabilities that come with being part mantis shrimp. (Don't be fooled, he's more overpowered than many would think.)

That being said, he was able to pick out a flying Hero from a mile away.

Metamorph was met with one of the Hench-Mutants: Pilot, the Avian-Shifting, Fire Elemental. His partner, the Levitating, Alien-Shifter known as the Bandit, joined him.

"Nope, not today." As quickly as she had taken to the skies, Quinn retracted her wings and dropped down to the streets below.

At the last second, she Shifted into a dull-colored butterfly, floating safely the rest of the way to the ground. Right to where Mantis was throwing his usual hissy-fit.

Pilot crashed to the ground with his Area 51 boyfriend. "There's a hero somewhere around here, trying to stop us!"

Mantis looked around, only noting his henchmen and a bug landing on his suit. Just as he was about to fire his two most distracting cronies, he felt a weight that definitely wasn't as light as a butterfly on his shoulder.

"What's up, Shrimp?" He met the gaze of a grinning boy in a women's bodysuit.

Naturally, yelling from both sides commenced, Mantis realizing he was in the presence of a Hero and Quinn realizing that he was in the wrong body (and in the presence of the city's most notorious Villain).

Morph was promptly pushed to the ground. It then occurred to the Hench-Mutants that their enemy was already writhing in pain, so they simply stood back and let their boss have the last hit.

"Wait... time-out," Quinn croaked, attempting to switch back into his morning self.

In the process of Shifting into a human, they had imagined themselves as their Friday self (ie. male), and in response, every cell in his body wanted to pack up and quit for the year.

Mantis scowled. "I have no time for a Hero who can't control themselves."

Just as he turned his back on the young Shifter, the Villain heard Pilot and Bandit let out a strangled yelp. Sighing, he swiveled back around, meeting the gaze of a murderous, female Metamorph. Her hands had extended into the tentacles of a giant squid(?), simultaneously ruining those two perfectly-good, throwaway servants of his.

"Come on!" Mantis shook his claws in frustration. "Fifth time this week!"

"Make that the sixth," Metamorph said. "Only, this time it will be you... I guess that would be the, what, seventeenth then... for that case?"

Infa-Red found Sector 12 lined with tentacles, Quinn in the center of it all. Some of Mantis's accomplices were being constricted or thrown around, but him and couple of other ones had managed to run off.

"Finally," she said. "I was running out of tentacles! Go get the ones that got away and Shrimp, then help me with these ones."

"Good work, Morph," Quinn knew that Red was hiding his shock by using his authority-voice. "you really outdid yourself today."

She smiled, going into her own scientist-mode. "See, I told you the females are generally larger than males. And they are also less colorful, making better disguises."

Shrimp didn't even see me coming! She added mentally. Friday should be a girl day more often. My body better be taking notes on this.

a bean sprouted instead of a stalk

my gait, my walk, I was new

but never quite right, so you

changed me by name and

admired my existence

when others reduced themselves

to shame and confusion. I could sense

the questions floating around right

next to my head, like flies attracted to

the sweet sugar that others saw

was salt. I wasn't sure what it was,

perhaps a mixture of skittles

and m&ms in only one bowl...

no wonder people were afraid of me

I wasn't what they expected

and I never will be anything

but a miracle in my own body.

when I danced I saw myself

a reflection that couldn't be seen

with even a spider's eyes.

the web was made of a material

I could not call home, so I

built my own. A body not mine

would still be mine, and over time

I grow to love it inch

by inch.

#genderqueer #trans

This morning I woke up inside my bed;

But something was wrong, on top of my head.

My long curly locks, had now disappeared;

In shock I touched my cheeks, and felt a beard.

I ran to the mirror, and looked in fear;

As I saw a tall man, begin to appear.

When I looked from side to side, so did he;

Until I realised, that man is me.

“What is going on?” I began to weep;

Instead of my voice, I heard something deep.

I began to think, how my life would change;

Of everything I’d need, to rearrange.

My daily routine, would turn upside down;

As my body is now, a different noun.

No more knots to take out, of my long hair;

No more waxing, shaving and no more Nair.

No more money spent, on skirts, heels, a dress;

No more make-up needed, to impress.

No more fear of walking, outside alone,

No more fear of being, the gender that’s prone,

To horrific violence, in every form;

A world where women dying, is the norm.

Every four hours, a woman is killed;

That’s just in my country, where blood is spilled.

So when I look in the mirror, again;

Suddenly it becomes simple, and plain.

If all women feel safer to be man;

The whole world needs to come up, with a plan.

