Going on tour - Video Version

Cynthia had been following Warhorse's albums, tours, music videos, everything from and about the band for years. She was a proud and dedicated groupie. She volunteered tirelessly, coordinating fan meetups with a zeal that bordered on religious fervor and even assisting the PR team as a social media greeter. Her online presence a constant, enthusiastic beacon for the band. It wasn't just a phase; Cynthia was head-over-heels in love with Warhorse's music, because of their potent cocktail of raw, driving heavy metal laced with a flamboyant glam rock revival. Crazy outfits, pyrotechnic stage effects, and, most memorably, the digital stage backgrounds – a glorious, airbrushed retro spectacle of animated horses. Stallions, unicorns, pegasus, and mares in glorious 80s retro style that mixed with their rock. Cynthia's favorite part of every concert was their cover of “Ghost Riders in the Sky”. The stampeding bassline and drums mirrored by massive black horses on the screens. And even though she had outgrown her “horse girl” phase years ago. Her heart raced at the sound of the hooves thundering in time with the music. The sound vibrated through her body.

So, when Warhorse announced their new album, ‘NightMARE,’ and a corresponding tour, Cynthia was ecstatic. She spent the entire day online, a welcoming beacon for the surge of new fans flocking to the website. She expertly guided them to the band's various social media platforms, answering questions and generally keeping the digital atmosphere buzzing with excitement. By day's end, she was completely drained, buzzing with anticipation, and utterly determined to buy ‘NightMARE,’ play it non-stop, and chase the band across the country to every single show.

The next morning, Cynthia's phone buzzed relentlessly. 1300 new messages flooded her socials, and an email from Sarah Colins, the PR manager, sat at the top of her inbox. Intrigue warred with a hopeful flutter in her chest – could it be about pre-sale tickets? It seemed too early, but a girl could dream. Opening the email, she immediately recognized Sarah's crisp, professional tone.

‘Cynthia,

Hey, first off, a massive thank you for handling the socials yesterday. Our moderators were completely overwhelmed!

As you’ve seen, we’re hitting the road again. The band wants to offer a select few influencers and members of our social media team an opportunity for a new 'hybrid promoter' position, working directly with the tour merch team.

Is that something you'd be interested in?

Sarah C., 

Warhorse PR Management.’

Cynthia couldn't believe it. The chance to go on tour with the band, AND get paid! It was a dream come true. 

The next few weeks crawled by, each filled with a nervous anticipation that gnawed at Cynthia's edges. There had been three rounds of zoom interviews and even a photo shoot. Now, finally, she found herself seated in a sterile conference room, beige walls closing in on her, in a building so nondescript it could house anything from insurance adjusters to clandestine government meetings. Across from her sat Ben, the tour manager, his face etched with the practiced neutrality of someone delivering bad news, and Sarah from the PR team, whose forced smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Okay, Cynthia," Ben began, his voice carefully measured. "We wanted to start by saying that… well… after reviewing your application and considering your experience, we've realized you don't quite have the direct retail sales background we were initially looking for in our merchandise team."

Cynthia's heart plummeted. The air seemed to thicken, making it hard to breathe. She'd poured everything into the band, convinced she was finally on the path she craved. Disappointment washed over her, cold and heavy. She'd envisioned herself thriving on the tour, connecting with fans, being part of the Warhorse machine. Now, it seemed like that dream was dissolving before her eyes.

Seeing the stark disappointment etched on Cynthia's face, Sarah leaned forward, her voice reassuring. "Cynthia, please don't misunderstand. We value your passion and your… unique expertise. That's why we want to explore another opportunity for you on the tour. Something a little… different."

"Different?" Cynthia stammered, her mind still struggling to catch up. Hope flickered, fragile but present. "What do you mean?" 

She looked from Ben to Sarah, searching for clarity in their carefully guarded expressions.

