The Rhythm Within
Alex stared at his reflection in the dorm bathroom mirror, running fingers through his sandy hair. Even after twenty years, the face looking back felt foreign—too angular, too tall, missing the rounded features that sang to something deep in his chest. He pressed a palm against his sternum, feeling for that familiar drumbeat that had pulsed there since childhood.
“Still brooding?”
The voice belonged to Kibo, who leaned against the doorframe with that easy smile that had first caught Alex’s attention in their shared Xenocultural Studies seminar. Where Alex was all sharp edges and restless energy, Kibo embodied the gentle roundness of his Patapon heritage—though his great-grandparents’ emigration to Earth had left him speaking more English than the musical Patapon tongue.
“Just thinking.” Alex turned from the mirror. “Dr. Yamamoto approved my thesis proposal.”
Kibo’s dark eye lit up. “The morphological freedom research? That’s incredible!” He stepped closer, close enough that Alex caught the faint scent of the herbal tea Kibo favored. “So you’re really going through with it?”
The question hung between them, weighted with months of careful conversations. Alex had been researching transformation protocols since sophomore year, initially for academic purposes. But the more he learned about the bio-sculptors who could reshape bone and sinew, the neural mappers who could adjust brain chemistry and instincts, the more the possibility became a need.
“I want to,” Alex said quietly. “I’ve wanted to since I was seven years old and first heard Patapon music. But—”
“But?”
Alex pulled up his tablet, scrolling to a discussion thread he’d bookmarked. “Look at this.”
The forum post was from Traditional Voices, a Patapon cultural preservation site. The thread title read: “Concerning Trends in Modern Transformation.” Below, dozens of comments debated the ethics of species-shifting, particularly humans becoming Patapon.
“The sacred rhythms are not costumes to be worn,” read one highly-upvoted comment from user Elder_Drumkeeper. “Each transformation dilutes what makes us who we are.”
Another replied: “My neighbor’s daughter went through the process last year. She pounds on practice drums all night, thinking she understands our ways. She doesn’t feel the ancestral beats.”
Kibo read over Alex’s shoulder, his expression darkening. “These people don’t speak for all of us.”
“But they speak for some of you. And they’re not wrong about the cultural aspect. I know the rhythms intellectually, but I wasn’t raised with them. I don’t have the generational connection—”
“Neither do I.” Kibo’s voice carried an edge Alex rarely heard. “My grandparents came here when my mom was three. She grew up eating hamburgers and watching Earth cartoons. I learned to drum from YouTube videos, same as you.”
Alex studied his boyfriend’s face. Kibo rarely talked about his family’s immigration, the cultural disconnect that left him fluent in Patapon biology but fumbling with traditional songs. It was part of what drew them together—two people separated from Patapon culture by different chasms.
“That’s different,” Alex said. “You’re still Patapon. I’m—”
“You’re more Patapon than half the people I grew up with.” Kibo took Alex’s hands, smaller and rounder than Alex’s long fingers. “You dream in drum patterns. You can identify regional rhythm variations by ear. When you listen to the old songs, you cry.”
It was true. Alex had built his life around Patapon culture in ways that felt deeper than academic interest. His apartment walls were covered with traditional artwork, his music library filled with ceremonial chants and contemporary Patapon fusion. He’d taught himself to cook Patapon dishes, learned the language through immersion programs, even started a campus cultural appreciation group.
But was appreciation enough?
“The appointment is next week,” Alex said. “Initial consultation with the bio-sculptor.”
Kibo squeezed his hands. “I’ll come with you.”
Dr. Chen’s office felt more like an art studio than a medical facility. Holographic models of various body configurations rotated slowly in the air, while walls displayed before-and-after images of successful transformations. The bio-sculptor herself was human, though her left arm had been replaced with an elegant mechanical prosthetic that moved with fluid precision.
“Full Patapon transformation,” she mused, scrolling through Alex’s application. “Comprehensive package—skeletal restructuring, organ repositioning, neural pathway adjustment, hormonal recalibration. It’s beautiful work, though intensive.”
“How intensive?” Kibo asked.
“Three stages over six months. First we handle the basic physical restructuring—height reduction, facial reconstruction, limb proportions. That’s the most dramatic visually but actually the simplest medically.” Dr. Chen gestured to a holographic model that shifted from human to Patapon proportions. “Second stage addresses internal systems. Digestive optimization for traditional diet, lung capacity adjustments for high-altitude living, enhanced auditory processing for rhythmic sensitivity.”
Alex leaned forward. “Enhanced auditory processing?”
“Patapon brains are wired differently for music and rhythm recognition. We can replicate those neural pathways, though the adjustment period can be… intense. Most patients describe it as hearing the world’s heartbeat for the first time.”
