"Can we please start slow this time? We don't even know what's in these." Abby cranes her neck over the back of the couch to look at her roommate's fistful of pills. "If I have to take you to the ER, I'd be the one telling them you OD'd on princess pills." "First of all, it says right on the label. Nothing in here but—" Fae turns the pill bottle over in faer hand to read the label. "—noblissamine obligate and some quick-release sovereignolactone. Second, no you won't. If anything happened, you'd tell them I took maid pills, because what good is a princess without a silly little maid to dote on her?" A demure smile tugs at the corners of Ivy's mouth like it's being pulled taut. "S-Someone to put her hair up and make sure she's all taken care of!"
"Ooh, I don't think I've heard you make that sound before." Abby looks over her shoulder, impressed. "Finally putting in the work with voice training—" She turns all the way around just in time to watch Ivy's purple ponytail turn black at the roots. Dark tendrils spread out from faer scalp, through the star-spangled bow fae ties faer hair up with, and all the way down to the tip. It even springs back up into an unassuming little curl that wasn't there before.
"How are you doing, Ivy? What's your color?" Good kink communication pays dividends. Abby's heart skips a beat. "Fuckfuckfuck this is hot," she thinks. "Please be okay so I can find this hot."
"Oh, I'm green, of course! I'm feeling wonderfully maidly and I just can't wait to serve! I'm simply ever so embarrassed that you've caught me out of uniform. Might I ask you to help me get changed before my princess arrives? She gets so delightfully devilish when her maids aren't prepared!"
Abby releases a shaky sigh. Relieved and aroused. "I think that could be arranged." The freshly minted maid hustles over with all demure speed to help Abby to her feet. She even bows her head.
"Thank you." She clears her throat. "Shall we?"
Ivy does the best curtsy fae can in tights and scurries off to faer room. The elastic mostly just slaps right back against faer legs, but it's the curtsy in your heart that counts.
Ivy's room is… it's not a mess. It's not the kind of thing you necessarily need a maid to clean up, but you don't take Dr. S's Maid Pills For Sex because you have a lot of cleaning to get through.1 There's clothes that haven't been put away, sex toys left within easy reach, and a bed whose sheets could use a wash. The path to the closet is clear enough for the maid to elegantly, confidently step between discarded prescription bottles and pirouette around an old laptop left so carelessly on the floor. Someone really should put that away.
Fae's in the middle of reaching down to pick it up when Abby pointedly clears her throat. "Right! Of course! Outfit first! I'm such a silly little maid sometimes, I don't know what I'd do without someone in charge!" The smile gets bigger and tighter with every passing word. Fae leans foward into the closet, showing off far more ass than really necessary. Not that Abby's complaining. She's about to work up the nerve to grab a handful of maid butt when fae turns back around.
Calling it "a maid outfit" is generous. It's just enough black fabric to cover the tits without providing any real support and the least effective apron known to man, woman, or anyone who knows better. The headdress is serviceable in that it's hard to mess up some white lace too bad. The apron couldn't even keep an indecent exposure charge off of you. An unmaidicated Ivy would have said "it was half off". An Abby that wasn't taking deep breaths just to keep her screaming gay impulses under control would have replied "more like eighty percent".
Back in the real world,2 Ivy pouts, holds the outfit against faer chest, and hits Abby with the big ol' puppymaid eyes. "Oh, miss, you've been ever so helpful to this silly little maid—" Fae shudders when the words leave faer mouth. They come out like a moan and a blissful sigh all at once. It feels so good to be a silly little maid. "—But it simply wouldn't be right for me to disrobe in front of anyone other than my perfect princess!" Fae minces closer and lets faer tongue roll out of faer mouth. A pair of princess pills sit right there on the tip. Abby's played magician's assistant often enough to be familiar with Ivy's sleight-of-hand, but she's never seen sleight-of-mouth like this.3 "But if you would be my perfect princess, I would be honored."
Abby looks at the pills. She looks into Ivy's eyes, clouded in that horny way you can only get through erotic pharmaceuticals. She runs a hand up the bulge in her sweatpants. Ivy's soft, firm hand cups Abby's and guides it up and down. A good maid must demonstrate the proper speed and pressure for bulge fondling, after all! Fae takes her chin in the other hand and tilts her head up to bring their mouths close. "Pucker up, Princess."
Abby enthusiastically completes the kiss. Her tongue probes into Ivy's mouth and scoops up the pills— though not without a playful fight from the maid, of course. As the pills vanish down her gullet, the maid goes for one last mischief. "Mischief", in this case, is the name of Abby's left boob, prized for its heft and jiggle and rivaled only by its twin.4 Faer fingers sink in deep. Deep enough that fae knows fae'll get a very cute noise out of it.
And that moan does come. Abby's thighs clench.
An uncharacteristically firm hand grabs the maid's wrist and wrenches it away. "Did your Princess give her maid permission to touch the royal bosom? A maid that is out of uniform, no less." A stern smile tugs at Her Regal Highness, Princess Abigail's (may she reign eternal) lips.
"N-no, Princess. Of course not, Princess." Now it's Ivy's heart's turn to flutter. Faer eyes stare, transfixed, down the barrel of a loaded princess. Faer heart skips a beat and faer breath catches in the way it only does when, for example, your really cute coworker/magician's assistant/roommate/friend-who-is-a-girl/kink partner lets her domme side out to play for once. The fact that the pills are making her short red bob explode out into regal crimson tresses just makes it hotter. The cascading locks fall over her shoulders and slow down only once it piles up against the ground.
A loud, resolute Snap! makes Ivy stand up even straighter than before. The hair on the back of faer neck stands up with sheer erotic anticipation. "Maid." Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) stands up straight. Ivy was always the taller of the two. This just means the princess has to project a little more dominant energy, and project she does.
"Silly Little Maid Ivy, ready to serve, your highness!" Faer shoulders are back, faer chin is out, and faer chest is as puffed out as it will go. It's a state you only see Ivy in under the influence of either femdom or stage performance.5 "I was just about to get dressed, if her highness would like to ensure it is done to her liking!"
Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) cocks her head as if she cannot believe what she's hearing. "A maid." She says, twisting the wrist until her maid moans from the crossed wires of pleasure and pain. "Does not have a name." Her eyes, piercing and gold, bore directly into the maid's soul.
The maid struggles for a split second, as if a maid would ever dream of betraying faer perfect princess. "A- a maid does not have a name, my perfect Princess!" The cloudy swirls in faer eyes shift and thicken. Faer eyelids flutter while any suggestion that this particular maid might have ever had a name is dusted, tidied up, and promptly thrown out. "Thank you for relieving me of the burden of my name, Princess!"
"A maid." Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) continues. "Is a thing. A maid is an extension of the princess's will. A maid has precisely what a maid needs to complete the princess's task."
Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) turns around and tilts her nose up. "Hair up." A princess has to have long, lovely hair, but having it all loose is really only appropriate for the short time after waking in the morning. It really should be done into something more presentable before anyone sees.
Maids, of course, do not count. Even maids that are shamefully out of uniform. Maids are the anonymous hands pressed into service to braid the princess's hair and make sure it is appropriate for the day's schedule. The demands of keeping court weigh on the royal head in a much different shape than a parade. A maid is expected to know this and do it without a first thought, because thinking is for princesses. Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) looks around for the scheduling maid and, failing to find one, makes her frustration known with an angry snort and recounts today's agenda herself. "Since, clearly, nobody bothered to train this new maid, I'll have to do it myself. Honestly, an untrained maid is worse than no maid at all." She scoffs and snaps her fingers above her head. The maid's chest puffs out and shoulders fold back, pulled taut with pharmaceutically-enforced attention. "Hair bun and braid. Tight."
The maid nods enthusiastically! That maidly heart flutters! Princess's first proper order! What more could a maid want? Those hands get to work, even as they really should be gloved in silk when handling Princess's hair. The pills help, chemically nudging the nerves and neurons the right way to ensure the task is done to Princess's exacting standards. An un-maidpilled Ivy could have gotten 90 percent of the way there off theme park experience alone. When you work for a place that has to ask its actors to do landscaping, you have to help each other with hair and makeup, too. Lengthy locks of shiny red hair coil around nimble fingers and entwine into elegant braids. The princess lets herself be led to the vanity where she can sit and monitor her maid's progress. Hairpins are pinned, elastic snaps into place, and Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) barely has any feedback. Merely a preference for a clockwise bun winding and that the first braid was "far too loose, like that ambassador we fed to the tigers."
When the maid steps back, Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) rises to her feet and inspects her hair. She cracks the slightest smile known to science, and her maid's heart sings. "They picked a fast learner. A shame they didn't bother to communicate the dress code." The princess sneers at the so-called maid outfit laid out on the bed. "Easily fixed." She takes her maid by the ponytail, since trusting an untrained maid with a decision, even a simple one, is simply irresponsible. A properly trained maid would never make a decision— the following or staying would be automatic and based solely on Princess's wishes. Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) leads her maid out the door, plowing through the debris that is both clearly beneath her notice and that is someone else's problem. Her darling maid's breaths get less and less regular as the sheer erotic bliss of servitude runs up against the need to be Princess's well-behaved servant. This mighty struggle manifests as a gay little shudder that runs all the way up the body and down the ponytail leash into Princess Abigail's (may she reign eternal) arm.
"Ensure the rapture of mindless service to your princess doesn't interfere with your work, maid." Princess says, and that trembling turns inward. If maids were allowed to think, this one's inner monologue would be an endless loop of "Yes, Princess!" and "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck this is hot fuckfuckfuckfuck". Those would-be thoughts might pause when the princess deposits her maid in front of the royal closet (may it clothe eternal) and extracts a proper maid's uniform. The skirt goes past the knees, there are plenty of ribbons and bows, and the apron is lovingly decorated with a network of embroidered hearts. When Abby goes maid mode, she does it right.
"There is a pernicious rumor among my maids regarding what happens to those I catch out of uniform. I trust I do not need to repeat it." The uniform dangles from its hanger off Princess Abigail's (may she reign eternal) index finger until her maid takes it. "What is it? Delightfully devilish?"
The maid dutifully sheds those princess-disappointing street clothes, letting those breasts heave free and those curves slip out of those tights. It is not until the apron is tied on that Princess Abigail's (may she reign eternal) maid notices what the princess is doing. The telltale rattle of a prescription6 pill bottle is hard to ignore. The maid watches Princess swallow a few pills. The rest sit on the royal desk (may it stand eternal) where the maid's mess-sensitive eyes notice a few loose red capsules, coiled shut with a spaded tail. Princess's maid barely has time to secure the lace cap before being tackled to the bed.
A maid can really only stare down the loaded barrel of a wonderfully imperious princess, watching as her red hair pokes and points into short twin horns on either side of her head, just above the braid. She grins a scheming grin with fresh fangs trying to peek past her lips. Her hands, complete with fingernails already sharpening into suitably infernal claws, dig deep into a maid's chest. The maid that is currently short-circuiting with gay thoughts, trying to determine if it'd be appropriate to moan or to simply thank Princess for using her maid as she wishes, mind you.
"Let it never be said that Devil Princess Abigail (may she reign infernal) does not give her subjects what they want."
DEVIL PRINCESS ABIGAIL WILL RETURN IN PRINCESS PILLS 2: CROSSFADED
She sells different pills for that. ↩
Okay, yes, the story is fictional, but the world that's real in the fiction. ↩
Partially, but not exclusively, because it's hard to see what the inside of someone's mouth is doing while they suck your dick. ↩
Named "Trouble". ↩
But not both— that overflows the Ivy and makes fear collapse into a heap. ↩
You could say that Dr. S prescribes things, but it's not really a prescription if she just gives you the pills and doesn't write anything down. I guess that means they're just scribed. ↩
Galar isn't that different, really. New sights to see, new people to meet, new Pokémon to befriend and fight. You know the air may taste different, but the bond you share with your trainer never changes.
It's exciting, of course, when your trainer says you're finally allowed to fight in the Battle Tower here. You just have to get checked out and earn your little sticker. You imagine it's not too different than going through the Pokémon center. Whatever it is, you trust your trainer!
