If you could only see
The beast you made of me
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free
-Florence + the Machine, "Howl"

So far, Spike wasn't all that impressed by his first week as a janitor.

Sure, there was music, but they cleaned up either when nothing was playing, or in the back rooms, like he was doing now. Yeah, there was liquor, but the rich folks drank every drop, or took it with them, and he couldn't drink on the job anyway, even if he had twelve bucks to spend on an Artillery Punch, whatever that was.

He sighed, and ran his hand over his shaven head, nearly dislodging the sunglasses he kept there. At least he got all the free slightly-used glowsticks he could find. He patted the breast pocket on his jumpsuit. Maybe Mittens would like playing with them.

He yanked the handle, then applied the wrung mop to the stain on the floor. Even leaning into it seemed to just smear it around. He might even have to try to use the mysterious liquids in unlabeled containers that were sitting in one corner of the maintenance closet. Rumor was, the guy who put them there had been a -

Something dripped onto his shoulder.

Spike closed his eyes in silent pain. Of course.

The stuff dripping from the ceiling was dark and shiny andd smelt like rubber and plaster. When he tried to get out from under it, the stuff stretched to follow him. Okay, he'd clearly need to get the heavy duty stuff.

His first indication that something was seriously wrong was that it didn't let him reach the door. It let him reach other things that were closer, but got really tense when he tried to leave.

The janitor wondered about the odds of something having the exact chemical makeup to do that randomly as he reached for his zipper. Running for his locker in skivvies might be embarrassing, but it wasn't much less than some of the patrons wore.

Except he couldn't.

The second he reached for his zipper pull, tendrils reached for it, sealing it shut in a disturbingly intelligent manner. Then they started to spread across his tunic in a way that was certainly not natural.

Right.

The goop twined around his glowsticks lovingly.

Spike tried not to panic.

Maybe he could stealthily reach for his phone.

Maybe, in the future, he could remember to put the phone in him jumpsuit instead of leaving it in his locker.

The goop reached for the mop, of all things, curling its tendrils around the shaft, then the head. Strings shot from it, reaching for his head, and he suddenly had a face full of mop.

It smelled like dirty water and mildew and rubber.

When the latex drew the mop over his head, Spike would've sputtered indignantly, barring the fact that his face was covered in the dark stuff, and, oh yes, his nose and mouth seemed to be missing.

After a few minutes spent clawing at his face in a panic, Spike noticed two things. One, he could still see. Two, his right eye was covered by dreadlocks that, oddly, looked and felt very much like the head of the mop, except being thicker and a yellowish-orange. It felt like it was connected to his scalp too, and - what was that?

His fingers traced the contours of the plastic loops on top of his head, right where his Kanye shades had been. They were shaped almost like kitty ears -

Wait. What happened to the shaft?

That question was answered by a sudden feeling of rigid pressure down the length of his spine, curving to fit him as he writhes in shock. This was followed by little electrical shocks, up and down his back, as the hollow plastic tube was grafted onto him somehow, and -

He could feel it.

He could feel his new spine lengthening, growing new bones as it thickened towards the bottom, turning into a reptilian tail that nonetheless whisked like a cat. The tube carrying some unknown fluid, pumping it into his body.

The rest proceeded quickly.

There was a hollow feeling in his torso, like it was being scooped out. Spike craned his stiffening neck, and found the central portion of his torso dripping away, like ice cream left in the sun. Just...gone. And he hadn't even noticed.

His hips moved on their own, and the pants section of his jumpsuit slid off. Beneath it, the upper portion of his legs had already been consumed by the encroaching darkness, leaving his groin a featureless expanse. The hips themselves, however, were looking decidedly full.

Strangely, Spike's first thought wasn't about the implications for his sex life, but how he'd pee.

Something pushed at the side of his left thigh, from the inside. Little points, like pushing his toothbrush into his cheek. It didn't even Bert as the three yellow spikes burst through. Or when it was followed by tubes that snaked their way around his waist like a very strange belt. He pried at them, best as he could, but it was stuck fast.

Right. The door.

The steps were getting harder now, and not just because his legs were getting more and more reluctant to obey him, despite being released from the ceiling. In addition to his changed thighs and missing intestines, the tail was whisking around behind him. Then the changes reached his knees, which of course grew more golden spikes, and then his feet, where his second favorite pair of kicks vanished into the dark muck. As it forced him en pointe he tottered and fell.

Ow.

Spike collected himself, looked down at his feet. The toes had merged into four, and were growing longer, more predatory. Like dinosaur feet, except with yellow pads on the bottom, and glowing triangles where the claws would be. For some reason, he had no doubt they could cut and rend just as well as sickle claws. He could feel his tendons stretching, his bones grinding against each other.

Focus. Legs out. That left arms.

The goop had covered his upper right arm, and he could already see something pushing at his elbow. He reached out with his left, and realized that it was already too late, that the stuff had somehow dripped onto it already, and his three fingers and a thumb were already capped with the claw...triangle...thingy.

As he examined his new paw, a rueful chuckle rose in his mind. What was the point he was doomed anyway. No way to reach the door.

But something in him refused to give up. Something wanted him to die on his feet. Paws. Whatever.

Push up on right arm. Lean forward. Brace with left. Ignore the spike bursting through his right elbow, the way the fingers on his left twitched. The stripes on his forearm. The spike on his left elbow.

He caught a glimpse of his tail, and wasted a minute staring. It had gotten stripes, much like the ones on his arm, but the most unpleasant addition was a large, well, stinger.

It was, of course, glowing yellow.

By the time he shook himself, the he couldn't move his arms. He could only sit there, arms locked, as the black liquid finished its conquest.

The final touch, of course, was a terrible, painful pressure in his chest, as a glowing orb and accompanying hose made their way out. The way the right side of his chest bloomed into a woman's breast, topped of course with another spike, was basically an afterthought.

Was there anything he could throw? No, nothing. All he could do was slowly, too slowly, rise to his feet, to reach out for a doorknob that was just out of reach, to try to cry out with a mouth that wasn't there anymore, before collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.

If anyone had entered at that point, they might've been forgiven for mistaking the shape on the floor for some discarded clubwear. At least until it rose, at which point they might've mistaken it for someone in costume. Until they noticed the gap between the creature's upper body and lower, connected only by a spinelike tube carrying liquid that was lit from within with an eldritch, unnatural, yellowish light. Or the traceries of dark, slick-looking material woven around said spine. Or the flat, amber and gold eyes that still moved, despite their printed appearance.

Frankly, if they made it all the way to the triangular plastic loops on the top on the head that resembled cat's ears, they should've already started running.

The striped, reptilian tail whisked as it started forward, hips swaying in an odd parody of a woman's gait. And inside of it, Spike felt a growing sense of horror, different in its way than the confusion and panic he had felt during the transformation.

He was moved, but did not move. He could see, but not look. And he had the sick feeling, as he was made to pad forward and open the door - stalking, really - that whatever had taken his body wanted him to watch what was coming next.

TBC

"Spyque"
By Eulalie "Nequ" Quentin
2014 By-SA-NC