Principles of the Horizon, Part 3

Myra’s ears angled toward the club’s double doors before her cane even found the seam in the hallway carpet. The soft patter of piano spilled out, accompanied by the faint chime of glass and the aftertaste of what Andy recognized, by now, as Marissa’s laugh. Myra let go of his arm, letting her fingers ride the smooth wall for a step and a half before she drew herself up, tail bristling with intent.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked, low enough that even her own voice seemed uncertain about traveling forward.

“Always,” Andy said.

“I did it this morning,” she said, stepping around a marble column without missing a beat. “I apologized to Laura. About what happened. About the lie.” She hesitated, then found her footing again. “I think she hates me less now.”

Andy was quiet, letting her fill the silence. Myra’s cane tapped once, twice, then landed on the little brass plate inlaid before The 88 Club’s entrance. “She didn’t forgive me. Not yet. But she… she said she understands, a little. And she told me not to apologize again. Which, for Laura, is basically an invitation to try again tomorrow.”

Andy smiled, proud, and though he said nothing, she must have felt the pride through her Echoes of Inner Worlds transformation. She blushed, and a faint corona of foxfire traced her outline—an involuntary pulse that always made her seem ethereal and young, but she never noticed it herself.

“You’re incredible,” he said. “That’s not an easy thing to do.”

Myra shook her head, ears flaring. “You’d have done the same, in my shoes. I just wish—” She caught herself, tail flicking in embarrassment. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t take it back.”

“You can make it better, though,” Andy said, voice gentle.

She held the thought for a moment, then let it go with a half-smile. “I’m trying,” she said.

He reached out and, carefully, brushed her hand with his. She took it, her grip feather-light. “I mean it,” he said, squeezing once for emphasis.

“Careful,” she said, in a mock-stern tone. “You’ll give a blind girl the wrong idea.”

Andy thought he should just walk her to the Club. Sit her down. Let the moment be what it was. But he didn’t. Because she’d apologized to Laura. Because she’d asked how to make things better instead of how to disappear. Because she’d chosen to be brave today, and bravery deserved something other than reassurance.

He leaned in, just close enough to not be overheard. “Can I offer you something?” he whispered. “No pressure.”

Myra’s ears flicked toward him. “That already sounds like pressure.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair. I have a Gift. Contribute. It lets me temporarily… upgrade one of your transformations.” He hesitated. “You’d get to experience it before deciding if you want to keep it.”

Myra stilled. “You can do that?” She turned toward him, brow furrowed. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”

“It’s a recent one, and I haven’t used it so far, but I’m trying to take more responsibility,” Andy said honestly. “And you don’t have to say yes.”

She angled her head, listening—not to his words, but to the shape of his intent. “Which one?”

“Emotion’s Map,” he said. “I thought about it. It wouldn’t make your eyes work. It wouldn’t give you details.” A beat. “But if it removes the group requirement, it might help you orient yourself without borrowing someone else’s arm, even when you’re alone.”

Myra’s mouth parted. Then closed. “Andy,” she said slowly, “are you offering me a preview of something I’m not supposed to see yet?”

He smiled. “I’m offering you a choice.”

She exhaled, a shaky little laugh. “Okay.” A beat. “Okay. But if this turns me into a wall-hugging disaster, I’m blaming you.”

Andy smiled, relief and nerves tangling in his chest. “Deal.” He reached out and touched Myra’s forehead with a gentle brush of his fingers. A static discharge jumped, sharp and clean.

Emotion’s Map [UPGRADE] Inner Compass: Myra’s emotional perception is not dependent on the presence of others. She can perceive glowing outlines of rooms, furniture, and people, regardless of light, colored by dominant emotions. She cannot perceive fine detail, text, or exact faces. When alone, the environment reflects her own emotional state; when others are present, their emotions layer and blend.

Myra sucked in a breath and clutched his wrist. The cane slipped from her fingers and clattered harmlessly to the floor. The corridor unfolded. Not light. Not shape the way sight worked.

Edges. Volumes. Presence.

The floor, became a broad, steady plane washed in soft gold of awe, dark blue of disbelief, silver, and pink shimmering into red which she instinctively knew to be affection, maybe even love. The walls and ceiling were bathed in the same radiance, and when she looked at Andy, she saw him before her: tall, muscular, handsome, warm red emanating from him, sheathed in that silver color she had only seen on him and Laura, and for which she had no name. And then she realized she could see his face. Not the way she used to see with her eyes, perhaps - she couldn’t see colors, only emotions, and they washed over surfaces but did not show fine details. She couldn’t see the direction he was looking at, but she could sense his attention anyway. And the yellow of joy, relief, blooming from him through the red and the silver when he realized she was looking back.

And at the center of it all—Myra herself. She looked at her own hands in wonder. Her own outline glowed faintly, uncertain, rimmed with orange astonishment and shot through with fragile gold, like a sunrise she wasn’t sure she was allowed to look at.

“Andy—” she breathed, voice breaking. “Everything’s… there.” A laugh escaped her, half-sob, half-disbelief. “It’s real.”

Andy swallowed. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until then. “Do you want to try moving?”

Myra wiped her face, then nodded, fierce. “I want to do it alone,” she said.

He stepped back immediately. Myra lifted one hand, palm out, not touching anything—just orienting. Her ears flattened, every muscle focused. She took three careful steps, then adjusted slightly left, the cane barely grazing the carpet now, more comfort than necessity.

She turned towards him, and felt tears flowing down her cheeks, but did not care. She could see steaks of violet bathing the corridor now, emanating from him. Pride. Instinctively, she ran to him and hugged him fiercely, tail swishing wildly behind her.

