Thursday, August 28th, 2042, Jamal Rahman's house, Bainbridge Island, Washington.

Jamal sat at the head of the dining table, an undisturbed and half-forgotten cup of chai resting nearby. He scrolled calmly through the news on his phone, unperturbed by the chaos all around him. The household thrummed with life—a cacophony of voices, laughter, and clattering dishes.

To an outsider, it might have looked like the Rahmans were celebrating something special. But for Jamal, it was just another Thursday.

Chaos reigned, but Jamal wore his calm like armour. His smile was steady, his posture relaxed, as if he did not notice the whirl of activity swirling around him. Although seemingly engrossed in his phone, Jamal vigilantly monitored the situation, his ears picking up every raised voice, his eyes scanning the room, ready to step in and defuse any arguments before they escalated.

Seated next to him on a high stool, his youngest daughter, Amina, loudly related the minutiae of her day at elementary school, sharing every detail with great enthusiasm, to her teenage cousin, Safiya. When Amina finally ran out of things to say, aunt Leila stepped in, trading places with Safiya. This only further encouraged the eager young orator to retell her story from the very beginning. As one did in situations like these.

In the kitchen, Jamal's stepmother Fatima bustled about, attempting to keep everyone out of her way as she pulled fresh samosas from the oven. "Make room before someone gets burned!" she shouted. But her intervention merely pushed the chaos into the living room.

There, Jamal's wife, Mariam, directed the flow of the evening with the precision of a seasoned general. Homework was checked, chores assigned, and children sent to bed upstairs one by one, leaving pockets of quiet in their wake.

By the time the house finally fell silent, the sun had long since set. Jamal remained in his seat at the head of the table. With a tap of his thumb, he powered off his smartphone. He leaned forward, picked up the cup, and sipped at the now-lukewarm chai. His face broke into a smile as the day's noise faded—a familiar peace that always followed the bustle of his evenings.

Everything was perfect—as expected. Externally, at least. Beneath his calm exterior, his mind churned; he had just read the news about some players turning into their character from A Realm Reforged Again. The idea sounded like something out of pulp fiction, yet here it was, in headlines and reports from credible outlets.

His thoughts turned to his two colleagues affected by the glitch—M-E and Soraya. Soraya had brushed off the changes as if they were nothing. But M-E…

M-E had struggled. At first, at least. The morning had been a real challenge for her, nearly breaking down before lunch.

Her? Him? Jamal hesitated, turning the pronouns over in his mind. He decided to use "her" for now, even though M-E had never made her preference known. Priya and the other women had welcomed her to their table without hesitation.

By the afternoon, he had noticed what the women likely had seen all along. beneath layers of feigned indifference and annoyance, there was something else: happiness. Genuine happiness. M-E might look nothing like her former self, but Jamal had felt it in his chest every time he looked at her today: a young, freckled and green-haired sylvani woman.

This might actually be the real M-E.

With his eyes squeezed shut, Jamal felt a sickening twist of unease in the pit of his stomach. He knew the feeling—the sharp, jealous stab—all too well; it was envy.

Struck by the revelation, he pondered whether the women at work had invited him to their table with such ease because of this? Had they known, even before he realised it himself, how envious he was of what M-E had found?

Had he wanted the same thing to happen to him?

But Jamal still held doubts; having to present yourself at work in your changed virtual avatar was one thing. The company policy of dressing according to the gender of your avatar might make some people uncomfortable.

It was an unnecessary rule—M-E had looked undeniably feminine even when wearing the men's attire. Unneeded, but expected. Big companies were like that, after all. Regardless, Jamal did not think the policy would actually be a deterrent to him.

What held him back tonight was something else: the stakes.

First, the lack of a delete or character re-customisation option meant this was a one-shot decision. There would be no second chances. And now, with news of the transformation spilling into real life, the implications were staggering. Jamal kept thinking about his decision, over and over, in his mind.

Should I go ahead and create my character?

He recalled the barely contained fascination he had had at the beginning of the day, when he had realised who his green-haired colleague was. He had bombarded M-E with so many questions.

Of course he had. Who would not be curious about what that was like?

