Reality Hopping
In this story you can hop between realities following these rules:
No more then
- 1 a Day
- 6 a Week
- 20 every 4 weeks
- 50 every 12 weeks
- 180 every 48 weeks
These measurements are based on your home reality.
Your home reality is the one where you start your journey from.
When you hop to another reality you switch your mind with anybody who is there already.
If you hop to a different reality then your home reality from another reality then:
Reality 3 contains you.
Reality 2 contains the person from reality 3
Your home reality contains the person from reality 2
If someone dies then the person whose reality he/she home reality changes to that of the person who died. (Using the example above , if the person in your home reality dies your home reality becomes reality 2. If the person in reality 2 dies then the home reality of the person from reality 2 becomes
3.)
Written by Catprog on 22 August 2004
Alterntive Scenarios from Other Stories
This is for characters from the other stories in other scenarios.
Written by catprog on 21 February 2016
Lycan Gruff from Survivor
Original Story
Written by catprog on 21 February 2016
His Editor
For ages mankind has been fascinated with the primal allure of shape-shifting. The ability to alter one's physical appearance, for the civilized human creature to revert once more into a form that is honest to their truer animalistic nature, has been the subject of many a legend throughout the course of time. Some believe it to be a curse. Others believe it is a form of freedom, to shed one's polite homo sapiens mask in favor of a physical reflection of one's own spirit. What if it were possible, Lycan thought to himself as he stared into an empty coffee cup. What if all it took was enough hope? What if all it took were one wish?
What if it were that easy to change?
"Are you listening?" a voice wafted through like a wisp of smoke over this thoughts.
"Mr. Gruff!" The sound of his name snapped the writer back into attention.
"Aye, I'm listening," he replied, furrowing his brow slightly as he squinted at the very cross looking woman adjacent him at the bar. Slowly removing her glasses from her face, his editor slowly cleaned the lenses. Something she only did when she was irritated.
"Look, Mr. Gruff, this is about your career," the editor said curtly. "There are matters that need your attention, and they need you attention now. You don't have time for day dreaming."
"You are a writer. Part of that job description means you have deadlines, expectations to meet, events and signings to attend, and publicity stunts to pull. Without you feeding your career, it will die as fast as a campfire with no wood added to it." Lycan listened to the woman go on, his chest feeling heavier and heavier with each word. The weight was so great, if felt stifling.
"When I first began writing, it was all about creating something," he said, more to the dregs of coffee in his mug than to the woman beside him. "Every time I set my pen to paper, I was free. Free to experience joy, to ride the river of my thoughts, to roll and swim through the depths of my imagination, as if nothing could weigh me down." For an instant his mind drifted back to those tales of shifters.
What if I could change? He thought. Become a reflection of my spirit; a joyful spirit, untamed and free.
"I wish I could feel that way again." As the words passed his lips, Lycan felt the world grow still around him as he waited for something to shift. The seconds ticked by, and nothing happened.
"Look, Mr. Gruff, you can wish all you want," the editor said impatiently. "But this is business and things are different now."
Feeling quite defeated, the writer lowered his face into the palm of his hand. Well, Lycan, he thought, what else did you really expect? With a long, heavy sigh, he ran his hand down his face. Much to his surprise, something unusually wiry tickled his fingers as they passed over his cheek.
"Now, back our discussion, I wanted-" stopping abruptly, the editor raised an eyebrow at the man. "Mr. Gruff, have you shaved recently?"
"Why?"
"You're looking a bit scruffier than usual." Her voice was dripping with displeasure. "Do make sure you take care of that before your next signing or your publisher will have a fit."
But I shaved this morning. Lycan thought, reaching back up to his cheeks. Sure enough, when he touched his face his fingers brushed over a large patch of wiry stubble. Well, that was certainly odd. As his editor continued to grumble- 'bloody writers and their trashy visage'- Lycan absent-mindedly scratched at his arm as he tried to organize his thoughts.
Now, I know I cleaned myself up this morning. I am certain of it. He thought, his fingers now scratching at his other arm.
It is impossible that I've gone scruffy in less than a few hours. Pulling at his shirt, Lycan began to drag his nails over his chest. And there is no way that I missed a spot that big while shaving. Why the bloody hell do I itch so bad? With frustration and concern for why his skin seemed so irritated, the writer yanked on his sweater sleeve. He felt his jaw physically gape as he looked over his own arm.
Hair, dark and slick as oil, had begun to sprout along the length of his forearm. Quickly jerking back down his sleeve, he hastily checked the other. Sure enough they looked nearly identical with dark hair growing from wrist to elbow. Something strange was happening and as he stood up from his seat Lycan could feel his bones rattling. Was it from the apprehension?
"Hey, Maggie, I need to go." He announced as he pulled a wad of money from his pocket and set it on the counter to pay for his drink. Without even waiting for the woman's reply, Lycan Gruff swiftly made for the door and burst from the café onto the city sidewalk.
Written by palantean-writer on 21 February 2016
Changes at Home
There was not much distance between the café and his flat, but the walk there felt as if it took for ages. Keeping his collar upturned, Lycan drew his coat around his face to hide the whiskers that seemed to be growing with every minute. As he passed people on the sidewalk, he kept his eyes to the ground and struggled not to scratch. The irritation had travelled to his upper arms and his shoulders by the time he had reached the elevator, and as his hands trembled trying to fit the key in the lock, the young writer noticed a peculiar discomfort in his posterior.
