The Weight of Truth, Part 1

When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 79 VP - 800 BP - 1 Achiev
Claire - 63 VP - 7100 BP - 2 Achievs
Marissa - 56 VP - 4300 BP - 1 Achiev
Liesa - 54 VP - 2900 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 44 VP - 3750 BP - 1 Achiev
Dawn - 43 VP - 4500 BP - 1 Achiev
Sam - 29 VP - 4550 BP - 2 Achievs
Norah - 27 VP - 4050 BP - 2 Achievs
Chloe - 8 VP - 2975 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 5 VP - 4300 BP

Andy woke with the cautious optimism of someone who had survived both an emotional minefield and a catgirl in heat. The Suite was still, but suffused with that warm, gold-gray light that suggested not only the return of morning, but also the vague possibility that one might, in fact, deserve it.

He found Claire beside him, sitting cross-legged on top of the comforter, a battered paperback open in her lap. She wore his T-shirt and nothing else, the hem stretched nearly to her knees, her tail peeking out from beneath it and sweeping slowly, unconsciously, over her ankle. She read with the fixed concentration of a nun at vespers, the only motion the steady flick of her tail and the occasional twitch of her ears in response to the sounds outside the window: the rhythmic hush of waves, the distant scream of a jet ski, the hum of the resort waking up.

He watched her for a minute, partly because she was beautiful in the way no one would ever believe, and partly because he couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up next to someone who was awake, but wasn't already halfway out the door. Claire caught him staring, and, without looking up, arched one eyebrow in gentle censure. Her tail curled slightly, betraying the pleasure that her face wouldn't allow.

"Morning," Andy said, his voice rough. "Did you sleep at all?"

She didn't answer, of course, but he could see the answer in her posture: she'd read most of the night, catnapping between chapters. Her notebook was on the side table, pen clipped neatly to the cover. She set her book aside, rolled off the bed with a fluidity that had nothing to do with her transformation, and padded out toward the kitchen, tail high and ears at a forward tilt.

He followed, rubbing his eyes. In the fridge, an alarming number of breakfast yogurts competed for shelf space with a smorgasbord of ingredients and three different types of juice. The only bread was the fancy-seeded kind, each slice so dense with flax and chia that it could double as construction material.

Claire prepped their coffee in silence. She moved with quiet efficiency and poured his coffee first, then hers, and set both on the counter before reaching for the bread and a butter knife.

They ate standing, not quite facing each other, sharing the counter the way hostages share an escape plan: each pretending not to notice the other's nerves, the close quarters, the way every breath seemed to rearrange the furniture between them.

After a few minutes, Claire reached for her notebook and scrawled something with quick, sure strokes. She tore out the page, set it in front of him, then went back to buttering her toast.

He read it.

You don't have to worry, she wrote. I'm not going to propose. Not unless you want me to. But you should know that I meant it, last night. And the time before.

She added, beneath it:

I want you to be happy. Even if it's not with me. But it would be nice if it was.

Andy read the note twice, feeling something in his chest crack open. It was the kind of honesty that left no space for deflection, or jokes, or even the pretense of modesty. He looked up at her, but she wouldn't meet his gaze. Instead, she chewed her toast, her eyes fixed on the window, watching the hotel staff below as they reset the pool chairs for another day of controlled leisure.

He started to say something, but she raised one hand in a stop gesture and picked up the pen again. This time, she didn't bother to tear the page out; she just slid the whole notebook to him, her handwriting urgent and clean.

I know you think I'm only doing this because of the transformation. But the feeling was there before. The transformation just made it impossible to ignore.

She hesitated, then added:

I know I will probably never be the first, or the last, or the best. But if you ever decide you want a future with me, please be honest. Even if the answer is 'no.' I don't mind the pain. I just don't want to waste time pretending.

He looked at the words for a long time, and when he finally glanced up, Claire was watching him, her tail looped loosely around the leg of the stool, her face open and unguarded.

He tried, briefly, to think of something appropriately comforting, or romantic, or even just clever. He failed, and so he did what she wanted: he was honest.

"I don't know if I deserve a future," Andy said, the words so quiet he wasn't sure she'd heard. "But if I did, I can't imagine it not having you in it."

