Broken Masquerade

[Holy Marsh]

The Inquisitor took to his task, inputting the foreigner's names and confirming their information. Their fingerprints were automatically uploaded to every applicable scanner in the nation, and soon flashed their eyes- unpleasant to a degree, but soon their optics were uploaded to systems across the nation. After a few seconds it was done, the touchpads being put away. Good. That would give them the access they'd need. Not that in the end it mattered. The Inquisitor had an interesting morning himself due to the Shift but found all the hub bub about it overblown. The flesh was always weak and always gave in to the temptations that softness offered. That was why most Inquisitors were so heavily scarred. You showed your devotion not through sheer piety but through terrible sacrifice in the face o true horror. Battle scarring and hobbling was part of the Inquisitor's MO. Having a body that showcased none of that was a little disconcerting, though being able to see a pair of non-mechanical arms for the first time in twenty years was a nice change of pace.

“It has been done. Please follow us, lasses and gents,” he spoke evenly, turning upon his heel and nodding to his militia guards. They also turned on their heels and they all trotted off to lead their charges. They went down the small, thin terminal. It was deathly quiet except for the sound of loudspeakers in the main terminals praying and saying hymns in between local music. This terminal was decorated with more thoughts for the days and readings from scripture, though they were decidedly less violent than usual. “Love is the Currency of Society; Spend it freely and receive its benefits”. “Integrity is next to Godliness”. “All life is created equal, and all things equal are worthy of life”. “Put Your Faith in Me and Paradise in this Life and the Next!”. Of course this was all under a giant banner declaring, “For the Holy Marsh! Death to the Vile Lard!”. “Cultists Demand Death”. “Cultists are Unlife” “Sacrifice before dishonor”.
At the end of this terminal was a large monorail, the doors open for them. “They have been held up for us. Let us enter,” the Inquisitor said quickly as the group did so, finding reserved seats in the final car of the monorail waiting for them. The moment they sat, the monorail started.

To describe it as packed would be doing it injustice. Every seat was taken and most standing room only placement as well. The foreigners were paid a little attention as they entered and then forgotten. Hymns and religious songs were being sung amid a cacophony of conversation. Some of it was Shift related and a full half of the monorail passengers were clearly getting used to new bodies, shifting around in their seats, or getting used to torn clothes, ill-fitting clothes, or new clothes they had never taken a gander at before. Yet the Shift only dominated some elements of the conversation. Sporting contests were popular topics as were all manners of schooling, warmaking, and various religiosity- the last two coming up as the nations of “Natrona County”, “Lubyak” and “Schantrac” came up with excited and angry tones.

Each car of the monorail had two MA-256M light machine guns emplaced pointing out of windows and a total of four boxes, two on either end of the car, contained BCRs. Under and over the seats were grenades and ammunition in easy to remove cases, clipped onto the ends of another. The monorail was three things- a civilian transport, a military transport, and in a pinch, an APC of significant scale. Of course, much of the transportation network could be called such. The city was a fortress with internal lines of communication and redundant lines of transportation.

Roads were on top of buildings- small single or double lane overpasses built going from the ground to many stories high, replacing the roofs of great sections of the city. Roads at the ground level were mammoth and chock full of traffic. Underneath those roads was a vast open highway open to only the military that ran above the subway system and sewers. Military vehicles popped out in their hundreds at various exits in the city. So large was the capital that smaller heliports capable of servicing a hundred or more helicopters at once found homes on top of the roofs of various neighborhoods. All of this was crisscrossed by overwhelming numbers of pedestrian foot traffic as they went every which way. Just about every building save for churches, businesses, and military facilities were open to the public for foot traffic purposes, pedestrian traffic through apartment complexes was staggering in scope alone. Bunkers, artillery emplacements, hard points, and all manner of fortifications were present along every step.

Yet through this maddening scope and intensity of movement there was a sublime beauty. It operated like a well-oiled machine. Traffic flowed in order and pedestrians obeyed en masse the laws of travel. The roads, moving parts, and scale of defense could not prevent the towering statues and beautiful, block size woks of art from blasting the city with grandeur and color. Wherever possible trees and other features of the nearby jungles could be found jutting into view, sometimes coming through apartments themselves thanks to the dedication of agricultural engineers. The architecture where it was not defensive was of Pushanian make and model, ancient designs five thousand years old and standing tall and strong amidst it all more common than not. It was beautiful, it was awe-inspiring in scale, and it operated flawlessly in spit of the Shift.

The monorail was no exception. It never stopped, not fully anyway. As it approached each stop it slowed down considerably. Those who wished to stop stood up and made their way to the doors on the left side of the monorail. The stop approached, all doors opened and one after another stepped off with the monorail in motion. On the right side the doors opened and groups stepped on with the monorail in motion. Each car was at the station no less than five seconds from start to finish and the monorail continued on, never stopping fully. Time was always of the essence when you were in public transport.
“So, how comes the delegation? I hope everything is going well in your homeland,” the Inquisitor asked awkwardly after a few minutes, not really quite good at making the small talk.

0700 hours MIST
Hansen's Gallery
Chalcedon, Monavia

It had been a long twenty minutes for Donald, who now sat on a chair inside the gallery with his cuts being tended to by the fantastic Madame Hansen. He was lucky to have an employer like her. Marshites weren't discriminated per se but they were acknowledged as being a relatively strange bunch only more recently let loose on the world stage. This job wouldn't make him rich but she was a good and reasonable boss and he in turn had been good and reliable employee. Now- well, now all that seemed a world away. Maybe back in Holy Marsh the people were taking this in stride better but he was a Marshite cut from a different cloth. Hard to ignore what happened to him when he was reminded with every breath, every blink of his eyes, every little detail he saw and felt. Thank Marsh again for Hansen, who despite seeming out of sorts herself was helping him with his cuts and bruises.

“Thank you, Miss Hansen,” Donald said softly, his voice still unsure of its own timber or function. He had his pants pulled up, though they still managed to outstrip the length of his legs. His shirt had torn and he was all together out of sorts. He clutched his miniature scripture and his phone, looking at the text. He had yet to reveal it- mostly because they had said little to each other since it had started. He randomly touched various parts of his body just out of shock, though he was more pleased than not that one area of his had remained in place. It was out of sorts with the rest of him but at least that M on his card could stay an M and he wouldn't have to change certain bathroom habits. He got his victories in small doses. His head snapped as he heard something come up the alley way- the overturned pebbles and small bits of gravel made more than enough sound, especially as his head lay on the thin wall between the gallery and the alleyway. His nerves shot up.
“We aren't open, are we?!”

[Mokastana]

“So, how comes the delegation? I hope everything is going well in your homeland,” the Inquisitor asked awkwardly after a few minutes, not really quite good at making the small talk.

The Holy Marsh was populous, no doubt there seemingly endless supply of manpower made them a force to be reckoned with, another advantage of this western super power. Director Null was grateful that they were friends with this nation, no doubt the Mokan Government would be hard pressed to find a solution if this became a problem for them.

He ideally wondered, with all this packed population, how they would react to the open farmland of Mokastana, or life on a fishing boat with kilometers of sea in every direction. It seemed the idea of open space was blasphemy in this land. He would have to be careful with that word now. Though there were Marshites employed by the MBSA, he chose not to bring any on this mission to the Holy Land. The last thing he wanted was a conflict of interest, especially if it would not go in his favor.

"Everything is under control back home."

He didn't intentionally go for a cold response, but vagueness was second nature by now. Eyes and ears were every where, and he knew every word shared on this operation would have to be recorded in his post action report. Still, he tried to lighten up the mood and bring the conversion back to the local customs, after all it was only natural to be curious.

"It seems you have thought of everything, who would be stupid enough to attempt to siege the capital?"

[Holy Marsh]

The Inquisitor nodded silently for a few seconds as he looked out at the city. Now, of course, it would be suicide for all but th greatest of military hyperpowers to even sniff the possibility of invasion of the nation, let alone the capital. It was only when the tide of the Long War had not been so kind that the destiny of control and power that the capital had inside of itself was put into doubt by siege and battle. No force besides the Cult had ever stepped an aggressive, non-Marshite foot into the city. Nor would it likely happen again, something which made the nation even more confident in its destiny to expand.

“The Cult of the Vile Lard did so several times when they held advantages in the Long War. Most of those battles were centuries ago. We started to take advantage in the 1700s and pushed into Mushania. The only thing that happened then were a few biological, chemical and nuclear attacks in the cities in the 30s, but nothing too major or that we didn't have experience with handling in other cities anyway. Not sure if anyone would even try now, but if they did- well, it would be the height of stupidity,” the Inquisitor responded as the train finally came to a full stop.

“Last stop: Shrine District. Thought for the day: Holiness internally is only as powerful as displays of faith externally,” the conductor said before the Inquisitor led the foreigners out.

“We walk now. There is only foot traffic through the Shrine District,” The Inquisitor explained as they started walking./ In the far distance the First Cathedral could be seen, the seat of of the Theocracy. Built into the side of a mountain it looked truly ancient and extraordinarily tall. Before then there were hundreds of religious buildings devoted to the various Shrines. Some were the main Churches of the Shrines themselves, holding mass seemingly all the times. Others were museums of relics, one after another, each multi-story, multi-block large facilities.

The most omnispresent item, however, were statues. Some were a mere six inches talls. Others were almost a thousand feet high, but no matter the height, all were highly detailed sculpts of famous heroes. The larger the statue, the more heroic or legendary the deeds. The small ones may be soldiers who earned the Theocracy's highest decoration in battle. The largest were famous generals or saints who had changed the course of the Long War. Artisans could be seen on more than a few of them, constantly touching the statues up. Many had existed for thousands of years and would continue to exist for thousands more, so it behooved them to keep it all in good shape.

“Should only be about another half hour.”

[The State of Monavia]

OOC:

Once again I owe you an apology for the length of my delay in posting. As a minor spoiler, I plan on having Hedges take Donald to his personal physician in order to figure out the medical details of what happened and then use this information as part of his plan to investigate the mystery further.

---

IC:

0700 hours MIST
Hansen's Gallery
Chalcedon, Monavia

It had been a long twenty minutes for Donald, who now sat on a chair inside the gallery with his cuts being tended to by the fantastic Madame Hansen. He was lucky to have an employer like her. Marshites weren't discriminated per se but they were acknowledged as being a relatively strange bunch only more recently let loose on the world stage. This job wouldn't make him rich but she was a good and reasonable boss and he in turn had been good and reliable employee. Now- well, now all that seemed a world away. Maybe back in Holy Marsh the people were taking this in stride better but he was a Marshite cut from a different cloth. Hard to ignore what happened to him when he was reminded with every breath, every blink of his eyes, every little detail he saw and felt. Thank Marsh again for Hansen, who despite seeming out of sorts herself was helping him with his cuts and bruises.

“Thank you, Miss Hansen,” Donald said softly, his voice still unsure of its own timber or function. He had his pants pulled up, though they still managed to outstrip the length of his legs. His shirt had torn and he was all together out of sorts. He clutched his miniature scripture and his phone, looking at the text. He had yet to reveal it- mostly because they had said little to each other since it had started. He randomly touched various parts of his body just out of shock, though he was more pleased than not that one area of his had remained in place. It was out of sorts with the rest of him but at least that M on his card could stay an M and he wouldn't have to change certain bathroom habits. He got his victories in small doses. His head snapped as he heard something come up the alley way- the overturned pebbles and small bits of gravel made more than enough sound, especially as his head lay on the thin wall between the gallery and the alleyway. His nerves shot up.
“We aren't open, are we?!”

0701 hours MIST

Hansen’s Gallery
Chalcedon, Monavia

Hansen initially forgot where she had placed her first aid kit and resorted to handing Donald some facial tissues with which to cover his cuts while she fumbled around. Hansen had opened up a small bottle of disinfectant to use on Donald’s cuts and began applying it by the time Inspector Hedges had arrived in the alley. She did not pay much attention to Donald’s self-probing at first, thinking it was merely a side effect of shock, but it definitely reinforced her realization of the situation and she had to force her thoughts about it out of her mind in order to maintain her focus. She was just about to finish drying one of the cuts off to apply a bandage when she noticed Donald’s muscles stiffen.

“We aren’t open, are we?!”

“Not yet. Is somebody outside?” Hansen looked out of her front windows only to see nobody standing around, and returned her focus to Donald. “I didn’t see anybody outside.” Moments later she caught sight of two pigeons flitting past the storefront with the corner of her eye and turned again. “It was just a couple of birds.”

Hedges expected to spot evidence of Donald’s accident after Hansen summoned him, so he was not at all surprised by what he had found thus far. Since no one was in the alley any longer, the inspector assumed that Donald was already inside the shop and approached the storefront.

Miss Hansen heard a set of footsteps round the corner of her storefront and instinctively backed away from Donald to stand up and see who was approaching. A mere heartbeat later, Hedges came into view and walked into Hansen’s Gallery.

