The Olympian (Also, the Fiancée)

Tegan Fletcher

Tegan calms her breath, trying to slow her heartbeat. This is the trickiest shot at the practice range and, after a grueling 2 kilometer trek, she needs to take a moment. Her sport (archery biathlon) isn’t like the pansy rifle biathletes; she’s expected to hit a realistic target placed in sight of the track itself while still on her skis. She lines up the shot and looses her arrow. The light above the target flashes green; Tegan holsters her bow and readjusts her quiver to stay out of the way. She grabs her poles and starts pushing, picking up speed. She has another 2 km to go before she’s done with her training session.

She listens to her coach, who is comfortably warm at the base of the training facility, as she skis her final leg of training. As per usual, most of his coaching has very little to do with her performance on the field.

“Look, Tegan, you really need to get out there more. Make some friends. You got one, maybe two shots at a gold medal and this sport doesn’t exactly attract a lot of sponsorships. You are going to need something more in your life than this.”

Tegan grunts, trying to focus on slight improvements to her skiing technique. She doesn’t talk back; she’s learned by now that coaches will drop her for being too much of an “ice queen.” She instead just stews. Coach doesn’t get it. I don’t need anything more than a goal to strive for. When I get to the point where I am too old to compete, I will find another goal. People are messy, anyways. I don’t like messy.

When she makes it back to base, she scoffs at the lazy slackabouts that compose the rest of the team. They all should have done at least one more run today; the only reason Tegan stopped was because light conditions have diminished to the point where Coach would insist on her coming in. She instead heads to the canteen, getting her regimen of macros and supplements needed to keep her performing well. She sits, as usual, alone. The skier forces herself to eat. The team staff is concerned that she is underweight for her height.

Coach swings by and sits across from her. “Tomorrow is a rest day for you. No talkback. You push yourself too hard. Some of the team is heading to town for a night out. Maybe you should join them.”

“That’s irresponsible. **** and **** and late nights out hurt performance.”

“Look, kid, you are going to burn yourself out at this rate. There needs to be more than just the team in your life. What about that girl whose pic you have in your room? You think she wants to see you crash?”

Tegan snarls at that. Coach hit a nerve. Not like the big-tittied cow has thought of me in years. Coach backs off, sighing, “Just trying to help you, Tegan.”

“Help me by figuring out how to shave another 5 seconds off my ski leg. That’s the kind of help I need. Not your ‘feelings’ nonsense.”

With that, Coach holds his hands up and leaves. Tegan forces herself to finish her meal. Feeling uncomfortably full, the skier heads to her dorm room at the facility. She sets an alarm for an hour, barely noticing the picture of the big-tittied cow on her end table. She watches film of her performance today until the alarm goes off. She’ll watch more film tomorrow; Coach won’t let her go out and train, so she will be productive in other ways.

Then Tegan does her turn-down routine in her small dorm bathroom: shower, full body shave, toothbrushing, magnesium and melatonin supplements to help her sleep. Tegan takes stock of herself in the mirror as she works. Her brown hair is getting too long; the tips almost is beyond her hand when she grabs a handful. She’ll need to cut it again next week. She’d shave it all off, but Coach insists that she have some hair for team photos. Her face is gaunt, sallow. Her eyes, hazel and tired, stare ahead. Her body is all skin, bones, and wiry muscles. Tegan thinks her body is optimized for performance, not an ounce on her beyond what’s needed.

Now ready for bed in her team issued pajamas, Tegan, enjoying the quiet from the slackers being out, crawls into her standard issue sheets and slowly falls asleep.

The Broadcast (Tegan’s Dreamscape)

“Hear ye, hear ye! The king’s archery tournament shall begin shortly!” the herald shouts, informing all that hears him about the next part of the day’s itinerary.

Tegan is ready, dressed smartly in her skiing gear, her bow at the ready. Surely she will overcome these peasants with her superior knowledge and skill with the bow. The other competitors line up, all in their medieval garb. They aren’t even using compound bows! Tegan chuckles to herself.

The herald announces the rules, “Each competitor shall fire one arrow at the target. Those that miss are out. Those that hit shall move onto the next round. The target begins at 50 yards, and will be moved back 25 yards every round. The winner will be gifted this lovely cow!”

The big-tittied cow lets out a sultry moo as she is wheeled in on a cart. She is covered in filth and nude save for a belled collar, as expected of a cow. The crowd oohes over the prize Tegan is sure to win.

The first few round shows off Tegan’s superiority rather handily. She adjusts for distance and windage easily enough. Never quite bullseyes, but close both times. It is down to just her and one other by the time the target has been moved back to the 100 yard mark. 100 yards is pushing the limits of Tegan’s bow, but she can adjust. Her opponent goes first. The wind catches the arrow and it lands just to the side of the target. All Tegan has to do now is hit the target, then the big-tittied cow is hers.

Before Tegan can make her winning shot, the herald shouts an announcement, “A late entrant! Tari Tyalangan, queen of a far off country, has just arrived and wishes to compete. She will start at the 100 yard mark.”

Whatever, what’s one more? Tegan aims, adjusts, looses. The arrow, getting a little wobbly by the end, lands in the target. Tegan smirks.

