The sun's morning glare was coursing through the curtains to highlight the buildup of dust particles in the room, cleaning was not a favorite pastime of the BEING's current form, when the metamorphosis began on the sleeping host.

  The skin crackled and stretched. The skin's pigmentation went through rapid changes before landing on a light tan shade that would make skin whitening product advertisements envious. Hair follicles healed in some places and in others began to degrade.

  The hips narrowed until it lost the child bearing capabilities of the previous form, and a pair of gonads slid out along with the sex organ that could be used to inseminate females, also for peeing too.

  The gold taffeta fabric dress that had been dulled by the stains of grease and vomit also transmuted, and changed into powder blue, cotton fabric shirt, and skin follicles pouring cellular materials that generated a charcoal gray suit with a light threaded texture with notched lapels and structured shoulders, pants of the same variety materialized out of the shifting skin, a dark blue paisley necktie coveted the neck like a worm, with a pair of black shoes wrapping like dense foliage around the enlarged feet.

  When the metamorphosis was complete, the BEING opened HIS eyes, and pupils shifted took a minute to adjust, and HIS eye colour changed from a gray green to hazel.

  The BEING sat upright on the mattress that had seen better days.

  The clutter, the dusty corners of the shelves, the empty bottles of Nalima branded beers, upturned cheap paperback novels, the stank of the unflushed toilet bowl, everything hit all five senses and more.

  The BEING started to identify HIMSELF as HIS new form. The memories, the knowledge, the opinions, the peculiarities all came rushing into HIS brain, overwriting the previous host form's personality matrices. HE didn’t like the cheap fruity tasting Nalima beers anymore and gained cleaning tendencies of the new form's previous occupant.

  Sitting there for a minute to compose HIMSELF, HE rose and walked up to the bathroom.

  HE took in HIS new form in the mirror, touching the puffy corners of HIS cheeks, and examining HIS forehead and HIS fingers stumbling upon a small scar about the size of a 7.62 x 25 mm Timur round, barely noticeable in the mirror.

  HE assumed that was the death blow to this host body's previous occupants.

  HE took a small comb from the pocket and brushed HIS bed ridden full flock of luscious black hair into the neat hairstyle that Jaromir Baxa preferred.

  “What a good looking fellow, you are” HE said to HIMSELF in the mirror. Jaromir thought very highly of himself. A huge improvement over the insecure, low self esteem of HIS past several metamorphosed forms.

  HIS facial muscles still adjusting to the new old flesh, struggled to pull off a simple smile with HIS white pearly teeth poking out of the cavity of HIS mouth, aligning into a rather uncanny grin.

  _______X________

  The tiles creaked as HE made HIS way down the stairs. HE recounted that it had been like that since HE had moved into the place. The contractor for the house hadn't been most diligent but what was surely HIS doing was staining and degradation of the variety blue and tea green coloured mosaic enriched steps via the neglect of HIS previous iteration.

  HE struggled to restrain Jaromir's OCD responses kicking in, from wanting to take a pair of gloves, a brush and few cleaning supplies to scrub down these steps, as well the floors. The leafy mosaic tiles, white and darkish blue in mixture, had seen far better days, and Jaromir wished he could return them to their historic glory.

  The interior looked to be of a traditional Charlottian era village house design with cosmetics facsimile belonging to Astarabadi culture. On the outside though, it looked like a run down three story comparatively thin structure with its paint peeling off, and a dirt patio in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

  Bumfuck nowhere might be a stretch though. It was just within periphery of the town and until recently was very much in densely populated locale, whose homes now lay in various stages of ruin and in some cases the people themselves lay entombed under their prized abode like kings of old, waiting for someone to come along and disturb their burial for a quick buck, if not family coming along to give them proper burials.

  This house alone remained intact amidst a sea of obtuse geometry surrounding it like a natural canyon basin that owed its existence to the Oran Continental Convergence event a month prior.

  As HE made HIS way through to the kitchen, a place HIS previous self always headed towards right after waking up in the morning from their nightly stupor.

  A silhouette appeared through the door frame into the kitchen.

  Maybe HIS brain was still getting used to the new pair of eyeballs, but HE saw that there was someone in the kitchen.

  HE in fact had some residual memory of moving into the house with someone else.

  The man, more or so, a young male looked to be in his late 20s, his skin was of a tan complexion and long locks of ebony black hair and bruising on the left side of his face that looked to be fairly recent.

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  That young man noticed him staring, Jaromir in his corporeal afterimage could sense a glint of hope in the young man's eye that it was really someone else. If only for a moment, hope ever so fleeting was sparked in him and then subsumed.

  The young man played it safe and trusted that it was HIM, alright. Just another metamorphosed form.

  “Oh, I-di-not-he-you. Woood yo-you li-li-lik sum-cof-fee, Master?”

  With Jaromir's newly attained senses, HE could gauge the tentative fear with which Mirjan used that word “Master”. HIS previous self had not been a nice person and neither was the form before that. Mirjan faced the brunt of their terrible nature that HE inherited.

  “It's a rather wonderful day for a walk, wouldn't you say?” The windows of the kitchen did show it was somewhat good weather outside for jog but that was beside the point. HE posited a smile, that Jaromir would doubtlessly serve up with the most mundane of speech, and stared out towards the sun ladden yard.