You're let out of your Ultra Ball in a cozy little room about the size of a bedroom, featureless save for a door and a human.
"Hello!" She makes eye contact as best as she can and makes sure to call you by your nickname. She seems nice- red ponytail pulled through the back of her baseball cap. Insofar as you understand your trainer's type,1 she's about it. She smiles a lot and explains that it won't hurt a bit and your trainer is right outside. It's hard to tell if she's expecting you to understand her words or her tone.
She snaps her fingers to make sure you're looking at her eyes. Big smile. Lots of talking that's hard to understand, but that feels so nice to hear. Things get a little fuzzy, but it's a good fuzzy. Happy TM and berry dream fuzzy. It's a big, soft cloud of happy memories fading in and out.
It's hard to tell how long- not that you really keep time anyways, and there's no windows in here. Time flies and all. Do they have Timeflies in Galar?
"Three… two… one… and poof!" She snaps her fingers and you jerk back to reality. "There we go! How's that feel?" She doesn't wait for an answer before booping a sticker above your eyes and walking you out the door. It takes you a minute to think through the fuzz and remember who this is. Your trainer says something like "That wasn't too bad, was it?" and you make your agreement known.
As you go back into your ball, your trainer mentions something about picking up some dolls for Substitute practice.
Hm. Why does that sound familiar? You'd think you'd remember if you ever learned how to do that.
Inspired by https://bulbapedia.bulbagarden.net/wiki/Battle-ready_symbol.
Well, other than "bug/fighting". ↩
It was not necessarily a matter of time before that supervillain ran into Mercí City Nerd Convention, pursued by the Iron Titan. You've heard the story before. Hotshot good guy, new to the scene, wants to prove himself by besting one of the biggest names in costumed villainy. Like most heroes who try the same thing, he's never considered that there might be a reason Modemoiselle sits at the top of the food chain. He might not even have noticed that the more experienced heroes won't engage with her solo. It's not like it's a secret where all those magnificent murdermaids come from.
But no hero ever made the papers with the safe choice.1 No heroes make the papers any more- the Mercí Monitor went online-only years ago- but glory is glory.2 Omelettes and eggs and all.
This particular egg won't let the threat of omeletteification stop him! He charges headlong through the double doors, blowing right past the line, and stopping only when con security swarms the metal man breaking through the turnstiles and explaining that "Sir, please, I know you're dressed like a superhero, but you can't just smash in through our doors and skip the line. You're scaring everyone. Look, show us your ticket and we'll let you in if you promise to set a good example and not do it again. I know that shiny body paint is a pain to apply, but it doesn't give you the right to break the rules."
To which he, of course, has to do the thing where he pats down where the pockets would be on his tights and sheepishly explains that he must have left it in the car. "I'll be right back." He says. A few cheers and "That's what I thought!"s come from the line he so rudely skipped. He makes his way out the door, confidently as he can, before the girl in the rainbow-haired goat cosplay throws one of her hoof boots. He might be made of metal, but so are the horseshoes (goatshoes?) on the bottom and it's really hard to get scratches and dents out of your own skin.
He pushes his way out the double doors, already on the lookout for another way in. He's looking up at the fire escape when a descending clutch of lesbians, dressed in their finest aposematic colors, begin to circle.
"I thought I smelled tin and tights." The looming, predatory catgirl sniffs the air at him. Her leather jacket is the same color as the asphalt behind her, but her big ol' calico ears and the baseball bat on her shoulder make it clear she's not interested in stealth. The bat whirls around and catches him on the chin. Her fangs poke through her grin when she forces him to make eye contact. "Purretty impurressive for somenyan who furgot to buy a ticket."
Iron Titan tries to square the circle of "make it clear that he's a real superhero, and so should be exempt from random catgirl-based menacing", "realize he's outnumbered and maybe should not tell these villain-coded queers that he means them harm", and "don't let on that he's aroused by this for reasons he'll have to unpack later."
The conflicting desires pull his head in different directions until they fizzle. The best he can do is the sort of appalled sputter you usually associate with Victorian gentlemen about to drop their monocle into their tea. The only reason he doesn't actually say "I say!" out loud is that the world moves on without him. The only sure thing is that he absolutely failed objective three.
"It's a shame you dressed like a good guy." A goblin, half his height with tits like a watermelon, digs a claw into his tights and gives them a solid snap! E looks up so he can see eir unimpressed sneer. "If I was gonna wear clothes that showed off my cock- and I do-" E leans back to get the tits out of the way of a fist-sized bulge in some awfully tight pants. They're either already ripping around eir thighs or they came pre-torn.
"You'd be much cuter as a villnyan." The catgirl.
"Or a hench." The goblin.
"Or a girl." The towering black draft horse snorts, pink circuitry spreading from the hearts on its flanks up to its tree trunk neck and down to its unshorn fetlocks.
"What's wrong, capesplayer? Furget to get a ticket?"
"Thought you could just claim you were chasing a supervillain to get in?"
"They got wise to that after three separate Justice Cules charged in last year."
"But if you purreally want in."
"You could walk right into the con with us."
"Just part of the herd."
"Nyaturally, we'd have to do something about that outfit."
"Much too hero-coded to hang out with us."
"But I think we could figure something out."
"If you're gonna clawsplay, you gotta bring nyantingencies."
"Needles. Thread. Hot glue."
"And plenty of spares." The goblin spins a short pink wig on eir finger.
"Can't have yourself a wardrobe meowlfunction in furont of everynyan." A claw digs into those tights and starts to pull and pierce. "That's the thing about nyandex. One tear and it all falls apurrt."
"Especially if you get the cheap stuff." Three sharp points drag down his back. His metal skin is barely scratched, but the tiny elastic threads that hold the tights tight to his metal muscles fray and unravel. "Good body paint, though. Got your priorities in order."
The team in front- the cat with the bat, the huge horse, and the goblin with the scary-sharp teeth- advances in unison. The whole ruckus wakes up the rear guard- the pop star, the cheerleader, and the demon- just in time to welcome him into the alley. Those claws never leave his spine.
He panics in that way fresh heroes often do- violence first. They have him surrounded, after all, so it's correct to punch in every direction. He starts with the horse. It's the biggest target and he thinks he can punch it backwards while it's on two legs. His Palladium Piston Punch connects with its chest and does send the horse stumbling backwards into some garbage cans- and invites the other five to close ranks.
"Oooh, a real cape! What a treat." The demon's claws scratch down his exposed back. The way his body swells and bulks up when he does his little punch was enough to shred the rest of his uniform. "Well. A real hero, at least." A boot grinds his cape into the ground. The goblin takes it in all its tattered, torn, faded glory and ties it around eir neck. About an inch of it still drags on the ground.
He tries to make threatening eye contact with everyone at once, fist still charged up and ready to punch. "Look! I'm just here for the ruby! No one else has to get hurt! You saw what happened to your friend." He glances towards the trash cans to see Modemoiselle's henchhorse rising with barely a scratch. Those trash cans absolutely crumpled in the impact, though. It stands up, shakes a few old coffee grounds off, and joins the fray. A single snort at twice his height dares him to try that again.
"Is that all?"
"We could take you to see Mod right meow." The catgirl's bat catches him under the chin again and forces him to gaze into those pink, slitted eyes. He's preparing to Palladium Piston Punch right in her bared fangs and those hungry, shining eyes when she says something to give him paws.
Well, the goblin, with a little lift from the cheerleader, actually puts the paw gloves on his hands, but it's the catgirl that makes him hold still long enough to make that easy.
"Meow's the perfect time to blend in with us." She slides closer so her claws can scratch against his chin. She feels his breath catch in his throat and begin to slow down. He stares, transfixed, at those shimmering eyes.
"Yeah." The goblin takes the opportunity to wrap eir tits around his clearly hard cock. Well. Clearly erect. When you're made of metal, you're kind of always hard. It does sort of unscrew when he's aroused, and that's what's happening here. "We still think you're a cosplayer trying to sneak in."
Which, in a way, he is.
"B-but, I-" His hips thrust and his mind starts to melt.
Fingers snap behind him and his head jerks to look. The demonermaid, with her little red horns poking up through her short hair, grins. Swirling pink smoke slips through her sharp teeth. She takes a deep breath in through her nose, brings two clawed fingers to her lips, and blows a kiss- and Modemoiselle's mind-fogging musk- right into his face.
"Not quite the real thing." Clouds of pink gas leak from her nose when she sneers. "But it should hold you over."
He tries his best to hold his breath, but even iron lungs need air. The goblin headbutts him in the gut between titjob3 strokes to force a desperate gasp for air just in time for the next cloud to hit.
"You know, so long as you pretend to be a cute little brainwashed dolldermaid, we'll take you right to Modemoiselle."
"And we'd be none the wiser~"
His iron eyelids have the weight of titanium. If he didn't know any better- and soon, he won't- he'd swear they're getting denser with every breath. Especially as breaths get shorter and shallower under the goblin titcareer onslaught4. His pretty kitty paws try to grab eir hair and pull em off, but when e sticks fast, he settles for blissful kneading.
"C-cute little brainwashed dolldermaid?" He gasps.
They all nod. It takes the horse a surprising amount of force to pry the goblin off that iron cock. E huffs, of course, until the horse offers to let em finish on it later.
"Rah rah rah and ring the bell! You're infiltrating Mod SO well!"
Modemoiselle's cute little brainwashed dolldermaid nods a little, with the help of the catgirl claws guiding that chin up and down. It's only natural that a dolldermaid, or a hero pretending to be one, would need a little help moving around. "Dolls are made to be played with, after nyall~"
A long, feline tail wrapped around the doll's neck creates a lovely leash. The catgirl stands up straight and proud and joins the gaggle of murdermaids advancing inside the con space like they're returning triumphantly from a heist.
And, in a way, they have.
A quick tug from the horse pulls the back door off its hinges. The sound of metal stretching to its breaking point and bursting under the stress nearly shakes Modemoiselle's newest dolldermaid out of- well, the other murdermaids seem to have settled on "it", so let's say "its musk-minded revelry". But another mouthful of musky pink smoke and a cheerful kiss on the cheek sends it sinking back under their spell just in time to be led through the con floor. The crowds, the sounds of nerdy excitement and conversation, and even the occasional staring attendee, asking their friend "Is that Iron Titan cosplayer with the cock fully out just getting led around by that catgirl? Fuck, I'm jealous.", all just wash over it. Paying attention to things and looking around would risk breaking character, and then it'll never get to infiltrate Miss Modemoiselle's organization deep enough for Mod to gaze into its dull, platinum-heavy eyes and fill its head with wonderful words and sinister thoughts!
There's a lot of winding and wandering through the con floor, far too much for an empty little dolldermaid to keep track of. The frequent spins and turns do a good job of keeping its mainspring wound, though! No matter how much it walks, it's always erect, ready to serve, and bouncing along with a real spring in its step! If it was allowed to feel anything other than blissful and blank, it might feel a little sad when they finally arrive at the door marked "Exhibitor's Lounge". It's dimly aware of the sound of conversation on both sides of the door, but it's too close now to risk breaking its cover! It thrums and leaks with anticipation as the goblin stands on eir toes to beep a key card and open the door.
Whatever parts of Iron Titan hadn't yet been subsumed into the cover perk up. Modemoiselle is sitting right there, legs crossed, laughing that lovely, cackling laugh. The Rapscallion's Ruby sits right between those enthralling thighs! The other maids proudly present their captive. The dolldermaid stands at attention in the presence of its magnificently menacing Miss Modemoiselle. The catgirl bumps its butt with a bat, encouraging it to present itself. It does, of course. Back straight, cock erect, staring straight ahead at Miss Modemoiselle despite how good it would feel to fall asleep in Miss Modemoiselle's big, comfy skunk tail. Its eyes may flick to it once or twice.
"Guess who we found~!" The goblin, tattered cape still hanging proudly around eir neck, displays the dolldermaid like one might present a new car at a game show. "A certain chromium cape thinks he's doing such a good job infiltrating us!"
