Bimbo Pop Princess
Part 1 — Brooke Crumbles
The young designer did not consider this as a good development.
Sure, she probably should have been cautious about the handsome record label representative. But no matter how brutal your interpretation of karma, being drugged and held captive remains a pretty rough consequence for gullibility. Besides, being imprisoned was only the start of Brooke’s worries.
When she woke up, it wasn’t the nausea that most freaked her out. Neither was it the tingling sensation all over her skin. No, it was the cold feeling on her head. With a touch, she realized her sleek black hair was gone. She had been shaved, and worse, she could feel a scar. In that moment, a horrible feeling of dread had squeezed her heart. She wasn’t just a captive, but a guinea pig. Those bastards had done something to her brain.
Determined to get the hell out of here, she then got off the bed and looked around. She was in a simple bedroom with a bed, a desk complete with a computer, and a wardrobe. Two doors promised the escape Brooke ardently desired, but the first one led to a small bathroom, and the second refused to budge.
And so here she stood, fairly confident her life had taken one of the worst turns possible. And for what? No way that “voice” business Ian Horne fed her was the real reason.
“Dammit.”
Even in such a crisis, the young woman remained taciturn. It didn’t matter if she was alone or not ; it was simply her nature. Similarly, as her left hand nervously touched her shaved scalp, her right hand went to her smartphone in her pocket. It was only then that she realized she was naked.
“Oh, God no.”
Brooke began to look around frantically. There was clothing in the wardrobe, but she could not care less about that. That smartphone was her life. She could lose her hair, freedom or clothes...but she couldn’t lose that damn phone. She looked under the bed, in all the clothes’ pockets, even behind the wardrobe...But there was nothing. She was disconnected.
She turned to the computer. It was not her precious phone, but it was a start. It was probably a special computer, monitored by her captors...hell, there was no keyboard to be found, only a mouse and...a microphone? Weird. But it was all she had at the moment, so she booted it up and nervously waited for some sweet technology. But instead of a familiar desktop screen, she was treated to a still image.
It was a drawing of some redheaded trollop with huge breasts. She seemed vaguely familiar to Brooke, but not enough for her to care. Probably just some celebrity chick floating around the web. The designer grabbed the mouse and clicked, hoping to bring up the real desktop. Instead, she was treated to a pop-up window that read thusly :
“Hi Trixie! I know your pretty little head is bad with computers, but don’t worry, this one is real simple and voice-activated. You’ll be able to talk to me during the duration of your therapy. Say “yes” if you understand.”
Trixie?
“The...hell?”
There was a loud buzz. Wrong answer.
“Oh, looks like your depression is a bit heavier than anticipated. I’ll get back to you in an hour. You be a good girl now, Trixie. Signed, your manager.”
Ian had fully expected Miss Wendell to respond this way. It didn’t matter ; Her transformation was, he had been assured, all but certain. The folks in the other branches of Candy Record’s mother company had pumped her full of nanites programmed to transform her body in a few days. Ian Horne himself was tasked with reshaping her mind, but they had laid the groundwork by implanting her with a very special microchip. He didn’t know all the details, but basically, it was going to cloud her mind and weaken her resolve.
With a large smile of his face, the lucky talent discoverer, now Trixie’s manager, clicked on the playlist he had prepared for his charge. It was high time for phase one to begin.
And so, in the prison cell dressed up as a room, a friendly, folksy tune started playing. Not five seconds have passed that a cheerful, slightly nosy voice began blabbering.
“Howdy y’all! Trixie here! Boy, maaan, it sure is amazing to have y’all list’ning to me over that Internet thiiing! I’m so exciiteeeed! Mah manager says I’ll soon get ta meet y’all in person but oh well, listen to me running mah mouth all over the place again. Gawd I’m such a ditz! So, yeah, I best get to the singin’. Ahem...”
Brooke cringed over this torrent of pure bubbliness, and would have dismissed the girl entirely as a floozy she’d never, ever listen to...if it wasn’t for one supremely creepy element.
“She...She’s got my voice.”
No question about it. That Trixie chick had Brooke’s voice, only with a flighty tone and southern accent. It’s like she had just listened to herself play a idiot. It was, simply, freaky.
“Bastards made me sing when I was out cold. Somehow.”
And with this, as her own voice engaged in a saccharine pop song, Brooke’s indignation now had something to focus on. She still wasn’t sure what exactly they had done to her brain, but she now had a solid grasp on Candy Record’s goal. They wanted her to believe she was this “Trixie”.
But how? And more importantly, why? That ditz was nothing like her. If she was the one drawn in the computer’s backdrop, and Brooke had no reason to doubt it, she was at least several letters bigger in cup size. Brooke didn’t care if she had just the right voice, trying to turn her into this bimbo made no sense. There were plenty of hillbilly girls willing to sell out and adopt a fake personality just to have a shot at fame. So why her?!
