Synopsis: A bitter but brilliant and attractive woman who feels her career has been sidetracked by men finds an MAU. She figures out a clever way to use the device to get back at some of the men who she feels wronged - or will wrong - her.

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Author's notes:
I've watched the evolution of MAU with mixed emotions. On the one hand, it's been quite popular for authors, which is rewarding to watch. On the other, well, one thing I really didn't want to create was a universe based on fantasy, and I hoped the rules would help contain that. Unfortunately, my fears have been realized as stories have strayed into the fantastic and beyond. I could be like Bill with SRU and consider anything not by me to be non-canon. I could close the universe. Both of those seemed inadequate, or unfair to those who chose to play by my rules. The final straw was the theory that the agency had become a dark X-files-like conspiratorial evil group, as opposed to the light-hearted MIB spoof, powerless to do much beyond simple investigation and offering some help to victims.

Consider this a creator's slap at the big red RESET button. Please, authors, respect the rules of the universe I created, or create your own. There has to be some scientific rationale behind a change, not some weird fantasy. The agency is not some conspiratorial evil group. Thank you.

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This story is copyright by the author. It is protected by licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Leslie Thomas sat in her chair silently fuming, her attitude in marked contrast to staff from her work companions. The group was loud and happy and celebratory. Despite her seething anger, Leslie forced herself to put on a fake smile to try to fit in.

Everyone was dressed in business-casual attire, and given that it was late afternoon, one could reasonably, and accurately, guess that they'd come from their office to the pub for their gathering. Leslie wore a modest skirt and blouse, which did little to camouflage her very curvy figure. The other woman wore slacks and a blouse. The five men all wore a mix of buttoned shirts and polo shirts; only one wore a tie. From appearances, the group was in their late twenties to mid-thirties, save for the balding slightly overweight man with the tie, who was in his mid-fifties.

The older man, Leslie's division manager, stood and raised his hand, gesturing for silence. "This has been a long time in coming," he began, "but today we mark a huge milestone in the company. Jerry's patent has been approved, and we got preliminary FDA approval to begin trials."

The group cheered loudly - except Leslie. Her eyes burned with an intense anger that was difficult to hide. "Thieving bastard!" she muttered to herself between clenched teeth.

Jerry Robbins, the recipient of the remarks and good wishes, stood and grinned, not even trying to look modest. "Thank you, thank you," he grinned. "It's great to be able to work with you all. I couldn't have done this without you."

Leslie wanted to gag. This was sounding more like an Oscar acceptance speech than she could stomach. And most of it was _her_ work!

Warren grinned as well. "There's one more bit of news," he said, leaving some questions as to what else he had to announce. He didn't wait long. "When this started, I started some paperwork, which I found out was approved yesterday. As of Monday, Jerry will be Senior Scientist and group lead."

The group cheered loudly as Jerry stood, grinning like a Cheshire cat and holding both arms up, fists pumping in celebration.

Leslie couldn't take it any longer. She pushed her chair back and stood. "Back in a minute."

The other woman glanced at her, then pushed her chair back also, quickly following Leslie toward the ladies' room.

"Son of a bitch!" Leslie swore as soon as the door was closed.

The other woman was surprised by the vehemence of her outburst. "What's wrong, Leslie?" she asked, confused.

The two women were as different as night and day. Stephanie Lewis, the group's administrative aide, was short and slightly chubby; Leslie was five foot nine and looked like an athlete - an incredibly endowed athlete, to be precise. Stephanie wore her blonde hair in a stylish short cut. Leslie's hair was long and brunette, though it was currently styled in a bun. Stephanie had girl-next-door looks; Leslie was very attractive, even with the librarian hair style and her plain glasses which sought - but failed - to downplay her looks.

Leslie's face was a mask of rage. "That son of a bitch stole my work! _My_ work! Every goddamn thing he did was _my_ work! And _he_ gets the credit, and the patent, and the promotion!"

Stephanie sighed. "I know," she said softly. "It's not right."

"That's an understatement," Leslie snarled. "It's sexism is what it is. You know what else? Last month, Warren hinted that I might really help my career if I slept with him?"

Stephanie's jaw dropped. "I didn't know that. I mean, everyone know's he a lecherous old bastard, but I didn't think he was _that_ bad!" She glanced around the ladies' room to be certain that she wouldn't be overheard. "Did you report him?"

"To whom?" Leslie asked facitiously. "HR? They're his friends. And there's no evidence, so it's a ‘he said, she said’. Who are they going to believe, especially when I look like ... some kind of sex-kitten?" She shook her head angrily. "Because of how I look, and how big my boobs are, no-one takes me seriously!"

Stephanie nodded slowly. "I see your point." She sighed. "Have you thought about getting a reduction?"

"Insurance won't cover it," Leslie countered. "And someday I want to have children and nurse them - if I can ever find a guy who treats me like a person and not like a pair of walking boobs. From what I've researched, sometimes reduction can cause problems with nursing, and with reduced sensitivity." She shook her head. "I don't want to take that chance." Leslie closed her eyes for a moment and sighed heavily. "I'm going home - before I say something I'll regret," she announced. "Or _do_ something - like kill Jerry and Warren."

The hatred in Leslie's voice unnerved Stephanie. "Um, everyone is going to ask why you're leaving."

"I don't care," Leslie replied angrily. Instantly, she regretted the harsh tone toward the one sympathetic ear in the group. "Tell them I'm not feeling well. Tell them - I don't know? The snacks made me sick? The salsa upset my stomach? Just something," she snarled.

This latest frustration, coupled with a long series of sexual harassments dating back to her high school days, all the years of being treated as nothing more than a sex object, the repeated incidents of losing work or awards or recognition to men in the group - all of it combined, and Jerry's promotion was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Something inside Leslie snapped. The Rubicon had been crossed; her innermost conscious couldn't take any more.

Stephanie nodded sympathetically, unaware of the true extent of Leslie's psychic pain. "Okay," she agreed.

**********

Though it was barely six-thirty, the street was dark by the time Leslie pulled her car into her garage. She was still cursing - at Warren, at Jerry, at men in general. It just wasn't fair. She was twice the researcher as Jerry. Everyone knew it - except for Jerry and Warren.

As she unlocked the door into her townhouse, she noted that her garbage cans were still outside. She shook her head in frustration at yet another annoyance. It wasn't cold, but it was a bit windy, and with the cool air and the darkness, retrieving the garbage cans wasn't the first thing she wanted to do. She decided to get them in the morning. It wasn't like they were full, anyway. At least she wouldn't have to worry about dogs and cats and other critters getting into the garbage and making a mess.

As she stretched out on her sofa, clad in her robe, a glass of wine in her hand, Leslie started contemplating her options. She _could_ try to make a fuss through the company's HR and legal offices - which would lead to subtle but hidden retribution in the good-old-boys network. She could complain directly to the EEOC, which would probably have the same short-term result. She sipped her wine. She could just look for another job. Normally, she realized, that would be easy, but with the economy the way it was, jobs weren't exactly plentiful. And since Jerry had gotten credit for _her_ work, she didn't really have the type of star-performer record that would help her get another job. The last thing she wanted to do, but what she was starting to realize was her only viable option, was to shut up and live with her frustration until the economy was better.

A metallic crash outside her townhome stirred her from her self-pitying thoughts. Leslie pulled herself up from the sofa, shuffled to the window, and peered out into the darkness.

"Damn dogs," she snarled. "The garbage cans are empty!" she shouted to herself; any lingering animals wouldn't be able to hear her through the walls anyway. Not only was she still angry, but after a few glasses of wine, Leslie was a bit drunk. She sighed to herself. Now she was going to have to get the empty garbage cans back into her garage to stop the prowling animals from making a racket all night long.

She pulled on a jacket, slipped on her fuzzy slippers, and strode angrily out into the darkness.

