Jon hadn’t expected the patch of vermilion sunlight sneaking through the blinds to do much more than sting his eyes. He certainly hadn’t expected it to crawl across his skin, through his clothes, through his bones, like warm syrup poured straight into his blood. He staggered back, clutching the stone, but the damage was already done.
It started with his hands. The skin tightened, the veins vanishing, the knuckles losing their bony awkwardness. His fingernails darkened and smoothed into perfect little crescents, and then the gloves appeared — no, not gloves, a costume — black, skin-tight, molding itself around his arms, shoulders, chest.
Jon opened his mouth to scream, but what came out was a startled gasp in a much higher register than he’d ever managed before. His throat pinched, his chest shifted, his whole frame compressed and rearranged. He could feel his ribs pulling inward, waist narrowing, hips widening, legs lengthening. His pajamas crumpled off his body as the black suit spread, shiny like wet leather, sealing over every inch of him. A belt clicked into place around his waist, little red hourglass emblem glinting like a warning sign.
And then came the hair. His short mop of dark brown shot downward, red streaks threading in as if someone was painting them with a brush. In seconds he had a full cascade of auburn hair brushing over his shoulders.
When it stopped, Jon found himself staring at his reflection in the dark screen of his computer monitor. Except it wasn’t Jon. It was her. Black Widow. Natasha Romanoff. Deadly spy, Avenger, the kind of woman who could snap a man’s spine just by raising an eyebrow.
And now she was… him. Or rather, he was her.
Jon touched his face. Smaller nose. Fuller lips. Softer jawline. He poked his cheek and watched her poke back. His hands trembled. “Oh, no,” he whispered, except it came out in that husky, velvet voice he recognized from a dozen Marvel movies. “Oh, no no no no…”
He bolted downstairs, the black suit squeaking faintly as he moved. He skidded into the living room where Mom, Dad, Mikey, and Zoe were still trying to process the Vermilion Sun apocalypse on the news.
“Uh… guys?” Jon croaked, tugging at the neckline of his tactical catsuit. “I think I’ve got a problem.”
Mom turned first. She blinked. Then blinked again. Then clasped her hands together in delight.
“Oh, honey! You’re beautiful!”
Jon flailed his arms. “Mom! This is not me! This is some kind of—of super-spy cosplay body horror nightmare! I’m Black Widow! Like, the actual Black Widow!”
Mom beamed like she’d just won the lottery. “Well, you’ve always been my daughter at heart, I knew it. Look at you — those cheekbones, that posture. Natasha Romanoff, eat your heart out!”
“Natasha Romanoff already is me right now!” Jon squeaked. “This isn’t funny!”
Dad folded his arms, dead serious. “There’s no fixing it. News says once the Vermilion Sun changes you, you’re stuck. Permanently. You should probably start practicing Russian accents.”
“DAD!”
“Comrade,” Dad added in a mock-grim voice, stroking his chin.
Jon groaned, burying his face in his gloved hands.
And then Mikey, eleven years old, nerdy grin plastered across his face, hopped up from the couch like it was Christmas morning.
“This is awesome! My brother’s a superhero! Well… my sister now, I guess. Still awesome! Can I be your sidekick? I’ll be… uhh… ‘Spider-Boy!’ No, wait, that’s taken. How about… Widow Jr.? Nah, too girly. Oooh! I’ll be ‘Venom-Kid!’”
Jon stared at him. “Mikey. No. This isn’t cool, this is—”
“Do you get superpowers?” Mikey interrupted, bouncing on his toes. “Like, can you do flips? Punch through walls? Shoot laser webs?”
“Laser webs aren’t a thing!” Jon snapped.
“Bet they are now! Come on, show me your assassin moves!”
Jon slapped a hand against his face. Unfortunately, in Black Widow’s body, that came off as sultry and dramatic, which only made things worse.
And then Zoe, perched on the arm of the couch in her usual black hoodie and ripped jeans, gave her verdict.
She tilted her head, smirked, and said one word.
“Siiiike.”
Jon blinked. “What?”
“Black suit,” Zoe explained, shrugging. “Black Widow. Black anything. It’s goth-approved. You’re like, the family upgrade. Instant respect.”
“Zoe!” Jon squeaked. “This isn’t an aesthetic, this is my life! I’m sixteen! I’m supposed to be worrying about math homework and acne, not whether I’m going to accidentally defect to Russia in my sleep!”
Zoe smirked wider. “Could be worse. At least you didn’t turn into Jessica Rabbit.”
Jon groaned.
Dinner that night was… awkward.
Mom kept fussing. “Sit up straighter, dear. Such a strong posture now. And look at that hair — I always said red would suit you!”
Jon poked at his mashed potatoes miserably. “I’m not your daughter. I’m Jon. I’m Jon in—” he gestured helplessly down at the skintight tactical catsuit “—in this! Do you know how uncomfortable leather pants are when they fuse to your skin?!”
Dad chuckled. “Son, welcome to womanhood. Or daughter. I guess daughter now.”
Jon stabbed a pea so hard it launched off the plate.
Mikey leaned over. “Seriously though, can you, like, flip off the table and land in a superhero pose? Please? Just once? I’ll do your chores for a week!”
“No!” Jon shouted, then paused. “…maybe later.”
Zoe chewed on a breadstick, eyeing him. “I say lean into it. Walk into school tomorrow in that catsuit. No one’s gonna mess with you. Instant queen bee.”
Jon paled. “School. Oh God. I can’t go to school like this!”
Mom patted his hand sympathetically. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Everyone’s probably turning into pop culture characters. You’ll fit right in.”
“That doesn’t make it better! I don’t want to be… this!”
But deep down, in a very traitorous corner of his brain, Jon admitted it was kind of… empowering. The body felt strong. Balanced. Every move carried a strange precision, like he’d trained for decades. He shifted in his chair and nearly knocked over his water glass with a reflexive kick that would’ve made Bruce Lee jealous.
“See?” Mikey crowed. “Total superhero!”
Jon slumped against the table. “Kill me now.”
Later that night after the son went away and news says it should never come back the changing son anyway it should be back to normal now, Jon tried to test his new “skills.”
He attempted a cartwheel in the backyard landed in like it was nothing, did flips like nothing it was pritty cool jon had to admit belt felt all wrong how his new chest felt well moving with all of it for one and the whole body for two, but kep on trying things with well tryed a side flip and well Instead, he launched six feet into the air, landed in a 4 foot sink hole his dad dug last weekend for some reason, and got stuck upside down with his legs waving in the air like a malfunctioning action figure, with what hero from the moives ever had to deal with a hole and getting stuck in one
“Help!” he hissed.
Mikey poked his head out the back door. “This is the best day of my life.”
“Get me out of here!”
Zoe wandered out, sipping a soda. She took one look, smirked, and snapped a photo. “Profile pic.”
“ZOE!”
Mom eventually came to rescue him, laughing so hard she nearly dropped him back in the bush.
By bedtime, Jon was exhausted — physically from the accidental acrobatics, mentally from the constant teasing. He flopped into bed, auburn hair spilling across the pillow, suit creaking faintly. He pulled the covers over his head.
“Tomorrow,” he muttered. “Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to fix this. Or at least how to pee without crying.”
From the hallway, Mikey’s voice: “Night, Widow-Sis! Don’t forget, I get to be your sidekick!”
Jon groaned into the pillow.
