Mingling, Part 1

After the corridor, the glare and din of the ballroom made everything inside feel insubstantial—a mirage vibrating with laughter, the clatter of glassware, and the faint static of a dozen emotional currents. Claire, eyes already throbbing from sensory overload, angled toward the refreshments table accompanied by Dawn—Dawn Willowbrook, the Dawn from Nick Reynolds’s season—and offered a cup of one of the prepared cocktails Emily had helpfully left there for guests to take.

Claire’s approach was textbook: direct line, smooth gait, notebook out. She waited until Dawn’s gaze flicked her way, then offered a wave that was two fingers and one thumb, a little semaphore of personal greeting she’d tested with several neurotypicals and found mostly non-threatening. Dawn watched it, then returned a two-finger salute in kind, her brown cat ears swiveling forward with open curiosity.

The first page in Claire’s notebook was already written.

I was hoping we could talk. You are the only other catgirl contestant I know of. She paused and glanced at Tracy, who was bouncing on the balls of her feet and excitedly speaking to an exhausted-looking Sam, and quickly updated the note, The only other sane catgirl contestant, I mean. I wanted to compare notes.

Dawn nodded cautiously. “I thought you might,” she said, voice dry and precise. “It’s not every day you meet someone with the same aftermarket parts.”

Claire suppressed a smile and flipped the page.

Do you mind if I take notes during? I remember most conversations but the act of writing is grounding for me.

Dawn shrugged. “I think best when I’m writing. Go for it.”

Claire scribbled a few lines, then looked up.

Why do you think the Producers gave us these transformations? she wrote. Is it just a matter of symmetry, or do you think there’s something in us that’s more marketable with a tail?

Dawn glanced over the script, then tilted her glass. “Two theories. One, they like a shortcut for instant ‘quirky and cute,’ because it does half their job for them. Two, they’re lazy and it’s easy to recycle.” She sipped. “Probably both. If it helps, you wear it well.”

Claire’s cheeks warmed—whether from the compliment, or the suggestion of it, she couldn’t tell. Thank you. You too. How do you feel about it now?

Dawn blinked. “I don’t really think about it anymore, to be honest. You?”

I liked it. I had always wondered what it would be like to sense more, and to have something visible to match the difference inside. The transformations made social interaction more legible, at least with certain people.

Dawn considered that. “Does it help? The legibility?”

It does, but it also isolates. The assumption is that being a catgirl means being flirtatious or touchy, but sometimes it just means you are constantly aware of where your tail is and when people are lying. Or if they’re about to touch you. I think you know what I mean.

Dawn grinned, broader this time. “You’d be amazed how often someone forgets the tail is attached to the rest of you.” Her own tail lashed, as if in demonstration. “Or maybe you wouldn’t.”

Not anymore.

They shared a moment of mutual observation, two people who’d never have been in the same room in their “real” lives but who now shared the dubious intimacy of design.

I was also curious, Claire wrote, about whether you find it easier to connect with the other women now.

Dawn’s eyes narrowed, calculating. “Not really. It’s pretty much how it was before. I’m just more aware of it now.”

Claire nodded, then realized she should make it explicit. Yes. I have always been lonely, but now it is a sharper loneliness. In the context of the show, it’s easier—everyone is **** together. But in real life, before this, it was rare to find a person who could even be in the same room as me for more than a few hours. Even family struggled.

Dawn read that, then looked Claire straight in the eye. “I’m sorry about that. But I think you’re doing a better job than you think.”

Claire’s pen hovered, then she wrote, Thank you. I hoped you might feel that way. I wanted to meet you because you seem like someone who actually *sees* things, even if you don’t always say so.

Dawn didn’t smile, but her tail did a little pirouette of agreement.

Do you want to know something weird? Claire wrote, and then, when Dawn nodded, she scribbled:

The part that makes me happiest isn’t the tail or the ears, or even being able to understand Andy as well as I do. It’s seeing other people with “impossible” differences, like yours, and feeling less alone. Like maybe I was designed for this, and just didn’t know it until I got here.

Dawn exhaled, slow. “I get it. I never fit until they put me here. Never really made many friends.” She gestured at her own ears. “Even if it means I’ll never pass for normal again.”

Was that ever your goal?

Dawn hesitated. “No. But sometimes you want the option. Just to see if it’s possible.”