He waited for her reaction, but she only smiled, small and perfect. Then she reached for his hand across the counter, and, after a moment of mutual uncertainty, their fingers laced together. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

They sat like that for a while, letting the coffee cool and the morning settle around them. There was no pressure to fill the silence, no need to punctuate the intimacy with a punchline. Eventually, Claire released his hand, flipped to a new page, and wrote:

Are you scared?

He read the question, then shrugged. "Of what?"

She pointed at her abdomen, then made a little wiggly gesture with her fingers that could only mean one thing.

"Of kids?" Andy laughed, and the sound came out more surprised than amused. "I think I'd be a disaster as a parent. I mean, I'd try. But I'd probably lose the baby in the supermarket, or teach it how to hack the school's Wi-Fi before it learned to tie its shoes."

Claire pretended to consider this, then wrote: I think you'd be a good dad. Just don't leave the child alone with Norah, ever.

Andy snorted, nearly **** on his coffee. "She'd have it running a shell company before kindergarten."

Claire nodded, and, for the first time that morning, he sensed she was genuinely happy—not just content, but radiant in the way that made him want to believe her.

They lingered over breakfast, talking through the notebook or in gestures, mapping out a future neither was sure would ever happen. But both now started to want it to. They joked about the logistics of a catgirl pregnancy (Would the babies have ears? Would they come out purring? Would Andy have to get up at 3 AM to clean the litter box?), about what kind of people they might become, about whether this—whatever this was—could survive the next challenge, the next transformation, the next unpredictable roll of the dice.

At some point, the conversation circled back to the previous night. Andy tried to bring it up gently, unsure if it was a sore spot or just awkward, but Claire seemed almost eager to discuss it.

“About last night,” Andy said, the words coming out lighter than he intended. “You… you really didn’t want me to pull out?”

Claire’s ears rotated in his direction, her face remaining neutral. She reached for her notebook, tapped the pen once against her lower lip, then wrote:

If you had, I would have been disappointed.

She pushed the notebook toward him. He read it, then raised an eyebrow.

“You know it’s risky,” he said, voice pitched low. “Especially with your transformation. We don’t even know how effective the Harem Hotel contraceptives can be.”

She nodded, not as a concession but as a point of logic. Then she scribbled:

Isn’t that the point? If we want to be careful, we can. But sometimes it feels good to be reckless. To stop thinking about the consequences. I don’t do that often.

He scanned the words, then looked up to find her already watching him. “It sounds like you’ve been planning this for a while.”

Claire’s lips quirked. She hesitated, then wrote:

I just want you to know I’m serious. I’m not here for the fantasy. I want you, in any way you’ll let me have you. Even if it means letting go a little.

The silence between them was thick, but not uncomfortable. Andy felt the press of it in his chest, the urge to answer in kind.

“So you meant what you wrote,” he said. “About a future.”

She looked away, ears flattening for a heartbeat, then returning to neutral. She wrote:

I know it’s not practical. I know there are others. But if I’m not honest, what’s the point of being here?

Andy considered this, the way Claire made everything so blunt, so stripped of pretense. He’d always been drawn to people who **** him to confront the world as it was, but with Claire, it was different. Her honesty didn’t just cut through the bullshit—it made him want to be honest, too.

He reached out, covering her hand with his. Her fingers tensed, then relaxed beneath his palm.

“I want that, too,” he said, and it was true.

They sat in silence, their joined hands the only sign of movement. The sun crept higher, slicing the kitchen in bands of orange and blue. Eventually, Claire withdrew her hand, flipped to a new page, and wrote:

Do you want to go back to bed?

Andy blinked, the question so unexpected that he almost laughed. He glanced at the clock—barely nine.

“Is that a hint?” he asked.

She shook her head. Then wrote:

It’s not for sleep.

Andy grinned, and the feeling was something like gratitude. “Are you sure?” he asked, not because he doubted her, but because he wanted to give her the chance to back out.

Claire set the notebook aside, crossed her arms, and raised both eyebrows at him. The message was clear: don’t ask dumb questions.

He stood, walked around the counter, and before she could protest, swept her up into his arms. She yelped, a soundless huff of surprise, and he was reminded, abruptly, that she weighed almost nothing.

As he carried her toward the bedroom, he murmured, “I didn’t know catgirls were this insatiable.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a flush rising beneath her skin.

In the bedroom, he set her down on the edge of the bed. Claire reached for her notebook, but Andy caught her hand.

"Wait," he said. "Can we... try something different this time?"

