Ripples

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 60 VP - 2300 BP - 1 Achiev
Marissa - 52 VP - 2300 BP - 1 Achiev
Emi - 36 VP - 4750 BP - 1 Achiev
Claire - 32 VP - 6200 BP - 1 Achiev
Sam - 18 VP - 3050 BP - 1 Achiev
Norah - 17 VP - 2550 BP - 1 Achiev
Dawn - 11 VP - 4000 BP
Liesa - 10 VP - 3500 BP
Chloe - 4 VP - 3475 BP

The light in the Master’s Suite was a living thing—curling golden on the tile, dappling the kitchen table with small, honeyed patches that glowed against the white porcelain mugs. Andy still sat at the breakfast counter, Erin perched beside him, her calves tucked up on the stool and her damp hair thrown in a loose, happy mess. She still had that look—the one from last night and this morning, a kind of lazy pride, like a panther who’d just finished a successful hunt.

“Remind me to ask Arabella for more of that toothpaste,” Erin said, licking berry jam off her thumb. “It’s better than sex. Except, you know—”

“Except for actual sex?” Andy grinned.

She raised an eyebrow, a mock-serious glint in her eye. “Except for actual sex with you, yeah. The stuff in the real world barely counts anymore.” She bit into her toast, then added, mouth half full, “Pretty sure you broke me last night.”

He sipped his coffee, hiding the smile. “It was mutual destruction. I’ll need a wheelchair if you keep that up.”

She cackled and nudged his leg under the counter. “Promise?”

The moment spun out, light and easy, a morning routine they’d never managed in real life but somehow fit into like old shoes here. He liked it more than he wanted to admit.

He took a last sip of coffee and checked the clock. “Ten minutes to lobby call,” he said. “You ready?”

“Ready? I was born for this,” she said, draining her mug and slamming it down with a flourish. “Let’s go knock ‘em dead.”

Andy headed for the door, Erin in tow. As they reached the elevator, she caught his wrist, pulling him up short.

She leaned in close, voice low and intimate. “You ever think about how lucky we are? Even with all the weirdness, we get this…” She squeezed his hand, her touch fierce and warm. “I used to think you were too good for me. Maybe you still are. But I’m not letting go this time, Andy.”

He laughed, a little stunned. “You never did. Not really.”

She pressed a kiss to his cheek, then to his mouth, gentle at first and then with a little more bite. When they finally broke apart, she rested her forehead against his, her huge breasts pressed against his chest. “You stare at me any longer and I’ll start leaking again,” she said, deadpan. “Every time you look at me like that, it’s Niagara Falls down there.” She cackled, delighted by his red face. “It’s your fault. And now I’m wearing these thin-ass leggings. You’re not allowed to stop staring, though. Ever.”

He recovered, shook his head, and held the elevator open for her. She strutted in with a little extra swing in her hips, daring him to keep up.

The lobby was empty except for a Mildred vacuuming phantom crumbs from the rug, but Andy knew Claire would be early. She always was—anticipation sharpened her punctuality into a weapon.

And there she was.

She stood at the far end of the lobby, next to the Commissary terminal, hands folded behind her back and tail wrapped neatly around one calf. Her dress was a sage green midi with tiny white flowers, a kind of old-fashioned prettiness that looked almost too delicate for this world. The fabric floated around her legs, not quite hiding the motion of her tail as it twitched. Her cat ears, the same pale blonde as her hair, flicked every time the elevator dinged or a Mildred drifted by.

Andy stopped in his tracks.

Erin whistled, long and low. “Somebody’s going to have to start charging for those looks,” she said.

Claire blinked, then gave an awkward wave. Her tail unspooled and flicked side to side. Andy thought she looked like she wanted to sink into the marble floor, but instead she stood perfectly still, waiting for them to approach.

Andy stepped forward, and as he did, the full effect of her appearance hit him. She’d done her hair up in a short, pert ponytail that made her feline ears stand out even more, just like her normal human ears. The soft, almost luminescent color of her skin, the way her glasses sat perfectly on the bridge of her nose, the little curve of her jaw—all of it combined to make him stop thinking in full sentences.

He only barely registered that she wasn’t holding her notebook, although she had a small bag with her.

“Wow,” he said, because it was all he could think to say.