“Donald,” Miss Hansen began, “May I introduce you to Jeffrey Hedges, an inspector who works for the government.”

“It’s my pleasure to be here,” Hedges warmly greeted Donald as he walked closer and extended his hand. “My friend here called me earlier this morning to inform me about an occurrence that was caught on the news at a local concert. Shortly after I had finished watching a few minutes of coverage, she called me again to tell me about your accident and asked me to come over here. The bureau I work for”—Hedges decided not to disclose the fact that he actually headed the BES at the moment—“focuses some of its attentions on supernatural and paranormal activities which might have national security implications, and the events that Miss Hansen described sounded like something that I might be able to look into.”

Hedges paused to let Donald process what he had said while Hansen continued applying bandages. “If you don’t mind telling me what happened to you outside, I’d like you to walk me through what happened in as much detail as you can so I know what to do next.”

[Mokastana]

“The Cult of the Vile Lard did so several times when they held advantages in the Long War. Most of those battles were centuries ago. We started to take advantage in the 1700s and pushed into Mushania. The only thing that happened then were a few biological, chemical and nuclear attacks in the cities in the 30s, but nothing too major or that we didn't have experience with handling in other cities anyway. Not sure if anyone would even try now, but if they did- well, it would be the height of stupidity,”

“Last stop: Shrine District. Thought for the day: Holiness internally is only as powerful as displays of faith externally,” the conductor said before the Inquisitor led the foreigners out.

“We walk now. There is only foot traffic through the Shrine District,” The Inquisitor explained as they started walking./ In the far distance the First Cathedral could be seen, the seat of of the Theocracy. Built into the side of a mountain it looked truly ancient and extraordinarily tall. Before then there were hundreds of religious buildings devoted to the various Shrines. Some were the main Churches of the Shrines themselves, holding mass seemingly all the times. Others were museums of relics, one after another, each multi-story, multi-block large facilities.

The most omnispresent item, however, were statues. Some were a mere six inches talls. Others were almost a thousand feet high, but no matter the height, all were highly detailed sculpts of famous heroes. The larger the statue, the more heroic or legendary the deeds. The small ones may be soldiers who earned the Theocracy's highest decoration in battle. The largest were famous generals or saints who had changed the course of the Long War. Artisans could be seen on more than a few of them, constantly touching the statues up. Many had existed for thousands of years and would continue to exist for thousands more, so it behooved them to keep it all in good shape.

“Should only be about another half hour.”

The Director listened to his escort, nodding to the notice of half hour, along with taking in the various sights to be seen and culture of the mainland of Holy Marsh. There was a reason why this religion had spread so far and wide, and why it was one of the major religions of the Federation. Though still relatively small compared to the Mokan Orthodox Church or its Christian based siblings, the Marshite population still made it into the double percentages. Not a comforting thought when it became clear that a majority had been changed without their consent. Self Autonomy was a basic tenant of Mokan life, one that had even slipped into a few of their local Marshite Shrines. Perhaps Director Alejandro Null could play the culture card if it was needed in negotiations.

Behind him, Special Agent Helen Fontaine followed, her unusual ears and tail hidden underneath her cap and jacket respectfully. Nekos were a very small minority in the Federation, mostly situated in Aqua Anu, but a few had made homes in the Islands of the Mar del Moka. Despite their status as citizens, they were still myth and legend in some parts of the Federation. Something she dealt with on most deployments.

Still, they studied the statues, and the grand First Cathedral in the distance. A place that many Mokan Marshites had wanted to pilgrimage to, just to be this close to it, and yet, here were a group of non-believers being given the chance many prayed for. The world worked in such curious ways.

It was possible the group would continue along in silence, just listening to the foot traffic and taking mental and electronic pictures along the way. Though none may not be Marshites themselves, a few could still play tourist in the Grand Capital. In this case it was Helen, who lifted up a camera and took a snapshot of the Cathedral from where she stood, admiring the beauty of the building from afar.

[Holy Marsh]

The walk continued for about half an hour, the foot traffic getting heavier and heavier. The Shrines grew larger and more elaborate, until they became pyramid ziggurauts that started deep underground and ended hundreds of stories in the sky, with banners the size of office buildings fluttering gently in the harsh winds that started to tear through the district. Booming voices intermingled in the center as dozens of sermons went on at the same time, tens of thousands cloistered into any single Shrine to hear their Shrine's holy words of the day. Rituals went on, which stretched from simple prayers to unrestricted naked dancing- there was almost as much variation within the Marshite faith as there was to be found in all outside religion. The Non-Human Shrine with a twenty story statue of a neko in full platemail holding the head of a Cult President of Ceremonies, around her feet cloistered a thousand smaller statues of similarly clad neko warriors, would be of particular interest to Fontaine.

No matter, they were soon in front of the First Cathedral. It stood taller than all others, no doubt aided by the mountain that was its home. Along the ridges of the mountain it stretched out horizontally, rows of figures standing multiple stories tall pointing to the top of the Cathedral. At the very top, above the cloudy wisps that made home there, was a single figure. This was far more modern. It was a mix of hard-steel construction and an advanced mimetic hologram: You saw what you believed the Holy Marsh to be. Some would see a woman. Others a man. Some a pony. Others a neko. A benevolent God of Science or Fertility- or an armor clad God of War or bloody God of Justice. You could see it looking down on the people as a shepherd to sheep, or you could spy the eyes looking above for a higher power. It was varying as was the Faith, and it was the only such design on earth.

“Our journey ends now,” the Inquisitor said as two figures approached. “They will escort you to the Arch-Bishop herself. I myself have other matters to attend to- I will likely see you again, Agents of the Federation,” he said politely, bowing ever so lightly before he started bounding off, touching his ear and receiving a communication. The two figures approached- one of them in a Shrine Guard uniform, and the other not so much, who wore nothing but pants and a bra.

“Welcome to the First Cathedral, Director Null. It will be our pleasure to take you to the Arch-Bishop. I apologize for my disposition today- they ran out of proper attire. Follow us,” The less than properly dressed one spoke, nodding towards the Cathedral.

Once they entered, it was as if every sound became thunder in echo. The main chamber could seat more than one-hundred thousand, with an additional twenty in the rafters. For all of its grandeur, there was no reason to go further, even to investigate the two hundred and eighty banners that flew. They went up a flight of old marble stairs. Floor after floor of museums and more, though considerably smaller, chambers. Banners. Histories. Each new floor was met with a small squad of guards, who interrogated them before they were allowed to ascend- both practical and religious questions. Each staircase was of obscene size, with scripture written in every piece above and below. It took a full two minutes to ascend to a higher floor on a good day- and if you had an escort. For a pilgrim, it could take an hour between the hundreds who would stop and pray along the way.

As they ascended, the museums and histories became considerably more dense and fanatical, to rewards those with the devotion to reach this far. The relics became more famous. The Sword of the Ten Thousand Kings of Pushania. The Cloak of Istagar. The Hooves of Breakwater Stallion. The Living Death of A Million Slavers, the Heart of Shanestan. At the thirtieth floor, after what seemed like an eternity, there was only one relic. The Original Copy of the First Scripture sat guarded by a full platoon, with four attendants standing on every corner of its display case. Each one had memorized its contents and could discuss for hours, sometimes days, and the platoon was there only to respond to attempts on the Scripture itself. At the thirty-first floor was an elevator to the administrative elements of the First Cathedral.

“I apologize for the walk. The Arch-Bishop does not want an elevator that has public access. Considers it a security risk. Also desires that we remind ourselves of the sacrfices we must make to achieve our goals,” the other guard said as the first one punched in a code. The elevator hummed to life. It was transparent, allowing all inside to see that this was indeed thee administrative heart of the Theocracy. Thousands of workers seemed to stuff every floor, with every department in the nation having their headquarters or center of operations here. Somehow, the Inquisitor from earlier could be spotted, who shot a knowing smile at the group as they passed his floor.

It stopped. Doors opened.
“Two floors away. No direct access.”

The guards led the group. Rooms marked in Old Pushanian were on all sides. Next floor. Same. Doors closed as they approached. Next floor, the Arch-Bishop's floor- same, no change. Then a simple, unmarked office at the end. Door opened, guards leave.

“-demanded they release the faithful. Refusal. Followed shortly by threats, which they acted upon. Ten Marshites confirmed dead. We know of at least forty-seven thousand in captivity, with those in other cities starting to resist their Schantrachian masters. Therefore, I have ordered that nation cleansed of those who would harm Marshites. The Republic of Schantrac is hereby Dust to Wind by my word and command, and the 515th Crusading Group shall see this through,” Arch-Bishop Lainika spoke, waving them in.

“Natrona County saw fit to forcibly see to it that what few Marshites who were unaffected by the Shift underwent forcible gender reassignment earlier today. When approached, they executed the delegation. The Matriarchy of Natrona County is hereby Dust to Wind by my word and command, and the 516th Crusading group shall see this through. I will review the other twelve proposals for military action later this afternoon. So it is said and so it is to be done.”

“Karra Kasom,” voices from the walls replied, and the room seemed to dim.

“Director, please sit. What do you need?” she said, her gruff demeanor softening as much as it could.

***
0701 hours MIST

Hansen’s Gallery
Chalcedon, Monavia

Donald felt like a fool. Pigeons. Uggh. Why was he so absurdly jumpy? Besides the obvious. Or maybe that was all it. Maybe this was a mental change too. He was never this nervous before, or paranoid, and now he was both. It was a situation that should probably warrant some worry of course. This was not the usual life of a person. The usual life of a person was to find meaning I sacrifice and to harvest joy from the fields of fruitful righteousness. But this was neither, it was strange and outrageously impactful. And if it wasn't simply physical? What if it changed his mind. Altered his personality? He could be someone else entirely but have the same memories. To be yourself but not- the worst fate of all! But then again, maybe it was simply the shock...

“Fuck me, seriously,” Donald let out as he watched a new person entered. Well, that was more like himself. He wanted to panic, then Hansen introduced him. Then he wanted to panic more. Government? A branch of it which investigated the paranormal? He didn't want to spend the rest of his life, however he looked, at some facility like a freak. He contemplated running but figured- well, he could likely get as far as the door. Maybe. He wasn't sure how he'd run in the new body. An then where would he go? The Church was always very complimentary towards the local government and he enjoyed his life.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes.
“Yes, yes. Of course. I'm sorry. This is- I'm- this is just weird. And I'm not even sure I'm awake. Could this be a dream? Uggh. Sorry, sorry again. I was just coming into wok, riding my bike. Nothing unusual. Then out of the blue I felt woozy, like very last bit of my awareness was being sucked out of me. I fell, Or crashed, I dunno- and woke up like this,” he waved at himself. He then reached for his phone. “I got this text a few minutes later, after I called Miss Hansen.”

From: Marshite Emergency Church Communications

Technoarcane mishap in Holy Marsh is responsible for vast transformations to the Faithful. The event has ended. Seek solace in scripture if you are disturbed. Thought for the day: The fortress of the mind Is guarded by the soldiery of the soul.

[The State of Monavia]

Donald felt like a fool. Pigeons. Uggh. Why was he so absurdly jumpy? Besides the obvious. Or maybe that was all it. Maybe this was a mental change too. He was never this nervous before, or paranoid, and now he was both. It was a situation that should probably warrant some worry of course. This was not the usual life of a person. The usual life of a person was to find meaning I sacrifice and to harvest joy from the fields of fruitful righteousness. But this was neither, it was strange and outrageously impactful. And if it wasn't simply physical? What if it changed his mind. Altered his personality? He could be someone else entirely but have the same memories. To be yourself but not- the worst fate of all! But then again, maybe it was simply the shock...

“Fuck me, seriously,” Donald let out as he watched a new person entered. Well, that was more like himself. He wanted to panic, then Hansen introduced him. Then he wanted to panic more. Government? A branch of it which investigated the paranormal? He didn't want to spend the rest of his life, however he looked, at some facility like a freak. He contemplated running but figured- well, he could likely get as far as the door. Maybe. He wasn't sure how he'd run in the new body. An then where would he go? The Church was always very complimentary towards the local government and he enjoyed his life.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes.
“Yes, yes. Of course. I'm sorry. This is- I'm- this is just weird. And I'm not even sure I'm awake. Could this be a dream? Uggh. Sorry, sorry again. I was just coming into wok, riding my bike. Nothing unusual. Then out of the blue I felt woozy, like very last bit of my awareness was being sucked out of me. I fell, Or crashed, I dunno- and woke up like this,” he waved at himself. He then reached for his phone. “I got this text a few minutes later, after I called Miss Hansen.”

From: Marshite Emergency Church Communications

Technoarcane mishap in Holy Marsh is responsible for vast transformations to the Faithful. The event has ended. Seek solace in scripture if you are disturbed. Thought for the day: The fortress of the mind Is guarded by the soldiery of the soul.

