I Was With Legion part 1

I Was With Legion
By Digital Circe

PART 1

(man and woman to pig transformation)

Story warning: religious themes, violence, nudity, profanity

A demon turns those he can't tempt into pigs, and a priest joins with one of his pig victims to fight him.


Jesus asked him, saying, "What is your name?"  And he said, "Legion," because many demons had entered him.  And they begged Him that He would not command them to go out into the abyss.  Now a herd of many swine was feeding there on the mountain. So they begged Him that He would permit them to enter them. And He permitted them. Then the demons went out of the man and entered the swine, and the herd ran violently down the steep place into the lake and drowned. (Luke 8:30-33 NKJV)

"No," the woman said to him, her voice quavering slightly.  The man's dark eyes flashed with a sudden rage at the unexpected denial.

"Very well," he said in cold, measured tones.  "If you are of no use to me, you can crawl around in a pigsty for the rest of your life."  He stood, the lines of his body flexing with the strain of barely-checked anger, and he flung his fingers towards her.

She closed her eyes, trying to disguise her terror, but stood her ground.  Then her head swam.  She staggered, moaning, and fell to her hands and knees.  "There.  The posture you deserve," he hissed, drawing closer.  The woman squeezed her eyes tighter as a liquid feeling welled up from her belly, affecting her whole body.  Her head swam, and she felt like her skin was trying to crawl off her bones.  She could feel the man draw closer, but no force could help her head raise up to look at him.

For his part, the man looked down at the trembling woman.  Her rich, black hair shook around her shoulders.  He frowned.  It was a shame, really – she had so much potential.  So much use.  And he had wasted a lot of effort trying to mould her.  She was widening, her hips and belly gaining mass and straining the fabric of her clothing.  Her breathing was labored, and had begun to take on the squealing overtones of a pig.  He cocked his head, looking at her clinically.  Her ears began to expand, tapering into points that stuck through her dark hair.  She grunted audibly, discomfort washing over her.  He wondered if she regretted refusing his offer now.

The woman could feel her body shifting, her fingers and toes stiffening into solid hooves.  Tears trickled out of her eyes, as she struggled to remain on her hands and knees and not roll around in pain and defeat.  She could feel her new tail twitching around in her pants, and then the waistband tore through, relieving the stress on her greatly expanded backside.  Her legs were shortening, plumping, and it wasn't long before she was standing comfortably on all fours.

The man stepped back a ways, looking with anger and regret at his failed project.  So much wasted time.  Fortunately, most of his targets were more easily seduced by what he could offer.  She continued to change, her feminine graces fading into the fat body of a hog.  Her hair had almost completely retrogressed, revealing her long thick snout and broad forehead.  The rest of her clothing gave way on her bulging frame, and she was practically a full pig.  He turned towards the door.  One of the idiots from the Fellowship would certainly be along sooner rather than later, and he had no desire to run into one of those clowns.  But just as he was about to open the door, the bloated pig managed to grunt her final words.

"Who are you?" she squealed, almost indecipherably.

His eyes narrowed.  "I was with Legion," he replied darkly.  And then the fat sow could speak no more.

***

Erica Cole was running a little late for her dinner meeting with Bartholomew Larroquette, a political consultant she had been working with for a few months.  He had been an enormous help to her, personally and professionally, and his advice had ranged from style to strategy, with a healthy dose of reliable intelligence about her opponents to boot.  She knew he was a well connected strategist, and felt fortunate to have met him.

Erica was an advocate for college rape awareness.  Based in Washington, she toured the country speaking and advising college administrations on their policies, procedures, and safeguards for the students in their care.  She was ambitious, and had already come far in her career for someone so young.  She was back in the capitol after helping organize a successful series of 'Take Back the Night' rallies at a number of smaller Midwestern universities.  

Larroquette was an endlessly fascinating man, full of a genteel, old world grace that surprisingly never gave Erica the impression of condensation.  His ethnicity was difficult to place, and his voice was smooth and pleasant, with an equally indecipherable accent.  He had clearly cultivated a polished personal image that conveyed trustworthiness, and any tips he gave her about her public persona, she absorbed with rapt attention.  Charisma was immensely important in advocacy.  With his help, she had seen a marked rise in her own prestige and power in the collegiate consulting sector.  He had even arranged a televised interview for her.