“Thank you,” Myra said, tears streaking her cheeks. “I want to keep this.” She laughed weakly. “I don’t even care what it costs.”

Andy’s arms wrapped around her tenderly and he kissed her. “I will help you with the Commissary,” he said simply, then added, “I’m glad you’re happy, Myra.”

It was a simple thing, but her heart melted. For the words, and the meaning behind them, and the emotions she could now both see (thanks to Emotion’s Map) and feel (thanks to Echoes of Inner Worlds) rolling out of him in waves. She could see the affection. She could see the love. She didn’t yet know if it meant he really did love her, or liked her, or any of a thousand hues in between. It was there, and it was enough for her. More than enough.

Andy laughed, and they walked into the club together.

The inside of The 88 Club had changed since his last visit. The lighting was dim, but not moody—just enough to make the black lacquer on the baby grand look like oil on water. Marissa sat at the keys, her hair down for once, the white coat shrugged off and folded neatly over the back of the bench. She played with her head bowed, as if each note were a question she was still learning to ask. At a table in the near dark, Emi sat with three sketchbooks open, her lower right hand furiously shading while the upper set of arms hunched her shoulders in concentration.

For Myra, the piano loomed as a dark, many-legged outline, threaded through with blue concentration and streaked with gold awe where Marissa’s hands hovered. Emi was a bright, restless cluster nearby—yellow joy, blue focus, sparks of orange surprise flaring each time a sketch took shape.

Andy paused, savoring the scene. It felt earned, this quiet—fragile, but real. Myra followed the gold-and-blue pull toward the stage. Marissa stopped playing as Myra reached the steps, fingers hovering above the keys. Streaks of pink flowed through the gold and blue.

“Myra?” Marissa asked.

Myra smiled—wide, radiant, unguarded. “You’re Marissa,” she said. “You’re… gold, and blue, and you smell like something expensive.” She laughed. “I recognize the perfume.”

Marissa blinked, then laughed outright. “You can see?”

“Not like you,” Myra said, shaking her head. “But I can see you.”

Marissa took her hand without hesitation, squeezing once, firm and grounding. Myra trembled—but held. Marissa’s smile softened into something real. She glanced back at Andy, who stood at the edge of the club, arms folded—not guarding, just present. “Is it because of your latest transformation?” Marissa asked, and Myra smiled, feeling her eyes still wet with tears.

“Yes,” she said, “and Andy upgraded it for me. It works all the time now, even when I am alone.” She said it with a hitch to her throat, and Marissa pulled her into an embrace.

Emi looked up from her sketches, eyes red, expression open. “It’s really good,” she said. “Seeing you like this.”

Myra turned toward her, following the bright yellow warmth of a six-armed outline, streaked with pink and edged with blue. “You’re Emi,” she said. “You look like happiness trying very hard to concentrate.”

Emi laughed, mortified and pleased. She held up the sketch. Myra nodded, not seeing the image, but the affection wrapped around it like a glow.

Andy watched them—and felt something loosen. This wasn’t his moment. It never had been.

So he slipped away.

From the doorway, he saw Myra sit beside Marissa, tail curling around the bench leg, one hand tracing the piano keys with reverence while Marissa narrated softly. Emi leaned in and wrapped her in a quick, six-armed hug, and Myra leaned into it without hesitation, steady at last.

Andy turned and left them to it.

Andy killed the rest of the hour in the gardens, watching the sun move down the sky in lazy arcs, thinking about what came next. Every woman he’d spoken to that day—Erin, Emily, Chloe, Myra, Sam—had seemed lighter, more themselves. Even the double shadows of Laura felt less like a ghost and more like something new.

He paused by the library, tracing the edge of a planter with his foot. His watch vibrated as his silent alarm rang, and on cue, Claire padded up the path, her tail swishing in precise, satisfied arcs. She wore a jacket, pale blue, over a white blouse, and a silver-buttoned skirt that—while modest—caught the light every time her hips moved. She carried her notebook in one hand, in a way that suggested secret business.

Andy straightened as she approached.

“Hey,” he said.

Claire regarded him with wide, curious eyes behind her glasses, then flicked open the notebook and scribbled something fast. She flipped it to face him:

You’re early. I was hoping to have time to rehearse.

He smiled. “Do you need more time?”

She shook her head, and wrote: Just means I’ll be less prepared. Which is more authentic, I suppose.

Andy laughed, and Claire’s ears went flat in embarrassment—then instantly up, as if she’d caught herself emoting.

She handed him a second page, the handwriting careful: Today we’re doing it my way.

He bowed. “I’m yours.”

She rolled her eyes, then gestured toward the library doors. They walked together, Claire’s tail brushing his jeans every few steps, her shoulders straight and businesslike. At the entrance, she paused, then handed him another page:

You don’t have to say yes to everything, you know. If you don’t want to, just tell me.

He met her eyes. “I want to.”

She blushed. Deeply. The tip of her tail flicked fast, then stilled. She opened the door for him, the motion so perfectly practiced he almost wondered if she’d rehearsed that, too.

Andy entered, feeling—if not calm, then at least not anxious. The library was dim and empty, save for the thick scent of old books and the sound of Claire’s breathing.

He let her lead, and they they disappeared among the stacks.

The Banquet Hall at lunch was a study in lavish calm: light butter-yellow pouring down from the windows, linen-clothed tables set like an architect's rendering of civilization, and the scent of salt and roasted sesame drifting over everything. The hum of distant ocean made the glass vibrate, barely perceptible, like the pressure of an almost-remembered headache.

