Cake and Presents, Part 1

The sun was dying in earnest now, its last efforts painting the ballroom in syrupy gold that collected on every glass, every shoulder, every swirl of cake frosting. Andy stood, microphone gone and arms briefly unclaimed, as the applause crested and receded into a fizz of laughter and motion. From the dais, the three cakes loomed like mascots: cheesecake Erin, the marzipan harem, and the island diorama.

He caught the gaze of half the crowd at once. There was anticipation, but it wasn’t the restless, “who’s next” hunger of **** celebration. It felt like the world had decided—just for tonight—to give him a minute.

He took it. Then, at Emi’s prompt, he stepped forward to the cakes.

The first, cheesecake Erin, had a glare so perfectly airbrushed that he almost expected it to roll its eyes at him. The resemblance was uncanny. He looked down at the fondant arms folded across the enormous (and, for once, correctly proportioned) chest, and hesitated.

Behind him, Erin herself called out, “Try not to make it weird, Andy.”

He looked up. She was already grinning, mint skin glowing in the sunset, arms crossed in the exact same pose as the cake. She was flanked by Liesa and Chloe, both of whom wore expressions that dared him to do it wrong.

Andy took the knife, offered by Emi with the solemnity of a relay baton, and made the first cut. The room went silent as the blade pressed into the cake version’s right bicep. Erin said, deadpan: “Always thought you’d knife me in the back.”

This broke the spell—laughter rippled forward in a shockwave. Andy felt his own face split into a smile, then made another cut, this one straight down the torso. “Sorry, cheesecake Erin,” he said. “I guess you were just too sweet for this world.”

Emi, who had lined up at the ready with three spatulas, began slicing and plating with the kind of mechanical elegance that only someone with six arms could manage. Riley, with a whistle, caught the first slice and spun it like a discus onto a waiting plate, then passed it down the line. Myra, who was holding both plates and forks in a precarious stack, navigated the minefield with the surefootedness of someone who had never once needed eyes to see.

The next cake, the harem diorama, was a challenge to cut. Andy hesitated, not wanting to ruin the tiny, sugar-cast faces. But Norah, already perched in front with a fork at the ready, called, “Don’t be shy, Andy. It may surprise you, but none of us are strangers to being objectified.” Her voice, with its odd blend of New York and mischief, cut through his hesitation better than the knife did the buttercream.

He cut, careful but not too reverent, and as the marzipan Chloe toppled from the edge of the platter, the real Chloe yelped and clapped her hands in glee. “Oh my God, I didn’t think you’d actually do it!” she said, face flushed with a kind of giddy vindication.

Dawn and Liesa handled the distribution, the former moving with a kind of nurse’s efficiency, the latter somehow making every pass of a plate look like a subtle dance. The crowd, which had at first pressed in close to see, now fanned out across the ballroom, balancing cake slices and drinks, making islands of laughter and sugar wherever they landed.

The final cake was the Andy-on-the-beach diorama, and this time Chloe did the honors, her fingers steady as she cut around the tiny, fondant version of Andy staring at the sea. “I promise not to eat your head,” she said, and then, two seconds later, “Oops.” She popped the sugar figurine in her mouth, then covered her lips, mortified, but the table around her howled in delight.

Plates appeared everywhere. The cakes were a hit. Every forkful was accompanied by a “holy shit, this is good,” or a “Chloe, you absolute genius,” or, from Norah, “I could eat like this every day and die happy.” Dawn took quiet pride, watching as people ate, and maybe—maybe—glowed a little more with every bite.

Someone called out, “Does the happiness come standard, or is that a Dawn special?” and Emi, overhearing, answered, “Definitely a Dawn special. She puts it in all her baking. You can feel it, can’t you?”

Andy took a bite of his own slice, and for a second the world simplified: just the sweetness, just the coldness of the cheesecake, just the ache in his jaw from too much smiling. He felt something lift inside him—maybe the stress of the last challenge, maybe the old, sedimented guilt that nothing could be this easy. For once, he let it happen. He realized this must be the effect of Dawn’s The Way to a Man’s Heart transformation. She had literally baked happiness into the cakes.

