Fan Mail (II), Part 5

Norah sat at the far end of the Banquet Hall with her back to the sun, watching the other women filter in and out in loose, noisy bands. The leftover lunch buffet—a battleground of wilted greens and half-sliced pineapple—stretched between her and the rest of the room like a border wall. Norah had arrived early for the mail drop, posted up at the nearest window table, and had not moved since Arabella made her rounds. Now, her trophies lay in a neat stack: four heavy envelopes, all with her name spelled correctly on the front. A miracle, considering how often it was misspelled. Truly, a thing of magic.

She rotated the first one between her fingers. It was the same stationery as last time, the same steady hand. She’d told herself she’d toss Shar’s next letter straight in the trash, but when the envelope landed in her lap, she’d felt a zing of recognition—a weird, animal pleasure in knowing she’d gotten a rise out of the woman. Or whatever Shar actually was.

She slit it open with the side of her fork, careful not to tear the paper inside. The letter was only a single page this time. Norah read it twice, mouth twisting into a skeptical line.

I am so glad you did not give up, but found the fire to fight. I'd like to think I lit the flame, but the passion is all yours. You have been given a weapon, use it and make us proud. Upgrade it and maybe you can shape the fantasy as well. Still rooting for you.
Shar.

Norah snorted. It was only ten days ago Shar had signed off with, “There is no easy way to say this, only that I am sorry for your loss to come.” She’d fired back, as she always did, telling Shar (with every ounce of grace she could muster) to “fuck herself kindly.” Yet here it was, a full about-face, like the first volley had never happened.

She flattened the letter on the table and squinted at the handwriting. The lines were a little more jagged than she remembered, or maybe that was the light. Maybe Shar had gotten called out on her own shit. Maybe this was just another mind game—some audience plant to get her to play a better part.

Norah stared at the letter again, this time letting the words settle. You have been given a weapon, use it and make us proud. She felt the weird tingle in her chest, the part of her that had always lived for winning, for getting the upper hand and rubbing it in. Even here, in this stupid game, she couldn’t help but want to win. It just meant being clever enough to outthink the script.

Norah flicked the edge of the letter, considering. She was not the sort to be won over by flattery, but she could appreciate a worthy adversary. If Shar wanted to move the goalposts, fine—Norah would drag them all the way to the end zone and spike the ball herself.

She refolded the letter and set it down with a tiny, deliberate pat. Then she grinned, a flash of teeth, and whispered, “You’re on, bitch,” to the empty space in front of her.

The next envelope was already in her hand, ready to go.

Norah didn’t even get a chance to unfold the second letter before something heavy and cold dropped out onto her lap. She yelped, more startled than hurt, and looked down to find an enormous, flesh-toned breastplate staring back at her from the tabletop. S-cup, easily. The kind of thing you could use as a flotation device in a pinch, or as a battering ram if the Resort ever went on lockdown.

She gawked at it. Even after her first transformation, Norah had thought herself at the upper edge of plausible human anatomy, but this—this was grotesque. It was so cartoonishly large that, for a second, she wondered if the joke was that it was meant for a centaur.

She set the thing aside and wiped her hands on her shorts. The armor squished, audibly, as she did. Norah shivered, then reached for the letter.

Norah,

And I thought I got screwed over repeatedly by the audience. I am so, so sorry for you. You were absolutely gorgeous before that first transformation and anyone that prefers your body now is an absolute idiot. I will note that the wording does say that your body will “take on the version of itself from the Master’s fantasies.” His fantasies can change. Perhaps getting him to fantasize about realistic proportions would get you back to normal? Some food for thought. I’m just glad my mistress likes boobs that are not back breaking.

Your other one is potentially so much worse, though. Random transformations from random contestants? You may want to get that one upgraded. Maybe if you do, you’d get to pick at least? Better to see the options and choose than to rely on the whims of the Host. Though I suppose your Arabella is one of the nice ones.

