(Man to Motorcycle)

Vincent Hayes tapped his bare foot idly, waiting for the decontamination process to begin. Stripped down to his underwear, the man was more than willing to get this over with, and he could already feel his mind begin to wander.

Honestly, I'm just applying for a mechanic's position at Adaptive Automotives. There's no reason for me to be treated like this. Since when was hygiene such a strict requirement at plants, anyways? I've worked at these before, and... Oh, hell. Better just call and see if anyone's around.

“Um. Hello, is anyone there?” He called out to the empty room, hearing the sounds of machinery moving in the distance. It felt just like any other factory he'd been in, save for this apparent need for cleanliness. Hell, even the decontamination room stank of metal, that unmistakable tang of a production line.

Lovely. Well, at least I won't feel too out of place here. Just like working for Ford or GM. On the bright side-

A loud grinding filled the room, and Vincent started in brief surprise.

W-what the hell was that?

He quelled his hammering heart a moment later, chiding himself for how silly the action was.

Idiot. This is probably just the first step on decontamination. 'The process that'll make me someone Adaptive Automotives could use.' What kind of a creepy slogan is that, anyways?

As expected, the wall opposite him began to raise, revealing a long conveyor belt. He rolled his eyes at the theatrics, stepping on its cool rubber surface. The floor beneath him began to move, no doubt carrying him to the first step of the cleaning.

It's like I'm entering the castle of Victor Von Doom. Well, what the hell. It could be worse, I suppose. I don't see any fire pits anywhere.

Despite his snarky thoughts, he was determined to keep an air of professionalism about himself. “About time.” He muttered, brushing a hand through his messy brown hair. The young man's toes curled with anticipation. The lack of clothing was really beginning to get to him.

Honestly, I'd rather have not had to do this just in boxers. The sooner this gets done with, the better.

“Is this how you interview mechanics?” He called up, a joking tone in his voice. No response came, only the grinding of the conveyor beneath his feet.

Yeah, creepy silence. Totally not ominous or anything.

A sinking feeling began to settle into his heart, and he looked up again, arching an eyebrow. “Hell-”

Before he could finish the question, a long metal arm slapped him in the face. Or rather, it slapped something onto his face. There were a pair of loud clamps which filled the room, sending a sharp pain through the sides of Vincent's jaws. Then the arm detached itself from his face, leaving a mask attached to the man, covering from the tip of his nose to the bottom of his jaw.

O-ow! What the hell was that? Some sort of piston driven arm?

His mind raced as he tried to work out what had just happened. One second Vincent was alone in the room, the next second he had what could only be described as a muzzle attached to his face, made of cold metal. He screamed into it in surprise, his hands flying to his face even as the offending arm withdrew away from him. Heart hammering, Vincent pressed against the metal plate that was now covering his nose and mouth.

What the hell is this?

It was abominably cool, like he was wearing a mask. And yet, there was something obscenely intimate about it. It covered his nose and mouth perfectly, as though it had been cast to specifically his face.

What kind of sick factory is this place? Maybe it's just a prank...

'Um... What?' Was what he'd intended to ask. Instead, only “Mm, mrff?” escaped his lips. The brunette realized with a thrill of horror that the device was more than pressed against his face, it had somehow been bonded with his body. He couldn't remove it; couldn't even find the seam as to where it met his skin. Instead, it was like his flesh flowed smoothly into the silver metal. The only sign of attachment was a pair of rivets at the base of his jaw, just under his ears.

Oh God... This is actually a part of me. What kind of company am I applying for? Is this some means of guaranteeing that I don't disclose their techniques? What's going on?

Vincent's answer came a moment later, as another quartet of mechanical arms snaked down from the ceiling. Two of them traced their way around his lower body, glowing with some unseeable energy. Then the third circled behind him, gripping the back of his underwear.

H-hey!

