The convention hall was packed full of people. They jostled and pushed against each other, rushing from one end to the other, fighting to squeeze into one room or another. One panel would end, another would being, and the crowds would toss and crash against each other like an angry sea.
In the middle of it was one person, her senses stretching out wide and far, riding that sea like a veteran sailor. She allowed herself to be pushed and guided through the building, going where instinct took her. Her eyes half-closed, she could feel the crowd’s vibrating excitement, their dull, buzzing happiness and eagerness.
Her name was Synapse, and she was a Super.
Most superpowered people - both hero and villain - avoided events like this. The existence of Supers had been outed a few years back, and sci-fi and comic book culture hadn’t really caught up. This sort of scene was felt to be tasteless and gauche, a cheesy fun house mirror reflection of their real lives. But Synapse found it useful.
For one, crowds were good for her. As she wielded powers that were empathically fueled, being around lots of strong emotion recharged her batteries, so to speak.
Also, while she’d never admit it to her secret little social circle of fellow Supers, it was fun. Synapse had some mild shapeshifting abilities - just human, and since her powers were energized through the emotions of others, she generally had to model her adjusted form on an image from someone else’s mind. But she could shift enough that cosplay was a nifty little thrill for her.
So she’d pick out some comic book heroine or video game protagonist, hide somewhere private, scan the crowd for mental images, and poof. Instant disguise.
There was a professional element to her visit to the con, as well. Common opinion was that no supervillains would be targeting this sort of crowd - again, gauche. Baddies were all about theatrics, and taking out a bunch of nerds pretending to be fictional Supers? Pretty bad optics.
But Synapse thought it was only a matter of time. If she could have fun here, then hell - how long until some Baddie decided they could have “fun” too?
So she came. She patrolled. She reached out through the crowd, keeping a watchful eye for threats.
And, from time to time, she posed for pictures.
“That’s amazing, you look just like her!”
She smiled at the guy addressing her. He had a camera around his neck - like, an honest-to-god, old-school camera. Big lens attached to the front, big flash sticking out of the top. Thing looked like it even used film. Well, there was every other type of nerd here - why not photography nerds, too?
Synapse struck a stereotypical “heroic” pose - hands on hips, gazing off to the middle distance. It wasn’t easy to get into ‘character’ - she generally didn’t know a lot about the characters she cosplayed as. She had to rely on the general vibe she got from the people she was talking to.
“Oh, perfect - hold it just like that…”
The flash went off, and… wow. It was intense. Synapse blinked a few times, smiled at the guy. “Got it?” she asked, afterimages floating before her eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, cranking something on the top of the camera. Rewinding the film, or whatever it was you did with those old cameras - Synapse couldn’t remember. “Lemme get one more real quick.”
“Oh, sure, just hang on-” she started, but he didn’t let her finish. The flash popped again, right in her eyes. She heard herself gasp lightly, feeling her whole head sort of snap to a stop as the bright light pushed everything around for a split second.
As she blinked, rapidly, trying to clear her vision, Synapse felt something. Some emotion, something her empathic senses noticed and then just… missed. Like a snake slipping under a fence, it was there, and then it was inside. And just like that, she felt much more… not calm, exactly, or relaxed. Just less watchful, less on guard. She felt herself letting her walls down a little.
The photographer smiled as she blinked at him, watching her features change just slightly. An uninterested observer wouldn’t have noticed, but he wasn’t that. He’d just positively identified his quarry. Perfect.
Synapse rubbed her eyes, not realizing she’d lost a bit of her disguise. Her less-guarded mental state meant letting her facade slip a little bit. She was just a bit more herself in appearance now. She smiled at the photographer again, feeling warm and loose and relaxed.
He snapped another photo, and this time, he pushed mentally. He was a tech-based Baddie, with a preternatural gift for all things mechanical. He didn’t have any psychic powers. But he’d heard of Synapse, and he had a theory. As the flash seared into her mind, he pressed outward mentally with an image. An image of her, but… different. Softer. Curvier. Doe-eyed and flushed.
Synapse gasped again, eyes wide, soaking up the flash. Gone was the faux-heroic posture of the first picture - now, she was standing facing the camera, back bent slightly forward, leaning in towards it. She let out a soft, slow breath as the flash faded, and just like that, she began to change.
It wasn’t much, and it wasn’t immediate. But as the seconds passed, he could see her changing. Shifting, slow but sure. Adjusting herself to match the image he’d pushed towards her.
He grinned widely. “What do you think, Synapse - should we get outta here?”
Her heavy-lidded eyes snapped open. She stood up straight. He knew who she was! He was doing something to her! She had to stop him, and quick. She summoned up her powers, drawing on the room’s energy, her hands suddenly wreathed in psi energy, preparing to knock him through the wall with a quick shot-
The energy around her hands dissipated. Her fists relaxed, dropping to her sides. The defiance drained out of her, replaced by the powerful feelings of compliance he was pushing out at her. “Come with me,” he said, putting an arm around her waist, “Let’s find somewhere more private.”
Synapse, her will vanishing as she unwittingly transformed into the image he filled her mind with, followed silently.
A week later, in her Master’s home, The Doll was finishing her morning training.
She stood, fully nude, in front of a screen. Two bulbs hung from the ceiling, just at the periphery of her vision. They flashed, about once every two seconds. As they did, an image appeared on the screen. A woman. As soon as she saw the woman, The Doll transformed into her.
When she’d first started this exercise, it had been nearly impossible to keep up. But her Master had spent many hours with her, pouring his emotions into her, filling her up with obedience and eagerness to serve and dedication and devotion. He had scooped out everything else, hollowed out her head, gotten rid of everything useless - resistance, opinions, identity.
She was just The Doll, now.
She changed over and over again, transforming in a split second. One moment she was a tall, leggy redhead. The next, an athletic Latina. The next, a busty, tattooed punk. Again and again she changed, becoming whatever she was shown.
The Doll didn’t think much during training, but if she did, she’d have been proud. She was getting so good and becoming whatever her Master wanted. If he ordered her to go back to her original, true appearance, she would have to focus very hard to do it.
Soon, that’d be gone entirely. The Doll couldn’t wait. All she wanted to be was whatever her Master ordered.
This story was brought to you by a generous donation to the Southern Poverty Law Center. Got a request you’d like to see become a reality? Take a look here and see how you can - both indulge this weird fetish and assuage your possible guilt about it at the same time.
