[ WP ] Story about a superhero whose powers come with a strange side effect or drawback

Cold sweat pours down my body. I feel myself heaving up whatever I ate a few hours ago. Everything's tingling. I look at my hands, and I'm greeted with unfamiliar fingers. Slender, with soft skin and long finger nails. A woman's hand. Who's hands are these? As panic begins to take over, I look around the room for a mirror, window, something I can see myself in. A bathroom. A shamble over to the mirror, and I pray that I recognize the reflection. 
 
 A stranger looks at me through the glass. Long brown hair matted with sweat, green eyes, a young face, and pearly white skin. I have no idea who I'm looking at. I run my alleged hands through my hair, and try to trace my face hoping to remember something, anything. Nothing. 
 
 Ok. 
 Ok. 
 
 What do I do. Do I call the police? An Ambulance? I'm not wearing anything but an oversized t-shirt, and baggy shorts with empty pockets. No ID, no receipts. Nothing. As the shock settles in, I see a note taped to the wall beside the mirror. It says in pretty cursive lines `` Your name is Eric''. I pause, thinking for a moment about my contradictory gender. Was someone else here? Am I alone? The next line on the note proves me wrong. 
 
 `` You are alone, in your own home. Go to the kitchen to get more answers''. The kitchen...? Ok. Whoever left these notes must know about my predicament, as strange as it seems. Walking down the foreign hallways, I notice there's nothing on the walls. Nothing personal, at least. A 3 dollar clock with dead batteries, an empty bookshelf at the end of the hall, and pristine carpets. It's like someone just moved in. 
 
 I manage to find my way into the kitchen. Nothing spectacular. The clock on the microwave says 3:42 A.M., and it's probably right given the darkness I can see through the blinds. There's another note on the fridge, same handwriting. 
 
 `` There's an egg-salad sandwich in the fridge, along with a root beer. It's your favorite''. Sure enough, it does sound delicious. Even after vomiting up whatever I do n't remember eating. Why should I trust this secret admirer, though? What if it's poisoned? 
 
 I quickly counter with the thought of being incapacitated earlier. Whoever the writer was, he or she could have probably killed me already if they wanted to. Besides, that sandwich does sound awfully good. The shrink wrapped sandwich and six pack of root beer stand alone in the light of the fridge. Another love-note from the writer sits on top. 
 
 `` Finish your meal, then go to the living room. There is a tape already in the T.V., just turn it on and press play''. Whoever this is must have put a lot of thought into this. Between bites of my midnight snack, I think about the situation. Someone knows I'm here. Someone knows me, and apparently I'm a woman named Eric. Which makes no sense. Maybe the writer meant Erica? 
 
 I sigh, and put the plate in the sink. I guess it's my house, so I should at least take care of my own dishes. There's a T.V. on a few stacked boxes and a single wicker chair next to a table with a notepad and pen. I check the tape bay, and there's VHS in there with a label saying `` Just play it''. It appears my writer knows me pretty well, whoever I am. After following the instructions and playing the tape, I sit in the wicker chair bracing myself for whatever comes next. 
 
 I'm greeted with a white male, short blonde hair, hazel eyes wearing plain T-shirt... Sitting in the same chair I am now. 
 
 `` Your name is Eric Zimmer. You were born in 1975, just outside of Reno. You graduated from Elkhorn Unified High School, and moved on to graduate from MIT. It was here you discovered you had a unique ability. You can change your physical appearance. I know this, because I am you. You do n't remember being me, because that's the side effect. You lose all of your personal memories...'' 
 
 I pause the tape, taking in what the man in the television just said. How can that be possible? Shapeshifting? Is this some sort of elaborate trick or something? Well, I do n't have much else to lose, so I continue the tape. 
 
 `` I know this is a lot to take in. If you'd like, pause the tape. Write something down and compare the handwriting. It'll be the same...'' 
 
 I pause the eerie message again, and look at the pen and paper. I write the only thing I can think of to write. 
 
 `` Your name is Eric.'' 
 
 Damn. Not quite as large, but it's the exact same cursive letters I saw on the notes. I run my hand through my hair exhaling audibly. Did n't see that coming at all. But why would I voluntarily wipe my own memory? What could possibly drive me to do that? And to change genders? Questions raising more questions. I guess I should finish the tape. I raise my alien hand and press play once more. 
 
 `` I hope that's enough to make you believe me. I bet you'd like an explanation about now...'', it's almost like he knows what I would be thinking. `` You work for the government. You're a spy. You're new identity is that of Veronica Marshall'' He held up a photo of the stranger I saw in the mirror. `` Secretary for J.D. Oil Exports, but that's not important right now. What's important is that you know why you've done this. You're here to protect your country, in a way only you can. I know you'll understand. You'll find everything you need to complete your mission behind the empty bookcase you noticed in the hallway. ID, cash, and a dossier with instructions. Good luck.'' 
 
 The tape finished. I sat in my wicker chair and pondered what would happen next. I stood up, turned off the T.V., and went to the bookcase. I swung the twenty dollar Ikea furniture out, and found a large wall safe with a number pad. 15873. For some reason, I know that. I guess that's not a personal memory. I find a purse with a few stacks of cash in varying denominations, a clasp wallet with ID, credit cards, and other personal effects, A large manilla envelope with the words `` **CLASSIFIED**'' in big red print, and a Beretta 92 FS Compact handgun. I pick up the gun like an old friend. Check the magazine and chamber, try the sights. I know this weapon inside and out. 
 
 The protocol was coming back to me. I knew how to proceed. I do n't know how I remember my training, but not my own mother's name. I guess it does n't matter now. I grab another root beer and start reading the file.
