“Hmm,” you say to yourself as you tear a strip off the poster.
“Volunteers Wanted For Clinical Research Study,” it reads. It continues below, in a smaller font, “individuals aged 19-23 wanted for new study, titled ‘Regenerative Effects of Bichlorificated Benzothermoclenzonelonese on the Human Body’. Risks and details to be given in interview. Compensation available.”
You don’t understand most of it, except what counts: the compensation. As a poor college student, you need all the dough you can get. You whip out your trendy, colorful cell phone out of your purse and dial the number, walking down your dorm hall as you do so.
The phone rings, is picked up, and the voice on the other end is unenthusiastic. “Brington Medical Building. Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I was calling about the research study volunteer thing...?”
“You’d like to make an appointment for an interview?”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay,” comes the drawling voice, and he gives you a date and a time. You thank him, hang up, and think to yourself: what a jerk.
A few days go by, and now it’s time for the interview. You enter the medical building, which is just as sterile and quiet as any other hospital. The front desk points you to the office where the interview is to take place. Arriving at the office, you are surprised by the name: a Dr. Brington. You knock on the door, and a man’s voice ushers you in.
Sitting at the desk is a young-looking man. His most distinguishing feature is his long, bright blonde hair that is tied in a ponytail. He is handsome, but is a little too skinny for your tastes. “You’re here for the research study?”
“Yeah.”
“Please sit down,” he says, and you do so. “The study is simple. We’re going to give you a little shot - just a little one, and we’re going to run a few tests. We might need to bring you back in for another dose.”
“And what about the risks?” you ask, noticing he hasn’t actually said what he’s going to do.
“Oh, right. Well, the test is on a new compound we think might be able to reverse the physical aging process, in other words, make somebody younger. We’ve used it on older people with limited results, but we think younger people might respond to it better.”
“Okay then,” you say, satisfied. This guy’s a quack, anyways. You can’t make people younger, that’s impossible. Even if it did work, who wouldn’t want to look a bit younger?
“And how old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“May I see your ID?”
You hand him your driver’s license and he looks it over.
“Looks good. Any questions?” he says, handing your license back.
“Umm, what’s the compensation?”
“One thousand dollars, and five hundred more for each additional test if we have to run them.”
“Great!” you say, unable to suppress your excitement. A thousand dollars can buy a lot of food.
“So, will you do it?”
“Yeah, when will the test be?”
“What time works best for you?”
“Uh, anytime, I guess.”
“How about now?”
“Uh, sure.”
He slides you a clipboard with a waiver on it. You don’t bother reading the whole thing; what could convince you away from a thousand dollars? You sign it, he looks it over, and then guides you into another room. This room looks like a hospital room, with steel trays, sinks, and various liquids about. A nurse is there, and she instructs you to sit on a steel table.
“Before we give you the shot, we have to put these on you,” she says, holding a few suction cup-like things attached to strings.
“Kay,” you reply, and she sticks them to your temples, your wrists, and your calves. You wait a few minutes, and Dr. Brington comes back in with a syringe full of a blue liquid. He approaches you and squirts a bit out of it.
“Roll up your sleeve, please,” he says. You pull up the sleeve of your sweater and allow him to swab your forearm. He then gently inserts the needle in and sends the blue liquid surging through your veins.
“Now just wait a few minutes. You might feel a little strange, that’s normal.”
You sit on the cold steel, thinking about your thousand dollars. The nurse is looking at a computer screen with a green mesh outline of a female figure. You realize that’s you. She points to a table of data and motions the doctor over.
“Very unusual this time.”
Your heart skips a beat. Sure, these people aren’t serious, but it is still frightening to hear.
“Well, it should be. I used a double dose this time.”
Double dose? What might that do?
“Look, doctor, it’s starting,” the nurse says, looking at the computer screen then at you.
You begin to worry. What’s starting? Suddenly you feel strange. A feeling washes over you, a feeling that encompasses your whole body.
“Breast reduction is already beginning,” the nurse says again, pointing at a display on the monitor.
