|
You are only seeing a fraction of my work. If you want to see it all join my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/itsmetoo If you are already a supporter, go to the Table Of Contents on my Patreon and click the proper link to get the new password. |
Captioned Images Series: Swapping Skills
Created: 02/23/2025
Ken and Barbie sat stiffly in the sleek, metallic chairs, their fingers gripping the armrests as though they were the only thing anchoring them to reality. The room was cold and sterile, the kind of place where secrets were born and humanity was merely an equation to be solved. The Professor, a man with calculating eyes and an unsettling smirk, stood before them. He was dressed in a crisp white lab coat, his hands folded neatly behind his back. He did not ask them if they were ready. Their consent had never mattered.
“You will retain your names, but nothing else,” he said coolly. “When I am finished, Ken will know everything Barbie knew about ballet, and Barbie will know everything Ken knew about football. However, your bodies will remain the same. Your muscle memory, your physical conditioning—none of it will change.”
Ken’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He had played football for nearly a decade, dedicating himself to the sport, living and breathing every game, every practice. It was who he was. To strip him of it was to strip him of his identity.
Barbie’s hands trembled in her lap, though she clenched them into fists to stop it. Ballet had been her entire existence. The discipline, the elegance, the perfection she had chased since childhood—it was everything she knew. And now, it would be gone.
The Professor walked over to the control panel, pressed a sequence of buttons, and without another word, the world as they knew it vanished.
When Ken awoke, the first thing he noticed was the unfamiliar weight of memories in his mind. He looked down at his attire—dark aqua T-shirt with khaki pants—just as it had been before the experiment. Something about it felt right, yet… wrong. He had worn this countless times before, hadn’t he? But then, why did he recall adjusting the fit of a ballet costume before taking center stage?
Wasn’t that right?
He shook his head. The memories were vivid—rehearsals, performances, the pain of pointe shoes digging into his feet—but something was missing. He stretched out a leg, attempting to recall the grace of a pirouette, but the movement was clumsy. His muscles didn’t respond the way they should have. A whisper of doubt crept into his mind.
And yet, he remembered the rush of being surrounded by other ballerinas, moving in perfect harmony. He could see himself twirling in the spotlight, could feel the firm grip of unfamiliar hands lifting him high into the air. He had been the prima ballerina once. The memory was so clear—the exhilaration, the grace—but it did not belong to this body.
Meanwhile, Barbie sat across from him, her body feeling heavy, foreign. She glanced at her attire—mint leotards with a tutu and white tights—just as it had been before. No, this wasn’t right. She should be wearing cleats. A jersey. Padding. The weight of a helmet pressing against her temples. The thrill of the field. But the thought of performing a ballet routine, the endless hours of practice, the joy of movement—that was all his experience, wasn’t it?
Wasn’t it?
But she also remembered the clash of bodies, the impact as she powered through boys who had underestimated her. The raw satisfaction of breaking past the defensive line, scoring against the odds. She had never been the best, but she had fought for every inch, for every play. And yet, her arms were slender, her legs not built for the kind of strength she recalled wielding. The disconnect made her stomach churn.
Ken watched Barbie shift uncomfortably, her expression mirroring his own unease. He wanted to say something, but what? He felt like he should be able to guide her through a plié, a jeté, a flawless arabesque, but his body refused to cooperate. The knowledge was in his head—endless rehearsals, the scent of rosin, the burn of sore muscles—but none of it translated to his physical form. His movements were awkward, untrained.
Barbie rubbed her arms, shivering despite the temperature-controlled room. The Professor had taken something from them, but she couldn’t place what. She looked at Ken, his casual attire so familiar yet so absurd, and something gnawed at the edge of her mind.
“You ready for practice?” she asked, the words slipping out naturally.
Ken blinked. “Practice?”
“Football.” She frowned, the term tasting strange in her mouth. “You know… practice.”
Ken opened his mouth, then closed it. That word—football—it held no meaning. There were no memories attached to it, no images flashing behind his eyes. Only ballet. A lifetime of ballet. A lifetime of something that didn’t seem to belong to him.
The Professor stood by, watching, silent and unmoved. His experiment was complete. He observed as Ken and Barbie exchanged confused glances, each one uncertain of what was wrong but unable to pinpoint the void inside them.
“Well,” the Professor finally said, adjusting his glasses. “You may leave.”
Neither protested. Neither asked questions. Because neither knew what they had lost.
Together, they walked out of the sterile room, the heavy door shutting behind them with a final, resounding click.
Made with Vivago AI Image Generator