Mangling Malfunction - Part Three

My eyes dart about in a panic, hastily assessing the sight of the short eighteen-year-old with glasses and pimples dressed in an anime shirt and baggy jeans.

My voice crackles out in a pained croaking gasp, my new vocal cords aching and stinging as the harsh ragged breaths rush against them. Nasal squeaking slips out of me, my mind racing to assess just what the hell had happened to me.

I'm barely five-foot-three, at least according to the anti-theft measurements in the door frame of the storefront, the ratty dirty sneakers likely adding just a little bit to my height. My hair hangs down past my slender narrow shoulders, thick light brown curls drenched by the rain and coated in layers of grease and grime clinging to my neck and face in a disgusting manner.

A pair of thick glasses with tortoise-shell frames rest on an oddly large Roman nose, the bridge if which seems to shimmer in the dim light of the street lamps with oil. The whole face feels disgusting, a cloying layer of grease clinging to it as I count the various clusters of raised red spots around my supple cheeks and nose. Tears begin to fill my dull gray eyes, the rapidly reddening area around them appearing giant behind the thick come bottle lens my newly blinded self needed.

Looking down I let out a loud squeak, my eyes gluing to the My Hero Academia shirt hanging from my diminished frame. The cheap fabric is heavily waterlogged, the drenched material clinging to my body and hanging down beyond my hips.

I can feel the icy cold wet t-shirt outline my body, my breasts and hips pressing out against the sodden fabric. Plump and sagging without any support, my hands shoot up as my fingers sink into the soft and malleable flesh hanging from my chest. They're not too perky, the flab making them far bigger than anything I should have on my chest while sagging further as well, each one hanging out to the sides and downards before appearing to balloon out further down my ribs.

My stomach bulges ever so slightly, a doughy pouch of fat resting above a wide childbearing set of hips. The jeans try to hide it all, the baggy denim doing well to hide the large pelvis that had been sewn into me. My ass feels like the panties I had were painted on, the thick cheeks behind me seeming to consume the old and well-worn fabric with each of my jittering movements.

Snapping back to reality I let out a scream, the sound of my high-pitched and girly voice reverberating inside my nose as it adds a subtle yet present whine to my shriek of terror.

My head aches intensely as the sound hits my ears, the loud blood-curdling utterance echoing up and down the empty street. Leaning in I try to inspect myself closer, looking for some sort of sign of the heavy work done to me. My whole body aches and throbs, each and every beat of my younger heart feeling like it will leave me bursting at the seams.

In close inspection I notice something running down my skin, the droplets of rain carrying some odd paint-like substance over my pale and grimy flesh. Any and all of the scars and cuts formed over the god knows how long I was in the Auto-Closet seem to have been painted over, dyed and colored to be hidden into my complexion or simply healed prematurely quickly.

Swallowing hard I feel like I'm going to vomit, the thought of having some random strangers spit in my mouth leaving my stomach churning. The extensions to that thought do little to help, the realization that it was someone else's mouth and someone else's stomach as well just leaving me liable to puke.

Spinning in place, the thick curly locks whipping around me before impacting my sensitive skin with a wet slap, I stare down at the Auto-Closet once more.

"I need to..." I whimper, wincing and halting my thought as I hear my squeaky nasal voice.

I was right though, the thought of my hacked-up and mangled form sitting in the tanks beneath urging me to use the machine once more to revert myself back to normal.

As I go to take a step out from the awning another loud thunderclap rings out, the sudden burst of sound causing me to jump and nearly keel over in my pained and aching form.

Clutching at my sides, my upper arms rubbing against my breasts and my hands pinning themselves to my waist, I can't help but wonder if I'd survive another run-through. Even with what little anesthetic was left in my system I felt like I'd been hit by a truck, a second time might just end me.

My gaze turns to the Auto-Closet, my hunched-over frame leaving it looming menacingly in the distance. The blue light on top seems to flicker, water seeping in through a crack visible from this side of the booth.

"Would it even... Fuck..." I muse, pausing to swear as I listen to my voice. It was a valid concern, would the stupid broken machine even turn me back to normal if I used it? What was to stop it from just putting me into a new body? Or just store me in the prison beneath? Or worse yet, what was to stop it from shoving me into some animal?

