Intermission: Fan Mail (III), Part 3

Chloe sat cross-legged on her towel, toes splayed in the white sand, arms anchored at either side to steady the tidal weight of her breasts. The morning had not warmed. The sun still hid behind the leaden clouds, and the beach, for once, was quiet. To her left, Emi was deep in a six-handed sorting operation with her fan of drawings. Farther off, she could see Marissa’s hair like a gold beacon as the woman perched on a driftwood log, reading with the posture of someone preparing a closing argument. Chloe had chosen her own spot with care: enough distance for privacy, but near enough to see the others and—if she needed—signal for help.

She had two envelopes. The first was thick, navy blue, heavy in her hand. Chloe turned it over and ran her thumb along the edge, which was trimmed in a silver filigree that caught every stray ray of sunlight. She braced herself for glitter, or a prank, or a miniature bomb of confetti—after the last few days, she half expected anything.

Instead, when she slit the envelope, a sheet of paper slipped out and landed on her thigh. It was, at first glance, just paper: pale, glossy, thicker than any printer stock she’d seen before. But as she reached for it, the surface flickered, then resolved into a moving image—an actual, live-action video embedded in a sheet the size of a notebook cover.

Chloe stared. She blinked, but the illusion (or whatever it was) stayed.

On the page, a frazzled-looking bunny-girl sat in what looked like an indoor gym for the children of the very rich. The room was a blur of bounce houses, mini-trampolines, and pastel foam mats, all churning with a swarm of children. The sound was chaos incarnate—screaming, laughing, shouting, the crash of plastic, and, occasionally, the unmistakable shriek of someone being denied a snack. The camera angle wobbled as if the recorder’s hands were never quite steady.

The bunny-girl—Tina, from the way she wore her name stenciled in glitter on the sleeve of her shirt—bellowed, “Bella! Stop pulling your sister’s ears! Play nice or I’m going to make you read the concierge book again!” In the background, what sounded like a young teen howled, “Not the concierge book again!”

Tina sighed, her ears drooping so far they nearly framed her chin. She turned back to the camera. “Uh, hi! Chloe, right? You seem like a competent adult. Sorry, I’m not sure how these mail things work, but I’m Tina—Titan of Trickery, they tell me, but honestly I think it’s more like Titan of Surviving the Day-to-Day.” She laughed, a sound that managed to combine hope and despair in equal measure.

Chloe found herself smiling in spite of everything. There was something about Tina—her eyes, her desperation—that made her feel less alone, less like the only person on earth playing parent to a tidal wave of chaos.

“Skye and Scarlet and Harper got invited to a party. Skye normally does most of the kiddo stuff, and I get to pop in and be the ‘cool mom’ instead of running the show. But with the party, I’m in charge. Of all thirty-eight kids.” Here, Tina held up a hand—Chloe noticed, even in the video, the faint traces of marker stains on her palm—and then nearly put her face in it. “Thirty-eight. Personally. My own.” She gestured off-camera. “How come nobody told me bunnies have so many babies? They’re adorable when they’re born, and then they learn to talk, and then they start walking, and then they’re everywhere.”

A blur crossed the video’s background: two children, both smaller than Chloe’s knee height, sprinting past with a third in pursuit, teeth bared, shrieking. Tina ignored them. “It’s rewarding, don’t get me wrong, but oh my god. You need, like, five nannies and a team of engineers just to manage the snacks. Sometimes I dream about naps the way normal people dream about sex.”

Chloe’s smile widened. She tried to imagine managing 38 kids, and failed. Even in kindergarten, she had never even approached that number. She tried to imagine having one child, and felt the familiar ache in her chest, the hollow, longing absence that never quite went away, even with a room full of students.

“Anyways, if you have any advice, please, I’m ****. I don’t want to be a bad mom, but sometimes I worry that, with the numbers, I’m failing all of them at once.” Tina bit her lip, then looked dead into the camera. “Oh, and warn Dawn before she has quintuplets. It happens. Just… boom. Babies everywhere.” There was a brief, sincere pause. “Hi, Dawn! Hi, Laura! Not the Laura Dawn told me about. Different Laura. Sorry. My head’s everywhere.”

Chloe shook her head. She assumed Tina meant Laura Black, from the party.

Someone off-screen yelled, “Mommy, Ms. Flopsy is trying to make me eat vegetables, but Mewlan doesn’t have to. It’s not fair!” Tina answered without hesitation. “Sweetie, Mewlan is a Lazzorkat. Lazzorkats are carnivores. Vegetables hurt their tummies. But if you want to grow up big and strong like your mommy, you need to eat your vegetables, okay?” “But Mommy!” “Eat all your vegetables and I’ll get you a cookie.” The footsteps retreated, thumping over the sound of renewed argument.

Tina gave the camera a look that was equal parts apology and pride. “Parenting,” she said. “Anyway, present, present, present—oh!” She reached down, fiddled with something offscreen, then called, “Hey, Bonnie? Wanna help Mommy with a project? Bet I can get the nice lady to put your art on TV.” She looked back at the camera, and for a moment, Chloe saw the woman she wanted to be: tired, maybe, but fiercely alive, determined to keep going, to make something good out of the mess.

The video cut to static, then flickered. A painting suddenly appeared on the ground before her—a watercolor, but, unlike most kid art Chloe had seen, it was genuinely good. Labeled at the bottom (in a careful, looping hand): “View of the Family Garden, by Bonnie.” It showed a garden overrun with wild, tropical greenery, the air dense with palm fronds and vivid flowers. In the center, on a pedestal, was a statue carved in smooth, dark green: Erin, unmistakably, but rendered in classical lines, her long hair pulled back and her pose triumphant. She was holding a cactus overhead, victorious. At the base of the statue, a placard read: The Bazongas Delgado Memorial Botanical Garden.

Chloe blinked rapidly. She tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat as something else. She ran her finger along the edge of the painting, then, impulsively, pressed her cheek to the paper. It was still warm from the video.

She thought about Andy, and about Erin, and about the messiness of families. She wondered what it would feel like to have thirty-eight children, or even one, and felt the pang in her chest shift from emptiness to hope.

She folded the painting and tucked it carefully into her bag. She wanted to show it to Andy, and maybe to Erin, but for now she wanted to keep it for herself.