"Oh, crap!" Leslie cried in frustration as she spied the toppled metal garbage cans. One was smashed, possibly beyond repair, and the other was knocked several feet from where it had stood, and badly dented. "What _else_ is going to go wrong today?" she asked in frustration. She sighed and stepped toward the errant can to retrieve it.

"Ouch!" Leslie hopped awkwardly on one foot as she held the other, rubbing the suddenly-sore spot where she'd kicked into something unexpected. "What the hell is this? Get Leslie Day?"

When the throbbing in her toes subsided some, she stood on both feet, then bent down to see what she'd tripped against. In the dim light, it was difficult to see more than the shadowy outline. "Hello," she muttered to herself. "What do we have here?" She reached down to the box, half-buried in her lawn, and pulled. Given the size of the box, she expected it to be heavy and difficult to extract. Instead, it was surprisingly light, and slid from the dirt as if it had been greased. She nearly fell over backwards. "Where the hell did this come from?" she asked as she pondered the metallic case. Realizing that she still had to get the cans inside, she set the strange box down and refocused her efforts on her first priority.

In short order, Leslie had straightened out the mess with her garbage and was sitting on her sofa, her wine glass refilled and the metal case on her coffee table. She took a sip of wine, put the glass on the table, and began to examine the box.

It was a curious thing, she decided quickly. About the size of a briefcase, it seemed to be made of seamless gray metal, and it was incredibly light weight. If it had smashed the garbage can, it certainly had sustained no damage to itself.

When she turned the box over again, she noticed the light etched symbols on one face. Arranged in rows, they seemed to be some type of lettering, but it wasn't anything she recognized. It certainly wasn't Cyrillic; Leslie had studied Russian for her foreign language requirement. And she was pretty certain it wasn't Arabic or any of the Asian character langages. She ran her fingers over the figures, wondering what they were and what they meant.

Quite unexpectedly, the strange little box started to grow. Silently, the seamless metal stretched as it enlarged itself. Leslie sat back suddenly in shock as the box continue to expand. When it reached a certain size, the growth stopped, and flipped itself off the coffee table, then resumed growing, stopping only when it was a little bigger than a telephone booth.

Leslie stared wide-eyed at the strange metal cabinet, her mouth hanging open in shock. Eventually, her curiosity overcame her sense of surprise and fear. She rose to her feet, and only then did she notice that the box, in its self-propelled acrobatics off the coffee table, hadn't even spilled her glass of wine. She picked it up and took another sip, as much because she felt thirsty as for the alcohol to steady her nerves.

Only one side of the box bore any markings - a plain black screen that looked vaguely like an i-Pad, a purple knob, and a raised red crystal that looked a three-toed giant bird print. Leslie touched the screen, hoping it was some type of user interface like an i-Pad. It wasn't; the box did nothing. She touched the red crystal, and the screen came to life.

Leslie leaned closer to peer at the scrolling symbols. To her, they looked like some type of instructions, but they were in the same unintelligible script as the symbols on the top of the box. Eventually, the display halted.

Leslie touched the red crystal again, hoping for more information. Instead, the screen blanked. After a few moments, much to her surprise, a shadowy figure began to coalesce on the display. As it solidified, Leslie realized it was a strange bird-creature, somewhat like a cross between an ostrich and a person. She stared at it in fascination, wondering if it were an alien creature that had made this strange device.

Eventually, reason penetrated Leslie's alcohol-impaired brain. She glanced at the red crystal, and realized that she'd been wondering if it were a bird-person race that had made the box. A new thought formed - did this device read thought patterns? It was time for an experiment.

The first thought was to imagine what her hated nemesis would look like if Jerry had the same career obstacles at work that she did. She got a wicked grin as she thought of Jerry, and his image appeared. Then the figure began to shift. At first, the changes were subtle, but then it became obvious as Jerry's chest swelled out and his waist narrowed. Below, the image of Jerry slowly changed to include wide feminine hips with a very rounded derriere.

Leslie stepped back, looking at her handiwork, and laughed aloud. The image she'd created of Jerry had enormous breasts, much larger than her own, a tiny wasp waist, and an unmistakeably round woman's hips and butt. To top it off, Jerry's hair was long and wavy and blonde.

Leslie took a drink of wine and laughed. "I'd love to see how _you_ deal with sexist comments looking like _that_!" she sneered. She touched the crystal again, and Jerry's shirt changed to a very low-cut blouse that revealed ample cleavage. She laughed again.

Leslie continued to experiment, this time with the image of the lecherous Warren. He got the same treatment, but with his balding head and portly belly gone, the look was even more radical - and pleasing to Leslie.

The function of the as-yet-untouched purple knob tugged at Leslie's curiosity. With the image of the mutated Warren still on the screen, she moved to the purple knob and gingerly reached out to it.

When half the side of the booth disappeared, Leslie jumped back in shock. One moment, the booth was intact, and the next, there was an opening, like a door, in the side.

Hesitantly, Leslie stepped back to the mysterious box and peered inside. It was plain, like the outside, save for the warm yellow light emanating from a panel in the ceiling, and another of the purple knobs. Out of curiosity, she stepped inside and slowly reached out to the other purple knob.

As soon as she stepped out of the box, after having been bathed by a sharp red light and feeling pinpricks of energy coursing through her, Leslie shuddered, wondering what had happened. She looked down at herself - and screamed.

Leslie's chest was significantly larger than before, which startled her. As she looked down, she noticed that the wisps of hair around her face were blonde, which was another shock. And when she lifted her hands toward her expanded boobs, she got a third surprise - her hands weren't fine and delicate. They were a man's hands. She screamed - and got her fourth surprise. It was a deep male voice that emanated from her.

Leslie ran to her bathroom, to see in the mirror what had happened to her. As soon as she flipped the lightswitch on, she stopped, and her eyes widened in horror.

Leslie was the image of the hyper-feminized Warren, with long wavy blonde hair, a tiny wasp waist, super-large boobs, and an exaggerated derriere. She screamed again, and heard once more Warren's voice echoing in her ears.

Leslie ran back to the alien box and stared at the image. She slowly realized that the device had transformed her into what she'd imagined on the display.

Frantically, she slapped the red crystal and began to imagine herself as _herself_, large breasts and sex-kitten figure and all. She concentrated on the body she was too familiar with, even if she was sometimes contemptuous of her assets and what they'd done to her career. That didn't matter at the moment. They were hers, her true body and self, not this feminized freak version of Warren. As soon as she got a satisfactory image, she grabbed the purple knob and dashed into the machine.

When it cycled, Leslie emerged as herself, albeit nude. A quick examination with her hands was confirmed by the image in the bathroom mirror. Leslie sighed with relief, then shivered in the cool air. She realized she was nude.

No sooner had she started toward her bedroom than she suddenly stopped mid-stride. Pieces were coming together in her mind as her rational brain considered all the facts she'd uncovered. When she went into the machine, she'd been wearing her robe and her underwear. After it changed her, she was nude. The machine had recreated the image _exactly_, down to the clothing. Maybe....

Leslie strode purposefully back to the machine. Her own nude image was still displayed. Leslie touched the red crystal again. Slowly, clothing formed on the image. She stepped inside, and emerged clothed in her original robe. Now, even more curious, she again experimented. This time, she changed her hair style, changed to a sultry evening gown with sexy high heels, and added extravagent jewelry to the image. Once more, the machine complied and she emerged exactly as she'd imagined.

Leslie stared at the jewelry in fascination. She wondered just _how_ precisely the machine worked. Suppose the diamonds in the bracelet were real. Based on her imagination, they'd be fabulously expensive. But how to test? She picked up her wine glass, still half-full, and scratched at the glass with the bracelet.

"Wow!" she muttered as she saw the tiny scratches in the glass. The diamonds _were_ real. Which meant...

