“As you are all no doubt aware, the spread of SARS-3 has transcended national borders, and our attempts to limit it via travel bans have failed.  This disease is now spreading among our communities, and we must act aggressively to slow its growth.  That is why we are ordering this most unprecedented step.  At the advice of the pandemic council, all persons entering the country via any means must do so in non-biological forms.  Despite our misgivings, we must not overlook the gift of the so-called Venn Machines, and how it can serve us in this time of trouble.

“In addition, we strongly recommend that anyone who has a job that requires contact with the public also use the Venn Machines to minimize the spread of the disease.  Any companies with regulations regarding the use of said machines will be ordered to remove those restrictions for the duration.

“Furthermore, due to the inability of our youngest citizens to use these devices, all public schools will be closed for the next month.  I will now take questions.”

The cacophony from the press is overwhelming at first.  The press secretary calls for order three times before they settle, then points to a reporter in the front row.  “Jim?”

“The government has all but denied the existence of Venn Machines up until now.  Why the change?”

The only answer is a pointedly arched eyebrow.  “Trish?”

“Should people without public-facing jobs use the Venn Machines to protect themselves?”

The press secretary hesitates for long enough that the gabble starts up again.  “I think that would be a good idea.  The biggest problem we’re facing is that SARS-3 is transmissible at least a week before symptoms show, and the mortality rate among the young is concerning.  Anyone that comes in contact with children too young to use the Venn Machines should get changed.”

Trish immediately replies, “That sounds like you’re asking just about everyone in the country to get venned.”

“That would probably be for the best.”

The chaos that erupts then ends the press conference prematurely.

*** *** ***

The media and the internet carry the new guidelines far and wide.   Before long, nearly every country in the world has made some similar declaration, ranging from recommendations to requirements that anyone going out in public be visibly transformed.

Governments recruit “transformation facilitators” from any agency that had even the slightest connection to the pandemic, and find themselves with a plethora of volunteers, many of whom had been using the Venn Machines on their own time, some quite extensively.

Over the next few weeks, the world will change beyond recognition.


Week One
A woman with white satin skin stands in view of the camera, her back to an open space thronging with brightly coloured forms.  “This is Chantilly Lace, reporting for KVOR News.  I’m at the West Hills Farmers Market, and despite the pandemic business is booming.  If you look closely, you’ll be hard pressed to find anyone here that looks fully human.  Let’s go talk to a few.”

Chantilly approaches a girl with emerald green skin, glinting brightly in the sun.  “Good morning, you’ve got quite the interesting look going here.  What did you get venned into?”

“Oh!  Hi, am I going to be on TV?”

“Yep!  So tell me, are you a fan of the Wizard of Oz?  Why green?”

“Oz?  No, it’s Saint Patrick’s Day in a couple days, so I figured I’d get ready early for once.  Green skin to go with the green beer.  Unfortunately, it turns out this body doesn’t react to alcohol at all.  Can’t get drunk, so why bother with beer, right?”

“Indeed.  Are you thinking of changing again?”

The green-skinned woman shakes her head.  “Not a chance.  My boyfriend loves the look, something about Star Trek?  I don’t get it, but I don’t have to to enjoy the way he reacts when I dance for him.”

Chantilly chuckles, and moves on to another person, who was waiting for her to finish with the green-skinned one.  This one looks like many of the others in the crowd.  She has long blonde hair, and her skin is the usual sort of pale pink.  Both are much glossier than normal, looking like she’d been shellacked.  “Hi, I’m Chantilly from KVOR.  Can you tell me more about your look?”

“Well, my outfit’s from this cute little shop in back here, she makes the most darling dresses...”

Chantilly shakes her head.  “I was thinking more about your skin.  What’s with the gloss?”

