Solomon Sezelnik sighed. He stared up at the clock. Almost 4 in the morning already. He stared down at his screen. Blank. Or not quite blank. Underneath that white screen he could sense all the dead drafts he had left behind in the past two weeks, a half dozen attempts to write eloquently about the differences between consequentialist and deontological ethics as applied to the question of antinatalism, each one covering more or less the same ground, each one abandoned for some reason or another, leaving him now with just six hours before class to either write a new paper or find a way to cobble something together from what came before.

The latter option was surely more reasonable (hell, some of those unfinished drafts even had citations), but that would mean looking at what he had written, something his brain roiled against with all of its might. He risked a peek at "draft #3 antinatalism paper FINAL," but soon found himself back at the much more comfortable blank screen. He sighed.

Shutting the laptop lip, he reached over for his bag. Rummaging around, he unearthed a half-drunk bottle of vodka and a nearly empty bottle of vyvanse. Would he try to find that sweet spot, that right level of tipsiness that allowed him to bear looking at his own work in order to actually edit it, or would he hope that his hyperfocus would latch onto the topic he was supposed to be writing on and he would wind up with a finished draft before the inevitable crash?

He put his bag back down. Either option felt like a long shot. And he needed to save that vyvanse for his upcoming topology exam. He sighed.

Why did it have to be like this? His brain was chockfull of thoughts on this issue. There were times where he couldn't sleep, because he just kept going through his arguments. It was a coherent position and he could cite Kant and Mill to inform it: the average life was, on the whole, not worth living; giving birth to a child would, on average, produce more pain than pleasure; thus, creating a child was immoral on utilitarian grounds. But also the sex act itself, while pleasurable, was a gross, animalistic thing, one in which a human being's higher capacities were shut down. It was a reduction to a less than fully human state and to put oneself in such a position was always to do injustice to one's autonomy (you lose yourself in the act; that's the point of it). So procreative sex was immoral on deontological grounds as well, since it violated one's responsibility to oneself.

It all made perfect sense to him. Life was pain, sex was degradation, so procreative sex was inherently wrong. Just the thought of him impregnating a woman… It made his whole body shake in revulsion and he had to lie down, even though he knew he was attracted to women.

Yet whenever it came time to write it all down he just ran out of steam. He couldn't expand his thesis to meet the professor's damned word count requirement!

Opening his laptop back up again, he quickly typed out a stream of bullshit excuses (if only he could write his paper with such ease!) and sent it to the doddering fool, asking for "just a little more time." It wasn't that he really believed an extension would do him any good, he just knew he couldn't deal with this right now. So he packed his things away and headed back towards his dorm, ready to drink himself to sleep (and maybe then some).

Walking out onto the green, Solomon popped his headphones into his ears. There was some weird static, but eventually the sweet sounds of Steely Dan started playing.

He was almost past the math building when suddenly he froze. Blinking, he wondered why he was frozen. He would like to say he tried to take a step forward, but the intention didn't seem to form. He began hyperventilating. Was this some new neurological development? Had his brain finally broken entirely? Had his struggles writing this stupid fucking paper been the build-up to a total mental shutdown? Would he be stuck this way forever?

Footsteps behind him. Hands on his shoulders. Massaging him gently. His breathing slowed.

"Theeeeeeeeeeere you go," came a husky, feminine voice, "There you go, baby."

He trembled under her touch. He wanted to lash out or to collapse into her arms but he still couldn't move. "You're goin' back, Jack, do it again…" Donald Fagen was whining into his ears.

"Come with me," she whispered, slowly removing his earbuds. The static, he realized, was in his head.

He found himself following her. His whole body shook in terror and anticipation. He only caught glimpses of her in the lamplight, as she led him towards a disused parking lot, but he knew she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She had a skinny, androgynous build with long black hair tied into braids and she wore a denim jacket (covered in patches with symbols he couldn't even pretend to recognize) over a white jumpsuit which clung to her tight, muscular legs.

While his sense of terror was slowly drowned out by a mix of arousal and this strange sensation that came with the static in his head, a sensation he couldn't quite put his finger on, he was shocked back into reality by the sight of a large white pod in the middle of the parking lot, seemingly suspended above the asphalt. A shimmering walkway descended to meet them as they approached.

The girl raised out a hand. Solomon found himself stopping. She looked around furtively, something vaguely like a Star Trek phaser in her soft manicured hands, before waving him along, up into the inside of the pod, which was a brightly lit octagonal blue room. She followed quickly after him. The wall closed behind her and she collapsed against it, breathing a sigh of relief.