0703 hours MIST

Hansen’s Gallery
Chalcedon, Monavia

The moment Jeffrey Hedges entered Hansen’s Gallery he found himself staring at a living example of something that his mind had previously regarded as utterly impossible. As much as he trusted his friend as a reliable source of truth, he regarded a magically-induced gender reversal as a phenomenon outside the realm of reality. Hearing Hansen make frantic claims was one thing, but seeing the results in person was quite another. This is so strange! he mused in disbelief as he scrutinized the man seated in front of him.

“I’m pretty sure you’re awake,” Hansen reassured her cashier, causing the inspector’s curious but otherwise plain expression to momentarily loosen up.

“You felt woozy?” Hedges asked. “You don’t have a history of seizures or narcolepsy, do you?” Regardless of how Donald answered, the inspector was not taking any chances, especially since he had no means of determining if Donald’s troubles were over. He immediately shifted his attention to the text message and carefully perused it, then read it again and paused to think about its meaning. Technoarcane mishap? Vast transformations? Sounds like this problem is a lot bigger than I thought.

“It seems that the Church is attributing the cause of your transformation and the resulting accident to something that happened back in your homeland, though this means that whatever did this had to be exceptionally powerful to generate effects like these from so far away. For all we know, this ‘mishap’ could still have further effects that haven’t appeared yet.” The latter thought was unnerving enough to make Hedges cringe with apprehension, though he did not seem to show it much. Hedges also realized that the externally discernible changes in Donald’s anatomy might have been accompanied by internal changes that could have unforeseen repercussions if they were not discovered and treated appropriately. “At the very least,” Hedges continued, “we need to find out if your insides are affected at all. If you’ll excuse me for a moment I will make a quick call to my personal physician to set up an appointment.” Hedges quickly took two steps back and dialed a number he usually called only once every year or two. “Hello.”

“Good Morning, this is Dr. Carlyle’s office. How may I help you?” a woman on the other end of the line responded with the practiced fluidity of a highly experienced receptionist.

“Good morning Ms. Ludvonov. I have a friend here who I’d like Dr. Carlyle to look at this morning, if possible. I realize that he’s not very fond of short-notice appointments, but the patient I want him to see just suffered a nasty bicycle accident and I want to make sure he has no internal injuries. Do you think you can get the doctor to free up some of his time to do this?”

“Luckily for you Dr. Carlyle will not be seeing any patients until seven-thirty, so if you can get your friend here within fifteen minutes, I’m sure he’ll be able to do something for him.”

“Thank you. We’ll be there shortly.” Hedges ended the call and looked back at Donald. “I’m taking you to my doctor to get evaluated and find out if you have experienced any internal changes that we cannot see. He has an MRI machine on hand that can shed some light on what exactly happened to you—on the inside, anyway.”

[Mokastana]

The travel through the Capital had seemed to take forever, Shrines becoming larger and more elaborate with every step, the sharing of words and sermons for one of the few religions in the world that wasn't all smoke and mirrors. Not to say their beliefs were the way to go, but the longer the Director worked in this field, studying alien technologies and events without explanation, the more he realized how little worship and sermons actually meant. It kept the people in line, and something to focus on, but the real power and influence over their lives would always be decided by others behind closed doors.

He watched his aide, Helen Fontaine, look at the statues of the Nekos as the continued pasted the non-human shrine. The Neko population in the People's Unified Federation was barely a few thousand. Small communities mostly located in Aqua Anu and Paradisa. Though they were vibrant and loud locally, such memorials would be hard to find in the PUF. Her curiosity may have been peaked, but he wouldn't have brought her along if she could be so easily distracted. Though this “Cult of the Vile Lard” would certainly require more research. All he had so far was rumors and texts from Federal Marshites, he would have to dig around for more while here.

Such thoughts could be put on hold for later, for they were at the first Cathedral, a mountain of a building, a large holographic all seeing eye watched down upon it's works, content with it's followers. Like the rest of the city, heroes of old stood guard along the path, their stone images crafted to remember them for ages to come.

Helen looked up, and saw a figure wrapped in a robe surrounded by light, she would have to check with her other agents when they made it someplace safe to confirm what the others saw. She had heard stories that the First Cathedral showed you what you wanted to see, but, as with all matters of intelligence gathering, verification was required.



“Our journey ends now,” the Inquisitor said as two figures approached. “They will escort you to the Arch-Bishop herself. I myself have other matters to attend to- I will likely see you again, Agents of the Federation,”

The agents returned the short bow, turning their attention to the two others coming to continue the escort mission.

“Welcome to the First Cathedral, Director Null. It will be our pleasure to take you to the Arch-Bishop. I apologize for my disposition today- they ran out of proper attire. Follow us,”

The Director acknowledged the… Marshites... statement, nodding and responding with a simple, “it's fine, things have been a little unusual lately.”

Once inside, the Neko agent began taking pictures, both obviously with a camera and subtlety with the pinhole camcorder in her hat. They had no malicious intent, but intelligence was intelligence after all. Any random detail may come in handy in the future.

The guards who interrogated them would get honest answers, none of the party were actually Marshites, or even religious to a degree. Well, one of the security agents escorting Fontaine and Null was baptized Mokan Orthopraxis Christian, but non practicing.

As they ascended, it became clear these were priceless relics of a multi billion person religion, very few would ever actually get to see these wonders. Which is exactly why Null wanted a team of non Marshites on this operation. The last thing Null wanted was a conflict of interests to complicate his mission. Still they showed their respect in their own way. This was perhaps the most important building in an Allied nation's Capital, respect was mandatory here.

“I apologize for the walk. The Arch-Bishop does not want an elevator that has public access. Considers it a security risk. Also desires that we remind ourselves of the sacrfices we must make to achieve our goals,”

“Very understandable.” The Director kept to his “man of few words" style, showing no signs of discomfort or trouble, he was a guest, and would honor whatever local customs they required.


“Two floors away. No direct access.”



The guards led the group. Rooms marked in Old Pushanian were on all sides. Next floor. Same. Doors closed as they approached. Next floor, the Arch-Bishop's floor- same, no change. Then a simple, unmarked office at the end. Door opened, guards leave.

“-demanded they release the faithful. Refusal. Followed shortly by threats, which they acted upon. Ten Marshites confirmed dead. We know of at least forty-seven thousand in captivity, with those in other cities starting to resist their Schantrachian masters. Therefore, I have ordered that nation cleansed of those who would harm Marshites. The Republic of Schantrac is hereby Dust to Wind by my word and command, and the 515th Crusading Group shall see this through,” Arch-Bishop Lainika spoke, waving them in.

“Natrona County saw fit to forcibly see to it that what few Marshites who were unaffected by the Shift underwent forcible gender reassignment earlier today. When approached, they executed the delegation. The Matriarchy of Natrona County is hereby Dust to Wind by my word and command, and the 516th Crusading group shall see this through. I will review the other twelve proposals for military action later this afternoon. So it is said and so it is to be done.”

“Karra Kasom,” voices from the walls replied, and the room seemed to dim.

“Director, please sit. What do you need?” she said, her gruff demeanor softening as much as it could.


Null listened to how casually she could order the invasion and destruction of nations unfamiliar to him. That alone told him much about her: highly influential, her faith has the final say on her actions and she would not hesitant to put a bullet in any of her guests if they were a threat. It was like looking into a mirror, and Null could work with that.

“Thank you for seeing us, I'll get to the point to save time. We are looking for a way to reverse the shift, as well as any way to prove someone is now who they claim to be. We want to know what happened, and how to prevent similar events in the future.”

Null kept his voice level, matter of fact-ly, he knew this was going to be a cultural issue, which the Federation was already full of, but perhaps they could find some common ground.

[Holy Marsh]

Hansen’s Gallery
Chalcedon, Monavia

Even a shot at humor, no matter how successful, brightened Donald up. He was nothing if not a genial sort by nature and one of the reasons he worked here was the equally kind nature of his employer. Even now, in the midst of confusion and reality altering perception of events, her joke at least provided him a way to deal with events. “I suppose I am awake, though its hard to think that when I take a breath,” he said, touching his breasts and then shaking his head in bemused shock. This was a strange, strange world he had embarked on.

But the guest had important questions, and he was pointed with them. Polite and kind, but pointed. Answers were needed. How helpful could Donald be was up for debate, but his capacity to answer to the best of his abilities was not. “No sir, nothing dramatic. The only other time I remember faitning or falling unconscious in my whole life was when I took a hard hit in football. And for woozy- when I got the flu one time, but nothing like this. It was as every nerve ending on my body wasn't just alive, but moving. And then I was out and right before I went out I could swear I went blind and deaf. It was like everything was...gone. I guess seeing now what happened, maybe it was like I was being...I dunno, rewired?” He asked, shrugging his shoulders. Not liking that, he decided to not shrug again.

There was an uncomfortable talk about the possibility of his insides being effected. Donald nodded, but he had his guesses. He had to be different inside now. You couldn't have the body he had now if everything was the same. The only thing that felt the same- well, same as in still there if not in size- were his genitalia. Ut everything else felt different. He was sure everything WOULD be different. After a minute the guest returned and confirmed that he had a visit. Well, he might as well. “I...I see. Can I get dressed before though? As uncomfortable as that would be, I'd be drawing way more attention as someone having to swaddle around in pants way too big.”



-----------
The Office of the Arch Bishop
The Grand Theocracy


The Arch-Bishop nodded at the directness of her guests. That was good. She had a special loathing of diplomacy and all the snake-oil talk that accompanied its machinations. She questioned the need for the Theocracy to even have ambassadors. Seriously questioned, to the point of thinking it likely she would simply recall all of them in the coming weeks. Anyway, back to the topic at hand.

“I see. I will start with what is easiest to answer before the rather disappointing conclusion to your tastes. In the 1970s, an alien race visited the Theocracy and gifted us wonderful medical machines entrusted to our care. These missions were modifiable to a great extent, and were capable of anything. Fourth degree burns could be healed in minutes. Near-death wounding could be reversed in moments. Missing limbs regrown. Missing organs replaced. Its effect on our capability to defeat the Vile Lard in the Long War is impossible to overstate. Given access to these machines, a Marshite soldier could be brought back from the brink of death to full health and in the field in a day. Diseases. Cancer. Sexually transmitted diseases. The only thing it could not defeat was The Flesh That Hates, which we suspect is supernatural in origin.

But there were other things this machine could do. It could manipulate someone at the cellular level, at the hormonal level, even at timed phases of development. This obviously had a massive impact on gender science. Marshites who wanted a sex change operation would end up as their chosen gender the same way as if they had been born that way. But there was another, less drastic, element to this gender science. Some desire the form externally without internal changes, or more pointedly here, desire to take the appearance but not the reproductive system of the other gender. This is not an uncommon practice in the Experience Shrine. There are two versions of this machine, one for either gender transformation. The one that changed the Y chromosome to make men the way Marshites are now was located in St. Husky.

But this was a technoarcane disaster, and it is time to discuss the arcane. Unicorns are capable of manipulating the aether in the world to use their spellcraft. The aether exists everywhere at once, across time and space, inside and outside of everything that was, is, and will be. A group of Lubyakan unicorns was visiting the St. Husky Medical Center on a learning expedition so they could try and take lessons learned here and apply them to their pro-humanity political movement. What followed next is up for debate- those that were at the site have no recollection of the day at all. Camera feeds show that one or two unicorns snuck off and seemed to try multiple times to cast a spell. Marshites and other unicorns approached, but instead of stopping the unicorns, spoke with them. They then crowded around one of the machines. One of the Marshites started speaking as if giving a speech, and it was then that all seven horns in the area lit up. Surprised faces on all seven before a blinding flash shut the camera off.

What followed is barely understood, even by us. Within seventeen seconds, Marshites across the globe who had placed their blood in the medical system underwent a dramatic physical alteration. The leading theory as to what happened was the Lubyakan magic was not counted on by the machine. The initial tampering allowed the machine to tap into the aetheral flow of magic that permeates the planet. It then went into overdrive as it was unable to process the magic, burning itself out and altering all those who had the designations of Marshite in the records. Owing to the extensive St. Husky records that were connected to the blood system of the Church, the machine thus sent out its ultra powerful transformation genetic program out across the aether. It was aided by the other machines in charge of the Y chromosome, and the effect cascaded across the world. All Marshites were targeted and hit by not one, but over three thousand transformation programs in short order.

Of course we are lucky to an extent. Had the machine been set on changing Y chromosomes to X chromosomes instead of the Modified Y, there would be no Marshite men to speak of.

So that is what happened, and our leading theory as to why. But how to reverse it? This is where I disappoint you. We have been studying these machines since the 1970s. We know how to operate them as they came with certain instructions, and that is what has allowed us to do what we have been doing. But despite billions of man hours from millions of scientists, we don't know how it works. Or more accurately, we have an idea, but the materials to change or replicate it are beyond us on Earth. This would be less of a concern if the machines didn't have certain security features, but they do. While under the effects of one machine, a machine under the same umbrella cannot be used on the same individual. This is to prevent cellular degradation, which is a real threat. But an effective form of interrogation, or at least we imagine so. But this is why most of the gender based machines which aren't sex changes have time limits placed on them.