The woman looks at Chantilly like she’s addled, then realizes the question is serious.  “What, this?  The government venners are doing this for anyone who asks.  Synth-skin, totally immune to the plague.  And you end up looking like an extra-shiny version of yourself, so looking in the mirror isn’t a trial.  I tried purple, but I couldn’t find anything that would go with it.  This way, all my clothes still look great on me.”  She pirouettes to flare her floral dress.  “See?”

“You do look lovely.  It’s been a week since the big announcement, how are you handling the change?”

The woman shrugs.  “Eh, same old.  Not needing to eat is a nice bonus, though I still like to have a few bites for the taste.”  Then she gets an impish grin.  “And the extra stamina is nice at night, if you get my drift.”

Chantilly giggles.  “I am familiar with the upsides of being a little less than human, yes.”  She winks at her cameraman.

The woman harrumphs.  “Less than human?  Hardly, I think this is an improvement.  I don’t even need my glasses any more!”

A montage of further interviews show some people agreeing that their new “government issue” bodies are an improvement, some ambivalent, and a few that chafe at the restrictions, claiming that their new bodies feel “unnatural”, even after a week.  One goes so far as to pop one of his hands off and wave it about.  “This is not my hand!”

Others complain about the long lines to get changed, though the rapid appearance of new Venn Machines has helped, and the worst of the rush has passed.  Some of the more unusual looking folks are happy that they can be out and about without comment, and they’re glad the lines for the Venn Machines are finally getting reasonable again.  “I’ve been a purple latex catgirl for quite long enough, thanks.  I think I’ll go canine next,” says one.

At last, Chantilly spots someone whose skin looks normal, what little of it can be seen.  She’s wearing a bright yellow outfit, skin-tight from toes to shoulders.  Her head is clearly visible through a crystal clear dome that flexes and shimmers slightly as she moves.  After her usual greeting, Chantilly asks, “Are you actually human inside that?”

The woman nods.  “Work is being stupid, and fighting the government ban on anti-venning policies.  So I have to be human.  Normal biohazard suits look awful, so I jumped at it when a friend of mine offered to become one for me.”

“That’s a person?  How long have you changed her for?”

“Yep, she’s a sweetie.  I’ve got a little speaker in here so I can hear her voice, and she’s happy with the deal so far.  Since the government wasn’t clear how long it’ll take for the crisis to pass, and I know how stubborn my boss is, we went for the year.  But I’ll pop her back to normal the instant I can venn for work.”

She gets a distant look for a moment then chuckles..  “Sounds like someone isn’t entirely on board with that plan.  Seems like I’ve got me a slinky latex outfit even after I can ditch the dome.”

“It’s a good look on you.  This is Chantilly Lace, signing off.”


Week Three
Chantilly is standing in front of a very different looking crowd, even for the Venn Pandemic.  Centered in the shot is the welcome sign for a small town called Weyland.  Someone has carefully painted an addition to the sign: -Yutani.

“Good evening, this is Chantilly Lace for KVOR, visiting scenic Weyland where everyone has a common theme for their pandemic venn.”  She waves to someone out of the shot, gesturing for them to come closer.  “This here is ‘Red’, the person who started it all.”

An eight foot tall body enters the shot.  While it has arms and legs, the shiny black carapace of its head is distinctly nonhuman in shape, as is the long blade-tipped tail that swishes behind it.  The black of the carapace is broken by a single red stripe down each side.

“Aw, shucks,” admits the xenomorph.  “I’m just the head of the local Aliens fanclub, really.  Given the town’s name, there’s more of us than you’d think.  So when the pandemic hit, we figured... hey, why not go with our favourite xeno forms.  Then we had to figure out how to make it possible to tell who was who.”  Red points to the stripe down his side.

The camera pans away from the sign, to a small crowd that has gathered.  Every single person there shares the same sleek carapaced design.  About half are jet black with various types of spots and stripes to distinguish them.  The rest have gone with brighter base hues, from electric blue through to a pair of identical xenos in bubblegum pink.