True, there were often things he asked her to do that seemed… morally grey.  But that was the nature of politics.  Erica was under no illusions that a person could do significant good without compromise.  It was a something a social crusader had to make peace with.  And though she had been nervous about it at first, she had found a balance that worked for her.

And she had been careful not to compromise herself in ways that mattered.  The things she had done, the lines she had crossed, were not important ones.  There were things she would not do.  And even when they were nebulous, her actions were never purely calculating.  Like her night of passion with David Sutton, the news director who had scheduled her first major interview.  It wasn't seduction so much as a fortuitous one night stand.  Both of them had gone into it like adults, because they wanted to, and not because they wanted anything from the other.  

And the numbers and statistics behind her arguments.  Statistics were notoriously misleading.  So some of hers had been invented from whole cloth – she knew the truth behind her talking points.  Like the statistic that one in four women would be raped in their lives.  Erica knew that that one had been doctored by instead asking women if they'd ever regretted sex.  Most of those surveyed actually took offense at the suggestion that they had been raped.

The trouble was, college rape didn't happen anywhere near often enough for normal people to consider it an actionable crisis.  Made-up statistics like the one-in-four thing helped keep people concerned with an issue that was truly important, regardless of its prevalence.

To that end, she counseled rape crisis workers to be wholly credulous in believing any female victim's story, and ignore any contradictions or implausibility.  A girl in dire straits needed to be believed.  Erica firmly believed that a disjointed story was to be expected from a girl who had just gone through the most traumatic situation in her life.

But those counselors were instructed to de-emphasize and question any victim of same-sex rape, however.  Drawing negative attention to homosexuality was counter-progressive; and unfortunately, whatever harm a few victims suffered paled in comparison to the need to detach any stigma about alternate lifestyles in the minds of mainstream America.

But on the whole, Erica had made peace with the compromises she had made.  She was sure that young women were safer, and more in charge of their own sexuality, because of her work.  These were ends that were worth any means – and Larroquette was certainly a man of means.  He had counseled her on fundraising, and how to court tax exemption statuses to increase her revenue.  And then he put her in touch with men who could move that money around in usable ways.  She knew it was skirting the law, but for a good cause.

And each step of the way, Larroquette had been there to steer her to the right contacts, to keep her focused on the big picture, to make sure she remembered how much more important the goal was than the little sacrifices along the way.  It had been a slow process, and many of the things she had done, she might have objected to when she started out.  But now, she could see that they were necessary.  

So Erica was accustomed to strange suggestions from Bartholomew Larroquette.  She was ready for anything.  She apologized for her tardiness as she arrived, and Larroquette rose to greet her, waving it off easily.  They settled down and ordered; the man indulging in a grace and hospitality as if the meeting were a social call rather than political.  He would, she knew, come to business after they had eaten.  They discussed the news; especially the success of one of the rallies in Kentucky.  

"I hope it helps," Erica said.  "But crime of any stripe seems to be on the rise everywhere.  Have you been listening to the news about the disappearances?  In the last month, both Kevin Middlebrook from FEMA and that congressman's intern, Judith Helman.  And more before that.  One wonders if anyplace is safe."

"I'm certain it's nothing to be concerned of, Erica," Larroquette said paternally.

"I don't know.  These are some high profile disappearances.  It's like Jimmy Hoffa over and over again."

The man nodded.  "Perhaps so.  But in that case, we need to redouble our own efforts.  And I think I have just the young woman to help you."

"Oh?" asked Erica, interested.  Larroquette pushed a file folder over to her.

"Yes.  As you know, personal testimonials are the best.  A face and voice and story lets people sympathize with the plight, where raw statistics, no matter how dire, can fail to raise compassion."

"Of course.  And this girl…?"

"Her name is Abigail Newbery.  She is a student at the University of Miami.  She had been attending a party with friends at a fraternity, and the Brothers there laced her drink with a popular date-rape drug.  While she was incapacitated and open to suggestion, the young man, Daniel Caldwell, took her back to his room and raped and brutally sodomized her.  He took her clothing as a trophy and left her outdoors to wander around, naked and helpless.  She was found by friends the next morning, shivering next to a heat vent on a campus dormitory."

"My God.  Did he really do all that?"