  Mirjan felt perturbed by the smile, it wasn't a sinister smile, but smiles or laughs always meant a forthcoming doom for him. “Ye–Yes, I-I thin-ink so” The response barely escaped his trachea.

  Jaromir, even in his remnant echo form could detect the darkness, the trauma that bound the young man in his chains of servitude. But all HE could see was a shy man that HE had absolutely no recollection of and was currently wanting to befriend. Maybe HE hadn’t acquired his keen inquisitive abilities, he thought.

  “Yes, you know what? I would like a cup.” HIS eyes returned to the young man who waited in absolute terror for a response, his bruised cheek twitching.

  Mirjan quickly snapped to it, grabbing a cup from the cupboard and pouring a steaming cup of the black stuff, an instant coffee mix from a fairly affordable brand called Minaeus. The locals liked their coffee with milk, but Jaromir and the last one before him preferred coffee in its pure black oily looking state.

  HE sat down on a chair, one of the only three at the small table right in the kitchen.

  The one thing Jaromir always looked forward to first thing in the morning was a good ol’ cup of coffee, a caffeinated beverage made from the divinely gifted coffee beans.

  But what HE was presented in front of him looked like blasphemous iconography.

  Still imbued with Jaromir's good willed mindset to never judge a book by its cover or by its price. HE took a sip.

  HE spat out the concoction, Jaromir's taste palette was more finely attuned than the previous hosts.

  Mirjan launched backwards from the table and lurched his back against the cupboard. Expecting a severe reprisal like last time.

  But none came.

  Jaromir would be quite concerned if anyone reacted so viscerally towards him spitting out coffee, and especially a young man with clear signs of abuse on him, and so HE apologized for HIS reaction.

  “Thank you for the brew. This is instant from Minaeus, no?” HIS face of disgust melting away into a subtle smile. HE was getting a hang of it now.

  Mirjan nodded, still backed up against the aged wooden cabinet.

  “Ah, yes, that explains the wooden textures of the coffee, the faded smell of industrial processes, not all Minaeus instants are bad but not all blends are made equal. I suppose that's the drop in quality the consumer must expect with something so cheap and mass produced.”

  Mirjan stared at HIM, still waiting for reprisal of some sort.

  “You know, Minaeus reported 10.5 billion Dinards in gross revenue last year. So it seems the consumer doesn't mind the lackluster product they recieve or the unethical treatment of the farmers who assuage their caffeine needs.”

  I feel educated on the plight of the wretched coffee farmer HE thought to HIMSELF while Jaromir's thoughts veered towards performative activism.

  Mirjan remained affixed to the same state of anxiety, his armpits had become visibly a shade blue darker, sweat staining his light blue shirt and his grey walking appendages jointed shut, if he'd run right now, his legs would give away instantly.

  HIS eyes snapped back to the cowering silhouette of HIS “Cohabitant”, and with Jaromir's afterimage still hovering, and poking about.

  “My apologies, I got lost in my thoughts. Defective personality trait I'm afraid. Oh where are my manners? Let us introduce ourselves.” HE scoured through his jacket and pants, throwing out a variety of items on the table : - two bundle of Dinards and Linggits, a debit card, a pair of gloves, a notebook, pen, marker, cuffs, Kurvitz goggles, keys, stiletto knife, Model 70 handgun with lanyard attached (standard issue NPS sidearm) and three magazines still in their appropriate pouches.

  Then HE finally found what HE was looking for, HE displayed a badge and HIS laminated identification card bound in a leather cover.

  “My name is Jaromir Baxa, National Police Service, currently on mission in the ORAN Super Continent on behalf of the Transnational Police Component of the LSN Support Mission for the ORAN.” HE was getting used to Jaromir's penchant for always putting forward a friendly smile. “How about you?”

  Mirjan felt something different about HIM, maybe it was the smile or something about the eyes that gave him brief contemplation to let his guard down a bit.

  “Mirjan.” He whispered.

  “That's a wonderful name. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mirjan and I'm hoping that we can turn over a new leaf here.”, HE rose up from the chair, and started packing back the contents HE had spilled out.

  Mirjan's eyes darted towards the gun holster, but it danced around his eyes like keys to his freedom.

  Jaromir's keen senses almost ESPER like alerted HIM to his cohabitant's intrusive thoughts.

  “So I will be heading into town. This town maybe in need of a warrior of justice. You wouldn't have any idea where I should be heading in town in order to seek out injustices to correct, would you?”

  “A-rr-e youu as-king m-ee?” Mirjan asked, his voice barely rising above the decibels of a whisper.

  “Yes, of course, friend unless there happens to be a ghost around here who might assist me?”

  Jaromir rolled his eyes.

  “O-okay, ummmm…mayb-da po-li-lice sta–son..?” Mirjan answered, his voice slightly more confident in volume than before.

  “Yes, that's a splendid suggestion! There should be a TPC support office at the local police station. You are most helpful, Mirjan.”

  HE adjusted his suit and headed out the door, “I’ll be going out for a while. I expect to be back by dinner.” HE turned HIS head back at him, “I think a soup, made with canned tomatoes and some canned sardines would suffice.”

  HIS face exhibited a smile that almost failed the uncanny valley test, even Jaromir could recognise it as his smile. HE was getting used to his new mask.

  Mirjan, well, he was struck terrified in place, not knowing whether he could cook that dish.