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"So, Kyrio, let me get this straight," says the three-tailed spectral fox, seeming to scratch his head with a clawed paw. "You've summoned me here because you want to turn into-"

"A motorcycle, yes," says the human guy, eagerly finishing the sentence. "That's what I said. Can you do it?"

The fox spirit is trapped in a circle of chalk and salt, although dramatic smoke billows out from the circle and laps around Kyrio's feet. It is at least twelve feet tall, white and gold, and wearing a nightcap. This is strange for at least two reasons: it is terribly old-fashioned, and it seems silly that a spirit might need to sleep. It was pretty ancient though. Maybe it was symbolic of long dormant centuries? It is a bit distracting, but the human doesn't ask. Kyrio is smaller, has longer hair and red eyes, and like the spirit he is quite androgynous.

"Of course. But... are you sure? I mean, you'll be a motorcycle. Can't move by yourself, can't speak. Not even sure what you'll experience - no more carnal pleasures, certainly. You could have the power to turn into a bike, is that what you mean?"

"No, I just want to be a motorcycle," he says. The fox makes a bit of a face, but Kyrio goes on to explain.

"Okay, so I didn't know this spell was actually real," he says, gesturing in front of the circle. "So I could have waved my arms and said nonsense words and nothing happened. That's fine. But, since it did work, everything changes. There's spirits and magic and all sorts of things like that. And I really just want to be a bike. Well, a dinosaur too. But I only get one wish, yeah?"

The fox has to think about this for a moment, but he smiles. "Hey, most people ask for riches, immortality, true love etc. Kinda boring and predictable and I tend to mess with them. You're pretty okay though. Sure, fill your boots, be a bike," he says, holding up a paw. "Step into the circle, then."

Kyrio does so, and smoke surrounds him; light and fluffy at first, it quickly turns dark and smothering. No longer can he see the fox, and his nose and throat fill with smog until he ends up on his hands and knees, coughing. Cold all over. A thin dusting of soot covers his clothes and skin. He is left there, on hands and knees in the circle, wondering what sort of end that is to an encounter with a great and ancient spirit. Perhaps the sort of end that means it can go back to bed.

The change starts, without giving him any time to stand up. Strong warmth creeps around underneath his skin, bubbling to the surface to form visible blue patches over his arms. It coats him thinly, like icing. Stripes of purple draw themselves around his shoulders and thighs. Then, his fingers blend together and his toes too, leaving stubs. Legs and arms hold still, and the world disappears into darkness as Kyrio is curled up into himself; smooth, round, blue and purple. A big egg.

Inside the egg, he feels his changes continue. He squeaks as four fingers shape each hand and four toes wiggle on each foot, sharp claws pressing against the eggshell. His nose itches as it juts forward, wide and reptilian, with his mouth getting larger and teeth sharper. Hair grows long on his head but recedes over his body, leaving only hide that toughens up. A little whisper in his mind tells him he's a dino-thing. He doesn't believe it, so it tells him again. And again, and again, filling his ears and his mind. Soon it sinks in, which is about when his tail pushes out. Thick and wide, with such force that it puts a hole in the eggshell and cool air rushes in. Kyrio's new nose smells so much more, and eager claws tug at the opening as he breaks a bigger hole and crawls out.

He is a dino-thing. Blue and purple with a white belly, big claws and grinning mouth and purple hair and red eyes. That's what he sees in the big mirror at the far end of the room, which is no longer one he recognises; it looks rather more like a garage. Tools on the wall by a wooden table. Odds and ends in boxes. A big space where a vehicle isn't. And a large plastic bottle of something black, with a note attached.

"Hi Kyrio,

The dino is for free. You're welcome. Plus you'll look great turning into a bike like that. If you're still really really sure, drink up this bottle and wait. If not, you're free to go."

He has already thought a great deal about this, and while the extra decision point is appreciated it doesn't change anything. The dino unscrews the safety cap and grabs it by both hands, catching the smell of fumes before stuffing the top in his mouth and taking a nice, long drink. It's slick and smells foul, but he is able to finish most of the bottle. His stomach gurgles, and he burps. The room is quiet.

Kyrio's eyes itch, and he blinks them a few times before the room lights up with a warm orange glow. His eyes are shining bulbs, silvery metal coating inside his widening sockets as his eyelids disappear and he develops headlamps. Sensation drains from his face and head, because motorbikes don't have nerves. That is probably for the best, as bone and hide stretches out through his ear-holes into handlebars. Thin antennae protrusions poke out through his hair, before their tips swell and blossom into flat mirrors. His stomach gurgles and growls. Kyrio feels himself start to become a bike, beginning his journey of no return. He doesn't regret it.