Chantilly talks to several of them, each gushing about how they’re such a fan of the series, and how great it is to be out and about as a xenomorph.  Several complain about how previous attempts elsewhere had led to persecution.  “We can make the claws and tail blunt, you know.  Not everyone who looks like this is a giant killing machine.”

“So you’ve all blunted your weapons?” asks Chantilly.

Red shakes his long head.  “Everyone’s venned, right?  So it’s not like we can really hurt anyone.  Been a bit of property damage, and one of the park benches got a little trashed, so we’re collecting donations to see that it’s fixed.”

“Aww, and here I thought I’d found a town full of cute and cuddly aliens.”

“We are not cuddly!” grouses Red.

The two pink xenos pipe up, “We’re cuddly!”  They bounce up to Chantilly and hug her from either side.

Chantilly grins.  “Hey!  You two are soft and squishy, not hard.”

“Yeppers!  A lot of the other folks here went with designs more like ours.  Carapaces are lousy for hugs.”

“Come on, Janets.  You’re ruining our image!” protests Red, shooing them away.

Chantilly pouts briefly as the two cute xenos scamper away from the hug.  “So you want to project the image of big scary predators?”

“God, no, predators aren’t welcome here.”  Red pauses at Chantilly’s confused look.  “Predators vs. Aliens?  Movies in the same universe...  Do you know anything about Aliens at all?”

Chantilly shrugs helplessly.  “I’ve seen the movie.  Once.”

“Graaah!” roars Red.  “Why am I even bothering.”  He spins away from Chantilly, stalking away with his tail lashing in agitation.  On the second swing, it catches Chantilly in the neck, sending her head flying.

The camera swoops to follow Chantilly’s pillowy head as it bounces down the road, then zooms in on her grinning face once she comes to rest.  “This is Chantilly Lace, signing off from Weyland.  Come visit, they’re actually really friendly folks here... just make sure you’re venned.”

The shot pulls back a bit to see Red crouching worriedly beside her.  “Are you really okay?  I know you said it’d look cool...”

“And it did!” cheers Chantilly.  “Don’t worry, I’ve spent lots of time as just a pillow with a face.  My sweetie will put me back together at the Venn Machine later.  You do have one, right?”

“Yeah, over by town hall.  Want me to show you?”

“Nah, it’s fine.  I’ve done so many interviews like this, it’ll be fun.  Come on, grab my head and let’s go talk to more of your townsfolk.”

Red crouches beside Chantilly’s pillowy head and gingerly picks it up in his taloned claws.  “I’m afraid I’ll slice you up.”

“Don’t sweat it.  I’m just a bit of fabric, the odd pulled stitch doesn’t hurt.”  Chantilly waggles her eyebrows suggestively at the cameraman.

Red carries her into the crowd, introducing Chantilly around.  She chats with everyone amiably, obviously enjoying their startled reactions.  As they move into the crowd, the style of the bodies shifts.  Red’s fellow fans are all sharp-edged and hard carapaced (other than the Janets), but the rest of the townsfolk haven’t followed suit.  They’re softer, rounder, and many have a much more human structure to their body, and have mostly changed their head to have a proper crest.  Some even have eyes.

The townsfolk are cheerful, even the ones that haven’t stuck close to what Red considers the “proper” way to be a xeno don’t complain about it overmuch.  “Not what I’d have chosen,” says a particularly chubby and human-looking xenomorph.  “But being like this, it brings us all together. Everyone in town fits the theme.  When I visit my Ma next week I’ll probably go more human, but... it’s kind of like a month-long festival, right?”

“Has everyone really changed?” asks Chantilly.

That question draws a mournful sigh from the woman.  “Not the babs, no.  That’s why I kept my face, so they’d know me.  It’s been so hard on them, stuck inside all day.”

“What about isolation suits?  Couldn’t they go outside in one?”

The woman’s laugh was mirthless.  “We’re not made of money.  Have you seen what they’re asking for kid-sized biohazard suits online?  It’s mad.”