After a few minutes, as plates started to empty and forks clicked against porcelain, Sam made her move. She emerged from the crowd with a bottle of champagne the size of a baseball bat, a spray of confetti still clinging to her hair, and a basket of strawberries slung on her forearm.

“Okay, people, line up for a glass. And don’t tell me you’re full, or I’ll pour it down your throat myself.” She grinned, then looked at Andy, her eyes warm. “You first, birthday boy.”

He held out his glass, and Sam poured. He noticed, as she worked her way through the room, that she always paused a split second before pouring for each guest, as if adjusting the pour for something only she could sense. Later, he’d realize she was using her Beerista transformation—each glass's strength was exactly tuned for its drinker, the whole experience designed to looosen up recalcitrant guests. And occasionally, when Beerista misfired, to get them roaring drunk.

He took a sip, and the taste exploded. He laughed, not out of surprise, but delight. It was the kind of champagne that cut straight through every lingering shadow, replacing it with a buzz of warmth and maybe, if he was honest, a little bit of actual hope.

The rest of the harem (and the not-harem, and the guests, and even the Hosts) fell into an easy rhythm of eating, sipping, and talking. The sunset fell lower, and the room shifted from gold to navy, the windows like giant frames holding the world outside at bay. Inside, the party felt like a secret you could live in forever.

Andy caught little moments: Riley flicking cake at Norah, who batted it away and hit Myra, who only smiled as it landed on her wrist; Marissa sitting back with Scarlet, both quietly critiquing the marzipan figurines, but eating them anyway; Liesa offering the last slice of the Erin-cake to the real Erin, who took it and solemnly bit off the nose. Harper giving Claire a book that, as Andy could sense through the bond, left her completely puzzled yet fascinated.

There were congratulations, but they were quiet, and honest:

“Happy birthday, Andy.”

“You made it.”

“You really deserve this, you know.”

Each one was its own tiny gift, and he let himself take them, just this once, without finding a way to hand them back.

Dawn and Chloe drifted over to him together, each carrying a refill of cake for someone else, and Dawn said, “You know, it doesn’t count as a real party until someone gets cake on their nose.” Then, with the kind of innocent mischief only she could pull off, she dabbed a finger of frosting onto his.

Chloe giggled so hard she had to set down her plate, and Andy let her. He liked the feeling, the way his face felt sticky and new.

The sun was just about gone when Sam, having made her way through the crowd, clapped her hands. She waited until the sound died down, then said, “Alright, everyone. You’ve had cake, you’ve had drinks. Now it’s time for presents.”

There was a cheer, louder and more genuine than the applause had been. Candy shouted, “Hope you’re ready, Andy!” and Dinah added, “Bet you didn’t see this one coming!”

Andy looked at the pile of gifts that had appeared on a side table—neatly wrapped, oddly shaped, some even glowing with their own internal light—and, for once, felt nothing but excitement.

Sam looked at him, blue hair electric in the fading light, and said, “You ready, Big Guy?”

He nodded. “I am.”

The party shifted, all at once, toward the next thing. Andy followed, letting himself get pulled by the current. This time, he didn’t fight it.

---

The crowd shifted toward the presents with the same fluidity as a school of fish: one moment they clustered around the cake, the next there was an aisle, and in it stood Laura Black, her wine-red hair backlit by the last spill of sunlight through the glass roof.

Andy had seen imposing before, but Laura always did it with style. She could have taught a masterclass in “Own the Room Without Saying a Word.” Tonight, she’d traded her usual black skirt for something with a red-and-gold flair, and her dragon wings, half-folded, glimmered as if they were signaling for permission to take off.

She strode to the makeshift gift table and gestured for Andy to join her. Even before he reached her, Laura was equal parts ceremonial and dryly funny.

