Popularity and Fan Mail

VP and BP Standings
Claire - 23 VP - 1700 BP
Marissa - 23 VP - 1300 BP
Norah - 10 VP - 1000 BP - 1 Achiev
Sam - 5 VP - 0 BP
Emi - 4 VP - 2000 BP
Dawn - 3 VP - 2000 BP
Liesa - 3 VP - 1900 BP
Erin - 0 VP - 1000 BP

Shortly after Marissa left, Andy heard a chime from the elevator control panel. Surprised, he thought someone was coming to visit, but Arabella’s voice echoed from a hidden speaker: “Attention, please. all Contestants and the Master, please meet in the Banquet Hall in fifteen minutes. Attendance mandatory.” He was less surprised by the authoritarian overtones than by the simple fact of being summoned. Since arriving, every meal had been at his discretion. There was something final about the wording—a rehearsal for judgment, not nourishment.

He dressed with deliberate care, opting for a white shirt and pressed linen trousers, the closest thing to “Masterly” that didn’t feel like cosplay. As he knotted Laura’s friendship bracelet, the restlessness he’d slept off came rushing back, a current that snapped his spine and made him pace the length of the suite three times before finally committing to the elevator.

The corridors were scrubbed and silent, the faint thrum of the A/C the only hint the place was alive. The marble tiles reflected his footsteps with the precision of a metronome. He tried not to focus on the echoes: the effect was of marching toward something, or away from it. He found himself thinking of the coming elimination with more dread than curiosity.

When he reached the Banquet Hall, the doors parted on a scene of unnatural calm. The main table had been set for ten: eight Contestants, himself, and one unmarked place at the head, presumably for Arabella. Every plate was arranged with mathematical exactitude, and the center of the table bloomed with baskets of fruit, pastries, and cured meats. If there was a way to make this less like a last supper, the decorators had missed it.

The Contestants were already present, and for a moment it looked like a painting, each woman fixed in a different pose of anticipation or defense. Claire sat closest to the door, her notebook open but untouched, fingers pinching at the corner of the page. Sam, beside her, had one leg slung over the other and was making a careful project of stirring her coffee, her blue hair vibrant in the clean light. Liesa and Marissa had claimed the far end, trading quiet comments in the way of people who’d been up for hours. Marissa’s plate was empty, but then again, she and Andy had had a breakfast of their own less than an hour earlier. The rest—Dawn, Emi, Erin, and Norah—were scattered along the near side, some making a show of ignoring Andy, others tracking him openly as he entered.

He wasn’t sure what to expect. He nodded to the room at large, then sat between Sam and Norah, trying not to look like he was picking a side.

Sam gave him a quick, up-nod. “You sleep?” she asked.

“More or less,” he said. “How about you?”

“Barely,” Sam said, then grinned. “Erin snores.”

“I do not,” Erin replied from the far end, her voice slightly ragged even through the indignation.

“You do,” Marissa said, winking at Andy, then stage-whispered, “It’s kind of cute, honestly.”

Erin groaned and sipped her coffee. The mood was surprisingly gentle; everyone was anxious, but it hadn’t yet curdled into open hostility.

Andy turned to Norah, whose hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, and who wore a crisp sleeveless blouse that showed off her new proportions with what looked like deliberate spite. “You’re looking sharp,” he said.

She gave him a look that was half-appraisal, half-dare. “Didn’t have a choice. All the other clothes are too small. Even the pajamas.”

He nodded, aware of the tension. “You get used to it. Eventually.”

“Yeah, well. You’d say that. Either way, not planning to be here long enough to find out,” she said, then turned her attention to the tray of pomegranate wedges.

Erin caught his eye. She wore a black tank top and shorts, her hair wet and slicked back, as if she’d just run ten miles and needed to prove she was more alive than anyone else here. She barely looked at him, but not out of anger. She looked frazzled, exhausted.

Dawn and Emi, paired together as if by some invisible logic, were already deep in conversation, four of Emi’s hands making quick work of peeling an orange and assembling a mini-pyramid of sections for Dawn. The two seemed to have struck up a comfortable rapport; Dawn even giggled at something Emi said, her face lighting up like she’d just heard her first good joke all month.

Claire, for her part, kept glancing at Andy but then immediately away, as if afraid she’d get caught staring. When their eyes finally met, she offered a tiny wave and a nod, then went back to the untouched notebook.

The air had the quality of a library before finals—every breath was rationed, every word weighted for risk.

It was Marissa who broke the spell. “So, are we supposed to pretend this isn’t weird, or lean into it?” she asked the table at large.

“I think the point is to watch us squirm,” said Norah, not bothering to hide her contempt.