So that women can feel safe all the time;

And being women, wouldn’t be a crime.

#uyinenemrwetyana #southafrica #women #safety #safetyforwomen

Once upon a time, there lived a strong and handsome knight; Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio. He roamed the land slaying dragons, rescuing damsels in distress, reaping of their ravishing beauty, and collecting their fathers’ grateful rewards. Over the years, he only grew finer, richer, and more daring. He had no intention of retiring any time soon. The idea of settling down to a quiet, ‘one-woman’ life, and spending his days doing peasant jobs mortified his twenty-nine-year-old heart. He decided in his mind to continue in his chosen line of work until the day he died. Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio.

One fine day, Sir Rhodomonte happened upon the Kingdom of Chestwood. He heard word that the King was offering a humongous award, so he traveled to the castle himself. The moment King Landon laid his eyes upon the knight, he knew that he would be the one for the job. “I am providing an exceptional offer to any strong and handsome man who can accomplish the daunting task of taking my eighteen-year-old daughter’s hand in marriage,” the King smiled proudly, “You, my son, are the perfect fit. You’re everything I’d ever wished for in a blood child of my own, and your genes are surely strong enough to produce a grandson with at least half as much charm and stature as you.” I’m sorry, Your Highness, but, I mustn’t settle down at this moment,” Sir Rhodomonte protested, “While your offer is enticing, I feel that I would be-- rather-- tied down. My life is the thrill of adventure, facing terrible dangers and meeting different women of different lands. And, while your daughter is quite pretty, I must admit, I get-- bored-- very quickly.” “Living here at the castle with all the riches in the world wouldn’t be enough for you?” The King scoffed. “I’m afraid not, My Lord,” Sir Rhodomonte said firmly. “Well then, we’ll have it arranged that you may roam as you please,” King Landon sighed, “All I really need is a grandson. After you two marry and consummate, you may leave. But, if the child she bears is not a male, we will send out for you and you shall return for another try, alright?” The knight nodded. “Once a healthy baby boy is born, I’d like for him to survive unto a good stable age, and then we can pretend that you fell off the face of the earth,” The King laughed. The knight was shocked that he was still being provided most of the reward under these new conditions. His charm worked on women and men alike, he thought. Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio.

Meanwhile, up in her quarters, Princess Polonolia was forlorn. Infuriated by what her father had advertised to the world, she prayed for a way out. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry. Oh, she DID ever so want to marry. The problem was WHO. She was appalled at her father’s audacity to offer riches and gifts alongside her hand. These men definitely didn’t love her. They wanted money, fame, and fortune. As she sulked upon her silken sheets, she dreamed of Marcos. He was a young boy around her age whom she met in the village one day. It was love at first sight for them both, but forbidden love at that. Never was a Princess to court a peasant. Still, they found ways to sneak around; to talk, hold hands, and gaze up at the sky together. Though just a common folk, Marcos had enchanted ways. His mother had taught him all about the Book of Miracles long ago, and he kept her words hidden deep within his heart. They sent notes and magic flowers back and forth with the help of his enchanted birds, and he even took her for a ride through the clouds once upon his enchanted dragon. One night, he used the magic to concoct a costume for himself so that he could dance with her in disguise at a masquerade ball. There, she remembered seeing another fellow who danced with all the women. He was haughty and rude, yet everyone somehow found him charming. She was disgusted, only dancing with him for a moment out of obligation. As soon as it was over, she immediately retreated into Marcos’ loving arms. “I could never imagine marrying someone like him,” she murmured. Marcos sighed, “Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio.”

The next day, word spread that Sir Rhodomonte and the Princess were soon to be betrothed. Polonolia was the last to know. As she sat by her window, she pondered and prayed that her father would find no worthy man. Just then, an enchanted bird landed upon the sill. Within its talons was a magic red rose, and a note that called her to the distant pond where she and Marcos often met. She rushed to the meeting spot as fast as her feet could carry her. “Marcos?” she called by the pond’s edge. “Polonolia!” he gasped, emerging from the blue. The Princess helped the peasant boy up onto the land. Her smile beamed uncontrollably, but, searching the eyes of her love, she could tell something was wrong. “Marcos?” she whispered, “What is the matter?” “I’m going to miss you,” he exhaled. “Miss me?” she panted, still catching her breath from the run, “Whatever do you mean?” “You don’t know yet?” he asked, wiping water from his brow. The Princess shook her head. “You are to be married to Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio,” he stated. Polonolia nearly fainted. “Tell me it isn’t true!” she cried. Marcos placed his drenched arm around his friend’s shoulder as she wept. “I WOULD be happy for you,” he muttered, “He’s stronger and handsomer than me. He’s richer, and he’s rescued many a maiden-- but, I know that you detest him.” “I don’t care about riches. You’re handsome enough and strong enough for me, Marcos,” Polonolia wailed, “I love you so much.” “I love you too, Polonolia,” Marco exclaimed, “I wish that WE could marry.” Staring into each other’s eyes, they leaned into a passionate kiss. Suddenly, the couple heard more footsteps through the forest. They stopped abruptly, both managing to slip beneath the ripples just before a messenger appeared from the brush. “Hear ye! Hear Ye! Princess Polonolia ’s royal wedding to the land’s greatest knight is on the morrow!” he yelled in passing, “Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio!”