Norah and Erin sat at a two-top in the corner, angled for maximum privacy. Norah had dressed up, of course—today's ensemble was a sapphire sheath and four-inch heels in a lethal black, her curls pulled back tight with a scrunchie. Erin, by contrast, wore her mud-spattered shoes, her mint-green skin glowing in the light, and her body—enormous breasts, absurdly perky, abs corded with subtle muscle—arranged with such intentional nonchalance that it seemed obscene even before she started eating.

Norah stabbed a fork at her salad, a blue-veined cheese perched on the end like a dare. "You know, it’s unfair that you can just be out in the sun all day like that and not get burned. There's something called SPF us peons have to deal with all the time."

Erin, who was balancing an entire tray of raw vegetables on her left thigh, didn't look up. "I'm a plant, Norah." Erin picked up a strip of red pepper, chewed it thoughtfully. "You ever see a plant sunburn, or blush?"

"You seem to manage it every time Andy walks by," Norah said.

That got a small, genuine smile out of Erin. "Touché."

They ate in silence for a bit, just the soft scrape of utensils and the background music of human voices from the other side of the hall. Andy wasn't present—he was probably out with Claire. Erin tried not to track his location by the feeling in her stomach. She was only partially successful.

Norah tapped her heel against the floor. "So, how are you, really?"

It was a simple question, but one that still took Erin aback. The first couple of weeks, Norah's only function in the harem’s life had been as a foil, or—on good days—a sparring partner in mutual skepticism. Now she asked questions like she meant them. It was unsettling.

"Steadier than yesterday," Erin admitted. "Not fixed, but less like I'm bracing for an impact that never comes."

Norah chewed, then nodded. "That's something."

"How about you?" Erin asked. "You seem... energized."

"You're avoiding," said Norah, but she let it go. "It's the challenge, actually." She dropped her voice half a step, making it softer and more intimate. "Arabella's new prompt? 'Design a sanctuary.' We're supposed to make something for ourselves. I didn't think it would get to me, but—" She shrugged, affecting boredom. "I've drawn up like three different plans already."

Erin blinked. "You? I figured you would have tossed it off in an hour and called it a day."

Norah smiled. "Normally, yes. But this time—no elimination risk. No one has to carry me. It's the first thing in this place that doesn't feel like a test."

Erin understood, a little. She'd felt it, too—the relief of a challenge where nothing bad would happen if you failed. "I haven't started mine," she admitted. "I keep thinking, maybe if I wait, the answer will be obvious."

"Is it?" Norah asked, her eyes never leaving Erin's.

"Not yet," Erin said. "My brain still feels like everything's stacked in the wrong order. But..." She trailed off, looking out the windows at the way the wind played with the garden's treetops. "Something tells me I should probably try, anyway."

Norah shrugged, but there was empathy there. "Maybe wait for Andy to give you an epiphany," she said, teasing. "Seems to work for the rest of us."

Erin snorted. "If Andy ever has an epiphany about anything, it's only because someone else handed it to him, gift-wrapped and annotated."

Norah smirked. "That's what I'm hoping Claire does today. He's in good hands." They lapsed into a silence that was more companionable than awkward. Erin picked at her veggies, and Norah finished her cheese, then opened a small notebook and began jotting something in neat, slanted print.

"You going to tell me what you're working on?" Erin asked.

Norah kept writing. "I'm trying to figure out what Claire would put in her sanctuary. A library, obviously, but what else? Traps? A moat? Catnip?"

"Are you rooting for her?" Erin asked, genuinely curious.

Norah looked up, uncharacteristically honest. "I'm rooting for all of us. For once, it's not a zero-sum game."

That landed harder than Erin expected. She set down her fork. "Do you ever get tired of fighting?"

Norah didn't answer right away. She closed the notebook, then looked at Erin with a level gaze. "You asking for me, or for yourself?"

Erin paused, then smiled, and the expression felt new—unforced, maybe even a little shy. "Both."

Norah sighed, theatrical. "Maybe it's not so bad, being carried once in a while," she said. "As long as it's not by someone who wants to drop you the second you're inconvenient."

"I won't," Erin said, more of a promise than she intended.

Norah nodded, acknowledging it. Then she glanced over Erin's shoulder and her expression changed. "Incoming," she said, sotto voce.

Erin twisted to see what had caught Norah's attention, then stopped, surprised. Laura—both of her—was crossing the Banquet Hall in a deliberate, almost mechanical line, each body holding a plate of fruit balanced with mathematical precision. There was something uncanny about the way Laura moved. Both bodies navigated the tables in sync. Her hair—one body wore it loose and shining, the other tied into a high ponytail, the orange flowers still pinned behind the right ear of each—glistened as if wet. She stopped at their table, both faces aimed squarely at Erin. "Can we talk?" said both voices, in unison.

Norah gave a quick, subtle nod, then fumbled for an excuse. "I need to get more tea," she said, already standing. "You two do your thing." She left, heels clicking, and Erin was alone at the table with Laura. It felt less like being watched, more like being scanned.

Laura sat, placing one plate of fruit in front of herself—right in the middle, dead center between her two bodies—then adjusted it, twice, as if searching for some precise geometrical midpoint that would never actually exist. The second plate she slid across the table to Erin, her left body’s right hand giving it a gentle nudge, the right body’s fingers mirroring the gesture with nothing to push. The fussiness of it didn’t read as submission so much as control clung to too tightly—someone used to taking space, now overcorrecting. Erin had only seen Laura in short bursts since the resurrection—slices of intensity, posture like a blade. This, by contrast, looked like someone white-knuckling a steering wheel after the skid, insisting the car had never swerved.

