Sprint for Anonymous
“Ah… AAAHhhh my head…” Connor, a blond haired snearing imperialist said, blinking his blurry eyes and looking up at the ceiling. He felt like he’d been hollowed out and filled up with slowly setting concrete, so hard was it for him to move, speak, or think. He wasn’t in pain, exactly, but was extremely uncomfortable, naked, and set upon some sort of heavy fiber belt. Dazed and confused, Connor looked from side to side, away from the blaring spotlight that seemed to be trained right on his face no matter where he looked, and tried to remember what had happened. Nothing came to him, and, to make an already bad situation worse, he heard the humming of machinery as it roared to life, and, ominously, felt the belt that he was laying upon start to move. 
Some of the miasma that clouded his senses lifted as he felt the movement, and he was acutely aware of the fact that he was naked, stripped down to the flesh. As his eyes came into focus, he could see a great metal object, some kind of post-modernist looking machine with dials and gauges all over, the kind of thing that might have been in a 50s cartoon. The conveyer belt that he’d been splayed upon moved at a tremendous pace, closing the distance between him and the machine in seconds, too fast even for him to rise to his hands and knees. There was a whooshing noise as he passed the hanging plastic sheets that made up the entrance and was sucked into the claustrophobic interior of the great mechanical beast. It was pitch dark for a moment, the belt not slowing for an instant, and then Connor gasped with shock as the belt spit him out through another of the plastic dividers and into the inside of what looked like a big Tupperware container, clear plastic on all sides. He glanced around, thankful at least that the ground wasn’t moving here, and looked up to see her. 
“You…” Connor spat, his face curling into a snarl as he looked up at the vixen bitch that had gotten him arrested at the anti-integration movement. With respect, the peaceful protest that had been planned had quickly turned into a riot, but, with the limited cognitive abilities of a teenager, Connor failed to see a problem with that. The vixen was tall, slender and wearing a grey business suit, specially tailored to fit one of the anthro’s bodies. It hadn’t been long ago that that had been illegal, but the courts had struck that law down. She looked down on him from a raised dais that was built onto the side of the plastic cube, standing in front of some kind of metal control panel. The man opened his mouth to shout, but was halted as the vixen slapped a button on her panel, and the telltale hissing sound of gas excreting from metal grates in the floor silenced him. 
The gas vents were placed on each corner of the floor, and right in the middle. Connor was practically on top of one, and began coughing at once, the gas smelling of something along the lines of bran crackers, but stinging his throat like fire. He started to convulse, losing his footing and falling to the ground on his hands and knees, suddenly overcome by exhaustion. The vixen, his nemesis, glared down upon him as the gas dispersed. It had played its part, and now it was time to see it work its magic.
The teenage aged human male in the airtight cage eventually got his breath back, but quickly found himself scratching frantically all over his body, his skin feeling raw and irritated, as though someone had dumped itching powder all over him. What he didn’t notice was the fur. Bits and patches of morning orange and black fur were starting to sprout from his hands, legs, torso, and all along his back. The vixen caught the moment when Connor, the human, first caught sight of it, the patchy short fur starting to pan out across his body, spreading like a disease until it covered every part of him. 
“N-no!” Connor screamed, his words growing slowly distorted as he shuddered all over, his spine gradually extending out into a long, furry vulpine tail. He grabbed at it with his hands, even as his fingernails turned black and hard, extending out into a fox’s razor sharp claws, his now fur-covered palms going black, metacarpal pads rising out of his flesh, as though he might strangle the tail with them and make it go away. The man’s face, the last human thing about him, slowly succumbed to the dooming transformation, his ears going pointy and migrating up the side of his head, bones and skin moving about as his face extended into a short muzzle, teeth going pointy and sharp. But the changes didn’t stop there, the now vulpine Connor hadn’t realized it, more occupied by his sudden metamorphosis into something he outright hated, but he had been slowly getting smaller as he transformed, his arms and legs shortening, his torso and stomach growing thinner, less barreled and masculine. By the time he realized that he was shrinking, and let out a cry of alarm which sounded more like that of a ten year old than his nineteen years could account for, he looked and felt little bigger than a child, standing somewhere in the neighborhood of four feet tall and losing inches by the second. 