Ben took over, his tone shifting slightly, becoming more… enthusiastic, though Cynthia could sense a forced quality to it. "Warhorse is, as you know, a band that embraces the… theatrical. They're all about the stage presence, the spectacle in addition to their music. And they have, shall we say, some… specific requests for this tour regarding promotional activities." He paused, glancing at Sarah.

Sarah picked up the thread, offering Cynthia a reassuring smile. "The band is looking for something truly memorable, something that will generate serious buzz. They want to create an immersive experience for their fans, something that goes beyond the typical fan club meetups."

"Right," Ben said, nodding vigorously. "And… well, Warhorse is fascinated by… equestrian themes, obviously. They feel it deeply resonates with their music.” He shuffled some papers on the table, avoiding direct eye contact. “So they’re looking for someone to embody that connection, in a very… tangible way.”

Cynthia, still reeling from the initial disappointment and now clinging to the lifeline of a potential new role, felt a surge of adrenaline. "Equestrian themes?” She paused, “equestrian” seemed too technical a term for such a wild band, “I know some about horses, went through a “horse-girl” phase when I was younger, I can ride though I'm a bit rusty now." She blushed slightly, embarrassed by the admission, but desperate to show her enthusiasm.

Ben’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of horses, but he quickly recovered. "Well, not exactly riding, though a familiarity with… horse anatomy would be helpful. So I take it you are comfortable around horses? Have any allergies? Any strong opinions on… ummmm horse breeds?”

Cynthia furrowed her brow. This was getting strange. "I used to be obsessed… Why? Is this some kind of meet-and-greet with horses?"

Sarah saw Cynthia's growing confusion and subtly intervened. “Cynthia, what Ben is trying to say is that the band is looking for someone who is willing to…Take on, umm transform…. To fully embody the spirit of Warhorse in a way that is both visually arresting and deeply real."

Ben jumped back in, relieved that Sarah was steering the conversation. “Yes, transform! We're talking about pushing boundaries, creating something truly unique. Cynthia, this isn't just a PR fan wrangler job; it's an opportunity to be part of something groundbreaking."

Cynthia's mind raced. Transform? What did that even mean? Suddenly, the phrase "pushing boundaries" sent a shiver down her spine. She was so caught up in the idea of staying on the tour that she hadn’t fully processed what they were implying.

Sarah took a deep breath. "Cynthia, We’re partnering with a biotech firm for this is a very new… technique. It would allow you to… well, to physically embody the band's aesthetic. It’s… dramatic."

Ben, sensing Cynthia's hesitation, added quickly, "Think of it as cosplay?…ummmm! method acting, but on a whole new level!” Sarah's eyes darted toward Ben.

Ben leaned forward, the dull light of the office lighting catching the glint in his eyes. "Look, Cynthia," he said, his voice losing some of its earlier theatricality. "We need someone who gets the music, who feels it. Someone who can translate that raw energy to the fans. We believe you can do that. We'll pay you a standard salary, cover all your expenses on the road, and give you complete creative freedom to… well, to be Warhorse in a way no one else can."

He paused, letting the offer hang in the air. "So, what do you say? Are you in?"

Cynthia’s mind was a whirlwind. Tour bus, stages, being with the fans at every concert… and a paycheck? This was… insane. Gloriously, terrifyingly insane. A slow smile spread across her face.

"Yes," she said, her voice barely a whisper at first, then gaining strength. "Yes, I'm in. You had me at 'physically embody'."

Ben grinned, the tension visibly leaving his shoulders. He pushed a large stack of papers towards her. "Excellent! Just need you to sign a few things and we're good to go." he pushed a small mountain of paperwork across the table. "Standard HR stuff," he mumbled, already rifling through another stack.