Erin regarded the plate like it might be a trap. She waited a beat, then lifted a strawberry and bit off the tip, suspicious but not unwilling. The effect was immediate: her cheeks pinked (or the closest her mint-green skin got to pink), and she tried to hide her surprise at the simple offering. Erin had never liked the script of apologies, but there was something earnest about the way Laura had arranged the plates, something so deliberate it felt like a dare.

Laura folded both pairs of arms across her chests, a motion so symmetrical it looked planned, then let them drop again. “I’m trying,” both voices said, their timing eerie. “I know it doesn’t count for much, but I’m really trying.” There was an edge under the words—defensive, almost sharp—as if she were bracing for Erin to laugh it off. The edge was familiar. The rest—this careful, measured stillness—was what didn’t match.

Erin blinked. “To what? Set a new world record for synchronized angst?”

Laura’s lips quirked, the expression quick and familiar, the same flash of humor Erin had heard about, but she didn’t flinch. “To not be the person everyone hates. To not wreck things just because I don’t know how to exist anymore.” She looked down, then up, then (awkwardly) split the gaze so one body fixed on Erin and the other picked at a cantaloupe wedge. “I know what I used to be. It’s not like dying resets your karma.” The words came out like she’d rehearsed them—like a line you repeat until it stops shaking. But the shaking was still there, just buried.

The words landed heavier than she meant, and both bodies hunched a little, as if bracing for an incoming hit. “I’m not looking for sympathy,” she added quickly, too quickly. “I just—” She hesitated, mouth twisting. “I don’t want to be the reason Andy’s life stays broken.”

The casualness with which she said “broken” made Erin blink. Something tight loosened in Erin’s chest—not trust, not yet, but… recognition. There was a time, not long ago, when a line like that would have triggered the old defense mechanisms: sarcasm, retreat, a joke about needing more vitamin D. But now, Erin found herself unprepared—disarmed by how unguarded Laura was being. Disarmed, and—annoyingly—moved. Erin didn’t like being moved by people she didn’t trust yet.

She chewed another strawberry, then finally managed: “You think you’re the reason he’s broken?”

Laura didn’t answer at first. The left body’s fingers traced the edge of the table; the right body’s thumb rolled a blueberry back and forth, indecisive. When the silence stretched too long, Laura broke it: “He spent sixteen years loving a dead girl. Sixteen. That’s a lot of inertia to reverse.” A tiny, bitter laugh, perfectly matched. “I think he deserves a chance to move on. I mean, you and the other women? You’re real. You have a present, a future. You’re not just a long echo.”

The words weren’t meek; they were blunt, almost cruel—aimed at herself before anyone else could use them. And Erin could hear—underneath—the other version of Laura, the one who would normally weaponize that bluntness outward. The fact she was turning it inward instead made Erin’s stomach twist.

Erin started to argue, then stopped, at a loss. The instinct to defend Andy collided with something sharper: the urge to defend Laura from the story she was telling herself. She’d never heard anyone describe herself as an echo before, and the honesty of it caught her flat. “Is that why you keep pulling away from nearly everyone?” she said, softer than she intended. Softer—because the alternative would be to snap, and Erin could already tell Laura was held together with thread.

“Wouldn’t you?” Laura asked, not quite a challenge, more a genuine request for information. The old Laura—defiant, prickly—peeked through the question. It was there, Erin thought. The bite. Just… muffled. Like she’d wrapped it in gauze so it wouldn’t slice anybody on the way out.

Erin considered, then shook her head. “No. I’d probably do what I always do: dig in, get territorial, make the world miserable until it gives up.” She shrugged, a motion more relaxed than her voice. “You’re not the only one who doesn’t want to fuck this up, you know.”

Both of Laura’s bodies went very still, as if Erin had said something startling. Like Laura hadn’t expected Erin to admit she was afraid, too—and didn’t know what to do with shared fear. When the words didn’t come, Erin pressed on, awkward but determined: “Look. You’re not the only person who thought the world would be better if Andy could let go. But you’re also the only person I’ve seen actually admit it out loud.” Even as she said it, Erin felt the risk. This wasn’t forgiveness, it was a hand offered before she was sure it wouldn’t be bitten.

Laura hesitated, then said: “I don’t believe him, sometimes. I think he loves the memory of me, not the person.” She picked up a grape with the right body, pinched it between two fingers, then set it down again. “Isn’t that what you thought, too? That he was just haunted by the past?”

Erin huffed. “I thought that. I even said it, a few times. I don’t believe it anymore.”

Laura’s right hands hovered over the fruit, then dropped. “Why not?”

The answer was so simple it almost embarrassed Erin. “Because you’re not a memory now. You’re a person. With, uh, two bodies, and all the same weird habits he used to love. And I’ve seen how he looks at you, especially when you’re not looking.” She swallowed, cheeks darkening another shade. “You’re harder to hate when you’re here.” And, unexpectedly, harder to keep at arm’s length. Erin heard herself say it and hated that it sounded like kindness. Kindness was how you got attached. Attachment was how you got hurt.

Both of Laura’s bodies smiled, soft and, for the first time since she’d returned, ****. She pressed on, voice a little steadier: “It still hurts,” she said. “Not seeing him every minute. Not being the only one he looks at. It’s stupid, but…” She trailed off, both bodies fidgeting with the edge of their plates. “I know I have no right to be jealous. I lost that right.” Her eyes flicked once—fast—to the room, to the exits, to anything that wasn’t Erin. As if she’d been “on” all morning and the act was finally slipping.

Erin interrupted, not unkindly: “Why do you keep talking about rights? This isn’t a legal proceeding, Laura. It’s just people. There’s no spreadsheet for who’s allowed to feel what.” She popped a grape, chewed, then went on, “If Andy wanted you gone, you’d be gone. If the rest of us wanted you out, you’d know it.” The certainty surprised Erin as much as it did Laura. Surprised—and, in the next beat, scared her. Because part of Erin realized she meant it.