The second envelope was lighter. When she opened it, a box of animal cookies fell out, the kind sold in the pink-and-white boxes with a circus on the front, except this box was labeled in a delicate cursive: “Handmade, 100% Real Ingredients.” The box was tied with a piece of twine and a tiny plastic bunny Something that looked like a Nerds Rope, but filled with something creamy white in color, was stuck in the twine, alongside a small note that said For private use.

The letter inside was longer, but written in a friendly, rounded script. Chloe read:

Hello Chloe,

My name is Chloe as well. Apparently, it is a tradition to have contestants with the same name or similar transformations write one another. I heard you want to be a mom, and you might just get the chance because of this show. I’m happy that this crazy show has given you that opportunity, and I can tell you, it isn’t a fabrication. Multiple contestants on my season have been given fertility enhancements, including my girlfriend. Also, my girlfriend Aubrey is INSISTING that I suggest to you that you should consider getting an animal girl transformation now on your own, unless you want to end up as a cow-girl. She said you’ve already had two cow-related TFs, and Shar has clearly selected you as her next target to become a cow. I don’t actually think it would really be that bad. Aubrey just hates cows because once during a field trip, a cow bit down on her ponytail and chewed it right off. I hope you and Andy can find happiness together and that you can have that family you’ve always wanted. I’ve enclosed two gifts for you, one is for you alone and the other is to share with the class, so to speak, but you should try some as well.

Warm Regards,
Chloe Stapleton
Master’s Bouncing Fuckbunny

Chloe read the letter again, then set it down in her lap. She was still smiling from the “Fuckbunny” signoff. She wondered what the etiquette was for being told, by another Chloe, to get a transformation before someone else **** you into one. She wondered if she should warn Andy, or just let the universe handle things.

She looked out at the ocean. It was the same view she’d seen every day since coming to the hotel, but today it felt different. Today, she felt seen, even if only by a stranger who had never met her, a bunny-mom on a planet with thirty-eight children and a garden full of statues.

She let herself imagine, just for a second, what her own future might look like. Would she have a classroom, or a family, or a garden? Would she still be Chloe, or would she be someone else entirely? She thought about Andy, and about the way he’d looked at her during their latest date night: not just like a pretty face, or a consolation prize, but like someone he could build a life with.

She closed her eyes, pressed her fingertips to her chest and felt her own heartbeat, fast and anxious and strong.

She didn’t know what the next transformation would bring, or if she would ever get to hold a baby in her arms. But for now, she had her own little piece of the universe, and it was enough.

Chloe gathered the painting, the letters, and the cookies into her bag. She stood, shook the sand from her legs, and stretched. She looked around, and for a moment, saw the world as Tina must see it: loud, bright, impossibly alive, full of possibility.

She wondered if she’d ever get the chance to tell her mom about all this, or if the story would end here, on a beach with a letter and a dream.

Chloe took a breath, then another, and set off to find Dawn. If anyone would understand, it was her.

Riley squatted in the thicket behind the hotel’s ornamental hibiscus, the sunlight mottled through dense leaves, the wind carrying the not-so-distant sounds of Chloe and Emi giggling at something absurd. She’d picked this spot for the view—she could see nearly the whole beach without being seen herself—but also for the privacy. Even after weeks of living in the HH, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that every word, every reaction, was being catalogued by someone, somewhere.

She had three envelopes. She glared at the first, daring it to be disappointing, and opened it with a practiced flick of her thumb.

Something heavy thunked onto the mulch at her feet. It took a second to register: it was a potted sapling. Not a seed or a sprig, but a small, living tree, roots swaddled in black soil and the trunk staked with a strip of ribbon. Riley stared at it for a full five seconds before she remembered to look for the letter.

It was written on thick, almost parchment-like paper, the script sharp and upright, almost militant. She read:

Cyfarchion Riley,

This feels strange to me, writing to a human. My world has so few of them left. I have seen a small handful of them during a dark part of my life, a part I am still after all these years trying to recover from, but never had the chance to interact with one so directly as this.

My mistress seems to be pen pals with your master and we have watched most of your season together. She always skips the part where the two of them met, but that was before your arrival. I see you, Riley, no matter how much it hurts. You seem to be stuck in a similar maelstrom of rage that overwhelmed me during the dark time of my soul. I wish better for you.

I do not wish to belittle your tragedies with a comparison. They burn within you just as much as mine burned within me. But, just so you understand that I have experience with suffering, I will briefly share. My people are mostly solitary hunters, scattered in the great forests of our home. I swore oaths to my goddess to protect our home. When the foes came, they burned the trees, slew or enslaved the people. I failed, captured, beaten, crushed. I was **** to fight in the arena to entertain the crowd, **** to endure sexual humiliations to entertain the slaver who claimed to own me.

So, I understand rage. It is a fire that burns you, hollows you out from the inside, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. It was my constant companion during that dark time. I nearly lost the faith. If my goddess hadn’t arranged me to have my ownership transferred to my mistress, I likely would have. Neither of us would have chosen how things worked out, but we are both glad that it did. She treats me like a person who deserves love and respect; the bond that binds us is no burden.

I say all of this to help you give up that anger. There is more to you than that. Burning yourself out does the opposite of what you likely intend; you heap shame on the dead, not honor them, by devoting yourself solely to bitterly mourning them. They wish you to live, really live, not just go through the motions.

What I have for you is a duty just as much as a gift. A sapling from my home. I am entrusting you to tend for it. The trees from home always reflect the mood of those nearby with their internal luminescence springing forth. I think Tina compared them once to “mood rings,” whatever those are. Too much negativity will kill it, just as readily as too much heat or too many hailstones. Show the tree care and, when you return to your world, find a place to plant it. I am sure your alraune friend Erin can assist you.

If nothing else, the best **** you can have against the cruelty of the world is to live well despite it.

May the Argent Dancer guide your steps,
Nyadia
Trefn Sanctaidd y Coed

Riley rolled the letter into a tight cylinder and pressed it to her lips, thinking. Then she looked down at the potted sapling, as if expecting it to explode, or at least pulse with magical nonsense. Instead, it looked like every other tree sapling she’d ever killed with neglect, except for a faint shimmer along the veins of the topmost leaf.

She poked at the soil with a finger. It was real, damp, and faintly moss-scented. The tree’s stem was flexible, its leaves waxy and veined, the color somewhere between emerald and cobalt depending on how the light caught it.

