The Infiltration (Spoilers)

WARNING! The next chapters (up to The Final Push) contain several minor spoilers for several seasons of Harem Hotel in here, and one major spoiler for the Nick Reynolds branch. If you haven't read that yet, be warned! A spoiler-free version of the Third Challenge begins here.

The world blinked. The air changed.

Claire was the first through. She landed in a crouch, tail low, pupils wide. The air tasted like dust and lemon oil; overhead, the lights were twilight-dim, casting the first chamber in shades of blue and charcoal. For a heartbeat, all was still. Then the others spilled after her—Marissa, Norah, Sam, Erin, Dawn, Liesa, Emi, Chloe, Riley, and Emily, the last two nearly colliding as the portal snapped shut with the sound of a champagne cork.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just silence and the hush of latex against glass.

The first chamber of the Museum of Pleasures Past was a cathedral to everything you were never supposed to want. It was the size of a basketball court, but the ceiling rose twice as high, lost in darkness. The windows were enormous, but only darkness lurked outside. Light came from the glass cases—dozens of them, floor to ceiling, packed like teeth. Every case was spotlit, the shelves lined with things none of the girls could have imagined if they’d had a thousand years: beaded collars in medical-grade stainless steel, resin casts of ancient sex toys, a Victorian chastity cage built for three, a wall of signed ball gags labeled Season 92, The Screaming Years. There was a velvet pillow supporting a single, enigmatic stone banana. No plaque to clarify.

Claire’s tail thumped once. She motioned the others forward with a twitch of her left hand, then stalked ahead, eyes flicking from case to case. She moved without a sound, but the rest of the group couldn’t quite match her stealth: Norah’s hips knocked against a pedestal, setting an entire shelf of dildos (labeled Prayer Objects - Various Hosts) quivering; Chloe tripped, caught herself on a display of bejeweled nipple clamps, and stifled a squeak; even Marissa’s latex bodice creaked, the strain over her breasts visible even from Andy's remote viewing perch upon the Master’s Throne.

Erin, naked except for running shoes, seemed not to notice the cold. She walked with the loose, predatory stride of a woman who has never needed to hide anything, but her nipples were hard as diamonds and her breasts swayed like improbable metronomes. With her transformation suspended, she couldn’t feel if Andy was looking at her, and the thought made her surprisingly sad.

Marissa pressed up behind Claire, her breath cool and even. “Looks safe for now,” she murmured, voice pitched low. Chloe, Dawn, and Liesa heard her anyway and shuddered, the sound of Marissa’s whisper sending a ripple of awareness through the group. Riley hung back, arms crossed, but her eyes tracked every movement, cataloguing threats and exits. She frowned at a case containing a set of doom-black dice and an improbable assortment of tokens, remarkably normal—an iron butterfly, a deck of cards, a remarkably well-crafted motorcycle, a little guitar—only to see they were labeled as Cumopoly Dice and Tokens - Harem Hotel: Haunted Castle, Shar, S01.

“That tracks,” she grunted grimly.

Emi handed Emily her gun, then her six arms glided over the wall like a web; she hoisted herself onto a ledge above the glass, fingers fanned for balance. “I see something up ahead,” she hissed, “maybe three Mildreds? Or statues. They’re not moving yet.” She peered down at Claire, waiting for the signal.

Norah and Sam flanked left, taking the outer edge of the chamber. Each gripped a pellet gun with the confidence of someone who’d played too many video games but never fired a real weapon. They checked the safeties, exchanged a look, and split—Norah moved with purpose, Sam with a silent, bounding gait that looked almost cartoony in her skintight latex.

Liesa lagged, fussing with the zipper of her suit. She’d double-layered, but the extra fabric bunched around her hips and made every step a gamble. Her face was flushed, and her breathing fast; she clearly hated every second, but also, somehow, loved it. Irrationally, she stared at a collection of four nearly identical black witch’s hats, the likes of which she’d only seen on Halloween and at a Wicked performance. They were labeled Elise’s Hat (Replica) - Harem Hotel: Bed & Breakfast Edition, Sera, S01; Morgana’s Hat (Replica) - Harem Hotel: Island Vacation, Sylvia & Dakota, S01; Misty’s Hat (Replica) - Harem Hotel: Haunted Castle, Shar, S01; and Talia’s Wizard Hat (Replica) - Harem Hotel: Missed Connections, Cassandra, S68,723. Liesa wondered how many witches there were in Harem Hotel, and what she’d look like in one of those.