Claire wrote, I wanted it for years. Now I want the opposite. I want to be seen as different, and have it be okay. I want it for myself, and also for the other women who never get to be the main character.

Dawn said nothing, but studied Claire quietly.

They fell into a quiet, comfortable rhythm. Claire started a new page.

I hope it’s not too much to ask, but I wanted to check something with you. I know you are a veterinarian. Do you think our reproductive systems are still human, or do you think there’s a feline component? Faster gestation, possibly litters?

Dawn’s **** cough startled Liesa, nearby. “That’s your big question?”

Claire shrugged, wrote, Yes. I like data.

Dawn fidgeted, awkwardly. “Er… I do too, but I haven’t exactly had the opportunity to run a double-blind on it.” She cocked her head, blushing. “I mean… I do get my period, if that helps. Seemed normal, just more vivid. No sign of heat.”

Claire’s pen scribbled: Noted. I haven’t had one since the second transformation. May require further study. She giggled silently.

I like this, Claire wrote, after a moment. Thank you for not minding the questions.

“I like this too,” Dawn said, and looked at the floor. “I don’t make a lot of friends, if you hadn’t guessed.”

Claire underlined: Me neither. She hesitated, then wrote: Would you like to try being friends, after this?

Dawn didn’t answer right away. Instead, she set down her glass, reached across the small gap, and touched Claire’s hand with two fingers. The gesture was precise, delicate, and communicated more than any number of words.

“I’d like that,” Dawn said.

The party thudded on around them, but for a moment Claire felt perfectly grounded, the noise receding, the world shrinking to the cool, tactile logic of this strange new kinship.

---

After the initial shock and recalibration, Claire’s message about similarities between herself and another blue-haired woman named Sam had stoked Dani’s curiosity. So it was with deliberate intent that she cut across the edge of the party, straight to where Sam leaned against a column, glass in hand, blue hair catching the dim light and making her look more dangerous than she probably was.

Dani gave her a once-over, then a crooked grin. “I heard there was another token lesbian here,” she said. “Had to see if the rumors were true.”

Sam’s smile was slow and a little wicked. “You found her. Congratulations. Want a prize?”

Dani snorted, but she liked the response. “I’ll take one if you’ve got spares.”

Sam gestured to the table. “I can offer you a mimosa or the rest of Norah’s jokes about how ‘it’s always the blue-haired girls.’”

Dani wrinkled her nose, but poured herself a glass. “I get that a lot. You always have to be the mascot for a whole subculture, don’t you?”

“Depends on the day,” Sam said. “Sometimes I’m just the stand-in for a real boyfriend, or the cautionary tale your parents warn you about.”

Dani barked a laugh. “Yeah, or the roommate whose ‘phase’ never ends.” She took a sip, watching Sam over the rim of the glass. “So, are you happy here? Or just really good at faking it?”

Sam considered, then shrugged. “Both, I guess. I learned early to play along. Doesn’t mean I always want to.”

Dani rolled her eyes. “Preaching to the choir. I’ve been in my set for months, but… there’s only so much I can do for points, with Nick.”

Sam’s eyebrows went up. “You’re in the points race?”

Dani nodded. “Not by choice. The other option is the next thing to elimination, so…” She shrugged, but there was a hard edge under the joke. “You can’t exactly collect enough points by knitting or doing shots with the Host.”

Sam sipped her drink, but before she could respond, Emi sidled up with a fresh mimosa.

"You two finally met!" Emi grinned, her gaze darting between them. "Dani, Claire told me a lot about you! You should know Sam's our dark horse too. Second in points, and she doesn't even have to—" She caught herself, glancing at Sam.

"Wait, what?" Dani looked Sam up and down, then around the room, as if expecting to see a scoreboard. "No offense, but... how?"

Sam shot Emi a look that was half gratitude, half warning.

Sam dropped her voice another notch. “Claire found a secret toggle for me, some time ago. Interpersonal Vector Adjustment. It means I can score points with my girlfriend instead of with the Master.”

Dani’s jaw actually dropped a little before she caught herself. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Sam said softly, but there was a pride there, like she’d won a bet against the universe. “They let me pick who I wanted, and now it works. The only catch is, I have to be honest about it, and I can’t switch back and forth for extra points.”

Dani stared at her, face an open blueprint of envy and calculation. “That’s… that’s a cheat code. Do they even know you have it?”

