0 comments/ 10757 views/ 2 favorites Times of Austerity Ch. 01 By: Nate_Walis Elisabeth prided herself on being a rational individual when it came to the misfortunes that life placed in her path, or at least she tried to be, thinking that to imagine they were the result of either a malicious cosmos or caused by a conspiracy against her individual interests would have been the first step on the road to madness. All the same there were times when it became so very hard to keep that stance, especially when they tended to happen in an unfamiliar building which resembled a labyrinth of glass and steel and well before any sensible human being would have been awake and out of their bed if given a choice in the matter. There were signs and she still had the directions that the harassed production assistant had texted to her agent the day before, but actually reading either of them would have required her to slow down and admit that she was lost. It was worthy of note that as well as being practical, Elisabeth was also a very stubborn character, and making such an admission was simply not a thing that she was willing to do until faced with certain disaster, even then doing so only with the worst of grudges. As ridiculous as it sounded now she was here, she had simply assumed that it would be a matter of ease to locate the studio in which the breakfast show was made. After all it was one of the most watched programmes on the network and pretty much served as the thing that kept the government from being able to take away its large share of the licence fee. She expected the path to almost be marked out by a red carpet. Just then she was the recipient of a lucky break, spotting despite her tiredness and frustration the familiar logo of the breakfast show on the identity card that hung around the neck of a particularly stressed-looking young man, burdened beneath a tray of coffees from a ubiquitous franchise. Elisabeth followed in his wake, trying all the time to make it look as though she knew where she was going and make it apparent that she was very much not in the mood to make polite conversation. Not that anyone tended to want to ask her anything other than potentially embarrassing questions when she turned up for an interview of this kind, for which she had a series of tersely delivered stock answers, designed specifically to kill a conversation before it could go somewhere she was not prepared to follow. What had the last such question been? She almost scowled despite herself as she recalled the smarmy little bastard of a researcher who actually asked if there was a position within the world of broadcasting that she had not either occupied or else made a concerted effort to achieve in the space of her rather varied career. Apart from the poorly veiled insinuation that she was some kind of behind-the-scenes bike, ridden by everyone with whom she could hope to get a hand up on the ladder (never mind the thought of a leg over), it was the fact that people were so brazen about making her a laughing stock amongst her colleagues that really made her blood boil. While it was true that she had perhaps one of the most varied and interesting careers in television that could have been imagined, she had also been on the receiving end of some of the worst luck to go along with it as well. Children's broadcasting was not exactly the cutting edge, but there was a certain amount of respect due to an individual who was forced to wear a smile constantly while they appeared on screen. And heaven knew that Elisabeth had been on screen long enough in that capacity to make the muscles of her face ache once the day was over. The sheer number of different programmes on which she had worked, no slaved and then heard was to be axed at the end of the current run was enough to have pushed a lesser mortal towards the contemplation of suicide. But she had not been beaten, using the ever-present world of pantomime as a place to which she could retreat and regroup and the number of times that she had come back and given her all for a shiny new programme was almost beyond her ability to count. Her agent had actually kept an accurate tally, but the one time he shared the number with her had resulted in a rather depressing episode with a few wine boxes from the minimarket nearby her flat, the only positive upshot of which was that she recalled nothing of the incident, let alone the final figure. Elisabeth was aware that she had made mistakes, such as the time she got involved with one of the senior producers and was accused of sleeping her way into a job or agreeing to the photo shoot that somehow had sounded almost innocent when the idea was described to her. But was it a crime to expect a chance at something in the world of adults, even when she had spent so much of her younger life entertaining the nation's offspring on a daily basis? She still got the occasional letter from a supposed fan that was past the age of puberty, though it felt like small redress for the damage her reputation had suffered as a result. And what was she coming back here, to the scene of the crime and into the proverbial lion's den to promote? A bloody fitness video, six hours of her arsing about in an impressive-looking gym, whilst banging on about the importance of keeping active and ensuring that the body remained young through exercise. And wearing lycra on top of everything else. How had she been persuaded to put her name to any of it, convinced that it was anything but a terrible idea? Elisabeth had always thought of herself as a dancer before anything else, after all that was what she had studied for all those years, what had been her passion in life and the only thing she could once have imagined doing until she was dead and gone. Of course there was never a great deal of money to be made unless you were the sensation of your own generation, and so there was always the need to supplement her income with more lucrative – if less aesthetically pleasing – jobs along the way. And as is so often the case, the dancing jobs had become harder to find at the same time as the more mainstream ones began to seek her out on account of the reputation she had established for professionalism and an eagerness to work. She had never harboured a secret desire to be the sainted dancer of her time, knowing that she did not possess either the waif's figure or the classical beauty that was a prerequisite for such a consideration. Instead Elisabeth was less than tall and had a little too much breast and bottom to be called waiflike, which when added to the way her nose was slightly upturned at the end, conspired to make her more resemble a mischievous pixie than a slender and elegant elfin lady. So she had done what she had done, become a presenter on children's television and made a good living in the process. Elisabeth was not ashamed in any way of what had become of her life, but all the same she was bloody annoyed at the idea that others seemed to think that she should have been. Emboldened by the memories of the way she had been treated in the past, she stormed into the studio and made herself known to those in charge of running things behind the scenes. If she had been forced to make the damn video, to endure that torture in a lycra outfit, then the least the nation could do in return was look up from their bloody cornflakes and pay attention for five minutes. Some people asked her what it was like to sit down in front of a mirror six mornings out of seven and have a professional make-up artist transform the face that you saw in the rather less glamorous mirror in the bathroom into the very different visage that millions supposedly saw on the television screen as they woke to face a new day. Nina Mason hated answering questions almost as much as she had come to hate asking them, but as both that and the routine of being made acceptable to grace the cameras was an integral part of her job, she never gave an honest answer. Instead she gabbled something to the effect of it being like living the life of a film star whilst still having her feet firmly planted on the ground, as that was the kind of bollocks people wanted to hear. In truth she hated the experience, feeling as though she was a recently expired corpse that had been dragged in from the morgue and jolted back into life for one last turn on the sofa. They were not enhancing her natural beauty or covering the minor imperfections in her face, rather their aim was more to disguise the fact that her skin was pallid, cold and stiffening where rigor mortis had begun to set in. It was not just that the early mornings were finally starting to make themselves felt now that she was into her forties, there was also the fact that she was simply so tired of the whole affair and what it required of her that she was closer to announcing that she wanted to quit than ever before. If there had been the promise of a proper home and family awaiting her when she no longer needed to be in work before the sun was up, then she would have walked out months ago. But the truth was that the boys were old enough not to need her clucking over them all the time any more, and there had been nothing but ever colder distance between herself and the man she had married for years now. Depressing as it might have been, the reality was that all she had left was her career, regardless of how much she hated and resented every moment of it. What was on the docket today? Nothing leapt out at Nina as she scanned the piece of paper on which was recorded the schedule of the programme ahead. She had to crane her neck forwards, making it harder for the woman applying her make-up to do her job, but she really did not care. Bob was off ill, which was the first thing worthy of note, apparently with a bout of the flu. I bet, Nina thought, the kind of flu you catch from a bottle most likely. But at least he managed to wrangle himself a day off, and she really could not be mad at him for it either, he was a sad-faced old specimen who did little more than read from the autocue and make the occasional joke when it came to the sports report. And speaking of the sports, she saw that he was being replaced by Kari Rimmer, who would more normally have been serving in the latter role. The fact that she had been promoted to co-hosting the entire show meant that either they were desperately short-staffed that morning, or another potentially disastrous attempt was being made to groom the woman for a more permanent place on what she called 'the front line'. Whatever, Nina brushed the matter aside; it was no skin of her nose if they wanted to try again. She could still remember the last time that the towering woman had been sat on the sofa next to her, making it impossible to feel like anything other than a little girl in her presence. The usual jokes went around behind her back about the deep voice and the phantom moustache, as well as her breaking into the industry as a sports correspondent. But Nina was more intimidated by the fact that she could not get the image out of her head inspired by her nickname around the office. By calling her 'The Valkyrie', the wits in on the staff had burdened her with a mental picture of Kari dressed like something out of a Wagnerian opera, and she was sure that there would have been more than a few takers from both genders had she offered to carry them off to Valhalla on the back of a winged horse. Most of the stuff was both routine and boring, studies that contradicted the studies they had covered only a few months ago, some god-awful boy-band that were going to represent the nation at Eurovision and were completely in love with themselves as a result, a couple of teachers against the latest round of government cuts to their budget and eager to explain the reason it was immoral and why the Tory Chancellor was the devil himself. Nothing that was going to keep her from wishing that she had been able to stay at home in bed, or even in bed with Bob, so long as he kept his hands to himself (unlike the last time they had ended up in that situation). Apart maybe from that particular item, right there between the regional news and the daily explanation from the weatherman as to why it was still raining in the middle of what was technically British Summertime. Elisabeth Jane McIntosh, a name that had some serious scuttlebutt attached to it. Those pictures had really set tongues wagging and the rumour was that she had been blacklisted afterwards, rendered toxic by association with a place that the broadcaster was not comfortable to be seen to linger in the vicinity of, especially after the number of older names dragged through the courts for crimes they thought had been forgotten decades ago. But there she was, if not on the payroll, at least being let into the building and smiled at politely whilst she was talked about the moment she left the room. In the world of television, that was as good as a declaration that she was on the road to recovery, the first step of being rehabilitated and allowed back into the fold. There might have been nothing more than a video to flog on that occasion, though who could say where it would ultimately lead? It should provide some interesting gossip afterwards, if nothing else. Nina was up and out of her seat as the door opened to admit the next person needing the attention of the make-up artists. