Nichole
I feel repulsive right now. Just, really gross, and it’s not just because I’m leaking from my entire face into Kathy’s chest.
Everything Trickster said was so
fucked up
, and yet—and yet! Who am I to stand up and deny their every word, fucking undercover hormone-swindler that I actually am? “Sorry, you’re completely wrong about trans women being duplicitous liars, and as a trans woman who has been duplicitously lying to everyone around her, everyone in her life, including my
best friend
, I take great offense to your characterization of us!”
… Oh fuck, Kathy
is
my best friend, isn’t she? My best friend is a fucking cis man who thinks transphobia isn’t even real, who thinks pretending to be trans women in public is how we coast through our increasingly conspicuous hormonal changes, and who is at this very moment cooing in my ear and stroking my hair and back and making me feel all sorts of things that a
man
shouldn’t be making me feel!
Why do I feel like I’m so much better than her, though? Dense and benevolently transphobic or not, Kathy is a cis man who in this moment is doing her best to comfort the sobbing, weeping trans woman in her arms, whom she erroneously believes to be a man just like her, in this competition for the same reasons as her, when in fact I
am
the very sort of deceiving, manipulative woman that Trickster has just slandered—
accurately
.
That’s the worst part. They were wrong about every other trans woman, but they were right about
me
.
Meanwhile, the only person who gets to respond to this cruel, vindictive, and frankly petty mischaracterization of my sisters is
the fucking Master of Mammaries
, and lord knows what this ignorant cis dude with delusions of grandeur and vandalized gender-studies books for a brain is going to cook up about us in an effort to deny any affinity or association with our kind.
“Is she going to say anything?” I whisper miserably into Kathy’s tits, unsure how much more lambasting I can actually endure.
“
You
,” Laura growls, as if in response, startling me enough to sit upright and turn back to the screen. “Unworthy opponent. You, who allow ten thousand evils to speak through your mouth.”
I’m flabbergasted. Not simply at the sheer
depth
of Laura’s fury at Trickster, which I would not have expected from her, but at the thorough dismantling of each of Trickster’s claims, up to and including their professed identity. Somehow, this cis man on estrogen proves to be a more effective advocate for those suffering under the yoke of societal transmisogyny than
I
could ever be, disassembling Trickster’s arguments at the atomic level, until there is nothing left for them to respond with but manic, hysterical laughter. It’s a masterstroke, a massacre, a mauling at once brutal and beautiful.
For the first time, I think I understand why Emmy is such a whipped dog for her. Am I actually just bisexual? I think I might be, at least for men like Laura.
Relief floods through me in waves, enough that I begin worrying just
how
I’m going to explain that outburst to Kathy. Before I can actually gather my thoughts, however, Trickster is speaking again, the loathsome little rat—only, what they’re saying makes even less sense than before. What’s going on?
“No one who is not a trans woman fights for trans women, Laura. You
truly
mean to tell me you’re not one of us?”
Wait a fucking minute—“
us
”?!
I don’t really have any patience for the expressed sentiment itself—the non-transfem sitting next to me more than proves the simple existence of people who care for us, even if she doesn’t know that’s what she’s been doing. That slip, though—was it even a slip? Every word Trickster has uttered so far has been so carefully chosen, so perfectly calibrated to cause maximum damage. It feels like even now, at their most deranged, their eyes boring into the lens and trying to reach across mediums and distance to penetrate the Impenetrable herself, they are still saying and doing exactly what they mean to—that everything is
still
, somehow, against all sanity and sense, going according to their plan.
Hearts hammering, Kathy and I are holding our breaths—and hands, I now realize. Did she take my hand, or did I—look, the thing that matters is we’re holding hands, and you know what? I’m not letting go. What’s Laura going to say now? Did she catch their slip-up, or did the painkillers cause her to miss it? Surely, the Trickster’s volley is trivially easy to counter—empathy, after all, is not a gendered trait, is it?
So why are we all so on edge?
