An amazing story of what real passion and fire looks like. Follow as Callista Everwood finds the ultimate freedom to express her art. An immense thank you to Nothere and Wazaga for making this awesome project come to life!

Story By: Nothere https://www.furaffinity.net/user/nothere/
Artwork By: TheBlueWazaga https://www.furaffinity.net/user/thebluewazaga/

Callista Everwood was destined to be big onstage.

This she firmly believed, even in the face of all the setbacks she'd struggled with, to say nothing of the grade-school mocking she'd endured for her last name. Even as the other teens had called her "Ever-Hard" or "Morning-Wood," Callista had persevered, always getting back up after falling down—sometimes literally. When her mother disappeared on tour with the ballet following a theater fire, Callista poured her energy onto the stage, playing three roles and acting as stage manager for that year's production of Little Shop of Horrors. When, shortly thereafter, an equally intense blaze had consumed most of downtown, she had sang, danced, played an instrument, and—for good measure—done a ventriloquist act in the benefit that followed to raise money for reconstruction.

It took some time, granted, for Callista to decide which part of the stage was her destiny. Before her mother disappeared, Callista had tried comedy and improv, but found that difficult afterwards—to say nothing of the absolute blushing shyness that tongue-tied her whenever she had to swear for comic effect. This was followed by an excursion into tap, which coincidentally aligned with the school production of Guys and Dolls. But throughout it all, she was invariably drawn back to the one thing that her mother had absolutely forbidden: ballet. Insisting that it was no place for a young woman, and that ballet chewed people up and spit them out, Mrs. Everwood had flatly refused to enroll her daughter in any ballet classes. Undeterred, Callista had nevertheless practiced in secret, often at the house of a friend who was taking a dance class. By the time she was old enough to drive, Callista was fully and secretly committed to ballet, with her incredible physicality and raw talent impressing her instructors enough for them to waive their usual fees.

When the time came, after graduation and a summer of saving up, Callista had decided what her stage destiny was: ballet in the big city. She set off with her leotard and slippers shoved into a bag and just enough money to not starve for three months.

****

"Hey! I ordered a coffee with vegan creamer! I distinctly taste suffering in this cup!"

Oceanside City was a hub for the fine arts, and a natural destination for any would-be dancers. It was also a city full of eateries willing to have them work for tips while the whole dancing thing was coming together.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry!" Callista cried, rushing over with a fresh cup. Her ballet training meant that she was light on her feet and could stand hours of punishment, and her lithe, skinny athletic figure was perfect for short-order obstacle courses. But dealing with pissy customers?

That was another skill set entirely.

Sporting an apron adorned with coffee beans and kale leaves, Callista set the steaming cup in front of the customer, a middle-aged man who sat scrutinizing her with a look that could curdle soy milk. "Here we go, sir. One Veggie Vortex with almond milk."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Is this almond milk sustainably sourced?"

For a moment, Callista felt like crumpling up into a ball. But then…a brief vision, a whiff, of the stage, of music and pirouettes and chalk, crossed her senses. She flashed a dazzling smile, one normally reserved for birthdays, anniversaries, and curtain calls. "Absolutely! Our almonds moonlight as philanthropists, and they are so happy that they write mystery novels under pseudonyms. That, and they only come from the most eco-friendly orchards."

Callista had no idea if the almonds were sustainable or not. They might have been mined by the goblin serfs of Misery Mire for all she knew. But, dang it, she was going to push through.

"Are you sassing me?" the man said.

"No sir," Callista replied. "Our baristas, like our almonds, are very earnest and open-minded."

The customer chuckled, begrudgingly amused. "Bring me a sprinkle of ethically harvested cinnamon. And that cruelty cappuccino you served me better not show up on the bill."

"Of course not," Callista said. "In fact, feel free to have some avocado toast on the house. Rest assured, our avocados have been personally serenaded by the smoothest jazz musicians to ensure maximum avo-goodness."

Moving away, back to the counter, Callista moved with swift and balletic grace, mentally treating the motion as a warm-up exercise for a stage debut to follow. Her fellow barista—and one of several roommates—Felicity Odessa, was already there, closing out checks and adding up tips. They shared the same graceful dancer's build, but Felicity's raven-black hair and pale freckles stood out sharply from Callista's blond locks—she had often joked that they were perfect for the White Swan and Black Swan in Swan Lake, if either of them could ever break into a ballet company.