Riley sat back on her heels, cradling the pot between her hands. She’d never been good at plants. She’d killed more cactuses than she cared to admit—usually by forgetting them, sometimes by overwatering, once by leaving them on a radiator until they shriveled. She was not, by any stretch, a natural caretaker. But as she watched the tree’s leaves, she wondered if Nyadia was right: maybe there was a way to keep something alive, even if everything else had failed. She glanced towards the distant overlook. She thought she knew where the tree would thrive.

The second envelope was thinner. She slit it with a pen, bracing herself. A coupon slid out, shimmering like an oil slick. Riley caught it on her palm and read: VALID FOR ONE (1) TRANSFORMATION UPGRADE. She flipped it over. In smaller print: Redeemable for any contestant. Non-transferable.

She felt a slow, rolling irritation at the universe. The idea of upgrading yourself, like installing a graphics card or a new patch, was both ridiculous and completely on brand for the HH.

The letter was on plain paper, in a fast, loopy hand.

Hello Riley,
My name is Sadie Harper. I’m a contestant on another season. Honestly, I can’t give you a lot of guidance. I’m a fairly new contestant; I’ve been on my season for… wow, only five days, it feels like longer. I’m hopeful things might turn out okay, even if things haven’t gone particularly well for me so far. Anyway, enough griping about my problems. Cassandra, my host, gave us an overview of your season. I’ve no words to comfort you about the loss you’ve suffered because I can’t even begin to understand it. There is something I feel I should mention, though. I talked with another contestant on my season, Hilde.

She was a staff member on this show for centuries. I asked her what she would wish for and what she thinks some of the better wishes she’s seen have been. She wants a way to save her sister, who was eliminated, on their first season before it was canceled. Sorry, long tangent, the point is she told me about what she thought the best wishes were. It wasn’t power, wealth, vengeance, or anything like that. It was the wishes that helped people they cared about. Even in some cases… bringing the dead back to life. I’ll let you do what you will with that info. I’ve included an upgrade coupon for one transformation of your choosing, in case you decide you want to pursue that wish with vigor.

May you not lose hope,

Sadie Harper

Riley sat back on her haunches. The words "bringing the dead back to life" burned in her vision like an afterimage.

Her fingers trembled as she read the line again. The coupon slipped, catching on her thumb.

"Jesus," she whispered, the sound barely audible even to herself.

She stared at the sapling, its leaves shifting in the breeze. A memory flashed: her son's tiny fingers, perfect half-moons for nails, in the hospital. The weight of him, impossibly light yet somehow containing the entire universe. The smell of his head. The silence when the machines stopped.

Her chest constricted. She couldn't breathe.

If she won. If she got the wish. If this wasn't all bullshit.

She pressed her palms hard against her eyes until colors exploded behind her lids. No. She couldn't let herself think it. Hope was the cruelest thing of all.

But her mind raced ahead anyway: her son, alive again. Warm. Breathing. Growing up.

"Stop," she commanded herself, but tears leaked between her fingers.

She tucked the coupon beside the sapling with shaking hands, then folded the letter and slid it into her jacket pocket, where it pressed against her ribs like a secret. She'd talk to Erin about the tree. To Andy about... possibilities.

She glanced at the sapling, then at the coupon, and then at the last letter, still sealed and soft in her jacket pocket. She pulled it out, broke the wax, and let the contents drop into her hand.

A crystal tumbled out and hit the stone with a dull chime. It was the size of a jawbreaker, rough but translucent, its core shot through with red and blue veins. It looked like a chunk of some mineral that had decided, at the last second, to become a gemstone and failed spectacularly.

Riley stared at it for a long second before she remembered to read the letter. The handwriting was neat and tight, each word precisely spaced, as if the writer were afraid of running out of paper.

To Riley.

Greetings. I know that you do not wish pity but I still wish to tell you that I sorrow for your loss. You have done well to open up, and I hope that you can find joy as well. Live for them, and carry their memories forward as the best kind of monument.

A word of advice, many transformations can be made more bearable through upgrades. I think your hair might even become a boon, if you could control it. Enclosed is a crystal you might find useful. Focus on it, feed it your anger and pain, and it will glow with a beautiful light that I hope will soothe your soul.

Shar

The signature was as sharp as the handwriting, but the message itself landed soft, like a hand on her shoulder. Riley looked at the crystal again, rolling it in her palm. The surface was cool, but there was a warmth inside it, like a battery that had been slowly charging for years and was waiting for someone to flick the switch.

She gripped the crystal tight in her fist and stared at the ocean. She let herself feel it—all of it: the anger, the shame, the bitterness that had lived under her skin since the morning they wheeled John Jr. away, since the moment she’d realized the world didn’t care how hard you fought, it would just keep taking until you gave up.

For a long minute, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the veins inside the crystal began to glow, blue at first, then violet, then a deep, bloody red that pulsed in time with her heart. It felt like her entire body was vibrating. Like every scream she’d swallowed in the past ten years was trying to break through her teeth all at once.

She opened her hand. The glow faded, but a warmth remained, radiating up her arm and into her chest. The urge to sob, or scream, or punch something, was still there, but it was less, somehow. Less like a knife, more like a bruise.

Riley placed the crystal beside the sapling. Two gifts, each promising something she didn’t think she deserved: peace, hope, maybe even a future. She wasn’t sure what to do with either. She reached out and touched the sapling’s leaves, careful not to crush them. The veins shimmered faintly, the same blue as the crystal’s first pulse. She thought of her son, and how he would have loved climbing trees. She thought of John, and how he’d promised, the last time she saw him, that everything would be okay.

She wanted to believe it. She wanted to believe it so badly, and yet, she had found no proof of it yet. She covered her eyes with one hand, and the tears flowed.

Emily sat on a beach towel, her knees drawn up to her chin. The rest of the world might be parading around in pastel and heels, but Emily was as naked as the day she was born—by **** of magic, of course, but the strange thing was she no longer minded, normally. Today, though, was the first day in over two years that the sun wasn’t shining, that the clouds masked its warmth, and she found herself shivering.

She had two letters. She fished the first out of the envelope, nearly dropping it when the sheet flopped out and started playing a video, right there in her hands.

The opening shot was of a pool, blue as the sky, rimmed with tropical plants. A woman floated in the water’s edge, treading with an enormous green-blue mermaid tail, her bare breasts so large that for a moment Emily thought it might be a parody. The woman’s teeth flashed, sharp and slightly serrated; her mouth curled into a lopsided, unmistakably sharky grin.

