Fighting Fire

Winston Tang adjusted the thick leather strap across his shoulder, the firehouse's overhead lights catching the gleam of his freshly glossed lips as he moved. The jacket—standard issue now—hugged his narrow waist tightly before flaring over the swell of his ridiculous knockers. He hated thinking of them like that, but there was no other word anymore. No one said breasts. Not since the glitch. Not since everyone on the planet had ended up with these jiggling, heavy jugs.

It was just life now.

The firehouse had changed in the two years since the last glitch—the one that made everyone’s hair undeniably feminine. Winston’s own bob was silky and severe, with long sweeping bangs that curled into the corners of his pillowy cheeks. He remembered the helpless frustration afterward, trying to get a fade, a buzz, anything to preserve some sense of masculinity. But the clippers never made it to his scalp. Stylists would trail off mid-sentence, blush, and give him a soft-layered cut that framed his face too beautifully. Eventually, he stopped trying.

His hands, dainty and smooth, tugged his skirt down as he checked his reflection in the mirror by the lockers. The fire retardant miniskirt rode high on his thighs, the thigh-high boots polished to a mirror sheen. The five-inch heels made his calves look incredible. They all wore the same thing—men, women, didn’t matter. It was regulation now.

He remembered the first time he tried to put on his old uniform jackets from before the changes gave them their massive titties. They wouldn't close over his fun bags. For a while it had felt like a loss, like the changes were stripping away something valuable, something important. But in reality, they had made life much more efficient in so many ways. Gone were the old fashioned ideas of how men and women should look. Now they looked the same! Shopping had become so much easier. Stores only sold one style and one size: sexy, flirty, skimpy. And fitted. God, everything was fitted.

But none of it had changed how he felt when the call came in.

The fire alarm shrieked through the station. Winston's head snapped up. His heart pounded. The others around him were already scrambling into their boots, skirts, and jackets, all of them the same height, the same build. Even with the uniformity, he could recognize his fellow firefighters by their giggles, their lipstick shades, the way they complimented each other while strapping on gear.

"Damn, girl, your knockers are lookin' extra bouncy today," Janelle teased, snapping a bra strap for emphasis.

Winston rolled his eyes but couldn't help giggling. It just came out that way.

He was stepping into his boots when it hit.

A ripple, like pressure in the skull. The world warped for a breath. Then slammed back into place.

He staggered, blinked at his reflection.

And stared.

His ass.

It was massive. Round and high and obscene. The kind of ass that dominated a room. The kind of ass that made skirts into mere suggestions. He turned, stunned, watching it bounce with the slightest shift. The fabric of his fire-retardant miniskirt stretched taut across the new curves, barely clinging to decency.

Behind him, the locker room erupted.

"Oh my god, check out your booty, girl!"

"These jugs and now this ass? We are weapons of mass distraction."

Giggles and squeals of delight filled the room as everyone admired their new backsides in the mirrors. Skirts were yanked down in vain attempts to cover what couldn't be hidden. Hips had flared too—slight builds, narrow shoulders, and now asses that could stop traffic.

Winston blushed, one hand lightly cupping the new swell of his bottom. It felt… good. Full. Powerful, even. A part of him wanted to be horrified. But he wasn't. Not really. He was distracted by how good it looked. How he looked.

His mind wandered for a quick moment to Mei, the women he'd been seeing that year. It had been getting very serious with her, talks of the future, talks of a family. They'd even gone as far as starting to shop for matching wedding dresses. Of course now they'd have to be remeasured, dresses would have to be retailored, but that would be the same for everyone on the planet. He bet she'll look great now, even better than she had before.

And he bet it would be the same for him. He imagined Mei’s reaction when she saw him and flushed deeper.

"Skirts aren’t gonna survive this run," muttered someone, twisting side to side, watching the bounce.

Winston snapped into motion. "C’mon, team! We’ve still got a fire to put out. Let's shake these asses into the truck."

They giggled. But they obeyed.

Outside, the truck roared to life, the sun glinting off heels and helmet visors. Winston clutched the bar, jugs bouncing, thighs squeezed tight together, and new curves pressing against the seat as the truck screamed into the street.

Whatever this new change was, he couldn’t dwell on it yet.

They had work to do.