“Yeah, the gouging is something else these days.  But what about the Venn Machines?  I’ve interviewed a bunch of people who’ve turned friends into biohazard suits.  I even got to interview a few of the suits, the more lively ones that could move and talk on their own.”

The xeno woman’s eyes went wide.  “Oh!  That’s just the thing.”  She let out a shrill whistle, then called loudly, “Boomer!  Gnasher!”

Two quadrupedal xenomorphs bounce up, jaws slavering as they bark loudly at the woman, then dance around her excitedly.

Chantilly’s eyes widen.  “You venned dogs?”

The woman looks at her funny.  “You know that’s impossible.  These are my eldest kids, both started using the machines about a year back.  Turned into all kinds of crazy things.  When they heard that dogs were immune, they immediately took it upon themselves to change, well before the order.  Once the whole town went all alien, they did this to themselves instead.”  She crouches to give the monstrous dogs hugs.  “You two, this lady here has a great idea.  We could turn you two into biohazard suits for your little brother and sister, so they can come out and play.  What do you say?”

The excited barking and dancing looks like a conclusive “yes”.  The woman grins up at Chantilly’s head.  “Thanks for the idea.  The little ones will be so thrilled.”

Chantilly smiles at her, then turns to face the camera.  “There you go.  Amidst all this craziness, there’s still a lot of good to be found.”


Week Six
Chantilly’s white fabric skin glows in the sun, and behind her there is a low wall overlooking a sun-dappled field.

“This is Chantilly Lace, with a couple of people that have taken the non-organic order to the extreme.  Meet Barbara and Ellie.”

The camera pulls back and pans to bring two shining figures into the shot.  Posed elegantly are two figures whose curves suggest femininity, but every exposed inch is shining chrome.  Most of their bodies look like something out of a Sorayama painting, all sexy curves and tight fitted panels.  Their arms break the pattern.  Large gaps in the smoothly curved plates expose equally chromed pistons, springs, and joints.  Their heads are perfect ovals, half-filled with a glowing circle that suggests a cyclopean eye.  Below the eye is a small grille, from which a synthetic voice emerges, the eye flickering with the words.

“Thanks, Chantilly.  We’re looking forward to showing off.”

“Before we get into that, you do understand that the non-organic order was rescinded yesterday?  We haven’t had a new case of SARS-3 in a week.”

The other robot girl’s eye lights up as she speaks.  “We’ve spent weeks perfecting our design.  No going back, only forward.”

“Do tell,” prompts Chantilly.  “Does it have something to do with those discs beside you?”

The camera pulls back a little further as the first robot picks up a chromed circle.  As she turns it, the rubber around the rim becomes visible, showing that it’s a wheel.  Her hands click into dimples in the middle of the circle, and once they do so, the plates covering her hands rearrange, turning them into simple spheres.  The changes progress up her arms, plates rearranging, sliding over her elbows to lock them straight.  What’s left when she’s done are two straight cylinders that look nothing at all like arms, and every bit like the front fork of a motorcycle.

“Wow,” gushes Chantilly.  “That must have taken a lot of iterations to get right.”

The other robot nods.  “And that’s not the half of it.  Keep going, Ellie.”

Ellie leans forward into a crouch, putting her front wheel on the ground.  As she does so, her head shifts and lowers, perching over the arms and placing her cyclopean eye where a headlight should go.  Her shiny twintail hair carapace pivots apart to form handlebars.

From there, the changes cascade down her torso, slimming it out.  As it lengthens, it exposes a row of curved radiator fins where ribs should be.  Ellie’s curved backside opens and inverts, exposing a black leather saddle.  Her legs change last, and least, leaving the only recognizable curves as her feet become an axle for her back tire.  Barbara reaches down, and tugs on one thigh.  Part of it unfolds into an elegantly curved kickstand.  “Tada!” she exclaims, arms wide to show off the motorcycle her friend has become.