Chloe clutched her satchel of patches like a rosary, her arms folded around her chest. She stared at a display of wooden paddles labeled Ceremonial - Host Unknown as if they were snakes.

Emily, the last to enter, had tried to hide behind the crowd but ended up front and center, bare except for the shifting curtain of her hair. The blonde and pink waves somehow covered just enough—nipples, belly, the V of her sex—unless she turned quickly, in which case the veil fluttered and exposed everything for a moment. She held onto Erin’s hand, knuckles white, and tried not to look at the endless rows of artifacts with her own name attached. There was an entire shelf labeled Contestant Highlight: EMILY ALLEN - Leah, S01, featuring a collection of what looked suspiciously like her old panties, a lock of hair, and a framed picture in a less-than-flattering pose.

Marissa shot a look back at Emily, voice velvet: “Stay close to Erin. You’ll be the last line of defense.” Between the order and Marissa’s ASMR transformation, the words sent a zing through Emily’s spine, and she nodded, trying not to melt. Erin squeezed her hand in reply.

At the far end of the chamber, beyond a curve of glass and leather, two Mildreds stood watch at a closed double door. They looked identical to their housekeeper and shopkeeper cousins, except for the gloss-black uniforms, riot-helmet visors, and the paintball rifles cradled in their arms. They did not move. They did not speak. But as the group advanced, the Mildreds’ chins turned in unison to follow.

Claire held up a fist, and the group froze. She crouched low, motioned to Emi, then to Marissa, then to the mirrored cases on the north wall. Emi nodded, unfurled her arms, and crabwalked across the ledge, her fingertips skittering in eerie silence.

Dawn sidled next to Chloe, voice pitched barely above a breath: “When it starts, we stick together, okay?” Chloe nodded, fighting the urge to whimper.

Norah and Sam took positions behind two of the larger display pedestals, guns up. Liesa squeezed into the gap between Riley and Marissa, shoulders hunched. Claire, eyes wide, flicked her tail in an elaborate code; Marissa murmured, “They’re expecting us to rush. We split their attention, then go for the doors.”

Emi called down, “Ready when you are.”

A pause. Claire tensed, then signaled the push.

The group advanced, less a military drill than a high-stakes game of Red Light, Green Light. Norah and Sam slipped from cover to cover, guns locked on the Mildreds’ helmets. Erin, oblivious to cold, stalked dead center; Emily scampered behind, holding the gun with both hands, hair tumbling forward, then flopping back—revealing it all again.

Chloe and Dawn hugged the right flank—Chloe softly muttering a calming lullaby while Dawn’s eyes searched for threats. Liesa and Riley circled wide left, Claire just behind them, ready to spring. Marissa held the center, her gaze never wavering from the Mildreds.

Halfway there, the Mildreds sprang to life. Both rifles snapped up, barrels glowing compressed pink. A perfect, synchronized volley cracked. The first shot whistled over Marissa, splattering a nearby glass case; the second spattered the floor at Norah’s feet. Calm as ever, Marissa called, “They’re herding us. Keep left. Chloe, Dawn—patch anyone who gets hit, then run for the doors.”

Liesa spotted a barrel aim at Riley and leapt into view, arms flailing. The guards swivelled, lasers tracing her chest. She howled, baiting them—then a searing hit struck her shoulder. Unbowed, she felt the aphrodisiac paint eat through a patch of the latex, but she was used to low-grade arousal by now and simply grinned; the guards’ fire had bought Riley precious seconds to slip by.

Norah rolled, came up firing; her shot bloomed neon on a Mildred’s chest. The soldier flinched but stayed upright. Sam steadied her breath, squeezed the trigger, and winged the other guard’s helmet with glittering goo.

Seizing the moment, Claire burst from cover and tackled the second Mildred, knocking her rifle aside. The guard lurched, arms pinwheeling for balance.

Above, Emi dove from the ledge, six arms outstretched. She slammed onto the Mildred while Claire narrowly rolled away, clamped two arms around the rifle, another two on the helmet, then with a savage twist ripped the weapon free. Two arms locked the guard in place; another shoved the stolen gun into her neck. “Bang!” Emi yelled with glee, shooting a series of pellets straight into Mildred’s throat. The guard trembled, then Emi leapt clear, shrieking, “Now!”