She cocked her head.

"Last night," he said, "I was caught up in myself. But there were moments when I could feel what you wanted rippling through me, like an echo." His fingers traced the curve of her jaw. "I want to focus on that this time. Just on you."

She considered this, her pupils dilating slightly.

"Let me feel what you feel," he whispered.

She took his face in her hands and kissed him, slow and deliberate. Her tail curled around his thigh, anchoring him in place. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the current of her desire as it washed through him—electric, yes, but also grounding in its certainty.

As she kissed him, she guided his hands to the hem of her t-shirt. He hesitated, but she pressed his palms to her waist, silent encouragement.

He peeled the t-shirt up and over her head, leaving her naked but for a pair of plain cotton underwear. She didn’t look away, didn’t try to hide herself. Instead, she reached for his shirt and tugged, impatient.

Andy obliged, shucking it off and tossing it aside. He stood over her, and for a second he wondered if he should slow down. But Claire only looked up at him, waiting.

He slid her underwear down, watching as she shifted to help, never breaking eye contact. Her body was soft, pale, with a smattering of freckles over her thighs and a faint pink at her chest. Her breasts were small, perfect, with rosy nipples that hardened in the air.

He ran his hands over her, slow and careful, memorizing the landscape. She closed her eyes, her breathing steady, then reached for him, pulling him closer.

He hesitated at the last moment, “I should…”

She shook her head with fierce insistence, emerald eyes flashing, and Andy caught the faint scent of her—earthy musk laced with something sweet and wild—fanning through his senses. She seized him by the shoulders and pulled him down with startling strength, guiding him inside her so deliberately that he gasped against her neck, tasting the warmth of her skin and the hint of her inner heat.

This time felt utterly primal. She arched off the bed, her spine curving like a bow, and he could feel the soft press of fine fur at her nape brushing his chest. Every thrust they shared sent a ripple of her heartbeat through him, a staccato drum in tune with his own, heightening his arousal so that each movement pulsed with urgent desire. Her legs locked around his waist like a vise, the friction of thigh against hip igniting a fire low in his belly. When her nails raked down his back—sharp as talons—the sting only amplified his pleasure, sending bright sparks along his spine.

He tried to pull back, murmuring something about being careful, but she growled—deep, rumbling, almost feline—and in one fluid motion flipped them over, pinning him beneath her. The coarse pads of her palms pressed into the sheets as she hovered above, and Andy inhaled her scent again: warm, intoxicating, laced now with salt and promise.

“Claire,” he gasped, fingers tangling in her tail’s plush fur. As she rode him with abandon, he felt each roll of her hips send a cascade of molten heat through his veins. Her tail lashed against his thighs, then coiled tight around his calf, sending a delicious twitch through his leg that echoed in his groin. He reached for her hips, **** to lift her off him, to slow the frantic thrum in his veins—but she caught his wrists, pressing them into the mattress above his head, and her grip was velvet strength.

The look in her eyes was feral, possessive, and Andy sensed the ferocity of her need as a tangible pulse. She shook her head once, decisively, and he understood: she wanted all of him. Blood hammered in his temples, warmth flooded his groin, and he surrendered with a hoarse cry, his body quivering in time with hers. Every thrust became a promise unspooling, every shudder of her hips against his pelvis a wave building toward an ecstatic peak.

She followed almost instantly, her climax a silent explosion—violent trembling in her thighs, the deep, thunderous purr reverberating through both their bodies like a primal anthem. Andy’s own release crashed through him at the same instant, white-hot and tidal, his muscles clenching around her as he spilled everything he had to give. The heat of it left him breathless, his skin slick with sweat, the memory of her scent and the taste of her lips still vivid on his tongue.

They collapsed in a panting, tangled heap, hearts hammering against each other, limbs still entwined as if neither could bear to let go. For a long minute, neither moved. Andy felt her heartbeat slow against his chest, each thud resonating in his ribs. He rolled to the side, pulling her with him, and she curled into his chest, her tail draped lazily over his thigh, the soft fur lingering beneath his palm.

He stroked the base of her tail, feeling the residual tremor beneath the fine fur, and said, “You’re incredible, you know that?”

She snorted, then wriggled free just enough to reach for her notebook on the nightstand. She wrote:

Are you saying that just because you had sex with a catgirl?

He grinned, the echo of his orgasm still warm in his veins. “I’d say it if you were a slug girl.”