Otherwise, I am glad to see that you are adjusting to the harem life. Andy seems like a good egg, minus his apparent beachball fetish, and all of the girls seem nice. My fish-girlfriend would make a quip about how the harem works best when everyone gets along and touch each other’s not cloacas; she’s definitely true about the first half of that, even if most of yours are not too interested in the second.

Everyone gets a gift, so I’d like to help you maybe change Andy’s fantasies. I got you an S-cup breastplate for Andi to wear in girl mode. Maybe her having to deal with lugging around several pounds on her chest will help her sympathize with you. She should squeeze into it well enough.

Wishing you and yours well from afar,

Scarlet.

Norah burst out laughing at “beachball fetish,” then choked when she reached the cloaca line. She hadn’t really thought about what kind of sex lives the women on the other shows had, but now she couldn’t not picture it. She tried to mentally erase the phrase “touch each other’s not-cloacas” and failed.

She looked at the breastplate again. She pushed the armor back and forth on the table, then lifted it with both hands and gave it an experimental squish. It was lighter than it looked, but still dense. She tried to picture Andi with a pair of these monsters. The image was so utterly deranged that she had to slap a hand over her mouth to keep from cackling.

She set it down, picked up the letter, and considered the advice: You may want to get that one upgraded. Maybe if you do, you’d get to pick at least? Norah hadn’t thought of that. She’d spent so long being at the mercy of the system that the idea of hacking her own transformation felt almost like cheating. But why not cheat, if the other option was getting bent over by the audience every single time?

“Scarlet’s not wrong,” she said, this time out loud. “But it’s the height that really bugs me. The boobs are just—” she shook her head, “—fun.”

She glanced at the last line about the fish-girlfriend. “What the hell kind of show has a fish-girlfriend?” She tried to imagine it—was she just a woman with gills, or a literal trout with lipstick and a push-up bra? The mental image was so grotesque, so instantly meme-able, that Norah had to scribble it on a napkin just to get it out of her head.

She left the armor in the middle of the table like a trophy. Let anyone else who walked by wonder about it.

Norah’s hands trembled as she tore the next envelope open. Maybe it was adrenaline, or maybe just the weight of two impossible letters already rattling around in her skull. She expected more fan service, more booby-trapped advice, but this one was just a single folded sheet, no confetti, no props.

She opened it and squinted at the first line:

Dear Norah,

I wanted to reach out to you as a fellow Asian woman in software development. I got my start in software development before transitioning to learning machines, and I wanted to offer my condolences. I want to say it’s not a “you” problem, it’s the whole fucking field. Everyone wants you there for metrics, but they sure are quick to find opportunities to knock you down.

So I totally understand the desire to want to be perfect all the time and to wear your wit as armor. I’m not going to tell you you’re wrong for it either; we all need to do what we can to protect ourselves. Unfortunately, the world is a pretty unfair place at times. Just try not to let the bitterness be directed at the people who are trying not to drag you down. I always resorted to physically dominating anyone who tried to put me down, so my situation is a bit different, but I understand the distance we tend to create and cultivate for protection.

The season I’m on is a bit…different from yours. We’re encouraged to backstab each other and look out for ourselves with scarce resources to work from. I want to say your position is different, and you seem to care for the people around you. So take a minute and let yourself be **** with people who might become your biggest supporters. I know you have a lot of people in the audience against you, you don’t have to prove anything to them, but don’t hold yourself back from happiness where you can find it.

Signing off,
Amy Tanaka.

Norah blinked, reading the letter again, slower this time. The words “the whole fucking field” stung in the best way: not just for being true, but for being something she’d always said, only to be met with denial or apology. There was a strange comfort in reading it from someone else, like meeting a long-lost twin at a bus stop and discovering you both hated the same things.

She exhaled, and only then realized how tight her shoulders had been. The tension slackened, and for a second, she just sat and stared at the paper. The advice to be **** sounded like some grade-A therapy nonsense, but in this context? It almost felt doable. Even if “****” meant just one less sarcastic jab per conversation.