The issue here is that the aether seems to act as the conduit, and since the aether is everlasting, all other machines seem to believe that this is very much an active, no time limit, deliberate move. In other words, there is no time limit and there is no way to use the other machines to undo the changes that have been done. And since the changes are at a cellular and hormonal level, we have no reason to believe that this something surgery or hormone replacement therapy could solve. Even if someone undergoes all of that, their Y chromosome will still be modified. We have already confirmed that new births in just the past day show signs of these modified Y, leading us to believe this is a permanent, world-wide change.

The solution would require both understanding and modifying the machines as well as understanding and attempting to replicate the same aetheral effect, which would be more likely if anyone- or anypony- in that room remember exactly what happened. I am no scientist, but I believe this is simply the way things are now. Faith will guard those with it against the tempestuous nature of the soul. If you wish to investigate the scene of the accident itself, I am sure I can accommodate that request,” the Arch-Bishop said. As she spoke, her desk would light up with illustrative holograms.

[The State of Monavia]

OOC:

I owe you a massive apology for allowing this thread to slip as much as I have these past four months while I finished college and blew most of my NS time reading other writers’ threads or working on my history factbook series. Hopefully I will no longer have any serious inactivity gaps again!

---

Even a shot at humor, no matter how successful, brightened Donald up. He was nothing if not a genial sort by nature and one of the reasons he worked here was the equally kind nature of his employer. Even now, in the midst of confusion and reality altering perception of events, her joke at least provided him a way to deal with events. “I suppose I am awake, though its hard to think that when I take a breath,” he said, touching his breasts and then shaking his head in bemused shock. This was a strange, strange world he had embarked on.

But the guest had important questions, and he was pointed with them. Polite and kind, but pointed. Answers were needed. How helpful could Donald be was up for debate, but his capacity to answer to the best of his abilities was not. “No sir, nothing dramatic. The only other time I remember faitning or falling unconscious in my whole life was when I took a hard hit in football. And for woozy- when I got the flu one time, but nothing like this. It was as every nerve ending on my body wasn't just alive, but moving. And then I was out and right before I went out I could swear I went blind and deaf. It was like everything was...gone. I guess seeing now what happened, maybe it was like I was being...I dunno, rewired?” He asked, shrugging his shoulders. Not liking that, he decided to not shrug again.

There was an uncomfortable talk about the possibility of his insides being effected. Donald nodded, but he had his guesses. He had to be different inside now. You couldn't have the body he had now if everything was the same. The only thing that felt the same- well, same as in still there if not in size- were his genitalia. Ut everything else felt different. He was sure everything WOULD be different. After a minute the guest returned and confirmed that he had a visit. Well, he might as well. “I...I see. Can I get dressed before though? As uncomfortable as that would be, I'd be drawing way more attention as someone having to swaddle around in pants way too big.”

0705 hours MIST

Hansen’s Gallery
Chalcedon, Monavia

Inspector Hedges nodded thoughtfully as Donald explained the feelings he experienced at the time of his transformation. “It sounds like much of what you have experienced is pretty new to you,” he commented. “No matter what, I’m sure my doctor can figure out what your current condition looks like and possibly determine if there’s anything we can do about it. In the meantime, I want to investigate whatever caused you to change and see if I can get to the bottom of it.”

Once Jeffrey paused to let Donald think about what he just said, Donald asked for some time to get dressed in different clothes before leaving. “Of course, Donald,” Hedges said in response. “I’d rather you be confortable after all you suffered from falling off your bike. Miss Hansen, do you think you could help find Donald some outfits in his size?”

“Maybe,” she responded tepidly. “I might have something in his new size, but I won’t know until I check.”

“All right, just make it quick,” Hedges cautioned her. “If you can’t find anything that’s a perfect fit, don’t worry. There’s a thrift shop we can stop at after we visit the doctor’s office and I’ll be happy to help Donald get a new outfit.”

Mme. Hansen took Donald back to her office and rummaged through a closet of spare outfits that she kept on hand in case she had to meet important clients. She handed Donald a dressy pantsuit to try on, but the legs were too short, so she took it from him and brought out a navy blue skirt that fluttered around Donald’s knees. The skirt was a bit roomier in the waist than Donald would have preferred, but at least it wasn’t too tight. Hansen then pulled a white button-down blouse out of the closet and handed it to Donald to put on, but it was too tight across the chest since Hansen had a flatter bust than the one Donald has just grown. After trying out a few more awkward combinations, Donald emerged wearing the skirt and a loose turquoise scoop-neck blouse that complemented his complexion strangely well even if it still didn’t fit quite right.

“He’s ready to go,” Hansen announced as Donald followed her back into the lobby. “Good luck finding out what happened.”

“Thank you. Donald, follow me this way to my car.”

The pair left the gallery behind and turned onto a busy street that gradually became more and more packed with vehicles as the morning commute intensified. “It should not take me long to get you to my doctor, but it might take him a while to figure out what’s going on. The announcement you received on your phone probably has a lot to do with it, but until I can speak to a Marshite official who’s in the know about all this stuff I’m going to be a bit lost myself. Do you know anyone I might be able to speak to?”

[Mokastana]

Director Null motioned to Helen, a signal to start recording. It was a lot of information to take in and it was better to ensure it was all located somewhere digitally. The information about the war with the Vile Lard was always interesting, though initially it was assumed to be Marshite folklore, the fact so many lived through it seemed to point to more, diabolical truths. It was another threat other agents of the Special Situations Division were looking into. No doubt their work was stalling at the moment, but the quarantine was mostly voluntarily, and SS agents could acquire clearance for whatever they needed. Null had no worries about them.

What did catch his attention was not the supernatural element, nor the alien presence, both were well known among the SS. What caught his attention was what these machines could do on the cellular level. Perhaps it was a little unorthodox or wasteful using such a technology on gender reassignment, but perhaps they simply hadn't figured out how to make super soldiers or military applicable mutations yet. Or, perhaps they did and that was just left out of the explanation. This technology was certainly worth learning more about.

The Director continued to listened to the explanation, taking mental notes and notes on a paper pad for himself to collect his thoughts. This was concerning to say the least, not the change in of itself, but the implications. The fact that it was an accident by visitors who ‘snuck off’ while practicing magic in such a sensitive location.

Had the Marshites looked into the possibility of someone using magic to send similar changes, malicious changes, to every Marshite at once: A simple sterilization, or increased cancer growth, alter the immune system? This was not just a weakness within the Church, but an possible way to wipe the entire religion from the Earth. He would have to figure out what safe guards they had in place, if any, to prevent such a scenario. What he said out loud was much different:


“While I am sure faith is more than enough for many of the affected, I do have unconfirmed reports of nonmarshites affected by this change as well. You mentioned the possibility of a shrine to give experiences as another sex, would they be willing to take volunteers to see if things can be ‘manipulated’? Or as you say these changes are unalterable?

And if it would not be too much trouble, I would appreciate a chance to see the location of the incident.”

[Holy Marsh]

"The Experience Shrine values Experiencing Life in all of its many ways, not just as another sex- but yes, if you sought aid in such an experiment you'd find many willing to aid you. It won't help you. You may alter the individual but it doesn't have a global effect, and the impact is for that person alone. Even newborns are showing the impact of The Shift. This is universal and genetic. More importantly, we can't replicate the incident in any fashion. Nonetheless, I think this will be a valuable experience either way," she said, taking a good look at a diagram on her table before lifting it up as an illustrative hologram. Travel routes, locations, and laws.

"Faith is all we require. Your nation's lack of an iron will is because organizations such as yours treat them as children to the reality of this world. My words are harsher in verbage than I may intend, but I have found directness to be a more valuable tool in speech than the honeyed words of weak diplomats. Your job, though I find it foolish, is difficult and I will see to it that you get the aid you need. The principals involved are still at the location, as are the exact machines involved in the incident. Before your arrival I had the Inquisition secure transportation.

You will take a train to St. Husky. It will leave in twenty minutes. A helicopter will take you there. You have my authorization to conduct your investigation without interference unless it intefers with religious obligations. At all points and times, religious obligations take precedence over your investigation. If you need my help, contact me after 8 Olaskia- ten o'clock standard local. That should be after the Judging of Ralkovia."

One of the walls started to move, shifting away until it opened up into the sky outside the Arch-Bishop's office. As it did so, a platform seemed to extend from the floor of the office out until it formed a landing pad. The thwip thwip thwip of the helicopter was its only announcement before it hovered up into eyesight alongside an armed pegasus, barely eclipsing the platform before landing. Two guards were hanging out of the doors, feet on the skids, and jumped off onto the platform befofre the helicopter empties with two more getting out. "Your ride. I wish you luck- I must speak to my kill team now about some Ralkovian assassinations that must take place. Fer nik voon calisa," she said matter of factly. The team moved in and once the visitors were outside, the walls closed once again.

"Quick question," the pilot started, the cat-girl veteran eying up the visitors, "y'all fast ropin' or requiring a landing? Time is precious."

--------------
0711 hours MIST

Hansen’s Gallery
Chalcedon, Monavia

Mr. Hodges spoke and all he could do was agree. It was a huge understatement to say that these feelings were new. It would be like saying getting tossed into a washing machine the size of a room on a vicious cycle would make you feel a little battered and dazed. Every single breath brought something new, every flutter of the eyes, every heartbeat. Every step, every wiggle- yes every jiggle- everything felt foreign, like he was a passenger rather than the owner. All of the physical ticks a person could rely on to retreat into themselves was unavailable and only brought a further invasion into the shattered remains of his defenses. This was unwelcome, unneeded, and a sad state of affairs, and the fact he had no defense only pushed him further from the shelter he had lived under. His life had been so controlled that he had started to believe that maybe, just maybe, the powers that be above were not as ironclad as he been raised to believe. But this...was not science. It was not magic. It was...

"Y-yes, of course," he said, both to the announcement of his appointment and the need for him to get dressed. He followed her back and got to the business of trying to look somewhat presentable. He protested once or twice at selections but honestly nothing would have made him happy. He wasn't a crossdresser. The clothes held little appeal to him. The fact they were now needed didn't really make it any better. Instead he had to rely on the quality of his company, and Miss Hansen was a wonderful person to have along for this strange ride. Others may have been more qualified and friends perhaps more energetically supportive, but he needed a stony rock of calmness now, not a firecracker and she provided that. Over time they developed an outfit for him and soon afterwards they were walking to the doctor.

The lack of a bra was distracting him, every step sending his new breasts moving in- well, hey, he was still attractived to the female body. Instead, he focused on the question. "Uhh...well, I suppose the Shrine-Churches. The Expression Shrine is only a few miles away. Artist Grande LeCharles is there. Praetor Felix of the Warrior Shrine is also close by, I think he lived in this disrict. Matriarch Correa and the Female Shrine is also close by," he said, keeping pace despite his new and foreign body.

[The State of Monavia]

Mr. Hodges spoke and all he could do was agree. It was a huge understatement to say that these feelings were new. It would be like saying getting tossed into a washing machine the size of a room on a vicious cycle would make you feel a little battered and dazed. Every single breath brought something new, every flutter of the eyes, every heartbeat. Every step, every wiggle- yes every jiggle- everything felt foreign, like he was a passenger rather than the owner. All of the physical ticks a person could rely on to retreat into themselves was unavailable and only brought a further invasion into the shattered remains of his defenses. This was unwelcome, unneeded, and a sad state of affairs, and the fact he had no defense only pushed him further from the shelter he had lived under. His life had been so controlled that he had started to believe that maybe, just maybe, the powers that be above were not as ironclad as he [had] been raised to believe. But this...was not science. It was not magic. It was...

“Y-yes, of course,” he said, both to the announcement of his appointment and the need for him to get dressed. He followed her back and got to the business of trying to look somewhat presentable. He protested once or twice at selections but honestly nothing would have made him happy. He wasn’t a crossdresser. The clothes held little appeal to him. The fact they were now needed didn’t really make it any better. Instead he had to rely on the quality of his company, and Miss Hansen was a wonderful person to have along for this strange ride. Others may have been more qualified and friends perhaps more energetically supportive, but he needed a stony rock of calmness now, not a firecracker and she provided that. Over time they developed an outfit for him and soon afterwards they were walking to the doctor.