“We are happy folks in a happy world
Problems are just here to make tha sun shine
My sis always say yer a storm o’trouble
But ya sure as heck make everything fine!”
And how did they get her to sound so happy anyway? Maybe that was what the brain surgery was about. Playing her like a puppet, then showing the results to her in hopes of messing with her head. Brooke knew one thing, though—she didn’t want to hear that song for one moment longer. She bolted off to the bathroom, and took a shower to drown out the music.
Sadly, the water stopped by itself after twenty minutes. Brooke felt refreshed, but her alter ego’s singing was still worming its way inside her head. So, after quickly drying herself up, she walked to the computer and talked into the microphone.
“Whoever you are, stop that damn music.”
Brooke didn’t have to wait long before the answer came.
“Trixie, you are sick. You’re depressed. Listening to your own music is good for you, it will give you confidence for your first steps into stardom. The music will only stop playing when you talk to me, so I can make sure you’re making progress.”
The young lanky woman stepped away from the computer screen and the microphone. Talking. This had to be a trap. The first thing about her character was quietness, and the first thing about Trixie’s character was being an uncontrollable chatterbox. The plan was all too clear—listen to the music and let it drill its way into your head, or talk...and actively become more like Trixie. Brooke suddenly had the mental image of seeing her blabber away into the microphone, and felt sick. That’s what they wanted her to be. A stranger to herself.
So she opted for door number three—bury herself under the blanket, cover her ears, and try to remember her true self as best she could, locking out Candy Records’ attempts to change it.
Hours passed. Still hunkered down under the blanket, Brooke was trying to focus. Conjuring forth memories was easy enough in the beginning. She recalled promising Elisa she would help her out. Poor Elisa...Even now, Brooke couldn’t bring herself to blame her. How could she have known, after all? The concert, then that Horne bastard tampering with her tea. She could also remember the week leading to that fateful day, but past that...nothing came.
Mere flashes, stills from long hours she spent on Photoshop, naked in her studio. But nothing significant...Not even what she ate or listened to. Worse, trying to recall further memories was starting to hurt. The more she focused, the sharper the headache grew.
The brain surgery. Candy Records, Brooke realized, had messed with her memory. Maybe put an inhibitor chip or whatever. She knew they had tampered with the very seat of her conscience, but now she felt the effect, the reality of it...And it was so, so much worse.
She wanted to go to the computer and lash out at the assholes on the other side, monitoring her ordeal. Or even try to negotiate a release...But she knew it would be to no avail. They were trying to transform her into a country bumbpkin airhead, for God’s sake. What good would talking to them do? Nothing. It would only serve to make her more like Trixie.
Still, she had to distract herself from that damn music. Very much against her whole wishes, Brooke found out she started to despise her alter ego’s singing less and less. It was catchy and cheery...And technically, she wasn’t half bad a singer. She sure wasn’t using any auto-tune. It was fair, but that didn’t matter. She couldn’t afford to let herself warm up to the identity they wanted her to adopt. And thanks to the damn headache, her first plan for a distraction wasn’t working anymore. So she decided to get dressed, as little a diversion as this was.
She regretted it pretty much immediately. While the clothes were fairly normal in style, if a bit low-budget and frayed, every single top she had been provided with were ill-fitting. Specifically, they were skintight...for someone with absurdly sexy mensurations. Someone exactly like Trixie. At first, she was simply disgusted. But soon, the realization hit.
“Oh no. No. No. No.”
Brooke went back to the bathroom, this time to check herself in the mirror, and what she saw chilled her to the bone.
On her shaved scalp, hair was just beginning to grow back...But it wasn’t her natural raven color. It was fiery red. Light freckles had appeared across the bridge of her nose...An her almost non-existent breasts were now clearly noticeable, if still very modest.
The designer panted heavily, her hands clawing at her face. Her captors were, God knew how, altering her body. She was becoming a busty redhead. SHE WAS PHYSICALLY BECOMING TRIXIE.
That ghastly fact resonated in her head for a while, thunderous as an avalanche, echoing louder and louder each time.
“Oh my gawd, no...EEEP!”
Had she just said “gawd”?
All pretense of self-control left poor Brooke. Her body was changing, her memories were locked away from her...And constantly hearing her own voice talking like a brain-dead bumpkin and singing like the happiest moron in the world was getting to her. She was only a few hours into the procedure, and she was already starting to take on the accent. Whatever was in her brain made her absorb her alter ego’s voice like a sponge. And Brooke letting her hog all the available time sure as heck...sure as hell wasn’t helping.
