(Male to Female)
(Male to Bloodhound)

“Well, that was a movie,” Mike said, nodding contemplatively. The motion made his glasses glint in the dim light of the theater’s credits. “Definitely better than what I expected.”

“Right?” Nick looked over, still lounging back in his seat. “I told you, when this guy’s given a universe of his own, the man can really direct!”

“I know, right? How on Earth could he ruin,” Mike paused, pursing his lips. “Sorry, I know you don’t like me talking about that. Trying to be positive and all.”

“All the same, I know you do like talking about that, so feel free.”

“Generous.”

“Because we’re friends!”

“And, because we’re friends,” Mike hummed, leaning back in his chair. “Why don’t we instead talk about a mystery, like this one?”

Nick perked up in his seat almost immediately. “That happens to be a wonderful idea. ‘Why, sur, Ah do dee-clayur—’ should I do the accent? I don’t think I should do the accent.”

“Oh my gods, do you two ever shut up?” A woman’s voice called from behind them.

The two men blinked, turning in their seats to find a brunette looking down to them. She crinkled her nose, as though their attention filled her with distaste.

“Ah, I’m sorry! We didn’t know anyone else was here,” Nick diplomatically added. A life working with all sorts of aggravated parents had left him with a temperament akin to a saint’s.

“And besides that, it’s the credits. What, did you think this is a Marvel movie?” Mike snickered under his breath. Conversely, his life in a get-it-done-yesterday business had given him a rather short temper.

“No, as you so clearly and loudly enunciated, this happens to be a mystery. And do I ever have the mystery for you…” The woman chuckled, clearing her throat. “The case of the missing loudmouths!”

“Okay, while I,” Mike gestured towards his chest, “happen to be rather vocal about things, I’ll have you know my good friend here happens to be—” He paused abruptly mid-sentence, his finger still mid-point towards Nick.

The reason why was readily apparent: Mike’s finger had sank into a rather well-endowed bosom, the kind most typically reserved for fetish art and least typically reserved for a man in the prime of his life. Naturally, Mike had to follow it with a tentative grope, just to confirm what he was feeling.

“Ah! What the hell?” Nick asked, unsure of whether or not he was more upset about Mike casually feeling his left tit, or the fact that he had a left tit worth feeling. He settled on the latter, looking up to the woman in a blind panic.

“Don’t pout at me like that,” she tutted, even as the man’s lips swelled and puffed. “I’ll have you know that the average guy would thank me very much for giving them a step up in life.”

“How is this a step—ahhh,” Nick’s voice hitched, his thighs pressing together as a rather strange pulling feeling came from his groin. He pressed a hand between his legs curiously, and felt a chill run down his back at the distinct absence of his most familiar friend. “How is this a step up?”

His, now her, voice lifted in pitch. Nick groaned as her head started to fog over, film and comic appreciation turning to a fondness for uncovering the mysteries and curiosities of the world. At the same time, it was increasingly harder for her to refer to herself as Nick, and all the easier to refer to herself as Chelsea.

The mystery woman clearly knew this, for the smile on her face widened. “Poor, precious girl. Tell me, what do you go by these days?”

“I… Ah beg your pahdon?” An accent slipped its way into Nicki’s voice, and she pressed a slimmer hand to her forehead. Her hair grew out longer behind herself, flowing past her shoulders, and she surreptitiously tucked it behind her ears. “That’s a mighty odd question, wouldn’t you reckon?”

“So’s your accent!” Mike gasped, still struggling to come to terms with what he was seeing. As strange as Nick’s transformation was for him, at least the man’s mind was changing at the same time to make it all feel natural. For Mike, watching his friend slim in some places and swell in others was utterly bizarre.

The sight was made all the stranger as Chicki’s slight gut receded, pulling back towards her abs. At the same time, her hips decidedly swelled, growing an appealingly rounded backside that lifted her slightly in her seat.

“Your name, sugar tits,” the woman behind them leaned down, looking the former man directly in her eyes. “Go on, share it with the class…”

“N—Nick? No, Nel… Nicksy… Chick… Chell…” She whimpered, shaking her head. Slight age lines settled along her eyes, and a few streaks of gray slipped into her hair. At this point, she could be eloquently referred to as matronly, and crassly referred to as MILFtastic. “Chelsea’s the name! Chelsea Noire. Ah’m terribly sorry ‘bout all that, this feature film must’ve gotten mahself all riled up.”

As Chelsea spoke, she dusted off her shirt nonchalantly. It was like a spell from a movie, where her clothing lengthened and flowed, a brightly patterned shirt becoming dark lace and a hoodie darkening to tanned leather. In seconds, she sported a tanned coat over a slinky black dress, one that hugged her curves jealously.

