Reader into vehicle, men into men, woman into woman

          

         Why would an entity so vast and powerful as the United States government allow an average joe like you onto the tarmac of a class-Bravo airport? Long story short, Sagittarius Airways has one of their most vital airplanes grounded for long-term maintenance, and you’re the only one on the planet that can take the job of a vehicle. After all, you are a superhuman, a rare type-AXV changeling, with an unconventional ability: taking the form of things made primarily of metal. Regardless of your unorthodox nature, $50K is $50K, so you choose a spot facing the airport gate and get to work.

    Your ribs press against your body, forcing you to stretch to an incredible length. You can feel your skin grow dense, hardening into aluminum, as your arms follow the same trend as your torso. Your legs soon merge, followed by your arms turning to wings and your internal organs dwindling down to a skeleton, only for that skeleton to reshape into the arced framework of an airplane.

    It feels like a workout to you, like you’re maxing out at the deadlift, when your arms finally flatten and sprout their turbofan engines. Your hands curve up into wingtips while your feet twist about. They grind against each other and merge before splitting off into 3 fins which come together on your new tailcone, defining your empennage.

    From aft forward a white tide overs your metal body while you experience what’s equivalent to the world’s biggest stuffy nose. Irritation mixes with pleasure as your face hollows, giving your cockpit seats and controls, while your nosecone sculpts into shape and your eyes merge into your windshield. Finally, all that’s left are the euphoric sensations of hundreds of seats building up inside you, from the basic economy class to the luxurious first class on your upper deck. Finally, landing gears prop you up and streaks of varying golden paints seal on your body, leaving you complete as a Boeing 747 jumbo jet.

          The agents supervising you applause wildly as you taxi up to the gate, ready for your crew and passengers. As you sit there, your mind metaphorically sinks into your computer systems. All the control surfaces, regulators, instruments... and the airport... your hangar... the sky... yes, the sky... you want the sky... that’s what you’re built for. You are an airplane.

          Contrary to the supervisors’ celebration, the higher-ups go into panic. Watching the transformation from the ATC tower, they knew something was awry once it occurred to them that you seemed a little lengthier than you should be. When four engines appear instead of two, and a hump bloats up behind your cockpit, they spot the flaw in their plans: In the documents sent to you by Sagittarius Airways, the requested airliner was clearly typed as B-747, rather than B-757, in the field marked ‘craft needed’.

* * *

          A black Chevrolet Suburban with flashing yellow and blue lights comes speeding across the airfield, squealing to a halt at the gate near the jumbo jet’s right wing. Three men and a woman step out of the vehicle, all clad in business attire and federal identification. Approaching a pair of workers on the tarmac, witnesses to the astounding transformation that just occurred moments ago, one of the men in the SUV flashes his authorization and is granted access aboard the aircraft with his team.

          You’re inspected thoroughly by three of the officers, the fourth in your cockpit, trying to somehow kindle your psyche or at least your human personality. All efforts fail, even though it’s discovered that you can easily transmit and receive communication from your many radios. The other three people report to the cockpit to report that there’s no human feature left of you, no quirk on you that would arouse worry, not a single imperfection in the entirety of your new form. “There’s nothing to distinguish this plane from any other Boeing 747 that rolled out of the factory back in the seventies,” someone remarks even though you can’t hear who it was. This creates yet another problem for Sagittarius; there are very few pilots left who know how to fly without the modern technology found in today’s jumbo jets.

          The crew disembarks, heading to a heavy access door into the airport which is protected by a facial recognition lock. Through tunnels they walk, arriving at an ominous vault. It is only then their leader explains the reasoning behind the short trip: “This jet our contractor has transformed into is one that flies on antiquated equipment. It’s lucky to be up to code. However, in the present day, there are very few pilots qualified to fly this specific aircraft, in contrast to the dignified groups of airmen who piloted it for Sagittarius Airways in times past.” The speaker, a muscular Latino man in his late thirties known as Agent Sanchez, pauses. “I am assigning you three to be transformed into Boeing 747 flight deck personnel. This is involuntary, but I will ensure your compensation through an instant payment of twice your monthly salary once the flight lands, a substantial increase in your employee privileges, and a pay raise of no less than fifteen thousand dollars yearly. Now, come with me.”

          He continues to explain the impending ordeal to his small squadron, as silent as they are nervous. “You, Agent McAlister, will serve as pilot-in-command of the craft as Gregory Garand. In the right seat will be Agent Jackson, who will be known as your first officer Nathan Reoclides. Finally, as flight engineer to you both is Harper Lynch. Of course, that role is assigned to Agent Vail, as the only woman in this little gang. Capeesh? Good. Let’s get to business. I’ll be working with one of the en-route flight service stations while you three are in the air.”