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she almost missed the fact that it was the very woman she had been considering only a moment before. There was no way she would have actually stopped and chatted to the other woman, being too dis-interested and altogether too jaded for the show of false amiability required. Instead she took as long a glance as she was able before the door to the make-up room swung shut and left her unable to look back at anything but solid wood. Nina was adept enough at the art of feigned indifference to appear to have done nothing more than stride forcefully out into the corridor in one smooth motion, never giving away a clue as to what she was really trying to do. Bitch, was the first word that sprang into her head. Why, she thought to herself, was there a breed of younger women that made the everyday act of picking an outfit into an effort to put down those who happened to have been born a few years before them and unluckier in terms of the passage of time? A skirt that short was not the kind of thing that one wore on television so early in the morning unless there was a clear message behind it, and coupled with those tights and the top that announced to the world why that infamous photo-shoot had been so enduringly popular, that message could only have been – to Nina's mind at least – to women that she was the most physically desirable female in the room, and to me something in the manner of 'come and get it whilst it's still hot'. Little, blonde bitch. No matter what the so-called experts said on the subject, Nina refused to believe that it was all about diet and exercise. She was always in the gym and she could not so much as look at a plate of food that was not on her prescribed list of approved dishes without feeling like she had put on a whole stone in weight. To have a body like hers, she thought, you needed to have been born with it and possess some kind of freakish collection of genes that kept the weight off. She supposed that being a dancer trained with only slightly less intensity than a KGB assassin and not having had three kids into the bargain might have been a factor. But all in all some people were just lucky in everything that they did, and it was a testament to their enduring status as arseholes that they paraded the fact around in public, rather than having the good grace to die in windowless locked room, far, far away. Nina herself was pushing the bounds of good taste with the suit that she had chosen to wear, but at least knew the difference between showing off all that there was to see in one go and creating the impression that there was far more being hidden than the eye could necessarily see. It had long been her opinion that black tights and the tendency to sit with the legs apart was nothing in comparison to her own way of crossing and uncrossing legs whilst wearing the sheer, slightly shiny tan tights that she had opted for that very morning. She might not have been asked to strip off and bare all, but at least she knew how to make the very best use what she had. Trying to keep that in mind, she swept into the studio in the manner of a queen entering her very own throne room. "Your hair looks nice," Kari tried in vain to make conversation before the cameras started recording. "I keep reminding you to let me have the number of the salon that you go to, but you always seem to have forgotten it." There was an awkward silence in which it became apparent that Nina was not about to answer her. "I suppose it's hard to remember a little thing like that when you have a career and a family to juggle, eh?" Go crush a man's head with your muscular thighs, was what Nina was thinking at that moment. "I suppose," was all she actually said, not looking up from her notes. That's the temperature dropped below zero, Elisabeth thought to herself as she watched the two women occupying the other side of the semi-circular couch to the one she had been steered towards. It was not that she had expected to discover the atmosphere in the studio like that of a genial knitting circle or a close group of friends who chatted about the trails of modern life whilst preparing themselves to deal with the serious and more often than not depressing news of the day. Elisabeth had spent too long a time in the world of television to be so naïve as to think that what appeared on the screen was likely to be a reflection of reality behind the scene, but all the same she had honestly imagined the relationships between the presenters on the breakfast programme to be more like that of jaded comrades-in-arms rather than a collection of bitchy schoolgirls. "I actually considered going blonde once," it took Elisabeth a moment to realise that Kari was making an effort to salvage something of the abortive conversation she had tried to begin with her co-presenter by raising a vaguely connected point with the only other person within earshot. It was a desperate move and made all the more uncomfortable by the combination of her attempt to keep her smile pinned on and the look of resigned exasperation and disgust could be seen spreading across Nina's own face whilst she still glanced down at her notes. "But I just never had the nerve to actually go through with it in the end." "I always wondered why people were jealous of my being blonde," Elisabeth only realised that the way she had phrased the response could have been taken as egotistical after she had spoken. "What I meant to say," she tried to recover her footing, "is that I think everyone is a bit envious of the colours they weren't born with. You'd kill for dark hair sometimes when you're blonde, like people who have straight hair and want it to be curly, then you have women with gorgeous curls who run out and buy hair straighteners." Kari gave her a weak smile in response, as though to say that while she appreciated the effort, it was still painfully apparent that the other woman was trying her best to be nice for the sake of it rather than out of any more genuine motivation. "Three minute warning," Nina surprised Elisabeth by breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Three minute what?" "Just something I've gotten into the habit of saying," Nina's expression could have been described as patronising at best. "You can often hear the sound of them turning some of the equipment on in the background just before we're ready to go on air. It's one of those subtle things that's like a really low hum, if you can hear it at all that is. Kind of like the things you'd expect a dog to be able to hear and not a person." Times of Austerity Ch. 01 Elisabeth noted the sly sideways glance towards Kari at the mention of canines. "Three minutes seems like a long time," suddenly she realised that although she had been under the attention of the professionals in the make-up room, there was still an irrational paranoia in her own mind that she somehow did not look right. Elisabeth leaned forwards off the couch, rummaging inside her handbag for a compact mirror, convinced in the most irrational corner of her mind that her face had been secretly painted like that of a clown and the rest of the crew in the studio were in on the joke. "Oh it's not always three minutes exactly," Nina had deposited the notes on the massive circular coffee table in front of her as she looked down on Elisabeth, her legs crossed in a posture that managed to convey all the disdain that she had shown towards her colleague. "Could be as little as twenty seconds, and that's why it always pays to be prepared before you're actually sitting out here in front of the cameras..." Elisabeth waited for a moment; sure that Nina had just paused for some unknown reason and would get back to making her point once whatever had stopped her in her tracks was passed. But there was something in her expression only a second later that changed the aspect that she presented almost completely. Where before there had been the haughty and superior cast to her features, not even deigning to bother with moving more than her eyebrows to make her meaning clear, now a total transformation was in the process of occurring. Later the fact that it had all taken place in the shortest span of time imaginable would become clear to Elisabeth, but there and then she fell into one of those strange pockets of time in which a single event seemed to be stretched out so that it could be appreciated simply for the sake of posterity. The new expression that took shape upon Nina's face was one of surprise, at least on the surface it met all the requirements to be read as the realisation of a state of affairs or salient fact that was previously unknown to the subject in question. Though there was more to the thing than would have been required in the case of simply slipping on a wet floor or being shocked by someone who suddenly jumped out of a closet. Mixed in with the basics was a deeper and more fundamental shock, more akin to the realisation of a cold and unexpected hand being felt upon the nape of the neck and from behind than anything else. Her eyes, still supposedly pointed towards Elisabeth, were nevertheless now so distant that she might have been many miles away in terms of what was going on inside her head. Quite unsure of both what was happening and what the best course of action would be, Elisabeth glanced over to where Kari sat in the hope of finding some clue from someone who might have been supposed to know the woman at least a little better. But there was no help to be had there either. Kari was as still as Nina, though her expression was more one of physical reaction to whatever the cause of their apparent paralysis might have been. Where Nina had been caught in the middle of leaning forward to speak to Elisabeth, Kari on the other hand was set quite far back on her section of the couch. For all that her head might have been thrown back a little by the effect of what held her rigid, her hands had gone immediately to her lap, as if there were some clue there to identifying the source of the problem. It occurred to Elisabeth only in passing that there might have been an argument for at least one or more of the crew to have come running onto the set, supposing that someone amongst them had to be trained in basic first aid. But she was far too swept up in the moment to be able to even think about calling for help right there and then, and so the matter simply went to the back of her mind. Instead she made to get up and collect herself, hoping that in the act of doing so she could think of a better means to figure out just what had happened to the two women with whom she had been unhappily chatting only a few minutes before. That might be a good place to start, she thought, as she noticed what had appeared behind her. Emerging from a previously concealed hole in the cushion upon which she had been sat was an object that she could not even begin to imagine the origin of, so unexpected and out of context did it seem to be. Made of what she supposed was a material that either resembled or else actually was smooth plastic, it extended like a finger from the inside of the couch to a height of perhaps six or seven inches before ending in a rounded tip. A shade of white in colour that tended towards grey, Elisabeth could not help being put in mind of the kind of thing she had seen gracing the shelves of adult-oriented shops on the few occasions she had visited such places. Still crouched on the floor in front of the couch, she reached out, almost unconsciously to touch the thing, jumping herself when it seemed to move in reaction to her efforts, snaking around and coming closer as if attracted by her own movement. There was little sound as it did so, and its method of moving reminded her of a gadget that she had seen in a spy film, which