Chantilly paces around Ellie.  “Wow.  That’s an incredible transformation.”  She touches a raised gear-like shape just behind the handlebars.  “You even have a gas cap.”

Barbara chuckles.  “We don’t take gas, we’re entirely self-powering.  That cap is the best part of all.  Give it a quarter turn to the right.”

Chantilly does so, and it pops up an inch with a loud click followed by a series of softer clicks all over the motorcycle.  “What was that?”

“The lock.  Ellie can’t change back until someone presses the cap back in.  It also mutes her.  Like this, we really are motorcycles, all we can control is the motor, we can’t even steer ourselves.”

“Wild,” breathes Chantilly.  “Come on, let’s get a few shots of you on top of her.”

Barbara moves to do so, but asks, “No reaction to the helplessness?”

Chantilly giggles and cuts her gaze to the camera.  “I know a thing or two about how much fun it can be with the right person.”

Barbara poses sexily atop the motorcycle, chrome against chrome making it hard to tell where the juncture is between robot girl and machine.  “Yeah, that’s the thing.  Driving each other isn’t fun any more.  Could you give me a hand with this next part?”

“Sure,” agrees Chantilly.  “Anything.”

Barbara picks up the other two wheels and crouches beside her friend.  Her transformation is swifter as it happens simultaneously from end to end.

“Now what?” asks Chantilly, hand moving toward the locking cap.

“Lock me.  Then sell us.  Find someone who’ll appreciate what they’re getting, and will ride us like we’re meant to be ridden.”

Chantilly pulls her hand back.  “Sell you?  But... you’ll change back.”

“Not for three years.  If our owner is good to us, we promise to let her change us back.”

“What should I do with the money, then?”

“There’s a new charity helping the kids immobilized by the plague.  Little Angels.  Give it to them.  We won’t need it.  Do it!”

Chantilly turns the knob, and with a click all that’s left of her interviewees is a pair of sexy motorcycles.  She turns to face the camera and puts on her best salesgirl grin.  “You heard her, folks.  Generosity will be rewarded.”

Chantilly holds her pose until the camera cuts away, then she pounces her cameraman, kissing him frantically.

“Not that I object,” Rick says, “but what brought this on?”

“Wanna be your pillow again.  Venn me now, or lose me forever!”

“You’re on, pillow-girl.”


Week Twelve
Sitting on a park bench is a round circle of white satin fabric, with Chantilly’s face.  Her body is nowhere to be seen.  Every now and then, someone will sit beside her, and only belatedly realize the pillow is human when it speaks up.  The reactions range from comical double-takes to bleeped-out profanity.  Some people leave immediately, but most stay to chat, relaxing as Chantilly puts them at ease.

About half of her guests for this “pillow in the street” segment are visibly venned, often with shiny latex skin.  Most of the shiny ones have some kind of fanciful pattern, and often pointed animal ears to match.  When Chantilly asks about their design, most just shrug and say they wanted to have fun with it, and then got used to the look.  The more fanciful designs gush about trying new things from week to week, but even a few of those admit they’ve settled in to a theme.  Latex catgirls are popular.

The ones without visible changes also get asked about their shape.  Some ignore the question, others shrug and say that they’re glad to be normal again.  Others admit, shyly or boldly, to having had a little venning done, most often to look “a little” younger.

“The plague was an opportunity to try out new things,” says one woman.  “I must have tried a dozen different shapes that month.  Even after the all-clear.  My sweetie and I still play a little game each week, to see who gets this body.”

Chantilly raises an eyebrow.  “What sort of game?”

“Oh, it varies.  Rock-paper-scissors at first, a couple of card games.  Of late, we’ve been playing Scrabble.  I think that’s because it’s way easier to lose deliberately.  Our scores are laughably low.”

Chantilly giggles at that.  “Oh really?  You’d rather be... uh, what exactly?”

The woman pats her ample chest.  “Bras, mostly.”