Jamal vividly recalled how lifeless M-E's eyes used to be not so long ago. Compared to today's raging bonfire, her eyes had barely matched the feeble flicker of a single candle. Only a few things had managed to ignite a fire in her eyes lately. One of them was when the two of them had chatted about the upcoming re-release of this game during lunch break.

To M-E, the game's world had been her entire life. The new release meant finally being allowed to return home, to visit long-lost relatives. They had both been so excited to talk about it. Well… M-E had sounded excited, at least a little; it had been a tempered joy. What they had expressed was not the genuine thing, but something akin to it. It had been as if someone, pretending to be happy, had animated her like a string puppet.

Jamal had seen through her act. The game had been meant to act as a distraction from her daily pain. What she had celebrated was not happiness, but the temporary reprieve from her daily misery.

But thankfully—miraculously—it actually turned out to be more than that. The game had not been a simple distraction or reprieve—It had been a cure.

Jamal mentally kicked himself. He had not logged on yesterday. He could have, if he had known. But he had not. He had told himself it was only a game, after all. It could wait a day.

But now, he felt how it might have been a mistake. With the news of the glitch, and the transformations, how long would it take before someone ordered the game to shut down?

The government would surely act, and soon. So Jamal considered his options.

He could act now, and follow in M-E's footsteps, before the option disappeared. Make an attempt at happiness, hoping he would not be late to board the train.

Or he could live with regret for the rest of your days, pondering about the path untravelled.

Jamal stood, rinsed his empty cup in the sink, and his mind drifted to the second floor office. To his FullDive rig.

It was late, but the servers were still running. The authorities had not shut them down—yet. The authorities were probably ill-equipped to react to an emergency of this nature.

Tonight, he still had an opportunity. Tomorrow might be too late.

He already let one day slip between his fingers. But now that he knew what he could stand to lose and gain, he would not risk it.

It was time to take the leap.

Time to reinvent myself. Can't wait to see M-E's face tomorrow!

Thursday, August 28th, 2042, Mira Loma, Reno, Nevada.

As Thomas navigated their electric car through the dimly lit streets of Mira Loma, Margaret Sutton's mind churned with worry.

This morning, just before lunch, her son Elliot had sent her a brief, cryptic text. He explained he would not be joining the family's usual virtual dinner gathering—not tonight, and not for the foreseeable future.

When she had pressed for explanations, his reply had been short and final: "I don't want to talk about it."

It was unlike him; Elliot had always been a smart, quiet, and reserved boy. But never rebellious, never secretive.

Her husband had laughed it off. "Probably means there's finally a woman in his life," he had joked.

But Margaret was not so sure. She knew her son—or she thought she did. Elliot was not the type to hide something like that. If there was someone special, he would have volunteered the information.

Still, she had resolved to give him the time he asked for, as much as it unsettled her.

But her resolve had shattered, much later in the evening, when another message from her son arrived. "I can't go on like this. My life's over."

She had called Elliot immediately, but he had not picked up. Her text messages went unread. Panic had settled in her chest, heavy and unrelenting. It took nearly an hour to convince Thomas they needed to drive to Reno to see him in person.

She needed to know her son was safe.

Now, as her husband turned onto Bolivar Court, Margaret gripped her phone tightly, her thumb absently brushing over the unanswered messages. The soft hum of the electric car filled the silence, a dull contrast to the storm inside her.

They had finally arrived. Thomas parked their car in the driveway next to their son's. The house was completely dark. Margaret quickly unbuckled her seat belts and stepped outside of the car.

A few moments later, Thomas closed the driver's side door and locked the car. "Well, his car's in the driveway, so he's probably home?"

Margaret walked on the porch towards the front door. Her stomach churned as she tried to glance through the living room window. Elliot—or someone else—had drawn the curtains tightly shut.

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The neighbourhood was quiet except for the midnight wind's occasional eery howling. Thomas inserted the spare key Elliot had given them years ago and unlocked the front door.

"I'm sure he's fine," Thomas said, his tone more for his benefit than hers. "He's probably just… embarrassed about something stupid."