Forced to part, Marcos woefully returned to the village, and Polonolia frightfully returned to her castle. “There you are, my daughter!” King Landon exclaimed, “It is time for your dress fitting.” “Dress fitting?” she spat. “Haven’t you heard? You’re getting married, my dear!” the King smiled. “Shant I meet my bridegroom first?” she huffed. “Not until the wedding, darling,” he smirked, “But, I will tell you, he is a fine man of high esteem. He owns riches beyond measure, and all the lands are fond of him. He is strong and mighty, and he will bring me a handsome grandson who can take the throne after my demise.” “But, I don’t want him!” she snorted, “I would rather marry a peasant!” “You shall marry this man, and that is final,” the King scolded, “I’ve already told everyone, paid Rhodomonte, and made all the arrangements. Marrying a peasant is ridiculous! It would be more acceptable for me to lock you away in a dungeon for all eternity.” Shocked and dismayed, Polonolia stormed away to her quarters. Meanwhile, all the finest tailors used all the finest linens to dress Sir Rhodomonte up for the occasion. After their work, they all stood in awe and admiration. Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio.

The next morning, the entire kingdom was abuzz in anticipation and excitement about the royal celebration of the Princess’ betrothal, except Polonolia herself. She stood on her high tower’s windowsill with a final wish. “I will never marry Sir Rhodomonte! I love you, Marcos!” she screamed as she let herself fall. All of a sudden, an enchanted dragon swept down from the clouds, catching the princess and heading off into the distance. In the castle, Sir Rhodomonte gleefully pranced through the halls, where he was met with unexpected news. “The Princess has been abducted! Witnesses saw her leap into the arms of an enchanted dragon and fly away!” a messenger informed him, “King Landon desires to see you immediately!” Rushing to the throne room, he found the Ruler distraught. “We must find her posthaste!” the King stammered, “I am sending out all of my finest horses and men. I’ve issued great rewards--” “Allow me to find her, Your Majesty,” Sir Rhodomonte smiled. (He was never one to turn down an opportunity to make more riches.) “I fear for your safety, my lad.” the King winced, “If the dragon were to harm you, I would never forgive myself.” “Worry not, O King. I have never failed a mission yet.” Sir Rhodomonte bragged. “Alright,” the King sighed, “When you find her, bring her back to me, and she is to be locked away in a dungeon to keep such foolery from happening again. I must keep her safe until my successor is born and past nursing age.” “Sounds like just what she deserves,” The knight nodded and turned away. “I pray he returns,” the king cried solemnly, “Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio.”