“Why that, instead of human?  Not like I’m one to criticize,” adds Chantilly with a grin.

“We work at a returns counter.  It’s literally one cranky customer after another.  But it pays the rent, so we split the job and the headaches.  Boss doesn’t care, as long as the counter is manned.  Being the bra is better.  Or the boots.  I’d rather be her sexy boots than deal with the customers, but I won the last Scrabble game.”

“Do you ever use the words from the game to pick what to turn each other into?”

“Oh yeah!  We always try to make sure ‘bra’ is on the board somewhere.  If it isn’t...”  She shrugs.  “I ended up turned into a xylophone for a day.  She played it on a triple word score, no less, but decided that since she couldn’t wear me, she wouldn’t leave me like that all week.  To which I was very grateful.  That’s how I ended up as her boots.”

“How was that?” asked Chantilly.  “I’ve heard footwear can be rough.”

“Not as rough as the day job, that’s for sure.  She’s a sweetie, and took good care of me.”  The woman’s gaze goes distant.  “You know... I might see if I can play ‘boots’ next game.  Or shoes.  We have the cutest feet...”

“One more question.”

“Go for it.”

“Did you copy her body, or does she copy yours?”

“Oh!  Neither.  This one’s a blend of both our looks.  It’s funny when we run into old friends, they get confused for a bit.  We’ve both learned to answer to both names, just to mess with them further.”

“Thanks!”

After the woman leaves, Chantilly speaks up.  “Appearances can be deceiving.  While it may look like half of us have gone back to looking normal, at least half of those will admit to being venned in some minor or not-so-minor ways.  And I have my suspicions about most of the rest.  After all, if you’re venned, nothing truly bad can happen to you, and the latest mortality statistics are showing that clearly.  Aaron is up next, with a piece on the impact that’s having on the insurance industry.”


Week Forty
The segment starts with shots of a local fashion show, with sexy models walking down the runway in a variety of lightweight summer outfits despite the time of year.  Every single model has shiny skin, and most have spots or stripes.  The outfits are mostly solid colours so as not to clash with the skin designs, though there are more ornate designs layered on top of the few with snow-white latex skin.  The finale has a half dozen models bowing on stage, each wearing only a bikini.

The next shot has Chantilly standing in front of the fashion runway as the crowd disperses, chatting with the designer and a few of the models.  “The name of this show was ‘Flu Fashions’, but everything I saw up there looked like it’d get you a nasty case of the chills.  We’re heading into winter, what’s up with the bikinis?”

“We’re trying to raise awareness.  Every year, we lose far more people to the flu than we did to the big plague.  Most of the impact falls on the elderly, but it’s young people like us that spread it around.  But if more people get venned to immune forms, we can really make a dent in transmission.”

Chantilly nods, spreading her arms to show off her white satin body.  “Preaching to the choir here.  I haven’t been human in years.  I still don’t get the bikinis.”

A tiger-striped model speaks up.  “I walked here from the Venn Machine in only a bikini.  I needed a jacket walking to it, but now... can’t feel the cold at all.  It’s great!”

The spotted one nods her agreement.  “I’m going to stay like this all winter!  I have a dozen bikinis, and I can wear them all season.  The looks we got when walking here were the best.”  She lifts up one of her legs, showing off a feline paw and the broad rubbery pads underneath it.  “Doesn’t matter how icy it gets, I won’t slip and fall.  Winter usually sucks, but this year I’m going to rock it.”

The others cheer in agreement.

The designer speaks up again.  “I wanted to raise awareness of the options the Venn Machines have given us.”  She slips off her blouse to show paisley skin and a plain white bikini underneath.  “And I’m going to be out there with these girls, showing lots of latex skin no matter how miserable the weather gets.”

Chantilly looks to the camera.  “Weatherproof, virus-proof bodies.  I hope it catches on, it’ll make winter prettier, and a lot more fun.”

“And safer,” adds the designer.  “Even for those that don’t change, the increased herd immunity helps everyone.”

