Genre: originals

Chapter 1: Probability

More Disclaimer: This work is my own. The characters are my own. Do not repost this story beyond the limits of the Fair Use standards of Copyright Law (quotes, examples, ‘you gotta read this’ excerpts, the usual). The author is not making any kind of profit from this fanfic. I tend to work with size-themed fiction, which includes overwhelming control issues and outrageous differences in scale. Such disparate sizes between partners are not for everyone, so be warned.

Dear Diary,

Today, I was getting high while T-Bone was doing his physics homework. He talked about probability waves. I've never understood him before, but this stuff Gozer came up with is like really mind-expanding. I gotta get some more before I retake English. I think with a little work, I could really understand Shakespeare, even with all the thees and thous and everything. But T-Bone says that we're all of us, down to the atoms and Adam's ants in our hands, not real. Not the way we think of hard enough to stub your toe reality. It's like chaos is leaning towards something being real. It's just a statistical chance that I have blonde hair instead of blonde scales. You know?

And the more I sucked on the bong, the clearer it got. Like The Matrix. I could see this huge spreadsheet, Excel, Office 97. And every single particle in the whole freaking universe has a cell. And if you knew the place to enter the numbers, you could change the probability of anything. Everything. Like... wow. So I was just contemplating the numbers, you know? I wasn't going to change anything. That's not my style. Live and let headstand, man, that's me.

Then his girlfriend came in. I was minding my own business, watching the colors of the cells drift through the rainbow, when she's suddenly in my face, screaming. Mad about how her boyfriend's giggling because of all the grass smoke in the room. He's not smoking, but he could still pop positive on a urine test. "Urine trouble now!" I said. I think I laughed. I didn't want to, but it was so appropriate. Then she... I did say she was a bitch, right? Well, now you'll see that she is. The bitch slapped me. Hard. And she's an athlete! Her volleyball scholarship is twice my math one. It hurt. Lucky for me, whatever else Gozer put into the mix, it's like bulletproof painkillers. My head spun around three times and bounced off the wall, and I pulled it back in place and laughed at Betty Bitch. Actually, her name is Frieda, and she's about as much fun as an attack dog. But Betty Bitch just rolls off the tongue. Betty Bitch... Betty Bitch... see?

And that's when I saw it. Her cell. The spot on the spreadsheet that was her number was right over her big bruiser's shoulder. I tweaked it. Knock her down a notch, I thought. If she wasn't so big, maybe she'd be more friendly. Maybe her size? Maybe her mass makes it harder to get high. She'd appreciate it if she could get really high on only a little bit. T-Bone laughed at my laughter, which made me laugh, and she stormed out of the room. So we went to Mickey D's. Now it's 3 AM. I'm writing all this down so when we sober up, we'll know what I did and why Frieda's smaller and friendlier and more approachable with weed. And more friendly. Also, memo to me, high me shouldn't go back to the Mickey D's on Campus for a while. I'd tell you why, but I think you'll figure it out when Mom calls about the hooker on the credit card bill. Oops.

Dear Diary,

Frieda is a bit nicer, but that's probably a coincidence. She's still a long drink of water, and she still breezes into the room like she lives here. But she just sympathized with T-Bone, who woke up wearing a toilet seat as a horse collar. And she only giggled when she saw me. I dropped T's reins and walked to the bathroom with some shreds of dignity. Of course, everyone in the lounge cheered and congratulated me for five minutes before telling me I was wearing a bra and nothing else. I checked yesterday to see if drunk me left sober me a note. Found out I wasn't drunk. High. Very high. But maybe I was so high I had access to a higher power? I asked Frieda how tall she was. "Why?" "Just... I had a dream last night that you had dropped to exactly six feet tall." "I'm only six feet tall, moron." Okay, only a bit nicer bitch. She wasn't hitting me, anyway. "No... No, you used to be six feet, three-quarters of an inch. T-Bone's locker combination. Six and seven five. The 'point' is silent." "Dude," T groaned from his bed. "My combination's six oh oh. Because she's exactly six point zero zero zero feet tall." "Huh," I said. I dropped down onto my bed and looked at her. Really, really looked at her. Well, past her, over her shoulder for the cell. She watched me try to focus, turned her head, and walked out. I was still looking for the cell.