The knight, in fine linen, mounted his horse and headed out into the forest, bringing only his sword and shield with him. As he traveled deeper into the wood, he could see the shadow of an enchanted dragon looming overhead. “Come down here, you dastardly beast, and unhand my princess!” he yelled. The dragon hovered in midair, flapping its wings in a slow descent. “Let’s go, now! Get down here!” he taunted, standing on the saddle of his steady horse. As the beast came lower, he drew his sword. “I’ve killed dragons before. Don’t waste my time,” he slurred. The dragon heaved back and breathed a terrible flame that engulfed the unsuspecting knight. Without his armor, his attire was instantly singed. With a loud cry, he fell to the ground, stripping himself of the burning clothes. Spooked by the fire, his horse ran away in a tizzy. Sir Rhodomonte struggled to crawl away in his underwear, but the dragon’s infernos persisted. Finally coming upon a small stream, Sir Rhodomonte went under until the dragon’s breathing could be heard no more. Meanwhile, on the dragon’s back, Polonolia held tightly onto Marcos. “I’m so glad you saved me!” she sighed, “We must fly far away from here and elope!” “I’m sorry, Polonolia, but, after using so much power, the enchanted dragon won’t last much longer,” Marco cried, just as the dragon began to shrink. Nearing the ground, the lovers leapt into a soft bed of grass. “He will surely recover and find us,” Polonolia feared, “What shall we do?” “Don’t worry. I have a plan,” Marcos smiled. Back near the stream, Sir Rhodomonte was crossed. “How dare that dragon think he got the best of me!” he scoffed, limping towards his sword and shield, ”I’ll fix him yet.” The knight was badly bruised, but he was determined to rescue the princess and claim his reward. “Hello, my peasant child,” he heard a gravelly voice call. “I am no peasant!” Sir Rhodomonte screamed, “I am THE Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio! And, who darest you be?” “THE Ophelswin; Wizard of the West,” a tall, dark figure bellowed, stepping out of the shadows. The Wizard was clothed from head to toe in sparkling apparel. His beard reached the forest floor and was white as the snow. “Young boy, you must be absurd. A knight with no armor-- let alone clothing-- is a sight to behold.” he laughed. “Twas my wedding day, and a vile beast made off with my bride,” Sir Rhodomonte retorted, “If it weren’t for my bridegroom dress, I would have been wearing my trusty, impenetrable armor.” “I see,” the Wizard sung, stroking his hairy chin, “I have just the potion for you, lad.” “A healing potion?” Sir Rhodomonte grunted in pain, “I’ve been severely burned, and my leg aches from the fall.” “Much better than only healing,” the Wizard grinned, “You’ll have a completely new body.” Sir Rhodomonte’s eyebrows lifted in interest. “You’ll have the body of someone who is faster, nimbler, quicker, and much smarter,” the Wizard boasted. “Yes,” Sir Rhodomonte smiled in deep thought. “Best of all, the body will be much MUCH younger.” “YES!” the knight exclaimed, “WHERE IS THE POTION?!” “Patience, peasant,” The Wizard smirked, retrieving a vial from his inner right coat pocket, “Drink it all, sleep tonight, become new in the morning light.” Sir Rhodomonte nodded and repeated the Wizard’s words over and over as his shaky hands brought the elixir to his mouth. “That’s it, my son,” the Wizard cheered as the knight fell to his knees in deep slumber, “Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio!”

When Sir Rhodomonte awakened, his body felt lighter. He was slimmer. He felt more limber and flexible. He jumped to his feet and spun around. He loved his new body…. at least he thought he did until he went near the pond where he had left his sword and shield. Standing by the water, he caught sight of a beautiful young girl. “Hello, milady,” He charmed, turning on his heels expecting to see the woman behind him. Instead, he found that he was all alone, and his charming voice came out more like a sweet song. “Who’s there?” he squeaked in a voice more feminine than he remembered. He peered into the water once more and realized that he himself had become his own bride. Marcos and Polonolia laughed quietly from behind the trees as many of the King’s knights rushed to his side. “There she is! The princess! Take her!” they shouted. Despite his feeble protests, he was dragged back to the castle to face the King. On the way, they happened upon Sir Rhodomontade’s spooked horse and singed clothing. They assumed the worst, leaving Marcos and Polonolia to live freely ever after. When the men had returned to King Landon, he went into a shock of mourning, then a fit of rage at his ‘daughter’. “If it weren’t for you, Polonolia, Sir Rhodomontade would still be alive, and he would bare my grandson!” he shouted in anger. “But, King!--” “You are unfit to be my successor! You will enter the dungeon never again to see the light of day.” “That is a bit harsh, My Lord, please hear me out--” “If another fair man comes along, he will be brought in to you so that you may bare my grandson. My future king. After that, I frankly don’t care what happens to you.” “But, sire! I AM SIR-” His pleas went unheard as the King’s men ushered him away to the dungeon without another word. “My, my, my stars,” the King wept, “Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio.”

I used to hear:

"Don't show your tears,

Protect the girl,

Hide all your fears."

Now I awaken

On this brand new day,

And they still talk,

But it's different what they say:

"Dress up pretty no matter what,

Stay thin, be poise, have grace

And stop being such a slut."

I used to be Kyle, but now I'm not.

And their words and voices I still hear a lot.

Either way they have so many expectations: "Be happy! Smile!"

I guess you can be anything after you pretend for a while.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!" My voice screams an octave higher than usual. I stare down at the unusual bulge at my chest.

"WHAT THE HELL??" My mom comes rushing in at my agonized yells. When she sees me, she busts out laughing.

"Ah, Spencer," she says. "That reaction was priceless."