Laura’s right hand balled into a fist, knuckles whitening. She stared at it for a second, then let it go, the gesture echoed in the left hand a second later. “Sometimes I think you’d all be better off if I just… faded. Like, if I stepped back and let the rest of you build something normal.” Both faces looked at Erin, and the **** of the twin gaze was so intense it almost hurt. “Isn’t that what you want?” There it was again—the real Laura. Not meek. Cornered. Asking the question like a preemptive strike: tell me you want me gone so I can pretend I chose it.

Erin didn’t even hesitate. “No. I want you to be the girl Andy loves. Not the version of you that sits quietly and apologizes for taking up space. The one that gave him hell, made him better, made him feel like life was worth fighting for. The one he risked his life to bring back.” Her throat tightened on the last line. Erin hated that it did. Hated that Laura’s obvious distress was bypassing her caution and going straight for her instincts.

Laura’s mouth dropped, twin expressions of shock. “That’s not what I expected you to say,” she admitted. The admission wasn’t soft. It was startled—like she’d come in prepared for a fight and Erin had handed her a blanket instead.

Erin snorted. “Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises.” Then, more quietly: “Besides, I’ve heard enough about you from everyone else—Andy, Emi, Riley, Chloe—to know that you mattered long before you showed up again. Maybe that means you can matter more now, even if it’s messy.” She left out the part where that fact still made her jealous. Jealousy wasn’t helpful. Laura looked like she was drowning on dry land.

For a moment, both women just sat there, locked in a weird, competitive silence that felt more like a truce than a contest. Laura broke first, both bodies slumping. “You don’t think he regrets it?” she said, so quietly that Erin had to lean in to hear. “Bringing me back?” The question cracked on the last word—not a sob, not even close, but a seam giving way.

“If he does,” Erin replied, “he’s doing a shit job doing it. The guy practically glows every time you walk into a room.” She rolled her eyes. “Hell, he glows every time he even thinks about you.”

Both of Laura’s faces softened, and this time the smile looked more genuine. “You know, I always wondered if anyone could survive loving him. It’s like hugging a bomb, half the time.” The joke landed, and for half a second Erin saw the version of Laura who could weaponize charm like a slingshot.

Erin grinned. “Yeah, but you get used to the explosions.”

Laura’s right hand picked up a berry and tossed it into her mouth, and for a moment, the left body did nothing. It just sat, staring at the space in front of it, eyes glazed and distant. Erin noticed, and for the first time, she saw how tired Laura looked—not in her faces, but in the little details: the way her shoulders hunched, the way her hands trembled slightly, the way her words sometimes lagged behind her thoughts. The realization hit Erin harder than she expected; this wasn’t contrition, it was overload. A delayed crash. Like whatever had been holding Laura upright all day had finally run out and left her stranded.

Erin set her fork down, her voice gentler. “Are you okay?”

Laura flinched, the left body catching up with the right, and both shook their heads in unison. “Not really. It’s just—” She made a helpless gesture, both hands outstretched. “It’s a lot, Erin. It’s the resurrection, and the lost time, and the game, and the women, and the keycard, and the bodies, and the fact that every second I have to remind myself I’m not a ghost.” Both bodies mirrored the same movement, hands pressed together like a prayer. “I’m trying to keep up. But sometimes it feels like I’m standing in the river and every day is just more water.”

She swallowed, hard. “And—” The word snagged. “And someone said they were sorry today.” She didn’t offer a name. Erin didn’t ask. Laura’s jaw tightened, that stubbornness flashing again. “I thought I wanted that. Turns out wanting it and having it are different.” Erin felt something in her chest pinch—an ugly, empathetic echo. Of course an apology would do that. It didn’t fix anything. It just made the pain mobile again.

Erin nodded, the image hitting home. She felt the urge to retreat—and ignored it. “You know what they say about rivers?”

Laura shook her heads.

“You can’t step in the same one twice. But you can stand in it as long as you want, if you learn to balance.” She looked at Laura, both of her, until the gaze felt almost normal. “I can help you, if you want.”

Laura let out a long, shaky breath. “Yeah,” she said. “I think I want that.” Then, with a faint, self-mocking edge that sounded more like her: “Before I do something dumb on purpose, just to prove I still can.”

Erin stood, gathering up both plates, then paused and looked down at Laura’s two bodies. “Come with me?”

Laura nodded, a little unsteady, and both bodies stood. The movement was a little off—a half-second delay between them, as if she’d finally let herself be imperfect. It was beautiful, in a way.

Erin led her out of the Banquet Hall, not looking back to see if Laura was keeping up. She just knew that, this time, she would.

The clearing in the Bamboo Grove had always felt like neutral ground: a place where the world dropped its shoulder and let you pass without demanding a password or a confession. The wind moved through the bamboo with a hush that erased everything except the present, and even the benches—smoothed to near-silk by weather and countless bare thighs—seemed designed for sitting, not posing.

Sam’s first clue that she was going to lose this round was the sound Liesa made as soon as the shirt peeled away from her shoulders. It was less of a gasp and more of a hungry, animal keen—a noise Sam had never heard from her before, and, frankly, a sound she’d have bet money Liesa wasn’t capable of. But then, transformations had a way of changing the rules.