It is then that you notice that the bra you bought a couple months ago is feeling strange, as if it were a size or two too large.
“Hmm, it’s going even faster than I thought,” the doctor says, surveying you. Your bra feels even looser now, and the cool breeze hitting your buttocks tells you that those hip-hugging jeans you squeezed into this morning aren’t quite the right size anymore.
“What’s going on, doctor?” you almost shout, alarmed.
“Simple. You’re getting younger, of course.”
As you feel your receding hips create even more space between themselves and your pants, you realize that this guy was serious. You are getting younger, and you don’t know when it’s going to stop.
“She’s sixteen; we should see some shrinking now,” calls the nurse.
“How young will I get?” you ask desperately.
“That’s what we’re finding out,” he says with a little smile.
Your breasts are still shrinking, the cups of your bra hardly even touch them anymore. You can tell you’re getting shorter, as your feet are starting to slide up and into your pants. Your shoes start to feel loose.
Please, please, just stop, you think to yourself as you continue to regress. Your butt and hips must be shrinking away, because your jeans feel huge. The sleeves of your sweater are creeping down your hands, hands that don’t look quite like your own anymore; they are softer, and the nails aren’t quite as pointed now. Looking at the computer screen, you see that your estimated age is fourteen. You’re hardly old enough to be in high school, much less college!
A peculiar feeling is in your chest. You can literally feel your boobs shrinking, the mounds beneath your nipples melting away. Soon everything starts to grow around you as you shrink. Your shoes fall off your feet and onto the floor, and your now-skinny legs are covered more and more by your pants. Your sweater is huge on your dwindling frame.
“Please! Stop this!” you cry out. Your voice has become higher in pitch.
“Sorry, can’t do anything. Plus, you signed the waiver,” comes the cold reply from the doctor. He turns back to the computer and the nurse. “She’s going back through puberty now, make sure it records everything.”
And he’s right. You feel a bizarre tingle at your crotch and realize that was your pubic hair vanishing. Your already dwarfed breasts retract all the way back into your chest, leaving boyish nipples. You’re shrinking even faster now, everything starts to look so big. Your hips no longer even touch the waist of your pants, you only feel the silky seat of your too-big panties. You’re officially prepubescent now, completely sexless. And you’re still regressing. Your sweater becomes larger and larger on your girlish body. The room becomes huge. You hardly even register the rest of the ordeal.
“I think she’s stopped,” says the nurse, who sounds so intimidating to you. The doctor looks over at you and smiles. He pulls out a mirror and lets you look into it. You can hardly believe your eyes: it’s a little girl, not a day older than five. You try to raise a hand to your face, but it’s covered by the sleeve of an adult-sized sweater. You look down to the ground, which now seems to be a formidable distance. You see two empty jean legs dangling from the table, just as your legs used to be positioned. You wiggle your feet and see the motion in the thigh area of the pants.
“Let’s get you out of those clothes,” the doctor says soothingly. He reaches his gigantic hands toward you, and lifts you in the air with ease. Your pants fall to the floor in a heap, but you’re still covered by your sweater. You feel your panties slip down to your ankles, where they hang for a brief moment, then fall to the ground. He sits you down on another table and strips the sweater off you.
“Hey!” you protest in a high-pitched squeal. You’re completely naked, with this man looking at you! Of course, this is nothing new to a college girl like yourself, but now you have the body of a child. The doctor holds out a pair of childish white cotton panties and slips them up your legs and to your waist. “I can do it myself!” you say indignantly. He shrugs and hands you the rest of your outfit. It’s a yellow dress, appropriately sized. You slip it on.
“Now, come with me,” he says. He lifts you off the table and places you on the ground. Now you realize how small you have become. Everything is so tall and scary! You can’t imagine how you’d be able to reach anything on the counters, or sit in any of these grown-up chairs. The doctor motions for you to follow him, and you grab his hand. He smiles and squeezes it lightly.
The doctor walks with you to another place where a new life awaits you, and you do have the thousand dollars. Maybe it won’t be so bad.
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