Three Weeks Infected (Patreon)

'It seems like the structure of my blood and DNA has changed even more… I wonder what it is this time,' — Professor Jason Smith thought to himself, staring into the microscope's eyepiece, not even noticing how the lab coat slipped off his shoulder, revealing unexpectedly smooth, feminine skin and the outline of a new breast, which had become significantly more pronounced just in the past week.

— Wǒ… wǒ yào xiě jìlù… (I… I have to record this…) — he said aloud, then immediately bit his lip, trying to switch back to English.

— I… I have to… xiě… no… record this, — the sentence fell apart, leaving behind an awkward silence.

Fingers in black gloves darted to the laptop keyboard. He clicked the icon for the text editor but then froze. The words he himself had written just yesterday now felt foreign. The symbols wouldn’t form meaning. He squinted, straining his eyes, hoping to read at least a couple of lines from yesterday’s report. But his brain seemed to reject English altogether.

— Wèishéme… zěnme huì zhèyàng… (Why… why is this happening…) — Jason whispered, realizing he’d said it again not in English.

He exhaled heavily, his gloved palms tightening around the edge of the table, then looked up at the screen, where the cursor was still blinking in the empty document.

Bzzzt!

The phone lying on the desk lit up.

Jason flinched and instinctively reached for the device, his fingers gliding over the glass, pausing on the sender's name: Dr. Hamlin. A colleague from Harvard. One of the few who knew the professor had gone on a "research sabbatical."

The message:

"Jason? Where did you disappear to? Please call me, URGENT! It’s about your old project on quantum fields."

He stared at the screen as if it were an ancient manuscript. The letters in Hamlin’s message were shifting, blurring before his eyes, and his mind clung desperately to any familiar words.

"Jason… please… call… project…"

Then — nothing. As if someone had yanked the basic concepts out of his memory and replaced them with something… foreign, something new. He suddenly pressed his temples with his fingers — thin, delicate — but it didn’t help much. None of this fit into the usual scientific worldview, yet it was happening. It was real.

It had already been three weeks since his skin first began to itch strangely and his voice started slipping into an unfamiliar, too-high pitch. Back then he thought it was just stress. But on the seventh day…

On the seventh day, he woke up in the middle of the night and didn’t recognize his own body. There was already a clearly noticeable soft breast. It wasn’t as big as it is now, but there was no denying its presence — just like the fact that all the hair on his body had fallen out, his skin was smoother and almost wrinkle-free, and his dick had gotten noticeably smaller. All of this was happening. And that’s when he decided he had to study it himself, figure out what it was, and get away for a while.

Now, outwardly, there was almost nothing left of Professor Smith. He looked more like… hell, he looked like some exchange student from Japan or maybe China. His cheeks had become rounder, his skin porcelain-white, his lips had taken on a soft pink hue, and his eyes, though still green, had become almond-shaped. Long, smooth black hair fell over his shoulders like silk. His body had stretched out, his waist had narrowed, and his boobs made themselves annoyingly known every time he bent over.

— I need… record… zhège jìlù… (this data…) — she mumbled out loud, then angrily slammed the Enter key. The program froze. The text in her head was a mess. English was vanishing, like it was evaporating from her neurons. She frowned, squinting at the screen, trying to type at least a couple of words from the report.

"Cellular mutation phase…"? No, that wasn’t it. Her fingers stumbled across the keys, the letters came out wrong. All she managed to type was — "célià… mutè… shenme鬼东西?" (what the fuck is this?). She slapped the table, pushed back, and stood up sharply.

— Language settings… yǔyán shèzhì dàodǐ zài nǎlǐ… (where the fuck are the language settings…) — she growled, feeling her boobs jerk sharply upward under the thin, nearly see-through tank top, triggering an awkward gasp as she grabbed the edge of the table.

The pain was dull, pressing, like something inside her body was tightening and pulling downward. Her body… was it changing again? Or was this…?

— Zhège bùshì biāozhǔn de shēntǐ fǎnyìng… (This isn’t a standard body reaction…) — she exhaled, sitting back down on the stool and staring at the monitor again.

She typed "language switch" into the search bar, then froze, brushing aside strands of hair that tickled her neck in a way she wasn’t used to. Every strand was irritating.

Google Translate opened, and she clicked the microphone, whispering:

— Wǒ zài shuō shénme yǔyán…? (What language am I speaking?)

The answer popped up instantly: "Chinese (Simplified)."

— Zhōngwén… — she whispered. — Zhēn de ma…? (Chinese… seriously…?)

Her palm clenched into a fist as another pulse hit the lower part of her stomach. A dull, sticky pain rolled in, as if something had started inside — something that didn’t belong in his anatomy.

— Oh no… bù huì ba… (No way…) — she stood up sharply, grabbing her stomach, and only then noticed: a dark stain on her shorts. Small, neat, but obvious.