Larroquette smiled paternalistically.  "Of course not – it was consensual, although the young lady has come to bitterly regret the encounter, and the damage it did her reputation.  The public nudity is entirely specious, although she did leave her underwear in the possession of Mr. Caldwell, which the police have duly confiscated.  She had a few beers – not enough to completely impair her; but enough that no one will doubt that she was taken advantage of.  People will believe her and not him, particularly with a good advocate.  This will break on the news today, and your expertise on the issue can help hone this story to great effect."

"Surely there has to be a real case we could use."

"Doubtful.  You need a pretty victim and a dastardly, outsized crime to snatch headlines and draw attention to your cause.  And it is best if both of them are white, for the media to care – but at least the rapist has to be.  In real cases, there's always something that makes it a little less noticeable; a little less newsworthy.  We want this to stay in the news cycle for a very long time.  It's manufactured; but it's just a gestalt of many true cases.  So it's truer than true, if you will.  Just told with the media in mind."

"But he isn't guilty."

"Of this.  But who cares?  He's not a nice person.  An elitist athlete.  No doubt a bigot.  Congenitally wealthy, and you know what assholes they are.  A sanctimonious churchgoer.  He's accustomed to using people and never being brought to task for it.  And even if he wasn't, making an example out of him will do more good for others than it will harm to him."

"I don't know," said Erica, her head swimming.

Larroquette kept on the subject, though.  And after escorting her back to her hotel room after dinner, he made his case again.  

"Erica, look at me," he said.  "You are doing serious good.  Because of you, young women are a little bit more in charge of their lives.  Able to heal.  An event like this is necessary to bring the dialogue powerfully into everyone's homes.  They need to see a clear-cut predator and a perfect, tragic victim.  It's the only thing they'll care about.  Advocate for Ms. Newbery.  The good that you do here will resonate for tens of thousands of scared, voiceless women who need to know that something will be done for them."

A tear streaked across Erica's cheek.  Could she do this?  Larroquette was right; more good than evil would come out of it.  But it was a lie.  How could she carry this story through, knowing that the boy wasn't guilty?  How, oh how, had she come to such a crossroads of choosing between these things?  Her body shook with small sobs that didn't quite come.  Larroquette had never steered her wrong before.  He had always been right, and the sacrifices he recommended had always been worth it to her.  But it was hard to wrap her mind around the ramifications of this one.

"No," she whispered at last.  "I'm sorry, I can't."

"You disappoint me," he said with a touch of a snarl.  "I thought you had more ambition than that."

"I won't cross that line," Erica said, a little more firmly.  "Ever."

"Very well, you worthless sow.  If you won't further my ends, you can spend the rest of your life squealing about your precious principles to whoever will listen."

"Now listen here," Erica began, incensed, but he cut her off, standing and looming large over her.

"Squeal," he said, a burning hatred in his eyes, and Erica felt an uncomfortable sensation bubble up from deep inside her.  She felt dizzy, and like she needed to vomit, but still she struggled to keep her eyes on his.  There was something there – he was mad, yes, but he was also frustrated.  Defeated in some way that she couldn't comprehend.  After all, if he just wanted a girl to lie for him, there were hundreds of others who doubtless would.  Why would he care so much that it be her?

Erica grunted with pain, as she felt pressure from her clothing.  Was she swelling?  She wobbled and collapsed to her knees, but managed to remain upright, looking him in the eye.  It seemed to make Larroquette mad.  "Not so pretty any more, are you?" he asked, his voice raw and raged.  She looked down, tears involuntarily tracing across her cheeks from the pain, and saw herself… changing.

Her belly had widened considerably, and her well-tailored clothes were stretched uncomfortably tightly.  But her hands drew most of her attention – or, at least, what had once been her hands.  The flesh seemed to be peeling away, revealing smooth clumps of bone at the ends.  Fingers were fusing together, and they looked like nothing so much as the stiff hooves of an animal.  Erica gasped.

Stitches tore in the waistband of her skirt, as she felt her body swell out more.  Something seemed to be happening in front of her, and she crossed her eyes, shocked to see her nose rising and increasing in mass, like a small snout.  Her moans of pain were getting more guttural, almost animal sounding.  