The lock clicked, and the door creaked open. Margaret's hand shot out to grip Thomas's arm. "Don't just walk in. What if he's—" Her voice cracked, but she could not bring herself to finish the sentence.

"What if he's what?" Thomas asked with a sigh, though there was a flicker of unease in his eyes.

Margaret shook her head. They both stepped inside. Thomas flipped the light switch.

Nothing happened. All the bulbs were out.

There was a faint smell of sweat and something metallic in the air, making Margaret's nose wrinkle. Visible only thanks to the streetlights outside, everything in the entryway looked normal; shoes neatly lined up, jackets hung on hooks.

Thomas took his jacket off while Margaret dug for her smartphone and turned the flashlight option on.

"Elliot?" she asked, calling out to him.

No answer.

She swept the living room with the light. Pillows and cushions laid scattered across the floor along with crumpled papers and an overturned coffee table.

Her husband closed the door behind them and stepped inside, his footsteps heavy as he moved towards the dining room. A sharp crack—crushed glass under his boot—made Thomas take a hasty step back, his eyes immediately dropping to inspect the sole.

Margaret shone her light his way. Countless jagged fragments of mirror glass glinted on the carpet floor.

"Jesus, what the hell happened here?" he asked, crouching to pick up a shard of a broken mirror.

Margaret's gaze landed on dark streaks smeared across the carpet near the broken glass. Her breath caught. "Is that… blood?"

Thomas straightened, frowning. "Stay here. Let me check the rest of the house."

"No!" Margaret grabbed his arm. "I'm going with you."

He looked like he might argue, but the fear in her eyes stopped him. "Fine. Let's go."

They moved cautiously down the hallway, stepping over the debris. Margaret's hand shook as she gripped the railing of the staircase, but she forced herself to keep going. The house was eerily quiet except for the faint creak of the floorboards beneath their feet.

None of the lights worked upstairs, either.

The first room they checked, the guest bedroom, was empty and untouched. When they reached the primary bedroom, they found it in a similar chaotic state as the living room. Clothes littered the floor in multiple piles. The dresser mirror laid shattered in a million pieces at the feet of the bed.

Thomas turned around, heading to his son's office. When they reached it, the door was slightly ajar, a faint glow blinking on and off, visible through the crack.

Thomas pushed the door open.

The room was in even worse disarray. Toppled bookshelves had spilled their content across the floor.

Monitors lay face down on a computer desk, their cables ripped from their port.

On the opposite corner, the FullDive rig hummed quietly, the tiny status monitor blinking some kind of error message rhythmically.

Margaret froze.

Near the desk, half-hidden by the overturned chair, was Elliot.

He was sitting on the ground, his arms wrapped around his knees. Blood smeared his fingers, the bright red stark against the pale, trembling skin. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

"Oh my God, Elliot!" Margaret dropped to her knees, reaching for him.

Thomas stood frozen in the doorway, his face pale. "What… what the hell happened here?"

Margaret's hands hovered over Elliot, unsure where to touch him. His body looked wrong—stretched, elongated, like someone had tried to sculpt him into something else and stopped midway. The hoodie he wore clung awkwardly to his frame, the sleeves barely reaching his wrists. His sweat pants barely reached the ankles on his legs—longer than they should be.

But it was his face that made Margaret's breath catch. His cheekbones were sharper, his jawline more refined, and his eyes… they were brown now—no trace of the blue they had always been. Chestnut brown hair, longer than he had even worn, fell in front of his eyes.

Elliot barely registered her gentle touch, his eyes meeting hers only for a fleeting moment before returning to their distant, vacant gaze; a thousand-yard stare filled with unspoken pain.

Margaret's heart clenched. She took one of his blood-streaked hand into her own. "I'm here, baby. I'm here. What happened?"

"I… I can't…" Elliot's voice cracked as tears streamed down his face. His voice was softer, higher than it used to be.

His grip tightened, his bloodied fingers trembling.

Margaret's other hand cupped his cheek, ignoring the wetness of his tears, forcing him to look at her. "Hush. It'll be okay."

