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‘You'll be one of the researchers, studying new worlds, you're such a badass marine, Gregory, a real pro, your skills will come in handy out there, pfft’ — Sergeant Gregory Martinelli grumbled under his breath, wiping sweat off his bright blue forehead.
He stood in a dense, humid jungle, filled with unfamiliar sounds and unwelcome smells, feeling how his chest — his own massive, heavy chest, goddammit! — bounced with every breath. It was bigger than his head — hell, probably two heads — but this body seemed made to handle those giant things. Just like it handled the huge hips, constantly rubbing against each other with every step, pressed so tightly together that if he still had his male dick, it would’ve been ground into dust by now.
Gregory Martinelli. 39 years old. Veteran of two Mars expeditions and one on Titan’s moon. A man of steel, not one to complain, always the first into the fire zone. He’d been through hell, water, and three rounds of psych-tests for isolation resistance. He wasn't sent here for nothing. A hole into another universe wasn’t exactly a stroll. And Gregory was the best candidate.
Only, the "body" let him down.
Due to an “unexpected bio-adaptation module error,” as the smug lab-coat scientist put it, the avatar turned out female. Not just female — but damn provocatively so: massive hips, firm blue skin, a chest that pulled the body forward like gravity itself was messing with him. And the outfit... if you could even call it that. Rough cloth, like it was sewn for some primitive tribe. Which, well, it actually was — the local culture was still in its tribal period.
— You just need to make contact, try empathizing with the form — they said.
— Yeah yeah, female form triggers less aggression in the natives — they added.
— You’re a pro, Sergeant Martinelli, you’ll be fine — they smirked, lowering the capsule into the trembling reality of another world, where Martinelli’s avatar waited, carrying his transferred consciousness.
'Fine, sure,' — he grumbled now, squaring his shoulders and trying to ignore how the top stretched tight over his breasts with every move. The fabric clung to the skin unpleasantly, and just a small turn of his torso made it clear how everything… moved. On its own. Without permission.
— Greg, you on the comm? — came the voice of the base operator.
— I'm on. And in deep shit. Literally. What’s the mission?
A rustling in the bushes caught his attention.
Gregory spun toward the sound, his chest — like a living creature — lagging behind with a heavy bounce, as if protesting the sudden motion. He clenched his teeth. Yeah, he still hated this body. But he was a professional.
— What’s going on over there? — the operator’s voice rasped in his ear through static.
— Bushes are moving. Someone’s coming. I’m not alone.
He stepped forward, feeling the inner sides of his new thighs almost squeak from the friction. The heat, the sweat, the chest with a life of its own — all of it was getting on his nerves again. But now, mixed into that irritation, something else was creeping in... something vague, barely there, like it wasn’t his own emotion but the body’s impulse. Warmth. Deep inside, in his gut.
He pushed it away. Not the time for that.
Figures started emerging from the thick undergrowth. Tall, slender, with long limbs and smooth gray-blue skin marked with thin symbols — like tattoos, but not quite. Their eyes glowed with a soft, green, almost hypnotic light. One of them raised a spear — not in a threatening way, more like a signal.
— That’s them — the operator finally responded, his voice tense. — The Esh’na tribe. We expected contact to happen with them. They’re the most open. Follow protocol: no sudden moves, open palms, slow speech, a smile if you can. Oh, and try… empathy, like we discussed.
— A smile... yeah, sure, I’ll just start beaming...