Cynthia’s initial scan confirmed Ben's assessment. Address verification, direct deposit authorization, W-4 forms – the usual bureaucratic hurdles. But interspersed amongst the familiar were a few oddities. A series of insurance and liability waivers, each more extensive than the last, hinting at potential… occupational hazards. Then there was a consent for treatment form from an SSN Clinic. The SSN part gave Cynthia a pause, that wasn't a normal name for a clinic. Finally, an NDA, thick enough to choke a small horse. Cynthia shrugged it off the NDA was probably just to cover up the band's eccentric habits.

She considered asking about the SSN Clinic, but Ben had already launched into a detailed explanation of the tour schedule, his voice a monotone drone. Cynthia figured she could always Google it later. Best not to appear confused or worse – difficult.

Emerging from the meeting, Cynthia felt weightless, propelled by sheer adrenaline. Each step felt like a bounce, her head practically touching the clouds. Forget the subtle inconsistencies; forget the unnerving verbiage of the waivers. Warhorse! The tour! A month from now, she’d be immersed in the chaotic, glorious world of rock and roll.

Her fingers danced across her phone, firing off a flurry of texts. “I GOT IT! I GOT THE JOB! NIGHTMARE TOUR HERE I COME!” she typed, punctuating the message with a string of ecstatic emojis. The replies flooded in, a cascade of congratulations and envious excitement.

Amidst the celebration, a tiny, persistent voice whispered in the back of her mind. That clinic. She needed to schedule that physical. And maybe, just maybe, she should actually read that NDA. But for now, basking in the glow of her imminent adventure, Cynthia chose to ignore it. There was plenty of time for details later.

A week before the Warhorse tour began Cynthia flew to LA.The tour machine was already churning. The band, the dancers, the stage techs and even the pyrotechnic team, all had all been prepping. Now, the suits - marketing and PR - were descending.

Cynthia had been in her element, a maestro of meet-and-greets. She orchestrated the first fan encounters, mapping out the VIP experiences for the opening cities with a meticulous precision. She was living her best life, breathing the electric air of impending chaos. And, a perk she savored, she was rocking exclusive NightMARE album t-shirts, a walking, talking billboard of heavy metal glory, before anyone else even knew they existed. The tour was about to begin, and Cynthia was already riding the wave.

But before she could dive into the marketing and strategy sessions, Cynthia had a prior engagement at the Clinic.

The sterile white of the SSN Clinic felt like a deliberate contrast to the raw, visceral energy of Warhorse tour prep. Cynthia just wanted this pre-tour medical check-up over with. Ben had practically vibrated with excitement about her "experimental marketing team" meeting tomorrow, where Warhorse themselves would be present. This gig was a dream, and she didn't want some pointless appointment to derail it.

But this wasn't just a standard physical. It felt more like a forensic investigation. Weight, height, a mouth swab – fine. But then came the urine sample, followed by the unnerving collection of multiple vials of blood.

"Why so many drug tests?" she blurted out to the silently shuffling med techs, trying to inject a little humor into the situation. "I've never had so many all at once. Didn't they already run a background check?"

"It's a baseline genetic profile. Nothing to worry about." A clipped, young woman's voice crackled from a wall-mounted monitor, momentarily filling the void. "We're going to keep it on file until the end of the tour. Now the techs are going to give you a couple of injections to help adjust you to your new form."

Cynthia frowned, the word "form" hanging in the air like a dissonant chord. "My new uniform??" Ben hadn't mentioned anything about a uniform, unless he was referring to the stack of new merch t-shirts she'd been given. Before she could formulate a coherent question, a sharp sting pierced her lower back, right near her tailbone. Instinctively, she jumped, but before she could react, another jab – brutal and unexpected – landed squarely on her ass.

"YyyooooOoOoWWWWW!" she howled, the sound echoing in the small, confined space. "I wasn't ready for that!" She spun around, glaring at the impassive techs, but they merely busied themselves with cleaning up.

"Injections administered? Okay, you're all done." Said the voice from the monitor, her bright tone cut through the lingering pain. Cynthia turned to face the screen, her eyes narrowing. A slightly chubby young blonde woman with strangely bright blue eyes stared back at her. She wore standard-issue blue scrubs, a name tag reading 'Silvia' stitched onto the pocket.