Claire’s face went pink. She glanced down, then up at him, then at Erin. She reached into the pocket of her dress and produced a folded piece of paper.

Erin made a show of inhaling deeply. “Catgirl, you are working that look. Is that from the Annex, or did you sew it yourself?”

Claire shrugged, then bobbed her head, as if to say “both, maybe neither.” She took a small step forward, then stopped, ears flicking backward nervously.

Erin leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper Andy could barely catch. “Don’t let him mess this up,” she said, grinning. “Today is all about you. Make the most of it.”

She brushed past Claire, squeezing her shoulder as she did. Claire’s ears flattened instantly, and her cheeks went red.

Then, with a conspiratorial glance, Claire handed Erin the folded note. Erin took it, raised an eyebrow, then unfolded it with the solemnity of a diplomat at the UN.

She scanned it, and her eyes grew wide. “Are you for real?” she said.

Claire nodded, emphatic.

Erin’s mouth curled into a sly grin. “You got it, Catgirl.” She tucked the note into her sports bra and made a double salute. “He’s all yours. I’ll go...” She glanced around the empty lobby, then back at Andy. “do literally anything else.”

She left, not in a hurry, but with the unhurried swagger of someone who’d just won a secret contest. Andy stared after her, then at Claire, then back at Erin.

“Should I ask what that was about?” Andy said.

Claire’s lips pressed together. She shook her head, then, with a sudden boldness, reached out and took his hand.

Her touch was light, but insistent. She led him toward the gardens, her steps careful but determined. When they reached the threshold, she stopped and turned to face him, the light from outside making her hair look like a halo and her ears shine at the tips.

She gazed at him, long and unblinking.

He tried to fill the silence. “You look incredible,” he said. “I mean... wow. You always look great, but—”

She held up a finger, cutting him off. Then, with her free hand, she pinched the sleeve of his button-down and tugged, like she was adjusting a doll’s costume.

He let her fuss with it. She straightened his collar, smoothed the front, then stepped back and nodded, as if approving her own work.

She let go of his hand, but only for a moment. Then she took it again, this time interlacing her fingers with his, her tail looping around her own leg like a ribbon.

“Where are we going?” he asked, softly.

She smiled, then tapped her temple.

They walked into the sunlight, hand in hand, Andy feeling more off-balance than he had in years. Not in a bad way—just the opposite. He felt like he’d been reset, all his old coordinates wiped clean, every step a new possibility. He wondered why Claire didn’t bring her notebook, but then he realized that perhaps, to her, the gestures were more intimate, if more limited.

He glanced down at their hands. Her skin was soft, but her grip had strength in it. He wondered what was in that note she’d given Erin, what kind of secret arrangement they’d made. He wondered what else Claire had planned for him.

Mostly, though, he wondered how he’d gotten so lucky.

The garden path ran crooked between tall hibiscus and ancient banana trees, the leaves heavy with dew and the scent of last night’s rain. Claire released his hand and padded ahead of Andy, her shoes making no sound, tail swishing in a slow rhythm as she led him through the labyrinth of green. It was warm, but not stifling—clouds hovered at the lip of the volcano, diffusing the sun into dappled pools on the path.

She didn’t look back to see if he was following. She just trusted that he would.

After a few minutes, she turned, waiting at a fork where the path split: one direction toward the pools and hotel annex, the other into a wilder patch where the stonework dissolved into soft earth. Andy caught up, and Claire pointed, not to either path but to a knot of pale pink berries on a low shrub. Her hand hovered over the fruit, index finger extended, then, after a beat, she picked one and offered it to Andy in her palm.

He took it, holding it up to the light. “Edible?”

She nodded. Then, with the flourish of a stage magician, she drew a battered notebook from her bag—this one different from her usual, thinner, bound in soft grey canvas and bristling with color-coded tabs.

She flipped to a marked page and pointed. There, in careful, looping print, was an entry for “Roseapple, Syzygium jambos.” Next to it, a watercolor of the same fruit he held, annotated with tiny arrows and facts: “floral, slightly sweet,” “contains Vitamin C,” “do not eat seeds, mildly toxic.”

He popped the berry in his mouth, savoring the mild sweetness and the hint of rosewater. “You made your own field guide?” he asked, grinning.

Claire’s tail curled in a slow question mark. She nodded, then mimed a little bow.