"First gift," she announced, voice pitched low for him but carrying anyway, "is not from me. It's from Shar, but she insisted I present it, seeing as you may be the only person on this island with the right combination of body shape and taste for idiocy to pull it off."

She handed him a large parcel. He unwrapped it and produced—well, there was no other word—a suit of armor. It was half-plate, shaped for a woman, expertly crafted, every segment etched with a curling wave motif. The whole thing gleamed, almost iridescent, in the low light. It was neither clunky nor ornamental; it looked like it could see use.

Andy reached for the breastplate, tracing the lines with his thumb. It was cold, and heavier than it looked.

"It's for Andi," Laura said, catching his eye. "I don’t want to know the details, but try not to get yourself arrested."

He snorted, and several people in the crowd—Erin, Norah, Riley—chimed in with variants of “Damn right” and “That’s the best present I’ve ever seen.”

He held it up to his torso and could immediately see it would only fit the female version of himself. He was tempted to try it on right there, but Laura, seeing the look, shook her head with a mock-sternness. “Save it for the afterparty, Cooper. Don’t upstage your own harem’s fashion sense.”

Andy nodded, and set it aside with a kind of reverence. He knew good design when he saw it, and this had the careful, lived-in edge that only came from someone who both respected the function and enjoyed the drama.

Laura reached for the second package. This one was lighter, wrapped in blue tissue and tied with a single strand of gold ribbon.

"This," Laura said, voice shifting from Mistress to conspiratorial, "is from me. From Shar’s own cellar. It's strong enough to affect even me and you. Normally, I'd say bring a friend, but in this case, I'm challenging you: one bottle, one night, no white flags. Unless your transformations include a bottomless liver, this should take us both down a peg."

She placed the bottle in Andy’s hand. The glass was thick, and the liquid inside was the color of sunlit syrup. The label was printed, very fancy, black with red lettering, and read, Haunted Castle Distilleries. Underneath, it was signed in elegant cursive, Sharron Rose Cassidy.

He grinned. "Should I be afraid?"

She grinned back. "You should be very afraid. Or at least aware that Sam's Beerista thing will make it even worse."

At that, Sam perked up. "Bring it on, Lady Dragon," she said. "But if Andy passes out first, you’re on cleanup duty."

There was a ripple of laughter. Laura glanced at Sam with approval. “You’re always welcome at my table. If you can handle my drinks, you’ll fit right in with the castle crew.”

There was a pause, a beat of mutual recognition: both had seen ugly things, both had been in charge of groups nobody else would want to herd. Andy raised the bottle, mock-toasted Laura, and said, “Thank you. Seriously.”

She nodded, a brief, softer smile showing. “You’re welcome. And don’t forget the armor—it’s not just for show.” She leaned in, voice low: “It’ll fit better if you skip breakfast for a week, but I won’t judge.”

Next up was Tracy, who cut through the line with the assurance of someone who’d never waited her turn in her entire life. Her hair was a teal banner, and she carried a box the size and shape of a brick of Velveeta.

“Okay, first off,” she said, “Sally should have sent enough cake for everyone. But if you didn’t get it, you’ll get it soon. Enjoy, preferably as Andi.”

Andy nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it, even as he wondered who Sally was.

But Tracy wasn’t done. She held up the second present, this one wrapped in tin foil and packing tape.

“This is also for you,” she said, and handed it over.

Andy peeled back the foil. Inside was a jewel case for Leisure Suit Larry: The Unofficial Collection (with Updated Graphics). The CD inside was clearly a pirated copy. The art was lovingly drawn on with Sharpie, as if to cover up the original, and on the inside was a sticky note: This is the only game in the world dumber than the real thing. Good luck, you’ll need it.

Tracy leaned in, voice dropping just enough. “Should run on any version of Windows, even the cursed ones.”

Andy couldn’t help it—he laughed, deep and unselfconscious. “It’s a thoughtful gift for anyone stuck in this place,” he said. “Thank you.”