snaked under doors and around corners like a serpent. She soon backed into the coffee table and found herself sat upon its surface as the strange device stopped just short of the edge of the sofa, seemingly unable to stretch itself any further. Her heart beating with the shock and puzzlement of the whole situation, Elisabeth remained where she was at least for the time being, safe from the attentions of the thing that had emerged from where she was sitting on the sofa and trying to collect her wits before she decided what to do next. It did not take a genius for deduction to guess that the state in which the other two women were currently trapped was rather a lot to do with the bizarre addition to the studio furniture, and as she was no innocent to the more extreme aspects of human behaviour, Elisabeth was quick to imagine what exactly happened to them. The same as would have happened to herself, had she not chosen that particular moment to go searching through her handbag, a thought that gave her relief as well as a sense of growing horror as to just what was going on here. For some reason the intention had been to get those probes – she could think of no better term to describe them – inside the bodies of all three of the unsuspecting women sitting on that couch. And she was quite sure that she knew which of the available routes the probes had taken, based on the expressions frozen upon their faces. Elisabeth looked around, staring for the first time to become concerned by the fact that no one had emerged from behind the cameras to offer a hand or explain what was going on. She might have been quicker to come to the inevitable conclusion that soon followed such a thought, had there not been the distraction of first Nina and then Kari beginning to move once more. It began as nothing more than Nina lurching backwards so that her posture was similar to the one which Kari had been frozen since the very start, back against the couch, head slightly tilted back, but with her hands cast out to either side rather than in her lap. But then both women jerked slightly in their seats, as though jolted by a small electric shock, which was soon followed by another and then another, each seeming to increase a little in length and intensity. The impression of their being electrocuted was only made worse by the rigidity that seemed to have taken hold of their limbs at the same time, legs stiffening until they were pointed straight down from their bodies without the hope of bending at the knee. Such was the force of her lower limbs assuming this strange position that Nina's shoes – a rather nice pair of expensive high heels, Elisabeth was ashamed to notice – went flying off her feet. On this occasion at least, Kari's concession to her own height of wearing more sensible flats meant that they remained in place, even as her feet pointed downwards, as though she were a restrained ballerina still trying desperately to go en pointe. Elisabeth fought the irrational urge to burst out laughing at the sight, so much did the sight of them remind her of two dolls, awkwardly stiff limbs arranged to allow them to sit as best they could upon a piece of furniture intended for bodies capable of far greater articulation. But on another level entirely, she was aware that the two women were being most likely being tortured somehow, stimulated against their will and to what end she could not tell. The answer came in a most unexpected manner, as she heard a sound that reminded her of nothing other than that of flesh being torn, rendered apart against the way in which it was intended to fit naturally together. Elisabeth knew the sound so well on account of the memories she could not seem to let go of from a traffic accident in which she had been involved in her teens, hearing a friend who had not been as luck as she being pulled in different directions during the chaos of the collision. But here there did not seem to be anything in the process of being torn apart. Instead there was definite movement beneath the skirts of the business suits that the women wore, the fact that they were cut to the knee and not more adventurous meaning that what was actually happening remained hidden from view. Elisabeth looked from Nina to Kari and then back again, sure that there was the impression of something making progress from the region of their abdomens and steadily downwards. If there had been something she expected to see emerge from beneath the hem of Nina's skirt, it was without doubt not the silky black material of her underwear. But all the same, there it was, bunched up and almost lost in the mess of her tights as they too were forced down her legs by whatever was coming after them. But the second that there was the chance to see just what was pushing them forwards, it became clear that it was not some alien thing that had come crawling down from Nina's waist, rather it was her legs themselves that were responsible. The awful tearing sound was on account of flesh, as Elisabeth had suspected, but not of it being rent apart as much as knitted together, as she could now see that the reason Nina's tights and knickers had been removed was that there was simply nowhere else for them to go. She watched as the two distinct limbs merged before her eyes into one, the space between them simply ceasing to exist as the very stuff of her thighs and then knees became united. This alone would have been enough to make her doubt that she was not simply hallucinating or even awake at all, until she caught sight of the light reflecting off the scales that were appearing on the woman's altered legs, following the progress of the transformation as though someone were scattering a covering of iridescent confetti from an unseen in the lighting gallery above. Elisabeth glanced over to where Kari was likewise rigid and immobile, and was greeted with almost the same unnerving spectacle. In other circumstances she might have been almost amused to discover that the taller woman had been wearing what looked like a very daring combination of hold-ups and dangerously provocative knickers, but under the current circumstances they were merely details of the disturbing and unfathomable whole. In the time it had taken her to note Kari's situation, Elisabeth saw when she turned back that Nina's own change had advanced a little more quickly. If there was a reason that it should be so, she was unable to imagine what it might be, save for the simple fact that the latter was of a notably smaller build and therefore maybe there was less of her to be affected by whatever was happening to them. The thought occurred to her, in an instance that made her stomach almost lurch at the realisation, that had she been sitting on the sofa when the probes – that term again, as though they were part of some legitimate and logical process – emerged, she may well have succumbed yet more quickly thanks to her relatively petite stature. She was forced to put the though aside as she watched the continued changes to Nina's lower half, which seemed a better term now that it was apparent her legs were disappearing with such apparent speed. Her calves were now in the act of being absorbed into whatever that portion of her body was becoming, her knees already having undergone the same fusing and the scales were not far behind, so that even before they reached her heels and covered the whole of her former legs save for the extremities, Elisabeth was able to make a guess at what was actually happening. It was an insane thing to even consider, but then what could be more crazy than the idea of coming onto the breakfast show and being caught up in some strange plot to insert secret probes into the bodies of the women sitting on the famous red couch before most people in the country had even woken up? By the time the shape of Nina's feet had been absorbed by the advancing transformation, there was no need for Elisabeth to speculate as to what would happen next. The broad fin that spread out from the end of Nina's body like some organic parasol confirmed her suspicions, and she noted a similar sound of what must have been expanding cartilage from Kari's general direction mere seconds later. They may have been faces made familiar by appearing on television almost every morning, been speaking to her only moments before the whole thing began, and perhaps most cosmetic of all, they may still have been wearing the smart and yet slightly daring clothes that suggested they were thoroughly modern and professional members of the journalistic community. But there was also no arguing with either the striking red tail that emerged from Nina's skirt or the powerful-looking silver one that accounted for Kari's body below the waist. They were both mermaids, as sure as they were sitting upon the couch. Perhaps the effect of such supposedly mythical creatures existing in an everyday setting was somewhat ruined by the way their underwear was still tangled around their caudal fins, but they were mermaids all the same. Neither woman seemed to have recovered the ability to speak, simply becoming limp once more as their altered bodies sagged into their seats. Elisabeth considered trying to slap life back into one or both of them, but quickly decided that she was simply not equipped to deal with even one hysterical news anchor demanding to know why she found herself transformed into a zoological curiosity, let alone two at the same time. She weighed her options for a moment, and then came to what she thought was an inevitable conclusion, under the rather unusual circumstances. Elisabeth calmly took a deep breath, stood up and then ran out of the studio as fast as she was able. The men who had been watching from the corners of the studio and the production gallery did not feel the need to hurry out onto the floor once the process was complete. Even though they were dressed as members of the crew that would normally have been working behind the scenes to ensure that the breakfast programme went out without a hitch, there really was no one else who could walk in on them and so they were inclined to take their time as they went about their duties. One of the intended targets had already made an attempt to flee the scene, but that was not going to ruin the mood of the man who was in charge of the operation. He knew that all of the exits had been sealed before things began and she would be found sooner or later, and so he declined to worry about her for the moment. He took particular amusement from the fact that he was himself dressed as a lowly runner, making the most of the way in which he had always looked younger than his years. In such a position he was able to be everywhere he could possibly need to be and yet never seem out of place or be likely to get turned away from a corner where a particularly interesting conversation was being held. A few days ago for example, it had allowed him to size up the unusual circumstance of there being three particularly diverse and interesting specimens together on the couch at the very start of the show on one morning. From there it was quite easy to schedule the erection of the dummy set and divert the required personnel to make the operation swing into life. Though the original idea had come down to him from on high, the man in charge liked to think of himself as a believer in the cause and fully behind its execution. He saw it as a neat little package that served all the interested parties very well indeed, the company for which he worked and the network with whom they had struck the deal. Times were hard, and the broadcaster was being hounded by government ministers to relinquish ever more of its once sacred claim to the licence fee and seek funding from other areas. At the same time there had been a terrible stink kicked up in the press about the generous packages offered to staff who left, golden handshakes that seemed excessive in a time of austerity. So the network was stuck between a rock and a hard place, forced to economise in radical new ways whilst still being at the mercy of high-earning stars who retained lawyers determined to ensure their clients made a tidy sum when they moved on to pastures new. What, one of the senior executives in his own company had opined to a member of the network board at an industry dinner, would their interest be in a means of making such problematic individuals simply disappear and receiving a considerable sum in the process? The network had been offended at first, then gone quiet on the matter for some time, before a discreet message was sent to say that