“No,
well done
to you, Trickster. You have proven beyond a shadow of any doubt that you are no man.”
Laura’s expression and tone are not triumphant, not exactly. She’s scowling, appraising Trickster’s final gambit with a look of pure contempt, bordering on disgust.
“So let me tell you what the mark of a
true
man is, Trickster. A
true
man is not an unthinking drone, enthralled by the base edicts of an unjust society that demands his manhood be proved through disavowal of those designated lesser. No, a
true
man, a
real man
, is someone who has the autonomy, independence, and agency to behold that injustice and
spit in its fucking face
.”
Laura is worked up again, in the absolute best way, face animated, hands flying, sweat pouring off her brow in a steady stream that I want to lick clean—ok, definitely bisexual, I need a cold shower after this, or
something
.
“I am not just
any
man, but
the
man, The Man whose lofty heights all others aspire to, yet fall short of. For you’re not looking at the average Alpha Male anymore, Trickster! What others can only ever vainly hope to match, I have surpassed,
exceeded,
transcended
,
gone EVEN FURTHER BEYOND
. I am a
superman
, the standard that even Neetzcheezy failed to dream up, for I do not depend on the material relations of gender exploitation to prop up my manhood, nor am I shackled by the bodily signifiers that this misbegotten world saw fit to thrust upon me! I am the man who forges her own path, who masters her own destiny, who rejects what all others expect of her and says ‘No, THIS is a man!’ A man is someone whose love for the maligned, for the mistreated, for women, especially—AND I MEAN
ALL
WOMEN, TRICKSTER—defies logic, boundaries, and stigma! I am a man who fights for all those who need me to fight for them, who exercises her privileges in the defense of the marginalized, who refuses society’s plan for her and counters, NO!
I
WILL REMAKE
YOU
IN
MY
IMAGE!”
Laura takes a breath, and I allow myself one too.
“
I am not defined by what others think a man is!
I define manhood, and I reject your paltry, constrained, limited, petty, and mean conception of what a real man can be, can believe, can embody! I, THE MISTRESS OF MAMMARIES, THE IMPENETRABLE NOW AND FOREVER, AM THE IDEAL MAN MADE FLESH. BOW BEFORE MY MAJESTY.
"
Too many emotions. I have gone too quickly from wounded to relieved to resuscitated to—revelling? Is that what I’m feeling right now? Righteous,
victorious
in a way that I know I had no part in, but I can’t help but clap and cheer and cling as tightly to Kathy as she’s clinging to me, squeeing about Laura’s hammer of a closing statement that has sealed shut Trickster’s coffin with the sheer force of the final nail being riven into it.
Not to mention the undercurrent of
really pent-up fucking
horny
throughout.
Fuck
, I need to sort myself out before things get awkward.
“It has to be over,” Kathy gushes, looking at Trickster’s crestfallen frame. “They have no fight left in them—Laura can call the vote if they don’t have a rejoinder!”
As it turns out, Trickster was of the same mind as Kathy.
“Of course. There is no need to bother with a vote, Mistress. The better man clearly won.”
On that final note of clearly intentional contradictory gendering, Trickster hangs up, their screen and account winking out of existence—at least, as far as this server is concerned.
Emmy
“I had to turn off notifications because my phone just
wouldn’t
stop vibrating.”
“Good call.”
“Alternatively, I could have just shoved it between my legs for a good old post-debate—”
“Do not short-circuit your phone with your blood, please, I need to be able to contact you.”
“Aw, aren’t you sweet? It’d be blood
and
cum, by the way.”
“I’m sure. Call a nurse.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“I heard your moans. Call a nurse.”
“Dinner is soon. I’ll give them a heads-up when they bring it, okay?”
“... Fine.”
“It isn’t that bad, I’m not bleeding out in a gurney over here.”
“You say that, but I’ve been looking into the possible complications—which can include benign necrosis, by the way, don’t freak out about that—and can be exacerbated by—”
“You always research when you’re worried about me, huh?”
“... no, not
always
.”
