May the Goddess Flights take to the sky. Join them today!
—
You didn’t remember accepting the invitation, but you must have, because here you were, standing in the sepulchral white light of an empty airport terminal, the only sound a far-off echo. The only other person was a girl with orange hair and a black kimono floating slightly above the scuffed linoleum. You stood rooted, mild nausea rising in your gut, and wondered if the world had always been this quiet, or if you were just noticing now that it was all for you.
“Welcome, welcome!” she sang, toes never touching the ground. Her kimono was the sort of black that ate starlight and spat it out in the shape of caltrops, and her hair was pulled up in a shimmering orange that defied reality and good sense. She spun in a slow circle, the sleeves of her garment fluttering like crows' wings. “I’m so glad you could make it. It’s not every day I get to host a debutante in my little palace of departures.”
You tried to move your legs and found them unresponsive, as if the floor had become a slab of cooling amber and you its latest fossil. Flight or fight, but you could do neither. You realized, with a kind of lucid horror, that your body was already obeying her. And your mind was not so much resisting as queuing up a thousand rationalizations for why this was fine actually, and you’d always wanted to spend your afternoon in the company of a supernatural airport hostess.
“I’ve been dreaming,” she said, “about planes. Big ones. Beautiful ones. Machines that are more alive than most people.” She floated closer, her feet dangling, and poked one of your cheeks with a lacquered nail. “But what if a plane could be even more alive? What if it could feel, and want, and maybe even,” she smirked, “make a little mischief?”
You tried to reply, but your jaw didn’t work the way it had before. You felt a buzzing in your teeth, as though each incisor was being tuned to a slightly different frequency, and then the feeling crept along your jaw and down into your neck. You had the distinct sense that something inside you was being unzipped.
Nagisa circled around you, her gaze flickering with hungry amusement. “You’re going to be such a pretty specimen. I can tell already. Oh, don’t look at me like that! You’ll be the envy of every gate and tarmac. The boys will cheer, the girls will swoon, you’ll be the first and last word in next-generation transportation.”
The buzzing transitioned into a hum, a vibration in your bones, a restless pressure in your limbs. You realized you were gaining height, your head floating higher and higher above your rooted feet. Your arms felt lighter, your ribs were stretching, reshaping. Your skin prickled as it went taut, smooth, and sleek, and you could almost feel the shift of your silhouette against the sterile air.
Nagisa clapped her hands and the sound echoed, reverberating through the empty terminal with all the finality of a boarding announcement. “Oh yes,” she exhaled, “this is the moment. If you’re going to turn heads, darling, you need a fuselage that demands attention. We’re talking about an aesthetic marvel, something with curves so majestic that even the control tower will blush.”
She zipped behind you, her kimono fluttering coldly against your calves. Hands, impossibly warm and precise, cupped your ass like a sculptor assessing the raw stone. “Let’s start here,” she purred. The pads of her fingers pressed in, and you could only gasp as heat seared through the fabric of your jeans, through cotton, through flesh, all the way to the bone. No, farther into the blueprint of you.
It started as a tingle, then a pull, then a full-on tectonic shift. Your butt, your actual ass, seemed to balloon, swelling out further and further, hips broadening like the wingspan of some glorious, undiscovered creature. The sensation was giddy and mortifying, like the world’s slowest, most invasive chiropractic adjustment. Denim and dignity strained in unison as your new, impossible proportions announced themselves to the terminal at large.
“Now that,” Nagisa said, stepping back to admire her handiwork, “is a tail section worthy of a flagship. Who cares about functionality and aerodynamics, when you can have a raw, indestructible mass of sexyness. You could sit through a runway collision and not feel a thing. Sit on a skyscraper if you wanted.”
You tried to twist around, half-expecting to see chrome or turbine intakes where there should have been skin. Instead, you found your leggings sprayed taut over a posterior that was now the domain of cartoon logic and perverse engineering. Your hips had become an event horizon, the rest of your body orbiting around their sudden, assertive gravity. When you willed your hand to check if sensation remained, you found only smooth, impossibly firm, with a slightly cool surface, like something forged in an aerospace foundry and then polished to an erotic gleam.
