Dess tf

There are probably better ways to spend a Saturday afternoon.

You could play a game. Watch a movie. Go outside. Literally anything productive.

Instead, you're standing in front of an abandoned bomb shelter.

You don't even have a particularly good reason for being here.

You'd heard about it from someone online—or maybe a friend mentioned it. You don't remember. The place had apparently been sealed up years ago, but the entrance was no longer locked.

And boredom is a surprisingly effective motivator.

The heavy metal door groans as you push it open.

Inside, the air is cool and stale.

Your flashlight sweeps across concrete walls, old pipes, dusty warning signs, and corridors that disappear into darkness.

Most of the shelter looks exactly how you'd expect.

Abandoned.

Dusty.

Forgotten.

You wander deeper.

Eventually, you find something that doesn't fit.

A door.

Unlike everything else, this one looks almost new.

There's no rust around the hinges. No dust covering the handle.

You open it.

It's a bedroom.

And somehow, this room is clean.

Not merely less dusty than the rest of the shelter.

Clean.

There are posters covering the walls. Most depict fictional-looking bands, strange monsters, and heavily stylized musicians. A battered-looking amplifier sits beside a desk. Several bracelets and pieces of jewelry are scattered around.

The whole room has an unmistakable punk-rock aesthetic.

Black clothing.

Flannel.

Old music magazines.

A couple of baseballs.

Some roller-skating equipment.

Even a paintball mask.

It's like someone actually lives here.

Except there's absolutely nobody around.

Your flashlight eventually lands on something sitting beside the bed.

A guitar.

You immediately notice that it's considerably nicer than everything else in the room.

The instrument has clearly been cared for. Its polished surface reflects your flashlight, and despite the room being abandoned, there's not even a speck of dust on it.

You approach.

There's something oddly compelling about it.

You reach out.

Your fingers wrap around the neck.

Nothing happens.

You lift it.

Still nothing.

You turn it slightly, inspecting the strings.

Then you accidentally brush your fingers across them.

TWANG.

The sound echoes through the shelter.

You freeze.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then the guitar begins to vibrate.

You barely have time to react.

A strange blue light crawls across the instrument.

It travels from the strings, up your hands, and into your arms.

Your grip immediately tightens.

The sensation spreads.

Your hands begin changing first.

Your fingers become slimmer, while your nails darken into small, hard, hoof-like tips.

You stare.

Your arms follow.

They lengthen slightly, becoming noticeably thinner as a layer of short tan fur spreads across your skin.

The guitar slips from your hands.

CLANG.

You stagger backward.

Something suddenly pushes against the top of your head.

Then another sensation.

Two.

You reach up.

Your fingers encounter something hard.

Antlers.

Small antlers are growing from your head.

They're bright blue.

And they're branching.

Your ears begin to ache.

They stretch upward and outward, becoming long reindeer ears covered in soft brown fur. Little white spots appear across them.

Your hair shifts next.

The color remains brown, but it shortens and reshapes into a messy, shaggy style around your neck.

Then pale blue spreads through the tips.

You stumble toward the mirror hanging on the wall.

The reflection staring back at you is changing rapidly.

Your face becomes slimmer.

Your nose pushes forward into a short, stubby muzzle.

A small dark-pink nose forms at its end.

Two prominent buck teeth settle into place.

And then your eyes change.

Your reflection's eyes turn a vivid, unmistakable red.

Your body continues changing beneath your clothes as the transformation completes, your overall build becoming that of a tall, slender reindeer-like young woman.

Your legs reshape.

Your feet lengthen and harden into thick black hooves.

Spots appear across your legs.

A patch of lighter fur develops along your chest and stomach, while the rest of your body becomes covered in short tan fur.

Something suddenly twitches behind you.

You slowly turn.

A small, fuzzy deer tail is sticking out behind you.

You stare at it.

It gives an involuntary little wag.

You look back toward the mirror.

The transformation is over.

You aren't looking at yourself anymore.

You're looking at Dess Holiday.

The final changes aren't physical.

Something else settles into your mind.

A lifetime of memories that aren't yours.

Guitar chords.

Songs.

Baseball.

Roller skating.

Paintball.

Band posters.

Arguments with Mom.

Church.

Rules.

More arguments.

The memories don't completely overwrite who you are.

But they're there.

And somehow, you understand them.

You look down at the clothing you're wearing.

It has changed too.

An olive-green corduroy jacket.

Black T-shirt.

Black jeans.

Tall Converse-style boots with light-purple laces.

Bracelets around your wrist.

Silver rings in your ears.

You reach up instinctively.

Your fingers brush one of the earrings.

Then your tongue.

There's a small piece of metal there.

A tongue piercing.

You stare at yourself.

Your reflection looks exhausted.

Half-lidded red eyes.

Messy brown hair.

Blue-tipped bangs.

Bright blue antlers.

Reindeer ears.

A tiny tail.

And an expression that somehow already looks mildly annoyed.

You try to say something.

What comes out isn't your normal voice.

It's louder.

Rougher.

More casual.

And there's a slight lisp to it.

You stop.

The silence of the shelter returns.

Then you notice something sitting on the desk.

A handwritten note.

It's addressed to Dess.

And somehow, despite having no idea who wrote it...

You already know you're supposed to read it.