Patapon Human-Orb TF
Jake’s thumbs ached as he furiously tapped the rhythm buttons on his controller. The familiar beat of “Pata-Pata-Pata-Pon” echoed through his bedroom while the tiny spear-wielding Patapons on screen marched in perfect synchrony toward the imposing Dodonga—a massive dragon-like beast that had already wiped out half of his army.
“Come on, come on,” Jake muttered, his forehead beading with sweat. This was his seventh attempt at this mission, and his patience was wearing thin. The driving rain in the game pounded against his little warriors, making the rhythm harder to maintain. One missed beat, then another. The little Patapons began to falter in their march.
“No, no, NO!” Jake shouted as the Dodonga reared back and unleashed a devastating fire breath that incinerated his remaining troops. The screen dimmed, the familiar “Mission Failed” text appearing in bold letters. In a burst of frustration, Jake hurled his controller against the wall.
“This game is impossible!” he yelled, falling back onto his bed. “The Almighty shouldn’t have to deal with this garbage!”
The moment those words left his mouth, Jake’s television screen began to flicker oddly. The usual defeat screen was replaced by strange symbols—ancient Patapon script that he’d never seen before in the game. The room around him seemed to dim, while the television glowed brighter.
“What the…?” Jake whispered, sitting up straight. Something wasn’t right. The music from the game grew louder, but distorted, slowing down until it became an ominous drone.
Suddenly, text appeared on the screen:
THE ALMIGHTY HAS FAILED. THE ALMIGHTY MUST LEARN THE TRUE RHYTHM.
“Very funny,” Jake murmured nervously, reaching for the power button on his console. But before his fingers could touch it, a blinding light burst from the television screen, enveloping him completely. Jake felt himself being pulled forward—not physically, but as if his very essence was being drawn into the game world. He tried to scream, but his voice seemed to evaporate into the light.
Then, darkness.
Jake’s consciousness returned slowly, like waking from a dream. But something was wrong—terribly wrong. He couldn’t feel his body. Not his arms, not his legs, not even his face. Yet somehow, he was aware. He could see, albeit with a peculiarly wide field of vision.
Where am I? he thought, trying to move. Nothing happened.
Gradually, his vision cleared. He could see a strange landscape—the familiar world of Patapon, with its silhouetted trees against vibrant backgrounds. He was in some sort of tribal hut, lying on what felt like a ceremonial altar. Around him, he could make out the shapes of actual Patapons—the small, round-bodied creatures with their single eyes and spindly limbs, all staring at him.
A larger Patapon, adorned with ceremonial feathers and bone ornaments—clearly their shaman or leader—approached and spoke in their strange, musical language. To Jake’s surprise, he understood every word.
“The Almighty has arrived, but the transformation is… incomplete.”
Transformation? Jake tried to shout, but realized with horror that he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even feel his mouth moving.
The shaman Patapon leaned closer, examining him. “The ritual to bring the Almighty to our world has succeeded, but something has gone wrong. The punishment is more severe than intended.”
Punishment? Jake’s thoughts raced. What punishment?
A reflective surface—some sort of ceremonial shield—was brought before him, and for the first time, Jake saw what had become of him. The sight would have made him scream if he had a mouth to do so.
He was no longer human. Not even close. Where his teenage body should have been was now just a fleshy, human-colored orb about the size of a beach ball. He had eyes—his own brown human eyes somehow preserved in this transformation—and a small nose protruding slightly from the smooth flesh. But there was no mouth, no ears, no hair. Most horrifyingly, there were no limbs of any kind—no arms, no legs, not even small appendages. Just a smooth, slightly moist fleshy sphere.
The transformation’s memory suddenly flooded back to him in vivid detail.
It had begun with a tingling sensation throughout his entire body. As he was pulled into the game world, Jake had felt himself suspended in a void of pulsing colors and rhythmic sounds. The beat of drums surrounded him—pata-pata-pata-pon, don-don-chaka-don—creating a cocoon of sound.