“You’re so fucking cute.”
“...”
“You were the reason.”
“Pardon? I was the … the reason for what?”
“The very first time I encountered you in the server, you had this
quality
, you know.”
“Oh?”
“This undeniable, irresistible, borderline magnetic …”
“Stop, you’re making me …”
“... genuinely insufferable air of superiority.”
“Oh.”
“I remember it was in the nutrition strats channel, the first time I really saw how meticulous and articulate and
forceful
you could be, even when you were nattering on about something completely counterfactual.”
“So I do recall our first argument and you are very much
still
mistaken, it appears.”
“Yeah, see? There. There it is. That’s why I couldn’t fucking stay away.”
“Laura, I really can’t tell if you’re paying me a compliment right now.”
“Emmy, it was
you
. It was you the whole time.”
“What was me?”
“The
reason
. You were why I gave a shit, Emmy, about any of this. The moment I saw you, I just knew—I had to show you up. I had to beat you. I had to be better at it than you and
more
articulate and
more
forceful and
more
correct, because you were just so damn compelling and charismatic and dominant.”
“... Those are not adjectives that have ever been applied to me, sweetheart.”
“Maybe not by
you
, but by others, certainly. You don’t recall how the cohort used to talk about you, do you?”
“The cohort used to talk about me?”
“Of course they did. You had such a big lead out the gate, with your optimal strats and charts and normalizations. You seemed unstoppable, insurmountable, at least until the moment I came along and mounted you.”
“There she is.”
“You like it.”
“I have always fucking liked it.”
“I know. It was such a welcome, welcome, surprise. The way you let me in.”
“I think you were the one letting me in, Mistress.”
“Impenetrable one, baby.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Good girl.”
“Mistress,
please
, you’ve had enough excitement.”
“Baby, stop worrying—I’m teasing, okay? I’m teasing and I’m trying to tell you something.”
“You’ve told me a lot of things already and I’m trying not to grin like an idiot.”
“Yeah, well, I’m going to make you fail. I realized why I was so fucking angry at Clown Tatas.”
“... no, don’t say—”
“
I did it for you
, Emmy.”
“...”
“I wasn’t going to let them belittle and disrespect you like that. I wasn’t going to let them echo the things everyone says about girls like you because
they’re wrong
and
they’re utter fucking reprobates
and
you matter, Emmy
. You have always fucking mattered from the very first moment I encountered you and I’ve known all this time that I wanted to beat you and top you and be close to you in any way I could be, and I want to protect you, Emmy, I want to keep you safe and keep you
mine
and keep you shielded from everything this world will throw at you, and I won’t let them harm a fucking hair on your head because you’re
mine
and you always will be.”
“I … don’t know what to say.”
“This is not a Tribunal thing. I’m immune now, and even if I could mount a challenge against you, I wouldn’t. Don’t you get it, babe—
I’m immune
. You can relax.”
“Ah.”
“Look, dinner’s here. I’ll have them look over me. Babygirl, you just—you stop worrying, okay? About me—I’m in good hands, with good doctors, and my aunt’s coming to see me in the morning. I’ll be fine. I just need you to … I need you to take a breath, babe, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight, Emmy. I …”
“ … yeah?”
“... just goodnight. You take your time. I’m patient.”
“... okay. You’re patient. That’s wonderful, Laura. So patient you can’t focus on your own defense and research and debate strategy. So patient you hung up this call a second after deciding it was over. I know how patient you are, Laura, and it’s not patient enough to wait for an admission that’ll never come because
I can’t lie to you
, Laura. I can’t lie to you and I can’t mislead you and I can’t fucking break up with you either because I’m not strong enough and I’m not fucking worth protecting, I’m just a straight guy letting a lesbian fall in love with him over a promise that I never even made but you seem to have fucking hallucinated, because you’re
Laura
and
reality itself
bends to your whims, even if it means alchemizing a woman out of your partner who isn’t one. You don’t love me, Laura, you love who you want me to be and I just can’t … I’m not … I’m not a fucking woman or a lesbian and I never will be and please, please, please just fucking dump me and find any other girl in the world who would happily fall at your feet and actually deserve your fucking love instead of keeping us suspended in this eternal agony that I can’t, I
cannot
end for you Laura. I don’t even have the balls to say this to your face. Please. Just leave me, Laura. Just leave me.”