Sam sipped her drink. “Arabella knew before me. So do the rest of the harem, now. There’s some grumbling, but mostly they’re just relieved I’m not competing for the same points as them.”

Dani leaned against the column, letting the news seep in. “I have to struggle with it every time. If I so much as hesitate, it’s no points and a side of public humiliation. You get to do what you want and still win?”

Sam gave her a sympathetic look. “It wasn’t always this way. At first I had to play along, like everyone else. It got easier after the toggle. Before that, I spent half my energy masking, and the rest worrying about being eliminated.”

Dani made a face. “That’s the whole game. Mask, adapt, perform. Sometimes I think the only reason they keep us around is because it makes for good ratings—‘watch the lesbian squirm while she tries to seduce a guy.’” She rolled her eyes, then cut a glance at Sam. “Is it weird that I’m happy for you and want to punch a wall at the same time?”

Sam shrugged. “Not at all. I’d be pissed if it wasn’t working for me.”

They stood in silence for a bit, the weight of shared context making small talk unnecessary.

Dani sipped, thinking it over. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? I always told myself I didn’t care, that I was just gaming the system. But now I’m here, and it matters. The girls matter. Even the stupid points matter, because they’re how I measure if I’m doing okay.” She shrugged, sudden and sharp. “Maybe that’s pathetic, but it is what it is.”

“It’s not pathetic,” Sam said, and meant it. “It’s survival.”

Dani’s laugh was small, but real. “You sound like Mary. She’s always on about how we have to be kind to ourselves. I tell her it’s not something I’m used to.”

Sam grinned. “Mary’s the redhead with the rosary, right? She reminds me of Moory... ah, nevermind. I'll tell you another time. But she looks like she could run a soup kitchen and a black market out of the same building.”

Dani laughed, loud enough to make two people at the bar turn and look. “That’s so accurate.”

Sam nodded. “Who’s your person? The one who makes it worth it?”

Dani hesitated, then said, “It’s complicated. Now… there’s a girl named Carly. She’s sweet, and she gets me, but she’s not… it’s not easy.” She shrugged. “Nothing ever is.”

Sam raised her glass. “To the difficult ones, then.”

Dani clinked her glass against Sam’s. “To the difficult ones.”

Sam looked over at her. “If you ever want to talk shop, or just yell about how unfair it is, you know where to find me. I’m usually the one with the toolbox or the too-loud laugh.”

Dani smiled, soft around the edges. “I might take you up on that.”

“You should,” Sam said. “It helps.”

Dani looked around at the chaos, the swirl of movement, the impossible bodies, the transformations stacked on transformations. She caught Sam watching her, and for a split second, the whole game made sense. “You know, it’s actually kind of nice,” she said. “Having someone else who knows what it’s like. Makes it less of a freak show.”

Sam grinned. “More like a family reunion.”

Dani made a face, but it was all show. “Don’t go that far.”

They laughed, and in the hush that followed, Dani felt the ache in her chest dial down a little, the pressure in her head easing for the first time in weeks.

“So what’s next?” she asked, genuinely curious.

Sam shrugged. “I’ll probably watch Riley try to hit on every woman at the bar, then get dragged into a game of truth or dare by Dawn. Then, cake and presents. After that, I don’t know. Maybe sleep for twelve hours.”

Dani grinned. “Sounds better than my plan.”

They finished their drinks, then drifted back toward the noise.

---

Skye found Emi by the drinks table, wedged between a bowl of jellybeans and a pyramid of party cups. Emi was easy to spot: her six arms hovered in a riot of constant motion, three hands working a series of intricate origami birds while another hand poured club soda and yet another plucked a napkin from the stack. The last, seemingly unsupervised, reached out to rescue a cocktail glass from the wobble zone and returned it safely to the counter before anyone could notice the disaster about to be.

Skye was getting used to parties like these. In her old world, parties were smaller, more intimate, not as organized. Only after leaving their season had she started to attend more sophisticated events. Here, tonight, in Andy’s Harem Hotel, it was something different. The music was bright, but not bullying. The women moved in clusters, but never like a wolfpack. There was some formality, but no stifling decorum. No one was watching for a mistake to pounce on. There were other nude women. For the first time since her own season had ended, Skye felt she could attend without bracing for impact.