First, he felt his body begin to compress, as if powerful hands were squeezing him from all directions. His skeleton seemed to soften, bones becoming malleable like warm clay. There was no pain, only a profound, disturbing sensation of his physical form being fundamentally altered. His height, once five-foot-nine, began to shrink dramatically. Five feet, four feet, three feet, smaller and smaller.
His arms and legs began to shorten, pressing inward toward his torso. Jake watched in horror as his fingers merged together, becoming stubby appendages before sinking into his wrists. The same happened to his feet—toes melding, then disappearing entirely as his legs retracted into his body.
His skin began to change texture, becoming smoother, more elastic, taking on the cartoonish quality of a Patapon’s exterior. The color remained human—a light tan—but the consistency was different, more like a rubbery membrane than human flesh.
His torso compressed next, internal organs shifting, rearranging, some seemingly dissolving altogether as his body transformed from human anatomy to something else entirely. His chest and abdomen began to curve, the distinction between them blurring as his form became more spherical.
Jake’s face underwent the most disturbing changes. His ears flattened against his head before disappearing entirely into the smoothing flesh. His nose shrank, becoming a small bump, almost cartoonish in its simplicity. His hair retreated into his scalp, leaving the surface of his head as smooth as the rest of his transforming body.
His mouth—this was perhaps the most terrifying part—began to seal itself. His lips thinned, then seemed to stitch together, the seam becoming fainter and fainter until there was just smooth flesh where his mouth had been. He tried to scream, but no sound emerged as the opening disappeared completely.
Only his eyes remained relatively unchanged—still human, still expressing the terror he felt, now proportionally larger on his diminishing form.
As the transformation neared completion, Jake’s body continued to compress into a more perfect sphere. His neck disappeared entirely, the head and body becoming one continuous round shape. His shoulders rounded out, the last vestiges of his human silhouette vanishing.
The final stage of the transformation was the most unsettling. Jake could feel his remaining internal systems adapting, changing to support this new form. His bones had completely dissolved, replaced by some kind of firm but flexible cartilage structure that maintained his spherical shape. His respiratory system simplified, now drawing oxygen directly through his skin. His digestive system had disappeared entirely—how he would sustain himself now, he had no idea.
The drumbeats reached a crescendo, and with a final pulse of energy, the transformation was complete. Where a teenage boy had once been, there was now only a fleshy, human-colored orb with wide, frightened eyes and a small bump of a nose—a failed Patapon, a punishment made manifest.
As the memory of his transformation faded, Jake tried desperately to move. He concentrated with all his might on rolling, hopping, anything—but his new form remained stubbornly immobile. He could control his eyes, blink his eyelids, and move his pupils to look around, but nothing else responded to his will.
The shaman Patapon spoke again. “The Almighty has failed the rhythm, and now the rhythm has failed the Almighty. You were meant to become one of us—a true Patapon—so that you might learn our ways and the importance of the sacred beats. But your irreverence, your disrespect for the rhythm, has resulted in… this.” The shaman gestured toward Jake’s orb-like form.
Another Patapon, smaller and carrying a spear, approached cautiously. “Is the Almighty still… almighty?” it asked.
The shaman nodded slowly. “Yes and no. The power of rhythm still resides within, but cannot be expressed without the proper form. The Almighty is trapped within this incomplete vessel—no mouth to speak commands, no limbs to demonstrate the beats.”
Jake’s mind raced with panic. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. I need to wake up!
But he wasn’t dreaming. The sensations were too vivid, the details too consistent. He could feel the cool air on his smooth skin, the slight give of the altar beneath his round form, the weight of his own strange body.
A group of young Patapons had gathered at the entrance of the hut, peering in with curious eyes. One of them giggled—a musical, tinkling sound.
“The Almighty looks like Mater’s gourd!” it chirped, causing the others to burst into laughter.
“Hush!” scolded the shaman, though Jake could detect a hint of amusement in its voice as well. “Show respect, even in this form.”
Another young Patapon pointed. “But it has no mouth! How will it command us?”
“And no arms or legs!” added a third. “It’s just a big ball with eyes!”
