Life’s Little Ironies

My dad always said, you never know where life will take you.

His name was Mathew Adams Sr., and his life had taken him all over the world, first as an officer in the Army, and then as a private contractor.

Despite his own advice, he had the future of his son, Mathew Adams Jr (that was me) all planned out. He expected me to follow in his footsteps all the way along.

But my life hasn’t gone according to his plan, as I got thrown some curves that would end up setting me on a very different path than my father’s.

Things started out just the way he wanted, I’d been an honour student, a star athlete, and I joined the army right out of high school.

Now before you think too harshly of my dad, I was a willing participant in all of this. I am sure he would have been proud of me no matter what, as long as I had done my best, but as it happened it seemed perfect for me to go along with his plans.

It was while serving overseas that the first major curveball hit.

I managed to step on an Improvised Explosive Device, which ended my military career and almost my life

I woke in a hospital to discover there was not much left of me below my hips.

Both my legs were gone to above my knees, and the less said about what was left of my privates the better.

I had really hadn’t fully processed what had happened to me when the next curveball hit.

The brass decided I’d be the perfect test subject for an advanced form of artificial limbs, ones they believed would be as good if not better than my original set.

For example, they showed me a guy with an artificial hand that not only looked like a real one, it actually could open and close, and he could even control each finger individually.

So of course I agreed, and they set about to make me a pair of new legs.

To be honest, I tuned out whenever they tried to explain to me why these parts would be so good, and in any case some of that stuff they didn’t tell me anyway, because it was classified, but as long as I could walk unaided, I was all in.

They told me they would put me under so they could actually connect the new legs to the nerves in my thighs, so one day, they wheeled me into an operating room, had me count backwards from one hundred, and out I went.

I woke up as excited as any kid on Christmas morning, and I was impressed with how realistic they looked on me. The techs hadn’t bothered to create hair, so my new legs were a lot less furry than my original set, but I wasn’t going to complain about a little thing like that.

They sent me to a rehab centre to relearn how to walk, and I got assigned a physiotherapist named Brianna, who I learned had been a drill sergeant in a previous life, and obviously had brought those skills to working me over and pushing me to push myself every bit as hard as I had done at army boot camp.

After a couple of months, I was pleased with my progress, and saw a day when I’d walk out of the rehab centre under my own power, not even needing a cane.

Then the next curveball hit.

I woke one morning to discover my new toes had what appeared to be nail polish on them, turning them bright red.

Brianna giggled at my painted toes, but a tech looked over and freaked out.

Eventually, the guy told me three things.

One, they hadn’t really given me toenails, they had just put a slight indentation on the spot where toenails should be.

Two, what was on my toes wasn’t nail polish, but the actual material had somehow changed colour on its own.

And three, my feet were almost a full size smaller than they had been when they had been installed.

I was forced to say goodbye to Brianna, and return to the base where my legs had been made so they could understand what happened.

Eventually, they told me the limbs were made of a “smart” material, and every molecule could and would adapt to the needs of the owner.

Which led to the question of why I would want painted toes, but I told them I had spent a lot of time around Brianna, and she often went barefoot to jump into the pool with me, and I had admired her pedicure.

They accepted that explanation, and figured the crisis was over.

They were wrong, as the next curveball hit, as we learned why my feet had actually shrunk.

It was to provide the material for some more changes the legs decided I needed.

I have mentioned my male bits were a mess, and they hadn’t done much with them beyond making sure I could go to the bathroom, so you can perhaps imagine my surprise when I woke up one morning to discover I now had a vagina.

They eventually told me that the material the legs were made of had taken the mass from my feet, converted it into nanobots, and sent it into my thighs to spread throughout my body, all of whom were happily feminising me starting with my privates and working their way up.

Which finally got me to admit to the base psychologist that I was actually happy about that prospect.

And also got me to admit I had subconsciously noticed the IED, and had stepped on it, hoping to die since I couldn’t handle being a man anymore.

This led to all kinds of problems, not the least of which was that by regs, I should be discharged for being transgender, but that would be complicated by the fact I had goodness knows how many dollars worth of army equipment attached to me.

Just in case you’re curious, the legs don’t give me superpowers, unless you consider being able to walk unaided a superpower, so there was no talk of me being turned into a super spy or whatever.

Finally, they offered me a job as a consultant at the rehab center, which allowed me to work with Brianna, who helped me navigate the gender transition with the same skill she had helped me learn to walk again.

Doesn’t stop me from teasing her that I now have prettier legs than her, but what are friends for?

End