they were at least willing to consider being talked round to agreeing in principal. Nothing could be allowed to leak out, as it was all flagrantly illegal and possibly even an action that could have been classed as both abduction and enslavement, but these were cool-headed businessmen and there was a deal to be made that could benefit both parties. The network needed to be rid of the problem personalities and the company offered a means of doing so as well as a payment in return. What would happen to the individuals in question, the network was keen to be excused the exact details, so long as they were gone for good and there would be no comeback. The company had been doing good business when it came to supplying the increasingly exotic demands of the secretive entertainment industry that existed underground and behind closed doors. In an age where genetic manipulation and extreme body modification were far more advanced than the average person in the street could have imagined, there was a steady demand for something more than mere human bodies and it was growing constantly. Of course there were examples of people who had quite legitimately signed contracts to become such things as mermaids and centaurs, making serious amounts of money into the bargain, even those who had done so on their own initiative to carve out a niche in the world of adult entertainment. But there was always the more elicit end of the market to think about, the kind of area in which it was more important who the person in the role of the entertainment was than exactly what they were doing. The company was not in the habit of deluding itself in these matters however, aware that the most prestigious names were out of their league in terms of expense and also best avoided for the want of escaping the inconvenient gaze of the mainstream media. And that was where the familiar faces of the network came into the equation. Many were recognisable to those who watched them on television almost every day, and some attracted a small following in their own right, admirers who elevated them to the status of minor sex symbols with the added advantage of regular exposure week in and week out. These were the kind of names that the company was interested in, famous enough to be in demand and yet not globally recognised. Who would be aroused to suspicion if say a news anchor or presenter from a children's show disappeared from the screen? Such people were replaced regularly or left of their own accord to pursue different avenues in their careers. Who would assume that there was anything untoward when they failed to return to the small screen afterwards? Times of Austerity Ch. 01 One thing that the company could be sure of was that those who were allowed to see those individuals would be sure to keep their silence as to what fate had had in store for them. He watched with a sense of pride as his underlings, dressed as cameramen and sound engineers fussed over the two mermaids who had been caught on the couch. They were a pair that he had been planning the acquisition of for more than six months, both earmarked for their individual qualities and sure to raise an eyebrow when they were ready to be introduced to a paying audience again. The news anchor had a small and yet loyal following of admirers, even having made polls of sexually desirable women in the past and he envisioned her as an elegant and alluring addition to the stable. By contrast, the sports reporter was an impressive physical specimen, she was more in his thoughts as a testament to the physical power that her tail would allow in the water and he toyed with the idea of having something made for her in the vein of a trident to emphasize the point. The blonde who had escaped was neither of those things, a petite and supple little package that was recommended by her apparent flexibility and all too apparent charms. When she was finally found and processed, the set would be complete with mature, majestic and mischievously irresistible being covered by the trio. He was just sorry that the final mermaid would have to succumb to the portable version of the device that was used in the process, as he understood that it was not as pleasant as the sensation of the larger model incorporated into the couch. But then if people insisted on making things harder for themselves, he could really not be blamed. The men had satisfied themselves that the mermaids were healthy enough and commenced the task of stripping them of the clothes that were now superfluous to their needs. He moved closer to watch, always fascinated with this part of the process on account of the fact that it seemed to him the final stage between what they had once been and the creatures they now were. While still dressed in their suits and with their underwear wrapped around the bottom of their tails, the two were so easily thought of as women who had been turned into mermaids and so might be changed back at any given moment. It was only when such remnants of humanity were peeled away that the illusion was dispelled and the truth of the matter made plain to see. First the tangle of tights and knickers were pulled away from the caudal fins of the prostrate mermaids, their weight causing them to slap noisily against the floor as this was done. Then the jackets of their suits were removed, followed quickly by the shirts or blouses that they wore beneath. For a few seconds they sat there in nothing but skirts and bras, as if halfway towards a strange seduction which had seen them grow tails even as they shed their clothes. Then the skirts came off with the aid of deftly wielded strip-knives and the bras were unhooked so that their breasts hung naturally upon their chests. There, he thought, job done. Where before there had been two women, now there was without question two mermaids. His attention now demanded by other concerns, he left the men to begin the job of removing them from the studio and preparing them for the journey ahead. Elisabeth almost cursed herself when she made the mistake of calling out in desperation to the first person that she glimpsed amongst the packing cases and piles of equipment that made a veritable warren out of the backstage area. She was rapidly becoming panicky as she ran and the feeling had left her almost unable to think through her actions as a consequence. The stupidity of the thing was oddly more stinging in the seconds that passed as she realised what she had done than the fear of the consequences, as though she were ashamed to have been caught out rather than afraid of what would follow. The man had looked like nothing more than an average stagehand, dressed in overalls and seemingly engaged in a routine task that involved glancing behind the cases that surrounded him in search of something that had up until that point eluded him. Of course it had, Elisabeth realised, because he was looking for her. The man called over her shoulder the second he realised that he had happened upon his prey, the actual words escaping Elisabeth's ears, but their meaning was very clear indeed, the only surprise being how suddenly she felt her arms being seized from behind as another pair of hands joined responded to the summons. Many times in her life she had been able to take advantage of the way in which most men (and even some women who should have known better) underestimated a relatively small woman, planting a strategic knee or fist in a sensitive area and then making her getaway whilst the attacker was still dealing with the effects of the blow. But here there was not even a chance of employing such a tactic as those who were attempting to manhandle her had come to the task prepared and indeed expecting to face as much resistance as she could muster. In the end, Elisabeth was limited to a frustrating game of push and shove in the confined space between the cases, trying with all her might to wriggle free or lash out at her would-be captors. It did her little good, more exhausting her energies than preventing them from overpowering her and slipping plastic ties around her wrists and ankles, which they pulled cruelly tight as soon as they were in place. Hands bound behind her back and legs effectively immobilised, all she could do was shout every piece of abuse that came to mind at them, and even that was denied her once they gagged her with a piece of duct tape, more she thought later for the sake of shutting her up than for any genuine fear of her cries attracting attention. "What are you waiting for?" Elisabeth glanced up to see the man who had first spotted her fixing his colleague – whom she still could not see, as he was holding her from behind – with an expectant and rather urgent expression. "Shouldn't we take her back to the set first?" The second man's voice was slightly nervous, looking for a way out of some obligation with which he was suddenly less than comfortable. "Why do we need to do that?" the first man asked in an exasperated tone. "She's put us behind schedule already, what with running off like that. You've got the thing right there in that box, so get it out and stop being such a wuss about it." Elisabeth had realised just what they were discussing even before she felt herself being forced forwards and over a conveniently positioned case. She fought as best she was able, despite her bindings, as she was lifted off the ground so that her torso lay over the top of the case and her legs dangled over the edge behind her. When they were done arranging her to their satisfaction, she was perhaps two feet off the floor, in the most undignified position of having her backside in the air. But for what they intended, it was simply perfect. She could not tell which of the men was doing what, only being aware that her skirt had been hitched up and a pair of cold, slightly rough hands unceremoniously pulled down both her tights and kickers in one go. Then there was the feel of something smooth and cold against her buttocks, moving inevitably downwards towards its ultimate destination, reminding her terribly of the probe that had missed the same spot merely by a moment's chance. The one hope that kept appearing in her mind was that the circumstances themselves would somehow conspire to frustrate what they were trying to do. After all, she was cold, restrained and scared out of her wits by that point, hardly a combination that would make her body amenable to such a thing. But then she thought of Nina and Kari, wondering why they should have been in any other position when they were forced into the transformation themselves. Neither seemed to be the type to be sat on the couch in the grip of some bizarre tumult only seconds before going on the air, so what had made their bodies accommodate the probes? Her answer came in the form of sudden warmth that spread through the probe even as she felt it push between her thighs, a sensation almost of electricity against her skin. No man designed this thing, she thought, it took a woman to figure out that knocking politely was more likely to open such a door than trying to batter it from its hinges. Hardly fair, under the circumstances and almost impossible to resist. Elisabeth felt as though even her own body were against her, rebelling in order to allow the preparations to be made for entry and filling her with the sensations that she supposed must have suffused those of the women whom she had watched become mermaids. There was a brief feeling of anticipation, tinged at the edges with trepidation, and then the thing was inside her, so that there was nowhere left to hide from both the effects that washed over her and the realisation of what was actually happening at the same time. Lost in the confused thoughts that crowded her mind as she tried to keep herself under control, Elisabeth was struck by the ironic thought that she had spent more than a little time in the past actually trying to pass herself off as a mermaid for a paying audience. It had been in the course of the pantomimes that helped to pay the bills once a year, when the role she found herself cast in was not that of Peter Pan or Dick Whittington, but rather the eponymous character in The Little Mermaid. The part had been pretty standard fare, a couple of songs and the usual dancing about like a prat, and the costume was nothing more in reality than a tube of fabric sewn with glittering sequins that caught the lights and ended up everywhere. All the same the memory of how restrictive the costume had been as she was forced to sit on a polystyrene rock for long periods during the show came back to her