Tracy gave him a mock-bow, then leaned over and said, “If you ever want to run through your cheat codes and take a look under the hood, let me know.”

“Noted,” he said, but the idea stuck. He liked that about her: she seemed to constantly be thinking three steps ahead of everyone else.

The last of the Haunted Castle crowd to approach was Candy, and her style was a counterpoint to the others. She walked up slowly, wings folded small against her back, and her hands were tucked under her armpits like she was bracing for weather.

She held out a large, plush teddy bear.

It was simple—brown, with a red ribbon. No jokes, no gimmicks, no sharpie modifications.

Candy’s voice was even softer than usual. “I heard from Laura that sometimes you have nightmares,” she said. “I don’t know if it helps, but a teddy bear always helped me.”

She looked down, then added, “You don’t have to keep it. But I thought maybe… if you wake up scared, you could squeeze it, and it’d help you remember you’re not alone.”

Andy felt something snag in his chest. The crowd, for a moment, receded to a murmur. He took the bear, and gave Candy a smile—real, grateful.

“Thank you,” he said. “That’s… really kind.”

Candy smiled, then did an awkward shuffle-back, wings catching a bit of the light as she turned to rejoin her friends.

Andy set the bear on the table next to the honey wine, the CD and the suit of armor, and marveled at the spread: four gifts, each wildly different, each perfect in its own way.

The crowd had grown quieter, in that way that happens when something real has just landed and nobody wants to be the first to talk. Then Riley, always the tactician, cut through the moment with, “If you ever put that armor on, please promise to bring a sword. It’ll look weird otherwise.”

Erin snorted. “Don’t let Riley near sharp objects, that’s rule number one.”

Norah, from the back: “She’s got a point, though. You can’t just go around in full plate and not commit.”

Andy smiled, and this time, it stayed.

Harper didn’t bother with ceremony, just sidled up to the table like she’d been running this show for years. The crowd shifted to make room, a subtle acknowledgment of her commanding presence. Her seafoam hair should have looked casual, but on her it felt like a general readying for review.

She regarded Andy with a faint smile, then lifted the first box from the pile. “Hopefully,” she said, her voice pitched so only the front row caught the deadpan, “I picked out some better presents this time. One for Andy with a Y, one for Andi with an I. You got a preference?”

Andy grinned. “Surprise me.”

Harper nodded, then pulled the cloth off the first gift. It was a sword, a short one, in a sheath the color of storm clouds. Even before she said anything, Andy recognized the lines: it was built for speed and clarity, not display. The hilt was wrapped in leather, the pommel a perfect sphere. There were engravings, but nothing ornamental. It felt like a weapon, not a toy.

Harper unsheathed it a few inches, letting the blade catch the fading sunlight. “Blame our original dimension’s standards of masculinity if you like, but a man unable to defend his own is no man at all. So, for Andy with a Y, something to suit that purpose.” She held it out, reverent as a priest. “Bit of a homemade gift this. Skye here forged it herself, I added the enchantment, and Scarlet did the blessing, so you may wish to hold back on showing it off. But it’s a good flashlight, if nothing else. If you need lessons, that can be arranged, too.”

Andy took the sword, tested the weight, and it felt good—familiar, as if it had always belonged to his hand. He unsheathed it a bit farther, saw the strange script along the spine, and nodded to Skye, who beamed, her rope bra shifting slightly with the motion.

“Thank you,” Andy said, and meant it. “It’s perfect. I always wanted to look more dangerous in a parking lot.”

Harper smirked, but there was warmth behind it. “You have to at least pretend you’re the Master of your set.”

He set the sword down gently, and Harper moved on, reaching for a much smaller parcel. “For Andi with an I,” she said, “something fun to wear.” She handed over a headband with two oversized koala ears, the kind that would have looked cheap if not for the clever enchantment laid upon them: the ability to change the ear color to match any hair, real or synthetic.