Larroquette stepped back, still seething, but taking a moment to enjoy the beautiful woman's horrible downfall.  Her face had contorted, brow flattening behind her ever-expanding snout, and her eyes had dimmed to the dark, dim gelatin of a pig.  Her ears had pointed, twitching out beyond her blonde hair's ability to conceal.  Both hands and feet were almost entirely hooves, and her thick, squat limbs were shrinking even as her bloating torso ripped through her expensive clothing.  She twitched involuntarily, shucking off the torn rags and kneeling almost naked before him but for her jewelry.  

He looked up and down her rapidly shifting torso as it became progressively less human.  Her slight breasts deflated, turning into little more than a pair of dark nipples.  Beneath them, two more rows of teats formed, looking like growing welts.  Her belly and flanks took on a certain tautness, distinguishing porcine fat from human flab.  Her neck bloated, ever-more-piggish grunting emerging from it, and her expanding head tilted up in its new alignment.

Erica finally tipped forward, crashing down onto her forehooves as her shoulders sunk into her new frame.  She turned her head down, sobbing, as she felt herself become a disgusting fat pig.  Her squirming tail thrashed about behind her, uncontrollable, and she felt her hind legs regularize in length with the front.  As her hips twisted inward, she knew that she had become a quadruped.  

Her blonde hair finally regressed away, leaving her scalp as bare as the rest of her.  Her insides clenched and twisted, making her a pig through and through.  She squealed again, in despair, as her tear ducts dried out.  Then, finally, it was done.  Where a beautiful girl had once sat, now there was only a bloated and ponderous sow.  The new pig squealed in horror.

Larroquette laughed cruelly at her.  "Much better!" he said, although there was still an implacable element of rage to it, of defeat.  "Enjoy your decision, sow."  Then he walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

The sow grunted to herself in horror.  How could this be?  How could a human being turn into a pig?  It was almost too much to take.  But as the minutes passed, as reality settled itself on her porcine shoulders, her mind turned to practical concerns.  Who would find her?  She was a fat pig, but a pig in Erica's hotel room wearing her own earrings, in the tatters of her own clothes.  Surely whatever housekeeper that came in would sense something amiss and call animal control or something, and she would have some opening to attempt communication.  She settled herself to wait, trying to work out the message she wanted to relay.

After less than an hour, she heard someone working the lock on the door.  She looked up, breathing deeply and trying to calm herself.  It seemed like the housekeeper – did housekeepers work this late? – was having difficulty with the lock.  Finally, the door swung open, revealing a man in a windblazer, with a clerical collar poking out underneath.

"Miss?" he said.  "I'm from the Fellowship of St. Anthony.  I'm here to get you out of here before you're discovered."

The pig squealed in surprise.

The man, who identified himself as Father James Tolton, took Erica and her possessions quickly out the service door in back of the hotel to a waiting van.  He helped the plump hog clamber on, and got into the driver's seat.  He was quiet for a moment until they were on the road, but then he started to speak.

"I'm sorry this has happened to you, Miss," he said.  "I imagine you have a lot of questions, and unfortunately, I only have a few of the answers.  I'm afraid you've fallen in with a bad crowd.  Specifically, Bartholomew Larroquette, your friend, is far from human.  I imagine that he's been helping you, improving your circumstances, grooming you?  And it started innocently, but slowly he started asking you to do more and more ethically nebulous things.  Up until tonight, when you refused to compromise yourself to him in some way?"  The sow grunted in the affirmative.

"Well, he is a demon, a tempter.  You might not believe this, but your refusal represents a victory for your soul.  You see, contrary to the fairy tales you might have heard, most demons don't offer you magical, Faustian contracts.  They eat away at you slowly, compromise your soul, a little at a time.  But this one has been a particularly noisome thorn for us."

"His real name, as far as we know, is Baraqiel.  He was one of the two thousand demons that made up Legion; that our Lord consigned into the bodies of swine two millennia ago, when He exorcized them from the Gadarene demoniac.  The pigs drowned themselves rather than tolerate the demons' presence.  So the demons that made up Legion, including this one, have always despised hogs for denying them safe haven."  

The pig snorted, struggling to keep up.  All of this was so far beyond her frame of reference that she hoped it was just a nightmare.  Demons?  Turning into a pig?  Her political future being a game for her soul?  It was almost too much to believe.  But no dream had ever felt quite like this.  Deep down, she couldn't escape the truth of it.

