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Melioration: The act or process of improving something or the state of being improved; a condition superior to an earlier condition.
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Chapter One
My name is Security Specialist Kendall Alan Karcher, Jr. As an officer for Finesse City Security, I have to adhere to strict uniform policies: a cadet-blue shirt, navy slacks, black socks and shoes. A seven-pointed brass star shield similar in appearance to a California Highway Patrol Officer shield is my badge. I also wear an ID card with my face photo plastered on it

Tonight something seems off kilter and it's bugging the hell out of me. It's not because I have a trainee tonight, because my job is training patrol officers. Officer Johnston isn't the source of my feelings of high strangeness at all; she is a welcome ride-along. She is good company and she isn't bad on the eyes either.

I am fifty-three, old enough to be her father. She just mentioned to me that she just turned twenty-one so I realize that I must be more like her grandfather than her uncle. Hell, time sure flies once one reaches their thirties and beyond. I'd give anything to get my twenties back.

Tonight is proving interesting. It has to be one of the foggiest nights of the year. Although this route can be accomplished utilizing surface streets, two or three times we'll have to use the interstates and that causes me to curse under my breath. I try to never use off-color language around my trainees, especially the pretty ones like Jessica.

One of Finesse City's largest client sites contains twenty-five buildings and several small park areas utilized for lunch-time picnics by employees of the various companies here. One occasion several months back, I could have sworn I saw a ghost setting at one of the tables. She dressed as if she was going to a party in a little black dress and beautiful red hair. I wanted to get a better glimpse of her but when my headlights hit her she disappeared into thin air.

We have just come time to that park area. We have to hit the RFID (Radio Frequency Identifier) disks that let the Finesse “big boys” keep track of each officer's integrity. If any us underlings fails to hit a disk, we risk hell from the old turd who relieved the former supervisor who was more forgiving in that regards.

I steer the brand new white 2010 Toyota Tacoma that is my squad vehicle along the road until we are closest to the RFID disk. I have stressed the fact to Officer Johnston that we must hit each and every chip on our manifest. If she wasn't with me, however, I probably would have skipped it to cancel out the chance of running into the ghost girl.

Officer Johnston and I exit our vehicle and I show her the location of the disk. For me the disk wasn't really high on the pole. I stand six-foot three-inches tall and can reach almost seven-feet into the air. My companion, however, is lucky if she can touch it seeing as she is almost a foot shorter than I am.

I place the RFID disk scanning reader against the disk. A beep and a vibration signals that we have registered our presence there. As I remove the scanner from its mark, I feel eerier than I have in my life. It's like I feel like passing out or something. I am able to recover but things just don't feel normal.

Officer Johnston and I turn to walk back to the vehicle. I am startled when I see the Toyota because it has changed. It is still a Tacoma but instead of being white, it is now black with white doors and logo has mutated into one more elegant than our plain-vanilla information. Instead of block letters, it utilizes a wonderful script where that would be appropriate. I rub my eyes.

Oddly, I don't feel that the vehicle is the only thing that changed. As I hold my hand out in front of me to examine the readout on the RFID disk scanner,, my nails are longer and lacquered a deep shade of a very pretty red. This startles me. I only wear nail lacquer when I am at home alone in my condo. When I apply it myself it is okay, but my nails are beautifully manicured.

I glance over to Officer Johnston and she smiles at me. She shows no sign of being startled. I do not know what the rest of me looks like so I start explaining RFID disks to her. As I began to speak, it is someone else who is speaking and not me. My raspy bass utterances have been replaced by a luscious soprano tone. I cleared my throat to speak again. Soprano.

Soprano?

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I struggle to keep my trainee from sensing my angst. I glance at her, noticing that her uniform has changed. She is wearing a black blouse, black skirt, dark nylons and sensible black pump. Her shield remains the same seven-pointed star but she now wears a brass name tag, “J. JOHNSTON” and no photo ID badge.

I rub my eyes again. As I bring my hand back toward my body I notice black smears on my knuckles and finger pads. Officer Johnston mentions that I just ruined my makeup. She offers to help me touch it up, we just need to find a ladies' room.

Ladies' room?

Why would I go into a ladies' room? I am a guy. I don't use ladies' rooms.

I raise my arms and notice that I am no longer wearing a long-sleeved cadet-blue shirt or navy slacks. Like Officer Johnston, I am wearing the exact same uniform as she. My arms and hands seem smaller and much shorter. My fingers are long and slender, not the short stubby ones I've grown up with.