The two of them had strolled out here on a lark: Sam with a bottle of cheap white wine, Liesa with a bag of cherries she’d filched from the staff kitchen, both of them laughing at the way the wind made the bamboo groves sing. The original plan—if it could be called a plan—was to drink, eat, maybe practice a few old pick-up lines on each other, and then see if they could, through sheer willpower, out-seduce each other. It was the sort of challenge that, in another life, would have ended with Sam getting her ass handed to her by the girl who looked like a cross between an Old Master painting and an Antwerp model.

Instead, they were both naked, kneeling on a sun-dappled blanket, and Liesa had her hands—both hands—buried in Sam’s hair, kissing her hungrily, like she’d spent the last week fasting. Liesa’s body was radiant in the late-afternoon glow, all peaches-and-cream skin and gentle slopes, her hair loose from its braid and wild around her face. Her hips ground forward in little, insistent circles, a rhythm so urgent it was almost embarrassing. But Sam was in no position to judge.

Sam had always prided herself on being in control—physical, emotional, whatever. But there was something about the way Liesa’s eyes glazed over with that specific mindless heat, how her nipples went hard as marbles against Sam’s chest, how she couldn’t seem to keep her hands still. The Paint Me Like One of Your French Girls transformation, she remembered, made her helpless with desire as soon as she lost the last scrap of clothing. It was supposed to be funny, or maybe a little humiliating. In practice, it was mostly hot as hell.

“Sam,” Liesa whispered, and the accent—usually so careful, so pretty—was a wreck. “Sam, I—” She broke off, the words replaced by a full-body shudder as Sam’s hands cupped her breasts, squeezing gently, rolling the nipples between her thumbs. Liesa’s body arched, and the next noise she made was much, much louder.

“You want to be on top, schat?” Sam murmured, letting her tongue trace a line up Liesa’s neck.

Liesa nodded, violently. “I want everything,” she breathed, and Sam believed her.

Sam rolled them, letting Liesa pin her shoulders to the blanket. The grass under the blanket was warm and damp and a little scratchy, which just made everything feel more real. Liesa’s thighs, straddling Sam’s, were strong and slick, and the heat between them could have melted glass. Sam slid her hands down Liesa’s back, kneading, guiding, and Liesa moved against her with ****, grinding insistence.

At first it was a tangle of hands and mouths—Liesa nipping at Sam’s earlobe, then losing focus and just moaning into her hair; Sam kissing down Liesa’s collarbone, then lower, biting lightly at her breasts. Liesa’s hips didn’t stop moving the whole time. Every time Sam pushed back, Liesa met her, the friction building and building until the edges of Sam’s vision sparkled.

The first time Liesa came, it was with a wordless sob, her nails leaving perfect red crescents on Sam’s shoulders. The orgasm rippled through her, hips bucking in messy, beautiful waves, but Liesa didn’t stop—she just kept moving, panting, voice raw.

It was Sam’s turn. She pulled Liesa’s face down, kissing her deep and slow, then hooked a leg behind Liesa’s knee and rolled them again, so she was on top. Liesa gave a low, throaty laugh, eyes glazed and shining.

Sam lined their bodies together, stomach to stomach, then shifted her weight so their hips pressed flush. “Hold on,” she whispered, and Liesa did, hands braced on Sam’s shoulders.

They moved together, slow at first, then faster, the rhythm perfect. Liesa’s thighs clamped around Sam’s, slick and shaking. Sam ground her sex against Liesa’s clit, moaning in pleasure at the jolts that flashed through her with each rub. Liesa was hungry, rocking her hips desperately, but Sam’s superior strength ensured she could control the flow. When Sam came, it was sudden and sharp, a white-hot pulse from her core outwards, her whole body locking around Liesa’s. She saw stars—real ones, this time, as her head lolled back and the sun-dappled bamboo overhead resolved into spinning pinwheels of light.

After, they lay there tangled, both of them breathing like they’d run a marathon. Sam was dimly aware of birdsong, the distant hum of insects, the sticky sweat beading between their chests. She wanted to say something funny, but Liesa climbed onto her and kissed her again, slow and deep, and the words didn’t matter anymore.

Liesa’s arousal, as it turned out, did not abate. In fact, within seconds, she was clawing at Sam’s back, trying to line them up again. Sam snorted, but obliged. This time, she guided Liesa to her side, then kissed down her belly, taking her time with each breathless inch.

When her mouth found Liesa’s clit, Liesa nearly lifted off the ground. “God, Sam, god, oh—” The words dissolved, and Liesa’s hands fisted in the blanket, her whole body flexing. Sam licked and sucked, pausing every now and then to run her tongue in slow circles, then picking up the pace as Liesa’s moans grew frantic.

Before long, Liesa’s hands were back on Sam, yanking her down, **** for more. Sam grinned and repositioned herself, so they were side by side, heads facing opposite directions. Liesa got the message instantly, and pulled Sam’s hips close, her own mouth hungry and sure.

The sensation was overwhelming—a hot, wet circuit of pleasure that seemed to flow between them like electricity. Liesa's tongue moved with uncanny precision, finding spots Sam didn't know she had, while Sam could feel Liesa trembling with each lick she gave in return. Something about Liesa's Cunning Linguist transformation had turned her mouth into an instrument of impossible skill; each flick and swirl sent Sam spiraling higher. Sam's orgasm rolled through her like a lazy tide, but Liesa's seemed to feed on her pleasure—her thighs clamped around Sam's head so hard she thought she might bruise, and she came with a muffled scream against Sam's center, the vibrations of her moans sending aftershocks through Sam's body.

They lay there, side by side, lips and chins slick, hair stuck to foreheads and cheeks. Liesa panted, then started giggling—a messy, breathless sound. “You killed me,” she said.

Sam propped herself up on an elbow, grinning. “You’ll live.”

“Maybe,” Liesa said, her accent thick. “If you dress me quickly.”