Arabella chose that moment to enter, as if Norah’s comment had summoned her. She wore a floor-length jade dress that caught the light with every step, her hair arranged in a complicated twist. She was, as ever, flawless—but if Andy looked closely, he could see a faint shadow in her eyes, a patch of rawness at the base of her throat. Some ordeal had cost her something, and even she couldn’t quite will it away.

“Good morning, darlings,” Arabella said, her voice smooth as honey but not quite as sweet. “I hope you all slept well, though I suspect some of you are already feeling the nerves of the day.”

She made a circuit of the table, trailing a hand across the backs of chairs, then settled into the empty seat at the head. “Before we begin, I have a small surprise for you. Audience engagement has been through the roof this season, and our sponsors have requested we recognize a few extraordinary moments.”

She produced a slim, white box and set it on the table. Inside were several envelopes, half of them sealed with a heavy blob of blood-red wax. She handed one or two to each Contestant, and three to Andy.

“These,” she explained, “are personal letters. Messages from your adoring fans, or perhaps your harshest critics. You are free to read them whenever you wish—but I do suggest waiting until after the announcement, unless you’d like to spend the rest of breakfast in tears.”

There was a beat of uncertainty as everyone regarded their envelope. Dawn turned hers over, inspecting the wax seal. Claire clutched hers so tightly her knuckles whitened. Liesa brought hers to her nose and inhaled, as if hoping for a clue. Sam tucked hers into the pocket of her flannel.

Andy ran his thumb across the seal. He made himself set it aside.

Arabella folded her hands, her rings glinting in the artificial sun. “Now, to the matter at hand. Last night’s Best Girl poll produced some… interesting results. Would you like to hear them?”

“No,” said Norah, but the rest of the table ignored her.

Arabella smiled, showing teeth. “As you wish.” She gestured to a flatscreen hanging from the side wall (and which hadn’t existed until now), showing the results of the poll. The girls blinked, surprised.

Claire: 16.74% - 2500 BP (total: 4200 BP)
Sam: 14.67% - 2000 BP (total: 2000 BP)
Marissa: 14.17% - 2000 BP (total: 3300 BP)
Emi: 12.89% - 2000 BP (total: 4000 BP)
Erin: 10.97% - 1500 BP (total: 2500 BP)
Dawn: 10.61% - 1500 BP (total: 3500 BP)
Liesa: 10.61% - 1500 BP (total: 3400 BP)
Norah: 9.33% - 1500 BP (total: 2500 BP)

Arabella gave them a few moments to study the results, then smiled. “In first place: Claire.”

The table erupted in soft laughter and applause. Claire turned beet red, shaking her head. Sam clapped her on the back, nearly knocking her from her chair.

“In second place,” Arabella continued, “Sam. Closely followed by Marissa, I may add.” The Host smirked at the therapist. “My, it seems last night was a success in more ways than one.” She let that hang there for a moment, then continued. “Emi, dear, your score hasn’t changed too much, but Erin has certainly seen an uptick in her popularity, jumping from eight to fifth place!”

Andy glanced at Erin, but his ex-girlfriend didn’t seem to care.

“Dawn and Liesa are tied for sixth place, which is, alas, a drop for both, though more so for Liesa. My dears, you will have the opportunity to show your mettle in the upcoming challenge, do not fear.”

Liesa let out a melodramatic wail, clutching her chest. “Sixth? Oh, mijn God, I am ruined.”

Dawn reached over and patted her hand, reassuring. “You’re my favorite,” she said, and Liesa brightened.

Norah scowled at her ranking. “No one likes me. Shocker.”

“You made a strong showing,” Arabella countered, her tone both soothing and needling. “You’re less unpopular than you think. You gained almost two full percentage points of the vote.”

Erin, who had looked like she was barely keeping herself in her chair, finally spoke up. “I thought for sure I’d be at the bottom,” she said, half to herself.

Arabella gave her a conspiratorial smile. “You’re full of surprises, Erin. That’s why you’re here.”

Andy watched the play of emotion around the table, marveling at how fast the mood could pivot. Just a few minutes ago, it had been a jury room, all suspicion and anxiety. Now it was closer to a classroom at the end of term, everyone swapping glances, trying to figure out what to make of the grades.

The food remained mostly untouched. The letters weighed on the table like a spell no one wanted to break.

Arabella let the silence build, then said, “We will convene again in a few hours for the official announcement and the Challenge briefing. In the meantime, I encourage you to enjoy each other’s company. And, of course, your letters.”

She stood, her movement liquid, then inclined her head to Andy. “If you’d be so kind as to join me for a brief word in the corridor?”

He rose, his chair scraping. He shot Sam a look—see you on the other side—and followed Arabella out into the marble hall.

Once the doors swung shut, Arabella dropped the performance. Her shoulders rounded, just slightly, and her eyes lost their high-gloss glimmer. “You’re handling this well,” she said.

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Andy said. “But thanks.”