The mechanic turned his head to watch as the machine tore his boxers off of him. The other two arms must have somehow degenerated the fabric of his underwear, allowing it to be torn from him as though it was made of paper. Still, the process was violent enough to almost yank him from his feet, his balance offset as he was left fully exposed to the factory's air. His arms windmilled slightly, leaving him completely defenseless.

C-crap, I'm gonna fall! What the hell is going on!

This was what the other manipulator arm had been waiting for. It looked like a boxy vacuum hose attached to a cylindrical pump, gleaming with malice. The machine seized this opportunity and clamped itself around Vincent's genitals with a loud hiss.

Whoa, what the hell? Keep away from my junk!

“Mmf!” He shouted, his eyes wide. He looked down in shock, his hands curling in distaste. A loud whirring came from the machine, and his eyes fluttered as pleasure filled him.

Or not... That actually feels kind of good... Kind of like my ex, but with less teeth.

The machine engaged some sort of suction function, and the hapless mechanic could only groan in hedonistic pleasure as the machine whirred and clicked away at his member.

Oh, man, if this keeps up, I might just have to-

Before the brunette could feel any sort of release, however, the machine drew away from him, retreating back to the factory's ceiling.

Also like my ex. Well, that's... What if it did something to me?

Vincent watched it go, foreboding filling his frame. His back tensed, and he looked down to see what latest change this had brought about.

To his immense displeasure, he was right in assuming that the machine had brought about some sort of transformation. It had clamped a metal tube around his cock, the cylindrical appendage uncomfortably reminiscent of some exhaust tube.

Oh God, that can't really be a part of me, can it?

Vincent stared in shock down at the tube, groaning in distaste as he looked to see what had become of himself.

Maybe... Maybe this isn't a quarantine process...

Vincent was absolutely correct in this assumption, and began to bring his arms to touch his new iron phallus.

Maybe I can get it off somehow... Phrasing totally not intended.

But again, the factor had different plans for him. A pair of long and vacuuming tubes extended from below the conveyor belt, each one clamping around his wrists. The brunette looked down in distress to see them slowly snaking up his arms, the tubes humming with suctioning force. Finally, with the loud 'fwoomp' of denied suction, the tubes had reached just under his shoulders.

N-no! I need those!

Heedless to his thoughts, the tubes began to fulfill their intended function. Both of them hissed and clicked, unseen servos working within them as they prepared for the task at hand.

What now? That's not good, that's not good at all!

Vincent watched with terror, a muffled prayer behind his mask. Then the machines clicked, breaking Vincents arms and remolding them. The pain was like nothing he'd expected, simply because it wasn't there. He could hear the loud cracking of bone; feel something clamp around his arms and forever transform them. But there wasn't so much as an ounce of pain, save the psychosomatic shock of having this done to him.

Why didn't that hurt? It should have hurt! I should be feeling pain, please don't tell me that it changed my arms into something that'd better fit into those pipes!

The two pumps slowly slid form his arms, and Vincent looked down to find what he'd expected: they were both now metal pipes. However, they weren't just any pipes—they looked uncomfortably like the fork tubes of a motorcycle, complete with the hydraulic slides.

M-motorcycle? Am I becoming some sort of motorcycle? What the hell is going on?

“Mrf!” Vincent screamed, his eyes wide in fear. He didn't have long to process these changes, though, as another arm came down from the ceiling, slamming against his back with a loud thud.

The man fell to his knees, the pistons of his new arms hissing slightly as he put pressure on them. Vincent groaned at the pressure, hearing a loud series of clunks resonate through this latest attachment, binding it to his form.

Oh God, I have hydraulics. Mom always said that if I worked on them enough, I 'd get them; but I thought that was just a joke!

He looked back, trying to feel at it with his arms. But no matter how hard he tried, the new plate on his back restricted his arms' motion, keeping him held fast as something burrowed into his spine. “Umf! Mff!!” He cried, his legs kicking as he tried to press up against the machine that was forcing him down.

No no no!

