Commission Story: Komma

Flashes of bright blue energy zoomed past the mech’s shoulder pads, singeing the air as steel boots clanked against the outer surface of the space pirate vessel. Arne could smell the ozone formed from the crackling electricity, even through the air filters on his facemask. Ozone and sweat. His own sweat, from outrunning the aforementioned space pirates. He could’ve turned to fight, to make a desperate stand. But, though Arne was brave, he wasn’t stupid. Against the cadre of a few dozen angry pirates, a firefight was surely suicide.

Luckily for him, the pirates’ ship wasn’t shielded from his own particular brand of skills. You see, Arne's heart did not beat, it hummed with the high-frequency buzz of an energy nexus, and the technology he wore allowed him to control it. The feline made good use of his powers to phase through walls, to warp between points on the ship, to switch places with pirates to keep them running in circles. He could spare a chuckle, here and there, but stress kept the cat's roguish side in check. In Arne's line of work, space pirates did not shoot to miss. Even a shoddy, last-gen plasma pistol could tear through his armor if they struck a weak spot. If this kept up he’d be able to escape, sure, but he’d need to be on top of his game. No distractions. Only focused on the movement of his mech-suit, and-

Arne ran face first into a wall, thudding heavily into the metal. His vision went cross-eyed and the world spun. Pain shot through his body yet again when he flopped backward, landing on his condenser backpack. Manuscript papers and datadisks came loose from the suit’s wrist storage pocket. Arne shook his head, discouraged but with renewed focus. There was no time left to spare. He scooped up the research papers and stuffed them back into place inside the metallic suit. The possum Dr. Medina was counting on him to get this research back. These pirates lifted some delicate research files from her, and she trusted Arne enough to pay him in advance. Arne was never one to back out of a deal. No one would steal from his client and get away with it.

He stood again and banged a fist against the wall to confirm what he suspected. Lead, the cheapest metal too dense for him to phase through. Of course. His mind started racing. That meant that probably this whole hallway was lead lined, and they sealed the hatches. The only way out would be through a hail of hot laser. What to do… what COULD he do? He heard the yells from chasing pirates approaching just beyond the hallway.

“Think Arne, think. If I can’t phase through the walls here I’ll just have to warp somewhere else. Somewhere safer than here… got it!” the feline said, with a snap of his fingers. A wormhole of white and green, like a spinning blackhole in space, surrounded the manul cat as light bent around his body. In an instant the feline and his mech blinked out of existence as space folded around him and-

---

He was somewhere new. Arne held his head in both hands, suddenly overcome by extreme dysphoria and a splitting headache.

“That… was new. Long-distance swap ain't supposed to feel this way. Ouch,” he muttered, trying to focus his vision to determine where he’d landed. Warping between dimensions took a toll on his powers, and the suit he used to focus them was nowhere to be found. Yet the feeling of touch he had, in this quiet, dull-colored place, had him feeling more solid than he ever had before. He put his hands down on the sides of a chair. Okay, he was sitting somewhere. That was a start. It looked like a crude computer chair, something out of an old history book, nothing like the smart ergonomic furniture of his world. In front of him was a computer screen—one of the old, opaque kinds. A half-empty water bottle and a notebook of scrap paper sat at the desk in front of the monitor. He’d warped into a house somewhere, somewhen, and whomever he’d switched with was working at a computer.

At the very least he was safe now. That alone was enough for him to be happy. The manul took a deep breath, trying to let the adrenaline still pumping through him calm down. After taking a moment to adjust his seat (it was apparently last used by someone a bit taller), Arne looked at the computer screen. It was filled with words in the same language he spoke: ‘In an instant the feline and his mech blinked out of existence as space folded around him and-’

Arne blinked, scrolling up to look at more of the writing. It took a moment but he was able to piece it together slowly… this was his story. A story about his life, and the adventure he’d just been on, as fiction, not history. It described everything, from getting his mech suit all the way down to escaping the space pirates. And now it seemed he’d escaped from this written world. The manul shook his head, trying to ignore the implications of living in a fictional world. He could think, and therefore he himself was real, and that was as far as he dared to take it.

Instead, he picked up the water bottle and took a long sip. Licking his lips, the feline sighed happily. It tasted different, but not unpleasant. More “real”, his senses told him. It was as if all the water he had swallowed in the past was just the suggestion of fluid; a secondhand experience recounted by somebody who lacked the precision to explain it correctly in the first place. This water was not just the taste of water, but water in its totality, with every bit of its essence captured unconsciously through physical sensation. Actual reality has a flavor.

More words had appeared at the end of the story in the meantime. Arne read them aloud, “ ‘Hey, where am I? What happened?’ the chameleon asked.” Predictive text, maybe? No, this seemed a bit ominous. He realized that if he arrived here, in this real-beyond-real world, by switching with another being, then someone else had been placed back into this story. Presumably, it was Arne's own author.

“Ahh,” he muttered. “It seems impossible, but it's the simplest explanation I can come up with. And now that I know, I can’t just leave this guy to his fate, can I?” The cat skimmed the notes on the desk and browsed photos on a nearby communicator. (They used to be named “Mobile phones,” he recalls.) Arne pieced together who this chameleon character was. Someone named Komma. Well, that was enough to at least get started with. He cracked his knuckles and started typing.

---

“Hey, where am I? What happened?” the chameleon asked.

His head swiveled down the hallway. Voices yelled at him. Komma didn’t know what was going on. But he wasn’t going to stick around. That would be dangerous. He didn’t like dangerous. The lead wall behind him disappeared in a puff of smoke.