0712 hours MIST

Hansen’s Gallery
Chalcedon, Monavia

The new outfit Donald had donned may not have entirely satisfied him, but it was good enough to please Inspector Hedges to the point that he was no longer worried about Donald’s appearance drawing in unwanted attention from strangers. Of course, Donald could not entirely fault his employer for loaning him a set of female garments—nothing else she had available was entirely suitable for accommodating his new anatomy as it currently stood. The trepidation present in Donald’s expression did not do Hedges any additional good; it only jostled his nerves a bit and reminded him that Donald’s psychological turmoil probably ran deeper than he could comfortably imagine. Having realized that he would not achieve any good by letting his composure slip, he forced such thoughts out of his mind as Donald emerged from the back of the gallery and asked him about

The lack of a bra was distracting him, every step sending his new breasts moving in- well, hey, he was still attractived to the female body. Instead, he focused on the question. “Uhh...well, I suppose the Shrine-Churches. The Expression Shrine is only a few miles away. Artist Grande LeCharles is there. Praetor Felix of the Warrior Shrine is also close by, I think he lived in this disrict. Matriarch Correa and the Female Shrine is also close by,” he said, keeping pace despite his new and foreign body.

Hedges made a mental note to remember Donald’s answers and obtain directions to the Shrine-Churches to continue his investigation. The plan that unfolded in his brain consisted of asking Donald for contact information that he could use to get in touch with local Marshite clergy while sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. Once he had a solid picture of Donald’s medical state, he could discuss the issue with his new contacts in an intelligent fashion and begin assembling a coherent account of the events and circumstances that led up to Donald’s current mishap.

“All right,” Hedges acknowledged as Donald named three clergy he could contact. “I’ll have you call the people you just named and set up appointments while we’re driving to the doctor’s office. I want to know what they’ve found out about this morning’s events and fill them in on anything the doctor discovers.”

“Okay,” Mme. Hansen added in a slightly paranoid tone, “I just hope that whatever happened to Donald won’t happen again.” Though she preferred not to admit it, she was genuinely worried that Hedges might end up like Donald—or that she’d wake up the next morning as a guy.

“I can’t guarantee anything,” the inspector sighed, “but for what it’s worth I doubt it’ll happen again. The Marshite Church seems to have brought things under control well enough to identify what went wrong on their end and notify everyone who got affected. I’m sure they’ve already got a handle on things and are working to find out more about what happened.”

“Let’s hope they do…” Hansen trailed off.

The inspector’s lips parted as if he was about to say something else, but instead he froze and made a conscious effort to avoid rolling his eyes at Hansen’s fussiness before he allowed himself to speak. “Donald,” he said quietly, “we had better get going. My car is just outside.”

Once the pair had said their goodbyes, Hedges put his briefcase into the rear and started up his silver coupe. They were just ten minutes away from the doctor’s office—long enough for Donald to get some calls out, assuming he knew all the numbers he needed from memory—and with even a thin sliver of luck, they would have a few answers within the hour. As Hedges pulled out of the alley running alongside the gallery, he eyed the road for signs indicating that other drivers might be heading towards his position and sped away as soon as he found that nobody else was in his vicinity. When he had finally crested the speed limit, he turned toward Donald again. “All right, we’re just about ten minutes away from the doctor’s office. In the interest of full disclosure, I’d like to let you know a couple additional things once we get there.”

---

0726 hours MIST

Carlyle Clinic
Chalcedon, Monavia

The clinic where Inspector Hedges obtained his annual physicals would have easily satisfied Hansen’s aesthetic sensibilities had she ever found herself passing through its premises. After the pair had parked and gotten back onto their feet, they crossed a red sandstone patio featuring a weathered cast iron park bench, a birdbath, and a miniature silver fir in a porcelain flowerpot. Had Dr. Carlyle planted the fir in his backyard where it would not be molested by loggers, it would one day rise to a height of 250 feet and overshadow the entire neighborhood—but like any proper bonsai enthusiast, the doctor was not interested in cultivating a woody monstrosity longer than a commercial jet. Hedges did not give the tree any thought as he pulled the front door open to let Donald step inside; bonsai gardening had never interested him much anyway.

The small square waiting room that Donald stepped into had sandy beige walls separated from a white ceiling by a thin band of walnut crown molding and could comfortably seat about a dozen patients, but the only person he saw inside was a petite, coppery-haired receptionist sorting files behind a glass-fronted counter. The woman across from him was around his age and dressed like a coed interning at a bank or an accounting firm, though she preferred to dress down a notch or two before joining her friends in the evening. An automated chime triggered by Donald’s entry prodded the lady to look up and slide a small glass door aside as her greenish-hazel eyes met his with a faint smile. “Good morning. You must be with Mr. Hedges.”

“Correct,” the inspector’s voice answered from behind Donald as the receptionist tried to peer to one side. “I’ve been able to patch up my new friend here but I need the doctor to take a more thorough look and make sure nothing else is wrong.”

“Okay,” the receptionist nodded while turning back to Donald. “Do happen to have an NMD profile?” she asked in reference to the Imperial Federation’s National Medical Database.

“No,” Hedges slipped in again.

“All right, I’ll grab some new patient paperwork and get her started.” Once the lady handed Donald a plastic clipboard with several sheets of paper and a pen, she slid the glass shut again and thus offered the pair an opportunity to converse in private.

“I told you earlier that there a few things I want you to know now that you got those phone calls out of the way,” Hedges began as Donald started tackling the paperwork. “There are two things you need to know. First, this thing you have going on with your body is completely new territory for me. It’s not like anything I’ve previously dealt with and I can’t promise you much yet—but you have my word I’ll do what I can to help. The other thing, of course, is that this sort of thing is precisely what the Bureau was originally set up to handle, even though it mostly does other things now.

“Back when my great-grandfather George came to Monavia in the late nineteenth century, the world was getting caught up in spiritualism and the occult like there was no tomorrow. Once that stuff started gaining popularity around here, he started worrying that it would threaten traditional religion and decided to go around debunking anything that didn’t seem right to him. He decided to battle occultism by creating an association for professional skeptics and debunkers in the hope that they could organize enough resistance to kill the fad while it was still young. The churches were all for his work, but he didn’t help himself by trying to rely purely on science and dismissing spiritual warfare as nonsense.

“Soon after my great-grandfather started his association, he encountered cases where he couldn’t scientifically explain what was happening and finally conceded that at least some of the things people believed about spiritual warfare were true, so he changed his tune and started researching exorcisms and the like. The more he came to realize just how dangerous the occult really was, the more he started to worry that somebody in a position of power might climb onto the bandwagon and end up damaging the country—for instance, imagine if a demon-possessed general tried to mount a coup.” Hedges stopped, realizing that he had just let his initial train of thought slip away.

“Anyway, his efforts eventually paid off as the spiritualist fad lost steam and faded away, so George shifted the association’s mission towards discovering and addressing new threats to our civilization’s existence, regardless of whether they are natural or artificial. He secured government grants and financial backing from wealthy donors who sympathized with his organization’s mission, so it was able to expand and assume responsibility for drawing up contingency plans for responding to potential crises. Eventually some officials decided that George’s agency was pretty useful for looking into miscellany that nobody else took seriously, so it became part of the central government and got incorporated as an independent bureau in 1928. Soon thereafter, George disappeared for reasons that nobody had been able to determine and the Bureau ended up under new leadership.

“Over the decades that followed, the Bureau came to serve as a convenient dumping ground for government agencies to refer conspiracy theory inquiries and other products of public paranoia—it’s a convenient way for them to outsource responsibility for answering kooks and calming the public’s nerves whenever somebody starts claiming that the sky is falling or ETs are trying to take their brains. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told believers in flying saucers that I can’t help them with their marital problems!” Hedges laughed, hoping that a spell of levity might smooth off some of the hard edges in his story.

“Obviously, you can now see why I’m involved in all of this. Anything that can affect a bunch of people the way you were is not a good thing—in fact I’d dare say it’s a legitimate national security concern. Your situation is also significant because it cannot happen naturally, and that means that something supernatural is probably at work here. Whatever it is, I want to get to the bottom of this issue before it leads to something worse than it already has.”

[Mokastana]

"The Experience Shrine values Experiencing Life in all of its many ways, not just as another sex- but yes, if you sought aid in such an experiment you'd find many willing to aid you. It won't help you. You may alter the individual but it doesn't have a global effect, and the impact is for that person alone. Even newborns are showing the impact of The Shift. This is universal and genetic. More importantly, we can't replicate the incident in any fashion. Nonetheless, I think this will be a valuable experience either way,"

Null perked up at that the highlighted comment. Was it possible? Knowing whether or not this was reversible was one of his official objectives on this trip. It was a secondary objective, but if the solution was right there, better to ask now. Individuality was an important aspect of the PUF, not necessarily culturally, but more so because the numerous cultures and Faiths that made up the Federation. Surely most Mokan and Anuien Marshites would find solace in their faith, but not all had the unshakable faith of those in the Holy City.

"My apologies for interrupting, do you mean the Shift could be, if an individual desired, reversed? To make myself clear, we are not looking to undo the effects of the Shift, only allow the individual members a chance to restore whatever they lost."

Null chose his words carefully, religious zealots tended to take anything as an attack on their faith. He knew, logically, he was safe, but he also knew that being graceful would take him farther.

"Faith is all we require. Your nation's lack of an iron will is because organizations such as yours treat them as children to the reality of this world. My words are harsher in verbage than I may intend, but I have found directness to be a more valuable tool in speech than the honeyed words of weak diplomats. Your job, though I find it foolish, is difficult and I will see to it that you get the aid you need. The principals involved are still at the location, as are the exact machines involved in the incident. Before your arrival I had the Inquisition secure transportation.

You will take a train to St. Husky. It will leave in twenty minutes. A helicopter will take you there. You have my authorization to conduct your investigation without interference unless it intefers with religious obligations. At all points and times, religious obligations take precedence over your investigation. If you need my help, contact me after 8 Olaskia- ten o'clock standard local. That should be after the Judging of Ralkovia."

"Thank you very much, and for taking time out of your schedule to see us. Farewell."

A short goodbye for a busy Woman. Null lead his team to the Helicopter waiting. The complete and total military culture of the Marshites truly shined, military transport and set up for even the most mundane aspects of life. Even a simple helicopter flight came with armed escort. Null admired the people of this country. Psychotic that they were. He was just glad they were mostly on his side.


"Your ride. I wish you luck- I must speak to my kill team now about some Ralkovian assassinations that must take place. Fer nik voon calisa,"

He nodded a quick goodbye and responded to the pilot with a “Give us a landing”. Had he been younger, a roping would have been fun, but at this age taking unneeded risks was no longer part of his life. Sure his team was capable, but the last thing he needed was a teammate getting medical treatment here from spraining an ankle. Especially given it was Marshite Medicine he was tasked with learning more about. No, they would land, board the armored war train and meet with the people who caused this kind of chaos to happen. Would Null end up meeting a sentient horse? Maybe. Despite his experience with worn holes, alien Tech, mutants, physics and whatever else, that seemed like the strangest thing to him. Well, the world was an interesting place, after all.

[Holy Marsh]

The helicopter ride was somewhat chaotic as the skies were full of ferry-choppers in full lines, creating an eternal line of air traffic. The cat-girl flying it had superior reflexes and made it as smooth as possible, and it wasn't all that long before they came to a rest on the helipad that was built into the cement structure that surrounded this particular train stop. They were taken off and directed into the train stop proper itself. The train arrived minutes later- but never stopped. Not fully, anyway. It slowed down to just a few miles an hour. The doors opened. People disembarked from one side and entered from another, no one ever stopping. The foreigners were given enough time to realize this as the train drew closer. They made their entrance, and their Inquisitorial guides greeted them warmly on the train and escorted them.
The foreigners were shuttled into the long distance travel cabins. Each seat could fold into a bed, with two seats becoming a twin slightly slanted. Once deployed, there was little open space- but considering it was intended for travel over the course of days it would suffice. Machineguns were placed on swivels on every train car, and under most seats were the same emergency combat gear as in other trains. The main difference was the more comfortable seating arrangments and the none-too subtle autocannons on top of the train cars.

It took several hours at the train's top speed for it to escape the city proper, and several more for it to get out of the suburb-cities that surrounded it and out of the mountains. It seemed to always want to move in a straight line. It would sometimes duck below the surface and go lower and lower to avoid other lines. From pich black darkness to the blindling light of the gleaming sun, the train hurtled at what felt like terribly unsafe speeds. By the time they made it out of the city it was dark, and the inability of the Theocracy was apparent as it was just as busy, loud, populated, and bright as it was during the day.

The city of Alserta was next on the route and they arrived early afternoon the day after, at nearly a hundred miles an hour. The factory-city was responsible for the production of millions of armored vehicles and trillions of rounds of ammunition annually. From hours away the foreigners could see the ziggaurat-factories. Each one stood in the center of dozens of smaller factories (though each one of those still employed thousands), with a maze of intake highways and production exit highways linking them to the outside world. The train slowed down but never stopped as it roared through aerial train stations that lay over the vast residential complexes that straddled the major factory districts. Doors opened wide and Marshites stepped off in a hurry while those who wanted on did so, the train never stopping. This continued for about thirty seconds until the doors closed and the train picked up speed. Those who got on shared a particular trait of piercing blue eyes and a paler disposition than most, having lived and worked in and around these factories from the day of their birth.