Worse, the young designer had pretty much stayed in her home town all her life, but she was nonetheless fairly confident Trixie’s accent was worse than an actual living Southerner. She was, after all, a mockery of her voice dreamed up by Candy Records, and the only representative she saw screamed yuppie. Was she really to become a living caricature?
She staggered back to the computer, drenched in cold sweat. She had to play their game. Becoming more talkative meant becoming more like Trixie, but remaining silent evidently did nothing to stop the transformation either. She had to, at least, try to take her fate back into her own hands. So she took the microphone, and, averting her gaze from the drawn figure of Pixie on the screen, began to talk more than the had ever talked.
“I’m Brooke Wendell. I understand what you’re trying to do, you bastards. I won’t let you change me into that Trixie. Take away my body and my memories, but you’ll never get my dang...damn identity!”
The music stopped around “understand”. Relieved, Brooke heaved a sigh. Sweet silence. For a few, precious seconds, she could feel herself, as she was back in her studio. No annoying noise...just her and her work.
And then the music started playing again, less than five seconds after she had stopped talking. Brooke whimpered.
“Okay, okay! Just stop that thing! Gawd...God! Grah! I...I...huh...”
On the verge of panic, she massaged her temples. What could she possibly talk about? She never talked unless she knew exactly how a sentence would end. Improvising was a tall, unnatural task for the former brunette. But she had to do it. She had to talk, or Trixie would sing again and imprint her southern accent upon her even further.
“My website is www.brookewendelldesign.com. I do image manipulation, pixel art, CGI and a few animations from time to time. I...Dammit, I don’t know! What the hell do you want me to talk about, Candy Records?!”
She joined her hands, praying the music would at least remain silent until they answered. Fortunately, it did...but the answer came rather quickly, offsetting that small victory.
“Tell me about your body, Trixie.”
“I’m not TRIXIE! My hair is black, I have no freckles and I’m flat as a board but that’s fine! You can o to hell for making my body change, by the...cough way! Dangit, I mean dammit. I’m not used to cough, cough talking this much, I...“
“Oh, Trixie-poo, don’t you go exert your voice too much. So many people love it, after all!” Wrote the manager. “You’re making progress. You can rest for a while. See you tomorrow!”
“What? No! NOOO!”
But the dialog box closed...And the music started again. Brooke howled in impotent rage as Trixie once again assaulted her with her bubbly chatter.
“Hoowdyyyy! Trixie Smiles here! Thanks a right bunch for listenin’ to mah yappin’ again. Through all these computer doohickeys and the like, I mean gee, y’all wizards to me, tee-hee! Anyways, this here song is about farmwork, for all mah kinfolk out there!”
How was she supposed to sleep? Did she even want to? There was no telling how much her modified brain would absorb the redneck accent when asleep. Brooke crawled into a corner, covering her ears, doing vocalization exercises so that, when the time comes, she could keep the mind-altering music away as long she could.
“Tell me about your body, Trixie.”
Brooke hadn’t slept a wink. Weakened, disoriented, she felt her mouth open and a stream-of-consciousness blather escape from her lips.
“Y’all Candy Records bastards gave me C-cup breasts. How can ya be changing me so quickly, dangit?” She said, half relieved by the music stopping and half horrified at how much her speech patterns had changed overnight. “Mah hair’s grown but I hate this red color, it aren’t mine. Eye color too...I have green eyes now, but mah real eyes are brown, y’all hear?”
She hung her head down. How could talking feel so...effortless? It was as if her mouth was in autopilot. Was that how being talkative was like? One thing was for sure, and certainly not for the best ; She was on the fast track to talking like a country bumpkin. Worse, it now happened so naturally she didn’t even have the strength to fight it. Not as tired as she was.
“Good...Your cute accent is slowly getting back to normal. Now tell me about your childhood, Trixie.”
“Mah childhood? Well...”
Brooke was at least grateful to remember some things about her life, even if they were just the rough outlines, the major landmarks. Even trying to zero in on anything specific made her head split in pain.
“I reckon wasn’t the life of the party, but I was me and I helped mah folks with mah twin baby bros. Poor little ones had some kinda disease...Nothin’ lethal but they a lil’ slow on the uptake, yanno what I mean? Ma and Pa are decent folk, upper middle class but that kinda thing wears you up, bad...And Gawd, why am I even sayin’ this to you bastards?! Why can’t I just gosh darn shut up?!”
She wanted to stop talking. Return to being her silent self. But she couldn’t stop. It was like a switch had been flipped, like a dam had been breached. Every hour that passed made Brooke more and more distant, and every step she took on the road to being an airheaded chatterbox was set in stone, never to be reconsidered. Somewhere in her muddled, exhausted thoughts, she realized that whatever they had put in her brain was erasing the past, making her life a one-way track towards Trixie land.