"When he uses his powers like this, some Sensitives in the employ of the Church can feel it, and the Fellowship dispatches one of us.  I was sent to get you away from there, and bring you to where everyone knows you were a human.  He's never made an attempt on the life of someone he's already transformed, but it's a risk we'd rather not take.  Ah, here we are."

Father Tolton turned into the parking lot of a large church.  He came around to Erica's side of the van and let her out, leading the pig down into the basement of the church.  She looked around nervously, but no one who saw them seemed to behave if anything was out of place.  He led them into a small study, full of books and boxes of candles.  A man sat at a desk, typing on a laptop that seemed incongruous with the older relics around him.

"Father Amendolia, I've brought the woman," Tolton said, indicating the sow.  The man stopped typing, and turned to give them his full attention.  "I started to brief her on Baraqiel.  I've brought her here for asylum."

"Has her voice been restored?" the older cleric asked.

Tolton cleared his throat.  "Not yet, sir.  I had hoped you would oversee it, to make sure I did it right."

"You and I do nothing, my son.  The power comes from God.  Remember that."  The pig squealed, surprised.

"Of course, Father," the younger man said, and then turned towards the plump sow.  He closed his eyes, and started chanting in Latin that Erica didn't understand.  "In te, Judex, credimus, et perpetuum fidem. Lorem redde sorori vocem eius capta adversarium. In nomine Christi, Amen."

"That should do it, my dear.  Try to say something."

Erica opened her snout, and squealed.  But as she concentrated, words started coming back to her.  Her voice was a little deeper, more piggish, but still undeniably hers.

"How is this happening?" she cried, the emotion and terror of the evening catching up with her.  Her forelegs buckled, and Tolton wrapped an arm around her.

"Its okay, let it out," he soothed.

"Demons?  Tempting people and turning them into pigs?  How is something like this possible in the modern world?"

He rubbed the pig's back comfortingly.  "I don't know.  But I know this one is back walking the earth, tempting people to sin, and those times that he fails, he turns his victim into a pig, in memory, or mockery, of his own fate."

"I don't want to be a pig," she snuffled pathetically.  

"You should take it as an honor, to be a pig," he said.  "He only transforms those he cannot tempt into sin.  Your body is, to my people, a badge of honor, that you resisted his call."

"Some honor."

"There are all kinds of honor," said Amendolia, clearing his throat.  "The things this world values are not always the things that are important.  You resisted the demon, and as is his pattern, he transformed you into a sow.  But how much worse off are the ones who stay human, but blindly follow the demon into the pit?  The Bible tells us that it is better to cut away our own arm or eye if it causes us to sin, than to go whole into hell.  You have lost your humanity, to save your immortal soul.  Yours is the greater part."
"So he fails a lot, to have turned so many people into pigs."

"No," Amendolia said.  "We aren't exactly sure, but we estimate that he only ends up turning one in ten of his victims.  Perhaps even one in twenty.  The rest fall."

"Oh."  There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment.  "Will you turn me back into a girl?" Erica squealed.

Tolton looked away.  "I'm sorry, but that is beyond our power.  We can restore your voice, but we don't know how to restore anything more."

"But why?  Why would God leave me as a fat, ugly, useless sow?"

"I don't claim to know the mind of God.  Perhaps it is a test.  Perhaps it is a punishment.  Perhaps it is randomness.  God allows many horrible people to do horrible things to His faithful.  Many of our saints had particularly gruesome ends, after all.  God has always seemed to be more interested in the eternal life of souls than in the physical comfort of the body.  Perhaps being a pig offers you a way to protect your soul.  We know that no sparrow falls from the sky without the Lord knowing, but still, He allows those sparrows to fall all the same."

"But I don't want to be a pig," Erica grunted miserably.  

The cleric sighed.  "It is my hope – my belief – that once he is defeated and exorcised, everyone turned to pigs will become human again."

The sow nodded.  It seemed a thin hope.  "So what happens now?" Erica squealed.

"Actually, we were hoping that you could be of some assistance to us," Amendolia said.  Erica squealed, surprised.

"He tends to travel publicly, where we can't confront him," Tolton explained.  "And we don't know where he lairs.  If we know where he is going to be, we might be able to track him without waiting for him strike."