Her fingers lingered at the edge of the sheet, smoothing it flat again and again. The idea that she didn’t need to prove anything to the audience, that she could just be—Norah wasn’t sure if she believed it, but it was a nice thought. And it was the first time since arriving at the Resort that a stranger’s words had made her want to reach for something instead of push it away.

She held the letter in her lap, not ready to move on. For the first time all day, Norah felt lighter.

The final envelope was heavier than it looked. Norah tore it open, expecting a snarky card or maybe another piece of novelty lingerie, but instead, a hand mirror fell into her palm. It was old-school, the kind of thing you’d see in a princess movie: ornate silver frame, velvet backing, the glass so bright it nearly blinded her in the late afternoon sun. She caught her own reflection and almost dropped it—the angle was all wrong, and for a split second she thought there was someone else on the other side of the glass.

She set it on the table and smoothed the paper that came with it.

Miss Rahman,

Your progress on The HH has been a delight to watch, and you have done much to earn the hearts of your admirers. Your life may have been fraught with challenges, but your tenacity and perseverance have served you well, and can only continue to do so.

The advice I offer to you to further your journey is thus: in Master Cooper you have an ally the likes of which you might never have imagined. Already you have done well to recognize that he is not the villain you once imagined. You must go yet further—if you can open yourself to trust in Andrew, little remains outside of the reach of one whose power and presence is a reflection of the one she loves. You have taken the first step already by planting a seed of yourself in Master Cooper’s mind. Shelter and water that seed, and find that your transformation makes fertile ground for the changes you might wish to see in yourself.

To aid you, I have enclosed a boon which I hope you will find to be of some benefit.

J.

There was a second note, scrawled on a slip of cardstock tucked into the frame of the mirror:

The Mirror of the Host: This small, ornate hand mirror reflects the holder as they see themselves, rather than as they appear to others. By reaching through the mirror and clasping the hand of their reflection, they may once summon that version of themself to aid them in an endeavor.

Norah read the instructions three times before she dared pick the mirror up again. She angled it just so, and studied the face in the glass. It wasn’t the bombshell caricature she’d expected. The eyes were wary, lips set in a determined line, hair pulled back and body untouched by the cartoonish curves that had haunted her since round one. It was the version of herself she remembered from college: tired, unpolished, but fierce.

She swallowed. Whoever J. was, they got it. They knew what it was like to be hollowed out by expectation, to be remade by other people’s desires. The idea of summoning her real self, even for just one moment, made her heart beat faster.

Norah looked up, then back down at the glass. She imagined reaching through, grabbing her own hand, and pulling herself out into the world. Would anyone recognize her? Would Andy?

She hugged the mirror to her chest and closed her eyes, picturing what it would feel like to be whole.

Then she laughed, soft and low. “Maybe you’re not as broken as you thought,” she whispered to the reflection, and tucked the mirror into her bag. The envelope and letter followed, neatly folded.

She sat with the feeling for a while. When she was ready, she stood up and left the Hall, letting the sun warm her back as she headed for the next thing.

Emi re-read the message from the Commissary and smiled. Much better, she thought. Jealousy just wasn't her thing.

Emi 6250 BP - 2500 BP = 3750 BP

Happy despite the butterflies in her stomach that the challenge had conjured into existence, she looked at the Polaroid picture Andy had given her, the ache of nostalgia settling deep in her heart, and walked out of the Main Lobby, mentally preparing for what lay ahead.

Chloe sat cross-legged at her bedroom desk, hugging her knees and staring at the neat, small stack of mail waiting for her. She’d stacked it in the middle of her blotter like a tiny shrine, unsure whether to tackle it all at once or spread it out like Christmas presents for herself. The idea that anyone, anywhere, knew she existed—let alone cared enough to write—still felt impossible.