"Ring up a 'Veggie Vortex and' a 'My Avoca-tion Toast' to #34," sighed Callista. "At least he's happy, right?"

Felicity, whose position behind the counter meant that she was shielded from the worst of the customers, shook her head. "Callista, you can't keep comping customers for their complaints. You're just encouraging them to be whiny babies in exchange for free stuff."

"It's the right thing to do," Callista said. "I'll get a nice tip."

Felicity sighed. "Oceanside City isn't 'nice,' Callie. It's not going to care how many free avocado toasts you give out when it comes to the stage. And you're one-seventh of my rent. With Marquez wavering after she didn't make the cut at the tap revue, we're in danger of losing her."

"If I'm not able to be myself, and let the city see my natural majesty, then what's the point?" Callista said, smiling. Her smile fluttered for a moment, and she sank down onto one of the employee stools, wincing and massaging her hands.

"Everything okay?" Felicity said, raising an eyebrow. "You still good for the audition tonight?"

"Y-yeah," said Callista, rubbing at her hands. She could feel her tendons spasming for a moment, and there was a brief sensation of warmth spreading from her fingers, almost like being too close to a roaring fire. "It's fine."

"It hasn't been 'fine' since your birthday," Felicity said. "If you keep getting random pain everywhere, you've got to see a doctor or something. Drop out of the audition tonight, go home, and get some rest."

"No," Callista said. True, she'd been having flare-ups of burning pain in various places, but it always gradually subsided, with enough time and willpower. and she was able to swing her long legs underneath her and shakily stand. "I've just been eating too much of my own dog food, I guess. Too much cruelty-free coffee and avocado toast."

"Well, there's more where that came from," said Felicity. She handed Callista a slip. "A lactose-free but cruelty-full latte for Table 3, and a Soy Joy cheese-free cheesecake for Table 7."

"Good, good," Callista said. "I can check in on my customer and maybe count my tip."

"Uh, Callista?" Felicity said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the cruelty-free customer's table. "I wouldn't bother."

The table was empty apart from dishes, with not so much as a penny left for a tip.

"Oh man," Callista said. "That leaves me in the red for this hour. I needed that tip, I really did." Once again, she felt like crumpling up. and Felicity might have seen a tear welling up in her blue eyes. But again, Callista took a deep breath, focused, and had the sensation of flying through the air in a pirouette, dominating the stage and basking in the limelight as the music swelled around her.

"You okay?" Felicity said again. "I can cover for you if you need to go."

"No, I'm good. I'm good. I'll make it," Callista said. "I'm gonna hit it hard, be fierce, and make rent this month, to say nothing of being on time for the audition."

"You do you," Felicity said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Go pick up the food, I'll be here."

Callista departed, a smile on her face and a spring in her step, just as the shift manager, Dolph, came by.

"Here's your cut," Felicity said, slipping him a few bills. "Thanks for keeping me on desk duty. Twice the tips and none of the mess."

"Much obliged," said Dolph, who was nowhere near as handsome as his name suggested. He shoved the money in his grubby apron. "You keep screwing Callista over like this, she's liable to find out."

"Oh, she's too simple to ever notice," said Felicity. "Besides, I've got someone lined up to take her place, and Marquez's too, in the apartment once she blows the audition."

"Uh-huh," Dolph said. "And how do you know she's going to blow it?"

"I'll see to it," Felicity chuckled.

"Huh, whatever. You know she's not the only other dancer in Oceanside City, right?"

"Oh, of course," Felicity said. "But she's one of the best. And one fewer competitor never hurt anyone."

****

Later that night, after an exhausting eight-hour shift, Callista stumbled home to her apartment with less than an hour to change before the audition. She found Felicity already there, having somehow gotten out of work an hour early despite coming in an hour late, looking radiant in her bathrobe after what had clearly been a lengthy and relaxing shower judging by the condensation on every window and mirror.

"Woof, you look beat," Felicity said from the couch. "You still feeling up to it for tonight? You're not gonna even have time to shower."

"It'll be fine," Callista said. "The director will be too far away to smell the kale and coffee beans." Brushing aside the thin lace curtains that served to set off her space from the rest of the tiny apartment, Callista stood before a full-length mirror. She wiped the condensation off with her apron, revealing a view of her that was less than flattering, to say the least. Her barista uniform clung to Callista's lithe shape like the physical remnants of her morning hustle, while the apron, adorned with coffee beans and kale leaves as both an intentional pattern and unintentional stains, hung loosely around her neck as she began to peel off the layers of her workday armor.