Leslie removed the jewelry she was wearing, worked the red control and screen again, and stepped into the machine. She emerged, clothed back in her plain robe, but holding a small bag while even more jewelry dangled about her neck, her wrist, and from her ear lobes. She opened the bag and dumped a large quantity of sparkling precisely cut diamonds onto her coffee table. Leslie realized that she'd never have to face any of those assholes in the office ever again if she didn't want to; with the power of this machine, she had all the financial resources she could ever need. She laughed to herself, and the sound was eerie instead of joyful, as if it was the maniacal laughter of a very disturbed mind. Leslie grinned wickedly at the knowledge that she now had the resources to start her _own_ company, a place where _she'd_ be the boss, where none of the guys would dare treat her as a sex object. A place where _she_ could get the credit she'd earned through her work.

As she made yet another trip through the machine, amassing yet more diamonds and saphires and rubies, a nagging thought began to push its way forward from her subconscious. She still had the "killer bod", and guys were _always_ going to look at her as a sex object because of her figure.

Leslie sank onto the sofa, feeling the initial twinges of despair. Sure, she now had a fortune; by her guess, she had between forty and sixty million dollars' worth of precious gems spilling over her coffee table. Sure, she could start her own company. But she was still hampered by her looks. No matter how wealthy she was, guys were going to judge her by her sexy appearance, not by her own qualifications.

She finished her wine, then slogged to the kitchen to refill the glass. As she sat on the sofa, pondering, Leslie tried to imagine what she'd look like if she was a little less ... shapely. Maybe then she'd be treated as an intellectual equal. After downing half the wine from her glass, she stepped back to the machine. She imagined herself as she was, and the screen complied. Next, she reduced her breasts and her derriere. She stepped back and admired her handiwork - it was completely satisfactory to her. In the image, her double-D cups were reduced to B-cups, and she had less of an hourglass figure.

When she emerged, she immediately looked down, and was rewarded by seeing a lot less cleavage. She ran to the bathroom, and was initially delighted at the figure she saw. She was far less endowed, less curvy, more plain. She looked like a librarian. Plain, unsexy, normal. Delighted, she practically skipped back to the sofa, where she sat for several minutes, alternately sipping her wine and playing with the small mound of precious stones and expensive jewelry.

The depressive nature of alcohol, and the growing self-doubt of her new body, slowly ate at Leslie. She walked back to the mirror, and her expression slowly changed to rage. _This_ wasn't who she was! Despite the fact that it would reduce the incidence of sexual harassment, her anger grew, until she flung her wine glass at the mirror, shattering both. "It's not fair! I'm not the one who's wrong!" she screamed at her reflection.

Leslie ran from the bathroom crying, and after a quick stop at the machine to change, she ran, in her original body, to her bedroom and flung herself on her bed, sobbing hysterically.

In the middle of the night, Leslie emerged from her bedroom, her hair dissheveled from a very fitful sleep. She slumped on the sofa, staring bitterly at the machine. It was _so_ powerful, capable of creating for her untold wealth, capable of shaping her so as to reduce the liklihood of unwanted sexual advances, and yet helpless to punish the true offenders, the boorish men who thought they had a right to treat her like a sex toy.

No, Leslie thought, what the machine _should_ do, if there were cosmic justice, is punish the guilty, to make _them_ the ones on the receiving end of sexual inuendo and unwanted advances. The machine should punish the _men_. She shouldn't have to change because _she_ wasn't the one in the wrong. It was, she decided firmly, justice.

Slowly, an idea began to form in her head. She took a pad of paper, and began to make notes to herself. At a certain point, she stepped to the machine and recreated the image of the hyper-feminized Warren. Again, she made notes, then touched the pad.

For a long time, nothing happened. Leslie was starting to worry about whether the machine was powerful enough to comply with her request. For several long minutes, nothing happened. Then, just as she was about to give up, an image began to form on the screen. When it finished, Leslie touched the purple knob and stepped into the machine.

It was nearly the same Leslie that emerged. The only slight difference was that her breasts seemed much firmer. What the machine hadn't done, however, was more evident - Leslie's eyes burned with an almost evil determination, and her grin was positively unsettling in its sheer wickedness.

**********

Leslie took a sip of wine and stood up from the barstool on which she'd been perched. She wore a very slinky outfit, showing a valley of inviting cleavage above, and the slit skirt showing her shapely legs as she walked. Her hair was down and wavy, and she had her contacts in. With her carefully-applied makeup, the result was stunningly attractive and sexy.

Slowly, deliberately, with full awareness that many eyes were tracking her every move, she walked across the bar toward a man who she'd seen eyeing her.

The man's eyes widened as she neared.

"Hi," she purred in a sultry voice. "I couldn't help but notice that you were looking at me."

"It'd be hard _not_ to stare at such a beautiful woman," the man responded smoothly. His gaze alternated between her eyes and the vast valley of cleavage showing above her low-cut dress.

"Are you here all alone?" Leslie asked in a hopeful, sultry tone.

The man smiled. "I was," he replied. "Can I buy you something to drink, and we can sit here and ... talk."

Leslie slid onto an adjacent bar stool. "That would be very nice," she cooed. "I was feeling a bit lonely tonight."

The man didn't miss a beat. "How on earth could anyone let such a lovely lady get lonely?"

Leslie let one hand slide down onto the man's leg. She noted with an evil satisfaction that he squirmed at her motion. "I'll take a glass of white wine. For now. And maybe later, you can get me something else." She licked her lips seductively.

The man grinned. He was going to get far luckier than he'd ever imagined - and with a lady that was drop-dead-gorgeous. This was going to be a big night.

**********

"Hmm," the doctor repeated as he probed the man's chest. "This is ... unusual."

The man nodded. He was seated on the exam table in only his shorts, and he winced, red-faced, as the doctor pressed at the tiny sensitive mounds on his chest. "Tell me about it," the man confirmed.

The doctor finished his exam and indicated that the man should pull his shirt back on. He picked up the tablet PC and scanned the man's medical records. "Are you taking anything other than what's on here?" he asked. "Propecia, for example. Steroids?"

The man shook his head. "Nope."

"Anything else changed in your lifestyle? Any ... illicit ... substances?"

"No," the man answered sharply. "I've never ..."

The doctor cut him off with a shake of his head. "Gynecomastia, or male breast growth, can result from frequent use of marijuana, or steroids by body-builders. It also can be a side-effect of DHT-reducing drugs, such as those used to halt and reverse hair loss." He saw the surprised look on the man's face, and continued. "It's quite common - a lot more common than most people realize. Our job is to figure out what's causing your case."

The man shook his head. "What about _this_?" he said as he grabbed a clump of his four-inch long hair. "You're not going to believe this, but I had it cut two days ago."

The doctor frowned. "That doesn't make any sense." He looked at the chart again, shaking his head. "You say your waist is smaller, and your hips are larger?"

The man nodded glumly. "I'd say two inches less in my waist, and two inches more in my butt. My pants don't fit well any more."

The doctor sighed. "Well, let's get some lab work done, to see if there's anything abnormal with your hormones. That's a start to see what we're dealing with." This case was a total mystery to him.

**********

Warren looked up at the sound of the knock on his open door. "Ah, Leslie. What's up?"

Leslie leaned against the door. "I'd like a chance to talk about my career path," she said carefully. "I'm not sure it's going the way I was hoping."

Warren shrugged. "Come in and sit down."

Leslie shook her head. "I can't talk much right now. I just had a few seconds between sample runs. I thought I'd get on your calendar and we can talk later."

Warren looked at his computer monitor. He made a show of wincing. "My schedule doesn't look too good for the next three weeks," he said, feigning concern. "Can it wait?"

Leslie frowned. "I was hoping to discuss this sooner."

Warren sighed, then he made a show of 'coming up with an idea'. "Is it something we can talk outside of the office? Say, over lunch, or over drinks after work?"

Leslie felt a thrill building inside her. He was taking her bait. "Tonight isn't very good, but maybe after work tomorrow?" she offered.

Warren smiled, trying his best not to grin. "That'll work with my schedule. Five o'clock, at O'Malley's Tavern?"