She glanced back at the doors, then leaned in, voice pitched low. “You’ll need to keep them together today. The Challenge will be… strenuous. I’m afraid there may be tears before the day is over.”

“What should I do?”

Arabella gave him a look so direct it was almost painful. “Be human,” she said. “They can’t all win, but they don’t have to lose with malice.”

He nodded, not quite trusting his voice. “You look tired,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Arabella’s laugh was soft and self-mocking. “You have no idea.”

For a moment, she looked like she might say more, but then the old mask snapped back into place. “You may open your letters, if you wish,” she said. “Some of them… may surprise you.”

Andy returned to the Suite, the letter clutched in his hand. He brewed himself another cup of the local coffee—thick, bitter, redolent of burnt caramel—and carried it to the couch, the three envelopes in a neat fan on the glass table before him.

Katherine’s painting commanded the same view, her field of flowers set against the ocean’s rim, but her eyes were only for him. Today, she stood as close to the frame’s edge as she could manage, both hands braced on the invisible glass, watching him with an intensity that managed to be neither **** nor pleading—just fiercely present, as if every act he performed was a test of something she had staked herself on.

He started with the envelope marked “Andy.” The wax seal crumbled with a little pop, and the paper inside was a single, neatly folded sheet, the handwriting precise and looped, a faint blue ink that looked like it belonged to another century.

He hesitated—who was he, really, in this performance? Reader? Supplicant?—then read the words aloud, for Katherine’s benefit as much as his own.

Andy,

I understand your sorrow, and do not want to cheapen your pain, but you have others depending on you now that cannot afford to have you leave them distant. That said you have already made great strides that I aploud you for. Let the girls into your heart and they can help you as you protect them. By the way Claire is doing great work looking into the secrets of the season, letting her in on Katherine’s situation, and asking her to look for a solution would not be a bad idea. Imagine Katherine no longer a painting, and in your harem. Yes, I thought that might appeal to you.

Also if you let anything bad happen to Sam shame on you. She more than any other there is deserving of your protection. You have a veto to save someone in need, and it might be her.

-Shar

He looked up at Katherine, who had not moved an inch but whose painted face now bore a faint and unmistakable smile, as if she’d found herself delighted by the prospect.

“Well,” Andy said, “I’m apparently supposed to take better care of all of you. Especially Sam.” He couldn’t keep the warmth from his voice, even if he tried.

Katherine shifted, her long hair fanning around her as she turned her chin down and then up, a gesture that could have been pride or simply mischief. She pointed at the second envelope—the one in her own name.

He broke the seal, even more careful this time, and as the wax gave way, a single perfect rose—real, blood-red, and improbably alive—somehow tumbled out of the seemingly flat envelope and rolled across the table. It was the kind of flower you saw in period dramas or at weddings, full-bodied and fragrant. Katherine’s eyes widened, and she reached for it in vain, her hands pressed to the invisible barrier as if she could absorb the scent and color by proximity alone.

Andy plucked up the rose and set it, gently, on the mantel beneath the painting. “For you,” he said, and the absurdity of it didn’t diminish the ritual’s power. Katherine dipped her head in acknowledgment, her face suddenly tender, the hint of tears glinting in her eyes—not real tears, but the perfect representation of them, which was maybe better.

He unfolded the second letter, which was written in a hurried, slanted script, different from the first:

Katherine,

A dear friend of mine asked me to write you a letter telling you not to give up hope. Harem Hotel is many things, and among them is always the possibility for a miracle. As we hope one may come for her we also hope for you as well. Andy seems to have great heart under the sorrow, we believe he will fight for you.

- On behalf of Tonya, Shar

He read it aloud, slowly, every line a fresh possibility for the universe to bend toward happiness rather than cruelty. When he finished, he watched Katherine’s reaction. Her face had changed again, the edges of her lips trembling, a blush overtaking the painted pallor of her skin. She put both hands to her heart, then reached for the rose, then looked back at Andy.

Andy nodded, voice suddenly thick. “You are being seen, Katherine. There are people rooting for you.”

Katherine made a tiny movement—fingers pressed to the glass, then splayed open, a gesture that might mean “open it,” or “there’s more.”

There was a third envelope, heavier than the others, addressed in both their names. Andy ran his finger along the wax, then paused, letting the moment draw out as the sun crested the horizon, turning the room a fierce and unearned gold.

Katherine & Andy, in a script that started bold and ended in a whirl of uncertainty, as if the writer wasn’t sure what came next.

He ran his thumb under the seal, feeling it give with the faintest sigh. The envelope contained a double-folded note and two objects that tumbled out of it: a small, perfectly-stitched fox plushy, and a book—hardbound, impossibly dense for its size—titled “The Joy of Watching Paper Dry.” The cover art was a photorealistic stack of reams, each page sharper than the last. Andy lifted an eyebrow, puzzled.