“Don’t worry,” she said, noticing your panic. “You’ll learn how to taxi those things soon enough. I’d recommend a wide berth in narrow corridors, at least for the first week.” She giggled and then flourished a palm over your new contours. “You’re not done, either. I have so many ideas for you.”
She moved to your front, considering you like a tailor preparing for the final fitting. “We’ll need lift,” she mused, “and presence. The kind of presence that makes people stop and stare, and maybe cry a little, because it’s just that beautiful.”
Her hands swooped up, framing your chest, and before you could protest, you felt a simultaneous pressure and release. You braced yourself, but there was no bracing for it. The heat from Nagisa’s hands shot through your sternum like a flashover, a chemical fire igniting in your marrow. Your chest, flat and nondescript moments before, began to swell with improbable, unstoppable insistence. Beneath your shirt, the one you’d chosen for being comfortably anonymous, you felt flesh quicken and rise, first gentle, then wild, then militant in its growth. Your hands shot up in instinctive protest, but all they accomplished was trapping the surging mass between your palms, hot and shockingly solid.
You gasped. With each desperate squeeze, your new breasts seemed to double in size, then density, then… Volume? The smooth skin beneath your fingers cooled a little as it stretched, and the faintest metallic resonance met your touch, as if each orb contained an alloy core wrapped in the suggestion of softness. You tried to stanch the transformation, but your hands had become complicit, massaging and shaping the swelling curves instead of stopping their momentum. It became a sort of perverted feedback loop, as the more you held on, the more they grew, the more you felt compelled to hold on. They were heavy, yes, but not from the weight of flesh. This was architectural, a mass to anchor a new center of gravity, breasts the size you had never seen before.
Nagisa watched with open admiration, her eyes reflecting the terminal’s cold fluorescence as though she were savoring every frame. “Look at you. It’s like you were made to be a sexy plane.” She drifted closer, her breath cool against your cheek. “You’re doing beautifully. Try to breathe, darling. It’ll help the material set.”
You did as instructed, and with each inhalation your chest expanded, the rising mounds developing a glossy sheen and then impossibly, a line of fine panel gaps along the sides, like seams on a hypermodern fuselage. The sensation was at once alien and exquisite. Your shirt surrendered, buttons skittering to the floor, and you watched in real time as the new architecture of your body asserted its dominance over the shirt that once fit you so well.
You were taller too, your line of sight crept upward, the world receding by inches as your spine lengthened and your feet stretched out of your old sneakers. Your hands, still clamped over your breasts, could barely contain their evolving size, and now, their buoyant, paradoxical bounce. Metal, it seemed, did not preclude a certain springiness.
When you finally released yourself, you half-expected the air to vibrate. Instead, your new chest settled with a decisive, satisfying heft, the kind of presence that would ring alarms at a dozen airports. You looked down and saw not just curves, but absolute badonkers the level of which shouldn't even be possible. The only saving grace was that somewhere along the lines your nipples vanished into your gigantic mounds, becoming nothing more than extra plates on your bouncy mountains.
Nagisa’s eyes sparkled. “Ahh… There they are. What a beautiful pair. You’ll break so many hearts and air traffic regulations.”
“Now then, where to continue…” Nagisa acted like she was thinking, then broke into a mischievous smile as she gestured for your attention, and then pointed downwards. Your gaze dropped to your feet… at least you tried, but with your current front weight, seeing your feet was practically impossible.
And yet, you realized two things. You’d gained a good bit more height since last you checked and Nagisa was absolutely saying that she was planning to go after your feet next. In that moment, she crooked a finger, and something in your calves spasmed. Your heels suddenly shot up, locking your ankles in a perma-arch so extreme your soles barely touched the ground. Your tendons fluttered in panic, but what replaced the discomfort was a rigid stability so complete it bordered on religious.