She then embraced him in a tight hug, but he did not so much as move in response.

"No, mom. It won't…"

Thomas stepped forward, his face a mask of confusion and anger. "What do you mean? What's going on here?"

Elliot recoiled at his father's tone, his body curling tighter into itself.

"Thomas, stop!" Margaret snapped, her voice sharp and unyielding. "Can't you see he's terrified? This isn't the time to yell!"

Thomas clenched his fists at his sides. "He's terrified? Margaret, have you taken a good look at him? This… doesn't even look like our son!"

Thomas was right, of course. Elliot's face was pale and slick with sweat, and the way her son flinched at every noise showed Margaret how much pain and fear he was experiencing. Although she did not truly understand what was happening to him, her focus remained on ensuring his well-being.

"I can see that!" Margaret shot back, her composure cracking. "But it's still Elliot in there. Can't you tell?"

Thomas's mouth opened, then closed. He looked at his son—or the unfamiliar form his son was becoming—and shook his head, his shoulders slumping.

Margaret turned her attention back to Elliot, her hand brushing his bloodied hair back. "We're here, Elliot. We'll solve this."

Elliot let out a soft, broken sob, his trembling body leaning into her touch. "I didn't think it was real at first," Elliot whispered. "When I woke up this morning… my ears were sore. My legs felt weird. I thought maybe I'd slept wrong. I—" He swallowed hard, his bloodied fingers twitching in his mother's grasp. "When I saw myself in the mirror, Mom, I didn't even recognise myself."

Margaret's heart broke at the tremor in his voice. "Oh, sweetheart…"

He shivered, and then took a long, steadying breath. "I thought maybe if I stayed offline, it would stop," he continued, his words spilling out in a frantic rush. "I thought if I didn't log back in, I could… undo it. But then the news… they said it was happening to others. It's not just the game. It's… it's my body."

His voice cracked again, and he covered his face with his hands, smearing blood across his pale skin. "I don't know how to stop it. I don't know if I can stop it."

"What, exactly, is happening?"

Elliot's new, unfamiliar eyes filled with dread as he spoke. "They're turning me… into the character I made in-game yesterday…"

Margaret let go of the embrace and stared at him in disbelief.

Thomas finally broke his silence, his voice strained. "This is… ridiculous. How is this even possible? Changing bodies? It's a game, not—" He stopped himself, running a hand over his face. "It's not possible."

"Look at him, Thomas!" Margaret snapped, her voice rising with frustration. "Do you think he did this to himself? Do you think he's lying?"

Thomas's jaw tightened. "I'm not saying he's lying. I'm saying it doesn't make any damn sense!"

"It doesn't have to make sense for it to be real," Margaret shot back, her tone sharp. "He's your son, and he's terrified."

"I'm right here, you know." Elliot's voice was faint, but it silenced them both. He lowered his bloodied hands, revealing tear-streaked cheeks and eyes full of terror. "I'm still me."

Margaret cupped his cheek again, her hand trembling. "Of course you are, baby. Of course you are."

Elliot leaned into her touch, his body shaking uncontrollably. "But I won't be for long… if it keeps going. I'll turn into her."

"Her?" Thomas asked, his voice clipped.

"Seraphine," Elliot whispered, eyes dropping to the floor. "She's... the character I made in the game. I thought she looked cool. Tall, Strong. Confident. The opposite of… me."

He let out a bitter laugh, his body curling tighter. "It was fun in-game. But today, at work… with the avatar glitch… I felt everyone judging me. And then they wanted me to dress according to code…"

Margaret pulled him into her arms again, holding him as tightly as she dared. "It'll be alright, Elliot, baby."

Thomas exhaled loudly, pacing a short line in the cramped office. "We need answers. Someone must know what's going on—game developers, scientists, someone. We can't just sit here and do nothing."

Elliot flinched at his father's raised voice, and Margaret glared at Thomas over her son's shoulder. "We're not doing nothing. Right now, we're helping him feel safe. That's what he needs."

Thomas's hands clenched at his sides, his frustration barely contained. "And then what? What do we do next, Margaret?"