His human strength was no match for the implacable might of the machine, though. Vincent could only groan in fear and distress as something hollowed him out from the back, as though it was leaving an empty chamber in his spine.

I-if I am becoming a motorcycle, this should be the fuel tank... But, no! I can't be becoming a motorcycle, that's not right!

Vincent began to break down, panic setting into his mind.

People don't turn into machines, I can't be becoming a motorcycle, this is just a dream or hazing or something!

Unfortunately, the belt he was on had no empathy for Vincent's current mental state, and continued with its changes. Another metal plate slammed down onto his calves, trapping them behind him and keeping him on all fours.

What? No, not my legs!

It hissed and clanked, working a similar transformation to what had been done to his forearms. Everything below his knees was transformed into cobalt-shaded metal. He glanced back to see that he now had a swingarm behind him, drilled into his knees.

Crap crap crap, this might be-

Before the man could fully process this, a windscreen and cowl forced themselves onto his head, like some sort of demented helmet. He cried out in surprise and denial, screaming loudly into its muffling confines. “Mrff! Mrrfff!!”

Not this! It's so dark; I can't see a thing!

Again, even if something had heard his denials, it didn't care. The cowl slid into place, covering all of his face save for his metal mask. It was cool against his head, pressing against it and reshaping it into a sleeker form as countless servos fused it to his skin.

Vincent tried to shake his head, but he couldn't so much as move it as it hissed around him. Blank golden lens plates were forced over his eyes, shielding them like a visor. A long, laminated windscreen slid across his forehead. And, worst of all, a series of loud clicks around the back of his head announced that these were being forever screwed into him.

Ohhh no, please don't let this be my new head! I only wanted to work on motorcycles, not become one!

Vincent took a deep breath, tasting the tang of his mask. He prepared to let out his loudest scream yet, pleading for his life. But before he could release the air, a metal arm pounded into his chest, driving the wind from his lungs as it installed the underframe of his new body.

Oof!

He could feel the cover gripping his chest tightly in a nightmarish hug, and began to scream and shout in terror.

Oh God, stop it! I'll give you anything! Money, free labor, whatever you want! Please, just don't change me into some sort of machine, I don't want to live like that!

Again, the conveyor cared little for his human emotions, whirring and clicking away as it fastened the plate in place, biting into his skin and holding fast.

The trio of arms slid away from him, and with a thrill of horror Vincent realized that he couldn't move. Try as he might, he couldn't so much as wobble from side to side, the metal plates were simply holding him too tightly, an impassable obstacle to his struggles. Even his head was forced into place, staring dead ahead through the golden lenses covering his eyes.

Oh god, I'm paralyzed! What's-

Then something pressed against his ass, and Vincent whimpered in distress. Before he could so much as muster another cry for mercy, the conveyor belt drove a tapered plug into his body, widening his hole.

O-ohh!

An onrush of lubricant accompanied it, and Vincent hated himself for crying out in pleasure. He couldn't help it; it was stimulating him in a way he'd never experienced before. It was like his body was rejoicing in this latest change, reveling in the sensation of whatever component was being installed in him.

I mean, not that I'm into that, but it's just so good! This has to be a NOS tank, right? It's filling me, stretching me!

His mechanic's mind asserted that it had to be a Venom tank, a common enough nitrous oxide system.

Well, at least if I'm changing into a bike, I'll be becoming a top-of-the-line model. Turn more than a few heads, I'll bet. But... Wait, how big were those tanks? Weren't they at lease the size of my fist in diameter??

A guilty pleasure seeped into his mind as he began to consider just how deviant this latest change was. He could feel it stretching him out, filling him with the cool onrush of a new state-of-the-art injector system. Privately, Vincent loved this latest change; loved how the servos drilled it forever into his body, trapping him in a constant state of arousal.

Ohh, maybe just a little more of that. This change might not be as bad as I'd thought it was...

As though sensing his thoughts, the machine slapped at his rear, and Vincent let out a small confused grunt. Then he realized that the swat had left something behind, no doubt a seat for his new body. It felt odd and cushiony against him, and he wished he could wriggle his back to settle it better into place.