"I'd suggest getting something filling to eat," Silvia continued, her gaze unwavering. "Chinese takeout, just eat as much as you can. It'll make you feel better tomorrow."

Cynthia nodded slowly, a prickling unease crawling up her spine. There was something profoundly off about Silvia. Her eyes, for one thing. They seemed…different. As if her pupils were misshapen, stretched into thin, almost sideways slits. It was a subtle detail, but it hammered at Cynthia's subconscious, screaming that something was wrong.

"Thanks," Cynthia managed, forcing a smile that felt brittle and fake.

"You have fun on the tour! And if you need anything make sure to give us a call. I mean it, even if you just feel a little weird," Silvia replied, the words echoing with a strange cheerfulness that didn't quite reach her eyes. Those unsettling, sideways pupils remained fixed on Cynthia, boring into her.

As Cynthia walked out of the clinic, the lingering sting of the injections was joined by another, more insidious discomfort. She felt…ravenous. An almost primal hunger gnawed at her stomach, a hunger far beyond anything a simple physical could explain. Silvia's advice about Chinese takeout suddenly seemed less like friendly advice and more like a cryptic instruction.

Even though the advice was weird Cynthia was starving by the time she got back to her hotel room. She took Silvia’s advice and ordered the largest chicken lo mein she could find that would deliver, and got back on her laptop to check her messages.

Her hotel room felt hot, she was burning up. Cynthia ditched her pants and bra to cool off. Even with the hotel A/C unit blowing full blast she was, wearing only a pair of black panties, sweating profusely. On her laptop there was an odd message from Sarah saying she would ‘check up’ on her in the morning before the meeting. Strangely Sarah signed off mentioning how ‘Brave you are’ but it didn't make a lot of sense to Cynthia. However the heat seemingly just kept building and It didn't take long for her to give up on responding to emails. 

Cynthia's stomach growled waiting for her noodles to arrive. Finally there was a knock on the door. She quickly grabbed her tour shirt and threw it on. But walking to the door hurt. Her legs felt like they were asleep and her ass was sore.  

“Oww, those damn shots,” she grumbled, hobbling towards the door. Each step sent a dull throb through her thighs.. She plastered on a strained smile for the delivery guy, mumbled a thank you, and practically dove back towards the relative comfort of the bed.

Her reflection in the dresser mirror stopped her cold. A tangled mess of hair framed a flushed, sweaty face. "Ha! I bet he thought there was some kinda orgy going on in here," she chuckled weakly, the sound more breathy than amused.

Settling back onto the edge of the bed, Cynthia tore into the delivered feast. Chicken, noodles, and fried rice – a greasy, salty symphony of comfort food. She shoveled it in, one bite after another, a ravenous hunger she hadn’t known she possessed consuming her. "Ohhh, I’m gonna regret this in the morning," she groaned, halfway through the takeout box. But still she ate.

A wave of heat and bloat washed over her, settling heavily in her stomach. "Why's it so hot in here?! Literally the only hotel room I've ever been in that isn't frigid!" She fumbled for the thermostat, turning it down despite already feeling uncomfortably warm. It wasn't just the food, she realized. It was a deep, internal heat, radiating from her legs outwards.

Cynthia flopped onto the bed, a dead weight of discomfort. Her legs throbbed, a deeper ache than before, and her belly felt like it was about to explode. A dizzying wave of disorientation swept over her. This wasn’t just soreness; it was something else. Something…wrong.

Silvia's words echoed in her mind: "Call if you feel weird, anything weird." Weird didn't even begin to cover it. This was beyond weird. This was bordering on sick.

She scrambled for her phone on the nightstand, her fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. After what felt like an eternity, she found the clinic number and pressed call. The phone rang, each tone a hammer blow against her ear drum.