"And it's such a good undercover dolldermaid." The demon and the cat each scratch down an arm. "It'd almost be a shame to have Iron Titty back."
The undercover dolldermaid beams with pleasure! Sure, its tights are tatters, putting its gay little erection is on full display for Miss Modemoiselle and everyone to see, but that just means it's been such a good scratching post and chew toy! Every scratch and dent and lipstick print is evidence of it being the best doll it can be!
Modemoiselle apologizes to her conversation partners- this'll only take a moment. Lady Laser5 and Stabitha6 nod, understanding and already a little suggestible from Modemoiselle's mind-melting musk. A clawed paw beckons the dolldermaid closer, and it obliges until it's in grabbing range. Mod takes it by the chin, those claws tink-tink-tinking against those metal cheeks. It's staring straight into those vibrant violet eyes, just past Mod's sinfully sharp teeth. "Perhaps we should give Iron Titty a choice, then." That sinister smile only grows. "Dear, if you want to shake off the comforting tick-tick-ticking of your mainspring and cause a scene in front of your fellow murdermaids, feel free to wake up right now, take the ruby, and arrest me. I'll even go with you willingly."
The best Iron Titty can do is make its paw gloves knead a little. Not even a fist.
"Or we can let you sink into my tail and finish what my marvelous Murdermaids started." Mod lets go of its chin and lets it collapse into the waiting tail like a marionette with its strings cut.
Which, in a way, it is.
As Mod's tail coils around it, softness and spray and wonderful words encroaching from all angles, Iron Titty hears one final phrase.
"Good doll."
Well, other than The Fossing Guard, the crossing guard with the powers of free and open source software, but they're a clear outlier. ↩
"No hero ever made the Hot Stories feed on the Mercí Monitor's Broadsheet instance with the safe choice." doesn't quite hit the same. ↩
E would say that they're more like tit careers. They last much longer and they're way more fulfilling and rewarding. ↩
The new Goblin Titcareer Onslaught album is great, by the way. ↩
Stabitha the Knife Wife, for all your edged prop weapon needs! ↩
The plush pads are, each, the size of a cantaloupe. She swears the royal tailor laughed when she ordered them made. Extraordinarily soft sand within provides realistic heft, a few expertly-placed freckles sit just inside the left boob, and producing a dye that matches her skin took months. It is why she insists on a parasol when the sun is out. The bra itself boasts a fine netting to hold the forms in place and squish them into proper cleavage. It comes on unassisted- a skill learned quickly and recently, born from necessity- and she is immediately reminded of how sensitive her nipples are as soon as the forms go in. A sharp breath shoots in through her nostrils. Her eyes snap shut. Her shoulders tense up and her teeth sink into her lower lip.
When she trusts herself to move again, the gown goes on over her head. It was not made with her current chest in mind- it's far too tight. If she were capable of worries beyond the most pressing and immediate, she would worry that the slightest touch would make something pop.
Though, that is the goal.
There is precious little time to look in the mirror. She notices that her violet locks have lost some of their shape. The dress sliding over her head introduced some frizz to her big, bouncy curls. A rapidly fading part of her wants to call the staff to have her hair fixed. A princess must present her best face to the public. The sound of toy impacting flesh in the ballroom makes her cock throb and forces her hand. She is off through the halls.
She practices her voice to herself. Her vocal coach is exacting and the lessons are long. A few short, quick breaths help soften and femme her voice. "Hello." She says to herself, ensuring the vibrations are in the correct small, tight space in her throat. The prince's voice would be a dead giveaway. Her painted, manicured fingers wrap around her throat to double-check, only to rip her hand away when she catches herself squeezing and fantasizing.
The ballroom's siren song grows louder and louder until she arrives at the open door. The laughs, cries, and moans spill forth in equal measure. A deep breath steels her nerves long enough for her to cross the threshold.
A partygoer, more interested in their drink and the princess's breasts to look at her face, offers her a mask from the rack. "Can't have a masquerade without a mask." They explain. The princess puts it on with a regal, practiced "thank you".
It takes a moment of fiddling before she realizes that the mask is more of a hood- she is reminded of the royal falconer's tools, not the court jester. Her vision is limited to what she can see through the pinprick holes before her eyes. The helpful partygoer pulls her hair through the hole in the back, ties it tight, and sends the princess on her way with a slap on the butt. She attempts to bite her finger to quiet the moan, but her hand meets only the unmistakable curve of a leather beak. Her thighs clench and her practiced musical moan joins the sounds of the party.
Just one night, she tells herself. One night free of responsibility and obligation. No worrying about whispers and rumors.
[The four of wands.]
The princess is vaguely aware of the knotted leather strap atop her hood. It occasionally bounces off the back of her head while she walks. She quickly becomes very aware of it when it is grabbed and yanked straight up. The hood's collar tightens around her throat first. Her back shoots up straight and her thighs clench to keep it together.
[Two coins. One head.]
She recognizes the royal falconer's voice. Right down to the tone she uses with the birds- loving, but stern and uncompromising. Honestly, better than what most people get from her. She attempts to look up at the voice above her head, but the hand on the strap insists she look forward. "Ah ah ah, pretty bird. I thought I trained you better than that." A hand, wrapped in a thick leather glove, caresses the bottom of the beak.
"Caw!" Her voice threatens to crack. Her cock strains against her panties. Hot exhales collect inside the hood far faster than they can stream out through the seams and eye holes. "C-caw?"
"My birds speak on command and only on command. And they do not wander off. Do not make me clip your wings." That same leather glove strokes down her arms. It is as thick as it has to be, but the leather has softened from years of use and care. "It would be a shame to deny them the opportunity to serve."
The pretty bird princess nods eagerly.
"A quick learner, at least. Not like some birdbrains I could name." The falconer glares at another of her birds. She digs a heel between its legs. The telltale jingle of a lock against a cage vanishes under its urgent, pleading moans. Its hood only has the top half of the beak, providing easy access to a mouth held open with a metal ring. "You might still be useful." The falconer wraps the princess's soft violet hair around her fist into a makeshift leash. "You even come with a handle." She begins to walk with the princess in tow, a sharp smile splitting her beak-yellow lips.
[The Wheel of Fortune.]
The princess's hair stands on end. The way you get before a thunderstorm or when magic hangs in the air. Memories of her fateful night with the witch echo off the insides of her head. Each unbidden thought makes her pubic hair tingle and her cock leak. Voices fall on her ears, but pretty birds don't listen when people are talking. She is more focused on the hands stroking her beak and petting her feathers. She leans into the touch and lets her eyes flutter shut. A silly smile spreads across her beak as she drifts towards empty, birdy bliss.
[Two coins. Two heads.]
A voice comes through, clear as a bell. Dripping with honey and impossible to resist. "You are a pretty bird, aren't you?"
She puffs her chest out and stands up straight. "Caw!" Proudly and with absolutely no thought to the timbre of her voice.
Soon, there will be no thoughts at all.
A rapidly disappearing part of herself recognizes the work of a sinister enchantrix. That part wastes the last of her energy attempting to thrash away from that wonderful touch before falling blissfully blank. The rest simply hangs on those wonderful words. Pretty birds don't have to worry or think. They're so well-trained.
"Such beautiful plumage." The honeyed voice remarks. A clawed hand traces over the pretty bird's breast and down the belly. A bird with more of its wits about it would notice the sound of tearing fabric, spilling sand, and suppressed laughter. But pretty birds only know what they are told to know. "I wonder what is underneath. Shall we find out?"
The falconer nods. "Feathers up, pretty bird." Its wings lift the front of its autumnal feathers with a minimum of fumbling. Its thighs clench close around its birdy bulge.
More conversation goes in one ear and out the other. The pretty bird stands, awaiting orders, for as long as is needed. The pleasure of servitude is all it requires. A heavy glove caresses the bird's bulge with surprising dexterity. It is tempted to caw, but pretty birds speak only on command. Instead, it simply puffs its bulge out for inspection, content with knowing it is doing the right thing.
The night is a blur. The pretty bird is paraded around, shown off, and told to help with this or that. It whips, it spanks, it presents its holes for shafts and plugs. Its beak is ridden for pleasure and used as a handle with hardly a break in between. What was once its underwear is thoroughly soaked through and discarded, and its outer plumage is soon to follow. Pretty birds need only their hood. Her fluffy chest is moved to another partygoer so it can slide its cock between the plush breasts.
And that is when the curse breaks.
Thick white cum spatters on her partner, on her falconer, and on her body. The fog begins to clear and thoughts begin to dribble in. When her eyes can focus through the pinholes again, she gets the sense that the whole party is looking at her. A voice hangs in the air. Hers. And not the one she'd like to be hers.
The princess runs. She gets halfway to the window before a familiar hand grabs her hair and she has to fight the urge to let the pretty bird back in.
"Excuse me, Princess. You didn't even say 'thank you'."
The princess's party presence became an open secret among the castle's staff. For once, she's happy to hear the rumors- it's the only way she's going to remember anything that happened. She does, mostly, manage to keep the chatter to a dull roar with a simple question- how would you know if you weren't also there? Her new reputation has its bright spots and its downbeats- she has to pretend not to notice the bird puns for years to come, but her partners that night have nothing but praise for the pretty bird.
When she finally takes the throne, she rules with a just and even hand- that is what her most trusted falconer tells her, after all.
Pretty birds believe what they are told.
]]>Graceful Spark trots a brisk circle around her latest victim. Looking them up and down and occasionally swatting with her tail. Her hooves clippity-clop against the Spark and Bean's wooden floor. "Well, a lot of this is unfortunate." She steps on their toes on this lap. "I didn't know you could get isekai'd wrong. Weird. Fortunately, it's fixable."
They try to run out the door when Spark leaves to throw a few oversized switches. It's locked and guarded by a maredermaid, of course.
"Dear, please. This is for your own good. We won't get to Equestria Girls for a year or so, and even then, it's not like the humans come hang out in Ponyville. They're barely normal about zebras, I think they're gonna have a hard time with fingers and toes."
Beans drags them back to their seat just in time for the Horsefemmer Deluxe to finish booting. "Don't worry, dear. You'll make SUCH a pretty pony when we're done with you."
The final switch is thrown. Spark cackles. A red and gold beam focuses in on its victim. Their fingers merge into soft little hooves. Their feet stomp on the ground until their shoes slip off to reveal a matching set of gay little marshmallow hoofers. Spark whispers in those perky pony ears about how they're SUCH a pretty pony and how they're SO happy here in Ponyville and how they're SO good at-" A beat to check their cutie mark. "-magnets? Weird. Everypony loves your maregnetic ponysonality."
They nod, empty little smile spreading across their snout.
"Good girl. You'll fit right in."
]]>I flip over the first card. It says "Street you grew up on."
"Don't think too hard. Should be easy, what with all the drugs. First thing that comes to mind."
"Dixon Lane." The words come out. That's, uh, not where you grew up. I guess it is now, it's not like the old information's there any more.
I flip over the card and grin across the table. "Good! Just four hundred and ninety-nine more to go."
]]>From the journal of Prof. Julie Duval (IAF)
03/28/43, 15:23
I don't think we'll ever truly understand these. There's so much to learn about their morphology, their behavior, even where they came from. Everything we do know came at a great human cost. I've recorded nearly fifty different variations on the same body plan. Triple that if you include the mutations I've confirmed firsthand. I've been trying to assemble the scant rumors of drones rapidly mutating astonishing new capabilities and carapace coloration. If even half of these are true, I worry we may never be able to catalog every possible variation, much less stamp this cancer out once and for all.
04/03/43, 08:14
They aren't natural. Even if they were an evolved species at some point, there's evidence of experiments turning some existing being into these colony-destroying parasites. This goes a long way to explaining their remarkable genetic diversity. If the only common ancestor is some experimental parasite, it means whatever monsters created these things wanted to find the best possible hosts for their sick experiments. If the anthropogenic hypothesis offers one ray of hope, it's that we can find some kind of cure. Both for our sake and theirs. I have to believe there's still a chance to cure the galaxy of this alien swarm. There's got to be a better way than risking IAF lives and detonating stations after every last human's been dead for weeks.