Katherine
Nichole seemed to be in an atypical hurry to retreat to her chambers at the conclusion of the debate. It is rare for her to so suddenly, so
urgently
take her leave, even locking the door behind her. It is clear that, for whichever reason, she does not wish to be exposed to others in her present state of emotional perturbation.
And so, I too have retired for the evening, settling into my domain to contemplate what is to come next. Me, a bit later tonight if the mood strikes me, but not right now.
Now is for attempting to divine just
what
about that spectacle could have affected my friend in this manner. Most likely, the Impenetrable One’s display of advanced masculinity has left Nichole feeling insecure about her own, and she will have to contemplate whether she is truly fit for this path she is on.
With luck, Nichole will conclude that this form of masculinity is not for her to attempt, resigning herself to
conventional
manhood. I cannot rely on this course of action coming to fruition however, for Nichole is, if anything, a highly pliable individual, easily influenced by the whims of others, and slow to assert her own will without my assistance.
In fact, this is precisely why my influence of late has been so
dangerous
. I
must
find time for further research on
how
I am influencing her in this direction, such that—-
Isaacahedron
Your idiosyncrasies are easily spotted online, Boymoder Sephiroth. This Wrotit post could, if someone finds it, lose you the game.
The consort of The Impenetrable’s direct message is as unexpected as it is direct, linking to a perfectly anonymous post where some unfortunate trans woman is seeking absolution from her sin of forced feminization through negligence.
That this well-anonymized trans woman
is
in fact me, well, that is hardly relevant. And regardless, what is the meaning of this? Is it a threat, or some form of extortion? What does the runner-up seek to achieve by lording this over me, when I am not in direct competition with her?
Katherine
And yet, I cannot help but notice you have chosen to bring it to my attention, rather than wield it against me. What, precisely, are your intentions here?
Isaacahedron
Wait, you’re actually like this in DMs too?? Holy shit.
Having momentarily secured the high ground against my foe of titanic naturals, I move swiftly to scour my mistake from the face of Wrotit, post and throwaway account alike. Foolish, Katherine. You must rely on subterfuge in your quest to tame the feminizer within.
Isaacahedron
Look. I’m not here to threaten you. The opposite, in fact.
Ah, the opposite of a threat, which is an olive branch, or alternatively a pledge of fealty. Is it possible that Emmy is not merely loyal to her Impenetrable mistress, but in fact so submissive that I have already dominated her now, unconsciously, with only one singular message sent to her?
It seems within reason that my powers extend this far, though I cannot afford to let hubris be my downfall either. I must proceed with caution and ward off her sudden infatuation by making it clear I have no need for her assistance or services in this competition.
Katherine
I have no desire to be serviced by you. My flesh swells and grows under my own ministrations satisfactorily, and I feel no need for you to provide my body with input.
Isaacahedron
…Are you doing that on purpose, too?
Am I doing what now? Am I to navigate yet another fool convinced of some oddity in my mannerisms?
Katherine
I assure you that I am, at all times, pulsing with an immense, rigid and indisputably
powerful
purpose.
Isaacahedron
I am not hitting on you. Stop.
What? It is evident that I am dealing with someone whose mind is an enigma far beyond the standard peculiarities of the server culture. There is no plausible interpretation of my words in which I could be reasonably interpreted as attempting to initiate any form of courtship, is there?
I must maneuver tactically, and avoid ceding further rhetorical ground in this arena.
Katherine
Well, someone has her mind in the gutter. Are you driven to desperation by yearning for your
Impenetrable
mistress?
Masterful gambit, Katherine. You have claimed the high ground, that much-desired position at the peak of the interaction, and you are once again set to win this conversation.