— Shénme guǐ dōngxī… (What the fuck is this…) — she whispered, stunned.

Her fingers began trembling involuntarily. Tears welled up in her eyes from the absurdity of everything that was happening. Jason Smith, a tenured professor, PhD, the man who used to keep all his students terrified and was one of the most respected members of the university, was losing control — and more than anything in the world right now, he just wanted to break down and cry.

Bzzzt!

The phone screen blinked, and a vibration ran across the table. The name “Dr. Hamlin” appeared on the display.

Professor Smith — or rather, what was left of him — flinched. His heart started racing, his boobs trembled under the thin fabric of the lab coat, and his fingers were trembling again, but now from a sudden wave of panic. She swallowed hard, quickly wiped her face with her hand, smearing the barely forming tears.

Bzzz… Bzzz…

— Hǎo… hǎo ba… (Fine… fine already…) — she exhaled, her trembling fingers fumbling for the green button. A voice in her head protested, but her fingers had already made the choice.

Click.

— Hello… — the voice came out too high-pitched, almost girlish, with a faint Chinese accent that she was growing to hate more with every passing minute.

— …Hello? — the voice on the other end was clearly Steven’s. Restrained, but tense. — Is this… uh, is this Professor Smith’s phone?

— Wǒ... (I...) — she breathed out and stumbled. — I-it’s… yeah… it’s his… uh… phone…

Pause. A faint click of silence overloading the line.

— Sorry, and you are… who? Where’s Jason? — Steven’s voice tightened, sharper now. — Where is Professor Smith?

— Wǒ shì… (I…) I… I am… is me… — the voice broke, went higher, accented, and it shattered any remaining sense of control. — S-Steve… shì wǒ… wǒ shì Jason… (it’s me… I’m Jason…)

Steven went silent. As if the line had dropped into total soundless void. Then — an awkward cough.

— I’m sorry… what? — he asked hoarsely. — Ma’am, could you speak English? Or better yet, just hand the phone to Professor Smith.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but just then, a sharp, cramping pain stabbed through her stomach. A warm wave spread across her lower belly, her body doubled over involuntarily, and she clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. Her other hand still held the phone to her ear, but Steven’s voice now sounded distant, like it was coming from the bottom of a tunnel.

— H-hěn tòng… (I-it hurts…) — she whispered, feeling cold sweat bead across her forehead. Something warm was already running down the inside of her thigh.

Tears came on their own. But they weren’t even from the pain — just from all of it. From the way her voice, and even the language itself, had literally become foreign. From the way her hair stuck to her neck. From how the fabric of regular panties now rubbed uncomfortably against the wet cloth between her legs. From the fact that she had no fucking idea how to deal with any of this. And yeah — from the new hormones too, which, judging by everything, had clearly started kicking in emotionally.

— Hello?! — Steven’s voice cut through the space again, this time irritated. — Look, this isn’t funny. Where the hell is Jason?!

— Shì wǒ…! (It’s me…!) — she sobbed, crying openly now. — I’m… sǐ de le… zhēn de shì wǒ… (I’m dying… it’s really me…)

— Ma’am, please calm down. Who… who even are you?! — now Steven’s voice was laced with fear. — Where are you? I’m calling the police if you don’t tell me what’s going on!

— Méi yǒu… bùyào jǐngchá… (No… don’t call the police…) — she sobbed. — Address… zhùzhǐ… I… I try… wait… please…

She grabbed the laptop, frantically dragging her fingers across the trackpad, opening Google Maps. Everything was blurry in front of her eyes.

— I… I live now… 78… Seventh Street… room… èr… room two, ok?! — she breathed out, wiping her nose with her sleeve. — It’s me… professor S-Smith… wǒ zhèng zài biànhuà… (I’m changing…)

— Professor… — Steven exhaled, and a heavy pause hung over the line. — This… this has to be a mistake. I… I’m coming over.

— Bù… bùyào… (Don’t…) — her voice cracked, now filled with desperation. — Tā hěn chǐrǔ… (It’s… it’s so humiliating…)

Her stomach twisted again, and she suddenly pressed her knees together, pulling them in close. The fabric was already soaked through. It was so humiliating, so unfamiliar, she groaned, pressing herself against the back of the chair.

— I… I’m coming, — Steven whispered now, his voice completely changed. — Stay there. We’ll figure this out.

Click. The call ended.

The room fell into silence. Only the hum of the computer and the faint whine of the ventilation reminded her that everything was still real. She slowly lowered the phone, dropped her hands onto her knees, and looked down at the fabric, now darkened between her legs.

And suddenly, the realization hit — clear and instinctive — like something deep inside her had just spoken: her first period had started.

Her boobs trembled with the sharp inhale as she lowered her head down.

‘I… I’m not a man… anymore? No. No, not yet… not all the way…’ — she thought, already feeling the next wave of cramps tighten her body, like a warning.