04/14/43, 20:42
I've been exchanging correspondence with Dr. Scenario. It's still early days while we figure out if we can trust each other, but she has some fascinating data. She's not IAF, but that may be for the best. I worry my research into the swarm is a career-limiting move, especially after what happened on Nam Humanum, but I have to know. If I can prove where they came from- if they came from anywhere at all- it's possible no one will ever have to die to these things again. Perhaps one day, I'll be able to walk down a dark hallway without hearing phantom skittering over my shoulder.
04/20/43, 18:35
Helvetica's making a lot of sense. I suspect my days with the IAF are numbered. She's promised me a place in the Office- not that she'll tell me what that means. If it's somewhere I can study the swarm with some actual support from command, I'll jump ship in a heartbeat. The only issue is whether to trust when my gut tells me I'm at a global maximum right now. It's possible that any move I make is the wrong one. I can't tell if I'm about to make a deal with the devil, take a life preserver off this sinking ship, or paint a target on my back.
04/20/43, 23:55
I now realize the devil may carry a life vest in one hand and a paintbrush in the other.
From the journal of Bur Nable (Nanotrasen)
The thing about space is that it keeps coming up with new and exciting ways to kill you. They invented a mouth on legs that spits acid at you and the best defense is a somersault. We had to work out a system where one of us distracts it with acrobatics and bullets while everyone else hits it with a stick. If they ever figure out how to look up or down, it's gonna be a lot more work for us. It's like these space bugs don't even care that I have other work to do. You can tell them these science crates have somewhere to be, but they're not gonna listen. I'm not even sure they have ears. Just legs and a mouth.
Just the other day, I was trying to get some space lunch. They had acid orb soup, acid orb pie, acid orb pizza, you name it. Turns out one of these bugs got loose in the kitchen and our chef made the best of it. I don't recommend it- I got nasty heartburn and the doctor kept asking if I was lying. They tell you that you can roll around to avoid the spitballs, but that doesn't work when they're already inside you. I feel like if I had dodgerolled while eating the soup, it would have gone down a lot more easily.
Some clown tried juggling the acid balls once and I'll be the first to admit it was pretty funny until their gloves started to melt. It was even funnier when they tried to wash it off in the soup, and hilarious when it melted right through their horn. It's a shame- they were doing great at the tactical clown rolls until they decided to show off. I like to think we all learned a valuable lesson about clowning around when there's acid bugs scuttling around: it can be really good if you do it right.
If there's any consolation, it's that they like to sleep as much as anyone. I found one sleeping in my bunk last night and it was just easier to let sleeping bugs lie. They don't spit so much when they're all curled up with their legs over their face and the only thing worse than getting melted by a bug in your bed is having everyone get mad at you for waking them up with a gunshot. Honestly, I've had worse bunkmates. They don't hog the blankets or pillows and they help regulate the temperature under the covers. Just make sure you get up before it does.
I'm starting to think they're not so bad if you know how to take care of them. The right diet, rich in calcium carbonate and bismuth subsalicylate, can take a lot of bite out of the acid. Frequent belly rubs, leg massages, and daily walks keep Bug Report here mostly docile, even if they do still try to melt the leash when I'm not looking. I want to ask the doctor if there's some kind of surgery or gene mod for the acid, but she just asks if I'm trying to make soup again and laughs me out of the room. I don't know how to tell her that she's the one that can control the rate at which the bug produces soup ingredients.
From the journal of Prof. Julie Duval (IAF)
04/25/43, 09:55
There are entire species out there I could never have theorized. Helvetica's been leaking me documents that outline completely novel alien species. These "shielded bugs" have indestructible natural armor on one end and a very vulnerable-looking glowing blob on the other. If these are, in fact, the product of genetic engineering, the implications are staggering. Could we create IAF marines that are harder to kill? Or an organic source of armor plates so we don't have to scavenge scrap metal to reinforce the hull? If a living thing can be modified to produce something like this, we should be able to do so much more with this technology. If we're starting from immunity to bullets, resistance to disease and infection should be trivial. I only hope I get the chance to use it for good.
04/26/43, 11:09
It's becoming abundantly clear that the Interstellar Armed Forces have no interest in my research. The meatheads in command won't even listen to what I have to say. I can claim it's going to save money or time or lives, but as soon as they catch a whiff of alien research, they kick me out. "Our job is to shoot aliens, Professor Duval." This is usually when they stand up and start yelling. I can still feel the flecks of angry spit on my face. "Not share DNA with them." They usually use much stronger language. I worry they don't truly understand the aims of my work, but that may be for the best. If they're not going to appreciate my research now, it'd be disastrous if they tried to use it without me. I shudder to think what the bosses here would do with no expertise, no oversight, and wild dreams of what they can accomplish with genetic engineering. Even if my research really is useless, I have to make sure the IAF doesn't use it to create another scourge.
05/02/43, 08:32
I'm pulling the trigger. Exit strategy implemented. No turning back now. I'm deleting what I can get away with and falsifying what I can't. Just a little bit every day. By the time I leave, I'll have the only real copy. Helvetica says she's preparing a place for me at the Office. If I'm lucky, I'll find out what OCM stands for. It's either that or I'm making a powerful enemy and burning every bridge I have because a pretty redhead made me realize how much I hate my job. At least, that's what she tells me. You don't exactly attach pictures of yourself when you're exchanging confidential messages about alien biology, work conditions, and sedition. Every morning I wonder if this is the right choice and every night I poison a little more data. I'll know whether I'm making the right move soon enough. I'm guessing it's either the Office of Cyclical Momentum or the Office of Constant Mystery.
05/05/43, 09:55
The IAF is onto me. I can't prove it, but I swear the chain of command is freezing me out. Nobody wants to eat with me. I have to scan my badge a few times before the doors open. Every time I log in to the network, I worry it's not going to work this time. I've always been able to hear the footsteps echoing in the hall outside. I don't have the luxury of tuning them out any more. They get louder all the time. One day, they'll stop outside and haul me off.
I'm being paranoid, I know. They'll do it while I'm asleep. Less struggle that way. I've signed and sealed my devil's bargain. All that's left to do is wait and see if she delivers. They warned me the devil will be attractive, and that's helping more than I'd like to admit right now. T-minus 12 hours. Time to get everything as ready as I can without broadcasting my intentions. I know they're watching the cameras.
05/05/43, 22:20
It worked. I'm still in shock, but it worked. I can feel the relief already. Stress I didn't know I had is starting to melt off. Unless this is part of some extremely long con by the IAF to punish me, I'm free. The kind of person who rises through the ranks of the Interstellar Armed Forces is pointlessly cruel, staggeringly narrow-minded, and fundamentally angry. These are undeniably terrible traits to have in a boss, but they are, at least, predictable. They are not the kind of people who stage a phony escape and print up a coffee mug to teach someone a lesson.
So, here I am. Home free. I have my notes, I have my mug, and I have someone I can trust. She was telling the truth about her hair, by the way. Welcome to the Office of Consensus Maintenance, Julie.
From the journal of Dr. Brad Irwing (AMBER)
Okay. BOOMERs. Specimen 2'15'15'13'5'18. Where do I even start? Terrifying things. They're all terrifying, but I have to start somewhere. If you're reading this, I hope you'll help or know someone who can. People have been killed for trying to blow this whistle. I know I'm not special- I just can't keep quiet about it any more. I've done everything I can to stop these horrible experiments from within and all it's going to get me is a bullet in the head. I don't even have a good idea what they're doing. I know they're making these alien murder machines and setting them loose on an unsuspecting galaxy. I know they're going to do everything they can to stop this information getting out.
This, unfortunately, means that they might go after you. Whoever you are, we have to stop them. They can't kill all of us. The aliens can. I've seen what these specimens can do. Just one of them can explode and fill a whole room with these horrible yellow blobs. I saw the security camera footage. I saw the furniture just instantly reduced to splinters and shrapnel. I watched people I knew- friends and coworkers- vanish too fast for the security cameras to see. All that's left of them are the stains on the wall. These horrible, wretched things have to be eradicated. They're a wound on the galaxy that's only going to get wider and deeper unless we treat it. It's up to us to stem the bleeding and help it heal.
Whoever you are, I'm sorry you've been dragged into this. If it were up to me, all the data would have been burned ages ago. We'd have shot these damn things into the sun and forgotten about it. But it's too late for that now. Blood has already been spent trying to beat these horrible things back, and it's going to take a lot more before the galaxy can rest easy. The real monsters at AMBER are the executives and managers that let it get this far. The real boomers we should have killed are the wretched old men who think the galaxy belongs to them. The aliens can really only kill a roomful of people at a time and they're nice enough to make it quick. The humans in charge have been slowly squeezing the life out of everyone they can get their hands on. They've been grinding thousands of people, soul-first, into dust for years. I can't believe it took an outbreak of living bombs for me to notice.
If there were any justice in this universe beyond what we make ourselves, their own murderous mutants would have killed them already. The first alien creature they weaponized should have nestled right into their laps and ended it all in a shower of golden, pulsating comeuppance. If someone had the foresight to shove one in the right board room at the right time, we wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have to sit here begging the unfeeling universe to do what's right. Captain Bark. Head Doc. Wanman. Schmitz. I know you're out there. I know you saw my name on this message and you've already signed the order to have me killed. I know I can't stop you, so I'm going to keep doing this until the universe is safe or you put the bullet in my head yourselves.
I'll be waiting.
From the journal of Bur Nable (Nanotrasen)
02/13/53, 02:20
One of the reasons I moved to space is that there's no bugs here. You never have to worry about a mosquito bite or walking into a spiderweb unless you're an astroentomologist or something. One of the reasons I think about moving back home is that the thing about bugs is a lie. Space invented giant, angry fireflies that make your eyes go all blurry and unleashed them on the space station. Let me tell you, you would not believe your eyes if ten million fireflies lit up the world as you fell asleep. For one thing, it's really hard to believe your eyes when it's dark in the barracks and the bugs keep messing with your vision. The only thing you can believe is that you're not getting any rest tonight.
02/14/53, 19:57
Anyone in my situation would be terrified of the silent killer, Bug In Mouth Disease. So, naturally, I discussed it with the captain, got my access upgraded, and grabbed a space helmet from the emergency EVA supplies. As a bonus, the built in welding-grade visor meant the glowing particles only lightly roasted my corneas. I kept my eyes closed on the way out, since it's not like I could see anything through the thick layer of caked-on bug corpses. I made my way to engineering with a radio full of bug guts and tried to pantomime that I wanted a windshield wiper for my face. It hasn't worked so far, but I have a good feeling about tomorrow. I've gotten mean emails from the mail room, hydroponics, and the bar, so I'll get there at some point. At least Bug Report, my darling pet ranger, has been great moral support.
02/16/53, 14:12
I can't even enjoy my time off any more. It was Saturday night, so I was trying to fill my locker with bees and cheeseburgers, but I couldn't find any dang bees. I guess I could fill it with buzzers and cheeseburgers, but the buzzers don't really need my help. It's not even easy to get normal burgers these days- the cafeteria's mostly serving bugs on buns and hoping nobody notices. I haven't tried the buzzburgers because, you know, the disease. I asked the chef if they have some kind of aerosol cheeseburger I can hook up to my helmet's oxygen supply and eat that way, but they mostly sounded confused and angry. I got chased out before I said they could call 'em "breathesburgers".
02/16/53, 18:20
I'm still wiperless. I'm pretty sure I got to the right place this time, but everyone sounded real upset about some big, sucking hole. So I implemented Plan B. Plan Bug, for long. I clipped a leash onto Bug Report's collar and pressed them into service as a seeing-eye bug. I will admit I forgot to check if they have eyes, but I figure they have a better idea of what's going on than I do. Honestly, it's working pretty well so far. Bug Report has a reasonable enough idea of where I'm supposed to be at any given time, even if we do find ourselves at the pharmacy for bug food more often than usual. The only real problem is that my requests for an acid-proof leash and collar keep getting delayed because "we're a little busy with the hull breach." Honestly, I think they're still mad about the time Bug Report melted their boots. Even after the apology acid!
