What the Moon Hears, Part 1

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 33 VP - 3300 BP- 1 Achiev
Claire - 32 VP - 6200 BP - 1 Achiev
Marissa - 27 VP - 4800 BP
Norah - 17 VP - 2750 BP - 1 Achiev
Sam - 13 VP - 3250 BP
Dawn - 11 VP - 4250 BP
Emi - 11 VP - 4750 BP
Liesa - 10 VP - 3900 BP
Chloe - 4 VP - 3875 BP

The Banquet Hall glowed, morning flooding through windows tall enough to frame the waking sky. The air was thick with the smell of cardamom rolls and sharp, fresh coffee. For the first time since this all began, Andy found the room already full when he arrived—no staged entrance, no expectation of performance. Just the low, living murmur of nine women in various orbits around the long, lacquered table.

Sam had left the Suite early, citing a ‘prior engagement,’ and Andy had taken a good shower before joining whoever was still in the Banquet Hall.

At the near end, Marissa and Sam sat side by side, elbows braced, mugs in hand. The light glanced off Marissa’s hair, gold on gold, and caught Sam’s blue-dyed streaks in a prism that made her look like she belonged in a manga panel. Their posture was conspiratorial, heads bent close enough that Andy had to squint to tell if they were whispering or just speaking softly.

He got his answer when he neared. Sam was mid-sentence, voice pitched just above the hum of the room. “…I mean, is it even possible to have boundaries in this place? I spend half my day wrestling with the urge to be, like, the emotional disaster sponge, and the other half feeling like maybe I’m not even needed. Or that I’m supposed to be ‘supportive’ but not actually do anything that matters.”

Marissa’s mouth quirked, the ghost of a smile. “You matter,” she said, voice low and even. “You’re the only one he doesn’t feel he needs to impress. That’s important.”

Sam snorted, then sipped. “I’m the emotional airbag. I know. It’s just, I thought it would feel more heroic.”

Marissa looked at her over the rim of her mug. “It’s heroic not to make it about yourself. There aren’t many people in the world who can do that.”

Sam shrugged, but the compliment seemed to land.

Andy found himself standing awkwardly a pace behind, not wanting to interrupt. Marissa caught his eye and gave a subtle nod—permission to approach, the secret handshake of introverts everywhere.

He slid onto the bench across from them, grabbing a pastry at random. “This seat taken?”

“Only by destiny,” Sam quipped, then elbowed Marissa. “We were just talking about you.”

Marissa gave Andy the therapist’s version of a smile: open, but with the caution tape still up. “We were discussing boundaries,” she said, “and how difficult it is to maintain them in… unconventional workplaces.”

Andy barked a laugh, nearly **** on his roll. “That’s one way to put it.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Don’t pretend you’re not loving it. I see how you look at them. All of them.”

Andy felt himself flush. “I—yeah, I guess so. I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

Marissa nodded, picking up the thread. “That’s the other thing. You’re not the only one in a strange position, Sam. None of us were given a choice, but you—” she looked at him pointedly— “you are asked to care for all of us, knowing that the rules are always changing. That’s… impossible.”

Sam leaned forward, hands clasped. “He’s not the kind of guy who can accept that. He’ll keep trying to win, even if the game’s rigged.”

Andy opened his mouth to object, then closed it. He settled for: “I can’t help it. I just—if any of you are eliminated, or worse, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Sam softened, then reached across the table and poked his hand. “You’ll survive. We all will. But if you ever try to shoulder the blame for the universe being a jerk, I will personally throw you into the koi pond.”

Marissa smiled, broader this time. “She’s right. You don’t have to be perfect. Just present.”

Andy nodded, humbled. “Thank you. Both of you.”

The three lapsed into an easy silence, the kind that only happens when every necessary word has been spoken. He watched the others: Emi and Liesa hunched over a sheaf of paper, trading quick, sketchy lines back and forth; Norah perched at the far corner, arms folded, eyes sharp and attentive as she tracked the current of conversation around her; Erin and Claire together on the window seat, Claire’s tail draped like a scarf over her knees as she scribbled notes in her book. There was some tension there, he could see, but he had no idea why.

But it was Chloe who drew Andy’s attention most. She hovered near the buffet, hands fiddling with a cloth napkin, gaze flickering between the different clusters, like she was trying to triangulate the safest possible landing.