They followed the wilder path, Andy letting Claire set the pace. She stopped every so often to pluck a leaf, or run her fingers over bark, or crouch to watch an ant parade on the move. Her silence wasn’t awkward. It was intent—a listening, a measuring, a way of seeing the world on her own terms.

When they reached a sunlit glade, she knelt beside a patch of spiky green. She coaxed a single stem from the dirt, sniffed the root, then wrote in the margin of her notebook: “arrowroot: edible when cooked, but bitter raw.” She tore off a piece, handed it to Andy, and mimed chewing. He tried it, and she wasn’t wrong: the flavor was sharp, almost peppery, but not unpleasant.

She pointed to his mouth, then to her own, fluttering her fingers as if talking, then pointed at the root again.

Andy laughed. “Like biting a pencil dipped in ginger. But better than what we got at summer camp.”

Her ears perked, pleased. She scribbled: “Good, can use in soup later.”

A low, gentle breeze rustled the ferns and palm fronds, and for a while they just sat, watching the shadows paint patterns on the moss. Andy liked it here. He liked the quiet, the filtered gold of the light, the smallness of the world with only him and Claire in it.

He watched her, fascinated by the way she moved. Her gestures were never big or dramatic; she signaled intent with a tilt of her head, a flick of her ears, the smallest twitch of her tail. When she wanted him to see something, she simply pointed, and he found himself wanting to see it, whatever it was.

At the edge of the glade, a footpath sloped up toward the inner ridge, where the ground was rocky and the view widened to a thin ribbon of ocean beyond the trees. Claire stopped and waited, ears forward, to see if he’d follow.

He did, with a little extra bounce in his step. “So, what’s next? Are we hunting for lunch, or is this more of a nature scavenger hunt?”

She held up one finger—wait—and then, with both hands, mimed a rectangle. Camera. She wanted him to look.

He did. All along the ridge, orange and yellow flowers blazed in the sun, but mixed among them were white ghost orchids, their petals weird and ethereal against the blue sky. He wouldn’t have noticed them on his own, not unless he was specifically searching.

She produced a small pair of field glasses—bright yellow—and passed them to him. Andy looked, and at once a black-and-gold bee flashed through the view, landed on one of the ghost orchids, and vanished. The bee, up close, was absurd: huge, with a face like a cartoon villain, but absolutely intent on its mission.

“Carpenter bee?” he guessed, remembering a nature show from years ago.

Claire nodded, the recognition hitting her all at once. She flipped to another page in her notebook and tapped: “Xylocopa: vital pollinator; makes wood tunnels.”

He handed the glasses back, and she slipped them into her dress pocket with a neat click.

She tugged his hand, motioned him to kneel beside her. Then, carefully, she parted the ferns at their feet, revealing a tiny, perfect mushroom ring. It looked manufactured—white, unblemished, so neat it was almost a crop circle.

She wrote: “Mycorrhizal. Not edible.” Then, a second note, smaller: “Superstition: stepping inside the ring means you will be lost in the woods forever.”

Andy grinned. “Should we risk it?”

She rolled her eyes, then, with a quick, defiant motion, stuck the tip of her shoe inside the circle.

He applauded, mock-serious. “You’re very brave.”

She shrugged and took a little bow.

After a while, they wandered back down the trail, Claire pausing to jot observations, Andy mostly just enjoying the fresh air and her company. He realized, gradually, that every step of the walk was planned—not to show off for him, but for her own comfort. She needed the structure, the little waypoints, the predictability. Even her “spontaneity” was written in the margins of her mind.

He loved her for it.

At a low wooden bridge, spanning a trickle of water that called itself a stream, Claire stopped again. She crouched and pointed to a cluster of purple flowers growing in the mud. She wrote: “Woundwort. Can be used for cuts or burns.”

She tore a leaf and pressed it gently to the inside of Andy’s wrist, then wrapped his hand with a spare piece of gauze from her pocket.

He stared at the wrap, then at her. “What are you doing?”

She scribbled: First aid. Just in case. Then, after a pause, she wrote: Always wanted to be the nurse.

He blinked, caught off guard by the rawness of the admission.

She shrugged, a little bashful, then patted the bandage as if sealing a deal.

As they reached the end of the loop, Andy realized they’d circled back to where they started, but the sun was higher, the clouds thinning, the whole garden brighter for it.