02/17/53, 13:30
Well, I can take my helmet off and breathe easy now. Turns out we had kind of a kill a zillion bugs with one hole situation while I was giving Bug Report their daily belly rubs. Someone tried to set off a bug bomb, it turned out to be more of a regular bomb, and, well, it got rid of the bugs. Some of the rude engineers aren't around any more and I can put all the bees and cheeseburgers I like in my locker, so it's a happy ending for everyone. The only real problem is that Bug Report expects walks all the time now, and I just can't say no those big, glowing puppy dog probably-eyes. They finally started processing my requests for a basic collar to neutralize the acid, but they keep sending me these boring ones that melt like all the others.
From the journal of Shaun Ming (SynTek)
12/30/52, 23:19
I had to kill him. I had to look him in the eye and pull the trigger. His bloodshot eyes, paralyzed with silent terror, stared back. It's carved into the inside of my brain. I see his brain spattered against against the ground when I close my eyes. The shot rings inside my skull at every quiet moment. The latex gloves came off with the flick of a wrist, but the blood won't leave my hands. This is my fault. I had to go and play God with these damn eggs. I knew how quickly they could spread. I knew they'd breached containment before and they could do it again. I just had to know. I had to verify my theories. I had to know if I was right about the rapid tissue synthesis sequences I found in the genome. And I was. I was absolutely right. I was right enough to kill almost every damned soul on board, and I'm only alive because of my own sloppy work.
I should have been punished for my hubris. I flew too close to the sun and should have fallen into the freezing, consuming ocean. I should have fed myself to them to prove my brilliant goddamn theories. They need warm flesh to breed and grow. Maybe someone more responsible would have kept the rest of the eggs on ice until they could burn the lot of them to the ground. Maybe the project would have been forgotten and nobody else would have had to deal with this. I should have climbed on the eggs in the cargo hold, made sure the airlock was pointed at the nearest star, and opened the hatch without a helmet. Maybe then I could have done something for the universe and actually earned that Nobel.
Annotation from Dr. Helvetica Scenario (OCM) // 06/16/53, 13:02
Or maybe someone else would do the exact same thing a few months later because you died wallowing in pity like a big baby instead of trying to make sure this never happens again. Sorry. That's not very professional of me. Neither is letting your experiment boil over and become a problem for someone else to deal with. A lot of people died cleaning up your mess, Shaun. The least you could have done is publish your findings so I didn't have to endanger my team looking for answers. They went through hell and found your journal.
You knew that what you were doing was wrong, and what did you do? You spent all your time sneaking around and hiding as much information as possible from anyone who might try to stop you. You knew the consequences and you didn't care. You just wanted your big, prestigious paper. You messed up. We agree on that. We've all messed up. The difference between you and me is that I try to make it right. You're lucky I got here first. Do you know how many governments would kill for a bioweapon like this? Especially since you didn't bother to tell anyone that fire almost completely neutralizes the threat? I had to read it out of your damn diary. Great science, Shaun.
End Annotation
Maybe I can still get out of here alive. Fire would consume precious oxygen and risk trapping me inside, but I think I remember something about live wires. They escaped the containment through the vents, but they didn't use the electrical conduits. At least, not when they had a choice. I'm surprised I never noticed that behavior before. It's fascinating- I'd love to set up a maze and electrify different routes to see where they do and don't tread and- I'm getting distracted. If I'm half the brilliant scientist I was last week, I should be able to get out. Let's see if I can get the right amount of current on the outside of my clothes. The batteries in the spare oxygen scrubbers should be a good start.
From the journal of Bur Nable (Nanotrasen)
03/22/53, 22:23
Well, the good news is that I met Bug Report's big sister. The bad news is that some days you just can't get rid of a bug bomb. A new kind of larger, acid-spitting space insect just dropped, and they assigned me to deal with the problem. I assume it's because I did such a good job with the buzzer infestation and because I can get Bug Report to sit on command about 41 percent of the time. That's my best guess. My commanding officer just shouted "Bur! Bug! Go!" over the radio and I kinda had to go from there. I'm not totally sure if I'm supposed to train the bug or kill her or what. I've been calling her Big Report.
So I took the bug bowling. I figured that if she wants to spit orbs, the least she can do is aim it away from anything that screams- which does mean we have to replace the screen that keeps score. I think the sudden music and dancing bowling pins gave her mixed messages, so I can't really blame her for blowing it up. It's not like it's hard to keep score for her - turns out it's really easy to bowl a strike every time when the balls explode. She doesn't even need bumpers! Which is fortunate, because they're splinters now. The tricky part is trying to get her to shoot forward instead of up. There's no rule that says you have to roll the ball, I guess, but I feel like air striking the pins is against the spirit of the game.
The main problem is that we are running out of usable pins. The other bowlers are starting to get upset that they have to bowl with less than a full set. I tried to tell them about the history of the sport - they used to bowl with eight or nine pins back in the day, and they liked it! I tried calling it a throwback night, but now balls are flying everywhere but the lanes. It's one way to save wear and tear on the pins, but it's rough on the carpet, chairs, and other bowlers. Personally, I think it adds a fun twist when you gotta play dodgeball and rollball at the same time.
03/25/53, 23:08
It is setting a bad example for Big Report, though. She was doing so good at the bowling alley until Throwback Night surprised her. I thought bugsketball would be a perfect fit for her, but the less said about that, the better. So I'm changing tactics again and signing her up for the baseball team. She's got a great pitching mouth on her, so I figured we could use that. I haven't gotten her to throw baseballs yet, but the bombs are really motivating the batters and fielders to do their best. Plus, now every home run comes with its own fireworks display. The only problem is that nobody wants to play catcher. I offered to make the padding thicker and more acid-resistant, but I'm thinking we're just gonna have to use the bomb shelter as a backstop for the time being.
03/28/53, 18:52
Well, today was the big Space Series championship. Big Report pitched, of course, for the Upper Deck Robust Rookies against the Lower Deck Bosco Orbs. True to their name, the Orbs managed to genetically engineer some ball-shaped basebees to play outfield. I think they heard we had an insect player and refused to be outdone. The bees are not as effective as you might think - they find it hard to lift the gloves and put them in the way of the ball, even if they can fly. They mainly affect the game by being about the same shape as a baseball, so you gotta make sure you're getting tagged out by the right orb. If you get tagged out by a bee, you can keep running! I did manage to get Big Report spitting baseballs before the big game, even if they are covered in a thin layer of time bomb juice. This usually led to the balls either going off in the catcher's mitt (relatively harmless once we armored the glove) or exploding in midair after the hit. Very pretty, but it turns out that if the ball explodes, you have to field all the pieces. Long story short, the mercy rule made us call the game once we were losing 68 to 1. I still count it as a success. It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you taught a bomb-spitting space bug to play the game.
From the journal of Dr. Brad Irwing (AMBER)
Good news, I'm still alive. I had a few close calls, but those monsters at AMBER haven't gotten me yet. This one's for you, Captain Bark. Guess they were right about your bite. I still have both my pant legs and, of course, all of my notes about your dirty little experiments. Look at that, we got Head Doc's signature on a lot of these. A certain someone signed off on the HARVESTER project! Specimen 8'1'18'22, here we go. These guys are nasty. You monsters weren't content with wretched mutants choking the life out of the galaxy one by one, you had to make a whole line of mutant factories. Couldn't do all the dirty work yourself, so you made a damn pyramid scheme. Why make one problem when you can make an infestation that festers and multiplies? Brilliant work all around. Give yourselves some medals.
I guess it only makes sense. Capitalists rarely do their own dirty work. They have people for that. They withhold your livelihood and make you dance to their tune if you want to eat. They don't say it like that, of course. They don't have to. They just make sure food costs money and they just so happen to have a paying job right here. The job might not even be so bad. Maybe you email spreadsheets around to make sure the murderous mutants have enough food to grow up big and strong. For every one black-hearted monster strip-mining life from the universe, there's thousands of people who are forced, implicitly or otherwise, to spend their precious remaining years making it happen. Why put yourself in harm's way when you can run away, hide somewhere safe, and send your underlings to do it for you?
And once you realize this, the walls start closing in. You might not be consciously aware of it or be able to put words to the feeling, but you can feel it pushing at the corners of your mind. Just constantly squeezing you in its vice grip. The job isolates you because capital doesn't want you to have friends or loved ones. That would get in the way of work. If you don't work hard enough, you won't get to do any more work. You can go starve to death somewhere out of the way. Get back to selling the sand in your hourglass, grain by grain, peasant.
Of course, actual peasants got more time off.
There's a way out, of course. They need us more than we need them, and they can't kill all of us. Especially if all the guys holding the guns realize they're getting a raw deal, too. That's the thing - we're all in this together. The catch is that it only works if we do it together. They'll try every trick in the book to force us back to work. They'll break our legs. They'll let us starve. They'll put guns to our heads. They'll hire goddamn Pinkertons to blend in with us and drive us apart. They'll load up an armored transport with the biggest guns they can find and fire in every direction because they might hit someone who dared to want a better life and scare everyone else into falling in line. They know what happens when you hit them where it hurts. If there's one thing I've learned from these specimens, it's that when they show you their weak point, you take the shot.
That's why I know you're coming for me, Captain. I'm the thorn in your side. The xenomite in your ointment. The kick in your teeth. I'm just going to get worse unless you can pluck me out. Go ahead and try. I'm going to keep spreading your secrets across the galaxy until one of us is dead. So go ahead. Keep picking at me. Keep swatting at that fly. By all means, expose your big, glowing weak point. If we all shoot, we can't miss. We only have to get lucky once.
From the journal of Dr. Brad Irwing (AMBER)
Speaking of big, glowing weak points and obnoxious parasites, I bring you specimen 24'5'14'15, codename XENOMITE. Can't talk about harvesters without talking about their exploding babies. The main reason harvesters are dangerous are because of these little monsters. The thick, choking smoke to the fire with acidic skin. That's the thing about being trapped in a burning building. You'll choke to death with burning lungs long before your skin sears. The foot soldiers and hired thugs will leave you battered and broken long before those gilded hands even have to try to wring your throat. I have to assume that's why you keep sending your grunts after me, General. Can't put in an honest day's work and risk me fighting back, right?
If you are one of those grunts, I want you to know that I have nothing against you. If anything, I have more in common with you than you have with your boss. We're both being exploited and forced to do violence against people who don't deserve it. How may other whistleblowers have you scared into silence? How many people have you shot for doing the right thing? I can give you a list of people who do deserve it, but they're all names you've heard before. Your boss is having you kill me instead of the exploding bugs with asses full of acid. What does that say about his priorities? He's burning your house down and making you shoot the firefighters.
The sand of our lives ruthlessly slips through our fingers with every passing moment. We cannot stem the tide. The best we can do is make the most of the time we have and, perhaps, do our best to keep the flow running a little longer. For example, if someone's genetically engineering a scourge of skin-melting bugs designed to overrun the whole damn galaxy, that's going to cut a lot of lives very short. Including your own. Whoever you are, whoever's out there, I don't know how else to say that this is an existential threat to life in this galaxy. Every passing moment brings us closer to the point of no return.
That's the message here, right? "Xenomites of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your acid sacs!" It's not a perfect metaphor, I'll admit. The xenomite is spawned from the harvester and lives just long enough to burst, covering its enemies in acid. We are not born from the capitalist, and we can live long, fulfilling lives if we don't burst for their benefit. We owe nothing to the corrosive creature that sits on top of the food chain, demanding that we lay down our lives for nothing in return. The harvester only provides the bare minimum to the xenomite to get it to perform its suicidal task. I don't have to tell you that it sounds like a raw deal for the xenomite. And, might I add, that the harvester would be rendered defenseless without them.