She chose Dawn. The moment she sat, Dawn’s entire posture softened: chin up, smile ready, both hands cupping her mug as if to pass the warmth by proximity. Chloe started with a whisper, and Dawn responded with something so gentle, Andy couldn’t even hear it.

He saw Chloe’s shoulders relax by a millimeter. Maybe two.

Beside him, Sam nudged Marissa, then stage-whispered, “Hey. Real talk?”

Marissa turned, alert.

Sam leaned in, all business. “Did you ever, like, want to bone Andy during therapy?”

Andy nearly dropped his pastry. “Sam!”

Marissa didn’t blink. “Not during therapy. But I was aware of the attraction. It would have been unethical to act on it.”

Sam grinned, unrepentant. “But now you can. Did you?”

Marissa’s lips twitched. “I’m not going to share that with you.”

“Is that a yes?”

Andy threw up his hands. “Can I at least have plausible deniability?”

Sam ignored him. “Marissa, you’re the only grown-up here. Help me out.”

Marissa’s voice dropped. “What’s the question?”

Sam sobered, looking at Andy pointedly. “What do you do when you think you’re supposed to be the strong one, but sometimes you want someone to take care of you? Is that selfish?”

Marissa didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned the question over, rolling it in her hands like a prayer bead.

Then: “It’s not selfish. It’s human. Even the strongest people need somewhere soft to fall.”

Sam looked at Andy slyly, as if to see if he was listening. He was.

Marissa went on, seemingly oblivious. “You don’t have to be everything to everyone, Sam. Even heroes have limits. Even airbags need to be replaced.”

Sam considered, then nodded. “What about you? Who’s your support?”

A tiny pause. “Until recently, I thought I didn’t need one.”

Andy reached over, almost without thinking, and squeezed Marissa’s hand. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Marissa squeezed back, and for the first time in a long while, Andy saw her eyes go glassy.

Sam let the moment breathe, then ruined it. “If you start making out, let me know. I’ll take pictures for the group chat.”

Marissa snorted, and the tension dissolved.

Down the table, Chloe mustered the courage to join the Liesa-Emi sketch circle. She approached with a tentative “Can I see?” and Emi, without hesitation, handed her the drawing.

It was a quick, watercolor rendering of the resort gardens, heavy on the blue and green, a flurry of curved lines that made the place look magical, which, Andy supposed, it was.

Chloe smiled and said, “This is beautiful. You’re so talented.”

Emi blushed, then offered her a clean sheet and a brush. “Want to try?”

Liesa added, “We are learning to draw as a collaboration. Is better with friends.”

Chloe bit her lip, but took the brush.

Norah, who had been pretending not to listen, muttered, “Let the record show that this is the first documented moment of sketching camaraderie in harem history.”

Erin, sitting across, grinned. “Do you want to join?”

Norah raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. “Why not.”

Within minutes, half the table was involved in some form of art—doodling, painting, even folding Emi’s omnipresent origami cranes. Andy watched it, the easy convergence of people who, days ago, would have hesitated at the thought of sharing even the air between them.

He felt Marissa’s hand slip into his own, and realized he didn’t want to let go.

Sam saw, and grinned.

Dawn glanced down the table and caught Andy’s eye. She gave him a thumbs up, as if to say, “You’re doing okay.” He smiled, the warmth of it surprising him.

Later, as the breakfast crowd dispersed and the women gathered their art supplies, Andy stood with Marissa and Sam at the edge of the table.

“You two are dangerous together,” he said, half-joking.

Sam beamed. “We’re a **** of nature.”

Marissa, quieter, looked at Andy with a gaze that was less therapist, more woman. “Thank you for not giving up on any of us,” she said.

He shook his head. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

They drifted toward the main lobby, sunlight filling the corridor behind them.

The only thing that really prepared you for the Annex was surviving the rest of the Harem Hotel.

On paper, the Annex was a shopping mall. In practice, it was a funhouse corridor from some stranger’s dream: endless glass, not a single normal store in sight, and a floor that caught the light in sickly-sweet rainbows that moved when you weren’t looking. There were four of them on this expedition: Norah in the lead, hands in her pockets, eyes sharp; Chloe trailing just behind, clutching a small purse as if it might leap from her hands and escape; Dawn, impossibly cheery, walking in sync with Liesa, who wore a look of wary skepticism.