On the pool float beside her, another woman lounged with an alcoholic smoothie, hair glittering silver-blue, the eyes literally full of stars. She wore a bikini so insubstantial it was barely there, but her expression was pure, unfiltered glee.

“Hey, Godiva!” the floater called.

The mermaid splashed her, hard, then looked dead into the camera. “C’mon, Mattie, say it right. Hey, Emily! Daphne, your friendly neighborhood dungeon mermaid here.” She did a quick roll, fin splashing high, then surfaced again. “Just a few more weeks till I can extract my kiddos out of my egg sacs and implant them in a lovely kraken carcass my Beloved fished out of the ocean for me! I would offer to let you feel them squirm, but there are several problems with that.”

Emily snorted. She glanced around, making sure no one was watching, and watched as Mattie and Daphne volleyed back and forth in the video.

“Teeth, you are a hoot. Never change,” Mattie said, then addressed the camera again. “Well, Godiva, Teeth and I were having a bit of an argument about you that we’d like to settle. I say that you, me, and poor Ronnie from the casino season (if she ever escapes from that nightmare) should form a ‘We’ve been trapped on two different seasons of Harem Hotel’ club.”

Daphne splashed Mattie again, this time with more ****. “And I think that you belong in the ‘Former Staff Member’ club that Trinity started, what with your time working in the Hollow Garden. I got the cool laserdisc copy of Matrix Revolutions she signed for me up on my wall in my room, I think. I really haven’t been able to leave the pool since my Beloved fertilized my egg sacs. Gotta stay fully mermaid for my kiddos' sake. We’d love to have you! I join in on the fun via Zoom. Stupid 4 year gestational period. Last meeting was a pizza party and some of them tried my squid pizza I had my Beloved deliver! Nobody died!”

“Anyways, glad you found happiness with that Coder guy,” Mattie said, floating closer to the camera. “I avoided being stuck in season limbo, but it looks awful. Let us know if you need us to bust out some of your old friends. It’s been a while since a group of us did a raid. Oh, those are some fun, wacky times. Oh, and tell Bazongas she needs to work on her threesome game and I got those seeds to sprout.”

Daphne made a face. “Mattie, don’t make me go fetch Scarlet and get you something for the dumb nicknames. Tell Emily here about the cool present we made together for her.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I give out handguns. It’s my thing. And, when I look at you, I just got the image of sexy inverse Blackbeard in my head, so we rolled with it. We made you a custom set of a half-dozen single-shot flintlock pistols and then enchanted them so you can hold and shoot them using your hair. Imagine, leaping from the rigging, shooting scallywags with pistols a’blazing! A (much sexier than a gross old pirate guy) terror to behold! Like ol’ Edward Teach tying lit slow-burning matches into his beard.”

Emily’s mouth dropped open. She’d seen some wild gifts in the HH, but this… this was next level.

Daphne waggled her tail. “Now, I suspect Arabella won’t let you shoot him on the set, so we also got you something more immediately useful. A jar of infinite moisturizer. Since you gotta show everything off, might as well avoid dry, itchy skin, right? We even splurged and got you the kind without the aphrodisiacs. Mattie picked the scent, since apparently my idea, ‘Honey Ginger Salmon,’ would be super weird as a moisturizer smell. It was a choice in the catalog, someone must want it!”

Mattie raised her drink, then said, “Again, isn’t Teeth a hoot, Godiva? Enjoy the rest of your season and get with me about your ideas for the club!”

The video ended with Daphne waving at the camera, then Mattie rolling off the float and swimming out of frame.

Emily was left gaping. It was all so… normal, in a way. Friends, banter, jokes, the gift of a homemade arsenal and a care package. For a second, she forgot she was the only one of her old crew on this island. For a second, she felt like she belonged somewhere, even if it was just a weird mermaid’s idea of a support group.

When the video faded out, two items thunked onto the tile: a heavy, dark glass jar labeled “infinite moisturizer,” and a bandolier containing six elegant, perfectly scaled flintlock pistols, each with mother-of-pearl handles and filigree that sparkled like frosting. Emily hefted the jar, opened it, and sniffed: honeysuckle and coconut, delicate and not the least bit horny.

She picked up a pistol, cocked it, and tried to imagine what it would feel like to shoot with her hair. Instinctively, she flicked a strand of her mane forward, and the pistol leapt into her grip, ready to fire.

Emily laughed. She tried it again, and the next time, two pistols materialized—one in each hand. She was suddenly, gloriously certain: if ever the world called for a naked, pink-haired, six-gun-wielding bandit queen, she was absolutely the woman for the job.

She carefully set the pistols back in the bandolier, then took a generous dab of moisturizer and massaged it into her shoulder. The sensation was a small, guilty luxury.

She opened the second envelope. The letter was written in a precise, almost calligraphic hand.

Emily,

Thank you for the drink and a moment of your time at Andy’s party. I’m not sure if it counts as a transformation, an unwritten class feature, or just a thing native to my new world, but the inventory trick you saw me do cannot exactly be taught. I can, however, give it to you, if Arabella approves.

So, every man, woman, and child in my new world is born with a little personal pocket dimension for holding objects in. Said dimension is isolated from space and time. My bonny bunny Tina once put a half-eaten cotton candy burrito in her inventory when some of our bunny-daughters tried to steal her magic hat while she was having dessert, forgot about it by the time she got her hat back, left it in there for something like 5 months, then randomly found it, just as cold and pristine as it was when she first stored it. She ate it immediately. No tummy ache afterwards.

The dimension starts about the volume of a large purse or small backpack, then expands exponentially as your level increases. Mine is currently approximately the volume of the city of Omaha, Nebraska (airspace included). Arabella will probably need to tweak how that aspect works if you want a big inventory, unless you want to go kill a bunch of giant rats or whatnot (though I can find you some to slay if you want). I am sure that the default size would likely be sufficient for your everyday needs.

I attached enough copies of the genetic enchantment for everyone over there. It’s easy enough to develop the instincts to use it once you have it for a bit.

Regards,
Tyalangan, 48th Queen of the Copse-wood Throne
Ruler of Nimlith Grove

There was a postscript, in a different hand—Arabella’s own, unmistakably:

I'll deliver Harper's present after the Challenge. -A

Emily was, for a moment, speechless. She’d always thought of herself as ordinary—a cog in a big, weird system. But now, with gifts and letters from two worlds away, she felt like something more. She had never received fan mail in her first season. The thought that even just a few people, out there, cared about her enough to write made her heart threaten to burst with gratefulness.

