The Deviland Mausoleum Central Chamber,

a roomy area for sure, but nigh inconsiderable when compared to the monumental bathroom. Though it certainly appeared a more traditional resting area. Walls of stone and marble, a ceiling of glass allowing that scant bit of the sun's rays that made it all the way down here to illuminate patches of the red and black checkerboard flooring. Vinyl, it was, that’s what my feet told me, and plenty cool too. I felt myself an anglerfish at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, though I suppose an ocean would make an appropriate place for one’s rebirth.

Rhythm procured a towel previously hanging off of one of the bookshelves and dried herself off, fitting back into her black suit and tie she had laying on the desk.

Ah, yes. The desk, and swivel chair to match, along with a lounge chair sat across from said desk. And who could forget the bookshelves too? Scratch my previous statements, this section of the mausoleum seemed ever stranger with each second my eyes scanned over it. It was as if Pee-wee’s Playhouse and Saul Goodman’s law office had a demented lovechild! Before I had a moment to process the champloo of office supplies and odd patterns running across the floor, Rhythm spoke up.

“Wanna take a look at your new body? We made it together, you know!” She gave a warm smile and took my hand, pulling me in front of a mirror hanging off the wall. She seemed eager to hear my response, and had already begun eyeing me up and down. While I don’t prefer to look at myself, I decided it was only fair to Rhythm to at least have a glimpse at my new form. After which I’ll surely ask about that odd comment of hers she stuck at the end.

Once more, starting from the top: My hair seems to have a bit more volume now, perhaps due to the bath we had just shared. But the style has shifted from my old middle part to a set of bangs that lie neatly across my forehead, just blanketing my eyebrows. My skin is clear now too, though my actual tone has become a ghostly white. My once square face and features have become elongated and angular. My button nose had gained more definition, displayed prominently akin to a bayonet. It was a bold look, yet with a tinge of elegance.

Like Rhythm, my complexion had become noticeably more symmetrical, down to the lashes and pores. The goatee I had been cultivating in an attempt to retain some masculinity was done away with, my entire body now as smooth as the lacquered wood shelves that had once made up my home library. Stranger still was the fact that the majority of my body was seemingly untouched.

The colors of my eyes and hair remained the same, I still sounded the same when I spoke. I was the same height, and as indicated by my visible ribs, the same weight as I’d been in my previous life.

How disappointing. I had hope when Rhythm mentioned a new body, yet my boney, malnourished frame was all that greeted me in the mirror. It wasn’t an awful body to inhabit, but it was one I’d grown tired of. Tired of my long hair and slender form having me mistaken for a woman by innumerable passers-by. From being cat-called in between classes at my university, to being addressed as “Miss” or “Ma'am” by mall and corner store salesmen, only to see their faces slip when I respond in a distinctly male cadence.

It was a body not suited for clothing. I had been bumped down to children’s sizes due to my narrow physique. The problem worsened to the point that no belts were made small enough for my waist, leading to me poking additional holes in them myself. Though all previous complaints pale in comparison to the most awful, and certainly most distinctive feminine feature of mine.

That would lie with my hips.

I was always what one would call “pear-shaped”. It frustrated me greatly. The rippling muscles and defined pectorals I’d hoped for when doing vigorous exercises in my teenage years never came. Rather the majority of my defining features went to my lower half. Worsening still when I eventually fell ill and began losing mass. In rebellion to the ever-narrowing crisis the rest of my body was facing, my hips were the only part of me that stayed the same. My only piece reminding me of what I once was. Taunting me for taking my previous size for granted. They always stretched and strained against even the loosest-fitting pants I could stuff myself into. It wasn’t long after I’d been stricken with my illness that I’d find myself tearing through a laundromat’s worth of slacks, jeans, and pajamas. My hips were a ravenous beast, devouring my entire wardrobe in just a few short months. A body too slight, with hips like a barge. I was every tailor’s nightmare.

And here I glare at this body once more, disturbingly similar to the one I so desperately tried to discard not a single hour ago. Disgustingly lithe, with a revoltingly feminine air. Oh, how I loathe to look at myself.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Ah, and there’s also a giant hole through my midsection. I suppose that would be the elephant in the room. But the gaping hole centered directly above my stomach was the least of my concerns when compared to my dismally ladylike figure.

Yet just as I was beginning to relish in my own bodily critique, a hand jutted through my back and out through my solar plexus! My brain was sent into a hard reboot period as I acquainted myself with the feeling of having my newest orifice suddenly penetrated by Rhythm’s intrusive touch.

