drpepperdragoon

[drpepperdragoon]

Dover Wallace

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SPATIOTEMPORAL CATCH CENTER (SCC) DOSSIER: INTERCEPTION REPORT 77-Ω4-Δ13

SUBJECT FILE: Temporal Deviant Class-IX (Unauthorized Identity Ascension & Market Path Manipulation) INTERCEPT ID: TD-922-5x | CODE NAME: “Cicada Orchid” APPREHENSION STATUS: Successful Temporal Arrest, Mid-Jump Interception REASSIGNMENT PHASE: Stage 3 Conversion Complete — FULL IDENTITY LOCK DATE OF INTERCEPTION: March 2nd, 2025 (Gregorian), during Transition Protocol Execution to 2076 FORCED TEMPORAL REINTEGRATION DATE: June 17th, 1956

I. ORIGINAL IDENTITY – [PRIME SELF]

Full Name (Original, Earth-2025 Reality): Landon Creed Marlowe Chronological Age at Apprehension: 29 years Nationality: Neo-Continental (Post-Treaty North America) Biological Condition: Augmented Homo Sapiens – Class 2 Physical Stats at Intercept:

Height: 6’4”

Weight: 243 lbs

Body Fat: 2.1%

Neural Rewiring Index: 87%

Emotional Dampening Threshold: Fully Suppressed

Verbal Influence Score: 97/100 (Simulated Charisma Layer active)

Psychological Profile: Landon Marlowe was a prototype of hypercapitalist self-creation. Having abandoned all conventional morality by age 17, he immersed himself in data markets, psycho-linguistic mimicry, and somatic enhancement routines. A hybrid of postmodern narcissism and cybernetic ambition, he believed history should be rewritten not through war, but through wealth recursion—self-generating economic monopolies that spanned both physical and meta-market layers. By 2025, Marlowe had begun the Vaultframe Project: a forbidden consciousness routing protocol allowing a subject to leap across timelines and self-modify to fit ideal environmental conditions.

He had already initiated Stage 1 of the Phase Ascension:

Target Year: 2076 Final Form Name: Cael Axiom Dominion

II. TARGET FORM – [PROHIBITED FUTURE IDENTITY]

Designated Name: Cael Axiom Dominion Temporal Anchor Year: 2076–2120 (Planned) Occupation/Status: Centralized Financial Apex Authority (Unofficial title: “God of the Grid”) Intended Specifications:

Height: 6’8”

Skin: Synthetic/Epidermech Weave (Reflective, Gleaming Finish)

Mind: Hybridized Neuro-Organic Substrate, 3-layered Consciousness Stack

Vision: Perfect (Microscopic + Ultraviolet Layer)

Muscle: Fully Synthetic Carbon-Tension Architecture

Voice: Dynamically Modeled for Maximum Compliance Induction

Personality: Pure calculated utility — no empathy, full response modulation

Psychological Construction: Modeled on a fusion of 21st-century crypto barons, colonial magnates, and AI-governance ethic loopholes. His projected behavior matrix would’ve allowed him to overwrite traditional economic cycles, insert himself into every transaction on the New Continental Grid, and displace global markets into dependence loops. He would have achieved Immortality via Economic Indispensability by 2085.

[OPERATOR'S NOTE – TECHNICIAN LYDIA VOLSTROM, FILE LEAD]

"He thought he was the evolutionary end of capital. We've seen dozens like him — grim-faced tech prophets dreaming of godhood, all forged in the same factory-line delusion that intelligence and optimization should rewrite morality. His 'Cael Dominion' persona was practically masturbatory — gleaming muscle, perfect diction, deathless control. The problem with arrogance across time is that we always arrive faster. We waited at his jumpgate exit vector like hounds in a vineyard. Now he will die quietly, shelving dusty books in wool slacks while children giggle at his shoes."

III. REWRITTEN FORM – [REASSIGNED TIMELINE IDENTITY]

Permanent Designation (1956 Reality): Harlan Joseph Whittemore Date of Birth (Backwritten): March 19th, 1885 Current Age: 71 years (Biological and Perceived) Location: Greystone Hollow, Indiana – Population 812 Occupation: Head Librarian, Greystone Municipal Library Known As: “Old Mr. Whittemore” / “Library Santa” / “Harlan the Historian”

Biological Recomposition Report:

Height: 6’2” (slightly stooped)