Slipping into his flat and quickly bolting the door behind him. With little thought or hesitation, he rushed through the common area, making a beeline for the bathroom. Something was going on. Something was very wrong, and despite how terrified he was of looking in the mirror, Lycan was determined as he threw open the door.
The face that stared back at him in the looking glass seemed very much the same. He still had the same eyes, same nose, and same shape. Except now it appeared as though he were sprouting whiskers high on his cheek, and the dark hair had gone from his arms and was now slowly making its way up his neck, poking out from beneath the collar of his shirt. And all Lycan could do was look on in confusion and fear.
What is happening to me?
This is exactly what you asked for, Lycan Gruff. A hissing little voice whispered at him somewhere in the depths of his mind. The face in the mirror staring back at the man fell as he realized - he had asked for it. In the café, drowning in hopelessness and feeling so... Could it be possible? Have I really done it? Were all those legends true? Question after question raced through his mind.
What else could it possibly be? Leaning forward, the writer rotated his head to and fro, examining the now inch long whiskers poking out of his cheek. Shrugging off his coat and pulling up the sleeves of his shirt he examined his forearms. The dark hair had grown longer, and still was travelling further across his arm. The back of his hand was hairier than it had been this morning. And was it the light in the bathroom, or did his nails look a little discolored?
'If I am transforming, what on earth am I transforming into?'
Turning on his heel, Lycan stepped out of the bathroom, fingers quickly unbuttoning his shirt. By now the patches of fur were so irritated they were burning and with every passing minute that burning sensation was spreading. Now it was up to his shoulders, spreading across his collarbone and spilling over the tops of his shoulders. As Lycan fought with himself to keep from scratching, he noticed that even though he had calmed himself for the most part his bones still felt as if they were rattling.
Written by palantean-writer on 22 February 2016
Female?
"Alright, Lycan, pull yourself together. You just-" In mid-sentence his voice cut short and his fingers slapped against his throat in automatic response. Had he just squeaked?
"What the-?" There it was again. For a split instant, his voice fluctuated upwards in pitch as if a hand was squeezing on his larynx.
Why do I sound like a bloody chew toy? Lycan thought, hobbling back to the bathroom. The discomfort in his rump was increasing now into an uncomfortable pressure. Was something hitting the back of his leg as he walked?
Pressing himself up into the bathroom mirror, the man lifted his chin to examine his throat.
What is happening now?
Fine, dark, and velvety fur had begun to grow on his neck and was slowly making its way down Lycan's torso based on the fiery sensation. As his fingers trailed down the line of his throat, they felt something quite peculiar. It felt as though something was missing. His Adam's apple was visibly shrinking beneath the tips of his fingers.
Oh, you've got to be kidding me?
At this juncture, Lycan Gruff's mind was reeling, pitching and tumbling away from his senses as it was overwhelmed by the title wave of transformation trauma his frail human body was being made to endure. And all because of a single simple wish.
I do wonder, he thought as he noticed his nails again in the looking glass, if this will all be worth it.
Lowering his hands to look at them in the pale light of his bathroom bulbs the writer took notice of how his nails appeared to be changing. The dark, slick hair had entirely consumed his hands, and the nails sitting at the tips of each one had been altered as well. Thin, white, and rather pristinely kept fingernails now appeared dark, as if somehow stained. They had also become thicker, narrowed, and longer, turning into what appeared to be claws. As he flexed his fingers, Lycan noticed something odd as well. A peculiar tingling had erupted between each digit, and as he stared down at them, the writer could see a thin membrane of skin forming in the once empty space between his phalanges. There were also rough patches of skin forming where he once possessed a smooth palm.
The world was beginning to pitch and toss like a ship caught in a squall. Stumbling like a drunk out of a pub, Lycan made his way back out into his common area. Claws gripped at his shirt and shrugged it off entirely. Somehow he also managed to undo his trousers, praying that taking off the denim would help to relive the pressure that was still escalating, originating from just above the curvature of his buttocks.
Now in naught but his knickers the man felt his body move forward, every movement an agony. Fur was spreading, each new growth setting a fire in his skin. Beneath layers of muscles, Lycan's bones were still clattering about. It had intensified so that the man's furry limbs had begun to visibly quake. Then suddenly-
Snap!
A sharp sound like a firecracker shot through the flat, and with an unusually high pitched exclamation, the transforming man collapsed onto the floor. It felt as though a bone in his leg had just been broken. A crunch came from his hand, as if it had been struck with a hammer, and the man withdrew it into himself. Within moments there were more sounds from beneath his skin. The entire foundation of his body was shifting, moving about into and under itself, as though Lycan's skeletal structure was made of tectonic plates.
As well, his skin was beginning to bubble, or so it appeared that way as he noticed his arms. There was distinct movement occurring as he started at his limbs. The irritation of the hair growth had engulfed his entire body, from the top of his head to the soles of his now furry feet. Thumping could be heard behind him. As the pain of his altering bones caused him to contort he caught sight of something hanging between his legs just as electric pulses started to strike at his loins.
Claws dug into the wood floor as he continued to writhe. Pain was everywhere, threaded into every fiber of his transforming being. He could feel every alteration being formed, every piece of his genetic code being rewritten and his body adjusting to accommodate. It escalated so greatly that the man opened his mouth to scream out in pain, but instead of his voice, the sound of a woman's cries filled his ears.
Somewhere outside the torrential churning in his mind, Lycan Gruff heard the sound of his mobile phone ringing. But his mind had let go, and with a sigh he faded into unconsciousness.
Written by palantean-writer on 23 February 2016