Sniffling as the tears roll down my cheeks I look down the street, the rain beating down harder by the minute. The heavy shroud of falling droplets obscures the hills beyond the town center, my parent's house being beyond my severely hampered sight.

It was going to take nearly half an hour to walk back in the first place, before I had my legs cut down to size. In the torrential rain and with these soft and weakened limbs it would take me all night, assuming I made it back at all.

Wracking my brain I feel something buzz at the back of my mind, my thoughts turning to my pocket as I feel something resting in my left side front pocket. Reaching inside I fish out a small wallet, the cheaply made thing featuring a peeling printed image of the SwordArt Online logo.

Cringing at the theme of her wallet I pull it open, quickly finding a learner's permit inside as the first card. The young woman in the picture matched the one I had seen in my reflection, though her hair seemed a little shorter and cleaner. My eyes quickly catch the address on the card, recognizing it as only a short walk from the bar I had stumbled out from, as well as this young woman's name.

Molly Anne Davies

My heart skips a beat as I read the name before I quickly and clumsily shove the wallet back into my pocket, not wanting to think about or look at the ID any longer than I needed to.

Bracing myself I take a step out into the rain, my pockets jingling with their contents. Parting at the deep pockets of the baggy pants I soon find a set of keys and an older model mobile with a heavily cracked screen.

Flinching as I feel the deluge of rain hit me, the water making me all too aware of my soft and shrunken frame, an idea begins to form. I need to let people know about all this, about this machine and what the hell it did to me.

I quickly think to my parents, really my mom and step-dad, up at the cottage at home. They'd freak out if I went missing, at least I'd hope they would. Fiddling with the phone, getting my best to cover the damaged screen, I quickly type out a message to the two of them.

 

Wont be home

Auto-Closet on Nicholson Road broken

Fucked up and messed with me

Am fine but different

Will call to have fixed

I whimper as I send off each of the messages, trying to think through the adrenaline as to what the hell I could say about my situation.

I lightly jog through the downpour, my heart hammering inside my chest as my legs begin to burn and my thighs start to chafe. I soon find myself slowing down, sweat building around me as I'm soon left panting from the light exercise.

"How the... Fuck... Did she..." I wheeze, slowing to a brisk walk as I search the web from the Auto-Closet Company's support line.

Running through the webpage I search for something, anything that could help me. From the sales line to the at-home support and technicians I struggle to find any sort of complaints or assistance for the public machines. As I reach the end of my mental rope I finally spot something, a twenty-four-hour help and support line that seemed to just be for all inquiries.

I hastily dial the number, walking slower and slower in the pouring rain as I try to focus and listen to the call.

 

Thank you for called Auto-Closets, please state the reason for your call...

You said, malfunctioning closet. Is that correct?...

Please state your home address and customer ID number...

The address stated is not on our customer record...

No customer ID was said. If you are using a public closet please say yes n...

You said yes, this is a public Auto-Closet. Is that cor...

Please state the address of the Public Auto-Closet, just using street and suburb or city... 

You said Nicholson Road in...

Please provide your full name and contact... 

 

As the machine asks for my contact number I freeze up, realizing that my phone was probably simply sitting inside my jeans wherever the stupid broken machine had decided to store them.

Sighing to myself I say my actual name, giving the automated service my usual phone number in the hopes they would work something out from the Auto-Closets records.

 

Thank you, a technician will assess the machine soon.

Your receipt number for this call is...

I try my best to remember the long number, typing it out into a notepad document on the shoddy phone to the best of my recollection. My bottom lip quivers as it all begins to sink in, the icy rain doing little to help with my ever-sinking spirits.

As I round the last corner I find myself standing only a few dozen feet away from shelter, this young woman's home finally coming into sight at the edge of town. With one final burst of energy I force my aching and exhausted body into a sprint towards the front door, my hips gyrating and my heavy chest painfully tugging at me with each footfall.

I reach into my pockets, quickly fumbling with the keys as I barrel up to the door of a...