“It’s like an airport in hell,” Norah said, squinting down the length of the corridor. “If all the gates went to the same place, and the pilots were drunk.”

“Do you think they have a duty-free?” Dawn asked, only half-joking.

“I don’t see any food court,” Liesa added. “But maybe it’s at the end. Like a boss battle.”

Chloe kept her mouth shut. She was new to the group, and new to banter in general, but she did glance at each speaker in turn and give a tiny, polite nod—an invisible ballot cast for each joke.

The first store had no sign, just a set of floor-to-ceiling windows displaying a single mannequin in a black suit that looked exactly like the kind of thing a Bond villain might wear to a funeral.

Above the door, in stark white letters on a black field: “Bob’s.”

Norah grinned. “This is it. Marissa told me about it—she said it was the only place that sells real clothes, but it’s also, and I quote, ‘a psycho circus for the sartorially doomed.’”

Chloe giggled, then instantly clamped a hand over her mouth.

Liesa raised an eyebrow. “We go in, yes?”

They went in.

The air inside was cold and dry, and the carpet was so dark it made their shoes look like they were levitating. Racks lined the room, organized not by gender or function but by themes spelled out in glossy block letters:

‘Serious.’ ‘Daring.’ ‘Risqué'.’ ‘Don’t. Seriously, just don’t.’

Behind the counter stood Mildred, a woman who could only be described as goth Barbie, if Barbie had been re-animated and programmed to sell forbidden knowledge. She wore a fitted pencil skirt, black down to the seams, and her name tag read “Bob.” Her hair, glossy black with a streak of ultraviolet, hung in perfect waves. She smiled at them with teeth too sharp for comfort.

“Welcome to Bob’s,” she purred. “I’m Bob. If you need a fitting, you have only to ask.”

Dawn beamed. “Hi, Bob! Is there a clearance rack?”

Bob’s smile never wavered, but her eyes went flat and dead for a second. “All items are individually curated, Contestant Dawn. If you’d like to try anything, just say the word. I recommend you start in the ‘Serious’ section. It’s our least challenging offering.”

Norah sidled toward the ‘Serious’ racks. “You think they have business-casual here?” she whispered to Liesa.

Dawn drifted to the ‘Daring’ aisle, eyes wide as she scanned the options. The first item she picked up was a minidress made of what looked like latex, trimmed with pale pink ribbon. “Is it bad that I kind of love this?” she said.

Norah held up a blazer with no back and no front, just shoulder pads and lapels. “Compared to this, it’s practically Amish.”

Chloe, lost in the ‘Serious’ section, examined a plaid skirt and a white blouse with a collar starched so stiff it could cut cheese. She held it up, then looked to Liesa for guidance.

“I think it would look cute on you,” Liesa said. “Like schoolgirl, but grown up.”

Chloe went pink and put it back.

They spent a good twenty minutes rifling through the racks, each trying on more outlandish items than the last. Norah settled on a jacket made of patent leather, black with gold piping, and a skirt so tight it might as well have been painted on. Liesa, after a long and private debate with herself, chose a trench coat lined with violet silk, and a pair of wide-legged pants that fit her like they’d been tailored in her sleep.

Dawn’s taste was harder to pin down. She oscillated between girly and dominatrix, eventually bringing both to the register: one, a pastel romper covered in embroidered kittens; the other, a shiny black catsuit with sequins in all the right places.

Chloe dithered until Bob, the shopkeeper, materialized at her side and said, “If I may recommend: you would look stunning in the secretary set.” She produced, with a flourish, a charcoal pencil skirt and a blouse in ice blue, then a pair of high heels that looked like weapons.

Chloe took them, mortified, but said thank you.

The fitting rooms were lined with mirrors. There were no curtains, only smoked glass that fogged over when you stepped inside. Each woman tried on her selections, then gathered for a quick group show-and-tell, alternating between mockery, encouragement, and brutal honesty.

Norah, in the patent jacket and skirt, looked like a cyberpunk district attorney. “All I’m missing is a gavel and a laser gun,” she said, checking herself in the mirror.