Her hands were a little shaky as she picked up the first envelope. The back was sealed with scarlet wax. She broke it open and a tiny gold pendant slipped into her palm, glinting like a piece of sunlight. Chloe gasped, actually gasped, and brought the star up to eye level. For a second, all she could do was smile at it, lost in the simple joy of the thing.

Then she found the letter.

Greetings.

I have not written you yet since you are a new but not unwelcome addition to the season. While you may be shy, and have suffered in the past, I see a great strength in you and a capacity to love and care for others that shines. To your great pain I say have hope. Harem Hotel is a place of miracles and you may yet have children of your own. I have seen the blind restored their sight, the lame walk again, and even the very dead rise from their graves on this show. No little part of the audience would love to see you pregnant, and would vote to make it possible. You have already made good work on closing the gulf between you and Andy. And even made friends.

For your efforts a gold star. May it keep you warm in the cold, and light your path in the dark.

Shar.

The words blurred as Chloe read, and she had to wipe her eyes. She’d spent so long avoiding hope, refusing to let herself imagine things could get better, that the simple promise of a miracle—just the word, miracle—felt like a lifeline. She pressed the pendant to her chest, as if that might **** the hope inside to stay.

She reread the letter, focusing on the line about children, about being able to have them someday. The thought filled her with something she’d never had in the classroom, or in any of the awkward dates and lonely evenings she’d collected over the years: the belief that she might someday be allowed to want something for herself, and have it come true.

She slipped the chain over her neck and felt the pendant settle against her skin. It was warm, just a little, as if it remembered being close to a sun.

Chloe sat with the feeling, rocking gently, unwilling to let it go. Only when her breath was even again did she reach for the next envelope.

The next package was less a letter and more a care package: a bubble mailer stuffed with a fat paperback and a sheet of something stiff and glossy. Chloe recognized the cover immediately—one of those manga series with a cast of long-legged girls in sailor outfits and a title that was at least twelve syllables long. She turned the book over in her hands and giggled: My Stepsister Reincarnated as a Human and has to Save the World, Vol 1. It was weirdly specific, but also adorable.

She was about to skim the first page when she noticed the sheet of heavy paper tucked inside the back cover. She pulled it out and nearly dropped it—at her touch, the sheet flickered to life with full-motion video, a projection blooming on the desk in front of her.

A woman with pointed ears and white-blonde hair appeared, dressed in what looked like plate mail and a flowing cloak, all offset by a pair of glasses that kept slipping down her nose. She blinked twice, then smiled and addressed the camera:

"Greetings, good human Chloe! I must start this video letter with several apologies. First, I apologize if you are no longer human by the time you get this. The recipient of my last letter became a fae by the time the letter reached her. Secondly, I apologize for sending this via video instead of writing a proper letter. My date is supposed to start soon and, while I can speak Common well enough, my ability to read and write it is very limited. I simply do not have the time to translate the text from Elvish to Common and then trace the resulting shapes from my phone like I did for my last letter. Please forgive my difficulties navigating your human world.

“Like you, I am a late arrival on the show. While I have only been here less than a week, I have seen much on the show. Done much. Like you, I have difficulties at social functions and will sometimes shirk away from gatherings. That attitude serves us both poorly in this perverse environment. Embrace your harem sisters and grow into a family with them. They will be your comrades at arms against the fiend that pulled you from your home, whatever that may be. From the blurbs I have been given, it says you are a kindergarten teacher? While I have pulled up a definition, I do not understand what it means. The idea that a community would have enough children to warrant a teacher specifically to instruct 5 year olds sounds ludicrous to me.

