[Inhuman, Master] Try to "fix" Georgia.

Georgia continues to loom around your apartment, stewing in a hate so deep you can barely fathom it. It's a palpable aura of rage and barely-constrained **** that makes you shudder, especially since, when you're around, it's focused, laser-like, on you rather than the world in general.

You've had time to get more information on her bizarre biological response to the strange, addictive chemicals in your semen... and now being secreted by the new lives inside her. Some of it was her bizarre confession, the day you'd finally enslaved her, that hate and lust were all tangled up in her mind, such that she seemed to need to feel one to feel the other. Some of it was trying, clumsily, to study this sort of thing over the Internet. Most of it was Devi, who was, after all, still a genius geneticist, looking over her genetic code, commenting on strange tags in the unknown, unexamined parts of the genome. Tags that she'd described as... deformities, practically.

Georgia's strangeness isn't good for her, and it's not good for the children inside her. After all, she'd miscarried the first time, for whatever reason, and she'd... she'd been happy at the thought of being a mother. You remember that thought in her voice. Worse, what if your kids inherit whatever weird markers switch out hatred and love in her brain? What if it makes them miserable too, just as Georgia was rather miserable even before you filled her up with hate-chemicals? What if your children, inheriting your evolutionary powers, grow up to be fucking super-villains or something?

No. No, you've got to do something about this, and you will. "Come along with me into the bedroom, Georgia," you tell her. And she, seething with hate at the thought of what you're going to do to her, stewing in resentment at the other ****-girls happily enjoying their servitude to you, loathing herself for obeying, for desperately needing your cum.

Just as well she doesn't know what you're actually planning, or it'd probably make her current, background-radiation level of revulsion into more of a nuclear explosion.

"Onto the bed," you say, and she obeys, her dreadlocks swishing with hate. You look over her thin, powerful brown body, the scar from the operation that removed the dead baby from inside her. You could change all that. You could wipe the scar away here, retool her into something more-buxom, wipe away the signs of middle-age that-

No. Maybe... maybe later, but not right this moment. Right now, you need to do something... delicate. Something you're not even sure you can do. Growing wings, that's one thing, but...

Gently, you cup her face, looking into those still-pretty and energetic brown eyes that sparkle with revulsion at your touch, at the mere thought of you trying to be gentle to her and say, "Today will be special, Georgia. A little... strange, but... well, we'll see how it goes."

"How will it be special, Master?" she spits, scornfully. "Since I can tell you're just dying for me to ask."

"Today," you tell her, gently, as you press your hands to her milk-chocolate belly, feeling the muscles beneath flinch away, "I'm going to make you happy." And with that, you begin.

The cocoon forms around her quickly, but not so quickly that she can't scream, stark, animal horror mixing for a moment with her rage. And then... silence. You stare at it, guiltily, hoping against hope this'll work. But... well, you've already started.

Gently, you close your eyes and touch the outside, probing experimentally with the strange extra sense that allows you to control the direction of transformations. You feel the outside of her body, the skin and hair and fat layers that make up her appearance, feel the inside, the organs sloshing inside her, the bone marrow pumping out blood. You briefly brush your senses over the children growing up in her womb, before moving on, pushing deeper, deeper, deeper.

Within a single cell, you gently feel over the ravelling and unravelling surface of her DNA, of the underlying fractal pattern that builds her body and the ways in which that pattern interacts with her own hormones. Like a man gently pulling a length of string along his hand, you feel over its surface, and, subtly, you feel how it's... wrong. You understand what Devi meant, before, about some of her genes feeling like deformities.

Without fully understanding, you gently... gently tweak the ones that feel wrong, like a man gingerly turning the screws in a watch, until it feels right. Until her brain will react properly with the chemicals meant to stimulate love and affection in a human being, until her adrenals have recovered from the ravaging that comes from such a long period of hyperstimulation, until her womb will no longer suffer from the effects of eclampsia when the time comes for childbirth.

And then, with a sigh, you let go of the gently-prodded string of data, and... let the cocoon start to do its work on the rest of her. Immediately, she begins to tense, and you feel, through the cocoon, her vague awareness of... something, some change spreading in her body.

That's probably a bit worrying, but... you have one more thing to do. One by one, you feel over the triplets growing inside her, pressing your gentle touch into their genes as well. Two of them inherited her predisposition to preeclampsia, one as a carrier. All three have at least some of the strange, wrong markers in their mother's genes, one of them almost-completely. But manipulating their still-fresh genes is easier than Georgia's, and you correct them all.

Then, you pull away from the cocoon, mentally drained by the intense focus needed to effect such a subtle change. You see, feel her shiver, violently in the cocoon you've formed around her, with what sensation you're not quite sure. But you can tell that she's feeling it, feeling the genetic switches and markers in her body moving and flipping and reconfiguring. You feel it to, after a fashion, feel your changes reaching into her, penetrating her, gently but firmly and insistently molding her around them. Her body clenches up, impossibly tense, then just... relaxes. For the first time in a long, long time, you can sense her just uncoiling, untensing, lying in boneless exhaustion in the little meat-womb you've made for her.

It feels... erotic. Satisfying. You wonder how much of this feeling is you, and how much is Georgia, linked to you via the cocoon. The better part of a day has passed, you can tell, as the cocoon melts away, dissolving into various substances that melt away into the air, leaving just... Georgia. Sleeping there on the bed, eyes closed, body more relaxed than you've ever seen it, mouth...

...You were rather hoping, just for a bit, that she'd be smiling in her sleep, or something. Instead she just drools a bit, mouth open from her uncoiled facial muscles. Gently, you press it shut, then slip in next to her for your own forty winks. You could certainly use a bit of a recharge after all that. Hopefully, when you wake up, thing'll be... different.

In a good way.