now. How strange, she thought, that at least then there was the hope of taking the damn thing off. An increase in the feelings that were spreading through her body brought Elisabeth back to the present, to the realisation that this was real and it was happening to her. The familiarity of the rhythm she could now sense in the probe confirmed to her that she was not simply being invaded by the device, but the man holding it was actually using it in the manner of a vibrator. She was being masturbated, brought towards a climax like an actress in a pornographic film or a madwoman from the nineteenth century diagnosed with hysteria. Humiliation sent her cheeks red, and she was at least glad of the fact that neither of them seemed to be interested in noting her reaction, at least at that end. It was hard for her to tell if the probe was having any effect on her apart from the unwanted and yet irresistible stimulation, and at the same instance Elisabeth was slipping into a state of self-pitying defeat that threatened to leave her stripped of all resistance and defenceless against the effects of what was happening even inside her own mind. All that she could think about at that point was she sheer unfairness of it all, why of everyone who happened to have been invited onto the couch at the breakfast show, did she have to be the one to do so when some madcap conspiracy was hatched to transform a handful of innocent women into mermaids? I'm scared, her mind was racing now; I don't want to be a mermaid. But a new feeling that spread out from her abdomen and began to move downwards told her that any such choice had been taken away from her. Elisabeth had not been born into a generation of women for whom the idea of an orgasm was either seen as impossible or else a myth propagated by the feminist agenda. She was familiar with the reality that the female body was capable of such a thing under the right circumstances and had experienced more than a few in the relatively short period of her life so far. What she now felt building inside her was without doubt wearing the form of an orgasm of no little strength and intensity, though she was sure that it served as a kind of Trojan Horse for the other things that were going on inside her body at the same time. She doubted that even had she not been bound hand and foot, there would have been little she could do to resist the fervour that was coming to a head and any moment it would reach its peak and then carry her away with it. And instinctively she knew also, that would be the moment the change would take her. The same tearing sound that had accompanied Nina and Kari's transformations now filled the air again, but Elisabeth did not feel what could have been described as pain. Instead she was seized by the first throes of the orgasm at the same moment as her thighs were pulled together by a force impossible to resist. It seemed to her that the effects of the change were linked somehow directly to the sensations that she felt, each creeping alteration to her legs reflected by a sympathetic twinge towards her orgasm. By the time the effects reached halfway down her thighs, she was almost panting for breath behind the tape that covered her mouth. Next came the feeling of a thousand tiny eruptions across her buttocks, what could only be the sensation of her skin exploding with the scales that would cover her tail when it was fully formed. They tingled as they spread, temporarily cutting off the cold air of the studio which had been reaching her exposed backside and thighs. But once they had begun to settle into a regular pattern, she realised that she could feel what was beneath her and the chill on them as well as she ever had with her naked skin. Only when the changes reached the back of her knees did Elisabeth feel the inevitable push of the advancing tail against her tights where they had been unceremoniously yanked down beforehand. As odd as the thing had been to watch as it happened to another person, it was literally uncanny to experience it first-hand. Never in the space of normal events would a human being see such rapid and total change in the shape and texture of their own body, and as such it served to alter and maybe even unhinge her mind a little. Little by little the black nylon was pushed downwards as the tail absorbed her legs, but at the point where her ankles were lashed together, it could be pushed no further and the material began to rip and tear under the effects of the transformation. By the time Elisabeth's heels merged into the beginning of what would soon after become her caudal fin, what was left of the tights simply fell away with her shoes, clattering onto the bare floor without a single glance from the men who were responsible for her transformation. The final disappearance of her feet and the subsequent unfolding of her fin was marked for Elisabeth by the peaking of her orgasm. Whether by chance or deliberate design, she reached her plateau at the very moment the tip of her fin brushed the concrete of the floor. She shivered involuntarily at the sensation of the cold surface, a ripple travelling the length of her newly-formed tail and threatening to dislodge her from the perch upon which she had been placed. Even as she cast her head back to release some of the pent up energy from the throes of her orgasm, she was aware of the weight that constituted the tail, the way it altered the centre of her balance and demanded that she orient herself in a new and unfamiliar manner. Elisabeth knew that as she emerged from the effects of her climax, she was in fact emerging also into a new state of being at the same time, and in many ways that might have been unfathomable to her in that moment; she would never be the same again. Now that her transformation was done, the men who had watched the whole process did not become more reverent towards the mermaid they had created, if anything their manhandling of her became yet more impersonal and insistent. The probe was suddenly pulled free and at first Elisabeth was of a mind to make a show of disapproval, but when they placed her kneeling upon the floor and went about cutting her out of her remaining clothes with their knives, she thought better of the idea. As each item of clothing was removed, she felt an integral piece of the metaphorical armour that had held her panic in check fall away with it. Somehow whilst still dressed in the remnants of what she had chosen to pluck from her wardrobe the night before, she was still able to think of herself as the same woman that pulled them on and set out for the studio that same morning. It was as if because they had not changed – even as her body had – they took on the same sense of permanence as the features of her face or the colour of her hair, so that now as they were taken away another element of her former self was destroyed in the process. With her hands still secured behind her back, Elisabeth could not even use them to cover her tail or else her eyes, being forced to gaze upon her altered body ever more as she was stripped naked. Once the last piece of clothing was gone, the strapless bra that gave no resistance to the blade of a knife, she finally looked down at what had become of her form, feeling as she did so the crushing weight of reality press upon her shoulders at the same time. There was no escaping the sight that greeted her, no denying its significance. Below the taught curve of her stomach, just after the point where he waist began, Elisabeth's skin gave way to an uneven smattering of orange and golden scales, which became more uniform and regular as they spread downwards over the tail that now constituted the lower half of her body and ended in a gently flapping caudal fin with which she could feel the floor beneath as well as she ever could with her vanished feet. No scrap of clothing or indignant declaration of self could disguise the fact that Elisabeth was now as much a mermaid as the women whom she had seen transformed, and her head sank almost onto her chest as the enormity of what that meant suffused her thoughts. She almost failed to notice as one of the men slipped a collar around her neck, fastening it behind like she were an animal that needed to be kept under control. For the moment she was not inclined to fight what was being done to her, afraid that worse treatment might be the result. The collar and her continued restraint gave the firm signal that whatever awaited her in the near future; she was not considered worthy of having any say in the matter. Not only was she a mermaid, she was tantamount to a slave as well. Times of Austerity Ch. 02 Martha had pondered the logic of bothering to change into something more appropriate when she came home from work, weighing up the timescales involved and the fiddliest aspects of what would be involved against the outfits that she had been mentally short-listing throughout the day. But in the end it seemed pointless to even bother when she would be obliged to take it all off again the very second that he arrived on the doorstep, so all of those plans went out of the window and she fell back on the basic choice of keeping to her underwear and just topping it off with a silk robe. Even so it was a conscious choice to opt for a plain black with no trace of a pattern or print, as she was possessed of a rather intense and often baffling determination not to conform to any kind of stereotype commonly attached to her oriental roots. The words that she wanted to hear associated with herself were more ones such as "vintage", "retro" and "cheesecake", and she had gone to great lengths to ensure that the fledgling fashion blog into which she poured her heart, soul and the majority of her free time was full to the brim with that which would make it so. It had been that way since her mother had named her Martha on an indulgent whim, aware of the way in which her daughter was already old-fashioned in so many ways, and thus started her on the road towards the current obsessions that dominated her life. So long had passed since anyone called her by the more traditional name that was printed on her Birth Certificate that Martha thought that there could have been two versions of her, sent down vastly different paths at some vital point in their until then identical lives and diverging drastically from then on. Indeed it was quite true to say that none of the people she called friends or the circles of acquaintances amongst which she moved would have known her supposedly real name was anything else. Leon knew, of course, but then that was different as he knew a lot of things about her that were not for mass consumption and as her other half was expected to keep his mouth shut and allow her to keep on being known simply as Martha. He was a marked contrast to Martha, and perhaps the man most naturally lacking in style she had ever met, leading many to wonder (often out loud when they were at the more snobbish and elitist end of the fashion cliques in which she tried to move) what the attraction could have been between them. She was happy to know for her own comfort that it was based on his genuinely pleasant and generous nature, and it also helped that he was unexpectedly good in bed as well. In all the time they had been together, Leon had never been anything but a potential hindrance to the career that Martha was trying so hard to create for herself as an independent fashion blogger. That part of her life was almost exclusively hived off from her relationship with the hapless romantic to whom she looked for a sense of grounding when things got too pretentious and self-absorbed in the world of high fashion. She in turn had long since got into the habit of tuning him out when he spoke about his own work, spending the time smiling indulgently whilst thinking about something more useful until he was finished. For all she knew he could have been making a living as a secret agent or an international arms dealer, so bad was he at communicating the anecdotes and stories that he brought home with him most weekends and evenings. But about two weeks ago, all that had changed. Martha happened to mention one of the unexpected crazes that had popped up, taking everyone by surprise and resulting in a slew of articles, commentaries and photo-shoots across the internet. Where the whole thing had originated no one seemed to know, all they were sure of was that everyone from the Hollywood names famed for their appreciation of cutting edge style right down to the hacks that appeared on daytime television at home in England were pushing