She watched Andy, waiting for the punchline.

He didn’t disappoint. “This is,” he said, deadpan, “my true form.” Then, in full view of the crowd, he switched forms; Andi was instantly there, same clothes, same everything except the height, the hair, and the unmistakable glint of mischief in her eyes. She popped the headband on, set the ears to match her brown hair, and grinned at Harper.

Harper laughed—a real one, quick and a little surprised. “I figured you’d appreciate the commitment to the bit.”

Skye, next to Harper, piped up: “I can make matching claws, if you ever want to complete the look.”

Andi bowed. “Please do. If we’re going full marsupial, I want the works.”

Scarlet, who had hung back during the exchange, raised her glass to Andi. The crowd reacted with a blend of amusement and delight. Marissa, catching the end of the exchange, leaned to Emi and whispered, “That’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.” Emi just giggled, already sketching the moment in a notebook she’d magicked from nowhere.

Andi put aside the headband and shifted back to Andy. The vibe mellowed again as Caleb approached, hands in his pockets, eyes on the floor. He looked up only long enough to catch Andy’s gaze, then cleared his throat and produced a tiny box, no bigger than a deck of cards.

He held it out, awkward. “This isn’t much, but—well, I wanted to try.” He hesitated, then added, “Can’t really compare to what you gave me and Amy, but I wanted to make an effort.”

Andy took the box and opened it. Inside was a braided length of fennel stalk, bound with twine and smelling faintly of licorice and earth.

Caleb shrugged, uncomfortable. “The shop owner said it’s for warding off nightmares, or, I guess, evil spirits that come in dreams. Figured, maybe, you could find a use for that.”

Andy looked at the fennel, then at Caleb. “I appreciate it,” he said. “Thank you.”

There was a moment—a little hush, not quite awkward—then Harper clapped Caleb on the back, almost knocking the wind from him, and said, “You did good. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

The crowd murmured agreement, and Andy felt the warmth of it, the way it softened the usual edge of new encounters.

He looked at the collection on the table. Not a one was conventional, but every one had landed with intent and meaning.

Sam, from the side, called out, “Can’t wait to see you dual-wield the sword and the honey wine, Andy.” The rest of the harem laughed, and the tension uncoiled.

Andy smiled, genuinely, for the third or fourth time that night. “Maybe not at the same time, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

Nick and his crew hung back, just outside the soft circle of the party, as if waiting for permission to cross into the spotlight. They looked like people who’d shown up to a surprise party wearing the wrong color: Dawn’s posture was set, Dani held her arms tight across her chest, and Mary, ever the gentle shepherd, kept an eye on the other two, her hands folded around her rosary.

Nick cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Uh, so, our Host said we were coming to a high school reunion.” He shot a helpless glance at Dawn, who nodded, confirming it. “We didn’t know it was a birthday party, or we’d have—” He gestured at the table of gifts, then at his own empty hands. “Sorry. We kind of dropped the ball.”

“Our Host did, he means,” Dawn corrected sharply. “She has a habit of just doing things, and letting the consequences be other people’s problems.”

Trying to defuse, Andy held up a hand. “That’s alright. Showing up is enough. I mean that.” He looked at Nick, then at the women behind him. “I was nervous, at first, about meeting you. But Claire was right. After talking with you… I think this is the best present I’ve had in years.”

Nick blinked, then laughed, and the tension evaporated. “Same,” he admitted. “I didn’t know what to expect, but I’m glad we got to do this.”

Dani, loosening up, added, “If you ever visit, I’ve been learning to make coffee cake.”

Mary smiled, her voice warm and kind. “You’re welcome at our table, anytime.”

Andy took them in, this odd, perfect echo of his own life—so different, so similar, and suddenly, not so lonely at all.

He said, “Deal,” and the rest of the party caught the word, turning it into a chorus of agreement and half-joking threats to hold them to it.