Weight: 224 lbs

Body Type: Large-framed, soft-muscled, slightly arthritic

Beard: Full, white, flowing to chest length — maintained with gentle cedar oil

Hair: Long, silver-white, brushed back, unkempt at the sides

Skin: Tanned, deeply lined, blotched by sun exposure and age

Eyebrows: Dense, low, expressive

Feet: Size 28EE – institutionally branded biometrics for deviant tracking

Shoes: Custom brown orthotic leather shoes with stretch bulging

Hands: Broad, aged, veined, arthritic knuckles

Glasses: Oversized horn-rimmed, 1950s prescription style

Wardrobe:

High-waisted wool trousers (charcoal gray)

Thick brown suspenders

Faded plaid flannel shirt, tucked in neatly

Scuffed leather shoes (notable bulge around toes due to foot size)

IV. MENTAL & SOCIETAL RE-IMPRINT

Primary Personality Traits (Post-Warp):

Kind-hearted, emotionally patient

Gentle-voiced, soft-spoken, slightly slow in speech

Deeply enjoys classical literature, gardening, and children’s laughter

Feels “he’s always been this way”

Occasionally hums jazz under his breath while shelving books

Writes slow, thoughtful letters to estranged family (fabricated)

Routine:

Opens library at 8AM sharp

Catalogues local donations

Reads to children every Wednesday

Tends a small rose garden behind the building

Engages in local history discussions with town elders

Walks home slowly with a leather satchel and a cane

[OPERATOR’S NOTE – FIELD ADJUSTER INGRID PAZE]

"Watching Marlowe become Harlan was like watching a lion remember it's a housecat. I’ve never seen a posture break so beautifully. He twitched at first — his back still tried to square itself like the predator he was. But the warp wore him down. The spine bent. The voice thickened. By the time his hands were fumbling the spines of leather-bound encyclopedias, he was gone. I almost felt bad when the first child ran up and said, ‘Santa?’ He smiled. Like it made sense. Like it was the right name."

V. DEATH RECORD

Date of Death: October 21, 1961 Cause: Heart failure while trimming rose bushes behind Greystone Library

He was buried in a town he never technically existed in, beside a wife who never lived. His obituary described him as “a man of kindness, wisdom, and humility — who asked for nothing and gave more than most ever know.” No one will remember that he once sought to become Cael Axiom Dominion.

[FINAL NOTE – SENIOR INTERCEPTOR V. CALDER]

"Marlowe played the long game, but his crime was arrogance. You can stack capital, sculpt the body, and forge a god’s name — but time always wins. He wanted to be immortal. Now he’ll live only in the margins of children’s drawings, mistaken for Santa, fading like a dog-eared library card. Perfect."

[drpepperdragoon]

[drpepperdragoon]

Stan couldn’t hold back any longer, as it was time for him to come whether he wanted to or not.

[drpepperdragoon]

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R.B. is surprised as he begins to inflate, and wonders how long those buttons are going to hold on (I am very impressed how realistic this one looks!).

[drpepperdragoon]

AI enhanced versions of my old art

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AI upscaleing of my old art

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When you catch yourself in the bathroom mirror

[drpepperdragoon]

You should post a pic of you at your smallest. To see the growth and contrast

Yeah I guess I haven’t added any comparisons here yet 😅 Heres how an xl looks at 270 vs 585. (5 years)

[drpepperdragoon]

Pull the level

Male tf - short tf - weight gain - bald

The desert wind swept through the neon-soaked streets of Las Vegas like a breath from another world. Antoine Lemarchand stepped out of the airport shuttle with a small suitcase and tired eyes. His shirt was wrinkled, his shoes scuffed, and his face bore the dull expression of a man who hadn’t felt surprised in years.

He squinted up at the towering façade of The Eternal Bet, a sprawling casino-hotel complex that seemed to shimmer with its own heartbeat. Gold-plated columns flanked the entrance. Giant LED screens displayed happy winners surrounded by confetti and champagne, while slogans scrolled past in electric cursive:

“WIN FOREVER.” “LUCK NEVER SLEEPS.” “WHERE FORTUNE FINDS YOU.”

Antoine exhaled slowly. “Well,” he muttered to himself, “if it finds me tonight, I won’t complain.”

Inside, the air changed. Cool, perfumed, recycled. The sound was overwhelming—coins clinking, bells ringing, dealers shouting, people laughing, crying, cursing. A universe sealed off from time.

“Checking in?” said a sleek receptionist in a crimson blazer.

Antoine hesitated. “I... I don’t have a reservation.”

Her smile never wavered. “That’s quite all right, sir. We always find a room.” She tapped briskly at her keyboard. “Lucky you. We’ve had a last-minute cancellation. Eighteenth floor. View of the Strip.”

She handed him a golden keycard.

Antoine blinked. “No deposit?”