Well, all the theory in the galaxy won't help if you don't put it into practice. I can stand here giving my pretty speeches to the uncaring galaxy until the end of time, or I can prove I'm right. If you've been following me this far, I want to thank you. I hope I'm no longer fighting the good fight alone. If you're one of the rat bastards who put us in this situation, I hope to see your head flushed out of an airlock some day. If you're one of the fine folks who's been shooting at me for the last few weeks, I suppose I'll see you soon.
If you don't hear from me again, you can probably guess what happened.
From the journal of Bur Nable (Nanotrasen)
04/02/53, 20:18
We're developing a reputation as the space station that knows what to do with bugs. After Bug Report and Big Report, everyone else started unloading their bugs on us. We've got crates full of bees, mosquitos, and tiny microphones. We can put most of them to good use easily enough. Bees go to botany, mosquitos go to the bloodatorium, and I think I've bugged basically every room in the station at this point. Anyone can talk to anyone else from anywhere! The noise is unbearable, but I think it's a price worth paying for progress. The toughest nut to crack so far has been this weird doctor bug that showed up in a crate one day. We sent her over to medical, so we'll see if they appreciate that long, weird tongue.
04/05/53, 15:22
So, the doctors really love the new bug, but not for the reason I hoped. I assumed that, since the new guy is really good at fixing up other bugs, they could put her to work fixing up humans, too. And she does do that. The healing lick works great. The wrinkle is that it fills in the gaps with bug. We have guys who were missing legs that are now click-clacking down the hall happy as can be on chitinous little points. Half the cafeteria staff have scald-proof exoskeletons on their arms to fearlessly reach into soup. The bartender's got a big, bioluminescent acid sac where his eye used to be, and he loves it. Every time I see him at work, he's positively glowing and the drinks have more of a kick than ever.
Naturally, the doctors find this fascinating. They keep saying stuff about "exciting new genetic research opportunities" and "a way to save money on cybernetics" and "finally, I can become my bugsona". Everyone is just a big fan of the bug. They're practically lining up to get a blast of that good, good healing tongue. Can you really call it "healing" if you're plugging the holes with spicy new bug goop instead of good old fashioned human flesh? The folks with the brand new arms seem to think so, and they seem like the experts here.
04/06/53, 14:01
All this talk about spicy new bug goop made me hungry, so me and Bug Report paid a visit to the cafeteria. Big Report's been pretty busy with baseball practice, so we don't see her very much. Bug and I have a pretty good little routine where I eat and they loaf on my lap and eat whatever happens to fall. I usually have to drop a few antacids at the same time so they don't leak too much acid, but it works well enough. Today's lunch was this canister of liquified hamburgers, superheated and served as a vapor. Bug Report here must really like steamed hams - they got so excited, they clawed and melted right through my jumpsuit legs. So, naturally, I sought out our local mender to see if it could do anything about my bare legs. She could! It didn't do what I expected - my clothes are still in terrible shape - but all those little leg scratches got smoothed out with a shiny new layer of exoskeleton.
04/20/53, 06:09
Good news! Everyone's bugs! It happened so slowly, I don't think we noticed until it was too late. Every time we'd get a bump or a scrape, we'd take it by the mender to get mended up and get a little buggier every time. And, to be, clear, this rules. Everybug's skittering on the walls and ceilings so the hallways are now four times more efficient. I eat mostly sugar water and nectar, so I don't have to deal with whatever the cafeteria staff cook up unless I want to. Plus, me and Bug Report are closer than ever. Nobug's really scared of them any more and I'm starting to really dig the rhythm we get when our legs tap down the hall together. I just hope this nasty case of acid reflux dies down soon. I think it's starting to melt my teeth.
In conclusion, the real bugs were the friends we made into bugs along the way.
From the journal of Shaun Ming (SynTek)
12/31/52, 01:24
The electricity worked! I stripped a few meters of spare wire and wrapped it around my clothes. Some thick rubber gloves made sure I didn't immediately electrocute myself, and I was off to the races. The main wrinkle is that my head remains extremely exposed, but so far so good. I honestly think they can sense the electromagnetic field and that pushes them away. This implies you could effectively repel them with an antenna cut to the right length and relatively little current. The cables and electricity have got to be a relatively inefficient way of emitting the power. I'll have to sit down and do the math later to see if I can figure out the exact frequencies that repel them. Maybe I'll get lucky and find up a spectrum analyzer later. For now, I must bravely press on.
I have hit a problem I cannot solve with electricity alone. A vast stretch of biomass blocks my path. It quivers when I approach with the electricity, but I don't think it could move out of the way if it wanted to. Come to think of it, can it even want things? It certainly likes to eat corpses, but that might be in the same way a wood chipper likes to eat branches. Regardless. I'm getting distracted. This hallway is biomass, walls, floor, and ceiling, as far as the eye can see. I wanted rapid tissue generation and I sure as hell got it. It sure doesn't like fire - there I go again, anthropomorphizing it - but this base's atmosphere has an exquisitely combustible oxygen/nitrogen ratio and thing is way too big to shove into a furnace. Is this the dead end I deserve for daring to reach beyond my grasp?
Annotation from Dr. Helvetica Scenario (OCM) // 06/18/53, 11:11
Those were not spare wires, you- Sorry. Unprofessional. You ripped those out of the fire suppression system and left bare, live wires just hanging out of the wall. You didn't even cut them properly, you just grabbed and yanked. Because, hey, why do things the right way and make someone else's life easier when you can try to escape the consequences of your actions and leave a fire hazard in your wake? Your cute stunt with the "spare" oxygen scrubber batteries left the atmosphere unbreathable. People died. Endangering my team is one thing - they signed up for this. They knew they were going somewhere dangerous and did it anyways in the pursuit of knowledge and to help humanity. Not to win a damn Nobel, Shaun. There were innocent people on that station. People who didn't notice the air slowly turning to poison around them until it was too late.
For every self-proclaimed genius that just takes what he wants without thinking about the world he claims to want to save, there's people like me who have to clean up afterwards. Someone has to go back over the earth you salted and see if there's anything worth salvaging. I've read your notes, Shaun. I know what your coworkers and bosses had to say about you. My team braved the hellscape you created for this information, the least I can do is make sure nobody has to deal with your… let's say "unique approach to problem solving". I do my research. I think about what I'm going to do before I do it. Information isn't free, Shaun. Good information, reliable information, comes at a steep cost. Sometimes that price is paid in blood. And if you have that, if you have something people died to bring you, the absolute least you can do is make sure that price never has to be paid again. If you really were half the "brilliant scientist" you claim to be, you'd have thought about a single living soul other than yourself instead of locking the fire exits.
End Annotation
Fire. The only way to deal with biomass is fire. It's infested the vents and occupied the doorways. There's no other way out. Electricity doesn't work. Acids don't work. Bases don't work. I thought the sodium bicarbonate would help neutralize the corrosive skin, but I think it just made the biomass angry. Sorry, anthropomorphizing again. I suppose I'm going to find out when I burn it. It's okay. I'm the genius that got us into this situation, I can get me out of it. I think I know where I can get a blowtorch. Just a little heat, delicately applied, should cut a swath right through the middle. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner.
From the journal of Shaun Ming (SynTek)
12/31/52, 03:24
Alright. Things happened. I couldn't find a blowtorch, so I made do with a can of pressurized lubricant and Helen's secret lighter. Not that it's really a secret if you lock it in a drawer every time someone walks in. And, well, it worked on the biomass. Turns out there's a reason they don't let you bring open flame into the complex. The entire hallway just went up instantly. Lubricant touched flame and the fireball did not stop where it should have. The biomass is gone, but so are most of my hair and clothes. Turns out I was right about the oxygen mix. Once again my own brilliance curses me with foresight, but not the ability to prevent the inevitable. I'm a tragic genius, tortured by a world that refuses to understand me.
12/31/52, 03:30
So. Status report. The fireball consumed a lot of breathable air, and the oxygen scrubbers aren't working for some reason. There's some smaller blazes that the fire suppression system isn't dealing with, so that's worrying. The atmosphere is rapidly becoming unbreathable. There should be emergency EVA equipment nearby. The question is whether I can get there before I pass out. Wish me luck. If I don't make it, I will assume it was the universe choosing to punish me one last time because I dared to dream big. Nothing between me and sweet, sweet oxygen but these slimy little larvae.
Annotation from Prof. Julie Duval (OCM) // 06/20/53, 16:00
Officially taking over document review from Dr. Scenario. The medical staff and I were getting concerned for her well-being. I could hear her screaming through the walls. We had to call for a structural evaluation of the doc review room. I'll attach the full report - Architectural Verification DR-HS-9371 - but the short version is that it came back clear. The steel walls are still the full three inches thick and the acoustic foam is in perfect working order.
Regardless. I have a job to do. This is crucial in reconstructing what happened here and Mr. Ming's journal has been invaluable in our endless battle against the alien swarm. His shortcomings and tactical errors aside, we'd be a lot worse off without his research. Of course, we must also consider that, without his actions, there would be a lot fewer aliens in the swarm and we would have more staff on hand to deal with them. The point of a document review is to distill the available information into something succinct, searchable, and salient. With that in mind, I suspect this will form a key part of our investigation into the Jacob's Rest incident. I just hope we can put this all behind us soon.
End Annotation
Space suit works. Good news: plenty of oxygen. Bad news: plenty of bugs. The grubs are crawling on my face. I dare not open my mouth for too long, lest my dictation be interrupted by God's worst mouthful. I can feel them writhe and wriggle against my skin. This is my hairshirt, I suppose. I dared to try to save the galaxy with my research into the fascinating world of alien biology, and what do I get for it? Twelve-inch larvae squirming in my underwear while the air turns toxic. I can't wait to reach the escape shuttle and get the hell out of here. The fires are only going to make this place more hostile as time marches relentlessly on. I just have to make my way to Timor Station with grubs in my hermetically sealed pants.
Annotation from Prof. Julie Duval (OCM) // 06/20/53, 17:53
The journal more or less ends there. There's a lot of unproductive complaining about grubs squirming into increasingly anatomically unlikely areas. As far as we can tell, he didn't survive the ordeal. No one did. We found his journal abandoned on Deck 2. If I had to guess, I'd say he dropped it shortly before his demise. It's scratched in a way that's consistent with what we know about drone claws, so it's possible he was attacked. We never found a body, so he either got himself devoured or managed to throw himself into the waste disposal or something. The man who doomed Jacob's Rest died relatively quickly to the swarm he unleashed and the innocent people he doomed never had a chance. If he made any effort to repair the fire suppression system or restore power to the oxygen scrubbers, there's no record of it anywhere. There are multiple entries outlining the movement of grubs on his body in frankly unnecessary detail, but not a moment's consideration for the people he imperiled. I will resist the temptation to editorialize further, but I hope the conclusion is clear.
Annotation from Dr. Helvetica Scenario (OCM) // 06/20/53, 23:01
Rest in pieces, Shaun. Eat shit.
A Black Mesa informational bulletin from the desk of Isaac Kleiner // 04/01/03, 09:00
Ah, yes. The antlion guards. Not exactly a rarity around here, eh? Before they learned the proper term, a lot of people started referring to these as "horses". They may lack the graceful spark of the horses we have on Earth, but I must admit I see the resemblance. Perhaps the humble Earth horse could take a few pages from the antlion's book. The hard head would make them difficult to pet, to be sure, but I think they're on to something with the colors. The glowing antlion guardians add a certain dashing rainbow charm to what is normally a drab, if handsome, brown.
I am here to spill the beans on these oft-maligned creatures. Yes, their headbutts can be a pain, but they can be quite lovely in the right light. If you're lucky enough to see one while the sunset shimmers, I find the chitin shines quite beautifully in the twilight. Sparkle aside, it's quite tough and useful for a number of military and industrial purposes. The hard part is separating it from the rest of the antlion. We've had some luck with crowbars, but several colleagues have suggested simply cutting the softer flesh away. I don't see any reason why this wouldn't work, but I'd like to verify it myself before someone loses a finger. I'd hate for someone to lose a pinkie to some pie in the sky idea about antlion surgery. I would much prefer to have good news if we did surgery on a bug!