Chloe froze as a third Mildred aimed at her. A burst of pellets tore into her collarbone; her latex suit split with a sharp pop. She yelped, dropped her satchel, cheeks flaming.

At center, Erin snatched the fallen rifle, her breasts swinging so hard she nearly toppled. “Emily, cover me!” she shouted, hurling the gun back. Emily’s fingers fumbled, then found a grip. A jolt of heat raced through her as she aimed and fired; the pellet shattered a display case, spraying aphrodisiac everywhere. The guard ducked, then leveled her rifle at Emily’s chest.

Marissa’s voice cut through the chaos: “Emily, down!” Emily collapsed as the shot whooshed past, splattering her hair. The sweet scent filled the air; for a heartbeat, Emily’s body glowed with anticipation.

Riley, circling back from Liesa’s diversion, dove for the rifle Emily dropped. She scooped it up, spun and fired—the pellet striking the Mildred’s unarmored flank. The guard sagged, rifle clattering as she hit the floor.

Liesa pressed a hand to her bleeding shoulder, breath ragged but triumphant. She’d drawn their fire and given everyone the opening they needed. Claire rolled forward, securing the fallen guard’s arms, and stood, nodding. The path to the doors lay clear.

Norah whooped, “Nice shot, Riley!” She cackled, the game clearly thrilled her. Riley gave a nod.

“Used to play paintball when I was younger,” she said, “glad to see I still have game, despite the girls.” She glanced down at her enhanced chest. Norah scoffed.

“Been there, done that, got the sticker. Get used to it, Red!”

Erin grabbed the second Mildred’s rifle from Emi, then moved to the door, scanning for more threats. “Clear!” she yelled. She was starting to feel excited.

Sam looked at the new guns Erin and Riley were carrying. “We’re loaded for the next round,” She grinned, wiping sweat from her brow.

Liesa emerged from behind the cover, her suit still intact but her hair in wild disarray. “That was terrifying,” she gasped, then immediately looked around to see if anyone had seen her panic. Riley gave her a thumbs up, and Liesa, embarrassed, smiled back.

Marissa led the way to the double doors, Claire right at her side. “Good work,” Marissa said, voice velvet again, and the words sent a faint ripple of arousal through the team. Even Norah, tough as nails, blushed.

They regrouped at the far doors. On the floor behind them, something inside the three Mildreds twitched, their skin rippling, and the girls quickly averted their eyes. They’d be out of commission for at least a while.

Claire leaned into Marissa, made a few gestures in their shorthand. Marissa nodded, then addressed the team: “It gets harder from here. We move fast, we move quiet, and we do not get separated. Is that clear?”

Everyone nodded. Claire glanced at the new gear - Emi, Riley and Erin held the new guns, adding to the squad’s arsenal. Dawn and Chloe gave her a thumbs-up - no patches used so far.

Emily, hair still sparking with residual arousal, grinned at Erin. “We made it,” she whispered, and Erin laughed, loud and honest.

Claire put her hand on the door. She turned, looked at every woman in the group, and with a single, decisive flick of her tail, signaled the all-clear.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Riley, eyes still bright from the battle, nudged the nearest bench with her foot. “So are we going to take a victory selfie, or just wander into the next **** trap?”

The joke, such as it was, snapped the group out of their trance. Dawn giggled, her bunny tail bobbing with each laugh. Even Chloe managed a breathless, relieved smile as she helped Emi up. Claire was the first to turn from the defeated Mildreds, her notebook already out, pen dancing in frantic, post-adrenaline scribbles.

Norah rolled her shoulders and eyed the gun in her hand with something like affection. “Weirdest Monday of my life, and I don’t even know if it’s Monday,” she muttered. She looked to the next door, the one labeled HALL OF KINKS. “Do we think it’s safe?”

“Define safe,” Marissa said, voice low and—impossibly—more alluring than before. “Every room in here is probably armed and loaded.” The others winced at her choice of words, though Andy saw more than one shiver at the double meaning.

Erin, still shimmering with sweat, nodded at the door. “Let’s not stall. I don’t want to see what this aphrodisiac does if you breathe it for too long.” She turned to Claire, “Catgirl, you got point.”

Claire saluted, then padded to the door with her notebook as a shield. Behind her, the rest fell in: Chloe and Dawn clutching each other, Emi still fumbling with the gun, Norah and Riley in the vanguard with their launchers. Marissa lingered to check on Liesa, who was still hunched behind a statue of a surprisingly anatomically correct centaur, hands trembling a bit.