Dear Diary,

It's a week later, and Frieda insists she's only ever been five eleven. She said that "I need to measure you" is about the creepiest come-on she's ever heard, especially since her boyfriend was in the room. I mumbled something about a running dream and went to look for Gozer. Gozer's gone. Gone, gone, gone. Gone, Gozer, gone. Gozer sold some weed to a customer within 100 yards of a high school the customer was playing hooky from. And he copped a feel. On the Sheriff's juvie daughter. In front of a 60 Minutes camera crew. I tried to ask him what all went into the special bag he sold me, but he didn't want to talk about drugs on the phone. He did ask me to tape the 60 Minutes episode when it's on. I'll recognize him because he signed the release. "I'll be on TV, bro!"

So... no more magically enhanced weed. No more access to the great spreadsheet in the sky. No super mystical CNTL-Z button on the menu. I'm starting to worry.

Dear Diary,

Frieda is five foot four. I asked how someone five four got a volleyball scholarship. She thought I was attacking women's sports. And T-Bone pointed out that she's way, way super tall... for a woman. For a woman... Oh-oh, I thought. I remember thinking exactly that. And I was right. I checked out the campus. Every woman's shorter. I only see my English prof's boobs when she's not standing behind her lectern. She used to jiggle them ever so slightly to get the guys to wake up. Now she nonchalantly steps out into the clear, and shakes. Pretty, but they're no longer as awesome as they used to be. More depressing news at cheerleader practice. The cheerleaders' jumps only go over the mascot's head if he ducks. And he always ducks. He's trained to it, part of the routine. He agrees with me, that it would be cool if they could get girls more than four feet tall to try out. "But where you gonna get them, man? Genetics lab?" I am so screwed. We all are, man.

Dear Diary,

I was assigned a woman today. Marcia. Seems that the front office 'finally' noticed that I didn't have a woman to sponsor. Marcia's last sponsor kept dropping things on her head, so she asked for a transfer. "I don't know why you're still available," the counselor told me. She jumped down from her chair to scurry over to the file cabinet and climbed a ladder to get my file and then did everything in reverse. It was weird. I mean, she's not a midget. Or dwarf or whatever you're supposed to call people that small. Her proportions are the same as they ever were. She just stands about three feet tall. And all the ladders come with the file cabinets, they're intrinsic. Part of the design. And these ARE the same old file cabinets that the school administration has been using for the last seventy hundred years. They've just been rigged for tiny women for seventy hundred years. That's why there are sponsors. Marcia's a teeny bit under three feet tall. She can reach stuff in the women's dorm fine, but she needs a protector to help her with the rest of the world. The handicap act that puts ramps everywhere also puts redundant doorknobs down where women can reach them. Extra buttons on the elevators and stuff. But the textbooks are still the same size. Marcia can barely manhandle her laptop to class; she needs help with her books and folders and projects. They have to be big because the faculty is about 99% male. My English prof is a Brit poof. I don't know where Mrs. McShake went. Marcia says she wants to be a math teacher when she graduates. She can go on for hours about how exciting a time this is, when men are starting to allow women into the men-dominated fields. "Like what?" I asked the first time I carried her home from class. I put her books in my bag, and let her ride on my shoulders. "What? Like, like EVERYTHING!" she squeaked. "It's a man's world, and everything in it!" She got... excited. I could feel it, her little panties bunching up against my neck, getting moist. She's something of a woman's rights activist, I found out. The whole idea of 'augmented equality' as they call it gets her hot like nothing else. She ground herself against my spine as she went on and on about women doctors and women drivers and women owning property and women picking their own mates instead of it being arranged, and women nurses and women bakers and... and all that. Hotter and hotter, stronger and stronger. Oh, man. It was as close as I'd gotten to a woman's snatch since the Change, and I couldn't touch it. Not in any way. The paperwork for being a sponsor spent two pages on my duties and seven pages on what they would cut off of me if I so much as hinted that I wanted to sit at a bench, lift her into my lap, and strip her down to good intentions and a smile. But even then, I'd probably hurt her. She's a little slip of a thing. Hot, though. Damn, I wish I'd sponsored her before the Augmentation Act. Wait, what am I saying? There was no BEFORE the Augmentation Act. Just... sort of an 'instead.'

So, so very screwed. Oh, and Frieda's gone. I don't know where. T-Bone has no idea who I'm talking about.

