The Gathering of Mirrors, Epilogue

Andy made the walk to the Master’s Suite through a hush so total it swallowed his footsteps, the moon already high and a bright, implacable white. The elevator ride up the side of the volcano was blessedly slow, the silence making him feel as if the world had slipped asway. Every nerve in his body was ringing, but in a way that felt less like adrenaline and more like the aftermath of an earthquake—the world had shaken itself loose, and now all that was left was the counting of the cracks.

He entered the Suite on autopilot, not even bothering to turn on the overheads. The space was lit by the lamps scattered through the lounge, their bulbs set to the lowest possible glow. The ocean was a black mirror beyond the glass, reflecting just enough starlight to suggest infinity. Andy kicked off his shoes in the foyer, then made his way to the couch, collapsing onto it with all the grace of a felled tree. He didn’t move for a full minute. Just sat, slack-limbed, staring at the ceiling and letting the soft hiss of the ventilation system work its way into his bones.

He didn’t want to think about what came next. Judging. Rankings. The knowledge that, by noon tomorrow, one of the women would be eliminated, their life rewritten, their body and mind transformed for the entertainment of a faceless Audience. As in a dream, he vaguely remembered someone mentioned a girl turned into a sentient coffee table. He would have to look them in the eye and pretend that any of this made sense. He tried to tell himself had to play along, but the hollowness in his chest said otherwise.

He ran his hands through his hair, and just sat there, breathing, feeling the ache in his ribs settle into a slow, steady pulse.

A shift in the air. The faintest movement out of the corner of his eye.

Andy looked up, and there she was. Katherine.

She had moved since this morning, when he’d last noticed her. The painting hung above the fireplace, and she was reclining against the edge of the canvas, on the forefront of her impossible, sunlit meadow. Facing frontally, as she was **** to do, arms crossed beneath her enormous breasts, hair that was a dark sheet pooling behind her, the highlights catching the light from the lamps and turning them gold. Even now, after over a week in this place, Andy couldn’t get used to the way the painting lived.

Tonight, her eyes followed him as he sank deeper into the couch. When he let his head drop to the side, her gaze held his, steady and unblinking.

He considered saying nothing, just letting her watch him in his private misery, but the urge to be witnessed—to be understood, even by a woman who couldn’t speak or touch—was too strong.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a sandpaper rasp. “I survived. That’s… something.”

Katherine adjusted her position slightly, but the corner of her mouth curled in a way that could have been a smile, or maybe just a trick of the brushwork.

Andy exhaled. “I know you can’t talk back, but I’m going to ramble anyway, if that’s okay. I can’t decide if I feel like a god or the world’s biggest asshole.” He flexed his fingers, staring at the way the veins stood out. “They were so brave, tonight. All of them. I don’t know how I’m supposed to look at them tomorrow and decide who’s worth keeping around and who’s not. I don’t even know what the rules are, half the time.”

Katherine adjusted her pose, a movement so subtle it was almost an afterimage—her shoulders relaxing, her chin tilting in a gesture that was equal parts “listening” and “I know.” She lifted her free hand, palm facing up, then lowered it in a gentle patting motion. Andy interpreted this as: Settle down. You’re not alone.

He laughed, but it was just air. “I keep waiting for someone to tell me it’s all a joke. Or a dream. But I know it’s not. You wouldn’t be here, if it was.”

She straightened, and for a second he could have sworn he saw tears in her eyes. She straightened herself, set her feet flat on the ground, knees wide apart, hands resting on her hips.

He stared at her, at the impossible realism of her skin, the way the brushstrokes rendered every freckle, every shadow under her eyes, every tiny indentation of her collarbone.

Andy looked away, embarrassed to feel the heat rising in his own face. “The bodypaint challenge,” he said, “was a lot harder than I thought it’d be.” He waited for her to react, then added, “I mean that literally and… you know, the other way, too.” He was talking too much. He always did, when he was nervous.