She shook her head. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

His room was pristine. Marble floors, velvet drapes, a bed so wide it could fit a small family. A platter of chocolate truffles sat on the table with a handwritten card: “Welcome to The Eternal Bet. Let the night be in your favor.”

Antoine didn’t unpack. He set the suitcase in a corner and wandered back down, drawn toward the humming pulse below. As the elevator doors opened to the casino floor, a wave of noise and light washed over him.

He wandered aimlessly past poker tables and roulette wheels. Croupiers in tuxedos barked bets in a dozen languages. Cocktail waitresses in sequin dresses weaved through the crowd, trays laden with drinks.

A man with a cowboy hat threw his arms in the air. “HELL YEAH! That's what I'm talkin’ about!”

People clapped. The wheel spun. Antoine smiled faintly, then turned away. Something tugged at him, like a thread he hadn’t noticed unraveling.

He moved deeper into the casino, toward a quieter section, where the lights weren’t as bright and the noise dulled to a murmur. It was there, tucked between two blaring video slot machines shaped like dragons, that he saw it.

A single, old-fashioned slot machine.

Brass, slightly tarnished, with a wooden frame and a curved glass front. It had a simple lever on the side and three reels with star symbols. No coin slot. No blinking lights. No noise.

Antoine tilted his head. “What the hell are you?”

He looked around. No one else seemed to notice the machine. People passed by as if it didn’t exist. Curious, he sat down.

There was a small plaque on the machine. He leaned in.

“Fortune favors the fearless. Pull to begin.”

He smirked. “No tokens, huh? My kind of game.”

His fingers closed around the cool metal of the lever.

And he pulled.

The lever was heavier than Antoine expected. It gave a mechanical clunk as he pulled it down, and the reels spun with a soft whirring, almost like a whisper. One star… two stars… then a lemon. The machine made no sound of failure. No buzzers, no flashing lights. Just a quiet stop.

He glanced around again. The players nearby were fixated on their digital machines, faces glazed in the neon glow, clicking buttons with the dull repetition of moths tapping at glass. No one noticed him, or this strange, quiet corner of the casino.

“Well, nothing ventured...” Antoine shrugged and pulled again.

The reels spun. A bell, a cherry, and another lemon.

He frowned. Still nothing. But something about the motion—the smooth resistance of the lever, the rhythmic tumbling of the reels—felt... satisfying. It was the kind of motion that scratched an itch deep inside, a little mechanical pleasure.

He chuckled to himself. “Feels better than therapy,” he muttered, and pulled again.

This time, he felt it. A subtle shift in his stomach. Not pain—more like fullness. The kind you get after a heavy dinner. He reached down and rubbed his midsection.

“Strange...”

He shook it off and stood. The buffet was calling. At the far end of the casino, an endless line of steaming trays beckoned: golden fried chicken, creamy mashed potatoes, lasagna, ribs glazed with a thick sticky sauce, towers of desserts gleaming under soft lights.

“Complimentary for guests,” said the woman at the entrance, smiling as she handed him a plate.

He didn’t argue. He piled the food high and sat near the windowless wall, scarfing it down faster than he realized. His hunger felt bottomless. He wasn’t even sure when it had begun. After two more plates, his stomach stretched, warm and tight.

Back to the machine.

Something magnetic pulled him, as if an invisible tether linked his gut to the lever.

He sat again. Pulled.

One star… Two stars… A bell.

He groaned but smiled. This time, he felt the fullness immediately. Like a wave spreading through him. His thighs pressed tighter against the seat. His belt pinched. He reached down and adjusted it, only to find that it wouldn’t budge—it had already tightened to its limit.

“What the hell...?”

He looked down. His shirt, once loose, clung to his torso now. His belly rounded slightly, his arms puffier, heavier. Was he swelling? Or was it his imagination?

Antoine stood quickly, heart thudding. He was sweating now—just a little—but the room suddenly felt warmer, closer.

Yet...

His gaze slid back to the lever. Three stars. He just needed to hit three stars.

“Come on,” he whispered. “One more.”

He sat again.

The seat creaked beneath him.

And he pulled.

Antoine stumbled back from the machine, his breath uneven. His belt was digging into his waist, biting into flesh that hadn’t been there hours ago. He pulled his shirt away from his body—it clung like plastic wrap. His reflection shimmered faintly in a polished brass panel on the wall nearby.

His heart thudded.

That... was not the man who walked into The Eternal Bet.

His cheeks had rounded. A soft crease had formed under his chin. His arms, once lean, now pressed tighter into his sleeves. There was hair on them too—more than before. Darker, coarser. And his face—there were whiskers now. Not the polite stubble he’d grown used to, but something thicker, rawer, as if his body were racing through weeks of changes in minutes.