Already, she couldn’t shut herself up. Even as she grimly reflected on her sorry state, she was blabbering about her design business. She couldn’t correct her accent, or even take the time to try to talk normally. The words flowed and flowed, and though they spoke of Brooke’s life, they were Trixie’s. Her body, as well...During that sleepless night, her breasts grew to the size of oranges. Her new red hair was now at neck length. Even her features were cuter.
“And there was this one time, Lisa and me went to a concert once and the music was right awful but then WHAM there was this earthquake thing and we were like “Dang” and...I...aaaugh, mah head!”
She grabbed her head and squeezed, but to no avail. She couldn’t even remember the earthquake without triggering the microchip now?
“Tell me about your family, Trixie.” Came the order, merciless.
“Are you daft? I just told ya, I...AAAAAUGH!”
“Tell me about your family, Trixie.”
The storm continued inside her head, causing Brooke to whine in pain. But in the middle of the agonizing stirring, a simple word shone. As soon as she said it, the headache receded.
“S...Sis?”
“Yes, you have sisters, Trixie. A lot of sisters. You’re always singing about them."”
“Aw, right...I do, don’t I...” She started to say in doe-eyed acceptance, but she caught herself in time. “Wait! Heck naw! Trixie has sisters! I...I have...”
Nothing. There were the verses about her sisters, and nothing else. The storm had swept her true family away. She felt the void, but no memories were left of what had been there. A single tear rolled down her cheek. No second one came. There was no family left to mourn. She still had the other memories, but her “manager” had made his point. He could erase whatever part of her he wanted. He owned her.
“Please, I beg you, stop this...You hear me Candy Records? You won. You stole mah voice. You stole mah body. I’ll be Trixie. Please, just don’ erase me. I beg you.”
Only dread and despair could be seen in her eyes as they stared at the computer screen, waiting for her new owner’s mercy.
“Erase who, Trixie? You’re crying. Trixie doesn’t cry. Trixie is a bundle of joy everyone loves.”
“Naw...naw...” Brooke pleaded, knowing this was the end.
“Don’t worry. You’re just going to go to sleep, have some nice dreams, and you’ll feel like yourself when you wake up.”
“Please. Please. Don’t. I’ll be a good country girl pop bimbo. I’ll be obedient. I’ll...gawd...save...”
The knockout gas made short work of the crumbling Brooke Wendell. She went slack in her chair, finally granted the silence she had liked so much.
When she woke up, there was no music. There was no pain. There was nothing.
“Hmmm, nothing like a right good night o’sleep.” She absent-mindedly commented to herself. “At least that dang music stopped...still dreamed I was singin’ mah heart out. Ah, at least I’m mahself. Lesse how mah body has changed...Bathroom, bathroom...Oh. Well I’ll be darned if I ain’t like the bestest boobies around now. Like, E-cup at least? Freckles, red hair, green eyes...Yeah, reckon there ain’t no stopping them. Hey! Candy Records guy! Ya hear me? Hmpf, reckon than voice computer whatchamacallit flipped off when I was sleepin’. No big deal, right? There, switched it on again. I still know how to work a computer, y’all bastards. Well, that’s taking some time...Miss mah smartphone. I hope they...AAAUGH! Ah, gosh darn it, not again! Mmmh, What was I yappin’ about? Miss something? Miss what? Aw Heck, another thing they made me forget. Shoulda kept quiet. Well that’s nothing new under the sun..., like Big Sis woulda said. Mah big mouth always gets me in trouble. Ah, the computer’s up.”
“Hello.”
“Hello to you. Mah body’s all changed now, happy?”
“What is your name?”
“Well dang that’s a smart question right in tha morning. Trixie. Huh...What? No. That’s who ya want me to be. I’m not Trixie, I’m...I’m...I...Huh...”
“...”
“S...Sir? What’s mah name?”
“You are Trixie.”
“Nah, mah true name. Please, Sir, be sportin’ here. Sir? Aw, heck no, please don’t leave me like this! Please! I wanna know who I am!”
The answer never came. Ian was busy fist-pumping and running to the execs’ office.
“Phase 1 is done!” He proudly exclaimed. “Brooke Wendell is completely erased, memories and body alike, and she’s been rendered extremely talkative.”
“Nice job, Ian. So I understand she’s a blank canvas for now, is that it?”
“Yes, Sir. She sounds like our Trixie and has no memories to get in the way anymore, but she doesn’t have her personality yet. The whole team is ready for phase 2 on your order, Sir.”
“Well, let’s not make her wait. She should be happy, whether she can control it or not. Phase 2 it is. Put the Smiles in our little Trixie!”
No comments:
Post a Comment