Katherine didn’t smirk, but there was a mischief in her eyes. She shifted again, stretching her arms over her head, arching her back so that the swell of her breasts rose higher, nipples catching the light and casting small, perfect shadows on the painted belly below. She held the pose for a beat, then let her arms fall, her hands settling delicately on her belly.

Andy felt the aftereffects of the arousal paint, the way his body tensed and warmed, and the guilt that followed. He knew she was stuck in the frame, could never leave, could never be touched. And yet, every time he looked at her, he wondered what it would be like if she could.

He stood, crossing the room. He stopped a foot from the painting. He placed his palm flat against the frame, then slid it up until it hovered near her painted hand.

She responded by splaying her fingers wide, reaching as far as she could toward the edge of the canvas. For a moment, it almost looked like their hands were about to touch, if only the glass would yield.

“I wish I could help you,” he said, voice dropping. “I wish I could do something. For you, for them, for anyone.”

Katherine bowed her head, just slightly, a gesture that could have been sorrow or gratitude. Then she leaned forward, her face almost breaking the boundary between painting and world, her lips parted as if she might try to speak.

Andy didn’t dare move, afraid that if he blinked she would vanish.

“I’m going to have to hurt someone, tomorrow,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

She looked up, straight into his eyes, and in that stare he read a thousand words. He’d never been good at interpreting body language, but in this moment, it was as clear as speech: You can. Because you care enough to hate it.

He stayed there, hand against the glass, for a long time.

At last, she settled back against the edge of the canvas. But she kept her eyes on him, a silent promise that whatever happened, she would be here, waiting, ready to listen.

Andy returned to the couch, collapsing with less drama but more fatigue. He stared at the ceiling, then at the painting, then at the black ocean. He didn’t feel any better, not really. But he felt less alone.

He must have dozed off, because when the buzzer sounded, Andy jerked upright, heart banging against his ribs as if he'd been caught trespassing in his own home. The lounge lights had dimmed further, and the ocean was now a wall of darkness pressed tight to the windows.

He blinked, checked the time on the kitchen clock. Past midnight. For a split second he wondered if this was some kind of elimination night after all—if Arabella would sweep in, drop a new rule, drag someone from their bed and rewrite the story while he sat helpless.

He stood, wincing at the stiffness in his neck, and padded barefoot to the elevator door. There was no peephole—no need, in this place—so he just watched it open with a silent whoosh, expecting Sam, or Claire, or Liesa, or maybe Erin.

But Arabella was there, arms folded, leaning against the frame like a woman trying not to fall asleep on her feet. It was eerily similar to the position Katherine had assumed earlier. The golden gown was draped more loosely, almost rumpled at the shoulder. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, the ends slightly wavy, a single strand escaping to rest along her cheek. She wore no jewelry, no makeup. Just Arabella, stripped down to the chassis.

For the first time, Andy saw something that looked like genuine fatigue behind her eyes.

“Sorry to drop by unannounced, Andy,” she said. Her voice was lower than usual, not the Host’s clarion but something softer, as if it might actually crack if pushed too hard. “I know it’s late.”

Andy stepped aside, inviting her in with a gesture. “If you’d called first, I would have pretended I was out.”

A weak smile. She entered, taking measured steps to the couch, lowering herself with care. “I see you survived the first challenge,” she said.

“Physically,” Andy replied, closing the door. “Mentally, I’m… not so sure.”

She nodded, fingers tracing the edge of a throw pillow but not gripping it. “It’s a lot, I know. For you and for them. Tomorrow will be harder.”

He didn’t sit right away, but hovered in the kitchen area, buying himself a few seconds to recalibrate. This was not the Arabella he knew—the woman of perfect posture and predatory calm. This was someone in the aftermath, raw edges showing.

He filled a kettle, put it on the stove. “I’m guessing this isn’t a social visit,” he said, watching the water collect and swirl.