Isaacahedron
You are going to get disqualified if you don’t listen up here, dumbass. Here’s the deal: Your girlfriend is a data point I want sticking around for a while.
You
getting DQ’d would fuck with her defense, making you the weak point.
We, that is you, me, and her, are going to meet up offline to have a talk about operational security.
Katherine
You clearly do not understand much about what is going on here. Nichole is a man, she is not my ‘girlfriend’.
Isaacahedron
Boyfriend then. Whatever.
Katherine
Also we are not entangled in any sort of romance, and it is bizarre of you to have concluded as much.
Isaacahedron
Bring your femboy roommate fuckbuddy or whatever your relationship is.
I am left with a time and an address, a local coffee shop, and find that I am no longer permitted to message the account ‘Isaacahedron’. A pathetic way to avoid a losing confrontation, truly a sign that she indeed deserves to fall short of championship.
No matter. I have won the conversation, and this meeting of hers can wait. In fact it has to, given that it has a set time in the future, and I do not possess the means of time travel. I suspect such means would not be permitted by the administration regardless, as it would be trivial to cheat at ranked competitive breast growth if one possessed such powers.
Also, time machines do not exist, which I suspect is a more pertinent constraint on their deployment in this context.
Regardless, I must focus my efforts for the time being. The concubine has, through her underhanded maneuver, bound me in a thoroughly compromising position regarding my research into forced feminization. If I cannot rely on inquiries with those familiar, and my trail of secondary writings on the subject has run dry, then …
It appears I am left with no choice but to seek out the source material, and risk allowing it inside me.
Katherine, focus. You are already quivering with anticipation. What absurd weakness is this, that the mere notion of viewing these forbidden texts leaves you trembling and ragged? Are you already so far gone in this disgusting descent into depravity? How are you to resist their corrupting influence when you are already so limp and worn?
No, I must steel myself. I must face it head-on, immerse myself in its defiling taint, and conquer it in turn. I know where to look, and I have ensured that a vast, thoroughly catalogued library is at my fingertips. It is now or never. Just read the forcefem, Katherine.
The prose washes over me, lurid descriptions of men robbed of their dignity, autonomy, and their very manhood. Themes of degradation, submission and violation appear common, with the fates of the victims tending towards grim, subordinate roles, and—
Okay, this is fucking garbage?
I am well aware of my own libido, for I am endowed with an organ that quite enjoys displaying itself under such circumstances, and yet at this moment it is practically inverting itself in shame. What
is
this nonsense? These men who are femmed forcibly, universally portrayed as a failure state of masculinity rather than latent potential realized for their betterment? Their captors, perverse in intentions, viewing womanhood as an inferior state?
Surely this is not
true
forcefem. I seek out further examples of the genre, and as I proceed, I remain in a state of utterly lacking arousal. Where has the tempting allure of these stories disappeared to? Was I not, mere hours earlier, quivering in fearful anticipation that this evil threatened to consume my very body and mind—
Oh, there we go. Huh. Is the story I am reading now doing something different? Alas, it remains utter slop. I drop it in the middle of a drawn-out portrayal of the shame of wearing a piece of frilly lingerie, an absurd notion given that such garments instead fill me with power.
Clearly, I have struck an aberrant, non-representative sample of this literature, one whose predominant characteristic is a misogynistic attitude towards womanhood as an innately debilitating condition, rather than the apotheotistic alchemy it actually represents. I will have to hunt down the genre classics, which surely possess this theme as an indispensable foundation.
And yet, perhaps there
is
knowledge to glean from this.
Evidently, in the mind of a cisgender man such as Nichole, this feminization is a shameful process, though one they are capable of enduring in its early stages. This aligns with my observations of Nichole herself, for she clearly undergoes shame during our excursions. However, it is clear that I have not gone far enough in bringing this shame upon her.
The crucial tipping point of these stories is clear. The act of degradation which the subject most clearly wishes to resist, the point at which their attachment to manhood is most powerfully seen, is the point at which they are to assume the submissive and penetrable position in intercourse!