Oh God, it doesn't fit right. It's like a hat that's just a little bit askew, if only I could just move the dumb thing!

As though sensing his distress, additional arms lowered themselves from the ceiling, riveting the seat better into place and adjusting it to a proper angle. Vincent groaned in pleasure as one of the arms jostled his new Venom tank, checking if it was snug.

Oh, you tease!

Then he yelped aloud in surprise, feeling a belt snake across his belly. He wondered what it did just for a moment, his question soon answered by the floor clicking beneath him. A pair of loud clangs heralded the arrival of his new wheels, the two of them fastening themselves into where his arms and legs once were.

Well, definitely a motorcycle... As if there was any doubt in my mind before, that's gone. Never thought I'd be living on wheels, though.

He could feel them spinning against his body, even as the belt tugged him, forcing him upright so only his front wheel was touching the ground.

Huh. Wonder why I'm kept in place like this. I mean, I'm probably a rear wheel drive, but that's no reason to suspend me above the ground. It's not like I'll be wired to go anytime soon; there's too many organic components. Crap, I'll probably be sold as some living display model...

The hapless mechanic didn't realize what would come next: the most radical aspect of this change. Adaptive Automotives had one specialty, known only to their actual employees: Liquid Alchemy. It was a chemical compound that worked transformation across a human body, changing them permanently into a suitable form.

If Vincent was wearing an abundance of wool, he'd be made into a sheep. Were he holding a couch cushion, he'd become the sofa to hold it. But, clad as he was in motorcycle parts, the transformation left only one inevitable conclusion.

A tube connected itself to the port on Vincent's cock, and he rumbled in surprise at the oddly pleasurable sensation.

Well, hello again! At least let me buy you dinner first!

This pleasure lasted only a moment, though, as the tube began to pump him full of Liquid Alchemy, forever binding him to this form. Vincent let out a shout of discomfort, feeling the liquid surging into his urethra.

N-no, that's not really supposed to flow like that!

This discomfort lasted for only a second, however. As the cool liquid rushed through him, he felt his cock becoming a hollow tube, incapable of any petty human feelings such as pain. Instead, it transmitted only the sensation of a cool onrush into his body, changing he rest of him as surely as the servos had.

What is this? It feels good!

Vincent groaned with an odd pleasure, feeling his body begin to transform from the cock out. He couldn't see it, but as his skin turned to titanium it darkened a jet-black that complemented his attached components. He could, however, feel it shift. It was like the nerves in his body were dying one at a time, replaced with a cool numbness that could only pick up pressure.

O-oh, my whole body's getting number and number. It's like I'm losing myself to... metal?

Indeed, that was the case, his form being lost to the changes. He could feel his whole body hardening into a titanium-alloy frame. Small components worked their way into his skin, solidifying connections, working out missing tubes and pipes. Drive belts slipped their way across hitherto-unseen ports, pistons chugging as they settled into place. And his heart stopped.

N-

For a moment, just a heart-stopping second, Vincent died. Then, with a loud chugging, his engine sputtered to life, and light literally filled his eyes. His Venom tank let out a small cough of exhaust, and the former mechanic could feel his rear wheel beginning to turn at his thoughts.

Alive! Oh God, what was that! What was that I'm alive and my wheel's turning and I can actually control this body now! What the hell is-

Then a pair of clamps settled onto the blank panels where his ears were, a pair of handlebars that clicked and whirred as the Liquid Alchemy connected their wiring to his brain. He could feel that there were a pair of mirrors attached to them, feel the interior wiring that enabled them to shift and turn just like a car's mirrors.

This is just surreal...

The controls began to sweep their way across the rest of his body, and Vincent started to mentally scream about how alien his new form was. He hadn't realized it at first, but the installation of his new controllers was providing him with a terrifyingly alien set of instincts.

