Joan Part 2

Alan woke in the mid-afternoon to Sky tossing a shirt at his face.

“Huh?” Alan croaked, catching it on reflex.

“Joan got ready half an hour ago,” Sky said, shrugging, “but we had a crisis.”

Alan sat up, blinking grit out of his eyes. “What happened?”

Sky sighed like a woman **** to live inside other people’s bad decisions. “This bridal shower has become more chaotic than I expected.”

“Bridal shower,” Alan repeated, suspicious.

Sky waved a hand. “Bachelorette. Surprise party. Apocalypse. Pick one.”

Alan rubbed his temples. “Okay. What happened?”

“Laurel was leading the Mary Stuart cheer team to support a Tyrannosaurus rex while she fought Augmented Synthetic Humanoid Assassin,” Sky said. “There will be a crossover for the regular viewers.”

“Viewers?” Alan frowned.

“Yeah, we have more than one,” Sky smirked. “Also, you did not shower.”

“It’s been a hell of a week,” Alan muttered, swinging his legs off the bed.

Sky stared at him. “That’s not a hygiene category. Also, it hasn't been that bad by Harem Hotel standards."

Alan pointed the shirt at her. “Can you give me the short version where I’m allowed to be a person?”

“No one’s been lost in the dungeons,” Sky said, counting on her fingers. “You haven’t **** anyone. No one’s tried to physically defeat Ariadne in combat. We haven’t maimed anyone for a rules violation. Your season’s been pretty sedate, compared to my favorites.”

She paused, and the smirk cracked into something uglier.

“God,” Sky said quietly, “I hate it here.”

Alan hesitated. “Can you leave? I mean—seriously. What is your place here?”

Sky rolled her eyes like the answer was embarrassing.

“I was an athletics coach at the cursed boarding school Ariadne was managing,” she said. “I followed her back to keep her out of trouble when she agreed to host. I voted we grab Laurel and bolt to Tess’s mom instead of trying to wake her through proper channels, but Ariadne had a plan.”

“Of course she did,” Alan murmured.

He got dressed in front of Sky and decided not to care about modesty anymore. The hotel had already seen everything it wanted to see. When he finished, Sky led him outside.

The lawn looked like someone had tried to stage three different shows at once and refused to choose.

A blue centaur with too many eyes was locked in combat with half a dozen catgirls. In the distance, Ariadne—full Crawler—appeared to be performing a concert while Laurel and Tess acted as backup dancers. Nearby, the local "dogs" were packing away heavy weapons Alan recognized from Laurel’s cheerful tour of the firing range.

Every detail begged a question.

Alan clamped down on his curiosity. He had learned to triage his attention. And all signs pointed to Joan being far more invested in this date than any of the others had been.

Sky guided him to an odd niche in the library—half alcove, half stage set—and then vanished without warning.

Joan was waiting.

Both of her bodies were dressed identically: black dress, black jacket, shoes Alan suspected were designed by an enemy. She wore an anxious smile like she’d practiced it in a mirror until it became a mask.

“So,” Alan said, careful and warm, “we haven’t talked much.”

“Yep,” Joan said from Chloe’s mouth.

Then she took a breath and seemed to decide subtlety was a trap.

“Fuck it. I got you a sword.”

She lifted a stack of manga off the table to reveal a katana.

“Laurel helped pick it out,” Joan added quickly, as if Laurel being involved made it more normal.

Alan went very still. He tried to find the correct emotional response, the one that wouldn’t make Joan implode.

“Thank you?” he managed.

Joan started rambling immediately, like she could drown the awkwardness in words.

“I was thinking about what boys liked, and—well—swords.” She gestured helplessly at the katana. “I remember reading that Sarah Michelle Gellar got one for her husband as a wedding present. Like, what was I supposed to do? I don’t even know if you like trans girls, and I’m not even sure if I count as one, and—fuck—I knew I should’ve just been naked.”

“That might have been less awkward,” Alan said.

He realized, with a small chill, that it wasn’t a joke.

Joan stared at him like he’d confirmed her worst theory.

Alan cleared his throat. “So. What’s the grand plan?”

Joan’s two faces made eye contact with each other, as if silently voting.

“Dinner and a movie,” Joan said.

“Chloe said you hadn’t seen it,” Joan continued, “and that it was the worst possible date movie.”

“That’s a compliment,” Alan said, nodding. “She told you it was a compliment, right?”

“She implied it,” Joan said grimly.

She led Alan to the chairs—plural in name only. Before he could ask, Joan slid in beside him and then, with the **** confidence of someone committing to a bad idea, arranged both bodies so that Alan became the furniture.

Alan found himself with a petite blonde and a doppelgänger of Chloe on his lap before he fully processed that Joan had decided they were sharing a chair.

The computers lit up when Joan clapped her blonde hands once. The screen flickered. A movie started.

“What movie is this, exactly?” Alan asked, trying not to sound like he was being crushed by two anxious people.

Joan flashed a smile that was half bravado, half plea.

“Teeth,” she said.

Alan paused. “Oh.”

Joan leaned closer, voice bright with **** confidence.

“Just think of it as a commercial for the comparative safety of dating a trans girlfriend,” she said. “Okay?”

Alan went quiet and tried to pay attention to the movie.