it for all they were worth. Suddenly, it seemed, mermaids were all the rage. It was not a gimmick that Martha had seriously considered in the past; being in her mind more suited to people who dressed up to attend science fiction conventions or hired themselves out for children's parties. But now that there was a real and definite currency in the image, her interest had been peaked and for some time the fertile ground of her imagination abounded with ideas for the combination of a mermaid's tail with the vintage couture that normally featured on her blog. The only problem was where to lay her hands on a suitable costume. Another important string of Martha's ethos in fashion was the necessity of thrift and making every penny stretch as far as possible before even considering spending the next. Partly this was on account of her limited means, although the recourse to buying second-hand and from charity shops had become a habit that earned her a reputation as being in the know as to how a person could effectively save money whilst still trying to look stylish. While there was seemingly no shortage of companies that were willing to make and supply an appropriate tail, the prices of the best made her shudder and the simplicity of the most affordable simply would not strike the right note. She had been talking about the subject for days on end, going over the possibilities whilst using Leon as a sounding-board, not really listening to his replies as usual and instead bombarding him with her own answers to the questions that she posed. "Earth to Martha," he had said, his tone more one of amused irritation than genuine anger. "Have you been hearing a word that I said to you?" "No," she replied, aware that he only made such a stance when he had something important to say. "I must have told you half a dozen times by now," he shook his head, "we've been making those things at work for months now. They're so realistic that you'd think they caught, killed and skinned the real thing to make them." "Really?" she managed to stop herself from reflexively abrading him for not telling her sooner, holding back the force of habit with the knowledge that she had in fact been responsible for preventing him from doing so. "Yes, really." "I don't suppose that you could..." "I already suggested that to you as well," he rolled his eyes in frustration. "The security at my building isn't that crazy and I heard a rumour that one or two other members of staff already did pretty much the same thing and managed to get away with it as well." "I knew there was a reason I fell for you," she gave him a sweet smile, but then became serious for a moment. "But seriously, don't bring home one that you know someone else has been playing with, eh?" And now she was waiting for him to arrive home with the item in question, every minute feeling like another hour. "When you said it looked real," Martha looked up from the table over which she had eagerly spread the mermaid tail almost as soon as Leon had made it through the door, "you weren't kidding, were you." There was always a little cynicism about her character, making her refuse to fully credit the description of the costume until seeing it with her own eyes. But the actual sight of the tail silenced any nagging doubts about it meeting with her wildest of expectations. The tail was a work of art as far as she was concerned, from the scalloped edges at the waist all the way down to the transparent material of the fin at the bottom. Each individual scale was picked out in a deceptively natural pattern of indigo blues and caught the artificial light of the fittings in the ceiling above in a manner that only enhanced the illusion of its being vital and alive. When Martha touched the tail, it was not rubbery or cold beneath her fingers, but smooth and surprisingly warm despite the cool air of the night outside. "It does look a little large for me," despite the wonder she felt at the detail of the tail, her eye was too well trained to miss such a fact even with such a brief glance. "I don't think my feet would even reach the bottom." Leon smiled, evidently happy to be at least temporarily the one in the know. "They're not tailored to an individual set of measurements, just made to what I suppose you'd call small, medium and large, unless there's an exceptionally unusual order that needs to be dealt with. This is the smallest standard size, but trust me, when you get it on the technology built into the material will take care of adjusting itself to fit as snugly as it needs to." "Intelligent clothing," said Martha, "whatever next?" "An instant mermaid sounds pretty good to me." She noted for the first time the look of excitement that was visible in Leon's eyes, not at the impressive bells and whistles of the costume he had snuck out of work, but rather at the prospect of seeing her wearing it. Martha had been so tied up in the possibilities of pairing the tail with other items form her wardrobe and the anxiety of knowing that the costume was – in the eyes of the law at least – a piece of stolen property, that the actual idea of him wanting to see her dressed up in it because of the affection that he felt for her had simply not registered. The time available to them before Leon went back on shift and would need to ensure that the costume was in the place it was supposed to be at that very moment went into the analytical end of her mind, followed quickly by that required for the photos that she wanted to capture to enable a rough calculation, the result of which made her confident that they could pull off both of those aims and still have enough room for other, perhaps less demanding diversions along the way. When Leon retreated to the kitchen to prepare himself something to eat, Martha set about the task of actually getting into the costume for the very first time. She was not as daunted by the prospect as she had expected to be, the lecture on the subject still fresh in her ears and so forewarned of the quirks and oddities that she could expect along the way. Still it was reassuring to be able to make any mistakes that might occur along the way in relative privacy, preserving her dignity and allowing her to assume at least some vague air of mystery in which to present herself as a mermaid once she was done. Since keeping her knickers on was an apparent impossibility because of the mysterious inner workings of the tail, she decided to dispense with the bra at the same time as well. There was just something that felt weird to her way of thinking about walking around with only a bra on as opposed to the other way around, and so both went as she approached the costume naked save for the silk robe. Next was the dilemma of just how to put the thing on in the first place. Martha had seen numerous tails made of fabric and rubber that seemed to be donned by slipping the feet into a fin of some kind at the bottom and then inching the costume up like a tight skirt or a pair of stockings that covered both legs. But there was no way this affair could be rolled up and as she became aware of its considerable weight, the prospect of getting into it was more like that of climbing into a sleeping bag that had already been zipped up. Despairing of a better idea, Martha shed her robe and spread the tail on the floor of the bedroom before lying down so that her feet were near the hole at the top. From there she pulled up her knees, took hold of the scalloped edge and gingerly pushed her feet inside as far as she dared. She did not really know why she paused for a few seconds in that position, perhaps imagining that the tail would suddenly come to life and without warning drag her inside. Of course nothing of the kind happened, and she was left feeling a little foolish. Trying to forget any such unfounded apprehension, Martha pushed her feet further into the tail, dragging it up and over her legs at the same time. She found that the inside of the costume was unexpectedly soft, a little sticky and almost damp, though she was not about to be put off and so assumed that these were simply a part of the wonders that would allow the thing to adjust to her size and present a convincing appearance for the sake of the camera. By the time her feet were as far in as they were able to go, she had decided that the feeling was nothing that she could not handle and had actually begun to admire the contrast between the scales and her own pale colouring. By now the warmth of her legs had rendered the inside of the tail pleasantly warm against the skin, transforming the feeling which had been odd whilst still cold into an unusually comforting one now that it was a similar temperature to her own body. Martha noticed that something else was happening at the same time only because the sensation of warmth was spreading to parts of her legs and feet that had previously been untouched thanks to the over-sized nature of the tail. When she instinctively moved her feet whilst straining to see what was going on, it was quite a surprise to see the fin at the end of the tail begin to flap and shift from side to side, and Martha realised that the costume must have begun the process of shrinking itself to fit. Leon had warned her that this would take a good few minutes to come to a conclusion and keeping as still as possible whilst waiting it out was the best idea in order to prevent there from being any mishaps in getting the fit as perfect as possible. So despite her desire to see what was going on, Martha lay back on the floor and did her best to remain patient as the tail went about its task, with only the incessant tightening against her legs and the odd sound of the material contracting to keep her company. There was nothing especially notable about the costume shrinking against her legs, and Martha imagined that the feeling would be almost the same as being trapped inside a plastic bag as all the air was sucked out. But when the tail felt snug against her lower half, she realised that there was definitely something interesting going on in the region of her abdomen about which she was sure she had not been warned beforehand. For all that the tail had moved and changed shape of its own accord up to that point, this was where it seemed to truly come alive from Martha's perspective as it began to feel as though an unseen hand had taken hold of her most intimate parts with the intention of exploring them without a single concern for their owner. The effect was not truly unpleasant, but that was hardly the crux of the matter as she had not expected the costume to adjust itself to her exact measurement both inside and out. When the experience seemed to be over, Martha sat up and was about to shout for Leon with a mind to tearing off a strip for his failing to warn her about the way in which she had just been plugged into – for want of a better word – the plumbing of the costume. She stopped with her mouth open and changing quickly from a frown to a fascinated half-smile. The feeling was hard to express, but when she sat up and thought about what she wanted to do next there was no sense whatsoever of having to think about the specifics of moving her legs whilst they were trapped inside the tail. Instead she found that her movements were instinctive and came quite naturally, not for a moment even dwelling on the restrictive nature of the costume on her more usual form. It was as if she were not even aware of the need to move in the manner of a human being anymore, so perfect was the way in which the costume fitted her. Indeed, when Martha tried to experiment by arching up the fin at the end of the tail and where she guessed her heels to be and use it as she would have done place both feet on the ground and then stand, the fin moved accordingly, but it proved impossible to bend upwards far enough. It appeared that for the duration of the period she was in the costume, she would be limited to the range of movements that a mermaid could be supposed to enjoy. This must have been the inbuilt web of something-or-other than Leon had described, designed to ensure that whoever wore the tail would both look and move like a mermaid, she realised. And the knowledge that this was all part of the effects of the costume served to render what might have been considered a state of temporary paralysis seem somehow far more palatable. In fact it was somewhat more than that. The way in which she felt inclined to move the fin and the sensation of the passages within the costume that effectively made her able to wear the thing indefinitely were already subtly fooling her