“Chelsea? What the heck is going on, here?” Mike blinked, swapping his gaze from his changed friend to the woman above them, back to his changed friend. She was speaking just like a character from the film they’d seen, in a thick-yet-dignified southern drawl.

“A mystery, of cohs!” Chelsea slapped her thigh lightly, moving to stand and finding her efforts utterly sabotaged by her theater chair still being reclined. “Ah, damnation! One second, don’t mind me, confounded contraption…”

Chelsea lightly yelped as she moved a bit too far forward, her hand going through a hole in her seat. It earned a derisive chuckle from the redhead, who slid her attention towards Mike.

“Indeed, I think that she’s come along quite nicely. So… Let’s stop worrying about her, and start worrying about why her transformation happened to be a ‘step up,’ and what that entails for you.”

Mike looked up to the mystery woman, a small frown on his face. “Why did you put an accent on the second syllable? Of ‘entails?’”

His question was answered by his own body, as a sharp pain came from his backside, like he was sitting wrong. It only grew worse with each passing second, until he couldn’t physically alleviate it by squirming in his seat.

“A-ah!” Mike gasped, launching himself from his chair. Unfortunately for him, his seat happened to be reclined as well. The jump turned into a fumbling fall, and he fell onto his palms and knees in a heap. The motion slipped a long, waggling tail from above his waistband, and he looked back to it in distress.

“Clumsy, poor, boy,” the mystery woman said, stressing the last word in particular. She smirked. “Always your friend’s loyal attack dog, aren’t you? First to so eagerly jump to his defense, but a little too eager to put your nose into others’ affairs…”

As she spoke, Mike’s nose darkened on his face. He crossed his eyes to look at it, and a faint whimper slipped up his throat as his upper lip started to sag. It was like his face was made of putty, his lips drooping down into what could only be described as jowls.

Incredulous, he swayed his head from side to side, feeling the unfamiliar weight on his face shift with the motion. Then, he looked to the only person in the room who was on his side, who had finally stood to discover she now wore a pair of high heels. “Nick… Chelsea… Whatever you call yourself, do something!”

Chelsea looked to the changing man curiously, wondering why he was starting to look so familiar. “Well, that there is just simply fas-cee-nating. It right looks like this boy’s becoming a dog…” She mused aloud, lowering herself to Mike’s level and inadvertently giving him a rather good look at her bosom.

Mike squirmed, feeling his arms and legs start to stretch and slim. He somehow found a way to tear his gaze from the sight before him, in favor of looking at his transforming hands. He shuddered at the bizarre sensation of his thumbs traveling towards his wrists, an alien feeling only complimented by the feeling of his fingers swelling.

Chelsea nodded slowly, reaching for the man and stroking his ears. They stretched like warm putty in her palms until they were longer than her hands and his head alike. She flopped them up and down curiously, gauging their oddly familiar weight.

“That feels really weirrrd, stop…” Mike whimpered, a slight warble entering his tone. He tried to reach up to his cheek, and succeeded in feeling how his ear and hand alike were stubbling over with the onset of fur.

“Scout, Ah reckon,” Chelsea muttered.

Mouk groaned as his head started to dog over, neatly mirroring his friend’s action from a moment before. “I… Uh… What?” He arched a furrier brow, slurping his lengthening tongue against his drooping jowls.

“Scout! That’s who you’re becoming, boy, sure as stahs. Ah’d stake my considerable reputation on the fact that you’re turnin’ into mah prized and trusted hound!”

“I… Gugh… Head feel… Funny…” Mite mumbled, intellect draining like water in a tub. He tried to focus on things to keep them in his head, but every time he could think of a human concept it fled from his grasp. As his intelligence dropped, the dark orbs of his eyes swelled and grew, until barely the whites of his eyes were visible.

“Well, ah think that’s only nat’ral. See, Scout ain’t the brightest bulb in any basket. Heck, he ain’t even the brightest bulb in any furniture appliance stoh—and that includes those dim ones on the rafters,” Chelsea mused. “S’ppose an apology is in ow-der, since y’all seemed to be a raht intelligent sort.”

“I… Mike… Funny… Head…” The changing man gasped as his skull began to compress, physically shrinking around his brain, wringing out what remained of his thoughts. “Mugh… Skow… Ghughh…” He fumbled for even the ability to speak, losing all higher thought.

The first thought to his reshaped brain was that he was trapped, and Scout flopped onto his side, wriggling as his four legs scrabbled at the ground. The loose clothes on his body were too ill-fitting, more suited for a human than for a Black and Tan Hound. His tail thumped against the floor like crazy, bumping between that and his still-lifted seat.

“Ah, right. Animals don’t tend to like all that clothing nonsense. Allow me to correct that for you,” the mystery woman sighed, waving her hands. As she did, Mike’s clothing dissipated, vanishing as though it had never existed.

