I'd lost all track of actual time in the strangeness of waking up, but it was still early for a Saturday; and with the cold and damp of last night's storm, the campus was pretty quiet. We made it out of the dorm and down to the bus stop without seeing anyone besides a couple pledges, sitting on a bench in the quad and trying to chase off a hangover with enough hair-of-the-dog to make a whole new dog out of; they probably wouldn't have noticed if God himself came walking by.

Which was fine by me; I wasn't eager to be noticed, even if nobody would recognize me. Whether they knew or not, I knew, and exposing this thing-that-was-me to the world felt like accepting this twist of fate, or at least submitting while it had the upper hand. The rational part of my brain knew this was nonsense, but part of me still wanted to just hide in a cupboard and never let anyone see me like this, so that it wouldn't "count." (Never mind that Tammy and Emma had already seen me plenty.)

It surprised me that this wasn't more deeply uncomfortable than it was, being out like this - or the situation in general. But the shock from last night had mostly worn off, and the strangeness of this morning was fading. And there was that thing again where my emotions in this form were more abstract and controlled, not blocking my discomfort, but preventing a total freakout; my classmates' presence helped, too. And at least it was quiet out...

Even the bus was fairly quiet, though we did attract a few stares. Metamorphic science as a field of study had been around long enough that demi-humans were a much less uncommon sight these days, as successive generations of transformees had children who inherited some or all of their non-human traits, who then grew up and had kids themselves, and so on and so forth. For having initial populations as small as a single individual, the number of fifth- or even sixth-generation demi-humans in the world was surprisingly high.

Of course, some were better-represented than others,* but it was an oddly consistent trend, especially with human birthrates trending downward in many first-world countries. Various theories had been put forward to explain this, but many were founded in or hijacked by groups with pretty obviously speciesist and/or sexist views, so that it was something everyone else felt awkward talking about.

* (The large initial population of mermaids, at the start of the Baby Boom, had enough of an impact down the line that many major coastal cities had full-fledged marine developments, and underwater construction had skyrocketed in the last three decades.)

I hadn't thought too much about it myself, but it seemed like the desire for companionship after a traumatic event, our natural tendency to find comfort around others like ourselves, and natural human(oid) "urges" were plenty sufficient to explain it. But I hadn't considered it relevant enough to my life to really bother studying up. But now...I didn't know how my classmates felt about it, but a part of me couldn't help considering it, in the abstract.

Tammy was now part of a significant majority-minority group among demi-humans, but she was also plainly upset about it, for whatever reason. But then, I'd gathered that she had a stable and supportive home environment, and that probably meant a more positive outlook on family (or so I assumed.) I knew nothing about Emma's background before she mentioned cows yesterday, but she seemed well-adjusted, if reckless; she was also probably the only demi-human like her in the world, and might subconsciously want more of her kind around. But then, I was also unique, and as for me-

I stopped short, practically wrenching my thoughts off that track. It was irrelevant anyway, I told myself; I knew what I'd seen in the mirror last night. Still, it kept nagging at the back of my brain, and I had to focus on refusing it any headspace for the rest of the trip, as the bus picked its way down the damp hillside streets towards the lakeshore. Finally, we reached our stop.

My go-to spot for coffee in the Lakeside business district was the little bakery/café in the basement of the old Dewey-Setzer Building near the harbor museum, but Tammy was clear that she wanted some serious breakfast, and all they offered was organic whole-grain muffin type stuff. The Lakeside Grill on 27th Avenue had killer breakfast entrées, but the line to get in was best measured in parsecs, especially on weekends. We ended up at a little diner on Grand Avenue, where the coffee wasn't as good as the one and the food wasn't as great as the other, but we could at least get both.

It wasn't too busy, but there were enough people around - old retired guys shooting the breeze, delivery drivers stopping in for coffee and a sandwich, an elderly lady completely absorbed in today's crossword, and a frazzled mother with two young children in tow - that our entrance caused a bit of a stir. The entire room (save for the crossword lady) radiated an aura of mild astonishment, and the waitress at the counter was clearly at a loss for words. If it were the climate for them, I'dve expected a tumbleweed to go rolling by.

(I wondered - when they looked at me, did they see an artificial construct in the likeness of a human, or a girl who happened to be made of machinery? And...which would be preferable?)

