One Portland Night
By Ellie Dauber © 2020

A magical protester gets some retribution from two agents from an unknown federal task force. Warning: This is a politically-biased story. I won’t argue the politics, but I would like to hear about what people thought of the story.

One Portland Night
By Ellie Dauber © 2020

Shaylah was standing at the edge of the crowd, about forty feet from the Portland federal courthouse, when the vans pulled up.

Five dark gray vans with out of state license plates. The actual license numbers were covered, and there was no sign of any insignia on the license plates or on the vans themselves. The right-side doors slid open, and six men climbed out. The men were in camo gear with helmets and masks covering their faces. They all held nasty looking rifles, and each had a belt of what Shaylah had learned – the hard way -- to recognize as smoke grenades. There were no name patches or badges to identify what military unit they were from.

“There’s a good one.” A tall man said, pointing to her. She was a tall ponytailed blonde in a pale yellow peasant blouse and jeans that clung to her wide hips and long, shapely legs.

The man next to him nodded. “Yeah, I’d detain her anytime.” They began to walk towards her.

“Let me alone,” she protested, trying to keep her voice calm and steady. “I’m not doing anything.” She moved backwards, away from the crowd and from the courthouse.

The men kept coming. One sounded through his mask like he was chuckling. The other reached out with his free hand, ready to grab her when they were close enough.

Her eyes darted about. No one seemed to be watching. “I think that’s enough.” She whispered the words of the spell that she had been prepping for some twenty minutes… just in case. What seemed like a bit of mist, smoke from a firepot or a strand of the tear gas, drifted out and around the men.

They stopped, immobilized for just a moment. Then the taller man began to twitch. “What the hell? All of a sudden, I itch… itch all over.”

They both dropped their rifles and began to scratch at the sleeves of their shirts. In a frenzy, they pulled off their gloves and arched their fingers to scratch better. Neither noticed that his hands were getting smaller, more supple; his fingernails growing longer, turning red; and that his skin was darkening from pale white to the color of coffee with cream.

Their fingers, now delicately manicured, moved on to scratch at their torsos; torsos that were narrowing, becoming less muscular beneath the camo jackets. The men continued working on the irritation they were feeling. They also didn’t notice the two mounds growing out on their chests. Shaylah smiled when one of the men moaned as his fingers rubbed the small bump that was likely one of his new sensitive nipples.

The two men seemed lost. Their heads swayed back and forth; totally unable to understand what was happening. The taller – though they were both several inches shorter now – lifted his clear plastic face mask and pulled of his helmet.

His helmet? The face was oval, the same coffee light color as the hands. There was a purplish liner that made the eyes look bigger. The noses were smaller, and the lips full, juicy, and colored the same as the eyeliner. The face -- her face was framed by dark brown hair that curled as it grew down to her shoulders.

“I… this isn’t right.” She unbuttoned her uniform shirt. Somehow, it had become a one-piece with her pants. They fell to the ground. Beneath it, a dark pink tube top struggled to contain a pair of 36-C breasts. Her waist had narrowed, the flesh pooling around her hips and buttocks – she was packing now. She wore a pair of dark blue jeans, the legs shredded to form a sort of skirt that flowed about her very long, well-formed legs.

Her friend seemed astonished. “Matt, what… what the – my voice.” His voice had shifted from baritone to a feminine alto. “This… this is crazy… but…”

Curious hands pulled off a second helmet. This one’s face was heart-shaped now, with a mass of curls that were braiding themselves, even as she revealed them. She had a bit of a pug nose and very full lips. She was darker than her friend, almost the color of chocolate.

“Ralph,” her friend said, “you look soo pretty.” Then she looked scared from how female that sounded.

The other former soldier smiled and shucked herself out of her uniform. She wore a pastel pink one-piece jumper that showed off her full breast, narrow waist, and rounded hips. “Thanks, girl. Now let’s us go see what’s going on at the rally.”

Sgt. Matt Collier and Corp. Ralph Gates of I.C.E. were gone – forgotten by all except for stray memories in the minds of the two young women they had become, Mandella Collins and Rashida Jordan. The pair moved carefully towards the crowd. The troops had headed off in a different direction, but the crowd of protesters had grown, joined by people leaving their day jobs.

The cause was important to Mandi and Rashida. But the number of handsome men in the crowd was a happy incentive. Hips swaying gently, they walked towards the crowd.

Shaylah headed back towards the crowd, too, ready for a night of peaceful protest, whatever certain people claimed. She stopped to pick up a cardboard sign with the slogan “Black Lives Matter” scrawled across it. She was a believer in Black Power. And Black Power.