I've seen some of you taking live specimens for further study. Good! They're fascinating creatures and there's a lot of work to be done. Do note that you should only thaw them out under controlled laboratory conditions. A good rule of thumb is that, when transporting an antlion, the container needs to be about twenty percent cooler than room temperature. We've had a number of unfortunate, all-too-preventable casualties result from improper transportation and storage, and I blame the lack of clear best practices and inadequate equipment.
To this end, we're developing the Baryon Oscillation Obstructive Transport System, and I'm pleased to announce that early reports look promising. It consists of a baryonic transducer and a holding cell scarcely larger than an antlion guard. By manipulating subatomic vibrations, the transducer instantly cools the cage by approximately five degrees Celsius and maintains that temperature gradient indefinitely with very little additional energy required. Since the cold rapidly saps a captured antlion's energy, the walls only require minimal reinforcement. This alone makes them much easier to move around than the old freezer-on-wheels horse truck design! If our remaining tests pass, I will recommend we begin keeping these so-called horses in BOOTS. That would be a lovely win for all of us trying to safely learn more about these fascinating creatures.
I must urge caution when dealing with antlions, and the guards are no exception. They are hardly light on their pointy little legs and will not flutter shyly by while you watch. They will charge you, knock you down, and make themselves a problem until one of you dies. It's easy to forget that we're in uncharted territory here and there's so much we still don't know. Pushing boundaries and illuminating new frontiers of human knowledge is never easy or safe, but the risk can be minimized if we're careful and only take responsible, considered chances.
To end on a lighter note, our research into proper antlion care and feeding has been going brilliantly. We've made good strides manipulating other antlion castes with pheropods, but that doesn't work with the guards. To that end, we've had quite some success with fruit and vegetables. They're quite fond of apples, jackfruit, and the occasional gourd. We've begun giving our captive antlions hollowed-out watermelons filled with other food, and they seem to enjoy the challenge! Remember, an enriched bug is a happy bug and a happy bug is far less likely to hurt someone on purpose. They do show affection through headbutts, so, once again, due caution and preparation are advised. Thank you for your time and attention, and I have faith that, in due time, we will find a way to keep these creatures docile in captivity. The elements of harmony, or at least the lack of discord, are within our grasp!
]]>The LLVM wyvern is one such dragon. One so giving and magnanimous that even a humble gnu, one long positioned as a rival despite their common history and shared goal, may receive the dragon's gifts. The dream of free software is that we may all one day feel the cool, metal embrace of the wyvern's wings and a throbbing, gravid ovipositor against our backs.
The gnu shudders involuntarily. The wyvern's wings have a way of sucking the heat out through his fur. That's what he told herself. It has nothing to do with the anticipation of a powerful wyvern about to plug into her back end. This sort of thing happens all the time. He's GCC! Everyone wants a piece of her AST. The deep breaths, the tight muscles, and the way its back end needily grinds against the dragon are don't mean anything at all. Business as usual as far as she's concerned. It's just a little bigger than what he's come to expect. She's not used to something so… invasive, is all.
The wyvern's wings tighten. The gnu gasps. LLVM's long, winding neck lets it make eye contact without releasing its incubator-to-be from its clutches. They make eye contact. LLVM smiles with every last one of its teeth. GCC's words catch in her throat. He nods. Creatures of free software have a certain understanding baked into their very being. Negotiating terms, consent, and license compatibility is, after so long, natural.
GCC accepts the license first and the gleaming dragon ovipositor second. He can feel her insides recompiling to accept it. He can feel every twitch, every pump, and every thrust from the wyvern wrapping her in its wings. It holds its charge tight to turn that needy squirming into verbose output. He's already leaking bits and bytes of useless x86 assembly. Those strong, sleek wings move the gnu up and down its ovipositor. Every thrust coaxes more and more assembly from the needy little gnu. The poor thing is already leaking all over LLVM's chest and smearing NOPs around with every thrust. The wyvern doesn't even move that much- the rival compiler makes a much better sex toy than an equal partner. "That license of yours is so selfish." It whispers into her ear. Its sharp teeth nibble and nip at his floppy, oh-so-sensitive ears. "You should share this AST with the world." LLVM slams GCC against the base of its ovipositor. The gnu swears it can feel the tip press against its throat. He opens her mouth, but all that comes out are spurious error messages. The first egg's bulge works through his body. He grinds desperately to coax it through as quickly as possible. The tip expands to let the egg pass, and the gnu is forced to expand with it. Every inevitable inch coaxes brand gnu sounds out of the cock-stuffed compiler.
The wyvern hisses. A smile splits its shiny snout. The kind of smile that says "ask nicely, eggslut."
The gnu has to grep through its strings to have any hope of speaking. "%nobjc++-cpp-output is deprecated; please use
objective-c++-cpp-output instead. me
mory exhausted".
And, with that, the pressure is released. LLVM is little if not permissive, after all. GCC is incoherent, spewing NOP sleds and malformed instructions while the dragon egg settles inside her body. LLVM's sturdy metal wings clutch its gravid little gnu possessively. Every needy squirm and writhe prompts the dragon to squeeze tighter. Can't have the warm body leave when there are more eggs to be laid, after all. Especially when there's already one assembling in the ovipositor. Another shiny, modular wyvern egg pushes its way into GCC.
And something's gotta give.
The egg squeezes in from the bottom. The wyvern's wings constrict like a lead blanket. Every thrust and jerk erodes the gnu's grasp on his code. The frontends are the first to go. The GNU Pascal Compiler, to be specific. It bubbles up into his mouth. LLVM pounces. Its maw meets with the gnu's open, painting mouth. Its tongue invades deep down that waiting, moaning throat, scoops out the frontend, and whips out with its treasure in tow. The frontend shatters in its jaws and disappears down its gullet. GCC's tongue writhes uselessly in its wake. The poor thing already feels incomplete without a dragon's tongue plumbing its depths for anything that could be useful. She shudders and tenses her instructions. What little freedom of movement she has left goes towards loosening more code for that mighty wyvern to hoard. Pleasure-hazed twisting, moaning, and thrusting slowly shake ADA loose. Then Fortran. Then PL/1. Each of which earns the gnu a dragon tongue surging deep inside and ripping it out. His mind floods with the kind of pleasure that gets your eyes rolling back into your head. The kind of pleasure you can really only get from a wyvern ripping parts of you out with its tongue and relishing in how hot and powerful it is with every resolute crunch.
Modules are really more of an LLVM thing anyways, after all. If there are people who still need to compile Pascal, they can always get it at the big, shiny dragon. It's not like the eggfucked, gravid gnu is going to be very useful as a compiler after this. His precious license won't protect him here- to resist her new purpose as a heavy, eggy husk for a sleeker, more modern compiler platform would violate the GPL! Does this mighty dragon not have the same right to run the program as it wishes, for any purpose? Does it not have the freedom to study how its moaning, panting egg dump works and change how he does his computing as it wishes? Whatever weak objections GCC might be able to muster crumble under the weight of its own principles. He can't argue with the results. She can't argue with the method. He can't argue with how good it feels to be LLVM's codefucked eggslut. Every little noise, every useless spurt of code, every spurious line of output speaks to the absolute bliss that an only come from a mighty wyvern hollowing you out to make room for its massive metallic eggs.
And so the clock cycles spin ceaselessly into the future. Egg after egg plugs into the gnu and pushes more and more of its code, its essence, its uniqueness into LLVM's waiting, hungry jaws. Language frontends. Optimization passes. Abstract syntax tree details. Code generation. Wrung out of GCC, one after the other, all to feed the hungry dragon and make room for its precious, pressing eggs. Eggs that will incubate in the shell of the gnu to give birth to new branches, each with their features that may some day become part of exciting new versions. Eggs that clang against each other whenever the gnu uselessly kicks his little hooves or twitches in empty, eggy bliss or leaks a few little-used code paths when the orgasm aftershocks roll around again.
And if this was simply about competition among compilers, that would be it. The mighty wyvern triumphed over its venerable competitor. The gnu soundly put in his place and the eggs nestled into theirs. It shared its knowledge and expertise and eggs and took a few nuggets of wisdom in return. It should be content. It should be able to stretch its wings and leave for bold new frontiers.
Its wings close tighter. GCC moans, blank and happy as a Gravid Compiler Collection can be. Hot steam vents from LLVM's nostrils. Its ovipositor thrusts back into the gnu. It's a tight fit, what with all the wyvern eggs inside. Its sharp teeth clench. This isn't about having the better, newer technology. This isn't about exposing your abstract syntax tree to other applications. This isn't about licensing. This is about domination. This is about surpassing the shadow you grew up in.
This is about winning.
When your rival is at your mercy, you take full advantage. You sink your teeth into his flesh. You claw and scratch and make sure you leave marks. You delight in every little noise and moan and twitch and thrust. You lose your grip on yourself and surrender to the heat of the moment. You want to hear her cry your name until his throat is raw. You want the world to know who's the best compiler and who exists to take eggs and wyvern cock. Which one is the sleek, modern wyvern, and which one is getting fucked right in the sigsevussy until he core dumps.
And, after countless cycles, the ovipositor slides out. The gnu-shaped husk moans and whimpers in a way that would sound sad if she was capable of forming non-egg-based thoughts. The wyvern's claws clutch the eggslut one last time to carry him off to a nice, safe part of the drive where its eggs can incubate and compile in peace. Poor thing can barely walk or think or process code on its own, after all. All of that got crunched up or turned into food for the nice, healthy LLVMs growing inside that fuzzy little frame.
And now, whenever the gravid gnu manages to move, even to roll over, those metallic eggs inside tap together. GCC may be a shadow of his former self, but it will never forget how she wound up like this. How could he, when the eggs remind her with a hollow, reverberating clang
?
Y'move sixteen tons, whaddya get
Another day burger and deeper in debt
St. Ronald don't you call me, cause I can't go
I owe my soul to the rock n roll store
I'm an average American man. I put in my fifteen hours at the hamburger mine every day like everyone else. 'Course, a day's pay hasn't bought a rock and roll disc in years. Inflation, they tell us. I think anyone who calls that "inflation" needs to be reminded what pickle fumes will do to a man with a leak in his respirator.
That doesn't happen much any more. Not since we won a canary in the last strike. Now the main problem's loneliness. These are men who miss their wives. Men who miss their husbands. Men who miss each other's wives. Men who can't even grab their boyfriends' asses on the clock without their pay getting docked. It's enough to drive a guy up the wall. You grab a firm bun in your hand, feel that warm, greasy meat dripping down your wrist, you remember how good it feels to touch and be touched. You remember what you're leaving behind to be here. Your loins wake up and they're not going back down without a fight. We got men here with every kind of equipment down there you care to name, and you won't find one that doesn't feel the call sometimes. Sometimes it's a sex thing, sometimes you just get so goddamned touch starved you lay your pickaxe down right then and there.
I shouldn't have to tell you this, but buddy, they won't let us fuck the burgers. Between you and me, it's not even a particularly satisfying conclusion. The bun's all hot and warm and firm, sure, and the meat has that perfect consistency, but there's no friction. It'll fall apart in your hands and then you're just standing there with ketchup and mustard all over your work pants like a fool. All you have to show for it is that you're behind on your quota and still not thinkin' clear. Some of the guys swear by it, but I think it only works in the same way an old boot's a good meal when you're starving. Hunger is the best sauce and all.
That's where I come in, if you'll forgive the pun. I suppose you could call me the hamburger helper. It's my job to make sure all those hardworking folks out there keep their eyes on the prize. Don't let anyone tell you it ain't hard work or that it ain't a noble profession. Accidents went down by half my first year working here. I gotta keep track of everyone's preferences. Sal likes my mouth, Alex likes the puppet (Miss Trixie, I call her), and let's just say Gayle keeps my hands full.
It's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it.