As the uniform fell away, revealing a vigorous physique honed by years of ballet practice, Callista's posture transformed. Her movements became more fluid, each motion infused with the grace of a dancer. As Callista pulled off her company-mandated scrunchie and threw it in the informal scrunchie bin, strands of her long, sun-kissed blond hair escaped their confinement, framing a face that—in the half-fogged mirror, at least—radiated determination.

Turning to the suitcase under her cot that served as a wardrobe, Callista dug around, lit by the softly glowing neon signs outside, before she found her ballet attire: a striking purple-on-top and black-on-bottom leotard that, when deployed, hugged her toned form like a second skin. When asked, she always said that the rich colors accentuated the elegance of the human figure, offering a visual symphony of strength and poise. The reality was that it had been her mother's, and Callista considered it her lucky charm—even if it hadn't been enough to stave off her Mom's disappearance just after her birthday. Callista glumly reflected that she'd just passed the same age, and was no older than she'd ever known Mom to be. Though the leotard bore the marks of countless rehearsals—a testament to Callista's dedication and passion for ballet—she wouldn't wear any other to such an important audition.

With meticulous care, she gathered her golden locks into a high ponytail, securing it with a sleek black scrunchie from the formal scrunchie bin, revealing her graceful neck and shoulders, radiating subtle strength. Her blue eyes, vibrant with determination, met their reflection in the mirror, their pale hue reflecting the steely resolve Callista felt.

Callista's fingers danced across the edges of the leotard, adjusting and ensuring every detail was in place….and then they danced to her stomach, clutching it as the pain and searing warmth from earlier came roaring back like a gout of liquid flame. She didn't want to admit it, but Felicity was right—ever since blowing out the candle on that single cupcake, the attacks had been getting worse in both frequency and duration. Stumbling into the common area, she flopped down on the couch, wincing.

Felicity, who was using the mirror in the common area to dress in her own leotard—bright orange—looked over her shoulder. "For heaven's sake, Callie, stay home. When they say dying onstage, they don't mean it literally."

"Nah, I'm fine. A little pain won't stop me," Callista said, through clenched teeth. "If I can be on my feet at work for eight hours, and on my feet at practice for eight hours, I can do this."

"I'm just worried about your health." Doing a stretch using a piece of furniture to stabilize herself, Felicity continued: "Do you really think they're going to use you if you're so sick you can barely stand?"

The pain, so radiant before, was starting to abate, allowing Callista to unclench a bit and slouch on the sofa. "Thanks, Fel, but I've got my secret weapon—positive vibes. Between that and Mom's leotard, nothing can stop me."

Felicity's eyes flickered with annoyance, but she masked it with a quick, forced grin. "Well, I'll just wish you luck, then. Break a leg, as they say."

"Right," Callista said. "You too. Ready to go? We can split the cab fare."

"Can you…afford that?" Felicity said. "You ended your shift thirty dollars in the red. You really should stay home if one cab fare will bankrupt you."

"Oh, of course I can afford it," Callista said, reaching into her suitcase and pulling out the last $50 to her name. "Let's go."

****

As the taxi wound its way through Oceanside City to the Theatre District, the venue for the audition came into view: the Draco Theatre, complete with an old-fashioned neon sign and flashing bulbs. Once a crumbling wreck after its heyday had passed, the Draco's restoration into a functional space with its own resident ballet troupe, orchestra, and theatre company was the stuff of local legend. Felicity and Callista had done well to get to the audition stage, which less than 1% of all applicants did. Their 9:00 pm slot, which they shared with two other girls who were on before them, was the first big break either had gotten. They'd be in front of the legendary Oceanside ballet impresario himself, Antonio Duerte, who was widely known for being equal parts whimsical and tyrannical. The legend of Antonio—as he preferred to be mononymously known—encompassed everything from casting a one-legged dancer for an "unusual rhythm" and paying her triple to ejecting a prima ballerina on loan from the Bolshoi because she had "puffy ankles."

After being dropped off at the stage door, a tall and impeccably dressed assistant—Lance, according to his name tag—ushered the two ladies into the green room. "Go ahead and get your shoes on," he said. "Once the others are done, Antonio will call for you one at a time. I don't care who comes first, and neither does he. You'll each perform a routine of your choice until he stops you—and believe me, you'll know when he stops you."