To her credit, the waitress quickly recovered her composure and seated us in a corner booth, with enough room for Tammy to stretch out her tail under the table and Emma to set her head atop it, and for me to huddle as far into one corner and out of sight as possible while allowing my key to turn. "Can I, uh, start you off with something to drink?" she asked, trying to get a feel for the situation - and, probably, figure out if anything she might say would be considered offensive.

Funny, I thought, she wouldn't have given us a second thought if we'd come in here yesterday. I glanced at Emma. Guess if this were a few years ago, she'd have to worry about "smoking or non?" But I gave her the most pleasant smile I could muster after the last twelve hours. "Just water for me."

Tammy also ordered water; Emma went for coffee right off the bat, then gave me a curious look. "Wait, can you even drink like that?"

I stopped and thought about it. I'd just gone with what I felt like, but... "I'm...not sure," I said. "I don't feel thirsty, exactly - like, no dry mouth or anything. I'm not hungry, either. But I could use a glass of water, somehow."

My decapitated classmate thought for a moment; as she did, the shimmery, smoke-like haze above her grew denser and more turbulent. "Oh, right!" she said, at last. "Your breath last night - it was normal. Y'know, warm and a little moist; I remember that struck me funny. I bet whatever does your voice now, it starts with a little steam jet or something." She frowned. "I wonder how it boils the water...?"

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

While she was off on that tangent, the waitress came back with our drinks. I cautiously took a sip of water, feeling it travel down my throat to somewhere inside me; nothing disastrous seemed to happen. "Are you ladies ready to order, or do you need a minute?" I heard her ask. I cringed, feeling self-conscious at the term, but tried to keep it hidden. It wasn't her fault that I looked like a girl now.

"I'll have the full-platter breakfast," Tammy said. "Scrambled eggs, hash browns, and sourdough. And orange juice. Oh, one of those apple-cinnamon muffins, too."

Emma stared at her in surprise, but ordered an omelette for herself; I didn't order, since I wasn't hungry and had no idea what would happen if I tried to eat. When the waitress had gone to put our orders in, Emma laughed. "Damn, girl! So much for the sushi diet...!"

Tammy gave her a Look. "Don't jump to conclusions just 'cause you only ever see me at lunch. I always have a solid breakfast; it kickstarts the metabolism. Besides, I am legit starving here. Don't ask me why, but I gotta eat."

I nodded. "It makes sense; your lower half is around 30-40% longer now, and probably close to three times the mass." The latter figure was normally more like twice, but most mermaid transformees didn't start as longtime paraplegics.

She frowned, sipping at her water; across the room, something set the geezers off into uproarious laughter. "So that's why it felt like so much more work moving around," she said. "Jeez, that's gonna shoot my dietary plan all to hell." Then she glared at Emma. "You're kicking my tail. Stop it."

"Oh, sorry," Emma said. Then, more cheerily, "On the bright side, it's gonna be a lot easier to exercise, now that you can just go to the pool." Tammy looked briefly irritated, but said nothing, and I wondered again what she thought of all this. Emma took herself by the forehead and tilted her head back, putting the coffee cup to her lips to take a sip. "Or, wait, can you? Does the chlorine matter? Stu?"

"It's not great for merfolk," I said, shifting around in my seat as my key slowly turned towards full-horizontal position and started dragging against the cushions on the seat back. "It irritates the soft tissues in the gills, so they have to hold their breath like normal humans; but it's no worse for them toxicologically than for the rest of us. Plus, the school has a freshwater pool for them."

"Anyway," Tammy said, blatantly changing the subject, "after we're done here, we should head up to the mall and pick up some clothes for Stu. Alicia's stuff seems to fit fine, but if they're doing the artist-loft fantasy thing, they're probably gonna move their stuff over the weekend." She frowned. "Cripes, I hope my new neighbors are less annoying."

I wasn't sure how to respond. I still wasn't comfortable thinking of this as something even semi-long term, and even if I conceded that point, it wasn't like I only had the dress and nothing else. And I wasn't eager to go shopping with Emma along; I had a pretty good idea how she'd act. "I've got plenty of clothes back in my room," I said.