“You okay?” Marissa asked.

Liesa nodded, face pale but determined. “I hate being shot at,” she whispered. “But I hate losing more.”

Marissa offered her arm; Liesa took it, squeezing for just a second before releasing. Together, they rejoined the group at the threshold.

Claire pressed the panel, and the door hissed open.

The Hall of Kinks was, in every sense, a spectacle. If the first chamber was about anatomical wonder, this was all about what you did with it. The place looked like a cross between a history museum, a sex shop, and an interactive art gallery designed by a pervy billionaire with too much time and access to a 3D printer.

The centerpiece: a twelve-foot-high glass column, filled to the brim with a slow-moving slurry of clear, lube-like liquid. Suspended inside were hundreds of objects—some obviously sex toys, some weirdly medical, some so avant-garde that no one could figure out the intended use. The effect was mesmerizing and a little threatening, like staring into a Lovecraftian lava lamp that would also call your mother if you stared too long.

The walls were lined with cases. On the left, an array of old vibrators—some antique, some gold-plated, one that looked suspiciously like a cordless power drill—was lit with dramatic spotlights. In the next, a selection of harnesses and collars, labeled with museum tags: The Pragmatic Collar - Harem Hotel: The Kennel, Kael, S02; Bisexual Restraint - Harem Hotel: The Kennel, Kael, S03; Lust Bangle - Harem Hotel: The Kennel, Kael, S05; Feral Necklace - Harem Hotel: The Kennel, Kael, S06. Another plaque underneath mentioned Kael’s Kinky Kollars, pre-demotion.

On the right, a set of glass sculptures so impossibly intricate they had to have been made by magical means. One was an abstract rendering of a squid-woman entangled with a vintage sewing machine; the plaque read, The Dream of Mrs. Smythe - [REDACTED], Host [REDACTED], S189, Finale. Next to it, a solid gold vibrator with a jewel-encrusted grip, its handle in the shape of a falcon’s upper body, wings folded, emeralds for eyes. The plaque read: Clit-Tease Falcon - Harem Hotel: Hollywood Edition, Ava, S113. Underneath, someone had scrawled, The only vibrator to never finish the job. Chloe snorted and said, “Classic.”

Next, a necklace—simple black leather, with an alarminly anatomically correct golden replica of a penis as the charm. Liesa blushed as she read the description: Holy Symbol of the Church of Steven’s Cock - [REDACTED], Nimue, [REDACTED]. Next to it, a dog-eared book: Cassandra’s Secret Desire (It’s Phallic), cover illustrated with the sort of softcore cheesecake art that only made it more embarrassing to look at in public. The plaque read Host’s Private Entertainment - Harem Hotel: Missed Connections, Cassandra, S68,723. It was followed by a pale pink mug with silicon-like breasts hanging from it. Sumiku (Replica) - Harem Hotel: Takamahagara, Arabella, S341.

Then, the oddest of all: a thick, glossy catalog titled Harem Hotel Official Shop Catalogue, authored by some Little Miss, with latex gloves next to it and a sign: Please Use Gloves When Handling. Emi, eyes sparkling, nudged Dawn. “Should we see what’s in the new season’s catalog?” Dawn giggled but, with a serious face, actually pulled on a glove and opened the book. “Why’s the author only named ‘Little Miss’, and why is everything rose gold?” she muttered.

Marissa, picking up on the ridiculousness, grinned. “I worked with a client who actually owned that vibrator,” she said, pointing at the gold one on the open page. “She said it was ‘all pain, no gain.’”

Chloe leaned in, admiring the necklace. “The show gets so much weirder the more you see of it,” she said. “I can’t believe we’re the most normal season.” She trailed off, blushing. “Not that… you know.”

Norah arched an eyebrow. “What, you don’t think we’re up to par? I’ll show you up to par.” She made an exaggerated hip thrust toward the nearest display, nearly knocking a crystal butt plug off its velvet pedestal. Everyone laughed, even Norah.

“Honestly,” Riley said, deadpan, “if this place was open to the public, I think half the planet would pay for a ticket.”

“Half?” said Sam, her voice thick with admiration. “I think you’re underestimating.”