Liesa’s trench coat, once buttoned, gave her the air of an international spy—or a woman who’d just stolen the world’s most expensive diamond and needed to hide it somewhere. She preened, then undid her hair and let it fall around her shoulders. “Is too much?” she asked.

“Not enough,” said Norah.

Dawn put on the romper first, spinning in a circle so the kittens blurred into a whirl of pastel. “I feel like I’m about to go to a baby shower hosted by Madonna,” she said.

“Now the catsuit,” Norah demanded.

Dawn changed, then stepped out with a flourish. The fit was perfect, and the effect was instant: she went from cheerful concierge to Bond villain’s favorite assassin. “I feel powerful,” she said.

“You look powerful,” Chloe said, surprising everyone—including herself.

Bob the shopkeeper watched from the counter, expression never changing. When the group finally approached to pay, Bob smiled a smile that was equal parts cotton candy and Jormungandr devouring the sun. “All purchases are final. Bonus Points will be deducted accordingly.”

They did. Each outfit had a sticker shock, but not enough to cause real pain.

Norah: 2750 BP - 200 BP = 2550 BP
Liesa: 3900 BP - 400 BP = 3500 BP
Dawn: 4250 BP - 200 BP = 4000 BP
Chloe : 3875 BP - 400 BP = 3475 BP

As they left the shop, Liesa said, “It is strange, yes? To buy clothes you will never wear in the real world?”

Norah shrugged. “Maybe this is the real world now.”

Chloe glanced down at her new secretary outfit, still bagged, and smiled—just a little.

The next store on the strip was called “The Chapel.” Its windows were opaque, and the only hint of its wares was a single sign on the door:

USED TRANSFORMATIONS – 60% OFF

Inside, the light was dim and stained-glass colored. The walls were lined with shelves holding glass jars, each with a handwritten label:

BUBBLE BUTT
CUP SIZE (MINOR)
CAT TAIL (LITE)
GIGGLES
BUTTERFINGERS

Behind the counter was another version of Mildred. This time, her name tag read “Michelangelo,” and she wore a black robe trimmed somehow in deeper black. She regarded the newcomers with a look of papal authority, and a wide smile that spoke of cheerfulness and mind-numbing insanity.

“Welcome to the Chapel,” she intoned. “Are you here for absolution, or for acquisition?”

Norah stifled a laugh. “We’re just browsing,” she said. “What, exactly, is a used transformation?”

Michelangelo swept a hand toward the shelves. “Every transformation that is reversed, rejected, or replaced is bottled here for the benefit of future Contestants. Some are temporary, others permanent. All have been thoroughly cleaned and are guaranteed to be nearly free of emotional residue.”

Liesa wandered to the wall and peered at a jar labeled LUSTY LAUGHTER. “Do you drink it?”

Michelangelo shook her head. “They are applied as directed. Each comes with a set of instructions and a duration of effect.”

Dawn plucked a vial of NEON NIPPLES and giggled. “Do people really buy these?”

“Contestants find themselves in need of quick solutions,” Michelangelo said. “Sometimes a transformation is required for a challenge, or for a particular date night. The options are vast.”

Chloe eyed a tiny bottle marked NO SHAME (MICRODOSE). She fingered it, then put it back on the shelf.

Norah found a vial labeled SULTRY TONGUE. She glanced at the instructions: Apply to tongue, lasts for 8 hours, voice becomes husky and seductive, cannot speak above a whisper.

“I could see this coming in handy,” she mused.

Liesa picked up a jar marked JELLY ARMS. “This is a joke, yes?”

Michelangelo shook her head, solemn. “It is no joke. Some challenges require flexibility.”

Dawn found a bottle labeled OBEDIENT WAITER. The instructions read: For 4 hours, you will be unable to ignore any request. She laughed. “Sounds about right.”

They didn’t buy anything, but Norah made a note of the store for future emergencies.

The group exited into the corridor, and Liesa said, “I feel like we just visited a pharmacy run by vampires.”

Dawn nodded. “At least it’s honest. I hate it when you buy something online and it doesn’t look anything like the picture.”

The third shop was hard to miss. Its sign pulsed pink, letters written in a looping script: THE BLUSHERY.

“Let’s just go in,” Norah said. “We’ve made it this far.”