Jake felt a strange heat in his orb-body—the equivalent of blushing, he realized. Embarrassment flooded through him. He was exposed, naked in a sense, though his new form had no genitalia or distinctive features to cover. Yet the feeling of vulnerability was overwhelming. He was completely helpless, unable to move or speak, subjected to the stares and giggles of creatures he had once commanded with the press of buttons.
The shaman shooed the young ones away and turned back to Jake. “The Almighty must learn patience now. And the true meaning of rhythm. Not just the pressing of commands, but the flow of life itself.”
A warrior Patapon stepped forward, adorned with battle scars and carrying an impressive bow. “But how will we fight the Zigotons without the Almighty’s commands? How will we reclaim our Promised Land?”
The shaman placed a spindly hand on Jake’s smooth surface. The touch felt strange—Jake could sense it, but the sensation was muted, different from human touch.
“The Almighty will learn to command in new ways. And we will learn to perceive. This is a test for all of us.”
Jake’s eyes widened. Wait, are you saying this is permanent? I can’t stay like this!
As if reading his thoughts, the shaman leaned closer. “This form is not temporary, Almighty. It is your new existence. Until you truly understand the heart of rhythm, until you feel it in your very core without the need for physical expression, this is what you shall remain.”
Horror washed over Jake. Permanent? This couldn’t be happening. Trapped forever as an immobile flesh-orb in a video game world?
A female Patapon wearing elaborate robes approached, carrying a small cushion. “We have prepared a place for the Almighty in the sacred temple,” she said, gently rolling Jake onto the cushion. The sensation of being moved was bizarre—he could feel his weight shifting, rolling, but had no control over it.
“Careful with the Almighty Orb!” chuckled a warrior Patapon. “It might roll away!”
That earned another round of laughter from the gathered tribe. Jake closed his eyes in humiliation. If he could have cried, he would have.
Days passed in the Patapon village. Jake remained on his cushion in the temple, placed on a high altar where the tribe would come to pay respects and ask for guidance. Without a mouth, he couldn’t answer. Without limbs, he couldn’t move. He was essentially a sacred decoration, a living idol.
The Patapons adjusted to their new reality with surprising adaptability. They would come before him, perform their rhythmic dances and songs, then interpret his eye movements as responses. A blink for yes, a wide-eyed stare for no, looking left or right for maybe. It was primitive communication at best, but it was all they had.
Some of the Patapons were kind and respectful. Others couldn’t resist making light of his situation.
“The Almighty looks well-rested today,” one warrior would joke. “Being a ball must be so relaxing!”
“I wonder if the Almighty misses having legs,” a hunter would muse within earshot. “Rolling everywhere seems much easier!”
Each comment stung Jake’s pride. Each day trapped in this form chipped away at his sense of self. He had gone from a normal teenage boy to a fleshy orb with eyes, incapable of the most basic functions. He couldn’t eat (though somehow his new body sustained itself), couldn’t speak, couldn’t move independently. When the Patapons needed to move him, they would roll him like a ball from one place to another, an experience that was both physically uncomfortable and deeply humiliating.
Worst of all was the feeling of exposure. Though he had no private parts to cover—his transformation had removed all such features—he still felt naked, vulnerable. The smooth flesh of his orb-body was sensitive to temperature and touch, and being handled by the Patapons made him acutely aware of his helplessness.
One rainy day, as Jake sat on his cushion watching droplets streak down the temple walls, the shaman approached with a serious expression.
“Almighty,” it began, “the Zigotons have been sighted near our borders. Without your rhythmic commands, our warriors struggle to maintain formation. We need guidance.”
Jake blinked his eyes rapidly in frustration. How am I supposed to help? I can’t even move!
The shaman seemed to understand his distress. “Perhaps… there is another way.” It placed a small drum beside Jake’s orb-body. “Feel the rhythm, Almighty. Not with limbs, but with your essence.”
Jake stared at the drum, confusion and anger mixing within him. This was absurd. How could he possibly play a drum without arms?
But as days turned into weeks, something strange began to happen. Jake started to sense the rhythms around him in a new way. The beats of the Patapon drums, the patterns of rain on the temple roof, the cadence of the tribe’s movements—all became part of a greater tapestry of sound that he could feel resonating through his orb-body.