Dear Diary,

I woke up this morning with something squirming in bed beside me. Little hands snaked under the covers to find my morning wood. Oh, that felt good. She got a double-fisted grip and started to pump me off. All before I opened my eyes. Then I realized who had to be doing this to me. And what they'd do if they found Marcia in my room, much less in bed, and far, far less committing acts of sexual congress! I yelled and pulled away. The covers flew, and Marcia looked up at me in shock and dismay. Hurt, I'd really hurt her. She thought she was doing what I had told her to do. "What's wrong?" T asked from the other bed. His voice wasn't normal, though. I looked and saw why. Right then, Frieda was sucking on the end of T's boner. She was going a mile a minute, working both hands on him. And she clearly had no gag reflex. And a bright golden collar sparkled on her neck. So, Frieda's back. She's two feet tall. Same as Marcia. They share a playpen during the day. At night... Well, things are different. Way different. There's no Augmentation Act. No Augmentation. Women aren't teachers. Anywhere. And they don't play professional sports. They're pets. Marcia's collar is silver. They don't wear clothes. They don't have any ambitions. They're quite content to wait for us to pay attention to them or give them something to do. I, uh... Diary, I miss the bitch. I really do. But Marcia made a whimpering sound and tugged at my leg hairs. I lay down and let her onto my lap. She's... well, she's accomplished at getting me off. I came right in her face. She giggled, but it sounded forced. She asked why I hadn't sounded the code word. I took her to the bathroom to wash off. She seemed pleasantly surprised I took her into the shower stall with me. Apparently, she usually idles in the deep sink while I shower. And she was so happy I let her under the hot water... Well, she remains accomplished.

Dear Diary,

The bitch is back! Sort of. Not all the way. But she's not too obedient. T still owns her. But she's his prize tabletop volleyball champion. These days, women's athletics are something like a cross between handicapped Olympics and a pet show. They have scaled-down tracks and tiny basketball courts and little arenas... All for women about ten inches tall. Frieda's a giant at eleven point seven. T's spent years getting Frieda into top form. And he indulges her. I don't think he's ever punished her, either for disobedience or insolence or defiance. So she tends to swagger a bit. And she's not about to take any shit from nobody. I was glad to see her. It was like maybe there's hope to get things back to normal on the other side of wherever we're headed. The universe hasn't forgotten what Frieda's really like. So I was treating her like a touchstone, a talisman. A good luck charm. I kept petting her and poking her. And she'd snap at me, and I'd giggle, and I'd poke at her again. Marcia thought I was displeased with her, though. I was paying attention to T's woman, not mine. In fact, Frieda even pointed that out to me. That made me sad again, but I picked up Marcia and made it up to her. Turns out I'd promised to take her out for ice cream, so we went. The world, in any sense that matters, is one hundred percent male. Male workers, male leaders, male sports, male... Well, you get the idea. ESPN23 was on when we got to the parlor. The racing, automotive, gas-powered channel. I watched as Marcia scooped away at our bowl of ice cream. Women showed up from time to time. When a guy got a trophy, something cute would be riding the champagne bottle before he opened it. They delivered straight lines on the commercials. They all played it as dumb tiny blondes. Almost ventriloquist dummies. I did know that the only thing I'd changed was scale. I hadn't made half the human race idiots. So the only thing I can think of is that we've just trained them to act stupid. Or like we did so many blondes back on my home world, we just made sure they never had to think, so they never learned how. Oh... Oh, God! I just realized. HALF the human race! Where do little boys come from?

Dear Diary,

It's a little later. I haven't doomed the race to extinction. There are still babies made and 'mostly' in the same old way. Men's... well, men's plumbing hasn't changed. Our seed is accepted by the tiny tiny women. They conceive. Inside. But almost immediately, the 'egg' comes out. Then you have to scoop it up and put it in something to protect it. Like an aquarium.

Some people swear by pure water, some think a child's development is better in a saline solution, some have family recipes. Well, if it's a girl, it turns into a tiny egg that hatches a tiny girl. If it's a boy, it grows as big as a goose and hatches into a baby boy. And you deliver him to the orphanage. Well, no, they call it something else - a crèche. Same thing. Lots of boys growing up in a horde, barely housebroken, lightly civilized. Like me. I mean, I remember Mom and Dad, but I only have pictures of my graduating class at the crèche, and some of my favorite facilitators.