“That’s extremely convenient and unlikely,” he said. Komma ran down the hallway anyway. He didn’t want to get caught. As he did the chameleon took stock of the situation. He was inside the story. His own story. Arne’s story. Except now it was his story. And it was being written by an extremely handsome and dashing manul.

“Hey—Arne! I didn't know if you exist, but could you please not ruin my story? Just stick to my outline and don’t stop writing either. I don’t know what will happen if the story is unfinished while I’m inside,” the chameleon said.

But the chameleon had no reason to worry. With Arne in the author's chair, he was in safe hands. Very strong, capable, and handsome hands.

“And stop with self-aggrandizing. This isn’t fan fiction.”

Says who? I'm my own biggest fan! It’s my story to write now. And I say that I’m super attractive, so it’s totally true. Komma rolled his eyes—don't think I didn't notice—and kept running. He ran more, faster. The evil space pirates were surely still tracking him. His shoes clanged on the metal hull of the ship, making too much noise. Hmm… uh… It didn’t help that he’d suddenly put on fifty pounds as he ran. The orange shirt he wore slid up over his rounding belly, revealing it to all. He needed a place to hide. The only place visible though was a nearby kitchen. The mess hall, of course! Surely no one would think to look there.

“Okay, don't be petty, please describe my weight accurately.” Komma shuddered. “If you're thinking what I hope you aren't thinking, I’d really rather not go into that kitchen, if it’s all the same to you,” Komma said.

Komma walked through the doorway and into the kitchen anyway. There were plenty of hiding spots. He crouched behind a countertop and waited. The sounds of pirates grew louder, and louder. Then they passed by. Running further away, softer and softer. It seemed he was safe. Komma let out a sigh of relief. That was one problem fixed.

“Okay, could you please switch places with me again Arne? I’m safe now. If you come back here you’ll be safe too. You can see your friends and Dr. Medina again—I'm begging you!”

And he meant it. Komma really did want the extremely buff and handsome manul cat to return to his place in the story. But more than that, he really wanted to stuff his face. His stomach growled angrily, demanding food.

“What,” Komma deadpanned.

Yup! And looking around, there was all sorts of delicious food just waiting to be eaten. Trays and trays of it filling every bit of counter space. A fully stocked walk-in refrigerator stood toward the back, beckoning the chameleon. He picked up a doughnut and chomped into it. The sweet texture filled his mouth. Komma couldn’t resist stuffing the rest of it in his mouth in a single bite.

“Mmmph, s-stop, this is supposed to be general audience sci-fi, not a gainer fantasy! I wrote the kink into your backstory as a joke!” he complained in between bites.

But the chameleon forgot: my story, my rules. And my story says Komma ate pastries, cheeses, breads. Already his shirt was pushing upward on that green, scaly stomach yet again. His blue jeans stretched across his hips, a thick muffin top bulging over the edges of the fabric. Finishing tray after tray of the delicious food, Komma’s stomach growled even louder. It was still hungry.

“T-The food isn't real, but it sure is delicious,” he said, gritting his teeth. One hand settled on his rounded middle. It rubbed in gentle circles while the other hand continued bringing the metal trays of delicious food to his mouth. Two thumbs grasped each piece of fruit and greedily stuffed it into his face whether he wanted it or not. After all, his stomach was still angrily asking for more. The button on his jeans popped open, letting his belly sag heavily. It settled against his thighs, thick enough that the seams split to reveal more of his wobbling green mass. His tail curled, scooting out into the hallway as it thickened and lengthened. Even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud, he was enjoying the weight gain immensely.

“BWWAAAARP,” Komma belched. He leaned back against a countertop, panting. “T-There. I finished… all the food. Are you satisfied now?”

Already? Hmm. Aren’t you still hungry?

On cue, Komma’s belly grumbled and wobbled. “Yeah. I’m… still hungry. That was kinda nice. You've changed me— I mean, is there anything else to eat?”

And because the chameleon asked so nicely, and had clearly started enjoying it, there was. The loud voices of the space pirates returned. They ran through the kitchen doorway and bounced off the chameleon’s extra wide rump. The pirates backed up slightly, confused by the sudden change to their story. Weren’t they chasing a cat, not a chameleon? Ahh yes, that’s right. They were chasing a chameleon, they had always been chasing a chameleon. Of course.

“Hands up!” one of them said, readying a blaster.

But Komma licked his lips. “Nah, I'd rather not. I’m still hungry and you’re the right size.”

---

Arne leaned back in his chair, stretching out. That was plenty of fun. But now that he’d scratched that creative itch in his head, he felt like a changed man. Great, but exhausted! He'd stop for now and continue the story from there later. He adjusted his chair and his thoughts wandered. Nothing really prevented him from just continuing to write this story indefinitely… in fact, if he ever finished the tale, that world he came from might just stop existing. Along with all his friends and family. And that wouldn’t do at all.

He hummed and ran a set of fingers over his chin. What to write next, what to write… with another snap of his fingers, the newfound author tabbed over into a new page and wrote up a title for the next chapter of the story. ‘Komma Outgrows The Space Pirate Ship.’

Yeah. That seemed right. He left an editorial note in the document and hit the save button on the document. All at once something seemed to change on him, like his perspective had shifted in some undefined way. Arne shook his head. It was probably nothing.

“I’ll be back in a bit Komma, so you just sit tight and enjoy those pirates. We’ll get into some real fun soon,” Arne the muscular, handsome chameleon mumbled. He readjusted the newly formed and oddly familiar orange shirt and blue jeans over his body and left none the wiser.