She turned her palm up and wondered: if the inventory thing really worked, how would it feel?

She looked at the moisturizer, then at the pistols, then at herself, naked and totally okay with it. She wondered if Andy would appreciate the gifts sent by Harper, once Arabella deployed them, or if she’d be able to impress anyone else with them. She wondered if there were other presents in her future, and if so, whether any of them would ever top today’s.

She closed her eyes, pressed the letter to her heart, and let herself feel, just for a minute, like she was home.

Emily stood, stretching, and made a mental note to try the hair-shooting trick as soon as possible. She gathered the pistols, the jar, and her two letters, then wandered back toward the pool, humming to herself.

If there was any justice in the world, there would one day be a “Former Staff Member” club, and she’d be its president.

Myra counted the envelopes in her lap with careful fingers, letting the corner of each glide over her skin like a soft cut. Four in total, as promised by Arabella, though two were lighter than she expected, and the third had a flat, almost waxy texture. She suspected, by the telltale heft and the faint vibration in the air around them, that these were not ordinary letters, but she had no way to know for sure. The HH had a way of introducing surprises for which she was never prepared.

She was alone, for the moment, on a small bench near the boardwalk overlooking the sea. Not far off, she could hear the buzz of Marissa’s voice and the tide’s restless lick at the sand, but neither reached her with any ****. Instead, she was left with her thoughts, and the low thrum of emotion that the others always leaked into the air like perfume: the shimmer of Marissa’s concentration, the sharp bright zest of Emi at play, even the undertow of Andy, somewhere on the wind, thinking too hard and not saying enough. Myra could feel all of it, but none of it quite belonged to her.

She fanned the envelopes with a practiced touch, then reached for the one at the top of the stack—a heavy, old-school paper, the kind that felt substantial even before it was opened. There was no braille, which annoyed her slightly, but as her fingertips passed over the surface, she felt a minute jolt, a static shiver that left her thumb tingling. Before she could register more, the letter crackled to life, and a woman's voice, crisp and edged with command, filled the air around her.

“Good, Lyra. Keep your guard up.”

Myra startled; for a second, she thought the letter was addressing someone else entirely. But then the message rolled on, and she realized it was only a relic from the other side—a real, living memory, spilled into the paper.

“Greetings, good kitsune Myra. For once, I do not feel bad responding to a call for mail with a recording instead of a letter. It would be much more difficult on both of us if I wrote. Please, feel free to send an audio message back, should you wish. My fluency in reading and writing in Common is limited.” The voice was cool, but not unkind. It carried an accent she couldn’t quite place—maybe a fusion of Old English and the haughty drawl of someone born to rule, but never sure if the world would let her.

There was a rustle and then a softer, more mischievous voice, clearly off-mic: “Summer, don’t make me tell Lady Silmerana that you were making jest concerning my literary.” Myra heard a giggle, and then a hasty, embarrassed apology, “Sorry about that. Summer is rambunctious for an elven child. I am recording this while the elven children of my wife’s harem are busy with their combat lesson. I should introduce myself. Aelenetheria, second wife of Queen Tyalangan, 48th occupant of the Copse-Wood Throne, and also second wife to the Queen’s first wife, Lady Silmerana.”

Myra blinked, her mind spinning over the geometry of that statement. Second wife to both the Queen and the Queen’s wife? She couldn’t even picture what that looked like in practice. But the voice carried on, never faltering.

“I am a high elf, as my mother was before me. The Queen is pen pals of a sort with your future husband. She is a sea elf. Similar to your future husband and your harem-sisters, my wife and all of us were kidnapped for a different season of the show. Like you, I was a late arrival, kidnapped just to endure the last week. Your season is to run longer than ours did, I think.”

There was a pause—Aelenetheria had the habit, Myra noticed, of letting her statements breathe before driving home the point. “I will tell you like I told Chloe, though you seem to be integrating better than she did initially. Embrace your harem-sisters and become a family. Isolating yourself is a sure way to receive an elimination. The elimination my dear wife had to write at our producer’s request still haunts her occasionally. I hope your future husband does not have to go through that agony; I also hope that there is no need because none of you earn one.”

Myra inhaled. She had heard the word “elimination” so often it had dulled to a buzz, but hearing it like this—as something inflicted, not just suffered—gave her pause.

“I am truly sorry for your loss of sight. For a healer to have something like that ripped from her is a feeling I would not wish on anyone. I will offer two, conflicting styles of advice. The first, good kitsune, is that magic is real and magic can do many things deemed impossible by human reckoning. I am sure that, if Arabella allows it, your harem sisters and you can find a solution, restore your sight. If not her, once your game is over, my wife may be able to do something about it; she does have a goddess on speed dial, assuming you use that turn of phrase.”

Myra felt herself smile despite the ache in her chest. There was something almost human in the phrase “goddess on speed dial.” For a moment, she wondered if she would ever meet such a being, or if the closest she would get was Arabella and her endless, unfathomable power.

“The other is that you will adapt and overcome. Humans, whether current or former, are nothing if not adaptable. Both of my wives, as former humans, are good examples. Queen Tyalangan can only be in air for a limited amount of time (on average, a little over a day) before she starts to suffocate. She adapted admirably, incorporating salt water soaks to rest her lungs into her regular habits. When Lady Silmerana became a drow, she ran into a somewhat similar, though less ****, situation to you. Exposure to regular sunlight can quickly cause permanent damage to drow eyes. She adapted too. So, Myra, you can overcome the limitation in time, too.”

A moment of silence, and Myra could hear the thump of a child—maybe two, from the sound of scampering feet—off-mic in the background. Then: “Gifts are typically exchanged in these letters. I understand that, in your realm where blindness is more common, they have white canes to assist in navigating unfamiliar surroundings. I have had my wife enchant one for you. In the parlance of our realm’s system, you may spend the bonus action on your turn to summon the handle of the cane to your hand or send it back into a little dimensional pocket for storage. So, it is a cane you should never misplace, never lose. May it serve you as a faithful companion when your sisters are unavailable.”

The message faded, and for a second, the world seemed oddly empty, as if the voice had hollowed a space in the air that nothing else could fill. Then Arabella’s signature, slightly amused tone cut in, as if through a PA system: “For reasons that will become apparent as you go through your mail, I have combined this gift with two others. You will receive the combined gift upon opening Shar’s letter.”