“Hmmm, Hmmm! Wow, it's all sealed up around the inside! Good good, I was worried your guts’d leak out!”

This is, without a doubt, a violation of some kind. I, of course, couldn’t speak. Or rather I couldn’t find the words or sounds to express myself. So I simply stayed silent. Her fingers danced within the walls of my void plexus (a name that was all too cool for the dreadful lack of organs that it was.) Her hand was cold and curious, exploring every inch of the in, out, and around of my newest perforation.

“Now you’re a curious case! Staring so scornfully at yourself, yet it was your subconscious that gave me the blueprints to your preferred form! Why turn your nose up when faced with your own desires!?”

I…I haven’t a clue what she meant. My eyes couldn’t stay open. My hands contracted, balling up as two dead spiders affixed to my wrists. It was a feeling unable to be compared to neither pain nor pleasure.

“Well, what do you think of yourself!? Let’s hear it! I want it straight from the mouth! You were a fine hunk of dry and dusty clay, yet with our combined wills you have been shaped once more! You are my art!”

Her pitch shifted upwards as her probing and stirring quickened. The sultry-warm tone she took with me before was rapidly shifting to a cold and shrill shrieking as her fingers licked the rim of my void. I felt a sweltering sense of heat, a ringing in my ears, my pulse quickening! Yet I could not utter a single word of defiance.

“I want to hear! I want to hear! I desperately, feverishly want to hear! I want your name! I want your spells! I want to raise you into the perfect New Angel to secure an evolutionary path for Deviland! One to stand above the Humans and Witches! Why, I'd venture to say you've already become acquainted with your first spell! Now, I will be your gardener. So please, speak the name of my seedling!!”

Her digits skipped back and forth along the length of my void plexus. The buzzing in my head grew louder, what kind of greeting is this? Was this an act of love? An attack? A test of the merchandise? A formal inspection? I’ve never met anyone with a hole through their midsection, so was I the lone individual capable of feeling this sensation? Delivered to me by my savior, the one whom I now owe my life to?

Just as I was becoming conscious enough to assess the situation, I felt the length of Rhythm’s forearm rush out through my back in a single, swift motion. Then, lifting both arms, she sat them gingerly on my shoulders.

“Well? Questions? Comments? Concerns? Critique? Or perhaps, applause?” She chirped, her lips smacking as they curled into a satisfied smirk.

I was utterly stupefied. Nevertheless, it successfully took my mind off of the qualms and concerns I held with my new form. I blinked once or twice before sitting myself down in the nearby lounge chair, leaning forward. My head, as heavy as the heavens above, rested in the palms of my hands. I felt myself empathizing with Atlas for but a tick. That was until I noticed…

My…hands. Well they were certainly my hands, attached at the arms and all, yet they were distinctly inhuman. Tapered fingers, from nail to wrist were a deep purple, with swirling, spiraling strings of scarlet flowing atop. Tiny yellow calluses dotted my palms. Three on each hand, placed between the knuckles. I was unfazed. The impromptu examination I’d experienced still left me in a semi-euphoric state. I took a few deep breaths, leveled my head, and locked eyes with Rhythm, giving the response I felt most appropriate:

“Patchery Pittari. If I have a new body, I’m owed a right to a new name, yes?”

Upon hearing such a bold statement, her eyes widened. It was a rapid, universal expanse happening twice over as galaxies were born that twinkled in her irises. It was perhaps the most raw emotion I’ve seen of Rhythm thus far. More so than her frantic stirring of my innards.

It called back to my own youthful face of wonder, the same expression that I’d held when an action hero made a grand appearance. It was obvious from the start that Rhythm was one to be respected, she gifted me another life after all. But it was her face now, a face that only one with a human heart could make, that solidified my trust in her, despite her eccentric mannerisms.

“Rhythm, I'm sorry if this offends you, but I don’t feel comfortable giving you the name that was tied to my previous life. If possible, I’d like an entirely clean slate.” I sat upright, carrying a bit more confidence in my tone. I spoke with her the same way I would with a trusted business partner, fresh off of closing a deal. After hearing my resolve to secure my new identity, her sobriety returned and she gave a welcoming look.

“Understood, Patchery...” her voice returned to its natural, velvety tone as she scooped up some neatly-folded office clothes from the top of her desk. An outfit looking very similar to my work uniform, topped with my own glasses. Cheerily, she turned towards me, and tossed them into my lap.

“...But you’d look much cooler if you said that with some pants on.”

Ah, that’s right. I’ve been naked this whole time, haven’t I?