"When will we know his decision?" Callista said brightly.

"My, aren't we eager," Lance said. "You'll know right away if he isn't satisfied, but if he is—a rare event, I assure you—he will either let you know on the spot or run up on stage to give you a hug. My advice in the latter case is to just go limp; the man does not know his own strength."

"Wonderful, thank you," Felicity said, mentally preparing herself for the sensation of an immense bear hug.

"I'll flash the 'on air' light when we're ready for one of you," Lance continued. "It's really more for radio, but they won't let us add an 'en pointe' sign to go with it."

With that, he left the two ballerina hopefuls in the green room. Through the momentarily open door, Callista thought that she could hear the sound of a deep baritone shouting obscenities.

"I've got a good feeling about this." The pain now entirely gone, Callista untied the laces of her sneakers, kicking them off with a carefree flair. Socks followed suit, as she did some quick warmup stretches and toe curls, her long and strong digits audibly crackling. That seemed a little odd, but she quickly dismissed it and suppressed the hint of fiery warmth that accompanied it.

"You did hear him shouting at that poor girl through the open door, right?" said Felicity. She pulled off her street shoes, setting them carefully aside, before shedding her socks and doing stretches of her own. "It's not too late. You can just stay put in here."

"I was born for this," Callista said as reached for her ballet slippers, the fabric rustling softly in her hands. The pale purple shoes, matching the purple upper half of her leotard, were worn but meticulously cared for. They were also her mother's and seemed to hold the memory of every leap and twirl she had ever done or ever seen Mom do. She slid her feet into them, the snug embrace a familiar comfort. The elastic bands encircled her ankles, providing a comforting snugness.

"Are you sure about that?" said Felicity. She delicately slipped her feet into her own slippers, brilliant orange like her leotard, adjusting the ribbons with practiced ease. "Not going to back down or drop out?"

"Of course not," Callista said, smiling.

The "ON AIR" sign flashed, summoning one of them to the stage.

"Really, really sure?" Felicity asked.

"Y-yeah. Why would you-" Callista began.

From inside the same bag as her slippers, Felicity produced a small, short rod of solid metal, which had until recently been holding up a towel in the apartment's one lilliputian bathroom. With the deft precision of someone who had spent an hour practicing on couch cushions, she cracked the weapon across both of Callista's legs, the thick metal striking with a sickening thud both times. Callista cried out in pain and slumped to the green room floor.

"Sorry, Callie, but if you're not ready to handle a little pain, you're not ready for big-city ballet," Felicity said. She opened the door and blew her erstwhile roommate a kiss over one shoulder. "If you tell anyone anything, I'll deny it. Ciao!"

She slammed the door shut, and for a moment, Callista could hear Felicity padding away in her slippers.

Left there on the floor, Callista was in agony. Her legs felt like they were made of fire, and as her pain and alarm had grown, the strange sensation from before had come back with renewed and terrible vigor, this time welling up at the very center of her being. It felt like she had taken a sip of hot lava, and it was nestled deep inside of her, simmering away and eating her from the inside.

After what seemed like an eternity of pain and misery, the "ON AIR" sign flashed again, summoning Callista to the stage.

It would have been very easy—the easiest thing in the world, in fact—to lay there, let the pain wash over her, and feel sorry for herself.

But Callista Everwood was destined to be big onstage.

And she wasn't about to let anything stop her.

Throughout all the setbacks she'd endured, all the hobbies and creative endeavors she'd tried, nothing had ever let her express herself—nothing had ever eased her pain and anxiety—like dance. This time was no different. Ignoring the pain within and the pain without, Callista focused on a singular vision: herself, onstage at the Draco, dancing and kicking and flipping, soaring in leaps and bounds, the closest thing to flying.

Feeling the wind in her face and the stage at her feet, it was as if everything else fell away. Callista stood and stretched, and while there was pain aplenty, it simply washed off of her. Opening the green room door, she walked toward the stage with firm, confident steps.

****

In the dimly lit main auditorium, there was muted, polite buzz and chatter from the ballet company technical staff and hangers-on who partly filled out the seats. At their head seated in the first row, was Antonio. Once a ballet dancer himself, he had long since gone to seed and was now rather portly, though he'd be quick to remind anyone that he hadn't lost his discerning eye or his penchant for unconventional choices. He was reclined in his chair, legs crossed, while his assistant, Lance, sat beside him, clipboard in hand.

