The green light was a beautiful, possessive thing. Brock watched, his heart hammering in his chest, as Misty’s scream was cut short. Her body, so full of fire and life just moments ago, buckled as if her bones had turned to water. There was a faint, shimmering sound as her essence, her very soul, was ripped from its vessel and stored away in the costume gun. The deflated skin of the girl he’d obsessed over for years collapsed into a heap of empty clothes.
He didn't hesitate. This was his moment, the culmination of years of quiet pining and simmering resentment. He picked up the limp, weightless form, the skin cool and pliant in his hands. He peeled away the shorts and crop top, revealing the pale, hollow shell beneath. Just like Ash had done, he found the incision on her back and opened it. A wave of hot, musky steam, uniquely Misty’s scent, washed over him, and it was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever smelled.
With a deep, shuddering breath, Brock began the process. He slipped his large, calloused feet into the delicate shells of her own.
‘All those years walking behind you, Misty,’ he thought, his own mind a swirling vortex of desire and justification. ‘All those miles through Kanto, Johto… I was always the steady one, the reliable one, right there at your side. Ash was always running ahead, chasing some new badge, barely looking back. But I was there. I saw every time you stumbled. I noticed every time you were tired. These legs… they should have been walking with me.’
He pushed his legs deeper, the sticky mucus of her interior clinging to him as he guided his knees and thighs into place. Her fine, round ass, a feature he had admittedly admired from a distance, was now just empty skin waiting to be filled by him. He settled his hips into hers, a perfect, snug fit.
‘He never appreciated you,’ Brock’s thoughts grew darker, more possessive. ‘He had all this… this perfection… and he treated you like a nuisance. A sidekick. I would have treated you like a queen. I cooked for you, cared for you, tried to protect you. And you just… looked right through me. Always for Ash.’
Next, he slid his arms into hers. His thick, muscular arms filled her slender limbs, stretching the skin tight. He wiggled his fingers, feeling them settle into her own. He could feel the faint calluses on her fingertips, the product of years gripping a fishing rod with fierce determination. It was an intimate detail he was sure Ash had never noticed.
‘I tried to hold your hand so many times,’ he mused, a bitter pang echoing in his mind. ‘A clumsy joke, a helping hand over a ledge… any excuse. You always pulled away. Now… I’ll never have to let go.’
Finally, the last, most intimate invasion. He ducked his head and plunged it into the hollow cavity of her skull. It was a disorienting, sensual slide. For a moment, there was only darkness and the hot, humid air within. Then, he aligned his eyes with her empty sockets, his mouth with her slack lips, his tongue with hers. He was in. Fully. A perfect, seamless fit. The empty shell of Misty was now filled to capacity by Brock.
He held the costume gun, the canister containing Misty’s terrified, struggling consciousness, to the side of his/her new neck. With a click, the syringe deployed. Her essence flooded back in, but not to reclaim control. It was merely data now, fuel for the transformation.
The feeling was electric. Brock felt a wave of agony and ecstasy as his own body began to dissolve, to melt and remold itself within the confines of her skin. His bones cracked and reshaped, his muscles liquefied and reformed into a softer, feminine tone. His male organs retracted with a sickening lurch, replaced by the intricate, alien architecture of a woman. The skin wasn't a suit anymore; it was fusing with him. Her memories flooded his mind—childhood in Cerulean City, the anger at her sisters, the thrill of a Pokémon battle, every frustrating, wonderful, infuriating moment with Ash.
And beneath it all, he could feel her. A tiny, silent scream in the back of her own skull. A caged consciousness, aware of everything. She was a prisoner in her own body, and he was the warden. He could feel her terror, her violation, her impotent fury. It only made the experience more potent.
The transformation completed. Her DD breasts swelled against the thin fabric of the crop top, firm and perky. Her ass became round and full, pressing against the denim of her shorts. He opened his eyes—her eyes—and the world was a shade different, seen through emerald irises.
He, now she, walked unsteadily to a nearby puddle, a remnant of a recent rain. She stared down at her reflection. It was Misty. Perfect, beautiful, fiery Misty. But the eyes held a new, predatory cunning.
“Hello, Misty,” she said, and Misty’s own voice, melodic and sharp, came out. He could feel Misty’s real mind recoil in horror at the sound. She touched her face, her soft cheek. She ran a hand down her stomach, feeling the tight abs, then lower, a possessive, claiming touch.
