This choice: Alyssa - A skinny, socially awkward girl with long, wild hair • Go Back...Chapter #4Alyssa - A skinny, socially awkward girl with l... by: Wishing fox   [Calling Alyssa Over]
Your fingers tremble with excitement as you scroll through your contacts, landing on Alyssa Nguyen, the one person you know would lose her mind over something as bizarre as a shrink ray. She’s always been the type to get lost in sci-fi novels, muttering about theoretical physics under her breath, her wild imagination making her the perfect accomplice for this insanity. You hit the call button, and after three rings, her voice crackles through the speaker—soft, hesitant, with the faintest hint of a Californian-Vietnamese accent slipping through when she gets nervous. "H-Hey… um, what’s up?" She sounds like she just woke up, her words slightly muffled, as if she’s chewing on her lower lip like she always does when distracted. You can practically see her through the phone—curled up in some oversized hoodie, her long, ink-black hair tangled from rolling around in bed, her fingers drumming anxiously against her knee. "Alyssa, drop whatever you’re doing and get over here," you say, unable to keep the grin out of your voice. "I just got handed something that’s gonna blow your entire worldview apart." There’s a pause—she’s never been great with spontaneity—but then curiosity wins out. "O-Okay… gimme like, twenty minutes? I gotta put on actual clothes."
You hang up, heart racing, and glance at the tiny couch on the floor. Better fix that before she arrives. Flipping the switch to "G" (for Grow, you assume), you aim at the shrunken furniture and pull the trigger. A vibrant blue beam erupts from the barrel, engulfing the miniature couch in an ethereal glow before it whooshes back to full size, the fabric slightly warm to the touch. The gun hums in your hand, its energy pack pulsing faintly, and you set it down carefully, running your fingers over the sleek metal casing. This thing is real—no hallucination, no prank. Some scientists just handed you the power to warp reality itself, and now you’re about to let Alyssa in on the secret. You glance at the clock. Eighteen minutes left. Time to prepare.
The knock at your door is hesitant—three light taps, followed by a pause, then two more, like she’s second-guessing herself. You swing it open, and there she is: Alyssa Nguyen, 5’4" of awkward, fidgeting brilliance, her posture slightly hunched as if she’s trying to make herself smaller. Her hair is a tangled storm of raven-black waves, streaked with faded burgundy dye from a DIY job months ago, cascading past her waist in a mess of loose curls and flyaways. She’s wearing an oversized gray hoodie with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the fabric swallowing her slender frame, the hem hanging mid-thigh over a pair of black ripped jeans. On her feet are well-worn Doc Martens, scuffed at the toes, the laces half-undone like she couldn’t be bothered to tie them properly.
Her face is a masterpiece of contradictions—sharp, high cheekbones that give her an almost regal air, but her round, doe-like brown eyes (magnified behind thick, rectangular glasses) betray a perpetual nervousness. Her lips are chapped from biting them too much, her nose is dotted with faint freckles, and her eyebrows are slightly uneven, like she forgot to finish plucking one. A faint, sweet scent clings to her—vanilla body wash, the sharp tang of old books, and the barest hint of jasmine incense from whatever weird meditation thing she tried last week. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, her fingers twisting the drawstrings of her hoodie, her gaze darting everywhere but directly at you.
"S-So… what’s the big emergency?" she mumbles, her voice barely above a whisper, her accent slipping through on the word emergency—emer-gen-see—like she’s still not used to the rhythm of English. You step aside, gesturing for her to come in, and she shuffles past you, her boots thudding softly against the floor. She smells like rain and ink, like someone who spends too much time in libraries and coffee shops, and when she brushes past you, her sleeve grazes your arm, the fabric warm from her skin.
You lead her to the coffee table where the shrink gun sits, its metallic surface gleaming under the apartment’s dim lighting. Alyssa’s eyes lock onto it immediately, her curiosity overriding her usual hesitation. She reaches out, her fingers—slim, with chipped black nail polish—hovering over the device before she pulls back, as if afraid it might bite. "Is this… some kind of prop?" she asks, tilting her head, her glasses sliding down her nose slightly. You grin and snatch it up, flicking the switch to "S" and adjusting the dial to 5%. "Nope. Watch this." You aim at a half-empty soda can on the counter and pull the trigger.
A vibrant green beam lances out, striking the can with a soft hiss. Alyssa gasps as the aluminum crumples inward, collapsing in on itself like a deflated balloon, shrinking down to the size of a dime before clattering onto the counter. Her hands fly to her mouth, her glasses nearly falling off as she lurches forward to inspect it. "W-What the hell?!" she squeaks, her voice jumping an octave. She pokes the tiny can with one finger, as if expecting it to vanish, then whirls on you, her eyes wide with disbelief and dawning excitement. "How is this possible?! Did you—did you invent this?!"
You laugh, shaking your head. *"Nah. Two random scientists dropped it off like twenty minutes ago. No explanation, just ‘Here, have fun.’"
Alyssa’s mind is clearly racing. She chews her lip, her fingers twitching like she wants to grab the gun but isn’t sure she’s allowed. "This… this violates like, every law of physics," she mutters, more to herself than to you. "Conservation of mass, quantum—wait, does it grow things too?"
You flip the switch to "G" and fire at the can. The blue beam restores it instantly, the soda sloshing inside like nothing happened. Alyssa lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a whimper. "Oh my god," she breathes. "This is… this is real."
Alyssa’s nervous energy has shifted into something electric, her fingers drumming against her thighs, her eyes darting between you and the gun. "We have to test this," she says, her voice firmer now, her accent smoothing out as her excitement overrides her usual shyness. "Like—on people. But—but carefully! With controls! And—" She stops, realizing what she’s suggesting, and her cheeks flush. "I mean… if you want to."
You smirk. "Oh, I definitely want to."
Now, the choice is yours.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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