Sam looked around and realized she’d tossed their clothes at least ten feet away. She crawled over, grabbed Liesa’s sundress, and helped her into it—Liesa’s arms only half-coordinated, her hands trembling. Sam dressed herself, then leaned back, satisfied.

“You good?” she asked.

Liesa nodded, but her cheeks were pink. “I don’t remember most of it,” she admitted. “Just the—feeling.”

Sam ruffled her hair. “It’s the best part.”

IVA: Had sex with the Lovey Contestant! +4 VP
First! x2

She’d just started packing up, her hair still disheveled, when she heard footsteps on the path. Not the slow, ambling kind, but the purposeful stride of someone who wanted to be alone and was probably going to be disappointed. Sam glanced up, saw Erin approaching, and then—just behind her, perfectly in sync—both bodies of Laura. The sight made Sam’s eyebrows lift a fraction; she didn’t bother hiding it. Laura and Erin arriving together tended to mean something was wrong.

Erin stopped a few paces away, clocking the scene with one quick sweep: Liesa’s hair wild, Sam’s shirt only buttoned halfway, the picnic blanket in disarray. She quirked a brow but said nothing. Laura, for her part, looked everywhere but at the two of them, her eyes finding the canopy, the ground, anything that wasn’t the site of recent debauchery.

Sam stood, dusted herself off, and schooled her face into something less giddy. “Hey,” she said.

Erin gave a little nod, and Sam could tell from the tension in her shoulders that this was not a social visit.

“Everything okay?” Sam asked, dropping the last of the wine bottle into the basket.

Erin’s voice was flat, almost professional. “Laura’s having a rough hour. Thought she could use some company. Not sure I’m the right kind.”

Sam understood, instantly. She shot Liesa a look—Liesa, now upright but still a little dazed, nodded and gestured for everyone to sit.

They gathered on the blanket, forming a loose triangle: Sam, Liesa, and then Erin with Laura (both of her) off to one side, like satellites in a weirdly fragile orbit.

Laura stayed standing for a minute, visibly not knowing where to put herself; Erin nudged her gently at the elbow, and both bodies sank down, legs tucked, knees pressed together. The way Laura folded in on herself made Sam’s mouth tighten—not alarmed, just attentive. The tension in the air was thick, but Sam knew better than to press.

“So,” Sam said, pitching her voice casual, “we’re doing the Bamboo Grove thing now? I thought this was supposed to be a private club.” Humor first. Always humor first.

Liesa smiled, shy. “You are welcome anytime.”

Erin shot Sam a look, half grateful, half a warning. “Can we just—hang out a minute? Not make a thing out of it.”

“Sure,” Sam said, and, after a beat, “I was just telling Liesa how every time the house has a major drama, the Bamboo Grove is the first place to recover.” She poured a little wine into a cup, handed it to Liesa, and set the bottle in the grass. “You remember the week you were pissed at Claire because you wanted Andy all to yourself? We all came here, and it was like nothing happened. Totally peaceful.”

Erin glowered. Liesa giggled, then covered her mouth, embarrassed. Laura flinched.

Sam stretched out, arms folded behind her head. “It’s the best part of the island. Stuff’s always changing, but the Grove is just… chill.”

Erin watched Laura carefully, but she was picking at the hems of her skirts, staring into the middle distance. Sam wasn’t sure if she was listening, but she kept talking anyway. Sam had learned that silence didn’t mean disengagement. Sometimes it meant someone was hanging on by their fingernails.

“I figure the secret to surviving here is not taking any of it personally,” Sam said. “None of us chose this. We just got handed our roles.” She made a vague, all-encompassing gesture. “So you play the game, or you find people who make the game worth playing.”

Laura finally managed to get something out: “I’m just trying not to make things worse.” The words came out clipped, like she was bracing for correction.

Sam considered the words a moment, let them hang, then replied, “You can’t, actually. Make it worse, I mean.” She tilted her face to the sun, squinting. “If you think about it, the house is always falling apart, then rebuilding itself. You just pick the pieces you like best, and start over.” She gestured lazily at the picnic blanket, the birds, the three other women. “Honestly, you’re the least destructive thing in this whole ecosystem. The worst you did was bring some honesty.” She said the word like it might bite back.

Liesa nodded, braid already half unraveled. “I know is hard. I know you see how much Andy wants you here, but you are careful to not break anything.” She smiled, kind and a little sad. “But if you wanted, you could break everything. All the girls, all the…” She groped for a word, then shrugged. “Dynamics. I saw it. But you do not.” Her tone wasn’t reverent. It was matter-of-fact, like stating the strength of a current.

Laura tried to protest, but Liesa raised a hand, palm up, forestalling her. “No, listen. You make Andy better. The rest of us? We are still us. We are still important. But for him, you are… it.” Liesa’s voice grew softer. “I like that you are trying to belong, not just win.” She shifted, dress riding up her thighs, then blushed and pulled it down. Laura’s jaw tightened—not offended, just overwhelmed by Liesa being so direct.

Laura’s right hand rubbed the inside of her left wrist, a nervous tic. “That’s not what it feels like,” she said. “It feels like I’m this… black hole, just warping everything so nobody else gets to have normal. I don’t want to be that. I just want—” She stopped, jaw set hard, as if the next words would cost too much to say. Erin recognized that look. She was very familiar with the point where stubbornness was the only thing holding someone upright.

Erin, who had been silent, finally spoke. “That’s not what you are.” Her voice was clear, no waver in it. “If anything, you made it easier for the rest of us to be honest. Not just with Andy, but with ourselves.”