The man turned fox kit, in addition to being transformed and physically regressed, was being flooded with hormones that he hadn’t experienced in years. Unable to cope with the stress that he was being subjected to, Connor started to cry, feeling the tears unconsciously begin pouring from his eyes as he shrunk. A sobbing, sniffling five year old… four…. Three… 
“Weeemeee goo!” Connor cried as his legs failed him, falling backwards onto his back and flailing his legs and arms up in the air. He was little bigger than a toddler…
There was a sound like an airlock opening as the vixen abandoned her dais, walking steadily down to the airtight door that separated the enclosure from the outside, wherever that might lead. She stepped through the door, clearly certain of her safety, and walked over to the quivering, sobbing baby fox in the center of the room. Connor, both terrified and humiliated, shrugged away from her touch as the vixen bent over and picked him up under the arms. Helpless to defend himself, Connor nevertheless wiggled valiantly in defiance, still streaming tears from his face.
“Well well, is my little vixen fussy?” she said, cooing down at the little fox. Conner shivered and sneezed a bit, covering his face, “oh, don’t do that,” the bigger fox said, cradling him, or, rather, her, given that the formula had also reversed his gender, and brushed his little paws away, “I want to see your pretty face.” Without any hesitation, the big vixen carried her fussy, crying toddler over to the conveyer belt opposite the one that had spit him out. This one didn’t move, acting only as a changing table for the vixen as she masterfully manipulated Connor, upon it.
Connor started to cry again, the events having occurred since he awoke upon the conveyer belt well beyond his ability to cope, and could only stare blankly with the saddest expression possible as the vixen picked his rear up off the ground by his ankles in one hand, and slipped a thick, pink disposable diaper with hearts and little princesses on the front underneath him. She then took up a bottle of powder and sprinkled a bit of the white talcum onto his girly bits, his cheeks turning bright red with shame. Then, taking her deliberate time, the vixen pressed Connor’s small body against the table with one hand, taking the front of the diaper in the other, and wrapped his newly feminized nethers in a thick layer of poofy, girly, absorbent padding, setting off another round of hollering and tears as she taped it in place, totally ignoring his cries and protests. 
“Awww, who’s my precious little baby?” the bigger fox said, hefting Connor up and over her shoulder. The little kit whined horrendously, pounding against her back with his little paws in protest, “such a pretty little girl you are.” She cradled the baby in her arms and rocked him back and forth, keeping a mocking edge always in her voice, then lent over, bringing her short muzzle up against Connors, and said, “maybe this time you’ll grow up, and stop thinking of yourself as so superior, eh?” She giggled, rocking the fussing kit back and forth, then continued, “you’re just my precious little vixen, now, and that’s not changing any time soon.” 
With clear intent to humiliate him as much as possible, the older vixen, Connor’s old worst enemy, produced a small hand mirror from her bag, keeping a sure and true grip on the squirming cub all the while, and let him see himself. Connor stared, blank faced, as though he had been shown doorway to the abyss, and had just been pushed through. An arrogant, teenaged human staring into the face of something he hated: one of the beasts, the anthro animals that had corrupted his perfect, racially pure society, only that it was his face. The paradox seemed impregnable. 
In the ensuing shock, every neuron in his small brain firing at once, Connor didn’t even notice the grumbling, churning in his stomach. His lip quivered, sobbing twice, then felt what little control his small, infant’s body had give, and the seat of his newly fastened diaper fill with something warm, moist, and foul smelling. It somewhat burst him out of his daze, and Connor gasped, shocked by the unfamiliar sensation of the messy diaper, squishing between his legs.
“Well,” the bigger vixen, Connor’s tormentor, said, laughing at him, “it looks to me like someone needs a new diaper already, then we can get on with adjusting your attitude.”