into thinking that this was all perfectly natural. It was as if the way the costume had fooled her body were also affecting her mind as well, smoothing away the fears and misgivings that would otherwise have been aroused by the loss of movement and invasion of her inner workings. Was it really that bad of an indignity to suffer for the chance of becoming such a fantastical creature? Martha was suddenly seized by the realisation that this was to be only a temporary thing, that soon enough she would be prized out of the tail and most likely never have the chance to experience wearing such an unusual costume again. She knew then that she wanted more than simply to be photographed whilst wearing it. Quickly she crawled over to the drawers and opened the one in which she knew she would find an item of clothing that had sprung to mind almost instantly. Her efforts were soon rewarded with the discovery of just the thing she had been looking for, a bathing costume cut in the style of the fifties so that it ended in a hem that tightly clung to the thighs rather than a more modern one which would have left them exposed and so hopeless for the needs of a mermaid. She was so sure that the blue of the material would set off the colour of the tail that she did not hesitate to take a pair of scissors to the gusset and make a hole large enough to accommodate her temporarily altered physique. Though it was admittedly a shame to go back on her own principles of thrift, she was sure that the effect would be sufficiently impressive to justify this one deviation from normally sacrosanct rules. Martha would normally have stepped into the bathing costume, but circumstances demanded that she bunch it up and pull it on over her head instead. The stretchy material from which it was made felt almost charged with static as she wriggled into the suit, the sensation against her naked nipples making her aware once more of how excited she had become since making up her mind to use the tail in a certain way before getting down to more professional matters in the morning. With the bathing costume finally in place, she paused only to pin her hair with a slide that was decorated with a blue and white imitation flower, sure that it would work well with the rest of the ensemble. Then she made for the bed and lay down to wait. "So, I was thinking of going for an ironically nautical theme," Martha did her best to sound nonchalant as she lay on her stomach, arching her tail over her back so that the fin almost brushed her shoulders as she moved it lazily up and down. "Swimsuits, bikini's and maybe even a little sailor hat in some of the shots." "What do you think," was what she intended to say next, but she never got the chance. Leon did not utter a single word, but simply made his way over to the bed and stared for a moment, as if he were unable to fully appreciate the sight of her now that she was actually wearing the costume. He had two great passions in life, one being his work and the other being Martha herself, and so to see them brought together right there before him was as close to a dream come true as he was ever likely to come. Knowing that there was nothing to keep him up, he had already changed into the shorts that he wore to sleep, but these were gone almost without a conscious thought as he gently pushed the end of Martha's tail downwards so that he could sit astride her. Times of Austerity Ch. 02 Not that she was inclined to resist, the effects which the costume had produced in her spilling over into her own sense of arousal at both being able to play the role of a mermaid and seeing the desire that she had sparked in him by doing nothing more than presenting herself upon the bed. Martha was surprised to realise how far back amongst her thoughts was the question of just how the tail would function in relation to the act of love-making, whether it might be a hindrance or somehow render the sensation very different to the one that she had come to know. In the spontaneity of that particular moment, such concerns did not seem even worthy of consideration and only served to get in the way of actually living the experience. Everything was instinct, but that was no impediment to them as he pushed her swimsuit up and uncovered her buttocks, covered by the scales of the costume. Nothing that truly mattered had been displaced, and Martha was more than ready for him as he entered, amazed at how natural the feeling was. It seemed that Leon was more than familiar with the specifics of the anatomy which was bestowed upon her by the costume, not stopping or needing to think for even a second as he began to move in time with her own reaction to his presence inside of her. The sex was not the longest nor was it the most astonishing time that they had come together in that way, but as far as Martha was concerned, it counted as perhaps the most enjoyable choice for an act that could initiate her into the experience of playing the part of a mermaid. It was certainly something, she thought as she fell asleep afterwards, that everyone should try at least once before they died. Martha woke slowly and with the sense of satisfaction from the exertions of the previous night still lending her mood a definite glow that inspired her to crack a smile as soon as she was fully free from the last lingering effects of sleep. There was no need to rush out of bed, having taken a week off work to concentrate on the blog, and so she did not hurry to either look at the clock or fill her head with thoughts of what would have to be done once she was up and about. The covers felt especially heavy and restrictive that morning, and at first she could not think for the life of her what was making them so as there was no more than a light duvet on the bed, the weather being unusually mild for the time of year. Martha pulled the bedclothes back in what was perhaps an overly dramatic gesture, and soon managed to remind herself of just why there was an unfamiliar feeling about so familiar things on that particular morning. It had not been her intention to sleep in the tail for fear of damaging the valuable object before it went back to the place where it was supposed to be even at that very moment, but one thing had led to another, so that by the time they were both done in, she could not have contemplated getting out of the costume even if she had wanted to. Not that she minded much the sight that she was treated to, her own naked body melting into a shapely tail below the waist, the fin at the end twitching slightly as she imagined her feet buried somewhere beneath the layers of material. Perhaps it would be good thing for a person in general, she thought, to wake up on occasion and have the pleasure of seeing a different shape to their body than the one to which they had become used to expecting each and every morning. That was the kind of start to the day that could really make you aware of the possibilities and wonders waiting to be discovered out there in the world at large. Martha smiled again, aware of the unspeakably good mood that waking up to discover herself still a mermaid had inspired, and sure that it had set her up for an exceptionally good day. While she had such good energy flowing through her, she wanted to make proper use of it. Taking the tail off was not the first thing that sprang to mind from an ideal perspective, but from a purely practical one she realised that it would be simply ridiculous to try going about the business of preparing the photo-shoot without the full use of her legs. And so with a reluctance that was almost enough to make her sigh out loud, Martha set about exploring the scalloped edge of the tail at her waist, searching for the best means to extricate herself from the costume, at least for the time being. "Aaaah," she cried out in sharp exclamation of unexpected pain, "shit, shit, and shit again!" Martha had succeeded in getting no more than the tip of her nail under the edge of the tail where it met the skin of her belly, thinking that it would be easiest to perhaps stretch the top of the costume open and thus gain enough space to begin to wriggle her legs out. She was rewarded with a sudden and rather nasty jab of pain, which reminded her of pulling out a bothersome hangnail, only magnified by a factor of ten. Nothing about the pain made any sense in relation to the simple act of trying to get out of what was after all only an elaborate costume, it was more like that associated with having a part of one's own body yanked or pulled in a violent manner. Whatever the reason for the difficulty she was facing and the pain that her efforts had resulted in, Martha could already feel herself deflating as the positive mood she had woken up with was sapped by this new and unhelpful development. Without really stopping to think the idea through, she made an attempt to stand on the end of the tail, thinking that there might have been something amongst the contents of her sewing kit or the drawers in which she kept the more cumbersome tools of the amateur seamstress that would make the task a little easier. The effect of trying to use her mermaid's body for a purpose that was technically impossible on account of the differing anatomy of the mythical creature in question and a more common human being was quite spectacular and sudden in the failure that it created. Later Martha could only compare the way in which the fin had refused to be forced into the position of supporting her in an upright position as being somewhat like the feeling of stepping onto the side of the foot and having all that weight come down upon it, threatening bones not supposed to bend in that direction to bruise or even break. Of course the end result was a lot simpler in practice, and she went toppling to the floor like a child's teetering tower of building blocks. Martha cried out as she hit the floor, more from the shock of falling and the anticipation of being hurt than any actual pain that she felt as she did so. But at the same time her attention was drawn to the way in which the small amount of jarring discomfort that she did feel was oddly unfamiliar, not quite what she would have expected to feel as her legs collapsed beneath her and then were forced to take the weight of the rest of her body. It was almost as if she were feeling the same pain distributed along the length of the tail and right to the point where the fin began, an idea that she quickly tried to convince herself was just another side-effect of the complex and confusing technical wonders built into it and nothing more. "What the hell's going on up here?" Leon stood a few feet into the room, a tray that held a rudimentary attempt at breakfast balanced on one hand as he pushed open the door with the other. "I heard a crash and thought there was someone breaking in or something." Martha looked up from the heap into which she had fallen, half embarrassed at being discovered in such a state and half relieved to have the promise of another person to lend their help. "It's the damn tail," she stated the obvious for want of anything else to say. "I can see that," Leon put the tray down on the nearest spot he could find before coming over to start the task of getting her off the floor. "We don't exactly make these things for people to go walking around in." "From where I'm looking at it," Martha allowed herself to be scooped up from the floor and deposited back on the bed, "you don't make them to actually come off either." "I should have mentioned that," Leon tried not to look guilty as he spoke. "There's a definite knack to getting them off, and if you don't know what it is then you'll really need the help of someone who does. If not then you just end up stuck on your scaley backside, flipping your fin and waiting for the next fairy tale prince to come along, or at least someone with a wheelbarrow and a sense of charity." "Let's just cut the jokes and skip to the point where you help me get out of the tail," Martha gave him a serious gaze as she cocked her head on one side to emphasize the fact that she was not in the mood for more supposedly amusing comments. "Okay," Leon held up his hands in mock surrender, "just let me have a look around the back. There's a flap that's tucked under the edge and should let me get to the tab that you pull to let the tail know it's time to stop clinging to the person inside and expand itself again." "Just be careful," Martha looked over her shoulder as he began to fiddle with the back of the costume. "When I tried to get my fingers under there a few minutes ago it was like