Marissa's gaze swept across the display cases, voice low but resonant: "Have you noticed that with all her weirdness, Arabella is actually one of the least sex-crazed Hosts this show has ever had?" The word "Host" sent a visible ripple through the group: Chloe went pink to the roots of her hair, Emi's mouth fell open, Dawn blushed and tried to hide behind her catalogue.

Riley deadpanned, "Can't wait to see what the 'most sex-crazed' Host's exhibit looks like."

Before anyone could respond, Claire's tail lashed out, waving in the direction of the far end of the hall. Three Mildreds had reached the only open exit, flanking the door like goalies at a penalty kick.

“Uh-oh,” said Dawn, and a second later, the Mildreds fired off a volley—not bullets this time, but small, purple canisters that bounced across the marble floor and exploded in clouds of shimmery, lavender smoke.

“Gas!” shouted Erin, but already it was too late: the front half of the group—Chloe, Dawn, and Emi—were engulfed instantly. Dawn’s knees buckled; Emi had the presence of mind to wrap four arms around her own body and two covering her mouth and nose, as if holding herself together could stop the effect. Chloe jumped out of the way, landing straight on her boobs with an “Oomph!”

Marissa covered her mouth and tried to pull Liesa out of the path, but a second wave of canisters cut off their escape. The air was thick with the perfume of lilacs and something deeper, a musk that the Contestants felt all the way in their core.

“Hold your breath!” shouted Norah, and—true to form—she ran straight into the smoke, gun up. She fired at the nearest Mildred, hitting her dead in the neck. She spasmed, then collapsed, dropping its own weapon. “God, this is so cathartic!” She cackled, safely out of the smoke, spinning on her heels to shoot the other Mildreds before they could recover.

Sam, seeing her chance, reached for the nearest display table—a low, kidney-shaped glass piece laden with fragile glass toys. “Clear it!” she yelled, and Emi, in a show of coordination only six arms could provide, swept the table clean in a single pass, all the objects flying safely into a nearby padded bin.

“Norah, duck!” Sam hefted the table, cocked it over her head, and, with a primal roar, flung it across the room. The thing sailed like a discus, caught two Mildreds broadside, and sent them tumbling into the opposite wall with a crash that sounded like a cocktail shaker full of bones.

There was a beat of stunned silence. Norah peeked from behind the archway, in awe. Even the girls in the throes of arousal paused to gape.

Sam grinned, flexing. “Always wanted to do that.”

Riley and Norah whooped, then took advantage of the chaos: together, they charged the downed Mildreds, firing at point-blank range. The resin pellets hit with a wet, plopping sound, and in seconds the three security Mildreds were immobilized.

Meanwhile, the gas did its work. Dawn, on her knees, was making soft, **** noises, her hands tangled in the latex of her now thoroughly soaked catsuit. “I can’t—oh God, it’s like—I can’t stop—” Each word was punctuated by a shudder that threatened to knock her over. Emi’s arms locked around her own body, but her eyes were glazed and dreamy, a thin line of drool at the corner of her mouth. Chloe rushed to the three women, pulled out two patches from her satchel, and desperately slapped them on the necks of Dawn and Emi. The two women slowly calmed down, and Chloe exhaled in relief.

Liesa, shielded a bit by Marissa, still caught the tail end of the cloud. She swayed, then collapsed onto her hands and knees, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. Marissa, even through the haze, managed to keep her focus, and fully aware of how her voice could send Liesa over the edge, she calmly stroked the other woman’s hair until her eyes slowly cleared, and she gasped, “Am fine! Am fine!” and then, seeing her own position, “Am never living this down, am I?”

Marissa smiled kindly, voice thick and intoxicating: “Not a chance.” Liesa giggled, but didn’t protest at the petting.

Dawn, valiantly, clawed her way to the display table, gripped the edge, and steadied herself. “Wow,” she said, “that stuff’s no joke.”

Erin went to check on the fallen Mildreds. “They’re out cold,” she announced, then nudged the nearest one with her foot. Her skin writhed and rippled, and Erin felt slightly queasy. “And the guns are up for grabs.”

Riley, breathless with laughter, said, “Let’s upgrade the arsenal.” She tossed two of the launchers to Claire and Marissa, and gave the last to Liesa, who accepted it with only minor embarrassment.

Sam, now the group’s official heavy weapon, grinned. “You see that table toss? Did you see it?” She bounced on her heels, proud.