"MOM!! WHAT IS GOING ON!?"

"Well," she says, a half smile playing upon her lips. "Me and Dad couldn't decide on what gender you should be, so... we decided that we were going to evenly split your life in half. The first half, you would be male. The second, female. And... today is that day, I guess."

"MOM WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL?! I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!! WHAT DO I TELL HER?"

"Hm... I didn't really think of that- WAIT WHAT?! SPENCER!!"

"Mom..."

"I TOLD YOU NO DATING UNTIL YOU ARE SIXTEEN!! GOD, HOW HARD IS THAT TO LISTEN TO?!"

"Mom..."

"I TOLD YOU THAT FOR THIS REASON! SO YOUR DATE WOULDN'T HAVE TO DEAL WITH THIS!!"

"MOM!"

"THIS IS ON YOU, SPENCER KING!!"

"MOM!! LISTEN!!"

"NO, YOU LISTEN!!"

"MOM! I'VE SPENT HALF MY LIFE AS A GUY!"

"YES! THAT'S WHAT I'M TRYING TO SAY! AND YOU WON'T LISTEN!"

"MO-"

"YOU'RE TOO FOCUSED ON YOUR GIRLFRIEND THAT YOU SHOULDN'T EVEN HAVE!"

"MOM!"

"SPENCER YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO LISTEN TO ME!!!!!" She storms out of the room.

Oh no. This is bad. I'm stuck in here with boobs. I have boobs.

Oh God, this is so bad. I am not even worried about Lia anymore. I'm worried about something else. Something I need to tell Mom.

"MOM!! PLEASE HEAR ME OUT FOR TWO FREAKING SECONDS!!"

"FINE!! GOD, SPENCER!! WHAT IS IT??"

"Mom..."

"What?"

"I'm only eleven."

"Yeah, what do you mean?"

"You said that I would spend half my life as a male."

"So... what's your point?"

"If I'm halfway through my life already..."

She gasps.

"...Then I'm only living to my 22nd birthday..."

this is not my body,

but yet i have never felt better.

can i finally find peace within

the constictive mind of mine,

that constantly disturbs my sanity,

and draws attention to the parts of me

that i wish were unseen? that i wish were never there to begin?

i look in the mirror-

first time in a long time-

and i grin.

no more fat

on my chest

weighing me down, mentally, physically.

no more empty space between my legs,

i am truly at my greatest form!

this is who i was meant to be all along!

is this what i have been searching for forever?

have my problems just decreased entirely?

oh, dear,

i hope this lasts forever.

i love myself!

no longer does my mind play tricks on me,

no longer does my body stick out in strange places,

i am a male,

i am a man,

i am...

the same, but better.

goodbye, dysphoria!

goodbye!

this is who i am, who i was, and forever shall be!

Tyler was a man. A real man. An alpha man. He wasn’t one of those Beta fish, sucker men clinging to the glass eating scraps and feces. Tyler was an American hero. He just needed to find a way to prove it. That’s why he organized the rally. A big rally. The biggest. He wasn’t going to sit back and watch his city become infested with spineless jellyfish, all these urchins and leeches begging for sympathy and handouts, he was going to stomp their whiny voices into the ground with his brigade. A sea of red hot triumph. Victory.

That is, until he awoke on the morning of his planned greatest achievement.

“What is this?” he shouted, leaping from his race car bed.

“No. No, no, no, no, no, no... how can this be?!”

He flung himself at his dresser mirror only to find the face of a very attractive woman staring back at him.

“Lies!” he shouted at the mirror, running towards the bathroom. He rummaged through the drawers bellow the sink until he found it.

“Where are the ingredients?” he shouted, scanning the back of a bottle reading “Super Male Vitality”.

Tyler sighed. He dropped the bottle and allowed himself to look into the mirror. He was clearly a full grown woman. He examined his new body in a calm, and eerily quiet way, attempting to maintain a neutral and rational perspective.

His body ached. His hips were sore. His head was throbbing. He was dizzy with logical conclusions.

This is Alex Jones’ fault, he thought, looking at the pills. Or those gay neighbors, the ones who keep trying to talk to him while they’re walking their tiny dogs.

“Tyler, honey, your friends are here,” his mother’s voice called down the stairs.

“Quiet! I’ll be right there.”

He grabbed his hair shears and began frantically chopping at the long blonde locks that had sprung from his previously crew cut head.

“Shall I tell them to come down?”

He threw the scissors and ran for his artillery closet.

“Quiet! I said. I require more time!”