"Come on, come on," she whispered, her voice clearly uncomfortable. Finally, the ringing stopped.

"SNN, Silvia speaking." The voice on the other end was calm, professional, a stark contrast to the chaos brewing within Cynthia.

"Silvia, it’s Cynthia… from this morning. I, uh, I don't feel so good." Each word was an effort. "My legs… they hurt? And I'm so hot, and… I don’t know, I just feel… wrong."

“Oh my! I'm sorry to hear that. Did you eat?” Silvia asked.

“Yeah, I think I ate too much. My stomach hurts too.” Cynthia replied.

“Great!” Cynthina didn't think it was great but Silvia continued. “OKay well you did the right thing. I’m sorry you feel bad but you’ve done all the right things. I’ll send the on-call nurse to your hotel room. He’ll be there shortly. 

Cynthia felt like she was melting from the inside out. A sticky sheen coated her skin, her sports bra clinging uncomfortably. Her legs throbbed with a dull ache, and her stomach felt like a bloated balloon about to burst. A high fever had taken hold, leaving her mind swimming in a hazy fog. Relief washed over her as she heard a knock at the door.

“Hello? Cynthia?” came a male voice from the door

“Its unlocked!” Cynthia shouted as best she could.

The young man entered the room carrying a small, black medical bag. The nurse was taller than she expected, with kind eyes framed by dark lashes and a jawline that could cut glass. His dark hair was neatly styled, and the crisp white polo shirt, embroidered with the SSN logo, stretched tautly across his broad shoulders. He exuded an air of calm competence that instantly put Cynthia at ease, despite the strange pains in her legs and hips.

"Hi, Cynthia. I'm Mark. How are you feeling?" His voice was a kind baritone, sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the fever.

"Not great," she croaked, her voice raspy. "Everything hurts, and I'm burning up."

Mark immediately went to work, his movements efficient and practiced. He pulled out a thermometer, checking her temperature with a gentle touch. Then, he took her pulse, his fingers warm against her wrist. "Fever's pretty high," he confirmed, his brow furrowed with concern. He pulled out a measuring tape. "I need to measure your abdomen, okay? Just to check the progress."

He gently positioned the tape around her hips and buttocks, the cool plastic a stark contrast to her feverish skin. Cynthia found herself strangely aware of his proximity, the heat of his body radiating near hers. An odd sensation, a flicker of arousal, stirred within her. She was sick, miserable, and yet, she couldn't deny that she found him incredibly attractive. The absurdity of it all made her flush even hotter.

He continued his assessment, carefully documenting the measurements. Cynthia looked in the mirror , her hips were really swollen. But her hips were not the only thing she stared at in the reflection as Mark's rear was on full display. She bit her lip as he pulled the measuring tape taught. The skin under the band of her panties, right at her waist, felt slightly swollen and unbearably sensitive, as if every nerve ending was firing at once.

"Alright," Mark said when he was done, his expression thoughtful. "I'm going to start you on an IV to get some fluids and medication into you quickly. That should help bring the fever down and provide more nutrients for the extra mass"

He prepped her arm with an antiseptic wipe, the cool liquid a welcome sensation on her burning skin. As he carefully inserted the IV needle, Cynthia focused on his face, on the gentle concentration etched on his features. His touch was surprisingly gentle, almost soothing. As the cool fluid began to flow into her veins, she closed her eyes, a strange mix of discomfort, relief, and an unexpected stirring of desire swirling within her. 

"Do you want a painkiller?" Mark asked, his eyes searching hers.

Relief flooded her. "Yes, please," she croaked, her voice raspy.

He nodded, his expression softening. "Okay. It might make you a little drowsy. I'll be monitoring you through the night from the other room. Just try to get some rest.”

Drowsiness descended quickly, a heavy blanket settling over her weary mind. The rhythmic swish from the IV pump faded into a blurred background noise. The pain, while not entirely gone, receded to a dull throb, allowing a fragile peace to settle within her. She drifted off to sleep, clinging to the promise of Mark's presence and the hope of waking up feeling even a fraction better.