Several hours later they exited the factory-city, with warnings flashing to all. All windows were closed, oxygen was deployed, and mask containers were opened. Prayers over the loudspeaker and damnations of the Cult followed by the same flashing on the info-panels on seats and transparent displays on windows. The air started to tun a shade of red and purple as biohazard symbols were displayed. The train had been arching vertically for a while and was now smoothing out several hundred feet off of the ground, giving them a great view of...what was known as the Mushanian Front. These badlands witnessed several dozen thousand battles during the Long War and it showed. Every last inch of the ground was filled with bones and trenches, the rusting, burned out hulks of vehicles over a hundred generations, and mass graves that were accumulated over a hundred generations.

Amongst this endless boneyard stalked lone, solitary figures cloaked in heavy suits. Off in the distance, in the midst of purple and red fogs, lurched machines of indescribable size and vague humanity. The fog seemed to have eaten away at the hills and mountains in the distance- it seemed like almost half of it all had eroded. Chemical sprays every hour on the hour saturated the outside of the train to keep it safe from whatever effects the haze was having. Over the twenty four hours it took at top speed this was ceaseless, and the train never was less than full speed.

Marshites, for their worth, paid this little heed except to join in prayers. Indeed, they spent much of the ride loud and boisterous. Militia units excitedly discussed the possibility of being attached to new Crusades, while Army veterans kept more mum on such matters. Most shared a slight tinge of regret that they all knew friends who had the luck to be martyrs but give it time, lasses and gents- the veterans assured them that they'd all die gloriously. Games of chance and strategy were commonly played out on the the info-panels on seats. Television and radios played loud and blaring when they weren't plugged in properly, while the sound of sexual experiences echoed across certain cars. Marshites sure loved their life even as they were reminded consistently of the horrors needed to maintain it right outside their window.

The foreigners were left undisturbed for much of the trip, but there were simply so many people and non-people that conversations were going to be had. Marshites proved to be very open, blunt, and honest as well as inquisitive. Most Marshites were upset about The Shift though not that much. It was seen as a hindrance to be adapted to very much like how a limp helped compensate for a momentarily dead leg. They were more worried about upcoming MMA tournaments, excited for Crusades, and eager to learn new things. They came in many varieties, with neko cat-people, lycans, and the Equestrian pony folk being definite minorities, but noticeably around.

Finally the skies cleared and the train came to a full stop in the city. It was a megacity like the others, but inside of the layered defensive walls lay endless farmland with mega-apartments situated in them stretched out, and if the people coming up were to be believed, just as dramatic down below. Tens of thousands of farm animals were in sight at all time- more importantly, they were approached by a doctor and two others who were all still awkwardly misshapen about their walk.

"You are foreign delegation, yes? I am Dr. Acridi. I have some...poor news."


----------------------------------
0726 hours MIST

Carlyle Clinic
Chalcedon, Monavia

Donald had made sure to breath and get comfortable, uttering some prayers as the trip to the clinic was ongoing. Natural Marshite optimism in the face of adversity started to shine through, if also tinted by the Marshite proclivity towards moving forward. He joked through a slowly growing voice that now it would be easier to pick people up at the bars, even if it wasn't the sort of people he'd really want. He kept on adjusting and re-adjusting himself equally of nerves as well as need,

He spent his time making calls to the three Shrines nearby. The first, his Shrine, the Experience Shrine, was busy but made time for him. Artiste Grande LeCharles' voice had a French-accented feminine drive to it that spoke more to his excitement than anything else. He would be willing to make time to meet with Hedges if needed later in the day, though at the time he was understandably busy. Praetor Felix of the Warrior Shrine, his voice quick and husky with its femininity, was more blunt. No changes to the Warrior Shrine for the day, Hedges was welcome to visit them whenever he wanted, no appointment needed.

The Female Shrine was the hardest to get through to. Lines were full, Donald thought, of conversions. The Matriarch confirmed as much- both in Holy Marsh and abroad the Male Shrine was being depopulated within minutes of the event happening, sometimes it being the first thing a new Marshite man of the Male Shrine might do. She seemed somewhat less giddy than Donald may have expected, but was nonetheless willing to meet with Hedges at some point. She warned Donald, and then Hedges, that any meeting would be done while working on conversions, so they better be there for pertinent cause.

Once they arrived at the clinic Donald went about trying to fill out these patient documents. It was so strange- he never had to do this before. The Church Medical service took care of everything. They also didn't give him choice when it came to what needed to be done on him, so maybe this was better. He had to guess when it came to the majority of physical information and under cause of visit he paused ad then wrote down, "Dramatic and immediate non-genital involuntary sex change? And bump on the head."

As descriptive as he could get.

As he filled it out and waited for the doctor, he listened to Hedges. So he was a member of what amounted to this nation's Inquisition? It was not unusual for nations outside of the Theocracy to form special groups to deal with the alien, the mutant, the supernatural and the unknown. The Theocracy had never hidden such things and thus the need for such groups to remain secret or hidden in the shadows. Still, he wasn't going to judge. It was good that even a nation like this that seemingly kept their populace somewhat ignorant of the supernatural elements that bubbled around them remained vigilant. "I'm more than happy to help, sir. I could imagine much worse, but still something quite..." he searched for the word. Not terrible. "Dramatic?"

"...Donald?" A voice said. The doctor. Donald nodded, took a breath, and stood up. It was time for the medical profession to get involved. The sooner they did, the sooner they'd know about the new hormonal and genetic makeup of Marshites- not just men like Donald, but women, too.

[The State of Monavia]

0726 hours MIST

Carlyle Clinic
Chalcedon, Monavia

Donald had made sure to breath[e] and get comfortable, uttering some prayers as the trip to the clinic was ongoing. Natural Marshite optimism in the face of adversity started to shine through, if also tinted by the Marshite proclivity towards moving forward. He joked through a slowly growing voice that now it would be easier to pick people up at the bars, even if it wasn't the sort of people he'd really want. He kept on adjusting and re-adjusting himself equally of nerves as well as need,

He spent his time making calls to the three Shrines nearby. The first, his Shrine, the Experience Shrine, was busy but made time for him. Artiste Grande LeCharles' voice had a French-accented feminine drive to it that spoke more to his excitement than anything else. He would be willing to make time to meet with Hedges if needed later in the day, though at the time he was understandably busy. Praetor Felix of the Warrior Shrine, his voice quick and husky with its femininity, was more blunt. No changes to the Warrior Shrine for the day, Hedges was welcome to visit them whenever he wanted, no appointment needed.

The Female Shrine was the hardest to get through to. Lines were full, Donald thought, of conversions. The Matriarch confirmed as much- both in Holy Marsh and abroad the Male Shrine was being depopulated within minutes of the event happening, sometimes it being the first thing a new Marshite man of the Male Shrine might do. She seemed somewhat less giddy than Donald may have expected, but was nonetheless willing to meet with Hedges at some point. She warned Donald, and then Hedges, that any meeting would be done while working on conversions, so they better be there for pertinent cause.

Donald’s driver remained silent during his conversations with the shrine clergy and waited until they were finished to mull over the results. “Praetor Felix doesn’t require any appointments to organize visits yet, so he seems to have the fewest scheduling issues. We should visit him first,” the inspector reasoned. “Artiste Grande LeCharles seems busy, so we’ll visit him whenever he’s available today—hopefully sooner rather than later. The Matriarch appears to have her hands full, so let’s leave her alone for now. We can always try her another time.”

Once they arrived at the clinic Donald went about trying to fill out these patient documents. It was so strange- he never had to do this before. The Church Medical service took care of everything. They also didn't give him choice when it came to what needed to be done on him, so maybe this was better. He had to guess when it came to the majority of physical information and under cause of visit he paused a[n]d then wrote down, "Dramatic and immediate non-genital involuntary sex change? And bump on the head."

As descriptive as he could get.

As he filled it out and waited for the doctor, he listened to Hedges. So he was a member of what amounted to this nation's Inquisition? It was not unusual for nations outside of the Theocracy to form special groups to deal with the alien, the mutant, the supernatural and the unknown. The Theocracy had never hidden such things and thus the need for such groups to remain secret or hidden in the shadows. Still, he wasn't going to judge. It was good that even a nation like this that seemingly kept their populace somewhat ignorant of the supernatural elements that bubbled around them remained vigilant. "I'm more than happy to help, sir. I could imagine much worse, but still something quite..." he searched for the word. Not terrible. "Dramatic?"

"...Donald?" A voice said. The doctor. Donald nodded, took a breath, and stood up. It was time for the medical profession to get involved. The sooner they did, the sooner they'd know about the new hormonal and genetic makeup of Marshites- not just men like Donald, but women, too.

Donald needed only a few minutes to complete his new patient profile and medical history forms, but the treatment consent, billing agreement, and related documents he had to sign were written in a particularly wordy variety of legalese that seemed to drag on forever once he began reading. In some ways it was a waste of his time since many provisions contained in the doctor’s limitation of liability form and other items had ceased being applicable once the Imperial Federation adopted restrictive tort laws to limit the scale of damage awards in malpractice suits. While such changes meant that Monavian physicians no longer shelled out huge premiums for lawsuit insurance and incurred high overhead expenses to pass onto their patients, Carlyle had rarely bothered to update any of his patient forms since he moved his practice to its current location in 2003.

Once Donald had finished processing his paperwork, the receptionist accepted them and set them down in a new folder. “Can you please provide me your insurance information?”

“Donald,” Hedges interjected, “if the Church’s medical service chooses not to cover this visit, the Bureau will pick up the bill instead.”

“Okay…” the receptionist trailed off quizzically. If Donald ever asked Dr. Carlyle or his receptionist about the inner workings of the Monavian health insurance market, he would have learned that most Monavians bought inexpensive private insurance policies to cover emergency expenses and otherwise paid cash or wrote checks for simple checkups and generic prescriptions. On one hand, this system of modestly high co-pays granted customers ample freedom in choosing their treatment and wellness services while sparing insurers the need to cover a limitless array of minor expenses. On the other hand, insurance companies were statutorily required to cover all the expenses of treating their high-risk patients—though insurers often dodged payout woes by purchasing reinsurance policies like investment banks trading in junk bonds and risky loans. Those who could not afford basic medical expenses generally applied for state-provided insurance coverage only one out of every seven or eight people ever relied on such services when economic conditions were normal. In many respects, the Monavian health industry substantially differed from the largely centralized (and probably bureaucratized) system by which the Theocracy provided medical services to those under its care, but in any case, the merits of these differences were probably nothing more than matters of opinion.

“Donald?” a voice echoed from behind the reception desk. As the inspector’s passenger approached a doorway leading out of the waiting room he found the doctor stepping into view. “I’m Ronald Carlyle, M.D. You came in early, didn’t you?” he smiled while holding out his hand. Carlyle was an affable fellow in his sixties who stood just slightly taller than Donald, though he was visibly more heavyset than Hedges and would have served his health well if he dropped around twenty pounds and ate less red meat and pasta when he ate out with his niece every other Thursday. He kept his thinning gray hair combed back and only had it cut every two or three months, so it tended to grow long enough for him to need a few puffs of hairspray to keep it down whenever a rainstorm blew into town.

Once Carlyle directed Donald to walk back toward one of the examination rooms, Hedges arose from his seat and approached the opening. “Doctor, a word.”

“What is it, Jeffrey,” he responded attentively.

“I apologize for making this snap visit on such short notice. Donald’s case is highly unusual, to put things plainly, and has…ramifications…that I can’t really explain yet. He’s…not the only one you may end up seeing this week.”

Carlyle nodded sagely even as his face betrayed a flash of bewilderment. He was expecting to see a man walk in and got a woman with a masculine name instead—at least, that’s what he thought he was seeing. Though Carlyle was an avowed man of science, Hedges had acquainted him with quite a few types of scientifically unexplainable phenomena while making small talk during his annual physicals, so Carlyle’s mind remained open to considering some highly unusual possibilities. “I understand. I’ll be sure to look for anything out of the ordinary.”

“Thank you.” Hedges returned to the waiting room while Carlyle summoned Donald over to a scale and recorded his height and weight before measuring and recording his other vital statistics. Once Carlyle had finished this process, he sent Donald back to the exam room and looked through a nearby linen closet for a hospital gown in Donald’s size.

“Please change into this,” he instructed as he stepped outside with a clipboard bearing Donald’s patient chart. “I’ll return in five minutes.”

[Mokastana]

One crazy helicopter ride and a train that never stopped later, and Null and his team found themselves in a cabin on the train ready for a bit of a journey. Machine gun nest and easily accessible battle supplies on a “civilian” train made sense only in a place like Greater Dienstad, where nations like Lyras and the Holy Marsh lived for war. But while the Lyrans saw war as a means to an end, the Marshites thrived on it. Young Marshites dreamed of the day they could be martyred in battle. To them, death in battle was more than glory, it was… almost a religious rite of passage. They yearned for war, but only if the inquisition deemed it so.