Sam nodded, picking a cherry out of the basket and rolling it between her palms. “Can confirm. After you showed up, the number of bullshitted conversations in the house dropped like ninety percent.” She popped the cherry in her mouth, then spit the pit into the grass with unerring precision. “It’s just… us. Messy, awkward, but real.”

Laura took this in, both bodies going still. “It’s not easy,” she said, a little embarrassed by how small the words sounded.

Liesa shrugged, cheerful. “Nothing is.” She glanced at Erin, then Sam, then back to Laura. “You can want things, you know. You do not have to make yourself small.”

There was a long pause. The wind combed through the bamboo, sending ripples of sound through the clearing. A bluebird called from somewhere overhead, sharp and bright.

Laura said, “It doesn’t seem fair.”

Sam barked a laugh. “Who promised fair?”

Liesa grinned, showing perfect teeth. “We are not on a show called Fairness Hotel.”

Even Erin cracked a smile at that.

But Laura shook her heads, both at once. “I mean it. I keep trying to figure out how to—how to be with Andy without taking away from the rest of you. It’s like…” Both of her picked up blades of grass and bent them between their fingers. “Like I’m not allowed to take space unless I’m taking it from someone else.” The metaphor was careful, almost practiced—like she’d been circling it all morning.

Erin nodded, understanding. “That’s how I used to feel. Like every time I got close to Andy, I was stealing time from everyone else. Or maybe like I was being tested, to see if I could be selfless enough to step aside.”

“And?” asked Sam, genuinely curious.

Erin’s face softened. “I learned that’s bullshit.” She looked at Laura, and there was no heat in it—just recognition. “Don’t get me wrong, it took me an awful long time to figure it out. I’m bullheaded that way. It took Sam and Andy and I don’t know how many conversations. Hell, ask me again tomorrow and I may give a different answer. But today? I think he doesn’t have a quota for affection. He just wants us to take what we need, so he can give more.”

Laura’s faces, both of them, considered this like it was a riddle.

Liesa reached over, touching Laura’s hand. “You are not here to fix Andy. Or to save him. You are here to be loved. That is all.”

Laura blinked. “That’s what Andy said, the first day I… I came back.” She paused, unsure what to do with that. “That easy, huh.”

Liesa laughed. “No. But is worth trying.”

For a while, no one spoke. The only sounds were the rustle of Liesa’s skirt, Sam’s slow sips of wine, and Erin breathing, steady and calm.

Sam broke the silence. “When you and Andy were twelve, someone shot a Polaroid photo of you two on the hood of a car.” She said it lightly, like an anecdote—but her eyes stayed on Laura, gauging the impact.

Laura nodded. “I remember it.” The memory came too fast, like she’d been holding it near the surface all day.

Sam met her eyes. “Did you see how he looked at you?”

Laura’s faces colored. “Yeah,” she said, the word so faint it barely counted as sound.

“Nothing else in the world looks like that,” Sam said. “That’s the center of gravity for the whole universe, right there. The rest of the girls? They orbit. And you know what? That’s actually fine. As long as they all get to keep spinning, nobody’s losing anything.” She said it without resentment, without challenge—like stating a law of physics she’d already made peace with.

Liesa piped up, “We can be more than one thing, too. Maybe we orbit, maybe sometimes we are satellites, or planets, or just—guests.” She smiled, sincere. “I like it. I do not need to be sun. Sometimes I am happy to be moon. If we are happy, what do labels mean?” Her tone was content, and Laura stared at her like one would at an animal believed extinct.

Erin nodded, slow and deliberate. “I spent years trying to make Andy’s life make sense. I think I got close. But when you came back, it was like everything else slotted into place.” She grimaced. It still wasn’t easy to accept that Laura’s return didn’t mean Erin’s demotion. “There is room for you and the rest of us, too. Just… in different ways.” She didn’t say hierarchy. She didn’t say priority. She meant structure, and hoped Laura could hear it that way, because it was also the only way Erin could accept it.

Laura’s eyes were wet, but she kept her head up. “I’m not great at this.”

“You don’t have to be,” said Erin. “Just stick around.” The words surprised Erin as much as anyone else. She meant them anyway.

Sam, who had watched the whole exchange with a careful eye, finally said, “You know what? Fuck all the metaphors.” She scooted closer, so her knees touched Laura’s. “You belong here. Because you’re you, and because Andy would never be complete without you. If you ever start doubting, just ask.” There was no softness in it—just certainty, the kind Sam used when she decided something was settled.

Laura’s lips quirked. “You’ll be the judge, jury, and executioner?”

Sam grinned. “Just the judge. The other jobs go to Erin.”

Erin shrugged. “I can execute.”

Even Liesa laughed at that.

It wasn’t a perfect circle, what they made—more like a cluster of points, all drifting, all occasionally colliding, but never fully out of each other’s reach. Erin thought, fleetingly, that this was probably the best any of them were going to get.

Laura looked around at the three of them, then did something none of them expected: she leaned over and, in perfect sync, hugged each of them—one body to Liesa, the other to Sam, and then, with a little nervous hesitation, pulled Erin into the fold. It was impulsive, almost clumsy—like she’d decided she didn’t have time to overthink it. For a second, it was awkward—a tangle of limbs and hair and uneven breathing. But nobody pulled away.

When she let go, Laura said, “I want to be here. Even if I’m still scared.”

Erin said, “Same.”

Liesa nodded. “Me, too.”

Sam just grinned, stretching her arms behind her head. “See? Not so hard.”

A breeze picked up, and the bamboo whispered a secret none of them could hear.

Bonus Art! Emi's fleshwarp monk, Sparkles the Destroyer!

Tomorrow: Dawn's Carrotina Fluffytail!