He reached for her hand, squeezed it. “You know, your kind of silence is a million times better than most people’s chatter.”

She smiled, small and pleased.

He waited, just in case she wanted to say more, but instead she took a slow, deliberate breath and closed her eyes, face lifted to the sun.

He watched her, feeling the quiet stretch between them. He didn’t want to ruin it, didn’t want to say the wrong thing. So he just stood there, holding her hand, and tried to remember every detail—the warmth of her fingers, the way her ears caught the light, the faint pulse of her tail as it curled around his ankle.

After a minute, she opened her eyes, looked at him. Then, with a sudden, impulsive movement, she pulled him down and kissed him. Not a long kiss, but a real one, her mouth soft and sure against his.

Her ears stood straight up, her tail swished in a delighted flourish, and she pulled back, cheeks flushed.

He grinned, heart thumping. “What was that for?”

She wrote, in a slow, looping script: I can hear you anyway, even when you don’t speak. Then, underneath, smaller: I love how you feel when you look at me.

He read the words twice, then three times, then folded the page over and tucked it into his own pocket. “I feel the same way,” he said.

She linked her arm through his and led him back toward the hotel, the treasure hunt finished, but the day still full of possibility.

They walked in step, Andy matching her pace, neither one in a hurry to reach the end.

Dawn had banished Mildred from the kitchen before nine in the morning.

“Not today, goth mom!” she announced, snapping a checkered bandana over her hair and physically blocking Mildred’s path to the fridge with her hips. “This zone is for human hands only. You have a day off. Go do eldritch things.”

Mildred, ever the professional, gave a dead-eyed smile and surrendered the apron with the ceremonial grace of a condemned queen abdicating her throne. “Try not to burn the place down, sweetie,” she murmured, before floating away, her heels never making a sound on the stone.

Dawn waited exactly three seconds, then fist-pumped and turned the whiteboard around: “DAWN’S MYSTERY BASKET CHALLENGE: 1 Hour, 4 Teams, No Poisoning Allowed.”

Within moments the kitchen hummed with the energy of a hypercaffeinated bee colony. The pantry, already legendarily stocked, had been hit by a shipment of new ingredients overnight: truffle oil, durian, unidentifiable cheeses, at least three varieties of caviar, and a pineapple that looked suspiciously like it had teeth. The fridge was so packed with produce that just opening it threatened a slow-motion fruit avalanche.

She’d made the teams herself, scribbling names on scraps of post-it and drawing them from the glass sugar jar. No swaps allowed—Dawn was the law today.

First up: herself and Norah, who eyed the whiteboard like it had personally offended her and immediately started making spreadsheets on the back of a napkin.

Emi and Liesa, the “experimenters,” as Dawn had privately tagged them, took the far end of the island and immediately started giggling over how many non-standard spices could be hidden in a single omelette.

Sam and Erin, the power duo, squared off in the dead center, already engaged in what looked like an epic cook-off even though neither had touched a pan yet.

Last, but most surprising: Marissa and Chloe, both seemingly out of place, both quietly waiting for a lane to open before daring to step forward. Marissa took up a knife, inspecting the edge, and Chloe immediately set about arranging mise en place with the neat precision of a home economics instructor.

Dawn surveyed her domain. She was in heaven.

The timer on the oven read 00:59:00.

It started out civilized enough. Norah reviewed the ingredient basket and vetoed half the options with a surgical flick of the wrist. “We are not making molecular gastronomy,” she said flatly. “No foam, no spheres, and for the love of god, do not mention ‘deconstruction’ or I will deconstruct you.”

Dawn grinned, unoffended, and pulled a giant plastic tub of eggs out of the fridge. “Omelettes for the win. I’ve got a trick...”

Norah cut her off: “If it involves water, don’t bother. I’m already ahead of you.”

“Yolk,” Dawn countered, “we’re keeping all the yolk. Maximum richness, plus...” she pointed to a caddy of weird local greens, “we can do a chiffonade and wilt it in the residual heat.”

Norah gave a small, grudging nod. “Okay, I respect that.”

Within moments, they had a rhythm. Dawn cracked, Norah whisked; Norah chopped, Dawn sautéed. They moved like two halves of a single mind, no wasted motion, each anticipating what the other would need before the words left her lips. It was the most fun Dawn had had since arriving, and judging by Norah’s subtle smile, maybe for her too.