He smiled, even before reading the note, and felt Katherine’s painted eyes zero in on the gifts.

He read aloud:

Katherine and Andrew,

I hope this letter finds the two of you well. I am going to be honest here; my first attempt at helping a situation for you did not exactly go as planned, so this is a second attempt. I’m a bit further along the Master/Mistress path this inter-dimensional porn show has put us upon and wish to impart some things. I could write what I normally would, but your season’s rules make my admonition a moot point. Guaranteed eliminations is a needlessly cruel thing. Worse than placing someone basically guaranteed to get herself eliminated and dangle out the false hope that the Master/Mistress can save everyone? I suppose time will tell.

I’ve learned a lot about magic these past few weeks; having your sex changed, your entire life history rewritten twice, and your species changed twice (or thrice? Hard to tell how to count being turned blue) would make you want to understand how they can do that. So, the rational part of me can accept my limitations to help the situation. I’m trying to decode ancient magics based on what a mundane television screen displays; I’m not nearly skilled enough to solve that puzzle. While I can tell my first gift would work here, it will not work there for what I would need it to. The irrational part of me wants to give you the biggest, deadliest sledgehammer I can to smash your way out (if not convince one of my girl’s to make our date this week an inter-set heist).

Luckily for all involved, my season’s producer has talked me down. She is certainly a strange one and takes a much more hands on approach to magically funding the operation than most (as far as I can tell). Reading how my first gift was rejected, she offered her services for the big gift in this grab bag.

Andrew, as the Master, these gifts are for you to use as you will. Two small gifts first. First, a gift perhaps more for your companions (and something I have sent to another Master): a two-tailed fox plushy. It has a Calm Emotions enchantment on it. Hug it and it will take the edge off of some raw feelings; it won’t completely remove them and it is a temporary solution, but it can certainly help. I can think of at least 2 of yours that could use something like this.

Second, something for my second favorite girl amongst your companions. She made mention of wanting to borrow a certain someone for “research.” I think she needs a bit of redirection. While this creeps me out a little, one of mine has an Insta-Thot account she is surprisingly proud of; her agent cleared this little gift with her and she is happy to share. Since your set seems very low-tech as far as entertainment goes, I enchanted a blank book to let her enjoy the Insta-Thot feed (and a free month [your time] at her Ravishing Rabbit tier; no idea what the exchange rate between our BP are, but I’m sure she can figure it out with customer support if she wants to renew). I’ve been told that she had a couple of videos hit the top 50 weekly list in the interspecies erotica category in the time she’s had it (and not that kind of interspecies erotica; her most popular vid was a foursome between her, a wolf-girl, a mermaid, and a human). I hope that kind of “research” would help.

A final note: Katherine, I feel so much for you. What was done to you was abominable. I suspect you were eliminated from the game and then abandoned by some absolute scum. It is the responsibility of the Master/Mistress to take care of all under their charge; it doesn’t make up for the cosmic enslavement by the inter-dimensional smut show, but it’s basic decency. I hope that someday, someone can free you from that painted prison.

Regards,

Harper

Andy exhaled. The letter was like a bright line drawn across a field of gray—alive, immediate, and true.

He glanced at Katherine, who had listened with the concentration of a student facing final exams. Her mouth was slightly open, as if she’d been caught in mid-breath. At the line about her abominable situation, she looked down, ashamed, then back up at Andy with a pleading kind of hope, as if she wanted desperately to believe that someone, somewhere, could see her.

He placed the fox plushy on the edge of the table, within easy view of the painting, and balanced the book beside it. He wondered about Sam, and what the book would mean to her, and made a silent note to bring it to her after the challenge.

“You’re not forgotten,” Andy said, repeating the words, softer this time.

Katherine nodded, her chin quivering. She pointed at the letter, then at her heart, then at him, and he understood: she was grateful.

He stood and walked to the painting, setting his palm flat against the canvas where her hand hovered, the two of them separated by the unyielding membrane of oil and lacquer.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, voice low but steady. “I won’t leave you here. I won’t be like the last guy.”

Her painted eyes filled with a sheen of tears, the first he’d seen since her arrival. She pressed her hand to the other side of the canvas, aligning it perfectly with his, and nodded, once, fiercely.

Andy let the moment hang. The letters didn’t change the meaning and dread of this day. The challenge would come, and one of the Contestants would be eliminated. Andy’s anxiety and nervousness were still there, but the letters, at least, had provided comfort. There were others in his situation, perhaps even worse so, such as this Harper, or this Tonya. And there were Hosts who were kind, and cared about them.

He’d have to write back. But that would be a task for after the challenge. Now, he needed to clear his head. He told Katherine he’d take a walk on the beach, and made sure she could see the rose and the plushy, then walked to the elevator and went downstairs.