---

The next Host was hard to miss. Cassandra—short, braid gleaming, eyes shifting from blue to sea-glass with every blink—stepped forward with a mischievous lilt to her walk. She had no visible gift in her hands, just the barely-contained energy of someone who enjoyed being the wild card at any table.

She regarded Andy for a long, thoughtful beat, then, with a flourish, conjured a slim black cane out of thin air. She pulled it back like a baseball bat, aimed directly at his chest, and swung.

From the tip of the cane, a blue-and-white Pembroke Welsh Corgi launched itself with missile velocity and an ears-back yelp of pure joy. It hit Andy in the sternum like a furry, wriggling bowling ball, knocking him back a full step. He caught it by instinct, clutching the corgi to his chest as it licked at his face with the ferocity of a heat-seeking missile.

"For you, Andy," Cassandra said, deadpan. "Isn't Sam just the most adorable little corgi? So smart. So durable."

Andy, breathless, managed, "He's—uh—amazing. Thank you?"

The corgi twisted in his arms, determined to greet every inch of him, then wriggled free, landed on the floor, and zipped in a circle around his legs. It was, without question, the happiest dog Andy had ever met. The crowd erupted in applause and delighted whoops, some of the women already reaching down to scratch behind Samson’s ears.

Sam, ever ready to tag in, called from the edge, “Now I get to see what I’d look like if I was eliminated. Honestly, the ass is dead-on.”

Andy grinned, picking up the corgi and holding it to eye level. The collar read, in perfect serif font: "Samson Drei." He looked up at Cassandra, half-waiting for the punchline.

Cassandra raised a finger. "Don't worry about Sam here passing away before you. I made it so Sam will live as long as you do." Her smile curled with the satisfaction of a job well done.

The corgi, meanwhile, was already hamming it up for the next group, weaving in and out of Riley’s ankles and barking with the rhythm of an overclocked metronome. Several of the women melted instantly. Even Riley, normally unflappable, bent to rub his belly and muttered, “He’s a little maniac. I love him.”

The mood was giddy now, all the heaviness washed out by the pure chaos of an airborne dog. Which made the entrance of Mark and Ellen feel, somehow, both grounding and unexpected.

Ellen led the charge. She looked like she could have been a model if she didn’t hate the idea, waist unnaturally tight as always, and an expression that implied she was only here to see if the wine held up. Mark was in male form this time—towering, easygoing, the platonic ideal of a gentle jock—but the energy was clearly Ellen’s.

“So,” Ellen said, giving Andy a once-over, “after talking with Cassandra about you, it gave me an idea.” She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket, then handed it over. “Call it a cheat sheet. Literally.”

Andy opened it. Inside was a list, written in neat, looping script, of dozens of codewords and phrases. Some he recognized immediately—cheat codes from his Gift, Console. Others were new: ciphers, fragments, strange alphanumerics that looked like passwords for a future he hadn’t met yet.

“I trust you know what to do with these,” Ellen said, with a smirk.

He scanned the list. “Most of these… I’ve never seen before.”

Ellen’s eyes sparkled. “Most probably won’t work… well, time sync is complicated, but you’ll figure it out.” She glanced at Cassandra, who nodded in agreement.

At that moment, her breasts, which had been at least a Y-cup before, suddenly shrank down to a more manageable (but still generous) G-cup. Ellen blinked, startled, and gave a sharp laugh. “Figures,” she said, “right when I’m showing off.”

Several people in the crowd clapped, or whistled; Norah called, “That’s some A-tier timing right there!” Riley simply raised her glass.

Ellen blushed, but handled it with the cool of a true professional. “Enjoy the codes. And—” she flicked her eyes to the dog, now gnawing affectionately at Andy’s shoelace, “—if the corgi ever hacks your network, call us.”

Andy folded the paper, placed it in his pocket. “Thank you,” he said, not just for the codes, but for the whole, ridiculous, perfect moment.

Samson, finally tired, hopped up onto Andy’s foot and curled up, instantly asleep.