Two stations over, chaos was in full bloom.

“Wait, wait, what if we put actual flowers in it?” Emi said, already elbow-deep in a bag of candied violets. “That would be so pretty.”

Liesa snorted, brushing flour from her cheek with the back of her wrist. “Let just see if the dough survives first.”

“It will! I measured perfect.” Emi held up a glass bowl, except her measuring lines were drawn on with a marker and clearly not to any kind of scale.

Liesa set to work anyway, rolling out dough with the reckless grace of someone who had seen a lot of pizza made, but never made one herself. Emi, meanwhile, kept adding “just a little more zest,” and “one more splash” of rosewater, until the kitchen island was sticky with sugar and the air smelled like a perfume counter at a mall.

A sudden flare of orange—a dishrag igniting on the stove—punctuated the mayhem. Liesa yelped, snatched it up with tongs, and doused it in the sink. “Am sorry! That is first time I have set fire to anything except my own bangs!”

Emi covered her mouth to stifle a laugh, but ended up sneezing powdered sugar onto her own nose. “Maybe Claire and Andy are having a less dangerous day,” she said, not entirely kidding.

Next door, the Sam-and-Erin show was devolving.

“You are so folding the whites wrong,” Erin said, voice rising. “Don’t you know anything about meringue?”

Sam made a big show of flexing her biceps. “I know I can out-whip you any day. Watch and learn, buttercup.”

Erin scowled. “That’s not how you do it. You’re going to deflate all the air.”

“I have more air in my lungs than you have in your...” Sam stopped, not quite tactful enough to avoid the word “boobs,” but letting it hang.

Erin’s eyes narrowed. “Just because I’m not trying to get everyone to stare at them does not mean—oh my god, you’re doing it again.”

Sam grinned, unapologetic. “If you got it, flaunt it. It’s not a crime.” She scooped a glob of batter, flicked it at Erin, who ducked and retaliated with a hard whack of a wooden spoon across Sam’s arm.

“Truce or ****,” Sam said, holding out a pinkie.

“****,” Erin shot back, but linked fingers anyway.

They got back to work, but the air between them was electric—a mix of old rivalry and something more. Every time Sam tried to take over, Erin pushed back. Every time Erin bossed Sam, Sam just laughed harder. It was a wonder anything got made at all.

At the far end of the kitchen, Marissa and Chloe worked in near silence.

Marissa’s movements were exact, every slice of the knife identical, every piece of fruit cut to an almost molecular precision. She handled the stove like it was a bomb about to go off, checking the heat with the palm of her hand, adjusting the pan angles by infinitesimal degrees.

Chloe, for her part, floated from task to task, arranging plates, pouring glasses of juice, and prepping everything for Marissa so that she never had to look away from her work. It was ballet, but neither one of them seemed to know they were dancing.

After a few minutes, Chloe set a small white ramekin on the counter, then disappeared. Marissa found it, opened it, and found a perfectly fanned array of peeled orange segments inside, each one garnished with a sprinkle of dried mint.

She looked up, found Chloe standing a few feet away, watching her with a hopeful, anxious smile. Marissa felt her heart squeeze in a way she’d forgotten was possible.

“Thank you,” she said, voice soft.

Chloe flushed, then nodded, and set about quietly wiping down the counter.

At forty minutes, things started to unravel.

Emi and Liesa’s dough had not risen, but it had somehow doubled in surface area. Liesa tried to use the oven’s warming function as an incubator, which resulted in a yeast explosion that decorated the entire front of the oven with a sticky, oozing pattern.

Sam and Erin’s “fluffy egg whites” had achieved the consistency of wet sand, but neither was willing to admit defeat. Instead, they got louder, each claiming that the flavor would save it, even if the texture was a war crime.

Norah and Dawn had already completed their omelette, cleaned their station, and moved on to plating, but then Norah decided to do a “reverse sear” on the herbs, and set off a small but impressively smoky fireball that made the smoke alarms in the main lobby start to beep.

Chloe fixed the alarms before Mildred could even show up to complain, then set out a line of wine glasses—one for each team, perfectly arranged.

It was at this point that Sam and Erin’s tension hit boiling.