Myra let her fingers rest on the envelope for a long minute, the message replaying itself in her mind, bits of the accent and the precise, careful language repeating in little eddies. She tried to imagine what the enchanted cane would look like—white, or perhaps ivory, with a crystal or a fox head at the top, or maybe it would be just like the cheap aluminum one she’d had in the hospital. She wondered if the cane would make her feel more helpless, or less.

She blinked, her eyes stinging—not with tears, exactly, but with something that could have become tears if she let it.

She reached for the second envelope. This one was slick, almost plastic, and she felt a strange charge as she slipped a nail under the seal. The moment she did, a second audio message erupted, this one in a voice so thick with brogue she thought at first it was a joke.

“Weel, hello there, Myra, the name’s Merida. Ma host asked me tae send ye a message. Maistly because we’re baith vixens.” There was a beat, then another voice, identical but sharper and riddled with profanity: “HEY, Don’t FUCKING leave me out. Cass said it’s because the bitch and I share the same name, even if it’s spelled differently. Also, that Myra used to be a badass bitch, taking no shit, before she decided to become a pussy.”

“Ay, there’s that tae. That wis Mira; she’s an alternate version o' masel' that has had her delinquent tendencies amplified by the show. She dinnae actually think poorly o' ye.” A grunt, then a solid thwack, as if a fist had landed on a shoulder.

“Honestly, I’m really impressed ye turned ower a new leaf as ye grew up. I’m really sorry tae hear aboot yer sicht. I wish I could gie ye somethin’ that could simply fix it, but I wis telt no. I did send ye somethin’ else, though, that I think ye micht appreciate. It’s a cane that can lead ye places, but ye hae tae think aboot whaur it is ye want tae go. It can also return tae ye wi’ a thocht if ye ever misplace it. Mira wants tae say somethin’ noo.”

“Myra, it’s Mira. Merida’s right, I’m a fucking bitch sometimes. I’m trying to be less of a cunt because it honestly ended up with me in a shit place. Good on you for not being a piece of shit, and a fucking doctor. Our host gave us some info. What’s this crap I hear about you being done with being a doctor just cause you lost your fucking sight? I’m sure that there are plenty of fucking places that could use your skills. Look, I get it, you’re life sucks dicks right now. You lost your damn sight, and then you get brought on to this shit show. Crap happens. From the sounds of things, being brought on this freak show might be a fucking lifeline for you. Take no shit, and show them that you aren’t a pussy.”

“Awe richt, I think that’s enough o’ that, Mira.” There was a third voice, this one—was it possible?—even more exaggerated, with a French accent that seemed to exist solely for the purpose of correcting the others: “I quite agree, Maîtresse, ze delinquent is not a good influence, non.” “Oh fuck off, Meribelle.” Two audible puffs, as if someone had been turned into a vapor and then forcibly sucked back into a bottle.

“Sorry aboot that, I returned baith o’ them tae bein’ ma tails, because I explicitly said nae arguin'. I will say, I think Mira is richt, though. This micht be the chance for ye tae start somethin' new an' cope wi' yer loss o' vision. Frae whit I’ve experienced an' whit ma laddie, Mark, has telt me aboot this show, it seems ye are on ane o' the positive seasons. I hope ye embrace the chance ye’ve been gien, even if it's weird an' somethin' ye widnae normally think tae embrace. The Merida Collective signin’ aff.”

A moment later, Arabella’s voice, this time more clinical: “This gift has also been combined with Shar’s and Harper’s.”

Myra set the envelope down, but the message lingered—especially the tail end of it, the way “embrace the chance ye’ve been gien” sounded both like a threat and a promise. She wondered if she should feel comforted that somewhere, in some other universe, there was a version of herself that had gone completely off the rails and still managed to claw back a sense of meaning.

For a moment, she wanted to write back to Mira, to say that no, she hadn’t given up being a doctor, not really, but she hadn’t figured out how to do it in the dark yet. She was working on it. She wanted to explain that she wasn’t helpless, only lost, and that was a kind of power all its own. She thought about Marissa, and about her old mentors, and about the people who’d tried to tell her that adaptation wasn’t a choice, it was a survival instinct.

She wasn’t sure if she believed it yet, but she could see the shape of the truth in the words.

The third envelope was the oddest of the bunch. As she ran her thumb over the seal, she realized it wasn’t sealed at all—just folded, the paper so smooth and thin it barely resisted her touch. She opened it, and at once a different voice—a bright, almost sing-song voice—burst into being.

“Hi!!! I don’t watch your season, but when I saw that there was a fox girl, I just had to send something to you :3 As a fellow fox myself, I wanted to send my regards and wish you well and stuff; you seem very cute (and should definitely talk to Tracy more >-<) I’m not really sure what else to say, just that you are pretty, that you look stunning with your cute ears and fluffy tail (I have some tips I can send on how to keep it nice and soft if you want <3), and that if you ever need another fox to talk to, feel free to reach out to me!”

Myra stifled a laugh—she could somehow hear the emoticons in the speaker’s voice, each punctuation mark hitting like a tail wag or an air-kiss. “If you want to write back, you can probably just give it to your host or whatever and they’ll send it to me, but if it’s not that easy, stop by the HH shop and ask for Little Miss, assuming she doesn’t greet you herself; she should be able to get it to me, and I might even be helping her in the shop :3 Anyway, take care cutie <3 -jS PS, I sent a little gift; I’m not sure if you like plushies, but you deserve one :3”

Myra was about to laugh again—this time for real—when she felt something soft and warm drop into her lap. She picked it up, her fingers closing on what felt, unmistakably, like a life-sized, hand-stitched fox. The fur was soft and smooth, the tail puffed just so, the button nose smooth and cold against her fingertip. It was the kind of thing that would have made her roll her eyes in another life, but here, in this place, it felt like a benediction.

She pressed the plush to her cheek, holding it there for a long time, letting herself imagine that somewhere out there, someone had made this with their own hands, thinking of her. She let the feeling rise up, bubble in her throat, and then fade, replaced by a longing she could not name.

The final envelope was thicker than the rest. She hesitated—she had heard, in the other girls’ conversations, that there was always a message from Shar, and Shar had a reputation for bluntness that rivaled even Mira’s. Still, she braced herself, and tore the envelope open with a single, decisive movement.