...Too surreal! I can't take this, what's going on I don't have fingers don't have toes can't move anything ohGodohGod

His rear wheel spun madly even as his venom tank chugged, and Vincent wheeled himself even faster, his engine revving in primal terror. He couldn't even scream; couldn't give so much as any voice to his—voice!

Needtoescapeneedtohonkhonk? Do I have a horn! Horn horn horn horn horn

A loud honking filled the air as Vincent found his horn, abusing it like a soccer mom caught in downtown traffic. This was enough to spur on the last of the changes, a large and blank metal screen that slid in front of Vincent's face.

W-what now?

He tried to close his bulb-like eyes as images began to flash across it, but it did him no good. Instead, he stared on hypnotically at the screen, feeling his mind begin to transform just like his body had. He tried to rebel against these changes, but it did little good.

M-my head feels funny. Like that one party in... Where? Wait, crap is this thing deleting my memories? No, not those! At least leave me in here, don't erase me, don't make me some machine!

Slowly but surely, Vincent began to forget himself, starting with his time in school and progressing through much of his adult life.

Oh, God this is really permanent. I can't... I don't know what I'm worrying about, what was I missing?

Paradoxically, he forgot that he even had memories to lose.

I mean, at least it hasn't taken my name, right? I should repeat it so I don't forget it: Vincent Hayes Vincent H. Vincent... V...

His name went next, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand at a beach.

I'm... I'm getting dumber? N-no, I'm not a dummy, I'm not a blank

Even the capacity for rational thought fled from him, leaving him totally blank, totally empty.

…

Then, the images changed, flicking through a new series of channels.

I am Motorcycle.

The thought entered Motorcycle's mind unbidden, but it knew it to be true.

Designed by Adaptive Automotives. I am Motorcycle. I was just built. Nothing is wrong. I am Motorcycle.

Whatever traces of emotion that had yet to be deleted were quickly calmed down by these thoughts. A soul was impossible to delete, but was terribly easy to reprogram.

I am built to be ridden. I need to feel the road beneath my tires. I need to feel the weight of a rider on my back.

Even now, more and more vehicular thoughts entered Motorcycle's mind, filling it completely.

I need to run, need to rev up! My owner will ride me and care for me, and I will care for them in turn. If anything should happen, Motorcycle is to take direct control, keeping Owner from harm.

Adaptive Automotives had an excellent track record with consumer safety, for reasons only a select few knew. These reasons were burning their way into the motorcycle's circuit-laden brain, forever ingraining themselves in its mind. Then the screen flickered again, showing a road before the hapless transformed vehicle.

Road! Need to drive need to drive need to be ridden drive drive drive!!!

Its rear wheel began to rev up, a purring escaping its engine as it started to fire itself up. The wheel blurred into motion, spinning frenetically even as Motorcycle stared blankly at the screen, its eyes beginning to swirl with the tell-tale symptom of a hypnotic trance.

Ride me on the road drive on the road love to be ridden am Motorcycle always was will be forever

As though sensing the vehicle's complete submission, the screen clicked off, a servo arm reaching down to switch the vehicle off. The arm paused, one last confirmation check before the new motorcycle was wheeled off to the display floor.

No road in sight. No rider on back. Entering standby.

Motorcycle's headlights dimmed, and its engine fell to an idle. With that, the servo depressed the start/stop button on the vehicle, shutting it down.

…

The grinding conveyor belt ground to a halt, waiting for the plant's crew to come next morning and pick up its quarry for sale. In time, the motorcycle would find an owner, living its extended lifespan guaranteed by Adaptive Automotives.

Formerly human machines held up far better to the test of time, and Adaptive Automotives had made an incredible profit off of them before. However, this had led to the obsolescence of mechanics, who were soon repurposed by Adaptive Automotives. This motorcycle, formerly Vincent Hayes, would be no different. It would be sold and ridden just like any other bike. The man had been forgotten, and only the bike remained: something that Adaptive Automotives could use.