"Felicity Odessa!" Lance cried. "You're up!"

Felicity, her elegant orange leotard appearing even bolder than in the green room, took center stage. The stage lights illuminated her raven hair and the tangerine hue of her ballet slippers as she went en pointe for her audition.

The ballet company members, scattered throughout the auditorium, exhibited a collective air of bored disinterest. Some flipped through photocopied information on the auditioning girls, others stifled yawns, all seemingly unimpressed before Felicity even took her first step. Suffice it to say that the last few auditions had been a bit…stale.

"Well, orange is a bold color," Antonio said. "Let's see if she can shake things up a bit, hmm?"

"At this point, I think she'd need an earthquake to shake things up," Lance said, with an indifferent nod. The atmosphere remained stagnant as Felicity commenced her routine.

Felicity's movements, graceful and precise, unfolded like a delicate sonnet on the stage. However, the ballet company's response was muted, disinterested, all sighs and whispers. Antonio's gaze remained fixed, searching for something that might ignite something—anything—within him or his audience.

"She's technically proficient, sure, but where's the passion? The fire?" Antonio said as Felicity launched into a technically proficient but dramatically inert kick.

"I don't see it either," Lance said. "Better than the last two, I guess?"

As Felicity pirouetted and leaped across the stage, her performance still failed to rouse the audience. Antonio and Lance exchanged glances, while the other ballet company members shifted in their seats.

Antonio, determined to find a spark—he did, after all, need to find SOMEONE, and the audition was nearly over!—leaned forward, squinting at Felicity's every move. "It's like she's dancing by the numbers. No soul, no connection."

"Shall we stop her?"

"I suppose," Antonio sighed. "Young lady! That is more than enough."

As Felicity took her final bow, the applause was polite but lacked any genuine enthusiasm. "Thank you," she said, expecting Antonio to leap onto the stage and hug her at any moment.

"Well, that was…most predictable," Antonio said. "Technically proficient, but without a hint of zhuzh. Thank you, young lady. You may wait in the wings while we see the next audition."

Felicity, convinced that she had aced the audition, pranced off stage right. Even though the feedback had suggested, at most, a backup role—with some style pointers besides—Felicity shrugged it off. In her mind, she was practically the White Swan in Swan Lake already.

"That was unusually…restrained…of you, Antonio," said Lance. "You told the last girl that the only way she would ever be onstage in your Draco Theatre was as a janitor. And the one before that…" he consulted his notes, "…you said you would see her in hell before you saw her onstage again."

"Yes, well, a blandly predictable performance is better than the slop those others were serving," Antonio said. "We can use her until a brighter spark comes along to ignite us, I suppose. Who's the last girl?"

"Callista Everwood," Lance read. He raised the remote for the "ON AIR" sign in the green room and clicked it. "Huh. Do you think she's related to Europa Everwood? Didn't she die or something? Disappear after a theater fire? I think I remember that."

"I never think about the past," Antonio said dismissively. "She'll stand or fall on her own merits, not her mother's." Then, bellowing: "Callista Everwood! You are up."

Lance, brows furrowed, remotely flicked the "ON AIR" sign a few more times, just in case it hadn't been seen in the green room. "Hmm," he said. "Cold feet, perhaps?"

"CALLISTA EVERWOOD!" Antonio thundered. "YOU ARE ON NOW!"

A moment later, Felicity peeked around the stage right curtains. "Um," she said. "I think I heard her say she wasn't feeling well. Maybe she went home?"

"Hmph," Lance said. "Wouldn't be the first one we've lost to stage fright."

"Ah, very well," Antonio said gruffly. "You there, miss peek-a-boo. You're the best we've seen tonight, so I-"

"Excuse me!"

Antonio raised his eyebrows and looked stage left, where a statuesque young blond woman had appeared. Felicity, backstage right, felt her jaw fall open at the sight of Callista, seemingly uninjured. For her part, Callista gave her only a slight half-smile of acknowledgment before proceeding.

"Miss Everwood?" Antonio said.

"Yes," she said, gingerly walking across the stage. "I'm sorry I'm late."

"You're here now," Antonio said. "Wow me. Bring the magic, the fire, we need."