“And the third stage?” Kibo asked.
“Integration and fine-tuning. Ensuring all systems work harmoniously, adjusting hormone levels for optimal health, final cosmetic details.” Dr. Chen paused. “I should mention—this process is completely reversible within the first year, though reversal becomes more complex after neural pathways fully establish.”
Alex nodded. He’d researched the reversibility extensively, though he couldn’t imagine wanting to go back.
“There is one complication,” Dr. Chen continued. “The Patapon Cultural Council has requested notification for all human-to-Patapon transformations. They don’t have veto power, but they do sometimes reach out to discuss cultural implications.”
Kibo frowned. “Reach out how?”
“Usually just informational materials about cultural sensitivity, traditional practices, that sort of thing. Occasionally they’ll request a meeting, though that’s rare.”
Alex’s stomach tightened. The idea of sitting before a panel of Patapon elders, defending his right to exist in the body that felt true, made his hands shake.
“It’s not a requirement,” Dr. Chen added quickly. “Just a courtesy. You can decline any contact.”
“I’ll think about it,” Alex said.
That evening, Alex and Kibo sat on their favorite bench overlooking the campus quad. Students moved between buildings in small groups, and Alex found himself automatically cataloging their species—human, Patapon, a few Zigoton exchange students, even one of the rare Majira who preferred terrestrial universities.
“Cold feet?” Kibo asked.
“Terrified feet,” Alex admitted. “What if I go through all this and still don’t feel right? What if the neural changes don’t work the way they’re supposed to? What if—”
“What if you finally feel at home in your own body?”
Alex looked at his boyfriend. In the evening light, Kibo’s natural Patapon features seemed to glow—the large, expressive eye, the soft curve of his cheeks, the compact frame that moved with unconscious rhythm.
“Do you ever wish you looked more human?” Alex asked.
Kibo considered this. “Sometimes, when I was younger. Kids at school would make jokes about my size, or ask me to demonstrate Patapon dances I didn’t know.” He shrugged. “But I never wanted to change my body. Just wanted the world to make more sense.”
“For me, changing my body might be how the world starts making sense.”
Kibo reached over and took Alex’s hand. “Then let’s do it.”
Alex scheduled the first procedure for the following month. The weeks leading up to it blurred together—final exams, research for his thesis, long conversations with Dr. Chen about pain management and recovery timelines. Kibo had arranged to take time off from his internship to help with post-surgery care.
Three days before the procedure, Alex received an email from the Patapon Cultural Council.
Dear Alex,
We understand you’re planning to undergo transformation to Patapon form. While we respect your personal choice, we’d like to offer some resources about traditional Patapon culture and practices to support your journey.
Attached you’ll find reading materials about regional customs, seasonal celebrations, and community practices. We also have mentorship programs for newly-transformed individuals, should you be interested.
Please know this outreach comes from a place of welcome, not judgment. Our community has room for all who approach with genuine heart.
Respectfully, Council Secretary Pata-Rin
Alex stared at the message, surprised by its warmth. The attached materials were extensive—guides to traditional cooking, explanations of religious practices, even audio files of regional dialects.
“They’re being nice,” Kibo observed, reading over Alex’s shoulder.
“Yeah. I guess I expected more… resistance.”
“Maybe the loud voices online aren’t representative.”
Alex hoped so. He spent the next two days absorbing the cultural materials, feeling both grateful and overwhelmed by the depth of tradition he was stepping into.
The first surgery went smoothly. Alex woke up in a recovery room with Kibo holding his hand, everything feeling strange and distant through the pain medication haze.
“How do I look?” Alex mumbled.
“Like you’re halfway home,” Kibo said softly.
The mirror revealed dramatic changes. Alex’s height had been reduced from 5’10” to 4’6”, his facial structure rounded and softened. His limbs were shorter, proportioned differently. The reflection was startling but not wrong—like seeing a photograph develop, familiar features emerging from chemical bath.
Recovery took three weeks. Alex moved carefully at first, learning to navigate the world from a new height, adjusting to changed balance and reach. Kibo was endlessly patient, helping with daily tasks and providing gentle encouragement during the difficult adjustment days.
“The next phase is the big one,” Dr. Chen explained during the pre-surgery consultation. “Neural pathway adjustment can be disorienting. Most patients describe heightened sensory awareness, particularly auditory. You might find normal sounds overwhelming for the first few days.”
Alex nodded, though his stomach churned with anticipation.
The second surgery was more complex, requiring a longer hospital stay. When Alex woke up, the world had exploded into sound.
