Robin Shepherd

“You can’t be serious!”

Those words echoed through the waiting room as yet another applicant walked in, this one tall and lithe with bright pink skin, though otherwise fairly human-like, she had stopped dead in her tracks to stare at the bizarre gathering inside.

The room was packed with creatures of every conceivable—and inconceivable—shape, size, and color. Vaguely humanoid figures sat with arms crossed by the coffee table; lanky insectoids huddled in hushed conversation; a squat mass of tentacles tapped nervously against the floor. In the far corner, two eldritch horrors were mid-chat by the water cooler, one possessing far more eyes than could physically fit in the room's geometry, while the other had none at all.

She looked from one prospective producer to the next, her expression shifting from disbelief to pure exasperation before she finally turned to the figure beside her: a tall humanoid with skin that shimmered like a slow-moving lava lamp.

“So… is this it?” she asked. When met with a quiet shrug, she clarified, “The selection process, I mean?”

The glowing figure merely shrugged again, turning back to scan the crowd.

Before she could press further, the lights flickered. A voice suddenly boomed through the space, emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was smooth, authoritative, and uncomfortably jovial.

“Welcome, everyone. You have all been selected as the Junior producers for this season of Harem Hotel.”

The room went dead silent.

“Junior producers?!”

The chorus of disbelief was unanimous.

“Due to a massive backlog of applicants,” the voice continued blithely, “Management has decided that rather than making you wait individually for an opening, you will be merged into a single collaborative production committee. The senior producers upstairs have expressed considerable enthusiasm for this arrangement.”

A beat of stunned silence followed.

“And I thought the Masquerade season had too many producers,” someone muttered from the crowd.

A wave of low agreement and bitter chuckles rippled through the room.

“Your directive is simple,” the voice announced, “Construct a season featuring a human master, and make it entertaining. You have one week to iron out the details. Best of luck~”

A collective groan erupted.

“A human-centric season?” a candidate complained, throwing their arms up. “Seriously? Humans are so oversaturated!”

“Agreed,” another chimed in. “There are thousands of species with actual narrative potential. I was hoping my debut would feature something a bit more dynamic.”

“And independent,” added a third. “Why waste a whole production committee on humans when we could have built something wonderfully niche?”

The room descended into a chorus of disgruntled murmurs and increasingly elaborate rants about the creative limitations of humanity.

The newcomer crossed her arms tightly. “Exactly! I didn't grind through the application process just to get shoved into a generic human season with fifty other producers!”

Arguments flared in every corner. Some wanted to petition to scrap the premise entirely, while others debated which species would have been optimal for yielding better ratings. One particularly enthusiastic creature had already unrolled a glowing projector to pitch their pre-prepared presentation on why sentient fungal colonies were criminally underrepresented in modern media.

“Enough.”

The voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a sharp, cut-glass edge that brought the entire room to an immediate halt.

Floating above the crowd was a small, human-like critter equipped with leathery bat wings and long rabbit ears. They glared down at the group, arms folded. “Regardless of what we wanted, we’re stuck with this setup. We either suck it up and make it work, or we walk out that door and forfeit the biggest opportunity of our careers.”

A begrudging wave of nods and muttered resignations followed.

A floaty, translucent entity drifted forward, its form resembling that of a burlap sack. “Fine then. First things first, Humans generally lean toward a binary setup. Which template is the collective favoring for the season's master?”

“I heard male leads pull the highest raw viewer volume,” a voice called out.

“Which means female leads are in higher demand for novelty!” another shot back.

“I honestly can’t tell the difference,” a third admitted from the back.

“We should stick to a male lead; I’d actually like to keep this job.”

“No, we need a female lead to avoid looking completely generic.”

“Why not forgo a master altogether?”

“They literally *just* said we have to have one” someone hissed back, prompting a rumble of consensus.

“What about a genderless lead?”

“The audience likes the anatomy too much!”

“How about someone with both at once?”

“How about both, but at different times?”

A sudden, curious choir of “Ooooo” echoed across the room as the crowd turned toward the source of the suggestion.

The voice was, quite literally, a voice. It existed as a visible, well… voice, in the air, pulsing as it spoke.

“I read an archival report once,” the voice explained, hovering slightly higher. “Some humans don't stick to a single sex—socially, at least. They present as one or the other depending on how they feel. Biologically, they’re usually stuck one way, but… well, that’s nothing a little transformation can’t fix, right?”

A beat of silence hung in the air as the committee digested the idea.

“That… actually somewhat works.”

“It’s been done, sure, but usually as a late-season gimmick.”

“Doing it right from the premiere?” The glowing lava-lamp creature grinned. “Could be interesting.”

“Count me in,” Another voice chimed in.

“Sounds good!”

A definitive wave of agreement swept through the room. For the first time all day, the committee had a vision.

Some time later, the chaotic crowd had organized itself into neat, semi-orderly rows arranged around a massive, polished holographic table.

At the head of the room stood a tall, avian entity wrapped in an impeccably tailored suit jacket. Adjusting a set of spectacles over four glowing eyes, he tapped a stylus against the table, and brought up a flickering dossier.