The glimpse into the Marshite homeland spoke even more of the people here. Huge factory cities building enough military goods to supply the entire PUF in a matter of weeks. The people living there almost never stepping foot out of their homes and factories, the sun a long forgotten memory. This was life for their allies, one of constant preparation for war. Oddly enough, it was also the fate that Null and his team worked so hard to avoid for their people.

It might have been philosophical differences, but humanity wasn't meant to toil in factories and live in a state of constant warfare. Humanity needed the arts, the creative, a chance to choose a new life. If a man chose the life of a simple farmer, or one of interstellar trade, it was his choice. No doubt it sounded naive, especially in this world, but it was Null’s duty to protect that shred of humanity. He chose to live on the border between sane and insane, but it was not an easy life. Of course, not everyone was so lucky to have that choice, as if on cue, the oxygen masks came down as they entered a poisoned land. The Marshites were not given the choice. For them, it was sacrifice everything, or die, and now they looked down on those who hadn't made that choice yet. Yes, it was naive of the PUF to protect its people from the hard choices of the world, but they would hold out as long as they could in this world.

Null and his team rested most of the trip, it was rare their missions had such luxurious accommodations. Not in the common understanding of the word, but more in terms of warm food, a place to sleep and a large catch of weapons near by. The various non human species were certainly something to take note of, but not gawk at. Nekos alone were rare in the Federation, and despite many holding citizenship, many still doubted their existence. Perhaps one day Null would have a sentient horse on the operating table to study, but today was not that day.

Eventually, they were approached by a doctor and two others:

"You are foreign delegation, yes? I am Dr. Acridi. I have some...poor news."

“Greetings Dr. Acridi. Yes, Director Null and staff. What news do you have to share with us?”

[Holy Marsh]

0735 hours MIST
Carlyle Clinic
Chalcedon, Monavia

Donald kept a close look at his weigh in. He was never the biggest guy, but he had lost five inches and fifty pounds- five three and one-twenty, respectively. Well, that would make further documentation easier, he supposed. He was full of the 'good stuff', those elements of a Marshite's character which allowed them to handle strife with a sense of pride and excitement that was foreign and strange to others by all good reason. Other vital statistics were newer and more alarming, but expected. It took only for a few minutes for it all to be done, and for Donald to be given a medical smock. Hospital gown. He sighed and started changing, all the while suppressing the barest hints of a chuckle.

That would have puzzled Marshites back home. When it came time for medical specialists to see you in a way that required a change of clothes, they would generally do it in the nude. That way nothing got in the way of what needed to be done. He could still remember what it was like during his first doctor's appointment here, outside of the Church- and how his parents had howled with laughter on the way home when the doctor explained the awkwardness of Donald disrobing in front of a nurse. He supposed that the good people of Monavia had a bit more sense of privacy in such matters than the Marshites. Of course it was all rather silly, because in the end whatever happened was so far beyond basic science that he doubted any doctor in the world could reasonably react to it.

He got dressed and didn't even spend the time to take a gander at his body, naked as he was. He thought about it, of course. He hadn't a time to rally just sit and look. But he would, and he would be more comfortable doing it at home than anywhere else. As simple as it was and as helpful as everyone else was, he didn't want to be caught awkwardly staring at himself and poking his new body inquisitively when the doctor walked in. Whatever case it may be that caused this, it wasn't going to cause him to act like a steaming idiot.

When he was done he took a seat, having to dangle his feet further off the floor than he had since he was a kid, and nervously looking around. The waiting was the hardest part by many miles.
---------
Outskirts of St. Husky, Several Days Later

The good Doctor bowed, leading the foreigners off the train. They were joined by thousands of others, many of whom jogged across the way and onto other trains. It was Several trains actually came to a stop, and cattle in the thousands were led in with farmhands joining them. The Marshites here looked significantly different than the Marshites of Alserta or the capital. They had darker tan lines and while they still bore marks of physical labor, their labor led to a more imposing (if feminine) form. It was easy to see that The Shift had altered them but had still taken some cues from the way they lived their lives. The Marshites of St. Husky were known not only as the farming and cattle breeding masters and mistresses of the nation but, as the foreigners found out, their gregariousness and good humor. Or their attempts at it, anyway. They were an optimistic breed. The city had been founded after the Cult had been broken in a nearby campaign and while it had seen its fair share of combat, those who had made a living here hadn't experienced the day to day grind for base survival that had defined those cities in Pushania. Of course they were still crazy militant about their desire to purge sin, but when not confronted with the option, they were more likely to cut a joke than start a prayer about wanting to purge sin.

Besides the farmland and the associated mega-apartments and butchers shops that dominated the landscape for some time there was nothing. The Good Doctor helped her guests onto a short tram and they were soon greeted by the skyline of St. Husky. Not as impressive or unique as the other cities, it was still a city of a dozen million The tram arched up for a while before evening up and when they were at the outskirts, it came to a stop. The Doctor led them off. "We aren't too far from Research Hospital- Southwest Zero Five. Walking from here," she said, followed by the guests and her two guards. Both looked more uncomfortable with their bodies than most other Marshites, though both also seemed to have been a bit shorter than standard. As they walked through the normal excitement of a city the attitude didn;t seem much to change- good humored and gregarious, sex in the streets, with impromptu street performances for stand-up comedy being shockingly common. Also shockingly common was very polite laughter at very bad jokes.

After a while they entered a building that only had a few stories to it. Thick walls and the usual, but otherwise not so substantial. The Doctor spoke quickly with the receptionist and they were directed to an elevator on the left. Without pressing a button the elevator started to quickly go down. Past the first basement and the sewers the guests could see that the farmland had never stopped, but had simply continued underneath the city. Giant fields of various produce grew under specially made artificial light. The city above was simply a shield for the continuing food production. The elevator continued to head down until they entered a sterile, white environment, with dozens of doctors inspecting a dozen or so different displays.

"After the event occurred, we administered immediate counter-measures. The use of other machines that can alter and define gender and sexual definition, surgery for direct physical methods, cellular repressants that should temporarily deny any form of genetic change, and hormonal correctors and alterors that are used to- well, you get the picture," she began, walking up to a console. In a a few moments she pulled up diagrams that began to project into the air. They responded to her hand movements.

"The results were positive. Machine SRS-M or Sexual Reassignment Male was used, or in other cases, Gender Reassignment Male. One machine changes all facets of the body, another is simply the male version of what the female version of the event does. At first, both took. Meanwhile, breast reductions as well as full body surgical reconstruction showed success. Cellular repressants were given to all successful subjects along with hormonal correctors and alterors. The goal was to first 'correct' the visual aspects of the body, them go deeper, and prevent any female-oriented changes," she continued, showing video and medical diagrams. Every so often she would swipe towards the console and it would all vanish for a brief moment before flickering back up.

"But it didn't last long. The Cellular repressants and hormonal correctors were not only bypassed, but actively altered to work against the machines. Bodies changed by surgeries or by the machines were seen as faulty and against 'programming'. Using cellular repressants and hormonal correctors against the 'invasive' changes, within a very short time frame all subjects took on the female appearance they had started with. There were several changes, however, that make us somewhat unwilling to try these methods again. First- all subjects have undergone full sexual reassignment and are now female. Any alteration, even minor, is now being actively and immediately fought against. They show a critically and medically implausible lack of androgen based hormones for a woman, each and every one of them, and that is with active hormone treatments. They show high levels of estrogen and progestrone. The wild swing in hormonal imbalance triggered several safeguards used by the machine to protect the self-interest of the afflicted. We haven't had much time to talk, but some manner of mental re-write has taken place. Name, history, memory itself- all seemed to have undergone transformation in subtle but important ways," she continued. She continued the swiping. When she was done, she pressed a button and a disk popped out. She handed it over to the foreigners.

"Here are all relevant details of our experiments in regards to change. There is more. As part of the initial experiment we had the help of several Marshite unicorns, who cast a variety of warding spells to help stave off the magical effects of the change. They were met with limited success. Those who used the machines to change back to a male appearance were not aided by the spells at all, as the machine was able to connect to the 'code' of the body via networked features of the machine. Those who used surgical means were somewhat more successful, but the warding spells were unable to correct for the..." she struggled to find the words, "intelligence, behind the machine. A single-minded directive to complete the task assigned to it. Where the wards stopped the magic, the machine found a way. And where the repressants and correctors stood in the way of the machine, magic made the impossible, possible. As our patients underwent the hard-sex change, we were able to keep one of them unaltered for several hours through a unique warding spell and aether-infused repressants and correctors. We were able to link up the Advanced Intelligence Interface to the Nanbot Directive Team and it was able to adapt against the machine's intelligence. Eventually however the ward failed, aether ran out, and the machine outwitted the Interface.

Which is to say that we spent several million Marshians on methods that have been proven to stop The Flesh That Hates and the Grey Goo, and all we did was prevent it for a few hours. In the long run, we think we could develop an artificial magitech intelligence to prevent a change back, but that would be ludicrously expensive on an individual basis and not practical for wide deployment," she said, handing over a second disk. Each one had over twenty terabytes of data- enough for any government to sift through. "I'm sure you have questions, and I can hopefully provide answers."

[Mokastana]

Changing scenery was good, the farmlands and city shared even more details about the Marshites. Null and his team took it all in. Using the city itself to protect the farms underneath, it was ingenious. Of course, those artificial lights were probably powered by something even further below ground. No doubt the engineering marvel of a people who viewed the world through a hostile and, often bloodsoaked, lens. It was good that these people were on his side.

That was how Mokastana survived. Not by becoming a military state or fortifying every boxcar, but by diplomacy. The Lyrans, Lamonians, Marshites, and more, some were made allies, others, invited to the Federation. Survival through unity. Open borders and a liberal society meant overpopulation was a problem, but it also meant every major power had a little bit of themselves in the Federation. The parties didn't always get along, but that was multi cultural society for you. Overall, it worked out well, but now, that tactic seemed to have backfired.

In the Sterile room under the city, Null listened intently to the story. Full body modifications reversed, actively fought against, converting that subject entirely female with what sounded like memory alteration. Magic and tech failing to undo the damage from this first spell. If biological correction was impossible for the moment, then he needed to prevent the alterations from spreading further. The data would give the Federation a start on researching the Shift, but it was probable the damage was permanent.

“If we cannot restore individuals to their previous state, then is there a way to at least identify who an individual was previously? What of the personalities? What aspects of the original individual remain?

If we cannot treat the individuals, then how has the Marshite Union managed to keep track of who was who?”

For a people so paranoid, Null seemed curious as to why the Marshites continued to overlook such a serious hole in their security. They were lucky it was only accidental experiments that led to this change. Had a person with malicious intent and knowledge had access to these machines, think of the changes they could make. A simple modification that reduces insulin production and every Marshite in the world became diabetic. Altering any number of basic processes in the body and their entire army would be useless. Normally Null would keep quiet, hoping to build a plan to exploit this flaw in case of, however unlikely, war with the Union, but the threat another nation would use against the Marshites was greater. Millions of Federal lives relied on fixing this patch in the Union.

“My greatest concern, is that this ‘accident‘ affected millions of lives, instantly, across the world. Had the ‘code changes’ been malicious, I would be back home dealing with millions possibly dead and preparing to bypass automated security here to find out what happened. This has the capacity to become a very dangerous weapon of mass destruction, affecting millions I am here to protect. Magic is something we don't have much protection against, I need a way to shield the Federation from future events like this, in case the next one isn't as mundane.”

[Holy Marsh]

The good doctor nodded. "I share some of these same concerns. There are several safeguards built into the machines. First and foremost, the machines can only do tasks they are assigned to, and each machine has a limited variety of possibilities. It would be impossible to modify the machines to do other tasks- we've tried for decades- and the machines' tasks are universally beneficial and or cosmetic. The Shift is, in our estimation, perhaps an example of the very worst that could happen. This doesn't mean it would be impossible to do something with these machines, but we've sunk untold billions of man-hours and currency into it with nothing to show for it but legions of shattered scientific careers. So I am not much concerned about these machines being used against us, or at least in a way we would deem strategically significant.

The other safeguard is that they can only be operated by Marshites who are registered with the medical service. At the time of the incident, this was the case for the machine in question. In order for something decidedly awful to happen, it would require a betrayal of the highest order while also needing to involve certain elements of magic...and, frankly, a tremendous degree of luck. Even if someone lined this up, we doubt it could be repeated. And it won't be possible to repeat this as we have banned active magical effects from the area around the machines and will be working with our more arcane minded friends abroad to install certain dampeners and counter-arcane devices," she adjusted her glasses, "so while the event was quite vexing for all involved, we don't foresee it having even the most remote chance of reoccuring, and even if it did by some unlucky star, it wouldn't cause anything more than has already happened."