She wrinkled her nose, then scribbled:

Do you want to try it with a slug girl next time?

Andy barked a laugh, the rich sound bouncing off the bare walls, still tasting the aftermath of her on his lips.

They lay there for a while, the sunlight painting the room in lazy stripes. Eventually, Claire turned to him, her expression uncharacteristically shy.

She wrote:

Do you like them? My breasts, I mean.

Andy blinked, then propped himself up on one elbow. “What do you mean?”

She gestured at her chest, then scribbled:

I know they’re small. Not like Erin’s. If you prefer big, it’s okay to say so.

He shook his head. “I like yours. They’re…” He trailed off, searching for the word.

She watched him, unblinking.

“They’re you,” he said. “And that’s all I want.”

Claire seemed to consider this, then nodded, a small smile flickering at the corner of her mouth. She wrote:

If I wanted to try big, could you make that happen?

Andy blinked, then remembered: the console, the codes, the endless possibilities.

He nodded. “There’s a cheat code for everything,” he said.

She looked thoughtful, then wrote:

Maybe later. For now, I like being yours.

He read the words twice, then pulled her close, tucking her against his chest.

They dozed like that, warm and close, until the sun crested the window and **** them to move.

Claire rolled out of bed first, stretching in a way that made her tail flick and her back arch. Andy watched her, feeling the strange, slow satisfaction of having nothing to hide, nothing to regret.

She dressed, then scrawled a quick note:

I’ll see you at lunch. Don’t be late.

He grinned, watching as she padded out of the room, tail high and swaying.

Extract from Sam's Physical Description
[...] She’s about 5'6", with an athletic build, tan skin, sharp dark eyes, and wavy auburn hair. [...]
Coauthor's Edit
[...] She’s about 5'10", with an athletic build, tan skin, sharp dark eyes, and wavy blue hair. [...]

Extract from Sam's Character Description
[...]Samantha Collins (29), who goes by 'Sam', is a bright, confident woman who was a college classmate of Andy’s. She prefers being called Sam. Sam works as a barista at a struggling local café known for its vibrant atmosphere and eclectic clientele.[...]
Coauthor's Edit
[,,,]Samantha Collins (29), who goes by 'Sam', is a bright, confident woman who was a college classmate of Andy’s. She prefers being called Sam. Sam works as a barista at a popular local café known for its vibrant atmosphere and eclectic clientele.[...]

Andy smiled as he finished the Coauthor modifications. He didn't want to change too much, since he was concerned that he had no idea how wide-ranging or twisted the corrections could be. But it felt right to support Sam's business, too.

The Inner Gardens always felt a half degree off from reality, as if someone had turned up the saturation and then left the air on shuffle. Andy ducked under the arch of blooming hibiscus, his path swallowed up by ferns the size of street signs and those glossy, mutant leaves that always looked fake until you touched them and realized they were somehow wetter than actual water.

The path twisted, doubled back on itself, then dead-ended at a mossy bench. Emi was there, perched on a folding artist's stool with a sketchbook balanced on her knees, her six arms in constant, coordinated motion. Two hands traced pencil lines; two more fanned the sketchbook and rifled through colored sticks; the last pair, delicately, picked at her hair, twisting a lock behind her ear. She wore a navy sundress and no shoes. The sunlight picked out fine blue veins under her pale skin, making her look almost translucent.

He watched her for a minute before approaching. It seemed a shame to break her concentration—she was working so intently that the tip of her tongue peeked out with every stroke, a kid's tic she'd never outgrown. But after a while, she noticed him, and all six hands froze.

"Good morning," she said, voice gentle as usual. There was always something a little dreamy about Emi, but in the mornings it was amplified, her words just a shade behind her smile.

Andy sat next to her on the bench, careful not to dislodge any of the wild geraniums that sprawled over the seat. "What are you working on?"

She tilted her sketchpad so he could see: a riot of color and movement, a study of the fountain at the center of the Gardens, with girls laughing at the edge and koi flashing gold beneath the water. He recognized Chloe by the messy braid, Liesa by the elegant curve of her spine, Dawn by the pink hoodie. It was all impressionistic—faces blurred, energy rendered in sweeps and blotches—but there was a real affection in the way Emi had drawn them. Andy felt a small warmth in his chest. "That's really good," he said.