Tammy gave me a sympathetic half-smile. "Sure," she said, "but they're all cut for, well, your old shape. The looser T-shirts would be fine if you cut an opening in the back, but I'm guessing you've never tried on pants or tighter tops cut for the wrong body shape before. Even if you didn't care how you look, it'd be uncomfortable."

My metaphorical heart sank at "your old shape;" I could feel my internal tempo drop. But she wasn't wrong, after all. I wondered how much discomfort I could really feel, with a body made of felt-padded metal, but if I still had a sense of touch, odds were good that I could still feel pain. Besides, as awkward as it felt going around in public as a "girl," doing so in obviously ill-fitting clothes would just draw further attention, which was exactly what I didn't want. I sighed and nodded.

"I'm gonna need some new tops, myself," Emma put in. "Pulling something on over this...smoke-stuff...is this kind of brain-frying sensory overload, and I only have a handful of button-up shirts."

Tammy chuckled dryly. "I suppose I'm the lucky one here; all I really need to do is cut slits in the sides of some of my skirts. But between that and fixing up Stu's T-shirts, we're gonna need a sewing kit."

As she was saying this, the waitress sauntered up with several plates balanced carefully on her arms. "Here you are, girls," she said warmly. "Let's see...uh, you had the omelette, right?"

Emma didn't try to perform a nod with her head sitting flat on the table; she just reached for her plate. "Yep, thanks!"

"And, uh, these are yours, right, hun?" She set the other plates down, arrayed in front of Tammy, before producing a carafe apparently out of nowhere and refilling Emma's coffee. It was an impressive spread: three strips of bacon, four sausage links, three enormous buttermilk pancakes, two eggs, scrambled, a pile of hash browns, two slices of buttered toast, and the muffin and juice on top of that; it made me wish I was hungry. Tammy didn't even pause, attacking the meal like a woman possessed.

I stared in mild amazement for a bit, then turned to watch Emma instead, which was downright surreal. She left her head sitting on the table atop a handful of napkins, tilted to one side with the natural angle of her jawline. Her body, seated to the side, took forkfuls of omelette and conveyed them to her mouth, without even once stabbing herself in the face. She wasn't even paying close attention; could she just sense where her head was in relation to her body? Her head bobbed up and down as she chewed, the muscles tensing like normal when she swallowed, the food going God-knows-where...

After the strangest meal of my life to date, Tammy went to use the bathroom and Emma took her head up to the counter to pay the check. I was left alone in the booth, nursing my water and wondering if I'd ever get to eat again. While I waited for the others to get back, I heard one of the kids a couple tables over - the girl - stage-whisper: "Mom, is that lady a robot?"

The mom actual-whispered something back; I couldn't hear, but it sounded scolding. "But she's got a key in her back!" the girl replied.

"An' the other lady was missing her head!" her little brother exclaimed, not even bothering with the whisper - or his indoor voice, for that matter.

"Nuh-uh, it was on the table!" his sister shot back.

Their mother glanced back at me with a look of embarrassment on her face, then answered them with a rapid-fire string of hissing syllables; I still couldn't make it out, but I knew the pattern well enough. Whatever she said, it was clearly the last word on the matter; both of them quieted down after that, though the girl kept turning back to stare at me before her mother made her stop.

A couple minutes later, my classmates returned. As we made our way out, one of the old fellows at the table by the window turned to me, with a strange expression that I couldn't read. He was hunched with age - he must have been well into his eighties - and had the kind of perma-stubble you get when you're so wrinkled that you can't get a clean shave anymore; his thin, wispy hair frizzed out from under one of those embroidered veterans' caps. He nodded at me as if we knew each other; this baffled me, but we were hustling out the door and I wasn't inclined to go back and investigate.

"Who was that?" Emma asked, when we were out on the street. I shrugged. "You got me; I've never met him before." What was he thinking? Was that a creepy-grandpa moment at the sight of a...a pretty young lady? It didn't feel like that; at least I didn't think it did, having never been on the receiving end of those before. There was nothing lecherous in his expression, just an odd look of recognition. Maybe it was just senility, I thought sadly.

We went back down to the bus stop, and I put the whole thing out of my mind; I'd probably never see him again, anyway, and thinking about it just made me unsettled, though I didn't know why. A few minutes later, the bus pulled up, and we boarded and headed up the hill.