A few hours later, a sharp discomfort jolted her awake. Her bladder screamed for attention, a rude interruption to the fragile tranquility she had found. Groggily, she blinked, trying to orient herself in the dim light. The room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the medical equipment. Mark was nowhere in sight, but the subtle glow from the other room indicated he was still there to help. She didn't want to bother him.

Getting up she was unable to find the lightswitch in the unfamiliar hotel room. So she felt her way around to the toilet pulling the IV pole with her. Her panties felt stretched across her ass. Trying to pull them off just tugged them tighter and tighter. “Just come off already! Ugh!” She grabbed the waistband from behind and pulled it straight back feeling it clear her sensitive tailbone. Still as she dragged them off they twisted tightly around her hips and ass.

Finally able to sit and go she did. Cynthia was a mess. She was cramping, her stomach was bloated and also cramping. Everything felt groggy and like she’d gotten her period at the same time. But the tile was cold and it felt good. 

Finishing up she grabbed the toilet paper to wipe.”What the, ughh” Reaching down she felt like she had to reach much farther back to wipe. 

Mark tapped on the bathroom door. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, Just needed to use the bathroom.” She said flushing the toilet. Opening the door Mark was there to help her back into bed. Her feet still numb, Cynthia was more confident and comfortable to be up on her tiptoes as she headed back to bed. A strange sound made Cynthia wonder what kind of shoes Mark was wearing…was he wearing tap shoes? A loud clop sound followed every footstep on the tile as she made her way back to bed. flopping onto the mattress it bounced more than she expected. 

“Easy now” Mark said.

He adjusted the bed, fluffing the pillows. "Just need to take a few more measurements," he said, his voice soft. Cynthia nodded, her gaze lingering on his face. The dim light from the parking lot lights coming through the hotel window bathed him in an unflattering glow, yet she still found him undeniably attractive.

As he reached for the measuring tape, a strange thought flickered through her groggy mind. A yearning, almost shameful, wish that his touch might lead to something more. She quickly dismissed it, blaming the painkillers and the overwhelming feeling of vulnerability that had come from being treated.

His fingers, warm and firm, pressed against her abdomen as he measured. A sudden, sharp sensitivity jolted her awake. Just above her groin, she could feel two distinct lumps, tender and unfamiliar. She bit back a gasp, her breath catching in her throat, Her nipples hardened fast. They throbbed with a swollen dull ache. She couldn't quite explain her arousal, but she hoped that maybe he’d move his hands a little lower.

Mark didn't seem to notice. He finished his measurements and straightened up, his expression professional. "Alright, let's get you set up for the rest of the night." He turned to the IV stand, where three large hooks were waiting.

"These will help you gain the extra mass," he explained, his voice matter-of-fact as he hung 3 large IV bags. Each filled with a white milky substance with a large SSN sticker on the bags. Cynthia stared at them, her mind still foggy. Mass? She felt a flicker of confusion. Was she losing weight? Everything felt so distant, so unreal.

He expertly adjusted the IV drip, the cool liquid snaking its way into her veins. The pain, a dull throb that had been simmering beneath the surface all evening, began to intensify. Cynthia winced.

Mark noticed immediately. "Still hurting?" he asked, his brow furrowing with concern. "I can give you something to help you sleep through the night."

She nodded gratefully, relief washing over her. The thought of drifting off into oblivion, even for a few hours, was overwhelmingly appealing. He administered another dose of painkiller, and soon, a warm, fuzzy numbness began to spread through her limbs.

As the world began to blur around the edges, Cynthia closed her eyes. The last thing she remembered was Mark adjusting her blanket. It pulled against the hair on her legs.