Emi blushed, her lower arms folding over her stomach as if to hold the praise in place. "Thank you," she murmured. "I don't always get them right."

She glanced down, then started fidgeting with a sheet of paper. In seconds, she had folded it into a tiny flower—red petals, a yellow center, green stem—then offered it to him with all four free hands. He accepted, turning it between his fingers.

"It's beautiful," Andy said, not for the first time meaning it.

They sat quietly for a while, the garden's hush broken only by bird calls and the far-off, insistent plash of the fountain. Emi drew, Andy watched. Occasionally, he caught her glancing at him over her glasses, as if checking to see if he was still there, or maybe just making sure he was real.

He was so focused on the stillness that Riley's entrance caught him by surprise.

She came down the path at a pace just short of angry, her boots scattering gravel, hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets. She wore the same battered jeans as yesterday, a black T-shirt, hair pulled back in a hasty knot that left wisps escaping around her face. She didn't so much as glance at Andy or Emi. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, predatory and flat, as if any deviation from the path would cost her something vital.

Andy watched her go, feeling the charge in the air as she passed—a storm contained in a human frame. Emi, for her part, shrank a little, pulling her hands in tight.

"She doesn't like me," Emi said, quietly.

"She doesn't like anyone," Andy replied, but not as a joke.

Emi nodded, the movement small and sad. "I know. But I think she used to be nice. Before."

Andy didn't know what to say to that. So he just held the origami flower, and listened to the fading click of Riley's boots on the path.

A few minutes later, as he was preparing to leave, Sam appeared at the other end of the garden, moving with her usual purposeful lope. She was in running shorts and a vintage Cubs tee, hair pulled up in a high ponytail, cheeks flushed. Andy grinned: she was definitely taller now, around the same height as Andi, and oblivious to the change. She carried two mugs of coffee, one in each hand.

"Hey, lover boy," she called, plunking herself down next to him. She handed over a mug without preamble. "Black, just the way you don't like it."

"Thanks," he said, taking a sip. "It's perfect."

Sam sipped her own, then cocked her head at Emi, who had returned to her sketching but was listening. "You two look cozy. Should I give you a minute?"

Emi smiled, then shook her head, her hands busy with the page.

Sam leaned closer to Andy, her voice dropping. "You talk to Riley yet?"

Andy shook his head. "I saw her. She… didn't stop."

"She won't," Sam said. "Not until you **** it. Or until she implodes." She glanced at the flower in Andy's hand, then at Emi, who looked suddenly fascinated by her own shoes. "You should talk to her. Even if she tells you to fuck off."

"Why?" Andy asked, genuinely curious.

Sam swirled the coffee in her mug, considering. "Because you scare her," she said, at last. "Not the way you think. She'd never admit it, but I think you're the one thing that makes her question her story."

Andy sat with that for a while, watching the sunlight make patterns on his arms. "You think that's why she hates me?"

Sam shook her head. "No, that's just the surface. Underneath, she doesn't hate you at all. She's just… terrified you'll prove her wrong. And then she won't know who she is anymore."

Emi looked up, her eyes luminous in the filtered light. "You should try," she said. "Maybe it will help."

Andy nodded, not trusting himself to answer. The idea of being someone's existential threat was deeply uncomfortable, but maybe, he thought, it was better than being a ghost.

He stood, thanked Emi for the flower, and set it gently in his breast pocket. Sam squeezed his shoulder as they walked out of the garden, then let her hand drop as they passed back into the sunlight.

"By the way," He told Sam quietly, "I did what you asked. Your height, your hair. And one more modification that won't be relevant until we get back home."

Sam blinked, then looked down at herself. She pulled a lock of her blue hair in front of her face, then burst out laughing. "This is so weird!" She said. "I had no idea anything had changed, but you just say the words and... now I distinctly remember not being this tall yesterday, or my hair being dyed." She gave Andy a hug that would have been bone-crushing on anyone but someone with the enhanced stamina from his Gifts. "Thank you, dude. Are the changes retroactive?"

Andy nodded. "Yep. Not sure how science can explain a girl with blue hair, but if it works in anime, it works here too." He wanted to tell her about the Bean, but something told him not to. He didn't want her to know it had been "officially" struggling, or feel that its popularity wasn't due to her, but to magic. This was a secret he'd keep for her, he figured. Sam, delighted by the changes, hooked her arm around his and led him out of the garden.