Leslie pulled out her smart-phone and checked. "Yeah, that'll work." She put her phone away. "See you then."

As Leslie walked from Warren's office, she was oblivious to the shocked stare from Stephanie. She just smiled wickedly. "Two down," she said softly to herself.

**********

"You've _got_ to read this one!" D chortled as he read his computer monitor. He was laughing so hard he was near tears.

His younger partner, C, was also sitting back in his office, reading. "Can't be better than mine!" he retorted. "Get this - we're some kind of evil organization that uses the boxes for profit and kills those who find them!"

The older agent, D, laughed aloud. "Where do these people get these ridiculous ideas?"

"Too much X-files," C answered with a chuckle. "According to this, there was an internal civil war in the department, and the evil agents won!" He was nearly hysterical with laughter.

"As if anyone in the government could hide a conspiracy like that!" said D through his chortles of laughter, laughter so hard he was almost in tears.

"So what's your latest story find?" C asked, curious.

D looked at his monitor. "Get this - making humans into vampires."

C's eyes widened. "You mean, like the Slayer, and Twilight, and all that? Can't go out in the sun or they'll melt, super-human, can't be killed except by a wooden stake?" He shook his head in disbelief.

D laughed. "Yeah, just like that!"

"Next thing you know, we'll find a story where one of the devices turns some unsuspecting person into Merlin the Magician, complete with magical powers - or Harry Potter!" C roared. "Or some kind of flying bullet-proof superhero, like Superman or Wonder Woman!"

D grinned. "I'd like to see someone do Wonder Woman."

C shook his head, still laughing. "You're stuck on that seventies Wonder Woman show with, what's her name, Linda somebody?"

"Lynda Carter," D corrected. "And you've got to admit - she has fabulous boobs!" He glanced at his partner. "And I know you've got a thing for nice boobs!"

C frowned. "Getting kind of personal, aren't you?"

"Sorry. Anyway, while we're on the subject, tell Trish thanks for dinner. It was fabulous."

The frown faded. "I will. She loves having you come by."

"So when's she due?"

C grinned. "Six weeks."

D nodded. He decided to keep the rest of his comments to himself. He knew that his partner had a strong attraction to Asian women, and a strong attraction to large-breasted women. When they'd found the victim of a loan shark who'd been turned into a big-busted Asian prostitute, C couldn't help but be attracted. And D wasn't surprised - often, people who had changed accepted the permanence of their situations quickly. In this case, with C's personal help, Trish had come to love being a woman, so much so that _she_ proposed to C. The two were very happy together, and were expecting their first child.

"Hey, what's with the laughter?"

D and C looked up from their PCs at the interruption. "Hey, boss," C quickly replied. "What's up?"

"I _told_ you to quit calling me that," the woman standing in the doorway frowned. "You tell me what all the laugher is about," she finished her thought. "They can hear you three offices away."

"Just reading some of the stories that are going around the Internet like wildfire," D answered. "Can you believe some of the things people are writing about the devices?"

P nodded sadly. "It's making our lives difficult," she agreed. "I had to brief the National Security Agency yesterday about all of these ... rumors and stories. It's making our job harder trying to figure out what rumors are true and what are just someone's fantasies. One the one hand, with these kinds of wild stories getting out, people might be a little more fearful of the devices, and we might get one that's never been used. On the other, it might make people more ... adventurous." She pulled a folder from beneath her arm. "Speaking of changes, I've got something here that might need investigating."

D sighed. "Another case?"

P shook her head. "More than one. And they're very ... curious."

D took the folder - it was already quite thick. "Wish we could use the computers. It'd help tracking and data sharing."

P nodded. "But with all the cyber-spying going on, we are under orders that no case information can _ever_ go on a computer." She sighed. "Most of the security agencies' computers have been penetrated, and if it's a foreign agent we don't want them knowing _anything_ about what _we_ know about the devices."

"You know, we _could_ always try to get that smart Trek girl on our side. Between her and that cybernetic hive thing, they might be able to help. It certainly couldn't hurt," C suggested.

P nodded. "I'm not sure that I agree with you. I know the directorate says no. So we go on doing the best we can. Now put away the Internet stories and rumors and get on this case." She strode from the office.

"Someday, they're going to realize that that girl may be the best ally we've got," C muttered as he opened the file.

**********

C and D sat in their non-descript car outside the building. "Did you get a lab report?" C asked as he scanned the files.

D nodded. "The lab says there's no single agent that they know of that can do this. Some of it, there's no _way_ to do. No chemical, no drug, no pathogen."

C sighed. "That's what I figured. So we've got ..."

"Extreme gynecomastia - breast growth - in men. Loss of body fat around the waist, with extreme slimming. Distribution of fat around the hips toward female proportions. Loss of all body hair except the eyebrows and scalp, and that grows quite rapidly."

"You think this is caused by a device?"

D shook his head. "That's the part that doesn't make sense. You read the case info?"

"Yup."

"Twenty-five cases _reported_ so far. And the time frame is well over the known active period of a device."

C nodded grimly. "The only think I can think is that someone broke a device and it's still active."

"It would be nice to find one still working," D sighed. "Let's go talk to the guy."

The two agents climbed from the car and walked to a particular apartment. C knocked firmly on the door.

The door opened a tiny crack, and a pair of eyes peeked out of the darkness. "Can I help you?" a man's voice asked.

"We'd like to talk with you," C replied.

The man's eyes widened fearfully. "Go away," he said quickly.

D gave a quick glance at C. "It's about your ... condition."

"I ... don't know what you're talking about," the man stammered. "Go away."

"We _know_ about the things that happened to you," C countered. "We're here to ... investigate."

"Who are you? Are you ...?" There was panic in the man's voice now.

"We're not here to harm you. We only want to talk so we can help figure out what happened." C flashed an ID in front of the door.

The man sighed heavily. "Do you have a cure for me?" he finally asked hopefully.

"No," D answered, "not yet. But if you don't help us, we won't have any chance of finding one."

Both C and D could tell that the man was considering a variety of conflicting emotions and feelings. C glanced at D, wondering if they'd overplayed their hand.

Slowly, the door opened, and the two agents stepped into the darkened room.

"Sit down, if you'd like," the man offered. "I hope you'll excuse the darkness. It's just ... well, I don't like to be seen like ... this."

C and D walked in and sat on a well-worn sofa. "I think I understand," C affirmed. "I hope you'll understand that we would like to see the ... extent of your symptoms."

The guy slowly nodded. "I kind of figured that you would." He turned on the overhead light.

C and D struggled to control their shock. They'd seen a lot of different transformations caused by the devices, but this was unsettling to them - if it was indeed caused by one of the devices. The man had wavy blonde hair reaching to his mid-back. His chest was very large, with two extremely large, rounded mounds that had a very luscious feminine shape.

The man saw their stunned looks and sighed. "Yeah, I know. It's ...." He couldn't finish his thought. "It sucks." He lifted the bottom of his shirt up so the agents could see his waist. Inadvertently, he lifted it high enough to show his very large brown nipples as well.

His waist was tiny. There was no other word for it. If a woman thought a twenty-four inch waist was too big, she'd have been envious of this man's wasp-waist. D guessed it couldn't be more than eighteen to twenty inches.

Below the waist, more changes were evident. His rear was wider than it should have been, and rounded into a delicious feminine ass. If one looked between his neck and his thighs, the man's general shape was very feminine.

He let his shirt drop back down and flopped in a chair. "You want to talk? So talk."

C took out a notebook. "When did you first notice symptoms?"

"About two months ago," the man said. "I felt some tenderness in my chest, and it seemed a bit swollen behind my nipples."

C's and D's eyes shot up. Two months? This was a very fast-acting thing, whatever it was. C noticed that D was squirming nervously; like his partner, C was also afraid of what would happen if this were an airborne agent. He and C would end up looking like this man.

"Your hair is growing faster?" C asked.