He grabbed the side of the machine for support, hand trembling.

“I need to go,” he whispered.

But he didn’t move.

His eyes drifted back to the reels.

One star. Two stars. They had been so close.

He sat again, slowly, his movements weighted. The seat groaned beneath him. Sweat beaded on his temple. His stomach, full from the buffet, protested, but the hunger had returned—not for food, but for completion.

“I just need one win,” he said. “One jackpot. Then I’ll leave.”

The lever called to his hand. It was like touching something sacred now—warm, smooth, familiar. He pulled.

The reels spun. A cherry. A lemon. A bell.

His breathing quickened. He yanked the lever again. Star. Bell. Cherry.

Again. Star. Star. Lemon.

Each pull felt like a dose of something electric. And each miss brought a surge of heat across his skin, like he was swelling inside his own body. His belly pushed against the machine now. He could feel his thighs pressing harder against the sides of the stool. He tried to suck in his stomach—it barely moved.

He reached up to wipe sweat from his forehead. His arm hair was thicker now. His fingers felt stubbier, puffier. His beard had grown in fully—he could feel it against his collar.

“What’s happening to me?” he murmured.

But he didn’t stop.

The world narrowed. Lights and music and footsteps blurred into a low hum. All that remained was the machine. And the stars.

Star. Bell. Lemon. Star. Star. Bell. Pull. Pull. Pull.

His shirt tore at the seam near the shoulder. He didn’t notice.

The transformation was no longer subtle—it was devouring him, reshaping him. And still, he played.

He was losing himself—but he couldn’t stop now.

The reels spun again.

Antoine’s hand trembled as it rested on the lever. His breath came in shallow gasps. His shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to every new curve and fold of his body. His knees pressed painfully against the sides of the stool. Every part of him felt swollen, tight, alien.

And still—he pulled.

Star. Star. Bell.

He grunted. His fingers, fat and stiff, squeezed the lever once more. His beard itched against his neck; he reached to scratch, only to feel the coarse thicket that had fully enveloped his jawline.

He no longer looked like the man who entered The Eternal Bet. He was something else now—something larger, hairier, slower.

And then— CLUNK!

The reels locked into place.

Star. Star. Star.

For a moment, there was silence. Time stretched. Even the sounds of the other machines seemed to pause, as though the entire casino was holding its breath.

Then the machine exploded in a frenzy of lights. A siren sounded. The word JACKPOT lit up in burning gold. Bells rang. A voice boomed overhead:

“CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR LUCKY WINNER!”

The casino came alive. People turned. Applause erupted from the nearest tables. A crowd began to form around Antoine, cheering, clapping, raising phones to film.

He blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream.

“I... I won,” he murmured, dumbfounded.

Dozens of hands reached out, patting his back, his shoulders, gripping his arms. Their touches stuck to his clammy skin. He could feel their fingers pressing into the thick flesh of his arms, his neck. Someone tousled his matted hair. Another gave him a half-hug from behind.

“You did it, man!” “Three stars! Holy hell, that’s it!” “Drink on him tonight!”

He smiled weakly. His cheeks puffed up in the gesture, his beard now fully engulfing his face. His heart swelled with a giddy rush—he’d made it. He’d beaten the game.

But something was wrong.

His eyes caught a glimpse of himself in a mirrored panel behind the machine.

He froze.

There was a man in the reflection—but barely a man. More beast than human. His skin gleamed with sweat. His gut hung over his belt, which had long since given up the fight. His shirt had ridden up to reveal pale flesh marked with stretch lines. His eyes were sunken, surrounded by puffy cheeks and a heavy brow. His hair—what remained of it—was thin, wispy, falling away.

He reached up with a trembling hand and touched his head.

It was nearly bald.

He stared. The smile faded.

He was rich. But at what cost?

The crowd kept clapping. The lights kept flashing. But Antoine could no longer hear it. He stared at the reflection, at the stranger he had become, and wondered if this jackpot had claimed more than just his coins and time.

It had claimed him.

The applause was fading.

Antoine stood motionless, the glow of the JACKPOT sign flickering above him, casting gold across his sagging features. Around him, the crowd slowly lost interest—like moths drifting from a burnt-out bulb. A few patted him on the back and moved on to other machines, other distractions. The buzz of the casino returned to its endless hum, indifferent to his victory.

He turned slightly toward the mirrored panel again.

That thing in the reflection... It was still him. There was no magic reversal. No reward that would turn back time or return his body to what it had been.