‘You feel that, Misty?’ he thought, directing it at the trapped consciousness within. ‘This is my body now. I’ll take better care of it than you ever did. I’ll be a better Misty than you ever were. Ash will come back, apologizing, and this time… I’ll know exactly how to handle him. How to make him see what he missed.’
A slow, cruel smile spread across Misty’s lips. It was Brock’s smile on her face.
He could feel her frantic, desperate struggle, the pure, undiluted horror of her situation. It was a faint, buzzing vibration deep within him. He had her. All of her. Her body, her memories, her voice. Everything but the soul he had locked away.
He drew his/her arm back, ready to hurl the device into the obscurity of the nearby woods, to seal his new existence forever.
“Misty, wait!”
The door to the room flew open. Ash stood there, panting, his face a mask of guilt and desperation. He must have run back. “Misty, I… I can’t just leave like this. I’m so, so sorry.”
Brock’s mind worked in an instant. The throw was aborted. His plan shifted with predatory speed. He had to perform. This was the ultimate test. He immediately let Misty’s face crumple, not in a smirk, but in what looked like terror. He flinched dramatically, holding the gun away from his/her body as if it were a venomous snake.
“Ash!” the voice was a perfect imitation of Misty’s, laced with a convincing, panicked tremor. “That thing! Don’t come near it!”
Inside the prison of her own body, the real Misty felt a surge of pure, undiluted hope. ‘Yes! He’s back! Ash, you have to see it! Look at my eyes! That’s not me! He can’t fake the way I look at you! He can’t!’
Ash stopped, his hands raised placatingly. “I won’t, I won’t! I just… I had to come back. What I did… it was unforgivable. I’m such an idiot.”
Brock, wearing Misty’s skin, took a shaky step towards him. He let a single, perfect tear well up in the corner of one of her green eyes. “Idiot doesn’t cover it, Ash,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You have no idea what that felt like. To be… hollowed out. To have you… inside me…” He loaded the words with a double meaning only he and the trapped Misty could understand, twisting the violation into a lover’s complaint.
The real Misty screamed in her mental cage. ‘He’s using my words! He’s twisting everything! Ash, you moron, listen to what he’s NOT saying!’
“I know, I know,” Ash stammered, his guilt palpable.
Then, Brock made his move. He closed the distance between them in two quick steps. Before Ash could react, she—he—snaked her arms around his neck, stood on her tiptoes, and pressed her lips to his.
It wasn't a sweet kiss. It was deep, hungry, and possessive—a kiss of branding and ownership disguised as overwhelming, forgiving passion. Brock poured every ounce of his pent-up desire, every memory he had stolen of her feelings for Ash, into that one, devastating motion. He felt the real Misty’s consciousness recoil in sheer, unadulterated horror. This was the ultimate violation. Her body, her lips, being used by him to kiss the boy she loved.
Ash was completely stunned. He melted into the kiss, his own guilt-ridden mind short-circuiting at this sudden, intense display of affection.
Brock pulled back, leaving them both breathless. Misty’s face was flushed, her eyes wide and glistening. He was a master puppeteer, and this body was his perfect instrument. He held up the costume gun, letting his/her hand tremble.
“Please, Ash,” she pleaded, her voice breathy and desperate. “Get rid of this. It’s evil. I can’t stand to even look at it. It makes my skin crawl.”
‘HE’S LYING!’ Misty’s soul shrieked from within the gun. ‘IT’S ME! I’M IN HERE! ASH, FOR THE LOVE OF ARCEUS, CALL HIS BLUFF! PUNCH HIM! DO SOMETHING!’
To seal the deal, Brock pressed Misty’s body fully against Ash’s. He leaned forward, deliberately letting the collar of her crop top dip low. “Throw it away for me,” she whispered, her warm breath ghosting across Ash’s ear as she made sure he had a clear, tantalizing view of her perky, jiggling DD breasts. “Smash it, bury it, I don’t care. I just want it gone. So we can forget this ever happened. Please, Ash?”
Ash’s eyes darted from the gun in her hand, to her pleading eyes, down to her exposed cleavage, and back up again. He was completely lost, a fly caught in a masterfully woven web. All he saw was his hot, desirable girlfriend, traumatized and asking him for comfort, asking him to be the hero and destroy the object of her fear.
Misty’s internal hope shattered into a million pieces. The frantic pounding became a dull, defeated throb. ‘No… Ash, you wouldn’t. You can’t be this stupid… please…’
Ash’s face hardened with resolve. He gently took the costume gun from Brock’s trembling fingers. The metal felt cold and strangely heavy in his hand. He looked at the beautiful, vulnerable girl before him.
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