"Do you know of any other meetings Bartholomew Larroquette has scheduled with those he's currently grooming?" Amendolia asked.  "He tends to keep his 'projects' compartmentalized.  But if he's dropped any hints, we might be able to track him."

"Well," the sow squealed, "he's using Abigail Newbery, a girl from Miami who is lying about a classmate raping her.  But I don't know if that story was just for my benefit or not."

"Hmm.  It's likely that girl isn't being groomed for anything, then – just a patsy.  Or maybe she's even one of his kind, masquerading as human.  People have entertained demons unawares as often as they have angels.  Did he ever talk about anyone else that he was actually tempting?  Or, as he puts it, doing political consultation for?"

"Not much," Erica grunted, closing her eyes with thought.  "Oh!  I heard him talk yesterday about working with, Simon Arterson, a rising star in the teachers' union that will probably get elected chair next year.  I think they have a meeting tonight."

"Excellent," exclaimed Amendolia.  "Find this man and send people to observe his movements.  "When he meets with the demon, follow them and track him back to his lair."

"Yes, Father," said Tolton, and then he led Erica out of the office.

He took her downstairs, deeper into the church.  As they walked, Erica asked about a fact that was bothering her.  "Father?  Why would this thing have picked me?  Why would a demon ever be against rape?  I thought they were supposed to be pure evil."

James Tolton smiled grimly.  "He takes worthwhile causes and perverts them.  After all, a half-truth is much more insidious than a lie.  Besides, they would find few recruits if the goals they claimed to espouse weren't noble ones.  And never doubt that the goal of your work is noble.  Rape is horrible, and should be dealt with like the monstrous thing it is.  But torturing statistics and denying that women have the moral agency to make good choices about their college drinking and hookup behavior does not combat the very real problem of rape."

"A girl who drinks or dresses provocatively shouldn't be forced to have sex," the pig retorted.

"I agree.  The problem usually comes when she willingly takes off her provocative clothing, though.  At that point, the claims that she is 'raped' when she later regrets the encounter are, at best, misleading.  Real rape is much different… and trust me, we've seen a lot of it.  And botched handling a lot of it."

They reached the end of the hallway, and he ushered her into a room designed for pigs.  Low tables ran along the walls with shallow bowls of food on them, and cushions were on the floor.  A small television was playing softly in the corner.  The room only had one other occupant – another bloated sow, her skin a few shades darker than Erica's hide.  

The sow spoke with a slight Hispanic accent.  It was strange watching a pig talk to her, just like a normal person.  Erica wondered – was this what others saw her as?  She felt a little disgust well up at the mental image, unbidden.

The pigs exchanged stories.  The other sow's name was Elisa, and she had been a clerk for a court justice.  She too had refused Larroquette after having been under his sway for months; and had now been a sow for almost eight weeks.  The Fellowship had retrieved her within three hours of her metamorphosis, and she had lived here ever since.  

The other pig chatted amiably, not seeming to be self-conscious about her fat, naked body.  She offered to change the channel – a news program – but Erica didn't mind it.  She grunted wistfully about her old life; her hobbies.

"Why are you here alone?  Aren't there a lot of other pigs here?" Erica finally asked.

Elisa let out a series of grunts, which Erica took to be laughter.  "Most don't stay here as long as me," she squealed.  "Ryan left a few days ago – he was the most recent one."

"Then where do they go?"

"Oh, they've got a pigsty out in the country where we can live if we choose to," the sow said.  "But I don't want to go yet.  I don't want to accept… that I'm really a pig.  That I'll always be a disgusting, fat sow."

Erica thought that over.  It seemed grim, living in a pigsty.  A living insult.  "Why would the church do that to us?  It seems cruel!"

"Yeah, I guess it must, at first.  But you've got to understand, the heat is bad, when we come into season.  When that happens, most of our kind decides to give up and live as pigs.  The Fellowship people don't judge us for it – but still, I don't want it to happen."

"I don't, either," Erica commiserated.  

Then she settled down next to the other sow, their flanks touching.  The other hog's warmth was a strangely calming thing.  The pigs watched the television and chatted idly long into the night, almost as if they were still human.

TO BE CONCLUDED IN PART 2