Then some blue-skinned freak just wearing knights boots and a sword on her hip saunters onto the archery green. Tegan hates her instantly, with her massive mammaries. Like the others, she doesn’t carry a compound bow, opting for a standard medieval longbow. The naked skank pulls back the bow, her back muscles flexing, and looses her arrow. Bullseye, drilled into the target hard enough to knock it down.

The freak has the nerve to ask, “Care to concede?”

“Like I would surrender to you,” Tegan snarls.

The freak nods, as if she expected that answer. She offers, indicating the big-tittied cow at the appropriate time, “Fair enough, Tegan. While we wait for the next round, I have an opportunity for you, should you be interested. A chance to win the heart of that girl over there. I know how you feel about her, even if you can’t admit it to yourself.”

“Why do I need your help to win the cow? All I need to do is beat you here and now. The cow is practically mine already.”

The freak rolls her eyes, sardonic in her tone, “Playing hardball, huh? I suppose that is to be expected. You don’t want the girl like that, not really. I am offering you a chance to reconcile, to mend your broken relationship with her. A chance for something real and lasting. Are you sure you’re not interested?”

The herald announces the next round before Tegan can answer. Tegan lines up her shot; this is well beyond the range of her bow. The shot is little better than a crapshoot. The arrow lands short. Tegan growls in frustration.

The freak walks up to the line and readies an arrow. “I’ll throw in one consequence free attempt on my life. That is a way better deal than what most get.” The freak fires, splitting her own arrow from last round.

Tegan growls again. Bitch stole my prize! This will NOT stand!

“Deal.”

Tegan

Tegan finds herself in what appears to be a medieval hallway, leading into a throne room. The big-tittied cow, who has gotten even more disgustingly big-tittied since Tegan last saw her, looks with terror at a blue skinned freak that looks vaguely familiar, for some reason. There is also a bunny-girl that is very inappropriately “dressed” with her cunt and huge hooters out for all to see, nervously laughing, “Come on down, cutie! We’re waiting.”

Tegan stomps into the room, demanding, “What is the meaning of all this! Where are we? Who are you? Why is that cow disgracing that throne with her presence?”

The blue freak snaps her fingers and the dream rushes over her again. Tegan is beyond enraged, “I’LL KILL YOU, FREAK!!!!!!”

The cow and bunny cower, but the freak just smiles. She snaps her fingers again, saying, “Wanting to cash in on your extra little goodie already? Very well. Select your weapon.” The walls of the throne room fill with medieval weapons of every size and shape.

Tegan stomps over to the bows, seeing them unstrung beside quivers of arrows with frankly terrifying arrowheads. She struggles to string the bow. She never has to string one, as it takes machines to string her competition bows.

“Want some help?”

The arrogance! Tegan huffs. The freak waves her hand and the bow strings itself. The archer starts to pull back on the bow. It’s so stiff. What the fuck?

The freak has the gall to give Tegan a clean shot, standing in the middle of the room. “So you know,” the freak declares, “this counts as your free attempt, whether you hit me or not.”

Tegan snarls as she looses the arrow. It’s skids harmlessly to the ground a few feet in front of the freak. “You cheated!”

“You didn’t make a full draw.”

Tegan turns around to grab another arrow and try again. She freezes when she feels cold metal on her neck.

“Trust me, Tegan, you don’t want to do that.” The freak flatly speaks, mere inches from the archer’s ear. The weapons in the room disappears. Tegan finds herself before the cow’s throne, kneeling and embarrassed.

The freak, this Tyalangan, speaks to no one in particular, “The fiancée, folks, isn’t she adorable. Why don’t you introduce yourself so we can move on?”

“No.”

The freak is placing questions in Tegan’s head. She vocalizes, “I’d prefer not to **** you to do that.”

“No.”

The freak sighs, “Very well.”

Tegan feels herself speak, unable to stop, “Hello, I am Tegan Fletcher and I am a member of the U.S. Olympics team as an archery biathlete. I want to win a gold medal at the next Winter Games and am slowly killing myself by how hard I am training for it. My body measurements are 28A-26-29 and my age is 20 years old. The team nutritionists are trying to fight my female athlete triad condition, but I just keep exercising harder as a result. I am a lesbian, but would never admit it. I am proud of being a virgin since I believe that relationships detract from training. The Mistress is the only person I have ever loved, not that I will admit that either.”

Tegan seethes once she’s given free reign over her voice again. She barely notices the cow looking both shocked and happy? “Lies! All of that was lies!”

“I made you speak truths, even though you lie to yourself quite often,” the freak states, “I can magic up the team notes on your health, if you like.”

Tegan stews, then feels herself move to stand along the carpet runner.

The bunny skank quips, “Is this always this dramatic? I hope the next contestant is easier.”

“I hope so, too, my bonny bunny. Next up, our second contestant. Mona had quite the schoolgirl crush on him. They were inseparable, even if he never showed romantic interest in her. When he graduated and got that scholarship to pursue his dream of becoming a doctor, he moved south but they still talk over Strife. Give it up for the Best Friend, Kevin McCallister!”

HIM?!?!?!?