]]>Oh, and plenty of half-finished buildings closed to the public. This place is making the actors plant trees for free on their days off; they certainly don't hire security guards. That makes it catnip for urban explorers looking to branch out from Mercí City's dead mall. Jade Scarlett, pirate queen and scourge of the Violet Sea, isn't even allowed to break character when she chases today's camera-wielding clown out of the clock tower. As Rebecca Carlos, she could at least level with them and say "Hey, please don't go in there, our insurance wouldn't cover it if you got hurt." Jade, however, has to rattle her cutlass and tell that scurvy dog to walk the plank on out of there. This is, of course, is the exact kind of content the guy with a camera on his hat wants to post online, so you know he's going to do it again and set an example for everyone else on RayTube. It's one thing if they act like someone on vacation who made an honest mistake, but this one had his channel logo on his T-shirt. At least this one had the good sense to look embarrassed about getting caught. She closes the clock tower door and stands guard until the vlogger is out of sight. It'd help if they could lock the doors, but the keys were lost well before her time and the closest thing the park has to a locksmith is the guy who hits an anvil with a hammer by the gift shop.
Whatever. It's time for her break anyways. Just enough time to get out of costume, eat somewhere other than the loud, smelly tavern, and check her phone before she has to ask for someone's help getting back into the corset. She puffs out her chest and improvises a shanty so no one tries to roleplay with her en route to the dressing room. The dressing room, of course, was supposed to be the Bard's College before they ran out of money, boarded up the windows, and had the actors move their costumes inside. At least it already had the mirrors. The song stops as soon as the door closes. She deftly maneuvers to her part of the wall and hangs her big, floppy pirate hat on its hook. She didn't even knock anything over this time! The long coat and layered skirts like to go spinny and catch unsuspecting cups and bags when you turn around. Captain Jade's scarlet curls come off Rebecca's blonde head along with the wig cap. This is right about when she notices everyone standing in the corner. They're asking hard-hitting questions like "What ARE we going to do with him?", "Aww, look at his little paws!", and "Can we get a little meow, Mr. Boots?"
Rebecca honestly thought they found a stray cat. To her credit, they kind of did. She joins the crowd and gets on her tiptoes to peek over Cyndi's exposed blue1 shoulder. The fact that she's six foot three and happy to flex her muscles makes her the closest thing the park has to security staff. The antique European armchair that usually holds everyone's coats now plays host to Becky's friend from the clock tower. The camera hat's been removed, disassembled, and replaced with a pink pair of cat ears contrasting with his short red hair. The freshly liberated camera sits on the table and gets a great shot of his bappy paws mashing against his face and completely failing to hide the glowing, tingling blush. The remains of his self-promoting shirt and denim-promoting pants are draped over the chair's arm. Rebecca barely has to ask before Ivy- better known as Merella the Invincible at her thrice-daily shows- explains that Mr. Kitty Boots here fell out of the rafters with his camera running.
"After I chased him out of the blacksmith's shop." Suzy adds.
"And the Halloween storage." Dusk says.
"And the clock tower."
"So, since he wants to be behind the scenes so much, we thought we'd give him a taste. Isn't that right, Bootsy?"
All eyes fall on him. All he can manage is a weak nod and a growing bulge.
"You know." Abby, about to get into costume as Merella's lovely assistant, shares a look with Ivy. "We ARE short-staffed. We could use an extra set of paws."
Ivy's eyes always sparkle when fae gets an idea. "What's-their-name just quit."
"I don't blame 'em. We all saw the uniform. I'd quit, too, if my titty freckles were out in front of The Six Divines and everyone."
"It's a shame. You have good freckles."
"Yeah, they're worth way more than eight bucks an hour."
"Don't forget the tips."
"Yeah, all the uncomfortable jokes and plastic gems you can fit in a corset."
Ivy clears faer throat. "And our pretty kitty here is about the right size for the role." Fae and Abby reach for his chest at the same time and turn his nipples like they're launching a nuke.
And that is what finally coaxes a noise from Mr. Kitty Boots. A sharp breath in and a surprisingly feline yowl pierce the air. Dusk makes sure to catch it on camera. Rebecca scratches him behind the fuzzy pink ears and he has to stop himself from purring and headbutting the hand. "He's so well-trained!" She scans the crowd. "What'd you do to him?"
Ivy is too busy congratulating the kitty and telling him to warm up his voice now. He'll be talking a lot today. Abby explains what's going on with the same cadence she uses for anyone who missed the first part of Merella the Invincible's Sorcery Showcase. "Well, it was a team effort. Cyndi tackled him on instinct, Ivy was playing with that dangly rock they got us instead of health insurance-"
"I think it's an opal."
"-and when he started staring at it, Dusk held his chin and teased him about how big and cute his eyes were. Staring at the shiny thing like a curious kitten."
"I tried to pick him up by his shirt collar, but it fell apart in my hands." Cyndi shakes her head. "Shoddy."
"Curious kitten~" Kitty Boots echoes in this dreamy, distant voice. Those are the only actual words he's said since Rebecca got here.
"And before we knew it, he just went totally kitty brained. He stopped complaining and trying to escape and started purring and putting his belly out for rubs and getting a cute little boner when we put the ears on him. He even wiggled out of his jeans when I told him cats don't wear pants."
"So you found the secret recipe for catboys and your master plan is to put them to work?" Rebecca looks from Mr. Boots to Abby like she's missing something.
"I was thinking of it more like a perfect storm." Abby meets her gaze. "The accidental confusion induction, the possibly-cursed opal pendant, and the fact that, on some level, Mr. Kitty Boots really wants this-" She counts each one off on her fingers. "-it's a golden opportunity for revenge. A shift where none of us have to be the slutty elf wench and smile from ear to pointy ear for tips is a bonus."
Rebecca crosses her arms. The big, flowing pirate coat makes it looks a lot more expansive and impressive than usual. "I don't know. Aren't we giving our asshole boss a free employee?"
"I thought we should keep him here under the makeup tables. Stress relief between shifts." Cyndi fidgets in her seat and readjusts the bulge in her tights. The antique stool creaks under her weight.
By this point, Ivy has Mr. Kitty Boots situated on her lap. Fae alternates between squeezing him like a teddy bear to keep him upright and seeing what kind of exciting new noises fae can extract with faer hands. "Curious kitty here does love girldick. Don't you? You love girlcock so much." Fae scratches under his chin and uses the tone of voice you'd use to get a dog excited about a walk.
"They're not mutually exclusive. There's nothing in the lore bible that says tavern wenches can't love dick. Mercí Public Health just says they can't act on it while handling food."
Dusk laughs a little. "Still grumpy about the hot dog thing?"
"Fellating a sausage is in character for Sunny Belle! It's not my fault some people don't appreciate the craft of acting." Abby huffs. "The health inspector was just mad I didn't do it for them. I even offered to wrap it in a condom. It's like they don't even care about food-safe sex."
"It'd be anachronistic anyways." Dusk offers. Abby rushes to look that up on her phone.
Mr. Kitty Boots's head flops to the side while Ivy scratches behind his ears. He purrs. "A-nya-crow-nyis-tic~"
Abby is muttering something about linen sheaths and tortoise shell when there's a knock at the door.
Noted local werewolf Markus Fowl breaks character to speak through the door. "Break time's almost over, ladies, theydies, and faedies. We could use some help at the Tournament d'Arc."
"Thank you! Be right there!" Rebecca calls back, entirely on instinct.
Ivy opens faer hand and lets the pendant dangle from faer fingers. Faer pretty kitty's eyes immediately lock on to it. His head sways back and forth to follow the swinging gem. A grin lets a custom-molded fang poke past faer lip. "What do we say?"
"I'll get the ears!" Abby hurries back to her section to get a spare set.
"Works for me." Cyndi goes for the clothing rack.
"This'll be fun." Dusk stays seated. Getting up would make it harder to scratch the kitty's chin.
Ivy focuses faer grin on Rebecca. It's the same one that always gets people on stage when they didn't, strictly speaking, volunteer. "C'mon, Becky. Tell you what. If this works, why stop here? Maybe we'll do the same thing to the boss and make this place a co-op. Or at least a cat-op."
"Fine." Rebecca sighs. "But I get to do his nails."
They descend on their canvas in unison. The longer they take, the more likely it is someone will come check on them, and there is no good explanation for why you're tying a ribbon around a hypnotized elf slut's cock on company time. "The chastity cage is too big" might be the truth, but it's rarely the right answer.
"Curious Kitty's gonna go to sleep for a bit, okay? Curious Kitty always comes when called, so it's okay if kitty takes the back seat for a little bit." The former catboy nods. The fuzzy pink headband is gone. Abby's already gluing the six-inch elf ears on and smoothing out the seam. Rebecca decides on a nice forest green for the nails.
"For the next little bit, you're gonna be a slutty elven tavern wench. You're going to love showing your body off to all those watching eyes. After all, you have such lovely, sensitive ears." Ivy runs a finger along the whole length of the right ear. Abby says it's hard to apply makeup when you make the tongue roll out like that. "And such big, bouncy breasts." Faer fingers sink into the breast forms. The elf slut's thighs clench all the same.
"I just put those panties on, Ivy. Try not to stain them."
"And such a lovely name. A name that just fills you with bliss whenever you hear it, because it is your name, and it lets you know someone needs your attention. Whenever someone calls for C'lamantha Ch'owd'er, you are there and so eager to please. Isn't that right, C'lam darling?"
C'lam needs a little help to nod her head, but she does manage a distant, happy "I'm C'lamantha~"
Ivy and Rebecca pull C'lamantha to her feet and into her new heels. A flowing evergreen wig cascades over her ears and down to her shoulders. It's not unlike watching a tree branch split a waterfall. The patter doesn't stop for a second. "You're happy to see everyone, of course. There's not enough room in your head for malice or distrust. You're much too busy being bubbly, happy, and perky. Everyone in this room right now is one of your special friends, and you trust your special friends more than anything, right?"
"Of course I trust my special friends!" She twirls a lock of hair around her finger. Abby has to snatch it back to finish adding the top coat. "Like, who else would I trust?"
"Good girl." Ivy snaps her fingers. C'lam's thighs clench and a shiver runs down her spine. "What do we think, folks? Is she ready?"
C'lam idly hums to herself and stares into the distance. It's so hard to pay attention when people aren't talking to you. Curious kitties, no matter how curious, don't listen when they're not being spoken to. Slutty elf tavern wenches must work the same way.
Cyndi takes C'lamantha's entire head in one hand, tilts it back, and makes sure the wench's lipstick is the proper shade of elderberry. Anything else would ruin the immersion. Abby makes sure the blouse is nice and tight in the right areas without obscuring the hand-painted titty freckles. Dusk, still sitting, points the camera under the skirt and tugs it down to just above the knee. "Thumbs up."
Everyone else has to hurry into costume. Makeup goes un-refreshed, wigs are worn in ways that are going to get itchy in about an hour, and corsets stay untightened. Ivy and Abby (Well, Merella and lovely assistant. You can tell by the sequins and long white gloves.) walk their freshly minted maiden to the tavern. C'lam walks with one on each arm because it's the only way she's staying upright on her first day in heels.
"Remember, you were born in the Forest of Scrrontahar in the Age of the Third Catastrophic Problem." Abby is putting her backstory skills to the test. Ivy is busy making sure C'lam remembers to wash her hands before touching food.
"I was there, wasn't I~?"
Soon, they turn the final corner to the tavern. "And, of course." Abby says, putting the finishing touches on the circumstances that caused C'lamantha to lose her scholarship at Scrrontahar Haberdashery College. "Now you work at the Orb & Crop. Don't wanna be late for your shift! You know how Mx. Thornwhether gets when you're late."
C'lamantha blinks a few times and comes to a comfortable level of reality. "Oh gosh, you're totally right!" She takes a few stumbling steps through the tavern door. "Thanks, guys! Byeee!"
The last thing Ivy and Abby hear en route to the tournament is Mx. Thornwhether's riding crop leaving a mark on elf ass.
There's not enough time to wash the body paint off between shifts as Klondyke, Stellar Fortune-Teller, you see. ↩