The man snorted. "Faster is an understatement. Until it gets about this long, it grows about two to three inches a day! I get a haircut in the morning, and I look like a woman by the time I go to bed!"

"Are you still changing?"

The man shook his head. "Except for my hair still growing fast, I don't think so. Nothing has changed for the past week anyway."

"Does anyone else you know have these symptoms?"

The man shook his head. "Not that I know. Besides, if you were changing like this, would you tell your buddies?"

"Good point," D agreed.

"Any unusual foods or medications?" C continued.

The man shook his head. "The doc went through all of that. Nothing unusual. It just ... happened."

"You work in a chemical plant, right?"

"Used to," the man said bitterly. "You think I'm going to show up in the plant looking like this?" He shook his head. "I got the doc to sign for long-term medical leave."

D consulted his notebook. "The plant produces pretty conventional chemical products, so it doesn't look like that's a lead."

"Doc tested for everything at the plant. Besides, I don't think anyone at the plant is having the same ... thing that I've got," the man added.

"How about contact with other people? Before the symptoms began. Anything unusual? Any sexual contacts that were ... .out of the ordinary?"

The man shook his head. "Everything was normal until these," he glanced down, indicating his breasts, " started growing. And no, nothing unusual in my sex life."

"Do you have an active sex life?" D asked.

The guy nodded. "I _did_. Not any more. I doubt any woman would want to have anything to do with me _now_!" he said bitterly.

"And nothing ... unusual? No foreign women? No prostitutes?"

The man shook his head. "Nope. Just a normal life - go to the bar, shoot some pool, occasionally get lucky."

D sighed. So far, there was nothing in what the man said that was giving them any leads. "One more thing," D added. He pulled a photo from the folder and showed it to the man. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

The man looked at the photo of the MAU, then he shook his head. "Nope. Never seen anything like it. What is it?"

D shrugged. "It's nothing, really. Not if you've never seen one."

The man shrugged, seeming to accept D's answer. "Okay."

C glanced at D, who nodded imperceptibly. There was nothing more they could discover here. "We'll be in touch. We have some more leads to run down." They stood and turned toward the door.

The man looked up from his chair, his eyes pleading. "You guys are going to cure me, right?"

C glanced nervously at D again. "We'll see what we can do. First, we have to figure out what's causing your problems." The two agents let themselves out and strode slowly to their car.

C leaned back, breathing slowly as if to compose himself. He noticed his partner was doing the same. "Was it just me, or was it kind of warm in there?"

D shook his head. "I was wondering the same thing." He winced and adjusted his trousers. "But I don't think it was the climate control."

C looked at him and nodded his agreement. "With all those other changes, he's probably emitting a ton of female pheromones, too!" He sighed. "Damn, this is a weird case."

**********

Leslie strolled confidently into the bar, her short skirt showing lots of sexy leg, and her top barely containing her breasts. Her makeup was more than she would have normally used, far more toward the slutty look. With confidence shining from her eyes, she looked like a woman on the prowl. She _knew_ that lots of men were eyeing her, mentally calculating their chances to score with her. She found that exciting.

Leslie eased herself to the bar and slid onto a stool. It didn't take long before one of the guys came up offering to buy her a drink. With a wicked grin, she accepted his drink and offer of company.

**********

C sighed as he read through the stack of reports. "This is like an epidemic," he complained. "Forty reported cases over the last four months. All have the same symptoms - rapid and extreme breast growth, rapid hair growth, even when the victim was partially bald. Thinning waistline, feminine shaped rear. Loss of body hair." He shook his head. "Anything but the tiny waist would be most men's ideal shape in a woman."

"This is our third trip down here, and we're not coming up with _anything_!" D pored over his notes yet again. "We've interviewed eight of them, and there's nothing in common. Nothing!" He slammed his notebook down. "Dammit!" he cursed. "This doesn't make any fucking sense! None of it does!"

C sighed. "Yeah, I know what you mean." He shook his head. "There _has_ to be an answer in here somewhere."

"This _can't_ be caused by a device," D snarled. He rose and started pacing around their hotel room. "The time span is too long."

D's junior partner nodded his agreement. "Let's go down the possibilities. The change is happening so slowly that it _can't_ be a device, agreed?"

D nodded. "That _seems_ reasonable."

"The Center for Disease Control has gone over the samples from the victims, and can't find anything chemical that would cause these types of changes."

D nodded again. "And our labs couldn't find anything, either. A chemical agent could cause the breast growth, but not to the extreme seen. Some pharmaceuticals _could_ cause hair growth, but not to the extreme seen. Nothing we know of could cause the loss of body hair. Nothing could cause the thinning of the waist. And, here's the kicker, there's nothing in known technology that could cause regeneration after a reduction surgery."

C sighed and nodded. "Those last two are the real sticking points. How the _hell_ do you do that, and in something that is spreading?"

"Maybe a malfunctioning device that had an area effect?" D speculated.

C shook his head. "The onset of symptoms is too varied, and we haven't found any common 'point of exposure'." He sighed. "So far, there's _nothing_ the victims have in common. But there _has_ to be!"

D agreed. "Based on the reactions - depression, one suicide, shame, withdrawing from public interactions - we can be pretty sure that these guys aren't doing this on their own."

C looked at his notes again. "Their blood chemistry is normal; normal male hormone levels, no elevated female hormones, no symptoms of any infection - it's all normal."

"And if there _were_ any female hormones being introduced, it _couldn't_ cause some of the symptoms."

C sighed. "Agreed. There's nothing that makes this our case. So why is P keeping us on this?"

D shook his head. "Maybe she's still pissed that we asked that Trekkie chick to help with the data correlation on this."

C nodded. "That's probably it. I wish she _would_ have helped. It beats trying to sort through all the data manually." He sighed. I've got the feeling that we're going to need her help someday, but if we treat her like P and the directorate expect, we're going to make an enemy when we could use a friend."

"Thinking about _that_ isn't going to help us with _this_ case." He stood, picked up his coffee cup, and walked to the window of the hotel room, staring outside as he sipped his coffee.

C leaned back and stretched. So far, it had been a long morning - two interviews and this long discussion about what they hadn't found. "It's ... weird. The combination is...." He shook his head.

"If you wanted to make someone more feminine looking, you couldn't design a more perfect way to do it," D commented as he watched a woman walking to her car in the parking lot below their window.

C's eyes widened. "Design...." His mouth hung open for a minute as his mind raced. "That's it!"

D was confused. "What?"

"Don't you get it? If you wanted to be more feminine, like transsexuals, then you'd dream of having something like this!"

D shook his head. "Doesn't fly. Maybe someone _could_ put together some hyper-hormones or stuff like that, but these guys didn't _want_ to be changed! Besides, some super-hormones couldn't do _all_ of this. "

C's face fell. "Good point."

"Besides, if someone did that, wouldn't it take a lot longer? And wouldn't it also affect women?" D shook his head. "Unless someone is giving this only to men? I can't imagine that it's a pathogen. Any kind of communicable disease would affect women, too, and it would spread much faster."

"Then it _has_ to be something that's spread slowly, to men only. Like an STD! Some kind of mutant STD?" C's jaw dropped open, as if a light bulb had suddenly illuminated in his brain. He dropped his folder and pulled out his cell phone. Frantically, he punched in some numbers.

D watched him, wondering what his partner had suddenly found exciting. "What ..."

C gestured for him to shut up. "S? Yeah, it's me. Listen, I need you to find a number for me from my desk. Walker. Dr. Mort Walker." He paused. "Yeah, I'll wait." Another pause, this one longer. "Okay, shoot." He scribbled some numbers on his notepad. "Great, thanks."

"What the heck are you thinking?" D asked, curious about the sudden phone call.

"You might have said the key word," C answered. "Disease. What if this is a residual of someone's change, a disease that causes these changes? What if someone accidentally created a new disease by carelessly using one of the devices?"