Emi saw her and waved, all six hands performing a perfectly synchronized “hello.” Skye laughed, the sound crisp and delighted in her own ears, and closed the gap in three precise strides.

“Skye!” Emi said, and even with the background din, her voice floated through clean. “Did you get your drink? You know, I was thinking, while you were gone, that you’re even prettier in person. I mean, you were pretty in the selfie, but you’re, like, the best color I’ve ever seen now. Not counting Harper’s, but she’s a Master, so she doesn’t count.”

Skye beamed. “Thank you, Emi. You are even more animated than I imagined.”

Emi blushed, but only slightly, the color blooming up from her jawline like a cartoon effect. “I get that a lot, lately,” she said, then looked Skye over, lingering just a second too long on the rope bra. “It’s a transformation thing, right? You don’t like to wear clothes?”

“Something like that,” Skye said, “I grew up in a commune where no one wore clothes. Then I was transformed such that I would find clothes so indecent, that if my lady love wears them, I will faint. It was our Host’s little cruel joke. Your Host Arabella is suppressing it now. But in truth, it is more comfortable this way. You wear your transformation well, also. Do you—” Skye hesitated, uncertain if the question was appropriate, “—do you ever miss having only two arms?”

Emi giggled. “I only miss it when I’m trying to sleep and they all want a pillow.” She paused, hands fluttering. “I used to hate them, the extra ones. They’d move on their own, and it felt like I was being haunted. But after the upgrade, it’s just… part of me, you know? Sometimes I wonder if I’d be me at all without them.”

Skye nodded. “I do. My own transformations changed my world, but after years… I think I was always meant for this.” She watched as Emi, unconsciously, folded a napkin into a perfect dove and set it gently beside the glassware. “Still not fully used to my lady love being a Queen, however.”

Emi’s eyes grew huge. “She’s a Queen now?”

Skye nodded, pride and wonder in equal measure. “She inherited the throne from Lady Aelene’s mother. Lady Aelene is my other love, and my lady love’s second wife. She married seven of us, with a few others living with us, and now we are… one big family. I even have children. It is more than I ever hoped for. Did you…” Skye hesitated, her voice barely above the party murmur. “Did you want children? Or was that not your wish?”

Emi’s cheeks colored again, this time for real. “I always thought I’d be a good mom, but I never… it never felt possible. Not until I got here, and Andy and I…” She trailed off, blushing. “It’s the first time I ever really believed someone would keep their promise.” She looked down, then back up, smiling shyly. “You and Harper seem really happy. I hope it stays that way forever.”

Skye’s eyes went glassy for a second, but she steadied herself. “Thank you. You will be a good mother, Emi. I can tell.”

They stood together a moment, side by side, not speaking. The party noise washed over them in gentle waves. Skye felt herself sinking into the comfort of it—the lack of tension, the absence of threat. She looked at Emi, at the way her arms were never fully at rest, each one seeking contact or meaning or something to do. It was, she realized, not just a transformation. It was a miracle.

“Would you like to see something?” Emi asked, all six hands tucking behind her back, the way a child would before a surprise. “It’s a secret. But I think you’re the only guest I want to share it with.”

Skye nodded. “Lead the way.”

Emi slipped through the crowd with Skye in tow, weaving between clusters of women and ducking out of the Dance Hall into the dim corridor beyond. The air changed instantly, from warm and sugar-fogged to cool and blue, the hallway echoing with only the faintest trace of music. They walked, Skye’s bare feet silent on the carpet, passing darkened doors and the occasional painting of a landscape that could not possibly exist in the world Skye once knew.

At the end of the hallway, Emi paused. She tapped the wall with her index finger—once, twice, three times—and a door appeared where none had been before. Skye blinked, and it was there, a simple, unmarked door. Emi turned the knob, beckoned Skye inside, and stepped through.

The room on the other side was not a room at all, but a forest.

It was, at first, a sensory overload. The air was cool and blue, the ground springy and alive with moss and spiral-shaped grass. The sky was a deep, perpetual twilight, thousands of stars visible even from beneath the glassy, towering trunks that rose in perfect columns to a canopy that shimmered like a membrane of liquid crystal. Every surface glowed, softly: the trees from within, their bark filled with rivers of iridescent light; the moss with a slow, breathing pulse; even the water, pooled here and there, reflecting a sky that seemed to have been painted by a patient and slightly mad god.