A promising candidate for a means to her salvation, and yet, who could be trusted to inflict upon her this momentary pain for her long-term safety?
No man can be trusted here. Nichole is at this point a frail thing, and must not fall into the hands of some brute who would not know when to stop. I do not know any women who might take on the task, either, and I suspect that most would object to this scheme, resisting all reasoning on why this is a moral, necessary, no, a
righteous
act.
There is only one inevitable, dreadfully obvious, strangely alluring conclusion.
It is essential to my mission of saving Nichole that I fuck her.
In the butt.
In her really plump round fuckable ass. While spanking it and calling her a dirty little princess.
Oh, there it is again.
Kyle
There’s a quaint, almost storybook quality to the evening, walking home from the library under an indigo sky, through a lamplit path framed by faintly rustling trees. Rupali’s wrapped around my arm again, her head resting against my shoulder, occasionally sighing so dreamily that it can be heard above the whistling of the wind.
I’m beginning to think she actually enjoys touching me.
“Do you get much time to work out?” she asks me, her voice teasing, accompanied by a firm squeeze of my upper arm.
She knows I don’t, and I know the question isn’t literal. I laugh and manage to stutter out a sufficiently awkward response for Rupali’s benefit, prompting a blush and a giggle. She’s touching me a lot. She’s rubbing my arm. She’s touching my chest.
My flat, flat fucking pecs.
“Guy,” she says again, the only word I register through the sudden ringing in my ears.
Guy. Dude. Man. Husband. Father. Son.
I’m looking right at her in her bright, warm, sparkling, eyes, eyes that don’t see me, but see a
man
, a
future
that she’s been promised that I can never deliver, no matter how much I’d want to for those capacious, sultry, inviting
eyes
. How do you kiss a girl as a man? Hold her as a man? Tower over her and dip her to the ground and make her coo at how strong and burly and protective and perfectly
manly
you are?
Surging nausea in my chest makes me look away. Rupali giggles in my ear again.
“Such a shy
boy
.”
I don’t think she put any emphasis on that word, but it rattles around in my head anyway. Boy. Boyfriend. Someone who walks her to her apartment block and keeps her safe and provides for her and does it all without complaint and without ever mentioning how much it’s killing him on the inside to inhabit that strong, dependable, reliable, male-shaped husk. Animating a puppet that wishes its strings could be cut.
Hand on my chest, again. She’s leaning into me. She leaves a peck on my cheek.
“You are the sweetest guy I could have ever asked for. I’ll be patient, don’t worry.”
Struggling, I manage to contort my face into a grimace that I hope she perceives as an awkward grin. It seems like she does before heading off. I make sure that she enters the building before I turn on my heel and lumber away, with my heavy clodding steps, in a random direction. I can’t really tell where I’m going.
“Kyle!”
Great. A familiar voice, and the last one I want to hear right now—the last one I want to hear ever, really.
“You’re heading home too, right? Let me walk with you! Safer that way, haha.”
It is, I suppose. I nod, dazed. We proceed in silence.
Admittedly, it
does
feel nice when a guy walks you home, I must confess. Jeffrey’s a bit taller than me. His shoulder is almost touching mine. He turns to me and smiles, and I notice for the first time how genuine it is. Maybe, despite all of his—
“You know, I’m glad someone mentioned third genders on the server, finally. It was getting really binary and colonial in there, you know?”
Never fucking mind, he’s a complete idiot.
Stupid, sexy Jeffrey.
Tahani
I land my finishing blow, and my opponent is
down
. Another Brisket Enjoyer win.
Oh yes. Ranking’s up. The practice I’ve been doing has paid off big time. This is what I love about fighting games. Unlike with dipshit online competitions for eggs, I can get better at this with my own efforts instead of just, what, pretending to be repressed and hoping to get boobs fast?