D felt the blood drain from his face. If that _were_ the case, it would mark a very dangerous escalation in the known capabilities of the devices. "That might explain why P won't let this one go."

C let his fingers dance over his cell phone and then put it up to his ear. "Hello, Mort? It's me - Sidney." He paused a bit, while D's eyebrows rose. "No, I'm not working on that anymore. I'm working for the government." Another pause. "Look, it's a long story. I need to ask a favor." Pause. "Okay, it's more than a favor. I need some serious help with a problem we've got. I'll put you on retainer so you can get paid, too." Pause. "Yeah, it's _that_ serious. I want you to get your butt on a plane and get down here." He rattled off their city and hotel. "No, not tomorrow. If there's an afternoon flight or a red-eye tonight, take it." Pause. "No, don't bother packing. We'll cover things on the expense account when you get here. Okay. See you." C hung up the phone.

"Okay, you're going to need to explain..." D started.

C cut him off. "Dr. Mort Walker. He was one of my professors while I was working on my Masters' degree. Wiz in molecular biology."

D nodded grimly. "Okay, that part is good. But ..."

C shook his head. "He's been a consultant for _top_ agencies, with a higher level of clearance than you or I have. He's good. Very good. And he's on our approved consultant list." He shook his head, feeling a shiver course down his spine. "I always hoped I'd never have to call him."

**********

"Look, we've got time to get one more visit before we have to meet your professor, right?" D pleaded.

C sighed. "Call me a pessimist in my old age, but I don't see what one more interview is going to get us." He shivered. "Besides, I'm getting really creeped out by getting ... aroused by these guys. It's ... weird."

D nodded. "Yeah, I know what you're saying."

"Okay, pick one. Let's get it over with."

D started to look through his files to find a candidate. "This guy looks like a good candidate. Warren Knight. Address is ... " He halted and frowned. "Wait a second. This is ..." He flipped to another file. "These two guys have the same work address. And I'm sure ..." He flipped some more. "Bingo! Three at the same work address." He paled. "It's a biotech firm."

"A common thread, maybe?" C speculated. "You know how quickly we could have found that if we could use our computers for something besides surfing the web and playing games," he added bitterly.

D sighed. "Yeah, I know. Damned hackers!"

A few minutes later, the two agents walked into the reception area of Warren's company. Stephanie Lewis looked up at the agents. "Good morning, gentlemen," she said with a smile. "May I help you?" She realized the two were wearing black suits, white shirts, and black ties. She swallowed nervously; she wasn't used to very formal unannounced visitors to the company.

"We're here to see Mr. Knight," C announced.

Stephanie checked her computer. "I don't' show any appointments," she said. "I'm afraid he's not available at the moment."

"He's available," D said. "And he _will_ see us."

Stephanie frowned. "I'm afraid you can't see him without an appointment."

C flashed his badge. "We _will_ see him. Now."

Stephanie's eyes widened. She wasn't used to federal agents flashing badges and demanding access. "Uh..." she stammered. "I'll have to clear it ..."

D shook his head. "No, ma'am," he said. "We'll go talk to Mr. Knight, and you will _not_ call security."

C nodded. "Do you know the penalty for obstructing a federal investigation, young lady?" C asked evenly.

Stephanie swallowed - hard. This was not what she'd expected; her day had started out so nicely. Slowly, she realized that she had little choice, and showed the two men to the door of Mr. Knight's office.

As they walked in, Mr. Knight called out from his chair, which was turned so the back was toward the door. "Steph, I don't want any visitors."

"Mr. Knight," C countered, "we're not your secretary. We're agents, and we're here to talk to you."

C and D saw the chair move a bit more upright, a sign that Mr. Knight reacted to their presence.

"I don't want to talk to anyone," Warren Knight said firmly.

"Would you like me to describe your changes?" D asked evenly.

Slowly, the chair turned. C and D had seen eight cases already, so they weren't surprised. He had the same symptoms - long hair and very large breasts; his waist and hips were still unseen behind the table.

C's eyebrow rose when he saw that Warren was wearing a woman's blouse with darts to allow for breasts, and under that, it appeared that he was wearing a bra. His hair hung down behind him; C suspected it was just as long as the other cases.

The conversation was the same as the previous eight. The symptoms started a few months ago, the changes ran their course, and then stopped, leaving Warren Knight looking like a hyper-feminized freak.

"So, based on your reactions," Warren said in a weary voice, "I assume that you're not surprised by what's happened to me?"

D nodded slowly. "We've seen other cases."

"Sit down, gentlemen," Warren said politely as he gestured toward some chairs opposite his desk.

"From the reports I've gotten, this has affected three or four men in your company?" C asked as the two agents sat.

Warren nodded, a glum expression on his face. "I lost my chief researcher and two other guys to this. And so far, nobody can tell me anything about what caused it or whether there's a cure." He looked at the agents with an eyebrow raised, as if asking them to tell him that they had a cure.

D noticed his expression. "We're still working on the "what causes it" problem. The cure ..." He shook his head. "We don't have one."

Warren's expression fell. "That's kind of what I figured, but I had to ask."

When they finished talking to Warren Knight, C and D felt no closer to answers than when they'd started. The only thing they'd discovered is that the biotech firm _was_ working on new genetically-engineered therapies, and that the CDC had already talked to them and gotten the technical data.

**********

Leslie strolled confidently through the park, her short skirt displaying as much leg as was legal, while her scoop-necked blouse showed her inviting valley of cleavage. As she strolled, she was aware of guys eyeing her. Before, it would have angered her. Now, it felt powerful.

She sat casually on a park bench, crossing her legs slowly. Every single move she made was coldly calculated to maximize sex appeal.

It wasn't long before a guy jogging in the park made a lame excuse to stop and rest, and to chat with her. From the way he kept staring at her chest, Leslie _knew_ he was a lecherous bastard. He deserved what he was going to get.

She dropped a few casual but suggestive hints, knowing that the guy would pick up on them. Not long after, they both rose from the bench, and with Leslie hanging on the guy's arm, strolled from the park toward an evening of dinner and 'fun'.

**********

"Professor Walker, this is my partner," C said as made the introduction. "We just call him D."

Professor Walker started. "That sounds kind of ... conspiratorial." Then a huge grin crept over his face. "Could be quite fun! But I have to insist you call me Mort," he added. "I'm not one for formality." Mort turned and glanced at C, looking over the top of his glasses in a somewhat reproving gesture. "You know that."

D quickly scanned Dr. Walker. He was short - perhaps five foot six, a little portly, with gray hair that came with his sixty-eight years of age. His eyes burned with an energy that gave away his passion for his work. He wasn't quite the stereotypical professor that D had imagined. "Mort, you probably want to start reviewing the case files."

"What are we going to do? Interview more victims?" C asked, puzzled.

D shook his head. "No. I'd like you to stay with the professor. I'm going to take the secretary of the biotech company out for lunch. There's something going on there that Mr. Knight wasn't telling us."

**********

"Well, did you find anything?" D asked as he came into the hotel room, where Mort and C were looking over the case files.

Mort glanced up, peering over his glasses as was his habit. "Nothing that makes sense."

"How about your little errand?" C asked. "Did you turn up anything?"

D slumped into a chair. "Maybe. It turns out that there were rumors that three of the men in the company, including our Mr. Knight, had affairs before their symptoms started."

C shook his head, frowning. "That's not much to go on. That applies to a lot of men."

D shrugged. "Have you found a better lead?"

Mort looked up at D, peering over his glasses again. "Are you suggesting that this might be a disease organism that's transmitted sexually?" He sounded dubious of D's comment.

"Have you found a better theory?" D asked defensively. "We've been chasing this for almost three months, and there aren't _any_ common threads. This _might_ be one."

Mort stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Are you suggesting a new pathogen that's spreading this?" He shook his head. "There's no _way_ we could create a pathogen that could do all of this! Targeted hair growth and hair loss, mammary growth far in excess of genetic potential, reshaping of waist and hips to feminine proportions? And regeneration capabilities of the breasts if the victim has a reduction?"