Marcia rode on my shoulder as I was doing all this research. "Did you get an assignment that I didn't notice you getting assigned to?" she asked. "I mean, even dumb bunny Marcia knows where babies come from." "No! No, Marcia! You're not dumb! You're smart enough to go to college! You were going to teach math!" "Ooooooh, right!" she said. "I can see that. One," she counted, poking my cheek. I think she was counting freckles. "Two. More. Many. Lots!" She smiled proudly. "I did good?" she asked. I sighed. "Yes, Marcia. Yes, you did good. You did great. Let's go get some ice cream." "Again?! YAY!"

Dear Diary,

Today I looked at my blood in a microscope. I saw Marcia. Well, I saw lots of tiny women swimming through the plasma. They all resembled my former pet. We live in a symbiotic relationship. They course through our veins, eating infections, fighting cancer with little bone knives (their bones, not mine - generations of tiny women provide the raw materials for future generations), fixing what's broken, generally. The ones that cycle through my testicles come away pregnant. More symbiotes, all genetically similar to what they refer to as my 'wife.' That's Marcia. The template of my life partner. And one pregnancy in about a billion, they say, is a boy. I'll wake up one morning with a tiny thing, a little cell like a fish egg, lodged in my underwear. If I notice it, I can save it and contribute offspring to the crèche. There are special briefs you can wear to improve your chances of catching a kid.

There's no way to communicate with Marcia, though. And her... their world is so different from ours, what would the point even be? T-Bone was surprised that I named my 'wife' Marcia. He thought about his partner. "Betty," he said. "I'll call her Betty." "How about Frieda?" I asked. "No. That's a name you give a mare. Betty," he insisted. "Like my first gerbil." I... I don't remember a lot after that. I started to get drunk. Then I realized that I was going to be hurting Marcia with that in my system. So I stopped. Then I thought that the Marcia I'd known would rather die than live as my immunity system. So I drank again. I went... I went blitzo gobangi, I think. I recall running through a Chinese New Year parade. But that only happens in movies, so maybe I ran through a movie. There was a moose. And... Aw, what the hell. That world's gone, now.

I reached a state - mental or emotional or hallucinatory, I don't know. I found the spreadsheet. But I didn't have Frieda. I didn't have her shoulder, no way to tell which cell was hers! I wandered around for a while, looking at the numbers, trying to remember which one I'd changed. It was hopeless. Then I tripped over something and fell. I fell all the way down to the taskbar and hit my chin on the UNDO button. I cried, then. Cried about all the lost Friedas and Marcias and Moms and even Dad. I had a dad, but I'd never... Oh, sure, Diary. You know what happened next. You're not as depressed as I was. Or as drunk.

I would like to say I spun around in sudden surmise. But no. I started punching my fists on the walls. I remember thinking that the Marcias in my fists were getting hurt, but by then they were probably subnuclear. So I cried out and hit harder. I hit the UNDO by accident. Then I woke up. I was in the drunk tank. Again. I stood up, and sat back down quickly. Then it was either too quickly or not quickly enough, as I had to barf. Once that was done, I went and found my brick. There were four scratches on my brick. I used my fingernail to cross those four with a flat, making a five. Then there was nothing to do but not throw up on the tough guys.

Frieda came to bail me out. "Oh, Johnny, we've been looking everywhere for you!" she cried as they let me out. She even hugged me. I remember reaching up to hug her back. Then raising a hand higher. She was taller than I was. Yay. "Why are you bailing me out?" I asked. "Well, I'd be pretty ungrateful if I didn't!" she said, surprised. Then she focused on my eyes. "You don't remember." "I think I'd remember if I forgot something," I said. It got a laugh. "You got Thomas drunk." "And you're... happy?" "Well, you were both blitzed." She turned me around and started walking me out of the police station. "Then he decided to drive somewhere. You stopped him. You swallowed the car keys to keep him from driving drunk."

Frieda put her head briefly on my shoulder. She had to crouch to do that, and she was still holding me vertical. But she's an athlete, and she never gives up when she wants to do something. T-Bone's car was out front. T-Bone was curled up in the back, looking half dead. Frieda eased me into the back seat, then started driving. I waited for my eyes to stop spinning. That's when Frieda introduced the woman in the passenger seat. Her new roommate. Oh, of course you know who it was, don't you? Don't act superior, diary. It's easy because I set it up for you.