“Now, after careful multiversal filtering, we are finally down to our ideal candidate,” the Junior producer declared, his voice echoing with theatrical importance. “Final check that we all agree on the selected master Robin Shepherd—or ‘Mastress,’ as ▖┓┫▚┣ ▞ ▛▄ humorously coined earlier.”

A wave of appreciative chuckles and a cheer of agreement roared throughout the room.

“And it is unanimously agreed that upon arrival, they shall be provided with this specific transformation,” the avian continued, expanding a glowing panel of text for everyone to read:

Binary Toggle: Robin has lived their whole life wishing they could appear more masculine or more feminine, yet was restrained by their primitive biology. This transformation grants them an adaptable physique capable of fulfilling those desires at will.

Another series of enthusiastic cheers swept through the committee.

“Excellent,” the avian beamed, sweeping a feathered hand across the holographic interface. “Next order of business: does everyone agree upon the roster selected for Robin’s harem?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” an annoyed, rasping voice cut in from the third row.

A rock-skinned creature was aggressively tapping a heavy finger against its armrest, staring up at the clock on the wall. “We’ve been going over this crap all week! We have the host, the venue, the cast, and the staff all sorted. We need to get on with this—there’s only an hour until the broadcast deadline!”

A collective, sharp gasp rippled through the room.

“An hour?!” the lava-lamp humanoid squawked, its shimmering skin turning a panicked, fiery red.

“Wait, wait, wait!” the translucent sack entity fluttered wildly. “How are we supposed to get this done on time?! Nobody has written a single script!”

Chaos erupted instantly.

“Who was in charge of character arcs? Was that Pod Three? Pod Three, did you write the dialogue?!”

“Forget the dialogue, we haven't even pulled the cast from their home dimensions yet!”

Five Junior producers bolted from their seats at once, knocking over chairs as they sprinted toward the portal bay. “We’ll grab the contestants! You guys get to writing”

As the doors slammed shut behind them, the remaining Junior producers huddled around the flickering main monitor in panic.

“What are we going to do without a script?!” the bat-winged critter yelled, hovering frantically over the console. “Management will tear us apart if we air dead air!”

The voice pulsed violently, its tone rising to a more desperate pitch.

“We don't have a choice!” it shouted above the noise. “Screw the script, we're just going to have to improvise!”

“Alright, Robin, see you tomorrow!” Zoe called out from behind the counter, tossing a towel over her shoulder to wipe down the sticky soda fountain.

“Catch ya later, Zo!” Robin shouted back, pushing through the glass door of Uncle Guido’s Pizza Parlor.

The night air immediately hit them with a chilly, damp slap. Rain drizzled down from a pitch-black sky, blurring the neon city lights into smears of warm orange and red across the slick asphalt. Robin pulled the hood of their jacket up, popped in a pair of earbuds, and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

A gentle lo-fi beat kicked in, washing over the ambient hum of city traffic.

Robin took a deep breath of the damp air, sure, working fast food at a neighbourhood pizza joint wasn't exactly high glamour, but it paid the bills, kept a roof over their head, and left enough cash for the occasional night out. They were doing alright for themselves. A small shared apartment, a reliable routine, no major drama.

They were twenty-five years old, five-foot-eight, good-looking, and had their whole future ahead of them. Being single was hardly a problem; Robin had never been in much of a rush. There was still plenty of time for the right opportunity—or the right person—to come along. Whatever happened, they figured it would happen when the timing was right.

For now, Robin was content to simply enjoy where life had taken them.

At that moment, a bright flash of bright yellow headlights caught Robin's eye from across the road.

Actually, on second thought Robin wasn’t particularly fond of where life might *not* be taking them if they don't kick into gear right now.

The 11:45 bus was 10 minutes early.

If they missed this one, they’d be waiting forty-five minutes in the freezing drizzle.

"Hey! Wait! Hold on!" Robin broke into a brisk jog, waving an arm frantically to catch the driver's eye, as they sprinted towards the crosswalk.

The bus slowed to a squealing halt just across the street, lights blinking. Robin sprinted through the crosswalk and up to the loading curb, trying not to keep the driver waiting.

"Thanks, man, appreciate it!" Robin puffed, stepping up through the folding bus doors and immediately bending over, hands on their knees to catch their breath.

With their head down, they reached into their jacket pocket to pull out their transit card—

WOOSH.

A sickening wave of nausea washed over them. Their stomach lurched as if the floor had completely dropped out from beneath their feet. The ambient smell of exhaust fumes and damp leather seats instantly vanished, replaced by the scent of lavender and fresh linen. The soft rumble of the diesel engine dissolved into a strange, humming silence.

The dim lights of the bus vanished, replaced by a white, blinding glow, reflected off the polished marble tiles beneath Robin's sneakers.

Before they could even straighten up to figure out what kind of stroke they were currently having, a loud, unnaturally cheerful voice boomed from every direction at once:

“Welcome to Harem Hotel; your host will be with you shortly!”