In fact, he feels eagerness stirring between his legs. Kyrio indulges the urge to fondle himself, sitting on his rump, clutching his growing penis with a four-clawed hand. He realises it will be his first time trying it as a dino, but also his last, and that makes his cheeks warm as well. There on the floor, he pants as his belly turns, brightening up his activities with his illuminated eyes. He paws himself faster, rubbing a clawed finger over the pudgy tip, gasping and leaking slick oil. The scent and sight of it makes him look and daydream ahead to life as a bike, and his lamps flicker as he leans back and humps at the air. Frantic, needy paws hold his cock steady, slipping up and down with the help of that seedy oil. It doesn't take much of this before Kyrio yelps and shudders, firing a stream of warm black goo up into the air to splash back down over his hide.

Movement feels difficult after that, as he pants and catches his breath. His arms shift by themselves, stiffening as paws are balled together. The fingers and palms bulge and stretch, looking quite pliable as they grow outwards. Not a sphere, but a wheel; spoked in the middle, textured on the edges. At first the new wheel is a confused mix of purple and blue, hide repurposed by his transformation; after a moment of change it is metal and rubber, spinning slightly in the air on its new bearings. The wheel seems heavy, and Kyrio turns to his front and drops it to the floor. Double suspension ripples into his arms, heavy springs up near his shoulders. His chin bumps against his arms, and the dino feels his head stretch and melt. Hair vanishes as his mouth disappears into his axle, and his head widens to join two shiny eyes into one giant headlight. From the arms and shoulders up, Kyrio is a motorcycle; blue metal with purple handles and trim, black tyres, orange lamp.

Its mind is quieter now, and thoughts seem to disappear if the cycle doesn't focus on them for long enough. Senses are faint and hard to describe; somehow it has an awareness, but no real concept of time. It feels relaxed, aside from the rumbles of a stomach busily turning into an engine. Feet are next to go, with helpless paws pulled and joined together, swelling and bubbling out into the shape of another wheel. Its tail covers the wheel as a mudguard, as its lower back softens and widens into a dino-patterned saddle; blue with purple stripes. What was a stomach growls, shuddering. The motorbike can't move, at least not without someone to do the riding.

The dino's neck and chest swells to become the bike's gas tank, metal and plastic, still blue and purple decorated. Its slick and oil-soaked penis slides backwards, tip smoothing out until disappearing into into the frame surrounding the tank, with no sign it was ever there. Its engine forms, along with pipes to move fuel and air around, and a long slinky pipe snakes down and against the wheel to be its exhaust. A wide tail-light grows under what used to be a tail, though it tapers off and still looks like one. The new motorbike seems right but is very small, and it grows steadily to become a more reasonable size. Rumbles become louder as the engine turns over idly, revving itself and giving a satisfying belch of hot gas from its pipe before stalling to go quiet. Lights switch off as well. The garage is dark and quiet.

Time passes, presumably, before a light comes on and someone wanders down the stairs. The dino-bike doesn't really have eyes any more, but it seems to recognise the presence of its owner - a young, fluffy, black and white skunk. Technically, he's never seen the motorbike before, but as he curiously slides a paw down the saddle he is changed into the sort of person who owns a bike. Specifically, this bike. If the bike had memories it might have remembered being driven home some years ago, but the skunk suddenly has these memories without realising any different. It's late, he's awake, and his bike feels warm. Time for a midnight ride.

Sitting upon its saddle, the skunk is in leathers with the wide garage door open. He wasn't, but he had gotten dressed in the meantime and time passed quickly. The skunk sat down, tail pinned to his back, key in his ignition. It turns and the bike is alive, lights shining as the motion of hands on controls starts to roll it forwards. Trundling up the driveway is one thing, but moving at city pace along empty streets is another. The road widens, and then he opens the bike up, and everything runs like new. Being ridden seems to be the bike's primary sense, and everything is as it should be.

...

The skunk rides his bike a great deal. There are services, occasional bumps and scrapes. Weather and dust and quiet take their toll on the dino-bike's bright paintwork. Its engine develops complexities that grow more obvious over time. A second bike occupies the garage, although that one probably hadn't once been human. The new bike runs well, as a new bike should.

The dino-bike is ridden less often, but again time seems to have little meaning. This latest ride is long, and slow, in daylight; it struggles but it makes it to the scrapyard, where the bike experiences the next stage of the life of being a bike. Parts are removed, like any other service, but it isn't getting those back. Shelled of engine and useful parts, it is drained and left for a time as the carcass of a motorbike, before ending up in the dark and squeezed tightly, compacted so tight and small alongside other metal remnants.

Time passed, and eventually there would be a use for what was left. But, that is another story.

-fin