[OTA, gentle tag Team Fringe?]
Walter Bishop rarely slept for more than a handful of hours a night, but for some odd reason, once he'd sung himself to sleep with a baritone rendition of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" he managed to stay asleep in his room. That is, until he woke with a start, blinking in the darkness of his bedroom, the red LED numbers on his clock reading 12:00AM.
He sung himself back to sleep again, though this time in a voice far more of a husky alto than his normal baritone.
But perhaps that was one of the perceptive-bending effects of his special cocktail of drugs he utilized to stay lucid.
Morning arrived, and with it a hallucination that he simply couldn't shake himself free of. He found himself...female. And the first hour or so of this hallucination (which didn't seem to dissipate even though he felt the effects of the drugs lessening with each ticking minute) was spent exploring his new body. Breasts, ample enough for his now curvier body shape. A vagina. Oh! Working perfectly. He would assume.
Moments like this, where the drug-induced visions refused to go away, he usually spent locked up in his room, for it was during these vulnerable moments where a man (so to speak) might come to harm. But...but he was peckish and there was no coffee left in the kitchen.
So she dug out her clothes: slacks which were now much too loose cinched around her hips with a belt. An undershirt which did little to support her bosom, a dress shirt too baggy around her curves. Oh, well. She managed to get to the lobby before realizing that the strange belief that she'd changed gender wasn't about to go away any time soon.
She chewed idly at her thumb, thinking on what might be the best solution to the problem. And thus was borne the plan to strip in the hotel lobby. If she truly were female, then there would be an outcry about an older woman baring her chest for strangers to ogle. If she were still male, then there would be no issue with the removal of her shirt.
This would, at the very least, be a fascinating social experiment.
She started with the top-most button, nearest the collar, for easier access to her supposed breasts.
He sung himself back to sleep again, though this time in a voice far more of a husky alto than his normal baritone.
But perhaps that was one of the perceptive-bending effects of his special cocktail of drugs he utilized to stay lucid.
Morning arrived, and with it a hallucination that he simply couldn't shake himself free of. He found himself...female. And the first hour or so of this hallucination (which didn't seem to dissipate even though he felt the effects of the drugs lessening with each ticking minute) was spent exploring his new body. Breasts, ample enough for his now curvier body shape. A vagina. Oh! Working perfectly. He would assume.
Moments like this, where the drug-induced visions refused to go away, he usually spent locked up in his room, for it was during these vulnerable moments where a man (so to speak) might come to harm. But...but he was peckish and there was no coffee left in the kitchen.
So she dug out her clothes: slacks which were now much too loose cinched around her hips with a belt. An undershirt which did little to support her bosom, a dress shirt too baggy around her curves. Oh, well. She managed to get to the lobby before realizing that the strange belief that she'd changed gender wasn't about to go away any time soon.
She chewed idly at her thumb, thinking on what might be the best solution to the problem. And thus was borne the plan to strip in the hotel lobby. If she truly were female, then there would be an outcry about an older woman baring her chest for strangers to ogle. If she were still male, then there would be no issue with the removal of her shirt.
This would, at the very least, be a fascinating social experiment.
She started with the top-most button, nearest the collar, for easier access to her supposed breasts.