Norah, not to be outdone, flexed her own arms and deadpanned, “If we survive this, you’re teaching me how to do that.” With a glance at Sam’s muscles, she wilted slightly, then recovered herself, a look of challenge in her eyes.

Chloe stood upright and leaning on the display. She looked at the gold-plated vibrator and laughed, a little wild, “Maybe they should’ve used that as a weapon. Nobody would make it out of here alive.”

Emily glanced at a bottle full of a white liquid and winced. The plaque read, Season 929: The Creaming Years. She felt she might gag. A pretty pink ballgown nearby, labeled Princess Elena's gown - Harem Hotel: Payback Edition, Azure, S01 was safer to look at.

Emi, still a little dazed but focused, scanned the hall. “Next stop is the Hall of Fertility, right?”

Claire nodded, a little too briskly, and jotted in her notebook: Through the Hall of Sapphic Grace, then pointed to the next door with a staccato flick of the wrist. Her ears, which had been twitching with anticipation, now became fixed, their every hair standing on alert. She took point in the formation, and the rest of the group—some limping, some still giggly from the residual aftereffects of the gas—fell in behind her. It had the energy of a jailbreak, or maybe a marching band made up of variously aroused and traumatized cats.

The hallway was narrower here, carpeted in a dense, satiny red that deadened the footsteps. The walls had been painted in a trompe l'oeil of endless library shelves, each shelf stacked with books whose spines were clearly made up but plausible enough to be confusing: “Lez-Be Friends: A Feminist Analysis of the Pillow Fight,” “Strap-On Economics,” and “The L Word: An Unauthorized Oral History” among them. Chloe, dragging her hand along the spines, got a look in her eyes that was somewhere between longing and scandalized. She whispered to Dawn, “I wish my old library job was like this,” and Dawn snorted so hard she almost tripped.

Claire’s notebook snapped shut. She slid the strap onto her shoulder and motioned for a full stop at the next intersection. Marissa, ever the translator for the group, said, “Looks like we’re coming up on the junction. Keep your eyes open.”

At the intersection, the shortcut Claire had mapped was blocked: a security gate, the kind you saw in shopping malls, sealed tight with a metal hiss as soon as the girls approached. Behind it, mannequins dressed in scandalous Victorian nightgowns leered at them, their lips open, their hands frozen in suggestive gestures. On the other side, the backup route—a side corridor leading through a room that had been unmarked on the map, but where the door still bore the faint imprint of now-removed lettering spelling Gallery of Host Fails—had also been barricaded, this time with a waist-high pile of foam-padded, dildo-shaped traffic cones. Someone had gone to the trouble to spray paint them pink and affix tiny, grinning stickers of Mildred’s face to each. Movement could be seen behind them.

Erin peered down both avenues, swore under her breath, and looked back at Claire.

Claire’s tail went rigid, then flicked straight up: pure cat-for-pissed-off. Referring back to the map she had memorized, she scribbled in her notebook, ROTUNDA OR NOTHING, then drew a little skull and crossbones next to it for emphasis.

Norah, reading over her shoulder, let out an incredulous groan. “It’s a killing field in there. If they’re waiting for us, we’re toast.”

Marissa was already assessing the situation. She was a quick study—she could see how the Mildreds had herded them here. She ran her finger down the seam of her sleeve, a nervous habit, and then beckoned everyone closer. “We need a plan. This isn’t a free-for-all anymore.” The words were delivered quietly, but they had the same gravity as a mission briefing in a war movie. For the first time, nobody laughed or made a dirty joke. Even the residual gas giggles faded.

Sam squared her broad shoulders and leaned in, forming a makeshift wall with Norah and Erin. She looked, for a second, like a middle linebacker preparing for a fourth-and-goal stop. Riley rolled her eyes but paid close attention. Even Emi, who was still gazing dreamily at the suggestive mannequins, perked up and focused on Marissa’s words.

Marissa's voice dropped an octave, velvet with just a trace of command. "We go in together. No one rushes ahead, no one lags behind. Tables for cover in the Rotunda. Emi, Liesa—launchers, center mass. Sam, Erin, Norah—front line. Claire with them, head down." She paused, eyes finding Riley. "Riley and I take flanks. Dawn, Chloe—patch patrol. Anyone goes down, get them up fast. Things get hairy, call out. No heroes. Clear?"