You looked down, hoping to see a bit more, but no matter if front or back, you simply couldn't see past your boobs and ass. You were kind of expecting her to have forced stiletto heels on you, but no. Instead, it more so felt like the backs of your shoes had split open, and from the exposed flesh of your heel, a high-gloss wheel had emerged, perfectly round, perfectly balanced, the kind of wheel you’d see on luxury luggage or private jets. A matching one grew from your other foot, and soon the two of them clicked down in tandem, glossy and black, propelling you several inches higher and giving your stance an unsettling but not unpleasant sense of power.
“I don’t think you have a chance to see what I am doing. So just close your eyes and let me work my magic!” Nagisa cooed, and she commenced her next phase: a slow, deliberate caress up the back of your calves. Wherever her hands trailed, flesh became glossy, then metallic, each touch leaving behind a faintly humming layer of silvered alloy. It was like being dipped in liquid chrome then cured under a kiln’s heat, and with each upward sweep your legs thickened, hardened, and took on a sensuous taper. Your knees reconfigured themselves, the tendons melting away into sleek, streamlined joints, and your thighs responded by swelling to twice, no, three times, their former circumference, muscle and fat converted into pure, massive, metal frame.
Above the knees, you could feel the transformation accelerate. Your thighs, already cartoonishly large, billowed outward, the glossy sheen turning opalescent with undercurrents of blue and violet. The sensation was wild, a ripple of pressure as if your quads were being inflated by a team of overzealous bicycle mechanics. There was a moment of fear, then a surge of pleasure, as you realized the thickening had a kind of logic. They weren’t just getting bigger, they were getting “right.” Your center of mass shifted again, and you could sense the way your hips and thighs balanced your new upper body, giving you a stability that was both grounding and exhilarating. For some reason, you could fully imagine yourself at the end of a runway, running full speed and about to take off.
Nagisa paused at the apex of your thighs, laying her palm just above the seam of your jeans scraps. There was a brief, loaded silence, a kind of reverence, and then she pressed downward with a gentle firmness. You felt a jolt, your nerves sang out, your back arched, your eyes rolled up in your head. She traced a slow circle over your crotch, and you felt something both vanish and emerge: Whatever had been there was erased, replaced by a seamless, gleaming metal plate that was flush with your new body. You let out a sound you’d never made before, a long, shuddering moan that reverberated up your ribcage and into the empty terminal.
Nagisa drifted up, both hands hovering over your belly as if she were preparing to paint it with fresh lacquer. Every inch she traced, from the hollows above your waistband to just beneath your ribcage, transformed, the skin cooling and tightening, each muscle filament fusing into something harder, more precise, more beautiful. The heat of your panic was replaced by a crystalline chill, the kind that wasn’t cold so much as it was pure. Your midriff cinched and sculpted, each line accentuated, every extraneous ounce erased and replaced with a smooth, metallic contour. You felt lighter but also heavier, as if the weight of what you were becoming was both buoyant and irrevocable.
As Nagisa reached your collarbone, she paused, tilting her head as if listening to the echo of her own handiwork. Then her eyes looked up, glimmering with mischief, and she snapped her fingers. Instantly, your arms shot up and out, stiffening at the shoulders, elbows locked at attention. The sensation was abrupt and total: You tried to fight it, but your limbs wouldn’t yield, muscles turned to rebar and sinew to stainless steel wire. You looked like a scarecrow awaiting further orders, your hands trembling slightly at their new altitude.
Nagisa grinned, her tongue pressed to the back of her teeth, and in the next blink you saw her double: Two identical Nagisas, both with that same predatory delight, each one spiraling up toward your shoulders. They hovered on either side of your head, giggling in stereo. Then, synchronously, they began, twin hands tracing circles over your deltoids, drawing mandalas of sensation that burned and numbed at once. You felt the flesh there compact, your shoulders narrowing, the bones and joints morphing from human to something sleek and ultralight. The change swept down your upper arms, compressing and streamlining, the lines of your biceps and triceps becoming taut, almost decorative, like the leading edges of a high precision robot.