He could hear everything—the ventilation system’s mechanical hum, distant conversations from other rooms, the rhythmic beeping of medical equipment. But more than that, he could hear patterns. The sounds layered into complex rhythms, creating an almost musical backdrop to reality.
“Is this normal?” he whispered to Kibo, who seemed to be speaking with unusual resonance.
“According to Dr. Chen, yes. Your brain is learning to process sound the way Patapon brains do. It should settle down in a few days.”
It took a week for the auditory hypersensitivity to stabilize, but when it did, Alex felt transformed in ways that went beyond the physical. Walking across campus, he could hear the underlying rhythms in everything—footsteps syncing into impromptu beats, construction equipment creating industrial percussion, even conversations falling into natural meters.
“I can hear the world breathing,” he told Kibo one evening as they sat in their apartment.
“Welcome to Patapon perception,” Kibo said with a grin. “Though honestly, you’re picking up patterns I never noticed.”
The final surgery was scheduled for two months later, allowing Alex’s new neural pathways to fully establish. During that time, he threw himself into cultural studies with renewed passion. The traditional music he’d always loved now revealed layers of complexity he’d never perceived. He could hear the ancestral rhythms the forum commenters had mentioned, feel their pull in his chest and bones.
A week before the final procedure, Alex received another email from the Cultural Council.
Dear Alex,
We’ve been following your journey with interest and admiration. Your commitment to understanding our traditions has been noted by several community members.
If you’re willing, we’d like to arrange a virtual meeting to welcome you officially into the Patapon community. This would be an honor ceremony, recognizing your transformation as a bridge between worlds.
No pressure, of course. The invitation stands whenever you feel ready.
With respect, Council Secretary Pata-Rin
Alex stared at the message, emotions swirling. Official recognition from the Cultural Council was more than he’d dared hope for.
“They want to welcome me,” he told Kibo.
“That’s incredible. Are you going to do it?”
“I think so. After the final surgery, when I’m fully transitioned.”
The third procedure was the least invasive but somehow felt the most significant. Dr. Chen made final adjustments to hormone levels, refined facial features, and completed the integration of all previous modifications.
When Alex looked in the mirror afterward, a complete Patapon looked back. The transformation was seamless—no trace of his former human appearance remained. He was shorter, rounder, with the large expressive eye and soft features characteristic of his chosen species. More importantly, he felt complete in a way he’d never experienced.
“How does it feel?” Kibo asked, studying Alex’s new reflection with obvious admiration.
“Like coming home,” Alex said simply.
They scheduled the Cultural Council ceremony for the following week. It was a small gathering—just a few Council members and Alex and Kibo joining via video call. But the ritual was meaningful, involving traditional songs of welcome and the sharing of symbolic foods.
“You honor us by choosing to join our community,” said Elder Pata-Ron, an elderly Patapon with intricate tattoos covering his arms. “Your dedication to understanding our ways shows the sincerity of your heart.”
“Thank you,” Alex replied in careful Patapon. “I’m grateful to be welcomed.”
After the ceremony, Alex felt a profound sense of belonging. The critical voices from the online forums seemed distant now, overwhelmed by the warmth of official acceptance.
Months later, Alex completed his thesis on morphological freedom and species transition. The research became the foundation for his graduate studies, and eventually his career as a counselor for others seeking transformation.
“Another consultation today,” he told Kibo one morning, reviewing his appointment schedule. The client was a young human woman considering Zigoton transformation—a complex process requiring significant cultural adaptation.
“Nervous about it?”
“No,” Alex said, surprised to realize it was true. “I know what it’s like to feel disconnected from your own body. If I can help someone else find their way home, that’s worth everything.”
He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror—the same spot where this journey had begun. The Patapon face looking back was completely familiar now, as natural as breathing. The rhythms of the world pulsed steadily in his chest, a constant reminder of who he’d always been inside.
Kibo appeared behind him, wrapping arms around Alex’s waist. “Ready for another day of changing the world?”
Alex leaned back against his boyfriend’s chest, feeling the synchronized beating of their hearts. “Always.”
Outside their window, the campus came alive with morning sounds—footsteps and voices and machinery all blending into the complex, beautiful rhythm of existence. Alex listened with Patapon ears, heard the music in everything, and smiled.
Everyday Rhythms
The alarm clock’s beeping dissolved into Alex’s consciousness as part of a complex morning symphony—the neighbor’s shower running in 4/4 time, traffic outside creating polyrhythmic layers, Kibo’s gentle breathing beside him maintaining the steady bass line that anchored everything else.
“Mmph. Too early,” Kibo mumbled, pulling a pillow over his head.