For a moment, Skye could only stand and stare. The scale of it was wrong, or maybe right in a way her old world could not accommodate. “What is this place?” she whispered, voice almost lost in the cathedral hush.

Emi spun around, hair floating in the airless quiet. “It’s called the Forest of Beginnings,” she said, and her words carried more reverence than Skye had ever heard from her before. “It’s… my dream, I guess. Arabella built it from my sketches and my memories, or from me. When I come here, it’s like everything bad is on the outside, and I get to just… exist.”

Skye walked forward, toes sinking into the strange, velvet moss. She looked up, then down, then at Emi, who followed with a nervous hope in her smile. “It’s beautiful,” Skye said, meaning it fully. “You made this?”

“Arabella did,” Emi corrected, “but it came from me. I don’t know. I just… sometimes, when I’m sad or overwhelmed, I come here and it makes me remember I’m not just a character on a show. That I have a world inside me, too. And it becomes more alive each time I come.” She bit her lip. “Does that make sense?”

Skye nodded. “It does.” She looked around, at the glassy fox perched by a mushroom cluster, at the pools of light, at the way the air was always just a degree too cool but never uncomfortable.

Emi’s face lit up. “Do you want to walk? I can show you the best part.”

They wandered in silence, Emi’s hands occasionally reaching out to brush Skye’s shoulder or point at a bioluminescent flower or the silver grass that, somehow, caught the light of every star above it. A they walked, Emi heard Sky whisper something that resembled a prayer to the “Lady of the Dance,” and smiled, remembering her friend’s odd faith. After a few minutes, they reached the center: a clearing, where the moss glowed with a subtle, living pulse, and a shallow pool reflected the sky with perfect, uncanny accuracy.

“It’s always night here,” Emi said, voice dreamy. “But not scary-night. It’s like the beginning of a story, right before anything happens. I used to be afraid of endings as a child. That went away, but now I like beginnings better.”

Skye knelt by the water, running a finger through it. Instead of ripples, there were rings of light that spread and faded into the air, leaving her skin cool and damp but not wet. She looked at Emi. “Thank you for showing me this. I will remember it always.”

Emi’s lower hands fidgeted behind her, but the upper two held Skye’s arm. “I want to draw you,” she blurted, then blushed. “I mean, like, really draw you. Here, in this place.”

Skye smiled. “I would be honored.”

They sat together on the moss, Emi’s sketchbook balanced on her knees and six hands a blur of pencil, eraser, and color. Skye was content to watch the stars and the slow movement of light through the trees, the sense of being exactly where she was supposed to be. Emi worked quickly, with a confidence Skye had never seen in herself. The lines and shapes grew into something alive, and when Emi showed Skye the finished page, it took her breath away.

It was her, but not as she had ever seen herself. Emi had drawn her sitting on the moss, legs folded under her, face open and unguarded, the white hair a halo against the blue-black sky. But it was the light that mattered: the way it radiated from within, from her chest and her hands, as if Skye herself was made of glass and filled with starlight. She looked at Emi, and for the first time, believed that it might be true.

“Do you like it?” Emi said, shy now.

Skye nodded, feeling the burn of tears. “I love it. You are a true artist, Emi Kim. And a true friend.”

Emi smiled, all six hands fluttering. “If you want, I can make it real. Not a drawing, but a… a sculpture, I guess? Arabella lets me do that now.”

“Would you?” Skye asked, feeling something in her chest open and let go.

Emi nodded, and together they stood. Emi reached into her pocket and pulled out a length of string—a trick, Skye assumed, but she watched in awe as Emi wove the string through the air, her hands moving faster and faster until it was more light than matter. The thread grew into a shape, then a body, then Skye saw herself, made of clear glass filled with all the stars in the sky, sitting on the moss and looking up, just as she had a moment before.

When it was finished, Emi let out a sigh, exhausted but happy. The sculpture hovered in the air, spinning gently, before settling on the velvety moss. Skye touched it, feeling the warmth and the cool at once. “It is beautiful,” she said, voice thick. “Thank you.”

Emi hugged her, four arms around Skye’s torso, two hands pressed to her back. Skye returned the embrace, letting herself lean in, just for a moment, to the possibility of being held.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Emi whispered. “And I hope you never have to be alone again.”

Skye squeezed her tighter. “You too, Emi.”