"I take it you don't think it would be possible to engineer a virus to do all of this?" D asked.

Mort sighed as he leaned back and took a sip of tea. "Some of this, yeah, we could do it - in ten or fifteen years! I mean, it might be feasible to make a body react to testosterone as if it's estrogen, and thus cause male breast growth, but not to the extremes seen in the case reports. Hair growth? Sure, we could maybe make the hair follicles more active, but not selectively. And some of the symptoms, like regeneration?" He shook his head. "I could only _imagine_ creating an organism that would cause that!"

C and D winced simultaneously, and Mort noticed. "What?"

D glanced at C and got a confirming nod. "How much do you know about what we do?" he asked.

Mort frowned. "I take it you guys don't work with the CDC?"

D shook his head. "This is highly classified, but we checked, and you have the clearance for it." He reached in a folder and pulled out a picture - a clear color photograph of a dull gray metal attache case. "We investigate ... unusual changes in people. Changes caused by this type of device."

Mort took the picture and examined it. "This looks like some type of metal attache case."

"It's not. Believe me, it's far more than a simple metal box. We believe it's an alien device that has the power to ... alter people."

"Alter?" Mort's eyebrows raised. "As in ...?"

"As far as we know, the device has the ability to be programmed by mental imagery, and then to rearrange matter into that image."

"Which could cause some of the changes..."

D shook his head. "Except that the devices deactivate after about four days of use. The spread is following a pattern that's way beyond the known time limit of the devices."

"If someone accidentally created a new pathogen," Mort speculated, "then it _could_ have been caused by one of your devices."

"How would it spread, though?" D asked simply.

Mort shrugged. " Airborne, body fluids, STD - anything is in the realm of possibility. But I really think it's sexually transmitted."

D's eyebrows raised. "Why?"

Mort smiled. "Because the spread is slow. If it were an airborne pathogen, it would have spread very widely, and there would be a shortage of large bras."

**********

The bar was mostly quiet; Mort enjoyed the tranquility as he sipped his beer. He was disturbed by the implications of the cases he'd been studying all day, and by the information about the alien devices that C and D had shared with him. A break was definitely in order.

He watched a woman saunter confidently into the bar. She came to the bar, paused to look around, and sat down on a barstool. The woman wore a short dress with a low-cut top, showing both her long sexy legs and a vast valley of cleavage. There was an air about her, a calm certainty of purpose, that seemed out of place. She seemed to be on a mission rather than here to relax.

Mort watched, knowing that he'd seen her before. His brain shifted into high gear as he took another sip of his beer. The woman's identity was a known quantity, hidden somewhere in the storehouse of other information in his brain.

The woman noticed him staring. Instead of frowning, she smiled, licked her lips seductively, and strode to him. "I noticed you were looking at me," she purred.

Mort nodded slowly. "I was trying to figure out where I'd seen you before," he answered.

The woman laughed. "That's a new line."

The answer slowly dawned on Mort. He simply smiled. "I was pretty sure, but now I know."

The woman's confident air vaporized. "Know what?"

"I know who you are." He watched the woman's shocked expression. "The surprise is that _you_ don't recognize _me_! I have to say that I'm disappointed, Leslie."

Leslie's jaw dropped as her eyes widened in surprise. "How ... how do you know who I am? Who _are_ you?"

"Ah, I thought my classes were more memorable," Mort clucked. "I didn't think _any_ of my grad students would ever forget me!"

Leslie looked again. "Professor Walker?" she stammered. "It's been ...." She shook her head in disbelief. "What are you doing here? Did you retire? Are you attending a conference?"

Mort smiled and shook his head. "No, my dear girl. I'm in town ... doing a favor for another of my old students."

"Oh."

"It's nice to see you again, too," Mort added with a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

Leslie was taken aback. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "It's just ... I wasn't expecting to see you." Her air of confidence had completely vanished.

Mort shrugged. "It's not every day that a person's old professor drops by, especially after, what, ten or twelve years?"

Leslie tried to smile. "It's been thirteen years," she acknowledged. "I'd almost forgotten."

Mort looked disappointed. "Forgotten? Me? How could that _ever_ happen? I tried to make the experience very _memorable_ for my grad students!"

Leslie laughed. "Oh, believe me, you succeeded. How could I ever forget your constant hectoring over my slightest mistakes?"

"It wasn't personal," Mort admitted with a sly grin. "It's in the secret blood oath professors take - we are sworn to make the lives of grad students miserable! So, what have you been up to? The last I knew, you were a researcher at a biotech firm here in town."

Leslie's features clouded. "I ... had to quit."

"Oh?"

"Let's just say that other people were taking credit for my work." Her words seethed with anger and resentment.

"I know what that's like," Mort admitted sympathetically. "Unfortunately, it's too common, both in universities and in industry."

"Thanks for being so understanding," Leslie admitted softly. "It doesn't make it suck any less, but at least you know what it feels like."

"You know, I really wanted you to stay and work on your doctorate." Mort changed the subject. "You were one of my best students."

Leslie laughed, a hollow sound. "Maybe I should have," she admitted. "Things might have turned out differently."

"How about we sit here, have a few drinks, and reminisce about the fun times?" Mort suggested.

Leslie's laugh was genuine this time. "Like when you were lord and master, and I was a naive subservient grad student?" She paused for a moment, a wistful look in her eyes. "You know, those times were a lot of fun. Tough, but still fun." The laugh returned. "You had a reputation as being one of the toughest professors on campus. I was scared to death when I started with you."

**********

C met D in the hotel lobby. It was late, and both were tired, but from the expression on C's face, D knew he'd found something. He also knew he'd have to talk to his partner - again - about keeping a "poker face".

"Okay, what did you find?" D asked before C could start.

C was disappointed that he didn't get to spring his news. "I think I found a common thread. Of the five guys I talked to, four described one of their encounters that seemed to match pretty well."

D took out his notebook. "Let me guess. Tall. Five foot eight or nine. Long brunette hair. Very curvy figure. Also very confident of herself, and a willing partner?"

C frowned. "Yeah, that sounds familiar."

"I found out one other thing."

"Oh?"

"It may be the woman from the biotech firm that left, just a little before the symptoms started," D continued.

"Interesting," C commented dryly. "Do you suppose they're up to something they didn't tell us about?"

"Maybe," D observed, "but not likely. Mort has gone through all their data and projects, and he's convinced they're clean. But there is one interesting fact that the secretary told me."

"Go on."

"It seems that the rumors of affairs at the company all centered on one ex-employee."

C's eyes narrowed as he frowned. "Don't tell me - five foot nine, long brunette hair, rather well built?"

D nodded silently.

"Let's go talk to Mort. I think we've got a solid lead on our "Typhoid Mary"," C said.

**********

There was no answer to the knock on Mort's door. C grimaced, while D knocked again, louder.

"Just a minute," came a muffled reply from behind the door.

In moments, the door opened a crack, and Mort stood, peering through the opening, clad in a robe. "What?" he asked bluntly.

"We think we may have found the lead," D said simply.

Mort's eyes widened, then he nodded. "Just a second." The door closed again, and there was a bit of commotion behind it, then Mort opened the door fully. "Come in, come in," he insisted. He led the two agents to the sofa in his suite, while he slumped into a large overstuffed chair.

As he sat, C noted that Mort's hair was dissheveled, and he was a bit sweaty.

"So," Mort continued, his eyes dancing with eagerness, "you say you think you found the vector? A "Typhoid Mary" single common contact?"

D nodded. "Both C and I interviewed several of the victims. After a few, we started noticing a common thread, a common partner that the men had had sex with."

"Aha!" Mort gloated. "I _knew_ it was probably sexually transmitted!"

"C took notes. I got a picture from the biotech company's website, and two of the men I spoke with confirmed that it was the same woman they'd encountered."