“You’re not folding it, you’re just… stirring! You’re ruining it!” Erin snapped, her hands clenched around the bowl.

Sam, never one to back down, leaned in. “I am improvising! Like real chefs do. Maybe if you let go for five seconds, you’d learn to have fun with it.”

“Maybe if you ever listened...” Erin started, but was cut off by a sharp voice from the end of the line.

“Stop,” said Chloe, calm and clear.

Erin and Sam froze. Even Emi and Liesa went quiet.

Chloe stepped forward, eyes huge but steady. “You know, the best dishes come from trusting your partner, not controlling them. That’s why people do it together. Even if it’s weird, or even if you mess up.” She turned, eyes softening. “You’re good at a lot of things, Erin. But Sam’s good, too. You both want it to be perfect, but it’ll taste better if you make it together.”

Erin blinked, mouth opening, closing, then, after a second, she passed the bowl to Sam.

Sam grinned, a little sheepish. “Thanks, Chloe. I was about to add Sriracha, and you might have never forgiven me.”

Erin laughed, and suddenly the tension was gone, replaced with the strange, giddy lightness that only comes from a near-catastrophe averted.

Marissa, who’d watched the whole exchange, caught Chloe’s eye and gave her a tiny, respectful nod.

The challenge wrapped with a flurry of frantic plating, last-minute “chef’s kisses,” and frantic scrubbing of every surface before the time hit zero.

Dawn lined everyone up at the kitchen’s counter-height table. “Rules: one fork, one spoon, one vote per person, no judging unless you’re prepared to eat seconds.”

She went first, serving her and Norah’s “Triple Yolk Herb Omelette” with a side of pickled radish and a micro-salad. It was, frankly, incredible—custardy, savory, and balanced. Norah tried to explain her herb technique, but Dawn just beamed and told everyone to try it.

Next, Emi and Liesa. Their offering was a “Floral Fantasia Sweet Bread,” ring-shaped and studded with what looked like a full cup of edible glitter. It tasted like a child’s birthday party but was, against all odds, genuinely delicious. Liesa insisted the flavor was “all Emi,” but Emi pointed at the perfect browning on the crust and said it was Liesa’s bake that made it.

Sam and Erin’s dish was… well, it was eggs. A frittata, allegedly. It looked like an archaeological dig site, but the flavor was punchy—smoky cheese, a surprising note of caramelized onion, and a bracing hit of hot sauce. “I told you it’d be better with more kick,” Sam said, and Erin, with a rare humility, shrugged and agreed.

Last came Marissa and Chloe’s “Garden Citrus Parfait”—layers of soft cheese, candied peel, and segments of fruit, finished with a crunchy crumble and fresh mint. It was the sleeper hit of the challenge. Nobody said anything for a few seconds after tasting it, not even Dawn, who was usually the first to crack a joke.

When the last bite was gone, the air hung heavy with the sense that everyone was, just for a minute, completely happy.

Then Emi ruined it, in the best way possible: she stood up, flour still stuck to her elbow, and clapped her hands.

“You guys. Andy and Claire are probably having a picnic in the gardens. You think they’ll ever come back, or just stay out there forever?”

Everyone laughed, even Norah. Liesa leaned back, head thrown to the ceiling. “Is maybe better for them,” she said. “Less chance of fire.”

The kitchen dissolved into loud, bright chatter, every voice overlapping but somehow none of it discordant.

Dawn felt herself grinning so wide her cheeks hurt. She caught Norah’s eye, and, just for a second, both of them were eight years old again, giddy at having pulled off something impossible.

In the lull that followed, Marissa set her fork down and looked around the table. “You know,” she said, “we should do this more often.”

Chloe nodded, and, surprising everyone, reached out and took Marissa’s hand. “We should,” she said, her voice small but certain.

Sam raised her glass—juice, but it could have been anything—and said, “To the kitchen crew. May we never let a robot cook for us again.”

Everyone clinked, Emi accidentally knocked over her glass, and Liesa caught it before it spilled.

For a long moment, they just sat, eating what was left, not worrying about anything outside the bright, sticky, glorious chaos of the kitchen.

The last words of the day belonged to Emi, who was already plotting her next experiment.

“Tomorrow,” she declared, “we make soufflés.”

Everyone groaned, but Dawn already knew she’d be there, first in line.