“My sister and I are about 50 years apart, yet we shared the same instructors until I graduated and joined the royal guard. A 5 year old hoppalong also has very different needs than a 5 year old elf. Is this another human thing? If so, I hope my betrothed will not expect that we could have so many children as to make that necessary back home. As I have been informed, gifts are often exchanged in these letters. I have acquired a copy of Volume 1 of my favorite book series, ‘My Stepsister Reincarnated as a Human and has to Save the World.’ It has been translated into Common and I hope you enjoy it. I would spend many a night on campaign touching my special place to the scene where Kalyee seduced a nest of goblins with her new nude human form while her friends prepared to ambush the foul creatures. May it serve you as a good companion until you have found your place there.

Be well, good human,

Aelenetheria
Knight-Commander of Nimlith
Grove Daughter of Kaelisterie,
47th Queen of the Copse-Wood Throne."

Chloe nearly fell out of her chair at the “touching my special place” line. She squeaked, slapped a hand over her mouth, and then dissolved into a fit of nervous giggles. The idea of anyone sending that kind of confession by video mail was so far from anything in her own world that it instantly broke through her shyness, replacing it with a kind of helpless camaraderie.

She replayed the last line once, just to make sure she hadn’t imagined it, then snorted and set the manga aside. The thought of goblin seduction was so absurd she doubted she’d ever forget it.

But underneath the weirdness was a real message, one that made her chest ache in a good way: Embrace your harem sisters. Grow into a family with them.

She let the words echo for a while, then smiled at her own reflection in the blank computer monitor. Maybe, she thought, she’d read the manga after all.

Chloe gathered her gifts and stacked them carefully, as if afraid to damage any of them. She still had one more letter to open, but already she felt more like herself than she had since arriving.

The last envelope was soft and bulky. Chloe tore it open, and a knit sweater tumbled into her lap—a simple thing, off-white, with a faint shimmer in the yarn. It looked hand-made, but when she hefted it, the fabric was far denser than it should be. There was a note attached to the sleeve by a little gold safety pin.

She peeled off the letter and read:

Miss Ramsey,

It takes a kind soul to emerge from tribulation with a smile on your lips and warmth in your heart. While the challenges you have faced have been softer than some, a buried edge can cut just as deeply as a naked blade. That the scars it leaves are invisible only makes them easier to hide.

To you, I offer the advice that in your new family, you have a place where you can belong. You have spent your years as the woman to whom others turn. While there is immeasurable value to be found in such a role, I suggest to you that in your sisters and Master Cooper, you have others who will be willing to see value in you for who you are, not what you offer.

To that end, you must take the first step. Decide what boundaries are yours and establish yourself, then allow the edges of the others to grow against them—you will find that you are worthy of more space than you believe, your family more willing to embrace you than you have ever hoped.

To you, I offer a boon in the hope that you will put it to good use.

J.

Chloe ran her fingers along the hem of the sweater. There was a single loose thread, bright scarlet, dangling from the left sleeve. She thumbed the little card that came with it:

Coat of Courage: This garment appears as a simple knit sweater, though it is heavier than its material would suggest. While worn, it slightly bolsters the courage of the one who dons it. A loose thread hangs from the left sleeve. By tugging it free, the bearer may insist that they be heard—no matter the circumstances, all those around them will allow them to speak their mind without interruption.

She smiled. She slipped the sweater over her arms, shivering as it settled against her. The weight, rather than feeling burdensome, was grounding—like a friend’s embrace, or the blankets she used to swaddle herself in during thunderstorms as a kid.

For a while, she just sat there, letting the words from the letter mingle with the sensation of being held. The idea of being allowed to set boundaries, to be valued for herself, not just for what she could offer—Chloe had never dared to even imagine it. She looked at the thread, not pulling it, but tracing it with her fingertip, feeling braver just knowing it was there.

She stood, stretched, and looked at herself in the mirror above the desk. With the sweater, the gold star, and the silly manga book tucked under her arm, she looked like a different person. Not someone entirely new, but a Chloe who could exist without apology.

She grinned, a real, wide smile, and for the first time all week, she wanted to be seen. She wanted to go to dinner with the others, or maybe just walk through the halls with her head up.