“There you have it folks.  Don’t be shy, stay dry!”


Week Fifty-Two
Chantilly is standing in a lovely little park, spring is starting to pop flowers up all over.  Near her there is a small crowd of people, none of which look quite stock.  Most have normal skin-tones and mostly human faces, but their bodies vary more.  There are spots and stripes, pointed ears and a dozen different kinds of tail.  Some have paws for feet, some have hooves, but most of the rest are wearing sandals.  They’re all dressed far too lightly for early spring.

“A year ago today,” intones Chantilly, “the order went out.  Everyone must get venned.  And within a week, the Venn Pandemic transformed the streets of our cities.  It felt like the world had changed, forever.  For some of us, it has.”  She spins in place, showing off her fabric body.  “But I embraced this before the crisis.  For many people, that week was their first time in a Venn Machine.”

Chantilly turns to face the crowd.  “Hold up your hands if the Venn Pandemic was your first change.”

Only about half of the crowd does so, making Chantilly frown.  “I see.  I guess there were more of us playing with them than I thought.  OK, which of you had spent more than three days as something other than human before the pandemic?”

A fair number of hands go up, some of their owners share sheepish smiles as if to say “you too?”

“Okay, this is for the rest of you.  How many of you have spent more than a day or two human since the pandemic started?”

To her surprise, quite a few hands go up.  She points to one.  “Why?”

“I wanted kids.  So I made sure to be human whenever we were trying.  I’m three months along, and as soon as my doctor said it was safe to venn again...”  The woman opens her arms wide, showing off her shiny, spotty skin.

There’s murmured agreement from a lot of the others.  Chantilly shares a guilty look with the cameraman, then smiles at what she sees.  “Right.  Everyone who’s been human for reasons other than procreation, put up your hands.”

This time, only three hands go up.  When asked, one says it was a dare, another was busy when they changed back, and didn’t have time to get to a Venn Machine for a week.  The last one steps forward from the crowd when asked.

“I wanted to make sure this was right for me.”  She reaches up to touch a fuzzy cat-ear.  “I had wanted this for so long, fantasized and dreamed about it.  I became a catgirl the very day the first Venn Machine showed up, an hour’s drive from here.  Now we have one down the block, and after the order catgirls were everywhere.  I wasn’t unique any more, and I started to worry... was it about being special, or about being cute?  So shortly after the all-clear, I reverted to normal.  For two weeks, I was the only human I saw, the only human anyone saw.  For the first week, I enjoyed being unique, being stared at again.”

“And then?” prompts Chantilly.

“I hated my body.  Always had.  For a little while, ‘new and different’ was enough, but before long I knew.  I was a homely guy, and that body was no longer ‘me’.  I tried to stick it out for the full month, but I only made it seventeen days.  I’ve been a catgirl ever since.”

“What about kids?” asks Chantilly.

“I won’t change back,” the catgirl says.  “If I find a boyfriend, if I get married... I still won’t.  Not on my wedding day, not ever, not for anything.  Maybe I’ll end up without kids.  But if I’m lucky, I’ll find someone who wants to raise a litter of kittengirls.”

“They’ll be stuck, not human!” protests one of the people in the crowd.

The catgirl spins to face her accuser, tail bottling.  “I don’t care!  If they hate it, they’ll be able to venn into whatever they like when they’re older.”

The murmuring of the crowd gets louder, until Chantilly holds up a hand for silence.  “It’ll be okay.  I’ve interviewed a few people who got pregnant while venned.  The kids were cute, and seemed happy enough.  The world is changing all around us, faster than we’re used to.  Despite that, people are still kind and generous, and that spirit will see us through anything.”

Chantilly turns back to the camera.  “The Venn Pandemic changed the world.  After it passed, the world went back to normal... but none of us were left unmarked by it.  Despite all the changes, underneath all the changes the Venn Machines can grant us... we are still wonderfully human.”