Jimmy uses the remote on Bruiser in self defence.

Brad "The Bruiser" Johnson loomed over the trembling Jimmy, his meaty fists clenched and veins bulging in his thick neck as he barked, "Hand over your wallet, loser, or I'll rearrange your face!" Jimmy scrambled backward on the linoleum, tears welling in his eyes, until his bony elbow bumped against the sleek, black remote that had fallen from his backpack that he found in a field earlier in the day during the struggle. ****, Jimmy's fingers fumbled across the device's surface, blindly mashing buttons—and suddenly, Brad's sneer faltered and felt a bizarre tingling surge through his body, starting at the point of contact and spreading like liquid fire. His muscles seemed to soften beneath his varsity jacket, his broad shoulders subtly rounding. A strange tightness constricted his chest, and he looked down in shock to see the unmistakable swell of small, pert breasts pushing against his suddenly too-tight shirt. His voice, when he tried to curse, came out in a higher, almost melodic pitch. "W-what the hell did you do to me, freak?" he shrieked, releasing the nerd and stumbling back, hands flying to his altered chest in horror.

The nerd adjusted his glasses, a triumphant mixed with relief smirk playing on his lips as he aimed the device again. "Just getting started, Bruiser," he chirped. The second wave hit Brad like a physical blow, a kaleidoscope of pink light engulfing him. He screamed, but the sound morphed mid-shriek into a distinctly feminine cry of surprise and pain. His body contorted violently, bones seeming to crack and reform with sickening pops. His remaining masculine bulk melted away, replaced by slender curves and softness. His jawline softened, his features refined into delicate prettiness. His hair cascaded down in a sudden, luxurious wave of blonde silk past his shoulders. His clothes dissolved into shimmering motes, replaced instantly by a scandalously short, hot pink mini-dress that clung to his—her—newly formed, voluptuous figure. Brad Johnson was gone. In his place stood a stunning, bewildered blonde bombshell, blinking large, mascara-thickened lashes. "What... who...?" she breathed, her voice a breathy, high-pitched purr utterly alien to the jock who had stood there moments before.

Rage, hot and primal, surged through the newly minted woman. It was a confusing, alien feeling filtered through her unfamiliar feminine hormones, but the core of it was pure Brad Johnson fury. "You!" she shrieked, her manicured nails curling into claws as she lunged at the nerd, fueled by the dawning horror of what had been stolen from her. "You did this! Change me back, you little shit, or I'll—!" Her hands closed around his throat, surprisingly strong despite their delicate appearance. The nerd choked, his eyes bulging, but he managed to fumble the device one last time, jamming it against her exposed midriff. "N-no! S-stop!" he gurgled, thumbing the final setting. The final pulse from the device wasn't a wave, but an implosion, collapsing the last vestiges of Brad Johnson into a singularity of pink static deep within her core. Her grip on the nerd's throat slackened instantly, her rage evaporating like mist under a noon sun as the electrical surge burrowed into her brainstem. It felt like delicate fingers, impossibly precise, plucking out memories like unwanted weeds. The roar of the crowd after a touchdown, the satisfying crunch of a fist connecting with bone, the coarse banter of the locker room—each fragment of her former life dissolved into iridescent bubbles that popped silently against the inside of her skull, leaving behind only a faint, pleasant scent of bubblegum. Even the searing fury that had propelled her attack vanished, replaced by a dizzying wave of confusion that felt strangely… floaty. Who was she? Why was she holding this boy? The questions fluttered away almost immediately, unimportant next to the sudden, overwhelming awareness of her own body. Her skin felt hypersensitive, the cheap fabric of the mini-dress suddenly gratingly coarse against her newly smooth, impossibly soft skin. A profound sense of wrongness lingered for a millisecond—a phantom limb sensation of missing bulk, of misplaced strength—before it too was scrubbed clean, erased without a trace.