Despite the pain that had been wracking her body, Callista leapt into action, her movements beginning with a gentle, yet commanding, sway. Her long, flaxen hair gathered in a high ponytail trailed behind her, and a look of absolute serenity was on her face even as her blue eyes sparkled with an unmistakable joy. With each pirouette, each arabesque, she wove a narrative that transcended the boundaries of the stage.

Callista's ballet slippers barely made a sound against the polished floor, the soft thud of each landing a testament to her precise control. Her limbs extended in fluid arcs, creating a kaleidoscope of shapes that seemed to defy the constraints of mere physicality. The strength in her movements resonated with each extension, and her form, sculpted by years of disciplined practice, radiated an ethereal grace. There were quiet gasps among the assembled audience, as Callista's performance held them spellbound. Swept up in the moment, in the rapture of movement, she squeezed her eyes closed, quietly imagining the seats filled with an adoring crowd.

"Well now," Antonio muttered. "This is more like it."

As Callista danced, though, the volcanic warmth she had felt before welled up again, but caught in the moment as she was, she simply ignored it, left it to one side, instead of trying to suppress it. As a result, the feeling spread throughout her entire body, head to toe, and if anyone had an infrared thermometer, they would have observed an alarming increase in Callista's body temperature.

Her eyes, which had been closed with the rapture of the performance, snapped open as she paused, en pointe, to regard Antonio for a moment with a brilliant smile. To the director's surprise, they were not the blue orbs he'd seen a moment ago, but were rather a brilliant, inhuman teal, their pupils feral slits.

"Did she…did she just put contact lenses in mid-dance?" Antonio murmured. "Hell of a gimmick.”

As Callista launched into a set of leaps, black scales began to emerge painlessly from her peach skin, their onyx iridescence catching the stage lights like slivers of moonlight. There was an audible gasp from the audience at this, but Callista, absorbed in the dance with every fiber of her being, remained oblivious. With each leap, her already well-developed physique seemed to ripple and grow, her limbs beginning to lengthen and swell.

Still smiling, she launched into another leap, this time soaring considerably higher and doing a midair split. The seat of Callista's leotard blew out at the apex of her jump as a two-foot tail writhed its way into existence, scales eagerly covering it. The next leap, still higher, saw Callista's long, elegant toes burst through the confines of her ballet slippers, extending and growing to bear her increasing weight. When she landed, it was in a digitigrade pose, as if her en pointe ballet stance was now her natural default, and her plain square toenails grew into nascent claws that scraped the floor as she moved, creating an unexpected but strangely harmonious cadence. Her final jump of the series saw the shoulders of her leotard pop with what looked like two tiny arms wriggling out of Callista's back muscles—wings.

Watching, mesmerized, the audience didn't make a sound as Callista moved into an arabesque. The sheer strangeness of the sight should have been enough to send them fleeing for the exits, but the spectacle of motion onstage was so compelling that they were all rooted to their seats. Except Felicity, gobsmacked backstage right, who felt her own legs grow weak from fear and toppled to the floor.

For his part, Antonio was agape, enraptured. "The biomechanics of that…wow. Just wow."

Callista, still in the throes of her dance, didn't seem to notice the transformation coursing through her, reshaping her, but unconsciously it seemed to fuel her performance, imbuing it with a raw, otherworldly energy. Her once flowing blond hair, which had streamed behind her in a ponytail, had begun to shrink, soon becoming short enough that her scrunchie fell out, forgotten. As her growing form burst through her leotard, grey scales could be seen sprouting on her belly, her neck, and the underside of her new tail, catching the light even more strongly than her other scales in a mesmerizing display.

Holding the arabesque for a moment, Callista's body continued to grow, her agile and fit form swelling into a magnificent one that, for all its emerging mass, still retained all the grace and power of her human self. As she launched into another maneuver, vibrant red webbing began appearing between the long fingers of her emerging wings, and all along the length of Callista's ever-longer spine, even as the subtle curves of her hips and breasts faded away and vanished amid the last remaining shreds of her leotard and the ravaged slippers' ribbons still clinging to her ankles.

It was around this time, as the hair on her head disappeared and her face lost its human contours in favor of an emerging lizardine muzzle, that Callista seemed to realize what was happening. But rather than reacting with confusion, horror, or pain, she saw it as an opportunity. She felt freer than she’d ever been. Dance was her gift, her passion, and here she was with a growing winged body and a strength many times that of the slim woman who had padded onto the stage mere moments ago.