Alex stretched, joints popping in satisfying harmony. Two years post-transformation, and he still marveled at how right his body felt—compact and efficient, perfectly calibrated for the rhythmic perception that colored every moment. “It’s 7:30. You have that presentation today.”
“The quarterly report can present itself.”
Laughing, Alex rolled out of bed and padded to the kitchen. Their apartment had evolved since his transformation, accumulating layers of shared life. Traditional Patapon instruments hung on the walls beside modern art prints. The bookshelf mixed Alex’s academic texts with Kibo’s engineering manuals and a growing collection of cookbooks from various worlds.
He started coffee for Kibo and tea for himself—his transformed digestive system handled caffeine differently now, requiring the gentler stimulation of herbal blends. The coffee maker’s bubbling joined the morning’s rhythm section.
“Alex?” came a voice from the bedroom. “Have you seen my good shirt?”
“Laundry basket in the closet.”
Kibo emerged twenty minutes later, looking professionally polished in the button-down that emphasized his natural Patapon proportions. He’d grown more confident over the past two years, Alex noticed. Dating someone who’d chosen to become Patapon had somehow helped Kibo feel more secure in his own cultural identity, even the disconnected version he’d inherited.
“Breakfast?” Alex offered, sliding a plate of traditional pan-pan cakes across the counter.
“You’re the best.” Kibo grabbed a fork, then paused. “Oh, before I forget—Mom called last night. She wants to know if we’re coming for dinner Sunday.”
Alex still felt a small thrill when Kibo’s family included him in their plans. The initial awkwardness had faded quickly; Kibo’s parents seemed more curious than concerned about their son’s transformed boyfriend. If anything, Alex’s passionate interest in Patapon culture had helped bridge some gaps in their own family’s cultural knowledge.
“Definitely. Should I bring something?”
“She mentioned wanting to try that rhythm root recipe you found.”
“The one from the Patapolis region? I’ll need to hit the specialty market.”
This was their life now—ordinary domestic negotiations punctuated by the unique considerations of inter-species relationships and cultural exploration. Alex loved the mundane complexity of it.
Alex’s first appointment wasn’t until ten, giving him time to walk across campus rather than taking the shuttle. The path to the counseling center had become a daily meditation, each step synchronizing with the environmental rhythms that constantly played in his Patapon-wired perception.
Students passed in small groups, their conversations creating overlapping melodies. A cluster of Zigoton exchange students clicked and whistled in their native tongue—sounds that Alex’s enhanced hearing parsed into recognizable patterns. Two human engineering majors argued about tensor calculations while walking in perfect step.
“Dr. Reyes?” His first client waited in the counseling center lobby—a middle-aged human woman with the careful posture of someone carrying invisible weight.
“Call me Alex, please. And you’re Sarah?”
In his office, Sarah perched on the edge of the chair, hands folded tightly. “I’m not sure where to start.”
“Wherever feels right.”
“I’ve been following your published research on transformation therapy. And I’ve been thinking about… making changes. But I don’t know if what I want is possible.”
Alex settled into his chair, letting his natural Patapon proportions create a less intimidating presence. This part of his work felt like coming full circle—helping others navigate the space between who they were and who they needed to become.
“What kind of changes are you considering?”
“This sounds ridiculous, but… I’ve always felt like I should be aquatic. Not fully, but partially. Like I should be able to breathe underwater, have gill slits, maybe some fin modifications.” Sarah’s words came faster as she warmed to the topic. “I know it’s not a recognized species transition. There’s no community of people like that. But the feeling has been there since I was small.”
Alex nodded thoughtfully. “Custom morphological modifications aren’t unheard of. The technology exists, though the psychological support can be more complex without an established community.”
“You think it’s possible?”
“I think it’s worth exploring. What does the aquatic aspect represent for you? Is it about environment, sensation, identity, or something else entirely?”
They talked for the full hour, Sarah gradually relaxing as Alex helped her articulate desires she’d carried in secret for decades. By the end of the session, they’d outlined a plan for further exploration—consultation with marine bio-sculptors, connection with modified-aquatic individuals through online communities, psychological preparation for a potentially unique transformation path.
“Thank you,” Sarah said as she prepared to leave. “I was afraid you’d think I was crazy.”
“The heart wants what it wants,” Alex replied. “My job is to help you figure out if what you want is what you need, and how to get there safely.”
Lunch was at the campus food court with Dr. Martinez from the Xenobiology department. They’d developed a friendship over their shared interest in morphological adaptation, though Dr. Martinez approached it from a purely academic perspective.
“Fascinating case study came through yesterday,” she said, unwrapping a sandwich. “Majira student requesting temporary human modifications for a theater production. Just cosmetic changes, but the psychological impact assessments were intriguing.”