“Mighty obliged, ma’am. Scout! Here, boy!” Chelsea patted her thighs, chuckling as the changing man scrambled to his hands and feet, bones popping as they reconfigured for four-footed travel. He lifted a few centimeters from the ground as thick pads bloomed from his paws.

“WOOF!” Scout boomed, diving onto his master’s lap, groaning as her belly rubs thinned his belly and barreled out his torso, into the proper shape for a canine. His hips flared outward and his shoulders pupped back, and his face creaked out into a slobbery muzzle all the better to cover his master’s face in licks.

There was a sudden commotion at the sound, and a theater employee bounded into the room, her eyes wide. She lifted a rather sturdy flashlight, clicking it on and yelping at the sight of the dog. “Miss! There are no dogs allowed in the theater!”

Chelsea winced at the harsh light of the flashlight, only to blink her eyes clear as it fell to the ground. She looked curiously to the usher, to find that the blonde was staring in horror down at a brown-furred paw for a hand.

“And, at the same time, they don’t allow squirrels, either…” Mused the mystery woman. “So, where does that leave you…”

Scout winced as the usher shrieked, a sound that only grew worse as it lifted in pitch to a feeble squeak. He growled and lifted his upper right jowl, glaring intently at what looked less and less like person, and more and more like prey.

The usher’s clothing billowed around her as she shrank and flailed, her arms slurping back into a compressing chest. At the same time, a long and comedically fluffy tail burst from her backside, waving at the air in a distinctly appetizing manner for Scout.

Chelsea looked down to her trusted pooch, smirking. He was trained enough not to dive after a squirrel without her blessing, and yet she knew this hesitation was killing him. To distract him, she lifted one of his oversized ears with her hand, stroking along its length with a gentle coo.

“Easy, boy, she ain’t worth the trouble. And… Trouble… Hm, ain’t that the funniest thing…” Chelsea looked back to the mystery woman, a glimmer in her eyes. “Ah think Ah’ve quat divined that myst’ry o’ yours. See, those boys that disappeared… They’re the folk we used to be, ain’t they? Same as that there squirrel-gal.”

“Correct on both accounts!”

“And Ah suppose, in turn, that makes you some sort of magic-folk. Thinkin’ y’all’re better’n the rest of us, all spells out, wands ready, curses n’ jinxes bared... In which case, Ah must speak freely and say you sicken me.”

“Well done!” The witch clapped her hands sarcastically, looking down to the detective and dog she’d made. “So, where does that leave us? Are you going to try to ‘rassle me up,’ turn me in?”

“Well, sickened or not, Ah reckon there ain’t no crime in changin’ folk. And, matter of fact, maht even come in handy, knowin’ someone magical. So, assuming y’all gave me a right workin’ detective business—y’all did give me a right workin’ detective business, yeah?”

“Uh. Sure.”

Slowly, Chelsea nodded. Then, the detective smiled to herself and nonhurriedly collected her coat, bundling it about a purse before scooping it under her arm.

“Then Ah reckon we’re square. Now, provided y’all come quick-lahk at mah behest, Ah think we’re ‘bout done here. C’mon, Scout. Let’s git,” Chelsea said with a small smile, turning towards the exit, and towards a very panicked squirrel.

“I… Can’t help but wonder, though…” The witch hummed loudly, loud enough to hear from across the theater.

Chelsea paused at the base of the theater’s stairs, looking up to the witch. “Yes?”

“What do you have that can possibly convince me to help you?”

Chelsea paused, as if mulling over the notion. Then, she lifted her right arm slightly, letting her coat flap free. “Because, Ah didn’t come here with a purse. And Ah reckon y’all’ll want this’n back, lest Ah go exposin’ you.”

“What-when did-what…” The witch blinked, fumbling for words.

Scout huffed with quiet amusement. Even as a rather dumb hound, he still knew how his master had ended up with the lady’s purse. Of course, that probably had to do with him being at the exact right height to see Chelsea snatch the purse when she was ‘fumbling with her seat’s controls.’

Either way, it meant—squirrel. There was a squirrel nearby. Scout dropped his head into the usher’s clothing, sniffing loudly, all interest in the current plots and machinations utterly forgotten.

Chelsea rummaged through the bag’s contents with mounting interest. “And, wouldn’tcha know it? This here seems lahk some kinda magic charm. Don’t much suppose it’s something that keeps magic folk safe from each other’s spellcraftin’ and sorts?”

The witch opened and closed her mouth soundlessly, doing a remarkable impression of a fish out of water.

“Take that as a yes,” Chelsea hummed, winking up to the witch. “So when Ah git home, Ah’d better find a right workin’ detective business.” She enunciated the words slowly, reveling in the witch’s evident horror. Then she turned on her heel, and headed to a life of sleuthing.