He stood there for a minute, just taking in the scene. Then she pressed something on her jacket lapel and suddenly the static stopped and Solomon found himself in full-blown panic mode again. "Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, collapsing to the floor with her now that his legs no longer held him up on his own. "What the fuck did you do to me?!"

"Just a little bit of neural hijacking," she said, as though that was an explanaton. "I didn't have time to talk out there, where we could be watched. But the future of humanity rests on you, Solomon Sezelnik."

"What?!" he shouted, mind racing, "What the fuck are you talking about?!"

She rose to her feet and almost pounced at Solomon, her hands grasping firmly onto his collar, her face mere inches from his. His breathing slowed once again. He could feel his eyes bulging. "There isn't much information about you. You're fairly insignificant in historical terms. But we know enough about this time that you've probably received some of our 'premonitions,' messages sent back into the past, reshaped and distorted, sure, but recognizable enough that you shouldn't have any trouble understanding the situation."

He tried to think of something clever to say, but his mind blanked and so he just shook his head.

"Why do you think, 'freedom fighters, working against tyrannical future government, go back in time to stop them' is such a popular trope in all your fiction? Because the ASF has been sending messages into the past, preparing you for when we would be able to master human-based time travel, for when we would need to send someone like me to grab someone like you."

"Me?"

A little grin came over her face. "Yes, you, baby. We needed to go back in time to find someone like you in order to breed."

His cheeks reddened. He tried to avoid looking at her crotch. He hoped he didn't have an erection. "You want me to breed…?"

She snickered. "Well, not exactly. You see, we have determined that there is a specific gene, biologically possible in humans but so far unable to be artifically produced by us, which would block the tracking abilities of Martian foreseers. If we were able to breed humans with this specific gene, that would give us a huge advantage in the fight to free Earth from the invaders.

"We hoped to find someone who had that gene, but sadly the closest we've come is you and me. Each of us have half of the gene, on one of our chromosomes. So neither of us individually has the ability to evade the Martian foreseers but any offspring we had would."

He blinked. He looked down at his raging boner. Still dazed, he began to mutter, "Well, I guess, you could make an exception on utilitarian grounds because-"

"Shut the fuck up." She punched him in the face. Hard. His head smacked against a large tube that sat in the center of the room. His cheek stung bad. He could taste blood.

"Why the fuck did you do that to me?!" he shouted, his head starting to ring.

"Stop thinking like a horny little bitch looking to get his dick wet," she sneered, rising to her feet as she spoke, leaving him face to face with her…

"Oh. You're one of those girls…"

She let out a dry chuckle. "Pretty good for a neanderthal."

The insult made his cheeks redden more. He had folders full of pics of girls like her.

He blinked. "But, then, how are we supposed to-"

She started pacing around the room. "As I was trying to explain, my half of the gene is on my Y chromosome and will be passed down to any offspring I have. Fine with me. I love my girl dick. But yours is on your X chromosome. Meaning even if some girl capable of getting pregnant were to take pity on you and you got down and dirty and she unleashed some hellspawn onto the world, the hellspawn wouldn't even have your half of the gene."

"But, then, I still don't understand how-"
"Do you want me to punch you again?!" she shouted.

He turned to look at her. Honestly, he wasn't sure.

She laughed. "God, you're pathetic. It's a good thing I'm here to balance out your uselessness or else this cloaking ability would be the only thing our offspring have going for them."

"So, we are going to have offspring…"

"Yes, birthed by you."

He looked down at his still throbbing penis. "But I'm not a-"

She kicked him in the jaw, sending him facefirst into the metal floor. Teeth cracked. Pain filled his entire world. Why didn't he stand up and fight this psycho bitch? She was going to fucking kill him!! But he just didn't have the energy somehow…

"You don't have to be a girl to give birth, idiot."

"But, I still don't have a-"

"Well, yeah, obviously you don't have the right equipment now, but…" She grinned. "We have the technology to fix that." She grabbed his head, ignoring the blood streaming down his face, and pointed him up at the tube. "This is a feminization chamber. Type 1, they call it, which always bugged me. Why is it 'type 2 feminization' if you want to keep your original genitals? They should just call it, 'pussy type,' because thats what it does. It's going to give you a pussy. And a fully functioning womb."

"Oh…"

Solomon started to tremble. This girl was insane, right? He knew, of course, that you could create a vagina out of existing materials (he had even watched a few videos on the topic, for educational purposes), but you couldn't then get pregnant. That was something only cis girls could do. It was never something that he could do. Even if he were a girl and even if he were to do all those things that girls like her did to become girls, he still couldn't do that, even if he wanted to, which he didn't because bringing a child into the world was gross and immoral like he had been trying to write about when this psycho bitch kidnapped him with her mind powers (drugs? Could she have slipped him something? Or used some kind of sensory effect to make him more suggestible?) and took him into this weird art installation! Fuck! What the fuck was happening?! Why was he being tortured like this?!