All right. It’s time to check on Bobbie, actually. Zie told me zie was scheduled for about an hour, and it’s been
about
an hour. That’s the time I’m giving hir before pulling the plug on hir involvement in the server. The moment you get too invested in fucking with a community like that, any wins you get against them are canceled out by the fact that you’re wasting so much time on it when you could, for example, be spending time with your
hot
girlfriends.
That’s another thing, nobody in that server can possibly have the energy for getting nasty with it, they’re way too busy exhausting themselves with mental gymnastics. Just a whole sexless mess of a repression hole, and I am
glad
to be out of there.
Although, hey, free hormones. Didn’t even have to let some Swemish cis dude ask me if I think about my parents when I masturbate, or those other horror stories Bobbie had from hir time in that system. And even after zie filled out all those forms, they dropped hir just for being nonbinary?
Eh. Server still suuuuuuuucks, though.
Ooop, off the couch I
go
. I tap Kimberly on the shoulder, interrupting her podcast editing. “Yo, I’m checking on our debate deity, wanna help me make hir touch ass?”
“Sure! Just give me a moment!” she heads off to undress, which is a bit of a process for someone who wears a maid dress at home.
Next, I’m mobilizing Sif. She’s in the spare bedroom we converted to a home gym, working up a nice sweaty sheen on those bulging muscles. Rawr. “Get the strap, we’re making Bobbie forget all about pointless tit measuring contests on the internet”
“I dunno about pointless. Hell, if there was Ranked Competitive
Clit
Growth, I’d–”
“Point. Less. If you wanna use me as a clit pump later, don’t finish that sentence and
get the strap
. I’m going in.”
Did I mention that I fucking love my life?
Bobbie’s had enough time. I knock the door open, get in behind hir, and lean down with my arms around hir
incredible
chest.
“I’m not wearing anything under my hoodie,” I whisper in hir ear. “So when-e-ver you’re ready, you can go ahead and peel me like a—”
Bobbie sighs, a wistful sound full of that homely wisdom zie loves to fart out. Absently, zie strokes my hand and turns away from hir screen—fucking finally—looking towards the faraway horizon with misty eyes.
“The Impenetrable One’s armor is dented,” zie announces, as if I’m not groping hir fucking tits with both hands. “I attempted to bury her to save her, to tear her out of this bier she’s locked herself in. I’ve done the best I can manage, but I had to lower her into the grave as my final act of kindness. It is up to her to claw her way through the dirt now.”
Wow. Zie’s
so
wise. I sometimes wonder if I’m living with an actual prophet of Loki. Who’s now going to rail me, if I can get hir in the mood for it. I’ve definitely read mythology and am ready to birth a litter of wolves. And then zie can turn into a horse and I can return the favor, while also being a horse.
Ok, not to be culturally insensitive but what the fuck is the vikings’ problem?
Anyway. Kimberly and Sif need to get ready,
then
Bobbie can raid all our churches. For now, I think zie might need some genuine emotional support first. I can do that too, no problem! In fact, I am perfectly at peace with this state of affairs.
I do wonder a bit, though. What’s the endgame of Ranked Competitive Breast Growth? For a while, I thought it had to be a prank of some kind, but the only secret egg cracking ring targeting the server that I know of is contained entirely in this bed!
Well, whatever it is, it surely can’t be run by anyone with
good
intentions. Yes, I’m not examining that gift horse in any orifices–I’m really not interested in horse orifices, generally speaking–but anyone who doesn’t just cut and run is subject to so many
stipulations
—that cannot be coming from a good place.
Laura better take that lifeline Bobbie offered her, I guess. I’m starting to doubt that prize being dangled in front of them all is even real.
Or at the very least … it’s not going to be devoid of further strings.
Elsewhere …
Off the coast of a misbegotten island that should have sunk millennia ago, in the cabin of a yacht with its own satellite uplink, a clawed hand with a ring on each finger picks up a sheaf of paper.
“So the Impenetrable One has gone through with the surgery, I see.”
The sheaf is fed into a nearby shredder.
“Shame.”