This time, there was no voice. Instead, a strange, metallic cylinder tumbled out and landed in her palm. It was warm to the touch, and as she rolled it between her fingers, she felt the subtle indentations of a fox’s face at one end, the ears rising in delicate relief. She fumbled for a moment, then found two buttons—one round, one squared, each set perfectly for her thumb.

Then the message started, in a voice so flat and affectless it could only be Mildred: “Dear Myra, you have been dealt a very harsh hand and I feel more than paid for any harm you may have caused. I hope you can open up and find happiness with your new family. As for finding your sight again, it should be possible. Your new sister Marissa has a transformation available that once upgraded I believe might work. Until then, or another cure is found, I have enclosed a silver cane you may find useful. There are two buttons you should be able to feel near the top. The round one will cause the cane to telescope to only six inches long, pressing it again will restore it to its full four feet. The other, squared, button will cause it to release a chime that only you should be able to hear. The echo should give you a good idea of your surroundings. You are not helpless, you are not broken, and it is not weakness to ask for help. Shar.”

The message ended, but Myra could feel something buzzing in the cane, a faint resonance that made her want to test the buttons, to see if the promises were real.

She pressed the round button, and the cane shrank to a stub, barely the length of her hand. She pressed again, and it snapped back, fully extended, as if eager to be used. The squared button, when pressed, caused the cane to emit a clear, bell-like note, high and sweet, that only she could hear—a shimmer of sound that rebounded from every hard surface, painting a faint, if perhaps incomplete ghost-map of her immediate surroundings in her mind.

She let out a small, involuntary laugh—half disbelief, half delight. For the first time in weeks, she felt not just capable, but curious: what would it be like to use this thing, to learn her own world from scratch?

She gripped the cane, feeling the fox head fit her palm perfectly, and stood. The sand beneath her feet shifted, the cane’s tip finding purchase in the gritty surface with a confidence that almost felt alive.

She took a step, then another, and with every note of the chime, she felt the world come into focus—not by sight, but by sound and sensation and the gentle tug of the cane guiding her forward.

She paused, her tail flicking in the breeze. Somewhere not far off, she could hear Marissa’s voice, low and even, reading something out loud. She considered walking toward her, maybe even showing off the cane—maybe even, for once, asking for help, or a hand on her arm.

She took a breath, letting the air fill her lungs, letting the echo of the letters and the voices settle into her bones.

She turned, the plush fox still clutched in her free hand, and pointed the cane toward the sound of the other girls.

Lunch crept over the island on the hush of the wind. The clouds fattened and piled, promising not just rain, but a storm. Most of the women had trickled back toward the Main Building, lured by the rattle of silverware and the promise of fresh-cut fruit. Andy hung back. There was a part of him—residual, animal, untrained—that always wanted to keep the group in his line of sight, as if the mere act of watching might keep them safe. But today, his eyes kept snagging on the one who didn’t move, the stubborn sunspot amid a drift of shadow: Liesa, cross-legged and alone, on a slab of dark stone at the edge of the beach.

He watched her for a full minute before making up his mind. She was working on something—no, she was battling it, the way her arms moved, the way her shoulders set themselves after every stroke. Her hair was up, but already little wisps had gone rogue, framing her face in wild, wind-kissed tangles. She had the look of someone in the final round of a chess match with herself: tired, feverishly alive, every muscle set to outlast the other side.

Andy walked over, slow so as not to spook her. The path between the surf and the stone was studded with memory: he remembered Liesa, the first night, when she’d worn a dress like armor and laughed at his jokes before the world split in two. He remembered the moments since, each one jagged or bright, the confessions, the apology kisses, the tears, the shame, the sobbing that never quite reached the surface. He remembered the way she’d broken open during her last date night, finally, how afterward she’d seemed—if not happy, then at least not less than whole.

He was close enough now to smell the sharp bite of the charcoal, the faint undertone of sweat and skin and the citrusy soap The HH must have supplied by the barrel. Liesa’s hands were black at the fingertips, palms streaked, a bold line of pigment arching up her left forearm like a tattoo. The sketchpad balanced on her knees was thick, many of the sheets torn or crumpled, as if the battle had raged on more than one front.

He hovered, a little unsure, until she looked up. Her eyes flickered with the old instinct—a split-second scan for danger, then a slow relax into a gentler mode when she saw it was him.

“Hey,” Andy said. It was all he could think of, and it felt so small he almost apologized.

Liesa nodded, not quite looking him in the face. She thumbed the edge of the paper, leaving a fresh streak of black on the cream.

He tried again. “What are you working on?”

She made a motion, a tiny jerk of her chin. It could have meant anything, but Andy read it as: I don’t know, but if you want to see, I guess that’s okay.

He moved closer, kneeling so that their shoulders were almost level. Liesa did not hand over the sketchpad. She didn’t turn the page toward him. Instead, she let it stay as it was, the two of them regarding the drawing together as if it were a strange bug pinned under glass.

At first, Andy thought it was a landscape—he recognized the curve of the shoreline, the hard lines of the lava rock, the dense scribble that could be the banyan trees from just up the hill. But then his eyes adjusted to the shapes, the negative spaces, and he realized it wasn’t about the beach at all.

It was a story, and the main character was Liesa herself, repeated at different scales and in different poses, each one more battered or **** than the last. The shapes were figures, maybe four or five of them, in varying degrees of completion. The leftmost was hunched over, clutching itself. The next was curled, nearly fetal. In the center, a figure knelt, arms limp, the head drawn as a raw black oval, no features at all. To the right, another figure—this one reaching upward, hand extended, ribs visible like they’d been scraped into the paper with a razor. The progression was brutal and honest. The only hint of hope was the upward reach of the last figure, a whisper of lighter gray that almost looked like hands reaching down to meet it. Maybe two hands: one smaller, one much bigger.

It was brutal, raw, but not unkind. The cowering girl in the center, arms hugged to her chest; another version of herself starting to uncoil—still thin, still unsure, but upright, almost reaching. There was a weight to it, as if Liesa had drawn every ounce of shame, guilt, and whatever else she’d carried here, and then dared herself to stand up under it.

Andy exhaled, not sure when he’d last breathed. “It’s…” He fished for a word that wasn’t ‘beautiful’ or ‘honest’ or even ‘real,’ because those all seemed too soft. He said, finally, “It looks like it hurt to make.”