"Good! Now we'll need to get samples to see if we can isolate the pathogen." He seemed gleeful to be helping solve the mystery. "Let's see."

D pulled out his smartphone and called up the picture he'd saved. "We _think_ this is her."

Mort's mouth dropped open. "Leslie?" he asked, stunned.

It was D's turn to have his mouth drop in stunned surprise. "You know her?"

The sound of the bedroom door opening stunned C and D. They turned quickly.

"Yes," Leslie said simply. "We know each other." Like Mort, she was clad in only a hotel bathrobe. Her generous cleavage made a deep vee in the neckline of the robe. "He was my thesis advisor." She glided easily across the room and eased down onto the chair on Mort's lap, her head leaning on his shoulders and she wrapped her hands around one arm.

"Oh, shit!" Mort said softly. "What have I done?"

Leslie stood looking at Mort with adoring eyes, wondering what he was babbling about. "What are you talking about?"

"She's the carrier," D said simply.

Mort looked up, then he shook his head. "She _can't_ be! My students wouldn't do something like that!

"What are you guys talking about?" Leslie asked, but her tone was getting an edge. "Carrier?" She sat a bit more upright, her expression less adoring and more suspicious of the two intruders.

"Oh, shit!" Mort said over and over. "What have I done?"

C looked at Leslie. "If she's the carrier, you're infected."

Mort was shaking his head in denial. "She _can't_ be! I taught my students better ethics than that! You have to be mistaken!"

D shook his head grimly. "I don't think so." He pulled out his smart-phone and called up a picture, showing it to Leslie. "You used one of these, didn't you?" His words were less a question than a statement of fact.

Leslie's eyes narrowed, and her lip trembled for a moment. "I _had_ to!" she hissed angrily. "They _stole_ my work, my ideas, my promotions and raises! They treated me like I was just a pair of tits, and they got away with it - all because I'm a woman!"

C shot a quick sideways glance at D; Leslie sounded irrational, possibly even dangerous. "There are ways to see justice done - without resorting to bioterror," he said evenly.

D caught his partner's glance, and knew what he was up to. C was baiting her, trying to distract her. D nodded silently and slipped his hand into his pocket, fingering the 'device' he'd acquired from the head office.

"You decided to be judge, jury, and executioner, didn't' you?" C continued. "You decided to take it upon yourself to design and extract revenge, didn't you?"

Leslie practically leapt off Mort's lap and drew herself up to full height, leaning a bit forward as she advanced on C. "They _deserved_ what they got! They needed to know what it's like, so they can learn their lesson!"

As Leslie passed D, stalking toward the retreating agent C, D slipped behind her and slapped the device in his palm against her arm.

"Ow!" Leslie cried as she spun toward D. "What did you ...?" Her eyes glazed into a confused stare, and her voice faded as she tottered uneasily and then crumpled to the floor unconscious.

D looked admiringly at the palm-tranquilizer injector in his hand, then he slid it back into his pocket. "Handy," he observed dryly.

Mort sat in the chair, stunned by the spectacle he'd just observed. "What have I done?" he mumbled to himself. He looked down at Leslie, then involuntarily glanced down at his own chest. "What have I done? How could she have turned so ... irrational?"

C shook his head. "It wasn't your doing. Something inside her snapped. She lost it."

"So now what?" Mort asked softly, looking down at Leslie, his eyes filled with pity for the deranged girl.

D shook his head. "She's going to have to be isolated. We can't let her loose - not with the bug she's carrying."

"But ... isn't that cruel?" Mort asked cautiously. It was clear that he was very fond of Leslie, probably starting from way back when she was his graduate student.

"Compared to the 40 or more cases of men who now have large breasts? I don't think any of _them_ would say it's cruel," D replied.

C nodded his agreement. "At least two of the men who caught the bug are bisexual. I suspect we're going to see a plague of big tits in the gay and bi community _very_ soon."

Mort sighed. "At least from the pattern we've seen, it doesn't appear to be transmissible from men to women." He shook his head. "And now I've got it."

"Probably."

Mort glanced down again. "I suppose I'm going to have to get used to wearing a bra, aren't I?" His attempt at humor fell flat. "Serves me right for being naive about Leslie, though, doesn't it."

"So what do _you_ do?" D asked.

Mort sighed. "I suppose I'll retire," he said softly. "I doubt I could be an effective teacher once I have an exaggerated female figure. It'd be hard to be taken seriously."

"You could go to work for the agency," C noted. "In the short-term, at least. Someone's going to have to try to develop a vaccine."

"You think your boss would go for that?"

D nodded. "We have enough ... resources," he said confidently.

"What about Leslie? Is she just going to ... disappear?" Mort sounded fearful for the future of his student.

C shook his head. "Contrary to some popular Internet legends, we don't operate that way. Until we get her 'neutralized', she'll have to be confined. Probably a minimum-security prison or such."

Mort dropped his head, nodding slightly. "I understand," he acknowledged. "She's a threat. But that's not much of a life."

"What else are we supposed to do with her?"

Mort glanced at the two agents. "Could you leave her in my care? She's a brilliant researcher, and she'd be invaluable in trying to find a cure."

D glanced at C, a worried expression on his face. "That's a decision way above our level," he replied. "But if you think you can work with her, and control her, I'll ask." He dug out his cell phone.

While D argued with the boss, C and Mort lifted Leslie gently to the sofa. In a few minutes, before D had finished his call, she began to stir.

Leslie looked up, feeling confused, until she saw Mort. Her expression softened momentarily, and then she saw C. Anger clouded her face as she tried to bolt upright.

Mort sat beside her and held her shoulders gently. "Easy," he said soothingly. "These guys aren't the enemy."

Leslie stared at C, then back to Mort. "But ... they ...." She turned to C, confused. "What did you do to me?"

"Just kept you from hurting yourself," C lied.

Mort continued, "Can I talk to Leslie in private?" he asked.

C nodded, turned, and left the room.

Once he was gone, Mort continued. "I'd like you to help me with a project."

"What kind of project?"

"I need to find a vaccine to protect against the organism you created," Mort explained simply.

"You want me to help?" Leslie asked, incredulous. Her eyes widened in surprise. "Did we ...?" Her hands lifted to her open mouth. "Oh, my god, oh my god!" she started exclaiming softly. "I didn't mean to do it to you!" she babbled as tears started streaming from her eyes. "Not you!" she cried. "You're the only man who ever treated me like I was a peer, and now look what I've done to you!" She buried her face in Mort's shoulders.

Mort gently patted her head. "You didn't mean to," he said softly. "You can make it up to me by helping me find a vaccine." He smiled. "Among other things. Since I'm already infected, you won't have to worry about _that_ any more."

Leslie lifted her head and stared at Mort. "Are you serious? You _really_ want me to help you? After what I've done?"

Mort nodded. "I always found your company very pleasant."

"But..."

Mort got a mischievous grin. "Besides, if you ever harbored any lesbian fantasies, you'll soon have plenty of opportunity to play with all the breasts you can handle! That is, if you enjoy my company as much as I do yours."

Leslie stared at him for a moment, then she kissed Mort fully and passionately, in a way she'd never kissed a man before. He was accepting of her, faults and all, and she found that incredibly nice and powerfully sexy.

**********

"Now what?" D asked as he closed the car door.

C turned the key and started the engine. "Mort will take her to the safe-house tomorrow. P has already started setting up a lab for them."

"He's head over heels for her,"

C nodded. "Yeah. That _should_ help her. Between his love and the psychologist we've got lined up for her, she might recover."

"Let's get to the airport. I'm ready to get back to a normal case."

C laughed. "Is there anything we do that strikes you as even remotely normal?"

"Good point. At least this one wasn't as bad as it could have been."

C frowned. "I don't follow."

D's features got somber. "Imagine if someone made themselves a carrier of a virus like Ebola that was airborne. Image what that would have been like." He paused for effect. "Yeah, it could have been a _lot_ worse."

**********
FIN