And so he just broke down and sobbed. Right there in front of her, pain filling his being, blood dripping from his mouth, the tears putting literal salt in his wounds.

She dropped him softly. He crumpled onto the ground. "Oh, sweet baby…" she muttered. He felt her effortlessly pick him back up by his collar. God, she was strong! He thought estrogen was supposed to destroy your muscles? "Don't cry, baby, it's gonna be alright." She turned him to face her. She started stroking his face. "It's just temporary. We've got the technology to turn everything back, put you right back the way you are now… Just as soon as we've pumped a couple of kids out of you to serve as a strike force and to breed together to make a future generation of undetectable supersoliders! Just a few years of forced breeding and we'll put you back whenever you want. You can be like a cool disco dude in the 70s with lots of money and cocaine and bang lots of hot girls or whatever it is dorks like you do wanna be. Okay? Doesn't that sound nice?"

She kept stroking his face, but as much as he liked the feeling it didn't do him any good. He kept sobbing until the tears stopped. Then he just shook. His whole body trembled. His whole body hurt. All of his muscles tightened. He felt like he couldn't breathe. He felt her arms suddenly close in around him. He felt her breath against his face. He felt her warmth. His breathing slowed. His face still ached where she'd beaten him, but the trembling stopped.

"It's just for a little while…" she murmured again.

And the shaking. And the tightness. And the hyperventilation. The idea that they'd go through all this, that they'd make him into a girl, that they'd let him be a mother and then put him right back into this disgusting meat sack… It made him just want to die. How could someone, especially someone like her, put him through that? How could he keep on living like this, keep on experiencing all the old pain, all the old disgust, after having tasted what would never be?

But it could be.

He blinked.

"Did that calm you down, baby?" she whispered. "You dumb fucking bitch." And she punched him in the rib. He grunted in pain.

"Not that…" he muttered.

"I don't really care." She dropped him again. "You don't really have a say in all this. The fate of the human race is far more important than one chubby nerd's feelings. So get in the fucking tube and let me breed you."

He sat there a moment, catching his breath. "Okay," he finally said.

Solomon pulled himself up slowly, still reeling from the physical abuse he had taken but in a state of calm he had never felt before, not once in his entire life. "How long will it take?" he let out in a dull monotone.

"Eh? A few weeks. We're still rebuilding your body on a fundamental level. But you won't be awake for most of it. Changes take place most rapidly while your body is resting."

A thin smile formed on his face. "So, I'll wake up and I'll be a-"

"No, you just 'wake up.' We'll have to take you out for regular check-ups. And even then, you'll just have a body optimized for breeding, you won't actually be a-" She stopped. A look of dumb recognition came over her. She melted into a smile. Then a frown. Then her brow started to furrow. "Jesus fucking Christ!" she shouted, "This would've been a whole lot easier if you'd just told me. I mean, dumb bitch, look at me." She pulled her limp dick out of a flap in her jumpsuit. "This whole fucking plot is premised on the fact that I'm a girl like you."

"Well, I didn't know until now that I was a girl. It wasn't until the possibility was dangled in front of me… It wasn't until it was real that…"

She embraced Solomon, enveloped her completely. Solomon felt she could hear the other girl crying softly but couldn't quite believe it. Solomon collapsed into her embrace.

"You go into that tube, baby girl," she whispered, "And when you come out, you'll look the way you were always supposed to look, you'll feel the way you were always supposed to feel, and I will take you carnally, owning you in mind, body and spirit, and use you as my own personal incubator, nothing more than a medium to produce my offspring, a womb to be used by me."

Solomon blinked. She felt woozy. Her entire body was warm. She could feel the other girl's much larger dick against her own, which seemed to want to curl up and shrink in comparison even though her arousal kept it rock hard.

"Yes…" was all she could say.

"Yes what?"

She felt around for the static in her head, but it wasn't there. Still, her brain seemed to slow almost to a halt. "Yes… Mistress?"

"Good girl."

Her knees buckled. She would've collapsed if her Mistress (the thought made her swoon all over again) wasn't holding her up, possessively, by her rear.

"I've got you," her Mistress smirked.

"Thank you, Mistress," Solomon muttered, all dreamy-eyed and delirious.

"Now go up in that machine, okay, baby girl?"

"Okay, Mistress."

Her Mistress let go. Solomon (who was sure she wouldn't have that name for much longer) walked up into the tube. It closed behind her. The chamber pressurized. She began weeping. She grew sleepy. Pink fog overtook her vision. Her eyes fluttered. The fog filled her. It emptied her out. There was nothing left in her mind.