          Scanning a card against a laser plate on a box to the left of the blast door, a piercing beep is heard as the vault sluggishly opens. Inside it is rather small, but many black key-locked cabinets line the walls, some of them with windows into them. The footsteps of Agent Sanchez fade, only to be replaced by the crescendo of three marching pairs of nonslip shoes. Chemists, each one dressed exactly alike, enter the ironclad chamber. They assume task briskly, concocting within minutes the correct drugs to metamorphose the three agents into the once-living airmen.

          One of the scientists’ work is halted; Agent Jackson stops his work in its tracks. “I’m a changeling, sir! Just tell me all I need to know. The reactions of that chemical are biohazardous to me.”

          “And your type?”

          “Type-VL.”

          “Let me see your ID,” orders the chemist, prompting Agent Jackson to display his driver’s license that displays a small black circle with ‘VL’ printed in white overtop of it.

          “Hey, this guy’s a VL. No serum for him.”

          The other two agents, McAlister and Vail, are directed to swallow the serum as the scientist assigned to Agent Jackson tells him everything he needs to know about the fictional co-pilot Nathan Reoclides. Meanwhile, McAlister’s gut packs on some extra pounds as his brown hair fades to gray, his full beard dwindling to only a short stache. His eyes enlarge and his face rounds out, his skin turning gritty to the touch while extra body hairs appear on his limbs. With a fattening of his hips, butt and legs, his transformation is finished as fast as it started, leaving the bulk of McAlister’s mind convinced he is in fact Captain Gregory Garand.

          Agent Vail seems to age as her visage gains wrinkles and her hair loses moisture. From its wavy blonde style it collects into a beehive atop her scalp. Her lips expand slightly. Similar to the process McAlister underwent, the agent experiences an addition of weight to her torso, especially to her breasts, which much angers her as she prides herself on her petite shape. Her thighs turn thick and meaty, her butt adding a little extra fat before the light-speed process of mental reconditioning commences. At the side of Garand now stands Flight Engineer Harper Lynch, who grumbles at her middle-aged motherly figure for a few seconds. She stops when the chemicals convince her that that’s just how she’s been built.

          While his colleagues were coerced by drugs to transform, all Agent Jackson had to do was set off a chain of cellular reactions within his mutant body. Armed with sufficient knowledge about the character that is Nathan Reoclides, his joints popped and contorted as all his facial hair wiped away. His baldness was replaced by a pitch black hairdo with bare curls distributed sparsely about it. His eyebrows got a little bushier and his jaw chiseled. His not-too-fit body whittled down into a lanky but fit frame. Like most of his body hair, his mind was largely wiped, creating the ideal pair of brain and body that will be Garand’s first officer.

* * *

          Again you are boarded by the small gang of airport officials, minus Agent Sanchez of course. They man their posts with haste, Garand in the left seat of the flight deck, Reoclides in the right, Lynch in the back. You just couldn’t wait to fly; this is what you were built to do! In your cold and dark state, your conscience issues the brief reminder that you won’t be riding this high forever, that you’ll remember who you are fairly soon, probably inflight, but that doesn’t matter for the time being. That inner voice shuts right up when you feel hundreds of passengers file into you and take their seats.

          Your power units are brought online, your flight instruments are checked and calibrated, your trip computers are programmed, and finally, your engines are started. To your front wheel attaches a boom that tugs you rearward from the gate until you’re pointed in the direction commanded by ATC, and from there the boom detaches. Now at the mercy of your flight crew and avionics, your displays flicker with glee.

          Traveling along what feels like hundreds of miles of taxiway, you finally arrive at the run-up line of your assigned runway. For the first time, your jets are sped to near 100% throttle, only for that to dial down as Garand and Reoclides continue with their pre-takeoff checklists.

          Suddenly, your nose is aimed down the dotted line of runway two-zero. Your flaps fully retract, your computers are checked one last time, and at last… your four throttles are firewalled. You barrel down the runway at ludicrous speed, the air flicking away at your body, the ground fleeting below you.

          You’re rotated. Skyward your cockpit is pointed. Your gears leave the pavement one by one, retracing into you moments later. This is it. You’re flying. You, the hulking mammoth of a machine that is the Boeing 747, is flying. Past layers of clouds you soar, the pressure on your wings propelling you further and further into the clarity, tranquility, and simplicity of aether. If this is paradise, then paradise is a fine place to be.