As Grey Matter, the world felt oversized—like navigating a place built for giants. But in that tiny form, my mind burned hotter than ever. In the shadows of the ranger station, I soldered wires with makeshift tools and old copper I stripped from broken radios. After hours of precision work, I finished a pair of sleek, matte-black earpieces—simple tech with a vital purpose.
No one, including myself, would have to taste the Carnitrix to hear it anymore.
When I returned to human form and slid one into my ear, the difference was immediate. Carnitrix's voice came through clearly—calm, mechanical, and eerily soothing.
> "Earpiece calibrated. Audio link secure. Vocal output stable."
A small triumph, but my attention drifted.
I had tasted power now, and I wasn't satisfied.
The show never really conveyed what it felt like—the visceral thrill of changing form, the shifting biology, the rush of alien instincts flooding your veins. Watching Ben Tennyson had shown me possibilities. But this was no cartoon. I wanted more than to see. I wanted to feel.
I selected Ghostfreak.
My body unraveled into shadow. Light bent around me. The trees blurred as I rose into the air, invisible and untouchable. The world below seemed still, defenseless.
It wasn't long before I found them.
A family—three people—stepping from a modest sedan into a quaint house at the edge of town. Birthday balloons floated from the mailbox. The father carried a box of leftover cake. The mother smiled gently. The daughter, maybe seven or eight, laughed as she raced inside, paper crown askew.
I followed silently.
Inside, it was warm. Safe. Normal.
The mother entered the kitchen. The father turned on the TV. The girl disappeared into her room.
Then I slipped into the father's body.
Possession wasn't violent. It was… smooth. Almost gentle. Like pouring myself into a mold. His memories flickered through me like photos in a burned album. He was ordinary. Happy. Tired. He didn't see it coming.
I walked to the kitchen.
My—his—hand closed around a knife.
The mother didn't even turn around.
One clean movement. A breath cut short. Blood soaked the linoleum.
It was done.
No screams. No chaos. Just silence and steel and gravity.
I walked down the hall, the knife dripping. I opened the door to the little girl's room. She looked up, wide-eyed. Her mother's blood painted my shirt. Her lips parted, but she didn't scream. Just stared. Shaking.
Her birthday crown had fallen to the floor.
I ended it.
Then I left.
The father collapsed to his knees once I released him, gasping and twitching, trying to piece together the horror he didn't understand. The guilt would eat him alive. He'd see his daughter's eyes every time he closed his own. I didn't need to kill him. He was already dead inside.
I moved on.
Another house. Another opportunity.
This time, I selected Big Chill.
My body shimmered into translucent ice. Cold radiated from me in waves. I passed through the walls like mist, freezing the family inside—mid-conversation, mid-breath. Their faces locked in surprise. In fear.
I hovered above them, expressionless.
Then, I changed again—into Four Arms.
Muscle and mass coiled around me. The floorboards cracked under my weight.
I raised a fist.
Then another.
Their frozen bodies shattered like glass.
I stood amid the wreckage—fragments of frozen life scattered across the floor.
The power… it was overwhelming. Terrifying. Addictive.
In this world, chaos wasn't the exception.
It was the rule.
And I was becoming its enforcer.