Past your elbows, the transformation accelerated. Your forearms thinned and lengthened, veins disappearing under a growing lattice of polished alloy. The skin shimmered, then resolved into a flawless, glass-smooth surface that caught the fluorescence above and fractured it into prismatic fragments. You could see your own reflection in the gleam, and it was both familiar and utterly, obscenely, new.
Nagisa’s hands then reached your wrists and began to massage each palm in turn. As she did, you felt the bones shift, the knuckles separating into fine, articulated joints. Your fingers grew longer, more elegant, each digit tipped with a tiny, gleaming actuator; your thumbs rotated on new, improbable axes, granting dexterity you hadn’t known possible. The pads of your hands lost their warmth, replaced by a cool, silky precision. When you curled your new fingers, you felt the gesture click into place, as if your hands were now designed for something specific, something glorious and at the same time inhuman.
You flexed, and the movement was strange to say the least, but also, you noticed that you could move again. At least somewhat. But that's when you also noticed that Nagisa vanished from your periphery. You craned your neck, searching the empty terminal for any flash of orange hair or shimmering black kimono. For a fleeting moment, you were alone with your new physics, adjusting to the weight and balance of limbs not quite yours. The silence pressed in, almost sacral, and you wondered if she’d left you unfinished or if this was the punchline to her joke.
But then you felt it: A pressure between your shoulder blades, as if a hand were rooting around inside your body, groping for leverage. You tried to twist, but your back spasmed, a seismic shudder that started mid-spine and rippled through your torso. Something immense was building there, both mass and tension, anchored at the very blueprint of you. You gasped, feeling the skin along your back stretch, heat pooling and then sparking into an almost electrical pain. A pain that quickly split into two different tugging feelings, one towards each of your shoulders.
“Steady,” she whispered, voice right in your ear from both sides, and then she pulled.
You made a noise, not a scream, but a startled, involuntary siren as something monumental extruded from your back. It was like giving birth through your scapulae: First a nub, then a spike, then an impossible, telescoping armature. The sensation was alien, but also right in a certain way, like you’d always been meant to have more than just four limbs. The mass grew and grew, ramrodding out of you with the deliberate, unstoppable momentum of an opening bridge. You could feel every centimeter, every new seam knitting itself into your flesh, every cable and spar and joint locking into place. The process was not gentle. You felt your ribs torque to accommodate the new hardware, your sternum crackling, your lungs adjusting to the idea of sharing thoracic real estate.
You tried to look, but your new neck was both more and less flexible than before. A shadow swept over your peripheral vision, and then, mirrored in the blank, polished glass of the terminal, they came into view. Wings. Not the feathered, angelic kind, but the clean, brutal lines of an aircraft: Carbon fiber, brushed steel, and hint of shimmery, iridescent polymer that caught the fluorescence and bent it into a spectrum. The wings emerged from your upper back, massive and elegant, each one tipped with a slender turbine that shivered as it spun up to idle. You could feel the air move around you, the faint but persistent wind of your own making. The wings grew, and grew, dwarfing even your cartoonish hips and breasts, eclipsing the Nagisas as they hovered in your orbit.
When at last the process slowed, when your body finally accepted the new appendages, when the nerves and muscles started to report data to your brain, you found you could move them. Not in the way you moved your arms or legs, but in a subtler, deeper fashion, like flexing a muscle you’d only just discovered. The wings responded, folding in, spreading out, tilting to catch the terminal’s empty wind. They were heavy, but they were definitely yours.
That’s when you noticed Nagisa appearing before you again, fused into one once again. “Now for the grand finale! Or should I say: Grand takeoff.“
Nagisa zipped to your neck with the glee of a child unwrapping a dangerous toy. Her hands were at your throat, so you braced yourself for choking, but it never came. Instead she was just measuring, mapping, drawing tight little circles with her fingers. You felt your neck lengthen, vertebrae multiplying, each new segment telescoping outward with the smooth, inevitable logic of a landing gear unfolding. Your head surfed higher, the room falling away beneath you, until your eye level matched the tallest signboards and you could see, for the first time, the entire terminal in one panoramic sweep. It was beautiful, in an airport-at-midnight way: All hard light and endless echo, a place for people who didn’t belong anywhere but transit.
