You take one step back toward Trevor's room. Then another. Your new body moves with an unfamiliar heaviness, each footfall making the floorboards creak under weight that shouldn't be yours.
"I need to see your computer," you say, manufacturing purpose from desperation. "The source code. I can't fix this without understanding the architecture of—the structure of what you built."
It's a lie. Or rather, it's a truth wrapped around a lie. You do need to see the code. But that's not why you're walking back toward him.
Trevor's face lights up with relief so profound it's almost painful to witness. "Yes! Okay, yes. I can show you everything. The base framework, the reality manipulation subroutines, how it interfaces with nanotech protocols..." He's already retreating into his room, gesturing excitedly.
You follow him through the doorway, and as you do, you catch your reflection in a mirror mounted on the back of his door.
The girl—no, the woman—staring back at you is unrecognizable. Your face has softened, rounded. Your cheeks are full and flushed. The glasses perched on your nose are real, not an affectation. Behind them, your eyes are still blue, but they look different set in this stranger's face. Your body has expanded dramatically in just the minutes since you fled the room. The green t-shirt strains across a belly that protrudes several inches, soft and round and undeniably present. Your hips have widened, pressing against sweatpants that somehow appeared to replace what you were wearing moments ago.
But what stops you cold is the view when you turn slightly.
Your backside has become enormous—two round, heavy globes that strain the gray fabric of the sweatpants to their limit. The transformation has redistributed mass with cruel efficiency, piling soft flesh onto your lower body until you look like someone who's spent years sedentary, eating junk food, living the exact opposite of the life you've actually led.
"Here, look at this," Trevor says, oblivious to your horror. He's pulled up code on his center monitor—thousands of lines of programming in a language you recognize as a heavily modified JavaScript framework. "This is the reality anchor function. It takes input from neural pattern scanning and rebuilds physical matter based on conceptual templates. I know it sounds impossible, but with the right nanotech substrate..."
He's still talking, explaining his work with growing confidence, but you're barely listening. You're staring at your reflection, at this body that keeps expanding, and feeling the virus purr contentedly in your mind.
You came back. You chose this. You wanted to be near him.
"Are you listening?" Trevor asks, and there's no annoyance in his voice. Only gentle concern.
You tear your eyes away from the mirror and force yourself to focus on the screen.