Cynthia blinked against the dim light filtering through the heavy drapes of the hotel room. A dull ache, the lingering echo of whatever had plagued her the day before, was thankfully absent. It was replaced by a strange heaviness, an unfamiliar sense of well-being that seeped into her bones.

She remembered Mark taking care of her all night. Now, the evidence of his visit was neatly arranged on the bedside table – the empty bags, the neatly coiled tubing. He'd clearly been back in during the night to remove the IV.

But there was no pain anymore. The throbbing, agonizing ache that had been her constant companion for the evening had vanished, leaving a strange, unfamiliar emptiness in its wake.

She blinked, trying to clear the lingering fog from her mind. Time to get up. She willed her body to move, to swing her legs over the side of the bed. The movement felt…wrong. Awkward. Unstable. She pushed again, finally managing to roll off the mattress.

The impact against the floor never came.

Instead, there was a lurch, a sickening slide, and a jarring thud that resonated through her entire being. Panic flared. What was happening? She tried to right herself, to push up with her hands, but they felt… clumsy. Too far away to reach the ground.

She opened her eyes, and the scream that clawed its way up her throat died before it could escape.

It wasn't a floor she was staring at. It was…furred. A magnificent, powerful, ebony horse. Its coat gleamed with an inner luster, muscles rippling beneath the smooth skin. A long, elegant tail swished impatiently, its dark strands brushing against the floor. She reached a trembling hand down, gingerly touching the glossy fur. Solid. Warm. Real. The muscles beneath twitched slightly under her touch. This wasn't a dream. It was…her.

Instead of panic, a wave of disbelief washed over her, followed by a bizarre, almost detached curiosity. It was like watching a surreal movie, a special effect so seamless it bordered on believable.

She was half-woman, half-horse.

The odd comments from Sarah and Ben suddenly clicked into place. The slightly too-knowing glances from the med techs. The veiled references to "physically embody" and "embracing the spirit." They had been talking about this. Joining the Warhorse tour as…a literal horse.

A slow smirk stretched across Cynthia's face. This was insane. Utterly, completely, bonkers insane. This fit Warhorse’s MO to a T. And, if she was being completely honest with herself, kind of cool.

She cautiously took a step, the horse half of her moving with surprising grace. The room was small, barely big enough to contain her new, significantly larger form. She circled the bed, marveling at the power in her gait, the rhythmic thud of her hooves on the floor.

Reaching the small desk in the corner, Cynthia caught her reflection in the mirror. The upper half of her was still undeniably her. Her familiar face, framed by a messy tangle of black hair, stared back with wide, slightly bewildered eyes. But below her waist, the transformation was complete. The human torso flowed seamlessly into the powerful, equine form. She raised a hand, feeling the smooth, tight skin of her new flank, the hard curve of her ribs.

This was going to take some getting used to.

She found the band's new tour shirt folded neatly on the desk, a black tee emblazoned with a stylized black and white print of the new album title NightMARE. Cynthia carefully pulled it over her head, the fabric stretching around her human torso, the bottom hem ending just above her equine waist. It looked…surprisingly good. Rockstar centaur, ready to hit the road.

Her phone buzzed on the bedside table. A text from Sarah: "How are you feeling? Big day today! Excited to see you shine. 😉"

Cynthia grabbed her phone, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. This was it. Time to embrace the absurdity. She held the phone in her hand, framed herself in the mirror for the shot, and took a deep breath.

“Hey, Sarah” she began typing. “Guess who woke up feeling…a little different today?”

Starting the video she panned the camera down then turned showing her horse tail, showcasing her new, equine form. Her heart pounded in her chest, a mixture of apprehension and exhilaration.

“So, yeah,” she continued typing. “Looks like the tour plans just got a lot more literal. Hope you guys brought a horse trailer.”

She ended the video, her finger hovering over the send button for a moment before she pressed it. Then she tossed the phone back on the table and took another deep breath.

The Warhorse tour was about to get a whole lot more interesting. And Cynthia was ready to ride.