A New Day. A New You.

You grapple with the image reflected back at you, both rejecting it and accepting it at the same time. It's you, but it isn't you. It's not you, but it's still you. Your brow is etched in pitiful surprise, and your jaw hangs open, leaving your lips in an surprisingly suggestive pout. You snap your mouth shut and blink the expression from your mind. A photo-filter. That's what this feels like. It's like someone has put some vanity filter on your face, leaving you a caricature of yourself... A slightly femme caricature in this case. Only... You can't seem to turn off this filter. Your likeness remains changed, no matter what angle, or even what mirror, you look into.

You pull your soiled boxers up, and wander around your apartment aimlessly at first, then with more intention. Those stockings are behind this. They have to be. There's no way you'd... Shave... rut... taste... There's no way you'd do those things to yourself without some bullshit magic, or ****. They're not by your bed, that you can see. Nor are they under your sheets. They're not behind the headboard, or under the bedside table. You can't find them on the floor, or in your dirty clothes basket. And you can't find the colorful cloth anywhere in your closet.

"FUCK." You shout out. Your voice, bright and pretty. The lovely new sound, like your lovely new features, is a distortion of your usual husky speech, and you cuss again at the sound. "Fuck..." Your tried to drop your voice into a rough baritone, but it comes off like a satire of gruffness.

You sit on the bed in silent contemplation. Magic. That's the only solution, right? This can't be some technology. And what about that dream from last night? Your mind grasps at fading whispers of late night ecstasy, but can't remember any details. Should you go to a doctor? You don't have a GP. Anyone you saw would probably just think you're a trans man. Shit... If your identity comes into question, you're screwed. They might think you stole your own ID, and getting another like this could be tough. The pragmatic questions push their way to the forefront of your mind, but the your first question still lingers in the dark of your mind. Magic. Like a shark in the deep the thought lingers, ever waiting, never knowing when it will come back to bite you.

BZZZZZZZZT*

You jolt as your alarm goes off. One hour until work. Fuck. Should you go? Should you call out sick? Surely you can take a day or two off to get this figured out... The thought of getting fired, and finding a new job in the current economy drops a lead weight in your belly. Broken lease. Eviction. Proving your identity. The same problems crash on you again. You look down to the lack of bulge behind your boxers and cuss again, wondering, fearing, if you shouldn't just go to work.

Hell, It's not like you're dying. You scurry off to the shower to wash away the pungent smell that's been following you all morning. The heat feels a little hotter. The cloth feels a little rougher, and your body... Well you don't want to think about your body, but at least you don't find any MORE surprises. No tails and demon horns. No wings or tattoos. What you do find, however, almost feels worse. You find every feeling perfectly natural.

(I have a few general ideas, but I don't have an overarching plot for this one. I'd be happy to hear suggestions in the comments, or PM's.)