She continued to listen to their concerns, then sighed. "I can imagine it causing troubles for some. No doubt the new chemical reactions in the brain will cause some changes in personality, but so far, with the exception of those we've tried to reverse, nothing major has been reported yet. We'll have to wait and see. My opinion is that I doubt we'll see a general shift in personality. The people we've worked on have undergone radical mental changes, but are still aware of most elements of their past lives, even if their perspective on them is filtered through a personal-historical lense of a feminine life. Outside of that, in general, it would seem that the physical changes are the only changes currently recorded. In other words- what makes us, us, is currently operating just fine.

As for how we've kept track, well, that is a social construct of a Theocracy more than anything. The vast and overwhelming amount of the population reported themselves to their Shrines. Meanwhile, genetic storage information on the medical network was changed to register the new bodies and forms by the machine, so DNA, blood, hair, and tissue sampling all remain viable means of identification to us. Here, let me show an example," she said, beckoning to one of the guards. He dutifully walked up, and placed his hand on a nearby screen. There was a small mechanical whirring sound a wince. He pulled back his hand and wiped his blood on his pants as a small needle retreated back into the machine. A few moments later, the screen flashed with his full medical record, complete with a three dimensional anatomically correct view of the body, both past and present. It noted all important medical information as well as procedures- most recently, Private Reijas had underwent a gender realignment operation. A nice name for The Shift, some supposed.

"So those who are in the system should be easy enough to track and verify. If you would like it, perhaps we can give your government the new information for your own medical facilities?"

[The State of Monavia]

0740 hours MIST

Exam Room 1
Carlyle Clinic
Chalcedon, Monavia

Donald kept a close look at his weigh in. He was never the biggest guy, but he had lost five inches and fifty pounds- five three and one-twenty, respectively. Well, that would make further documentation easier, he supposed. He was full of the 'good stuff', those elements of a Marshite's character which allowed them to handle strife with a sense of pride and excitement that was foreign and strange to others by all good reason. Other vital statistics were newer and more alarming, but expected. It took only for a few minutes for it all to be done, and for Donald to be given a medical smock. Hospital gown. He sighed and started changing, all the while suppressing the barest hints of a chuckle.

That would have puzzled Marshites back home. When it came time for medical specialists to see you in a way that required a change of clothes, they would generally do it in the nude. That way nothing got in the way of what needed to be done. He could still remember what it was like during his first doctor's appointment here, outside of the Church- and how his parents had howled with laughter on the way home when the doctor explained the awkwardness of Donald disrobing in front of a nurse. He supposed that the good people of Monavia had a bit more sense of privacy in such matters than the Marshites. Of course it was all rather silly, because in the end whatever happened was so far beyond basic science that he doubted any doctor in the world could reasonably react to it.

He got dressed and didn't even spend the time to take a gander at his body, naked as he was. He thought about it, of course. He hadn't a time to rally just sit and look. But he would, and he would be more comfortable doing it at home than anywhere else. As simple as it was and as helpful as everyone else was, he didn't want to be caught awkwardly staring at himself and poking his new body inquisitively when the doctor walked in. Whatever case it may be that caused this, it wasn't going to cause him to act like a steaming idiot.

When he was done he took a seat, having to dangle his feet further off the floor than he had since he was a kid, and nervously looking around. The waiting was the hardest part by many miles.

Although Donald’s wait did not last a long time, his environment was one in which time seemed to slow down the way traffic slows near the scene of a grisly accident. The exam room’s austere ensemble of off-white porcelain floor tiles, matching walls, and minimalist steel cabinetry seemed about as inviting as the interior of a meat locker and the air was just chilly enough to make a crop of goose bumps erupt from Donald’s skin as he slipped into his knee-length gown. Dr. Carlyle apparently hewed to the old-fashioned practice of keeping his exam rooms cool to retard the spread of bacterial infections, hence the need for his patients to have gowns. Apart from a handful of cabinets, the only other furnishings were the table Donald sat on and a rolling stool in one corner, both of which featured foam cushions encased in pale gray vinyl.

Exactly five minutes after he began changing, Donald heard two crisp raps on the exam room door. Dr. Carlyle was still carrying his clipboard when he entered and sat down on the stool. There were a few beats of silence as he glanced down at Donald’s chart with a pensive expression and looked up again, discreetly sizing up his new patient for the first time. “It looks like your chart’s in order,” he said, pausing to set his clipboard aside and pull a tiny green flashlight out of his coat pocket. “Follow my finger,” he instructed as he shined a weak beam into Donald’s eyes, moving his other hand from side to side and making a number of motions. Once he was satisfied, he wrote a note on Donald’s exam report and performed a few more basic tests, taking brief notes in between each.

With the usual preliminary tests out of the way, Carlyle moved onto more serious business. “You appear to have a few different things going on at the same time, so I’ll start with your cuts and bruises since they seem pretty fresh. Could you please explain to me how you got injured?” he inquired as he picked up his clipboard to take more notes. “Also, did you get cut anywhere else?”

[Holy Marsh]

"The cuts and bruises on my...elbows, right knee...face, of course, arms. I was riding my bike when I lst consciousness. It was like this...pressure from the inside, pressure from the outside, all at once. And then I'm out. I wake up like," Donald used both his hands and waved at his body, "this. And this," waving at his face, "and this, my voice. Everything except," he said, waving at his genitals, hidden as they were. He gave a faint smile. "Little consolation, but its something. After the initial shock wore off I felt...well, fine is a lie, this feels very weird. But I'm not feeling as panicked or scared as I was earlier. Calmer. The prayers helped. I do have a question and this might be weird, but what color are my eyes?" He asked, his voice more curious than anything. So much had changed and he had never even bothered to think about the color of his own eyes. Such an esoteric concept as eye color seemed to have been lost, but indeed, he had cause to suspect changes.

He had green eyes, somewhat uncommon amongst Marshites. Like most people they were dark brown by majority, a trait known since the dawn of time. His parents had their ancestry tied to the Faint Sky port, so they likely had some outsider DNA flowing in there that had given them some green and hazel eyes. It wasn't a big deal but he was still curious as he looked around. He knew from his phone and from context that this was happening in a lot of places and it was confusing just as many, but that didn't mean the doctor may not have more information on what was happening in Monavia. Indeed, ever since the incident, Donald wasn't sure what was being discussed.

It stood to reason based on his phone that this was happening across the world. It stood to reason, indeed, that there were going to be a great many alarm bells. His curiosity only grew. "What do you think, doctor? I mean I feel okay, considering. I don't feel like I'm in pain or anything but...well, fuck me, this is strange. Every breath I take I feel like I'm getting more comfortable but that doesn't mean I'm not all out of sorts. I hit my head but I don't feel like I have a concussion...though," he laughed, "I guess that'd be the smallest issue at plate right now, yeah?" He said as he absentmindedly ran his left hand over his right arm, feeling each goosebump that had aggressively colonized him since he sat down on the cold table.

[The State of Monavia]

0748 hours MIST

Exam Room 1
Carlyle Clinic
Chalcedon, Monavia

"The cuts and bruises on my...elbows, right knee...face, of course, arms. I was riding my bike when I lst consciousness. It was like this...pressure from the inside, pressure from the outside, all at once. And then I'm out. I wake up like," Donald used both his hands and waved at his body, "this. And this," waving at his face, "and this, my voice. Everything except," he said, waving at his genitals, hidden as they were. He gave a faint smile. "Little consolation, but its something. After the initial shock wore off I felt...well, fine is a lie, this feels very weird. But I'm not feeling as panicked or scared as I was earlier. Calmer. The prayers helped. I do have a question and this might be weird, but what color are my eyes?" He asked, his voice more curious than anything. So much had changed and he had never even bothered to think about the color of his own eyes. Such an esoteric concept as eye color seemed to have been lost, but indeed, he had cause to suspect changes.

He had green eyes, somewhat uncommon amongst Marshites. Like most people they were dark brown by majority, a trait known since the dawn of time. His parents had their ancestry tied to the Faint Sky port, so they likely had some outsider DNA flowing in there that had given them some green and hazel eyes. It wasn't a big deal but he was still curious as he looked around. He knew from his phone and from context that this was happening in a lot of places and it was confusing just as many, but that didn't mean the doctor may not have more information on what was happening in Monavia. Indeed, ever since the incident, Donald wasn't sure what was being discussed.

Doctor Carlyle’s pen energetically danced across the page on which he noted Donald’s injuries and made a mental note to check the wounds as soon as he was finished with his initial examination. While the cuts and bruises he saw definitely corroborated Donald’s story, the sex change part seemed to beggar credulity so severely that Carlyle felt a momentary flash of temptation to refer Donald to a psychiatrist in short order. While any other physician would have been likely to make such a referral without a second thought (or opted to have Donald’s head scanned for signs of brain trauma that might explain such thinking), the stories Hedges told about the unclassified parts of his work had taught Dr. Carlyle to have more patience for seemingly outlandish claims than most of his colleagues in the medical profession. Besides, Carlyle had seen enough patients in his career to recognize different body shapes just from the way his supply of hospital gowns draped from them, so he had little trouble deducing that Donald’s frame was at least a little consistent with the average female body.

The doctor set aside his clipboard and began checking Donald’s heart rate and breathing. “Your eyes appear green,” he answered, “unless they’re really hazel and change color with the light.” Carlyle knitted his brows as he wrote down his findings again. “Your heart rate and breathing appear normal.”

It stood to reason based on his phone that this was happening across the world. It stood to reason, indeed, that there were going to be a great many alarm bells. His curiosity only grew. "What do you think, doctor? I mean I feel okay, considering. I don't feel like I'm in pain or anything but...well, fuck me, this is strange. Every breath I take I feel like I'm getting more comfortable but that doesn't mean I'm not all out of sorts. I hit my head but I don't feel like I have a concussion...though," he laughed, "I guess that'd be the smallest issue at plate right now, yeah?" He said as he absentmindedly ran his left hand over his right arm, feeling each goosebump that had aggressively colonized him since he sat down on the cold table.

“I’m going to take a look at your injuries first,” Carlyle answered, turning towards one of his cabinets and removing a pair of latex gloves and rolls of gauze and tape for re-dressing the cut on Donald’s face. He did not take long to reach some initial conclusions once he had carefully peeled away the bandages Mme. Hanson applied earlier that morning. “None of your cuts appear infected. It appears she did a good job patching you up,” Carlyle said as he put away the unused gauze and tape. “Now that that’s out of the way, I can have you take your gown off now.”

Once Donald removed his gown and set it aside, the doctor found himself looking at what, to the best of his anatomical knowledge, was a woman with a complete set of male reproductive and urologic systems. He did not see additional injuries—obviously a positive thing, much like the fact Donald reported suffering no pain—and Donald’s overall weight, build, and muscle definition all appeared healthy. All that now remained for him to investigate at this stage was his patient’s incomplete transformation. With a glance at the notes the nurse had handed to him, he knitted his brows again and wondered just how a “non-genital involuntary sex change” could possibly be “dramatic and immediate” in the fashion Donald described. Carlyle had recently watched a televised comedy featuring a man who awakes from a drunken adventure in a Mokan tourist trap with breast implants in his chest, but Donald’s breasts were pert enough that Carlyle did not need to have Donald pull them up so he could look underneath for surgery scars. No implants, Carlyle thought, Could he have gynaecomastia?

“I’m going to order a complete blood test for you and write a referral for some imaging—a full-body PET scan should do.” He had Donald sit up on the exam table again to get a better look between his legs, only to find everything there in healthy shape. There were no signs of hermaphroditism or any similar phenomena. “You can put your gown back on now,” he instructed as he snapped off his gloves and wrote a few notes. He hoped the blood test he ordered would shed some light on this case, even if he had to wait until the following day for the results to arrive.

“Thank you for coming in,” Carlyle smiled as he shook Donald’s hand and departed. “I’ll give you your referral order once the nurse finishes with you.” Donald had hardly waited more than a minute before the nurse came back inside with a steel tray bearing a butterfly syringe, several specimen tubes, and some additional gauze and tape. Once she had drawn three small vials of blood, she patched Donald up and instructed him to get dressed and come back out to the reception area. Carlyle intercepted Donald on the way out and handed him a manila folder with the edges of two documents poking out the top end. “There’s one for the PET scan and I wrote another one for a head X-ray just to be safe.”

Donald found Hedges sitting in the lobby with one of the magazines on his lap. “Ah, I take it they certified you’re alive? Come, I have some good news.”

“I have your paperwork, Inspector,” came a voice from the reception window.

“Right, I forgot.” Hedges got up and received a thin sheaf of documents. “Anyway, while you were in the exam room I was on the phone with another official who handles security matters and informed him of what I’ve been doing. He said he’ll get an announcement out to the public later this morning, probably within the hour. That should calm things down a bit so they don’t get too far out of hand. So, how did your visit go? I see you got some paperwork, probably referrals.”