He pulled a neon orange roll of duct tape from a tool box and viciously wrapped the material around his upper torso and his newly discovered breasts.

“Tyler, sweetie? Is everything alright? I know it’s your big day.”

“God damn it, Mom. Stop speaking to me!”

It was then he realized. Had he forsaken God? He had. Recently. Was this biblical punishment? Was he to endure life as the weaker sex now due to his reckless infractions against the Holy Spirit.

He pulled a red cap down over his mangled hair cut along with a camouflaged sweatshirt and some cargo shorts over his... area. He had never seen one, one of... those before, and was terrified to inquire. Not now.

He loaded his guns and headed up the stairs to meet his followers. He could keep it a secret. He was still himself. He would march, deliver his speech, and then deal with this whole... situation, when he returned. He would sue Alex Jones if necessary.

Tyler managed to get to the parade without speaking to his entourage, but it was becoming more difficult.

“Excuse me! Watch it! I’m the organizer here. Coming through.”

“Hey cutie,” a voice called from behind.

“Nice ass,” said another.

“I like em pushy.” said a third.

“Hey Tyler, why does everyone...”

“Shut up, ” he replied, trying to deepen his voice.

“Sweet cheeks.”

“Fine Ass.”

“What’s under the sweatshirt?”

Tyler shouted and screamed but the men were indifferent to his calls for cooperation and mutual respect.

“Move aside! Get off of me! I’m the organizer!”

“Not likely,” a tall man in a hat and sunglasses said, turning around, “I like your spunk though. I like em spunky.”

He reached for Tylers waist with one hand and the other moved towards his chest.

“What’s wrong with you?” he shrieked. “I’m wearing hunting gear. I have shaved my head! I’m seething with outrage and fury! Move!”

“Woo!” the man laughed, "She’s feisty!”

A group of men gathered around Tyler, laughing.

“Hey, thats our friend. He’s a man,” Tylers entourage argued.

Tyler's face turned red.

“'He?' He one of them? What you call em?”

“Get him out of here!” one of them shouted.

“Yeah, get him out of here!”

“Freak!”

“Queer!”

“GET HIM OUT!” the mob started chanting.

“GET HIM OUT!”

“GET HIM OUT!”

“Wait!” Tyler screamed.

He felt something hard jab him in the ribs. He collapsed. A boot hit him in the cheek.

He scrambled. He began crawling away as fast as he could. He squirrelled his way through the mess of legs, flagpoles, signs, and rifles. Boots stepping on his hands. A militia of hate at his heels. He didn’t turn around. He could hear the chants diminishing behind him. Squeezing his way out of the crowd, he escaped to the side and hid inside an azalea bush.

His mouth was bleeding and he couldn’t open one of his eyes. He was fairly certain his rib was broken.

If I just make it to the stage, I can clear this up, he thought.

He got back on his hands and knees and moved towards the stage. It would all be cleared up, it would all be okay. They would recognize him. They would understand. This was just a misunderstanding. It would be fine. He would still be victorious.

He slid around the stage gates and ascended the metal stairs. Lifting himself from his knees as he climbed and hobbling to the microphone, he steeled himself, then waved confidently.

“Greatness!” he shouted into the mic, “Winning!”

"Who's this chick?" a man in the front shouted.

“Take off your shirt!” yelled another.

“Show your boobs!”

Tyler looked down at his bulging sweatshirt. He felt the veins in his forehead swell with rage.

“No! You...! All of you! Just, shut the hell up!”

The men roared with laughter.

“Hey, her lady parts is bleeding!”

He looked down to see a wet patch on his shorts and a line of dark red trickling down his leg.

“Gross! That’s disgusting!”

“And her legs are hairy! Boo!”

“Get her out of here! Nasty!”

Tyler pulled the guns out from his waistband.

“YAY!” the crowd cheered.

“Shut up! Just shut the hell up!” he shrieked, pointing the barrell at the first man who had yelled at him. He pulled the trigger.

He heard more shots. He kept firing into the angry sea of his former peers. Bullets flying left and right. One struck him in the stomach. Another in the shoulder.

He fell to the floor of the stage, blood pouring out of his arms and stomach and crotch.

“Is this what it’s like to be a woman?” he pondered aloud, looking to the sky as the corners of his eyes grew dim.

Just then, he heard a mysterious female voice. It came from somewhere beyond, from deep within his own mind. A voice through the ether.

“You awful, racist, misogynistic boy. You moron. It gets so much worse than this. Shame. You've learned no lessons today.”