The Blushery’s interior was like being trapped in a candy-coated fever dream. The shelves were lined with jars and trays of confections, each more fantastical than the last: striped lollipops in the shape of lips, sugar-dusted hearts, translucent cubes that shimmered with an inner light.

Behind the counter, Mallory (yet another Mildred), wore a black suit and an expression that was both predatory and maternal.

“Ladies!” she sang out, “Welcome to the Blushery! May I interest you in a complimentary tasting?”

Dawn’s face lit up. “Yes, please!”

Mallory produced a tray, each sweet set in its own little paper cup. “Today’s sampler includes: Longing, Anticipation, Shyness, and, for the bold, a drop of Wanton.”

The group looked at each other.

Norah, never one to back down, reached for the Wanton. She popped it in her mouth, chewed, and for a second nothing happened. Then she flushed, neck to forehead, as if she’d just run a marathon in a latex bodysuit.

“Wow,” Norah gasped. “That’s intense.”

Mallory smiled. “The aftertaste lingers. Some say for hours.”

Dawn sampled the Longing, and her eyes went wide. “It tastes like summer camp,” she said, voice dreamy. “Like staying up past curfew, hoping for a first kiss.”

Chloe hesitated, then chose the Shyness. The effect was immediate: she shrank in on herself, face going deep red, then peeked up at Liesa for reassurance.

Liesa tried the Anticipation. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, her smile was so genuine it almost startled the others. “It is like waiting for a birthday, but better,” she said.

Mallory leaned across the counter. “The Blushery also offers custom blends. If you have a particular feeling in mind, we can make it to order.”

Norah, still burning, said, “Do you have one for ‘totally over it’?”

Mallory nodded. “We do, but it’s an acquired taste.”

They thanked Mallory and left, Dawn buying a tiny box of Longing to savor later. Mallory threw in a sample of Wanton, “for the after-party.”

Dawn: 4050 BP - 50 BP = 4000 BP

The last currently open store in the Annex was called Flesh and Form. The window display was a grid of mannequin heads, each with a different hairstyle, eye color, and sometimes animal ears or tails. The interior was as stark as a medical supply closet, and behind the counter, Thomas (Mildred, in a black lab coat, smelling like suicidal thoughts and caramel corn), greeted them with a dry, almost bored smile.

“We sell temporary and permanent body modifications,” Thomas explained. “All are purchasable with sufficient Bonus Points. Would you like a brochure?”

Dawn took one, scanned the list. “They have everything. Extra toes, multiple boobs, pointy teeth…”

Norah found a section on hair: “Any color, any length, any style. No upkeep. Guaranteed.”

Liesa was drawn to a display of eye options: emerald, violet, cat-pupiled, even one that glowed in the dark.

Chloe found a rack of tails, every size and species represented.

Thomas (Mildred) demonstrated a sample: with a flick of her hand, she conjured a pair of fox ears on her own head, then with another, a short blue tail. “Non-invasive,” she said. “Painless. Premium versions can be removed at will.”

Norah snorted. “This place is going to ruin the world if it ever gets out.”

Thomas shrugged. “We have no plans to franchise.”

Dawn, emboldened, asked if she could try the bunny ears. Thomas obliged, and within seconds, she had a pair of soft, pink ears sprouting from her head.

“They’re… really soft,” she said, blushing.

Liesa grinned. “You look adorable. Is perfect for you.”

Norah tried a streak of violet in her hair, then immediately wiped it away. “Not my style,” she said. “But good to know the option’s there.”

Chloe tried on a set of wings—small, feathered, and totally nonfunctional. She paraded around the shop, arms outstretched, and said, “I feel like a Christmas angel.”

Thomas nodded. “Many guests find the experience liberating.”

They left the shop in a state of mild euphoria, each carrying their purchases with a sense of pride and wonder.

Back in the Annex corridor, Dawn said, “We should have done this days ago. It’s the most fun I’ve had since arriving.”

Norah agreed, “It’s like therapy, but with better souvenirs.”

Liesa flicked her gaze to Chloe. “What did you think, Chloe?”

“I think… I’m glad I came with you. Thank you.”

They walked together, side by side, the world behind the glass shifting and warping with every step, but the feeling—of being a team, of surviving the psycho circus together—lingered long after they left the Annex behind.

Down the corridor, the mannequin in Bob’s watched them go, and for just a second, it seemed like it smirked.