Alex speared a piece of protein pod with his fork. “Temporary modifications are tricky. The brain doesn’t always distinguish between temporary and permanent changes.”
“Exactly. The student reported feeling disconnected from their natural form even after just three weeks in human configuration.” Dr. Martinez paused. “Speaking of which, how are you handling the permanence aspect? Any regrets or adjustment issues?”
“None,” Alex said without hesitation. “If anything, I feel more settled as time passes. Like my body and mind are finally synchronized.”
“And Kibo? How’s he adjusting to having a transformed partner?”
Alex smiled. “He says I’m more myself now than I was before. Though he did have to get used to my enhanced hearing picking up conversations from three rooms away.”
They laughed, the easy camaraderie of people comfortable discussing the complexities of their chosen lives.
The afternoon brought two more clients—a young Zigoton considering human modifications for career reasons, and a human couple wanting synchronized bio-modifications that would allow them to share enhanced sensory experiences. Each case required different approaches, different considerations of identity, community, and long-term consequences.
By five o’clock, Alex felt pleasantly tired. The work was emotionally demanding but deeply satisfying. Every day brought new variations on the universal theme of becoming who you’re meant to be.
Kibo was already home when Alex arrived, sprawled on the couch with his tablet and a cup of tea.
“How was the presentation?” Alex asked, settling beside him.
“Boring but successful. Management approved the efficiency upgrades.” Kibo set down his tablet and shifted to make room. “How was your day? Any interesting cases?”
Alex summarized his sessions without breaking confidentiality, a skill he’d developed for sharing work stress without compromising professional ethics. Kibo listened with the attentive focus that had first attracted Alex—the sense of being truly heard.
“The aquatic modification sounds fascinating,” Kibo said. “I saw an article about underwater cities being planned for the Europa colonies. Maybe there’s more demand for aquatic adaptation than people realize.”
“Maybe. Though I think Sarah’s motivation is more personal than practical.”
They fell into comfortable quiet, Kibo returning to his tablet while Alex listened to the apartment’s evening symphony. Upstairs, their neighbor practiced violin—Bach, played with mechanical precision. Next door, someone was cooking something that sizzled in syncopated rhythms. Outside, the city settled into its nighttime patterns.
“Hungry?” Kibo asked eventually.
“Starving.”
They cooked together, a domestic dance they’d perfected over two years of shared meals. Kibo handled the prep work while Alex managed the stove, their different heights requiring minor choreographic adjustments but otherwise moving with practiced harmony.
“Your mom called while you were at work,” Alex mentioned, stirring the rhythm root stew. “She wanted to confirm Sunday dinner and ask if we knew any good Patapon folk songs for your cousin’s cultural project.”
“Did you give her the academic resources list?”
“And offered to teach the songs in person if she wants.”
Kibo paused in his vegetable chopping. “You know she still thinks it’s amazing that you know more about traditional Patapon culture than I do.”
“Different kinds of knowledge,” Alex said diplomatically. They’d had this conversation before—Kibo’s occasional insecurity about his cultural disconnect, Alex’s gentle reminders that authenticity came in many forms.
Dinner was eaten at their small table, conversation ranging from weekend plans to interplanetary politics to Kibo’s ongoing attempt to grow traditional herbs on their tiny balcony. Normal couple discussions, shaped by their unique circumstances but fundamentally ordinary.
“I love this,” Alex said suddenly.
“The stew? It is pretty good.”
“No. This. Us. The whole mundane domestic thing.” Alex gestured around their apartment, encompassing the accumulated detritus of shared life. “Two years ago, I couldn’t have imagined being this content.”
Kibo reached across the table to squeeze Alex’s hand. “You think you’ll still feel this way in another two years?”
“I think I’ll feel this way in twenty years.”
They finished dinner as the sun set outside their window, the apartment gradually filling with the golden light that made everything feel like a photograph worth keeping. After dishes were cleared and the kitchen cleaned, they settled on the couch to watch a documentary about the latest archaeological discoveries on Patapon’s home world.
Alex curled against Kibo’s side, perfectly comfortable in his compact frame, listening to the narrator’s voice weave into the background sounds of their evening. His enhanced hearing picked up Kibo’s heartbeat, steady and familiar, the bass line that anchored all other rhythms.
This was what happiness felt like, he realized—not dramatic moments of joy, but the quiet satisfaction of a life that fit properly. A body that felt right, work that mattered, love that supported rather than constrained.
Outside, the city continued its complex evening song. Inside, two Patapon settled deeper into their shared rhythms, content with the ordinary magic of being exactly who they were meant to be.