During a ceremonial dance, as the tribe performed their rhythms before him, Jake felt something stir within. A vibration, subtle at first, then growing stronger. His smooth flesh began to pulse slightly, not visible to the eye but felt internally, matching the sacred “Pata-Pata-Pata-Pon” beat.
The shaman, ever observant, noticed something. “The Almighty is resonating with the rhythm!” it announced in awe.
The tribe fell silent, watching as Jake’s orb-body seemed to glow faintly with each beat. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t rolling, but something was happening—he was channeling the rhythm through his very being.
In that moment, Jake understood. The transformation hadn’t just been a punishment; it had been a lesson. Without the distractions of limbs and voice, without the mechanical interface of a controller, he was learning to feel the pure essence of rhythm itself.
The shaman placed its hands on Jake’s smooth surface. “The Almighty is becoming one with the rhythm. This is the true way.”
The next day, when scouts reported Zigoton forces approaching, the tribe carried Jake to the battlefield on a ceremonial litter. There, placed on a hill overlooking the conflict, Jake focused all his concentration on the rhythms he had learned.
Pata-Pata-Pata-Pon, he thought intensely, visualizing the march command.
To his astonishment, a faint glow emanated from his orb-body, pulsing with the beat. The Patapon warriors below straightened, as if hearing an inaudible command, and began marching in perfect formation.
Pon-Pon-Pata-Pon, Jake concentrated, visualizing the attack command.
Again, the pulse of light, and the warriors launched their attack in unison.
The battle was won, not through buttons pressed on a controller, but through pure rhythmic intention, channeled through Jake’s transformed body.
Months passed. Jake’s new existence settled into a strange routine. He remained a fleshy orb with eyes, immobile and speechless, yet he had found a new way to communicate—through pulses of rhythmic energy that the Patapons could sense and interpret.
The teasing had mostly stopped, replaced by genuine reverence. Though occasionally, he would still hear whispers:
“The Almighty Orb is looking particularly round today!”
“Do you think it gets tired of being rolled everywhere?”
Each comment still stung, but less so now. Jake had begun to accept his new reality. Not because he had given up hope of returning to his human form, but because he had found meaning in this new existence.
The shaman visited him one night, when the temple was empty of other Patapons.
“You have learned much, Almighty,” it said quietly. “You understand now what it truly means to embody rhythm.”
Jake blinked once for yes.
“Your form remains incomplete—not a true Patapon, but something in between. This is permanent, as I told you before. But perhaps now you understand why.”
Jake looked questioningly at the shaman.
“As a human with a controller, you were disconnected from the true nature of rhythm. As a complete Patapon, you would have been bound by our limitations. But as you are now—a being of pure essence with just eyes to observe—you have transcended both forms to become something unique. Neither fully human nor fully Patapon, but a true vessel for rhythm itself.”
Jake considered this. His orb-body, once a source of embarrassment and frustration, had become something else—a perfect conduit for the rhythmic energy that powered this world. Without the distractions of movement or speech, he had learned to focus his will into pure rhythmic intention.
“Do you wish to return to your human form?” the shaman asked directly.
Jake closed his eyes, thinking deeply. Did he? Part of him still yearned for his old life, for arms and legs and a voice. For independence and mobility. For not being a helpless, fleshy orb subjected to occasional teasing and constant dependence on others.
But another part had found something profound in this new existence. A connection to rhythm that transcended physical form. A purpose.
After a long moment, he opened his eyes and darted them left, then right—their signal for uncertainty.
The shaman nodded in understanding. “The choice need not be made tonight, Almighty. Perhaps never. Your journey continues, as does ours together.”
As the shaman left him alone in the moonlit temple, Jake gazed out at the Patapon village below. His new life stretched before him—eternally immobile, forever silent, yet somehow more connected to the essence of this world than he had ever been as a human with a controller.
He was the Almighty Orb, and though he would always feel that flutter of embarrassment when rolled from place to place or when the younger Patapons made jokes about his round form, he had found a strange peace in his transformation.
The rhythm continued, and so would he.