Your fear should have spiked, but it didn’t. Instead, you were high on the novelty of it, drunk on the mechanical certainty that this was what progress looked like. Nagisa made another pass, her feet scissoring the air as she circled your new neck, and with each lap she massaged away any lingering stiffness, the way a pilot soothed an engine to life before takeoff.
Then her hands found your jawline, tracing the edge of what used to be your face. It wasn’t subtle, not at all. You felt the flesh recede, the bone beneath melting and reforming, your features drawn out and slimmed down. Your jaw sharpened, your cheeks hollowed and then refilled with the dense, cool certainty of alloy. She pressed a thumb into your chin, and the bone yielded, stretching forward, elongating until your head was no longer round or human, but the delta-shaped prow of a cockpit. You saw yourself reflected in every glossy surface. Where once there had been a face, there was now a fuselage. And it was gleaming purposefully in a way that made your old self feel like an evolutionary misstep.
Nagisa’s fingers painted along the bridge of your nose, no, your canopy, smearing away the last traces of skin. Your lips turned into a large metal hollow panel, while your ears flattened, then slipped beneath the skin entirely, leaving behind the smooth unbroken sweep of a windscreen. She pressed her palms against your temples, and you felt your skull expand, the interior hollowing out to accommodate a thousand new sensors, gyroscopes, and data relays. The world sharpened, your senses tuning to frequencies you never knew existed. You could hear the silent quiver of security cameras, taste the ozone in the recycled air, see the ultraviolet wake of every fluorescent bulb.
You probably should have been terrified. Instead, you just wanted more. There was a rightness to it, a kind of homecoming that made you want to cry, or rather, to taxi out and take off, because girls like you didn’t cry, they just flew.
Nagisa hovered before your new face, chin resting on her hands, and studied you with the affection of a mad scientist admiring a perfect storm. “There she is,” she sang, “my magnum opus. My darling little A-chan.”
You felt your old anxieties melting away, sloughing off with the last remnants of your organic self. The rawness in your nerves, the strange and unfamiliar hunger in your new body, the void where your priorities used to be. All of it was being filled, now, with a sense of purpose so absolute it eclipsed your former concept of desire. You were built for this. Every new seam, every rerouted synapse, every glorious, impossible curve had a reason, and that reason was to serve Nagisa’s vision. You were transportation, but not anywhere close to those boring regular planes. No no no. You were a beautiful, monstrous vessel for ambition, optimized to carry people, ideas, and the subtle, electric joy of movement.
You could already imagine what it would be like, taxiing up to the gate, the ground crew gaping, children flattened against the windows with hands pressed to the glass, passengers craning to see the miracle that had rolled in from the tarmac. You pictured the rush of takeoff, the trembling anticipation as the engines spooled up, the turbines at your back singing with a hunger that was, in a way, your own. You weren’t just any plane girl. You were the future, stamped with Nagisa’s signature, a work of art that would never be mistaken for anything ordinary.
And it felt perfect.
Nagisa’s inspection finished, she alighted on your wing, balancing on tiptoe, and grinned at you with a pride that bordered on maternal. “So, my dear A-chan, how do you feel?” Her voice was almost gentle now, as if she recognized that the old you was gone for good, and what remained was a new being owed a proper welcome.
You searched yourself for an answer and found only clarity. This crystalline, irresistible urge to be useful, to obey, to show off. You bowed your head as much as your new neck allowed, and intoned, “I am ready for my first flight, mistress.”
Nagisa purred, sliding her fingers along your canopy. “That’s my girl. You were always meant for this. And you’re going to be so, so, much fun.”
Your turbines spun up, the faint whine in your ears growing into a chorus of yearning. You felt your landing gear click into place, your wings stretch and flex, your sleek body shudder with anticipation. You wanted the runway, the sky, the infinite and the impossible. You wanted to make Nagisa proud.
You wanted to fly.