It was time to show them that Callista Everwood was destined to be big onstage.

Reaching up with one hand, which was itself growing, scaly, and wickedly clawed, she tore off the remains of her leotard, revealing a flat and rippling chest covered with brilliant scales. Callista felt a fleeting moment of sorrow at her lucky leotard—Mom's leotard—being ruined, but she was also filled with a sense of understanding. Maybe Mom hadn't disappeared after all; maybe she had just evolved.

As the last of her hair vanished, and her remaining human skin was subsumed beneath scale, Callista cast her arms wide, stretched her wings, and erupted into an astonishing display of balletic virtuosity. Pirouetting, kicking, flipping, and whirling, Callista soared up and down, bobbing left and right, her still swelling form bringing more power to each motion, her wings enabling her to stay aloft longer as they continued to fill out. Her tail, now nearly as long as her body, snaked about in an incredible display, very nearly taking Felicity's head off and knocking over a few pieces of the stage set.

Felicity, too terrified to emit more than a feeble hiss instead of the shriek she tried to summon, feebly tried to crawl for the stage exit. It was as if she, not Callista, had been savagely attacked, as her legs simply refused to work.

Even as her audibly cracking bones forced her, on landing, into a quadruped stance, Callista continued to translate the language of ballet into something her new form could understand. Even as her long neck reached its apex, her crimson wings unfolded to their full size, and the bulk of a full-sized adult dragoness filled the stage, Callista flowed through her routine, drawing on a strength and grace that far exceeded anything her human body—any human body—could ever have attempted.

"Astonishing," Antonio said. "Dragoness ballet. We are literally witnessing the birth of a new art form."

"Aren't you afraid she'll…burn the theater down? Devour us all?" Lance squeaked.

"It would be something new," Antonio murmured. "What a way to go."

Backstage, Felicity had dragged herself to an exit, her leotard now thoroughly filthy and torn from the crawl. Looking over her shoulder, at the savage beast her roommate had become, she was stricken by white-faced terror. Fumbling at the panic bar, she opened the door and spilled into the refuse-strewn alley beyond, moaning pitiably.

Finally, Callista came to a stop, posing dramatically onstage—while taking up most of the available room!—and let loose an intense but carefully controlled roar over the heads of the audience. The pain of Felicity's brutal assault, the pain of Callista's dragon form welling up inside her—those were all gone. In their place, there was only astonishing elegance, grace, and a little bit of danger. She took a moment to look over her new body, tentatively waggling her tail and stretching her wings, now that the dance was finished. Even though her new form should have felt thoroughly alien, she had never been more comfortable or in tune with herself.

The audience was silent for a moment, even Antonio, who had been left breathless by the spectacle.

"Well?" Callista panted, nostrils flaring with each breath. As she extended her long neck toward the audience, the voice issuing from between the daggerlike teeth within her new muzzle was much lower and had a rumble resonating beneath each word, but was otherwise shockingly ordinary—especially coming from the lips of a dragoness. "How did I do?"

Instead of saying anything, Antonio cast aside everything in his hands, ran up on stage, and hugged the dragoness that was Callista. Or, at least, came as close to a full bear hug as he could manage. Wrapping his arms around one of Callista's front legs and squeezing hard was the best he could do.

****

As the banners began to go up all over town, as the rave reviews poured in, Callista found herself on the front page of every ballet magazine from New York to Moscow. Antonio threw himself into writing new ballets, new choreography that only a full-grown dragoness could attempt, factoring in her immense bulk and strength but also her flexibility and poise. Whether in the specially modified and reinforced Draco or in a new purpose-built outdoor venue that allowed Callista to soar even further afield, Antonio had found his muse. In time, other dragons and dragonesses would follow—fellow young people who had changed following a fateful birthday, building careers they'd never thought possible on the stage.

Callista had not forgotten where she came from, either. Despite her fearsome new appearance, the same kind and gentle soul still dwelled within. She was always first in line to volunteer, to assist with disaster relief, and even returned to her hometown—and her astonished father—for free performances. Felicity often appeared as a volunteer at events in Oceanside City too, often still wearing her coffee-smeared barista uniform. Despite a miserable and sour disposition, she appeared time and again to give of herself—almost as if she'd been quietly threatened with annihilation from above.

And after it all, there was only one thing to say.

Callista Everwood was big onstage.