Liesa made a sound in her throat—a laugh, or maybe a denial. She wiped her hands on the sides of her shorts, then tried to wipe her cheek, forgetting the charcoal, leaving a streak across her skin. She realized what she’d done and shrugged, as if to say, fuck it, the damage was already done.

“I didn’t mean to—” Andy started, but Liesa cut him off with a quick, sharp shake of her head. She reached for the pad, her hand landing on the top edge. For a second, Andy thought she was going to rip the page out, destroy it, but instead she just covered the drawing, palm down. She stared at her own fingers, then up at him, the corners of her mouth fighting to stay still.

“Is not finished,” she said. Her voice was so quiet it barely registered, and the accent, always faint, seemed stronger now, like a blanket she pulled up when she felt exposed.

Andy nodded. He understood. “Take your time,” he said. “I’ll be around.”

She let the words hang, then looked out at the water. The wind had picked up, pulling the tips of the waves into little white crowns. Andy watched the side of her face, the way the muscles tensed and released as she thought.

He wanted to stay, to ask about the drawing, about her mother, about anything at all. He wanted to fix things, but even more he wanted to avoid breaking them. Watching her intensity, the effort she waas bleeding into the picture, he felt in a blinding moment how much he loved this strange, beautiful girl from Belgium. How lucky he was, that she had returned into his life, even under the circumstances of The HH, giving both of them the chance to discover what once had seemed over and done. Giving him one more chance with her, and giving Sam more happiness than he had ever seen his blue-haired best friend show.

He had a sudden, aching wish to put his hand on her shoulder, just to let her know he was there, but he knew—because he’d watched her—that touch, now, would mean too much, or maybe not enough. So he stayed where he was, breathing slow, waiting for the right moment.

It didn’t come. Instead, Liesa peeled the cover of the pad shut, capping the vision and the ache inside. She set it on her lap, then let her hands rest atop it, one over the other. She looked at him again, longer this time, and her mouth did something it hadn’t done in a while: it tried on a smile. It didn’t fit perfectly, but it held.

Andy smiled back, smaller, but it felt right.

He stood, dusting the sand from his legs, and said, “If you want company, or coffee, or someone to talk to, I’ll be over with the others.”

Liesa didn’t answer, but she nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

Andy walked away, feeling the weight of the moment settle over his shoulders. When he glanced back, he saw her still watching the horizon, the sketchpad now clutched tight in both hands. He wondered what she saw there, and whether, when the drawing was finished, she’d let him see it.

The sky was nearly slate, the wind getting sharper. In the distance, the others had started a game of volleyball, or at least the version of it that passed for exercise in the HH: Riley serving, Norah taunting, Marissa keeping score on her phone, all of them arguing about the rules in loud, theatrical voices.

Andy thought about Liesa’s drawing, about the girl hunched small, and the one, tentative, trying to stand. He saw both in the real Liesa, and wondered if maybe he had the same thing inside himself, just waiting for the lines to be drawn.

He reached the edge of the group, the sound of laughter and fake outrage rolling over him like surf. He let it in, let himself belong to it, and for a moment, the weight felt lighter.

From the stone, Liesa watched, and after a moment, she began to draw again. This time, the lines were quick and sure, less like a battle, more like the record of a world that was finally worth living in.

They set off along the path to the main building, a procession of wind-tangled hair, sand-scuffed feet, and the sort of laughter that tried to outrun the silence closing in behind it. The air had shifted while they were out—the breeze tasted like stone and wet copper, and every so often Andy caught the edge of a new smell, rain still far off but undeniable, like a warning. Up above, the sky bunched and seethed, the clouds descending so close that the green of the palm fronds looked bruised in the half-light.

The trail wound between low hedges and volcanic rock, then up a shallow grade where the world fell away on either side and the view made your chest ache. The women clumped and drifted, splitting off to poke at shells or taunt the tide, then clustering again, drawn by a noise or a dare. Norah was first on the trail, tossing the new scarf like a matador’s cape and daring Chloe and Emi to steal it. They did, and the three tumbled and shrieked until even Riley, arms crossed and feigning boredom, had to smother a smile.

Behind them, Sam and Liesa trailed at a slower pace. Liesa had caught up with the blue-haired girl, her sketchpad was tucked tight against her ribcage, her hands still coal-black at the knuckles. Sam walked with her, sometimes talking, sometimes just matching steps. Andy watched as Liesa shifted the pad to her other hand, offered her free arm, and after a moment’s pause, let Sam take it. He felt something tug in his chest: affection for both these incredible women, the shape of it different, but no less strong.

The path crested a rise. From up here, the hotel looked smaller, almost ****—the white of the plaster washed out, the windows all mirror-black and staring. Rain was coming. The clouds massed over the volcano, rolling slow and heavy, the light going to gray. The sound of the surf, usually so constant, faded until all Andy could hear was the distant thunder.

He stood for a moment, let it wash over him. This: the reckless, the dumb, the petty and the impossible. The hotel doors were just ahead, the promise of dry air and whatever passed for afternoon coffee in this place. The girls gathered before the double doors, shaking water from their hair, giggling and loud and so very alive. They were the only splash of color and joy and life in the encroaching darkness of whatever was about to come, and Andy felt grateful.

He looked at them, really looked. He saw the scars, the faults, the ways each of them was bent out of shape by what they’d lost or what they’d done. But he also saw the ways they held each other up—sometimes with words, sometimes with nothing more than a nudge or a laugh or the simple, dumb act of showing up when it would have been easier to hide.

The ache in his chest was still there. It always would be. But it was crowded, now, with other things: hope, or something like it; the knowledge that if you kept going, if you kept drawing the lines, the picture would change. Maybe not today, maybe not ever the way you wanted, but it would.

He was no Harper, no Mark. The former was a warrior, the latter a man who believed in power. He was Andy Cooper, a man who only knew how to protect, even at the cost of his own life. He didn’t believe in power, for all the power he carried. But he had started to believe in healing, if not for himself (at least, not completely), for these wild and wonderful women who gave him so much, gave all of themselves to him, even when it would have been easy to do otherwise.

He lingered at the door, letting the noise of the women spill past him. The wind, cold and sharp, traced the back of his neck, and he shivered, but on this day of all days, it felt good to feel anything at all.

He turned and looked back. The sea was a blur, the sky a bruised steel, the horizon erased by water. But here, just for a second, it felt like the world was holding together for one last time.