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The tail-lights of the dragon in front of me flared red before the impact, prisming through the rain on my goggles into red 80s science fiction. I woke up with ‘mancers around me and doctors applying bandages. I had no idea how much time had passed or how badly injured my mount was.
I also realized with an inner jolt that the person standing beside the bed and looking down at me with pity and panic in her tear-filled eyes was me.
A wave of pain followed closely by a wave of pain medication took me under again and two weeks later I was sitting on a bench with a spell of silence around us while the pretty precog doctor told me what happened.
There’s a switchspace junction protocol lock that the interface on my mount hadn’t heeded. The intangibility protection spells of the other rider had reacted badly with mine and in effect, we had switched places. Our bodies and souls had shuffled apart to become four entities before panicking back to the closest body. The closest body at that exact moment happened to be wrong. This negated the spells and brought us back to solidity just in time for full-force impact. Our mounts fused painfully and screamed. The tangled mess ricocheted off of buildings on the way down. I got the worst of it.
We were now in each other’s bodies. Our mounts were dead.
Not only were we grounded for life but our friends had to get used to a new person. I had become a tall strong man and he had become a young short woman that used to be me. In terms of physicality we both won. I mean, we were both riders. That kind of training guarantees a certain level of fitness.
Other than that, we were both fucked.
My new body had tattoos of allegiance to the darkwing collective, two brands of hotpark escape successes and fifteen body count trace markers burrowing around in its bloodstream.
His body, my old one, was a curse to him. He had belonged to the order of the Jesuit Flame. No women allowed. His rather incredible career with them which appeared to have just been reaching its zenith was over.
My crew were peaceful. The tattoos would make them uncomfortable. The facial scarring and the tribal flesh-warping would make them even more so. My deep resounding voice and huge frame would never be accepted.
I was thinking of maybe looking this guy up and asking him out on a date. I mean, I know exactly what I like in bed. I could really show him a good time by taking him on a tour of what his new body likes. I can’t remember if those Jesuit Flame people were celibate. I hope not. I’m pretty sure we’d only have each after this.
The pretty precog doctor hands me his phone number, already written on a card in her pocket, over to my large callused hands.
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I also realized with an inner jolt that the person standing beside the bed and looking down at me with pity and panic in her tear-filled eyes was me.
A wave of pain followed closely by a wave of pain medication took me under again and two weeks later I was sitting on a bench with a spell of silence around us while the pretty precog doctor told me what happened.
There’s a switchspace junction protocol lock that the interface on my mount hadn’t heeded. The intangibility protection spells of the other rider had reacted badly with mine and in effect, we had switched places. Our bodies and souls had shuffled apart to become four entities before panicking back to the closest body. The closest body at that exact moment happened to be wrong. This negated the spells and brought us back to solidity just in time for full-force impact. Our mounts fused painfully and screamed. The tangled mess ricocheted off of buildings on the way down. I got the worst of it.
We were now in each other’s bodies. Our mounts were dead.
Not only were we grounded for life but our friends had to get used to a new person. I had become a tall strong man and he had become a young short woman that used to be me. In terms of physicality we both won. I mean, we were both riders. That kind of training guarantees a certain level of fitness.
Other than that, we were both fucked.
My new body had tattoos of allegiance to the darkwing collective, two brands of hotpark escape successes and fifteen body count trace markers burrowing around in its bloodstream.
His body, my old one, was a curse to him. He had belonged to the order of the Jesuit Flame. No women allowed. His rather incredible career with them which appeared to have just been reaching its zenith was over.
My crew were peaceful. The tattoos would make them uncomfortable. The facial scarring and the tribal flesh-warping would make them even more so. My deep resounding voice and huge frame would never be accepted.
I was thinking of maybe looking this guy up and asking him out on a date. I mean, I know exactly what I like in bed. I could really show him a good time by taking him on a tour of what his new body likes. I can’t remember if those Jesuit Flame people were celibate. I hope not. I’m pretty sure we’d only have each after this.
The pretty precog doctor hands me his phone number, already written on a card in her pocket, over to my large callused hands.
tags