Identity Injector - Part One

Pacing around the kitchen I listen to the soft whirring of my microwave, my gazes turning to the small spinning bowl in the little window. Rain pitters and patters against the tiny nearby window, the gloomy clouds outside blotting out the early afternoon sun.

It had been a lazy Tuesday so far, mostly spent binging watching the same tv show I had been for months and going some small amount of job searching. This had become all to a familiar routine since I had been made redundant, my motivation shrinking by the day as the lethargy of not having anything to do slowly set in.

As my microwave beeps I jump with a start, the rapping soon following from my front door.

I cock my eyebrow as I look to the scuffed wooden door, waiting for a moment as I try to work out whether or not I was hearing things. After a short wait another sudden burst of knocks erupt from the other side of the door, each one sounding more desperate by the second.

"Who..." I begin to ask, another series of knocks soon cutting me off.

Creeping up to the door I peek through the small glass peephole, curious about who was on the other side of the door but not wanting to open it without checking if this were safe.

The tension soon seeps from the room as I look at the person knocking at my door, quickly recognizing the figured nervously and hastily knocking despite me already knowing they were there.

Reaching for the brass knob I quickly unlock the door and pull it open.

"Hey, what are you..." I begin to chirp warmly, happy to have the unexpected visitor. My words are cut short however as I'm suddenly met by a sharp pain in my left shoulder, the figure in the doorway plunging a sharp glass shiv into my torso the second they have the opportunity.

Staggering back I open my mouth to tell, a short gasping grunt escaping my lips as I feel my joints lock up as to freeze me in place precariously. Glancing down I spy the weapon buried in my shoulder, an ornate and antique piece of blown glass, the embellishments quickly drawing my attention.

A long glass blade appears to be a slender little needle, a hollow channel inside running from where it was buried in my flesh up to a set of two chambers beneath the hilt. The grip appears to be made of colored glass, intertwining gold and silver snakes making up the delicate handle of the fragile weapon.

Beneath this dangerously designed glass grip rests a set of two glass vial, the tails of the gold and silver snake clasping each vial respectively. The gold-wrapped vial appears to be open to the end of the long needle, the silver one being held to the side. Both rest on some sort of rotating mechanism, the intricate parts all made from glass and looking as though they could break at even the slightest touch.

Suddenly, an odd pressure begins to build beneath the wound. It is as though the difference in pressure between my body and the glass vial demands to draw something out from inside of me. Croaking softly I watch as some scant drops of glowing yellow ichor begins to flow up the needle, the golden droplets soon form into a shimmering pool in the vial at the end of the implement.

With each droplet I feel my body shift inside of my clothes. Even without being able to see myself I soon find my clothes feeling loose as my ears fill with the sound of the rustling of fabric and the snapping of bones.

Beyond the shifting of my frame, I feel something more ominous building inside of me. As the golden vial fills nearing completion I feel a hollowness begin to gnaw at me from the inside out, whatever had been drawn from my wound being less of a poison and more like some vital part of my very being.

Despite appearing fragile beyond belief, the small needle-like knife I had met the pointy end of was anything but. Crafted centuries ago, this arcane implement had lived a storied history, though few scant records of its existence remained to tell those tales.

It was known by many names. The Drainer of Humors, The Skin Stealer, Identity Injection, or the Role Reaper were but a few of the titles this weapon had taken over the years. Built from intricate glass imbued with all manner of magical rites, the small dagger had but one job to perform. Unlike most other weapons it was designed to let the wielder take a life, but in an unconventional manner.

Once struck by the blade, the victim would find themselves paralyzed as the magic pinned their very being in place. Slowly but surely their vital essence would be drained from them, milked out in the form of a unique ichor to be stored in the hilt. Once the vial had been filled the husk would be 'discarded', the neutral form becoming unhinged from reality with only a few scant droplets of their essence buried somewhere deep within.

The wielder of the knife, so long as they knew what they were doing, had options at this point. Some monetized the ichor, selling it to others, while most either used it for themselves or gifted it to those they favored.

Upon draining themselves or another of ichor the vials could be swapped, the wielders now empty form drinking from the needle and filling with a new vital essence. Scholars and even those magically gifted could not agree on how the process worked, whether it was the essence that changed the body or whether it somehow tricked the universe itself like masking one's scent.

Regardless, as the new ichor drained into the empty body changes would rapidly be set in motion. Bones crackling, skin shifting, and muscles altering as the wielder was built out to resemble those who ichor they had stolen. Subtle differences remained, likely due to the small residual essence remaining, but that did nothing to prevent what was to come.

As the last drop emptied reality itself bends in response, the wielder taking on the very role of their target in the eyes of all those who had yet to experience the weapon firsthand.

The husk left behind, unseen and unnoticed as some aberration at the corners of reality, would have few choices. The blade itself refused to be used against a previous wielder, at least for some period of time while things settled. This left the husk with only the option of adopting the life of the thief, remaining some ethereal husk at the edge of existence, or stealing the ichor of another and starting the cycle anew.

As I watch the last oozing droplet seep from my wound and dribble up the needle and deposit itself in the vial I feel myself tumble backward, my vision shifting into a haze as I slam into the floor beneath me. Despite slamming into the hard, albeit carpeted, wooden floor I feel next to nothing as though my nerves were entirely deadened to the touch.

Looking down at myself I find an entirely unfamiliar shape. Plain and largely featureless, the body beneath me looks drained of color and without much to define it. No fat, no muscle, no hair, not even my cock appeared on my now naked form.

Glancing up my jaw drops as I see my clothes standing on their own, the glass knife floating along with them as it remains plunged into the shoulder of my navy blue t-shirt.

"It... it worked?" mutters the voice of my guest, the shock of the situation having overshadowed their sudden visit. "Oh my... it worked!" They coo excitedly, reaching over and pulling the glass needle free without any apparent harm to the shirt.

My mouth hangs agape, my thin pale lips quivering as I stare up from the floor at...