Margaret did not answer. She did not know. All she could do was hold her son tighter and hope the world did not take him from her entirely.

"I don't want to become her… I never meant to..."

Margaret had very little faith in her words, but she spoke them with as much conviction as she could. "If this can happen, then maybe it can be undone. Just stay strong. Until we find out how."

She did not know how they would do that. But first, Elliot needed rest. Tonight, he could sleep in the guest bedroom, since it was still intact.

There was a lot of work to get the house back in order, and she did not plan to leave her son on his own. Not as long as he was in such a crisis.

It would be a long night.

Thursday, August 28th, 2042, on a trans-friendly bulletin board.

The chatroom was alive, its text box a blur of rapid, excited messages scrolling faster than anyone could keep up with.

Others were more cautious, their replies interspersed like patches of rain on an otherwise sunny day.

Some messages stood out, bold and measured amid the excitement, causing the room to fall silent for a moment, as if everyone collectively paused to breathe. And then the floodgates opened again, messages pouring in with renewed fervour.

[Rainy_Day]: Did you hear the news report or see the latest article? Physical transformation confirmed!

[Moonlark]: WAIT. It's REAL?

[TransVerse99]: Y'all, I've been saving for a FullDive rig since last year. I was going to buy the game for the VR avatar glitch alone. Guess who's buying it tonight? (If you guess me, you'd be correct. Give yourself a cookie, courtesy of Verse)

[AetherShade]: If this is really happening, this could be IT. Like… we don't have to wait decades for medical breakthroughs anymore. We can just… be.

[Flare]: I'm literally shaking. Imagine being seen as YOU, not just online but everywhere. I need this. I NEED THIS.

[EnbyPaws]: I'm 19. I've been binding since I was 13, and I've never had the money for HRT. If this is real… I can finally breathe.

[Moonlark]: You know, given that roughly ninety percent of the population is cis… Isn't this likely to end up giving a bunch of people massive dysphoria?

[Rainy_Day]: Depends on how many of them decided to cross-play.

[TransVerse99]: I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, but to be frank, it would be nice if that taught a few of them how much it sucks to live with dysphoria.

[Cautious_Cloud]: I'm scared, tbh. What if it doesn't work? What if it goes wrong?

[Rainy_Day]: Napkin math… If about eighty percent of players are cis, and say… half of them chose to play characters of the other gender? That would be 400,000 new transgender folk per million players, or thereabouts. The game already has several million players registered. I guess there's suddenly going to be a lot more money and interest in trans healthcare soon. Silver lining, maybe?

[EnbyPaws]: @Cautious_Cloud> Then we're no worse off than we were yesterday.

[Flare]: @Cautious_Cloud> Yeah, but what if it DOES work? I mean, imagine. No surgeries, no waiting lists, just… waking up and seeing the real you.

[PhilosophyBuff]: If the transformation is permanent, is it ethical to choose our bodies? What about those who regret it?

[Rainy_Day]: @PhilosophyBuff> The regret rate for transition surgeries is less than one percent. I'm confident members of this community won't regret a thing.

[Moonlark]: Imagine logging in and half the players in your starting zone are running around freaking out about their transformations. Chaos. >:}

[Eden_Reborn]: For those of us who've been trapped in the wrong body our whole lives... this isn't just a game. This is freedom.

[LunaLoop]: I don't care what it costs. This is our chance.

[Rainy_Day]: The avatar glitch that got us all excited is yesterday's news now. This is the blessing we've all been waiting for.

[AetherShade]: I wonder if there's so many of us on this message board that will flock to buy the game. Are we going to DDOS their servers? Oops, sudden influx of new players crashes the game.

[Flare]: Calling it now: Character creation is about to become the most stressful decision of our lives.

[TransVerse99]: @AetherShade> Crap, I better get my copy before that happens!

[Moonlark]: Is anyone else worried about the devs shutting it down? Like, what if they didn't plan for any of this, and they freak out and pull the servers before we even get a chance to try?

[EnbyPaws]: Then I guess it's a race against time. Who's with me?

The scrolling text box filled with cries of "me!" as the chat erupted in collective excitement and determination.

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