New memories bloomed in the vacant spaces, vivid and immediate, painted in shades of pastel and glitter. She remembered endless hours spent perfecting winged eyeliner, the satisfying click of stiletto heels on polished floors, the thrill of catching every male eye in the room as she sashayed past. She recalled giggling sleepovers dissecting the cuteness quotient of every boy in school, the sacred rituals of applying fruity lip gloss, the absolute necessity of matching her underwear to her outfit. These weren't implanted; they felt lived, cherished, as fundamental as breathing. The concept of ever being anything other than this—soft, desirable, utterly feminine—became not just impossible, but laughably absurd. The lingering confusion crystallized into a single, breathless thought: Oh my gosh, my nails! She snatched her hands back from the nerdy boy's throat, staring in horror at her perfectly manicured, candy-pink talons. Had she scratched him? How unladylike! A delicate blush, like spun sugar, rose on her cheeks.

Simultaneously, her body underwent its final, grotesquely beautiful refinement. The subtle remnants of angularity in her jawline melted into heart-shaped perfection. Her waist cinched inwards dramatically, emphasizing the exaggerated swell of her hips and the pert, gravity-defying roundness of her breasts beneath the straining pink fabric. Her hair, already long and blonde, gained impossible luster and volume, cascading in artful, shampoo-commercial waves. Every pore vanished, leaving skin like flawless porcelain. The final, seismic shudder wasn't pain, but a cataclysm of pleasure so profound it liquefied her spine. It ripped through her, a supernova detonating at the epicenter of her new, impossibly sensitive core, radiating outwards in concentric waves of electric-pink ecstasy. Every nerve ending sang, every cell vibrated at a frequency tuned solely to delirious, feminine rapture. And as the peak crested, white-hot and blinding, something deep within her tore loose. Not blood, not tissue, but the last, clinging dregs of something heavy, dark, and profoundly wrong – the fossilized residue of Brad Johnson. It surged upwards, a thick, viscous sludge of misplaced aggression, testosterone-poisoned memories, and the coarse, grating echo of a roar, only to be violently expelled. A gush of warm, pearlescent fluid, shimmering with faint traces of that same pink static, erupted from her hairless pussy, soaking the thin fabric of her mini-dress and splattering onto the linoleum floor with a sound like popping candy. It carried with it the final, stubborn fragments of a forgotten life: the phantom weight of muscle, the ghost of a beard shadow, the incomprehensible urge to dominate. As it pooled, steaming faintly, it evaporated almost instantly, leaving only the faint, sweet scent of cotton candy and the absolute, pristine vacancy where Brad had once resided.

In that vacuum, Barbara "Barbie" Janet blossomed, fully formed and radiant. Her gasp of release melted into a breathy, high-pitched sigh of pure contentment. "Oh... my... stars," she breathed, the voice a melodic chime, utterly alien to the throat that had once bellowed threats. Her hands fluttered to her flushed cheeks, then smoothed down the damp front of her dress with a delicate, practiced motion. The horror at her earlier unladylike aggression was gone, replaced by a warm, effervescent glow and a slightly embarrassed giggle. "Oopsie! Someone got a little... excited," she murmured to herself, the words dripping with playful, self-aware innocence. The new memories weren't just present; they were her. The meticulous care for her appearance, the delight in being admired, the absolute conviction that her worth was intrinsically tied to her flawless femininity – these were the bedrock of her being now. The idea of ever throwing a punch, or even raising her voice in anger, was as ludicrous as trying to bench-press a cloud. Her entire existence felt light, buoyant, perpetually perfumed.

Her dazzling, vacant smile lingered for a breathless moment, her crystal-blue eyes wide and unfocused, reflecting the sterile bathroom lights like twin pools of liquid glitter. Inside her pretty lil head, a kaleidoscope of pink-hued memories – shopping sprees, bubble baths, the approving glances of strangers – swirled in a dizzying, delightful ballet. Then, with the soft, decisive click of a diamond-studded compact snapping shut, one final, crucial fragment slotted perfectly into place. The small, trembling figure crumpled near the humming device wasn't some insignificant nerd; he was her sweetheart! Her darling, clever little inventor! And oh no! Stars above, he was like, super duper hurt! A tiny, distressed gasp, like a deflating party balloon, escaped her perfectly glossed lips.

The sight of him, pale and crumpled on the cold linoleum, pierced through her effervescent glow like a shard of cheap plastic. Her manicured hands flew to her mouth, not in horror, but in a picture-perfect pantomime of feminine concern. "Oh, sweetie-pie!" she chirruped, her melodic voice laced with saccharine worry as she minced forward on impossibly high, pink stiletto heels. Each step was a precarious wobble, her new center of gravity a thrilling, terrifying mystery.