I feel like I'm coming undone.

I reach up to my head and discover that, where I had began the night sporting a shaved head covered by a Finesse City Security baseball cap, my head is covered in longish hair done up in some sort of braid.

I feel for my badge and discover that I now have breasts. I make like I am straightening out my shirt and inch my way downward to discover I have hips. I have an ass too, and a fairly ample one by the feeling of it.

I try to keep from crying. If what was happening to me is for real, and not a dream or hallucination, my tears would only mean that all of his makeup would have to totally be redone.

I've also noticed, after hitting the RFID disk, that I seem shorter. I turn around to show Officer Johnston, again, how to hit the disk. I have a hell of a time reaching it. What is happening to me? I don't want to cry but it is really hard keeping from doing so.

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When we return to the vehicle, it talks to me, I think.

...OFFICER KARDASHIAN, SHALL I START MY ENGINE?...

I am really starting to freak at this point. Who in the heck is Officer Kardashian? I am a big fan of Kim Kardashian, but she is a famous and beautiful reality TV star.

I stand by the door for a moment wondering if the truck was going to speak to me again. And since when do trucks talk? There was Knight Rider but that was a TV show when I was a teenager.

Since the truck says nothing, so I open the door and the interior is much different than before. The steering wheel is nowhere to be found on either side of the vehicle.

Huh?

What gives?

There are seats to set on and a pair of fairly large monitors, one facing me and one facing Officer Johnston. I am looking at my screen when a picture of Kim Kardashian appears on it.

I can't watch television now, I've got to train Officer Johnston. She must think I've totally lost it.

...SHALL WE PROCEED ON WITH THE MANIFEST, OFFICER KARDASHIAN? SHALL YOU DRIVE OR DO YOU WISH TO SWITCH CONTROLS TO YOUR TRAINEE? PERHAPS YOU'D LIKE ME TO DELIVER YOU TO THE NEXT DISK?...

The computer will not shut up.

“Am I Officer Kardashian?”

Officer Johnston giggles and affirms that I am, indeed, Officer Kardashian, her training officer.

“Of course I am.”

I make like I know what I'm doing.

“Just checking this thing out to see if it's working.”

I start to explain that we just got these vehicles and the previous ones were old-fashioned drive-it-yourself-without-aid-from-a-computer type vehicles. I had no idea if what I was saying was true but Officer Johnston seemed to be soaking it all in.

“Tell me what you have, Tacoma.”

The Tacoma reads out instant information about it's performance: the fuel tank was full, engine temperature was normal and tires were in good condition. It also knew the officers in its possession: two females, one thirty years old and the other, twenty-one.

“Who am I?”

...FINESSE CITY SECURITY SPECIALIST KIMBERLY NOEL KARDASHIAN. PATROL ROUTE TRAINER. 30 YEARS OLD. 5'3” TALL. 117 LBS. 35D-26-40. BROWN EYES. BROWN HAIR. PRESENT BODY TEMPERATURE: 99 DEGREES. WITHIN PARAMETERS. TRAINING OFFICER JESSICA ANNE JOHNSTON, AGED TWENTY-ONE YEARS...

“Thank you Tacoma. That will be all. I'll drive.”

But how?

No steering wheel.

No sooner do I said that I'll drive than a steering wheel materializes in front of me.

Huh?

Wow!

“Tacoma, what is today?”

...OFFICER KARDASHIAN, IT IS FRIDAY, DECEMBER 10, 2010. CURRENT TIME IS 2234 HOURS...

“Thank you, Tacoma.”

Officer Johnston looks at me and giggles.

“You are such a neat training officer.”

I smile.

Officer Johnston, is checking her makeup on her computer screen.

“Too bad they haven't advanced these Tacomas so far as to be able to apply your makeup for you.”

Now I was the one giggling at her remark.

“Has anything changed about me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure, Jessica?”

“You're just as cute as when we met at beginning of shift.”

“Compliments will earn you Brownie points!”

We both giggle.

“Let's finish this site and we can take a break.”

“Then I can help you fix your makeup... if you still want my help!”

“Thanks Jessica! I would. Besides, I like the way you did your eyes. Fix mine like that and I'll tell the old man you are the best trainee I've ever had!”

She smiles.
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