His hands trembled as he reached up to touch his scalp—slick with sweat, smooth in patches. The remaining tufts of hair stuck to his skull like wet straw. His eyes, once sharp and tired, were now ringed in folds, sunken under the weight of flesh. The beard he once let grow on lazy weekends had become a thick, wiry mat covering most of his face and neck.

He was grotesque. Misshapen. Unrecognizable.

His stomach, freed from the confines of his shirt, glistened under the casino lights. Every inch of it heavy, stretched, soft. His jeans, popped at the button, were held together only by a belt now straining to contain the mass.

His voice came out low and broken. “What did I win?”

As if in answer, a chime sounded behind the machine, and a drawer slid open with a hiss. Inside: a single golden token, gleaming, marked with three stars. No briefcase of money. No ceremony.

Just a coin.

He picked it up. It was warm—strangely warm—and seemed to vibrate gently in his palm.

He looked around. There was no employee. No check. No fanfare. Just the relentless sound of slots and laughter in the background. The buffet line was still active. The waitresses were still weaving through tables. Everything had returned to normal.

But he hadn’t.

He took a shaky step back, suddenly unsure of how to walk in his own body. Everything about him was heavier, slower. He could feel the weight in his knees, the bounce of flesh with every motion. His breath wheezed through narrowed nostrils.

He wanted to scream. But instead, he looked at the machine.

The lever sat there, ready.

Waiting.

The golden coin burned slightly in his hand.

He looked down at it. Then back at the machine.

For a moment, temptation twitched in his fingers.

One more pull...

Then he clenched his fist and dropped the coin on the floor. It rolled in a small, mocking circle before settling flat. He turned, taking slow steps toward the exit, each one a battle.

As he reached the edge of the casino floor, he glanced back.

The machine stood still. Quiet. Innocent.

Waiting for the next dreamer to sit down.

[drpepperdragoon]

I had personal stuff going on—drama, distance, and a heavy feeling that wouldn’t shake. My best friend was heading out on a trip and, maybe sensing how badly I needed an escape, offered me something strange: a potion from his grandfather.

“It’ll help. Trust me,” he said.

I drank it.

One blink later, I was staring at an unfamiliar reflection—sun-spotted skin, deep lines, wisps of white hair.

I was his grandfather.

At first, I panicked. Who wouldn’t? But then I saw the suitcase by the door, perfectly packed. My “new” passport was ready. The tickets were already booked. A vacation was waiting.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

I stepped out of the room, adjusting the waistband of these old-man slacks, and found my grandson—and his grandfather , now in my body—lounging in the living room with his buddy.

“Ahh, thank you very much. You’re giving me a nice break, son,” I said, playing the part.

“I’m happy too,” he laughed, totally at ease in my body. “My family’s annoying anyway. Kidding, but… I need a vacation of my own kind.”

We both did, apparently.

At the resort, things went surprisingly well. Sharing a room with my “grandson” wasn’t too bad. The pace of life was slower, but that was the point. I learned how to walk like him, move like him. I even found myself flirting with a woman in her sixties wearing a sunhat and a little more confidence than her swimsuit allowed.

And by the end of the week? I wasn’t faking it anymore. I was 71. And I didn’t really mind.

But when we got home, the switch didn’t happen. No magical blink. No return. His grandfather—still in my body—just gave me a grin and a continued to live my life.

I thought I’d be furious. But I wasn’t. Not really.

had a woman’s number from the beach. We talked every day since.

At first, it was light—sunset photos, inside jokes, a recipe or two. But slowly, I started answering the phone like I’d known her for years. And she talked to me like she had. Because she had.

She thought I was him. Her old flame. And I… let her.

I learned his handwriting. His way of signing messages. His cadence, the slight whistle on his “s.” Even how he grumbled when standing.

I visited her one weekend. She greeted me in a loose sundress and kissed my cheek like we’d been together for decades.

And it didn’t feel wrong.

The second night, I caught my reflection in her mirror. The old man. Her man.

And I smiled.

I wasn’t pretending anymore. I wasn’t thinking about my old body, my old life. I barely remembered my name.

Because when she called me “Tom”—his name—I answered without hesitation.

I had become him.

And if I was being honest?

Some strange part of me had wanted this all along.

[drpepperdragoon]

Such a beautiful garden. Why does everybody keep saying it is cursed?

Oh no, i broke the gartenzwerg...

Wait ...

I am sorry! I didn't mean to step on you, buddy ...

Woaah! The curse is real!!!

What is happening to me? And why do I have the urge to sing 'Heyhoooo'

"Oh my god ... I am a dwarf ..."

[drpepperdragoon]

Big bellied hungry dads