Silence fell. Liesa's cheeks flushed pink, and Dawn's pupils dilated visibly. Erin shifted her weight, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Even Claire's ears twitched forward, straining not to miss a syllable.

"Where'd you learn to talk like that?" Sam whispered, her voice unusually breathy.

Marissa's lips quirked. "Three years of competitive ballroom dance. You'd be surprised how much it's like warfare."

One by one, they nodded, no one quite able to look away from her mouth. Even Andy, watching from the gazebo, felt the pull of her authority. They weren't a collection of weirdos, rivals and lost souls. They were a unit. A harem, yes, but something more.

Erin punched her palm, a grin blooming on her face. “I’m in. Let’s go.”

Riley glanced down at her own gun, then at a nearby display of memorabilia hanging on the wall—lace fans, pearl-handled riding crops, and at least two oil paintings of women in ambiguous states of undress. “If I get shot in the ass by a resin pellet, I’m haunting you forever,” she said, which everyone took as a yes.

Sam cracked her knuckles, then gave a double thumbs-up. “Hell yeah. Just say when.”

Claire, now the unofficial mascot, pulled out her notebook one last time and wrote in all caps: WE GOT THIS.

Dawn, tail perking up, exchanged a high five with Chloe, whose hands were still shaking a little but whose face had that stubborn, determined look she got when she was about to ace a math test or break up a playground fight. “Still got five patches,” she piped up. Chloe, following suit, grimaced. “Three.” Claire and Marissa nodded.

Marissa took a moment to look at each member of the group, giving a brief but intense eye contact to every single one. Her gaze lingered on Liesa, who flushed but didn’t look away. “We stick together. No matter what happens, we win together or not at all. Nobody gets left behind. If you feel like you’re slipping, say something. There’s no shame in being human.”

Liesa, emboldened by the speech, gripped her launcher with both hands and said, “Am ready. Also, am terrified, but mostly ready.” Sam grabbed Liesa by the waist, pulled her close and planted a kiss on her lips, long and hard. When she was done, both women were breathless.

“Still terrified?” Sam asked. Liesa blinked, then grinned. “Much less now.”

Emi, still a bit floaty, patted Liesa’s back and said, “We’ll be fine. It’s just a game, right?”

Chloe looked at them both and whispered, “That’s what they say before every tragedy ever.”

Norah, not to be outdone, flexed her own arms and said, “If we survive this, you’re teaching me how to throw a table like that.” Sam grinned, said “Deal,” and they bumped fists.

Emily, meanwhile, had ducked behind a velvet rope barrier and was doing what looked like tactical breathing. Erin found her, squeezed her shoulder, and Emily gave a shaky smile but nodded resolutely. “I’m good,” she insisted, and Erin didn’t question it.

The Rotunda door was up ahead, round and enormous, painted with an elaborate mural of what the girls assumed to be every Host from every season rendered in the style of Roman emperors. Claire recognized Shar, in the back, tall and imposing in a black toga-like dress, Sylvia in her elaborate outfit, grinning, with the shadow of Dakota behind her. Lucian - a Host Claire only recently had discovered - stood to the side in a checkered toga, the hint of flames around him. Several red-haired hosts were scattered about, but Claire couldn’t recognize them. Another woman with enormous breasts, a generous decolletage, and a lovely smile on her lips stood near the center - Genet, Claire assumed. A small blonde woman with a Dutch crown of a braid was near the center, standing as tall as her diminutive height would allow. It seemed that the mural depicted the Hosts arranged in groups, perhaps by age, or generation. Arabella figured most prominently in the center, painted as Augustus, throne and all. She was surrounded by gaps that Claire took to be Hosts that were no longer active, or dead. At the feet of the various Hosts, a scattering of contestants in various states of glory or humiliation, all of them looking up at her with what could only be described as aggressive adoration.

Sam snorted, “Modest as always.” But the joke was nervous, the kind you made before a dentist appointment or a high school debate.

Claire took the lead, hands steady, tail swishing in wide, helicopter-like arcs. She checked the door—no visible traps, but she sniffed the air and frowned. “Gas again?” Liesa whispered to Marissa, who shrugged.

Dawn, always the optimist, said, “Maybe it’s just fresh paint.” And then everyone laughed, loud and wild and a little hysterical, but it helped.

The group assembled at the door to the Rotunda. “Ready, Catgirl?” said Erin, and Claire nodded, tail swishing with excitement. The door hissed open, and the harem stepped through.