trying to pull my own fingernails out with a pair of rusty pliers." "Wait a minute," Leon stopped what he was doing to focus on the comment she had just made. "What was that about it hurting when you tried to do something to the tail?" "I pushed my fingers under the edge," Martha was suddenly worried by the way his tone had changed from joking to serious, "it hurt a lot, that's all I did. I just assumed that it was something to do with all the stuff the tail's supposed to do to make me behave as though I was actually a mermaid." "Not good," Leon stood up, beginning to rub his forehead and then pace back and forth a moment later, "not good at all." "What do you mean," Martha tried to penetrate the odd mood that had suddenly taken hold of him. "Talk to me for god's sake; what do you mean it's not good?" Leon stopped pacing, but she could see that he was trying to think very carefully before he actually committed to opening his mouth to offer an answer. "Fucking say something before I freak out!" she pressed him further, more for her own sense of growing panic than anything else. "This shouldn't be happening," he stumbled over the words, as if they were being dragged out of him against his will. "There's nothing about the standard tails that should make them more than a bit of a pain to get off, nothing that two people can't handle." "Standard tails?" Martha did not like where this was going. "Yeah," Leon blinked and regained a little of his composure as he found himself discussing the more familiar matters which he encountered on a daily basis in the course of his work. "There are what we call standard tails and special models. The standards are just designed to tighten themselves around a person and keep them from walking about so that it's more of an experience than just wearing a lycra stocking over your legs. But the specials..." "Go on," Martha's voice prodded him better than any finger could have. "The specials are kind of hushed up," the battle between the need to be honest with her and the wish to keep the industrial secrets with which he had been entrusted was evident on Leon's face. "They're made to order and cost a small fortune, and they always get shipped to customers who keep themselves anonymous as well. Some of the gossip is that it's because they have special features built in that are way out there, things that would really make you wonder about the kind of person who'd pay for them. But the one that you hear all the time is that the specials are actually supposed to be able to create the real thing, or as close to it as possible." "What exactly does 'the real thing' mean?" Martha felt like she was about to be given the news that they had found a tumour and in addition it was both malignant and inoperable. "What the bloody hell do you think it means?" a large bubble of tension finally burst inside Leon, his voice rising as he spoke. "They're supposed to turn whoever wears them into actual mermaids, Martha. I know it sounds mad, but I've seen the kind of money that changes hands over these things and I know that if that were a standard tail, then you'd have had no trouble getting out of it at all. What other explanation could there be other than me snatching a special instead of a standard?" "I think I'm going to be sick," Martha lurched over the edge of the bed, her stomach heaving and a gasping sound filling the room as the physical impact of what she had just been told took a hold of her. Leon moved to help, thinking to hold her hair back or at least put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but then pulled back at the last moment, unsure of whether his touch would be welcomed or shunned. Instead he chose to keep his distance, fumbling in a pocket for his mobile and at the same time wondering who on earth he could actually call in such a situation. "Oh shit," Martha shook her head and looked up, "I was sick in my hair." It was the most bizarre image he could have imagined. What was for all intents and purposes an actual mermaid, sitting on a bed and complaining that she had managed to throw up on her own hair? There was surely no more strange a juxtaposition of things than a creature which was only supposed to exist in fantastical stories coming out with a line that was so concerned with mundane and unpleasant bodily malfunctions. Under other circumstances, he might actually have laughed. The van was white and although it looked almost new there was no sign on the side or lettering of any kind that could have identified it as being owned by a tradesman that would have been common to see driving around a suburban area at that hour of the morning. But it was just that sense of familiarity with such a sight that allowed it to pass by anyone who happened to be out and about or looking through a window as it drove by. A bold logo or a name might have stuck in the memory and been recalled at a later date, unlike an anonymous white van, of which there were already literally thousands on the roads at any given time. If the man in the driver's seat had been more of a consummate actor, he might have pulled out a road map after he pulled over in front of the house for which he was looking or maybe even interrogated a satnav to be sure he was in the right place. Instead he simply turned off the engine and climbed out of the van, making his way past the sliding door on the side and rapping lightly upon it as he went. He was wearing blue workman's trousers and a matching jacket, as well as a baseball cap that made it hard to really see the details of his face, and like the van, such an outfit could have been ascribed to any number of professions that might need to arrive early in order to begin work before a householder was off on the morning commute. The man rang the bell whilst removing something from the inside of his jacket, his extended hand looking slightly incongruous on account of the latex glove that covered it as he did so. Though it took a good few minutes for the sound of the lock being opened from the inside to indicate that his summons had been answered by someone inside, there was no sign of impatience or urgency about the man, who simply waited patiently upon the doorstep until the door finally opened. "Whatever it is," the young man who opened the door looked as though he had gathered himself together for the sake of facing the world, as though he would fall apart at any moment if pressed too far, "I don't have time for it now, so please..." He would have said something like 'get lost' but for the fact that the man sprayed a canister of mace directly and methodically into his unsuspecting face a second later. He tried to cry out, the natural reaction to the burning pain in his eyes and the surprise at being suddenly and without warning attacked on the threshold of his own home, but for the wad of tissue paper that was crammed into his mouth by the same hand that had rang the doorbell. The young man fell backwards into the house through the open front door and the man who had assaulted him followed directly afterwards, so smoothly and without pause that there would have been no way to either see or hear what he had done, even if a witness had been present to the act. With the same speed and professional detachment he taped the man's mouth shut and set about binding his wrists and ankles with plastic thongs that dug viciously into the skin, so that soon he could neither move nor make a significant sound of alarm or protest. In the time that it had taken the first man to subdue the one who answered the door, two more dressed in almost identical clothes to his own had emerged from the door in the side of the van. Between them they carried a cardboard box, large enough to accommodate a sizable domestic appliance such as a refrigerator or even a sunbed. But the effect was spoiled by the way in which they seemed to easily able to manage such a large and supposedly heavy item, perhaps another small point on which their ability to act might have stood up to some honest scrutiny and improvement. Without even an awkward glance at the struggling man at the feet of their colleague, the men stopped to catch his eye, not saying a single word as they did so. He held up a hand to indicate that they should wait, and then closed the front door behind them so that nothing could be seen from the street. That done, he went to the bottom of the stairs and gestured for them to follow. At the top there was an obvious clue as to the room from which the young man had come in his way to answer the door. Whereas the doors to the other rooms were half open as would normally be the case when a person left them without a conscious thought for the matter, there was only one which had actually been shut. From inside there was the smallest hint of a noise, like someone making altogether too much effort not to produce so much as a whisper and betraying themselves as a consequence. The first man nodded briefly to his colleagues, then pushed the door open suddenly and without warning. He was rewarded with the sound of the door making contact with something solid and an alarmed cry of pain that suggested it had been someone crouched nearby, perhaps attempting to listen to what was going on downstairs without revealing their presence. Seemingly keen to make the most of the surprise this development might offer, he hurried into the room, closely followed by the men carrying the box. Inside they were presented with a scene that should have been enough to make anyone stop in their tracks, so odd were the elements that came together before them, but all the same, not one of them seemed in the least inclined towards such a reaction. There on the floor in the middle of the room, still stunned from the impact of the door, was an anatomically perfect mermaid. She was petite in stature and oriental in origin, impishly pretty as could be clearly seen despite the now somewhat dazed expression upon her face. She was naked save for her tail, breasts exposed and hair far too short to have a hope of covering them as she cowered on the floor. Her tail was a myriad of blue shades, both strange and undeniably hypnotic as it moved beneath her in ways that would have been impossible for human legs. Even in her stunned state, it was clear that she had been crying. Not that any of that seemed to matter to the men who had just entered the room. Upon seeing the mermaid and noting that she was both stunned and without the protection of another person in the house, they set about their tasks as though she were no more unusual than any woman who might have been found in the same room. Times of Austerity Ch. 02 The pair carrying the box set it down and began to strip off the cardboard that covered it to reveal a different, shabbier layer of the same material beneath and then opened the top in the manner of a coffin to allow access to the padded interior, which only served to reinforce the comparison between the object and a funerary casket. Meanwhile the first man made a rudimentary check that the mermaid was essentially unhurt and in one piece, quickly satisfying himself that this was indeed the case. Then he casually pulled her arms behind her back, ignoring her cries of protest and binding her wrists in the same way as he had the man at the door. He did not bother to bind her tail, there being no point in binding one limb as opposed to two, so he settled for taping her mouth and leaving it at that. His part of the task complete, he waved the other two men over and they wasted no time in taking the mermaid beneath the arms and by the tail so that they could carry her over to the waiting box. She struggled only weakly, causing them no problems, and soon the lid was shut over her so that the box could be sealed. The last thing they saw of her before that was done were her eyes, wide and confused as the light was extinguished for her. They made their way out of the house with the same detached manner, simply walking past the young man who was still laid out in the hallway. As they returned to the van, they looked for all the world like a trio of delivery men who had carried a new appliance into the house and were now leaving with the old one. There had been nothing to see and no sound allowed to escape from their labours that would have cast doubt on that being the truth of the matter. And as they drove away, not one of the neighbours on the way out to their own cars and on the way to works even batted an eyelid. It was almost as if the van and its occupants vanished into thin air, as though they had never existed in the first place.