Arabella sighed, letting her head rest against the back of the couch. “Not strictly, no. I wanted to check on you before the scoring tomorrow. Some Masters… don’t handle the first elimination well.”

He turned, arms crossed, studying her profile. “You think I’ll flake out?”

She considered, then shook her head. “I don’t think you’ll quit. But I think you’ll blame yourself for what happens to the one who loses. And you shouldn’t. The rules are the rules. The Audience’s vote will weigh as much as yours. You can’t save everyone, Andy.”

He let the words hang. He hated how true they were, and how much they sounded like something Laura would have said to him, once. And something he was told at Laura’s funeral.

The kettle began to steam, and he took two mugs down from the shelf. “Want some tea?” he asked, not sure if it was allowed, or even possible, for the Host to accept hospitality.

Arabella blinked, as if the question startled her. “I would like that, actually.”

He made the tea in silence, letting the ritual fill the air: bags in, pour, steep, set the mugs on the table. He brought them over, slid one toward her. Arabella wrapped both hands around it, inhaling the steam with closed eyes.

Andy sat at the other end of the couch, a comfortable distance apart. The only sound was the ocean, and the faint rattle of the spoon against his mug.

After a while, he said, “You look tired.” Then, realizing how it sounded, added, “I mean—not in a bad way. Just… less Host, more human.”

Arabella’s lips quirked. “It’s not an insult,” she said. “I am tired. This is my three thousand seven hundredth season on Earth. It was easy, at first. I even accepted a contract extension. The Producers say we’re not supposed to care, and most don’t.”

He nodded, sipping the tea. “I used to tell myself the same thing. That work was just work. That if I didn’t care, I wouldn’t get hurt.”

She eyed him, a small spark returning to her face. “Did it work?”

He smiled, crooked. “Not even a little.”

She laughed, the sound a little rough. “Good. I was different once, but now I think it’s better, in the end, to care. Even when it hurts.”

He thought of the women tonight—their bodies painted with all their wounds and hopes, every curve and mark a map of who they wanted to be. He remembered the moment when he had to touch them, and how it felt less like privilege and more like responsibility.

Arabella set her mug down, and for a long time just stared at her hands. Then she leaned back, letting her head fall against the cushion, her neck exposed and the thin line of a vein visible just under the skin.

“I wasn’t always like this,” she said, eyes on the ceiling. “I used to be… more like them. The other Hosts. I enjoyed the game, and found joy when Contestants came to terms with their transformations. I did not mind what happened, after they left. You know, we are told not to look, after. Not to follow their lives when they return. Too much baggage to process. Many of us aren’t equipped.”

Andy was struck by the nakedness of it, the way she’d dropped the Host mask completely. He wanted to reach out, to offer her a hand, but didn’t know if it would be allowed.

So he asked instead: “Why do you do it, then? Why keep going?”

Arabella considered, then smiled, more gently than before. “Because every once in a while, someone like you comes along. Someone who makes the show worth the cost. Someone who can create something beautiful from that price.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded, letting the moment hang.

She glanced at him, the green of her eyes almost luminous in the low light. “You should get some sleep, Andy. Tomorrow will be hard.”

He yawned, unbidden. “Yeah. I guess it will.”

Arabella stood, smoothing her dress with a practiced sweep of her hands. The exhaustion was still there, but it had softened, replaced by something warmer, more alive.

“You know what helps?” she said, a lilt returning to her voice. “Sleep, and sex. Both in proper measure.”

He blinked, the suggestion catching him off guard.

Arabella grinned, mischievous. “You’d be amazed how few Masters understand the balance.”

He turned to the kitchen, rinsing the teakettle, and said, “You ever get lonely? I mean, when the show’s not running? You don’t have a… someone?”

He expected her to deflect, or to respond with a line about Hosts being above such things.

Instead, there was only silence.

Andy turned around.

Arabella was standing now, but not in front of the couch. She was in the middle of the lounge, facing him, her hands at her sides. Her gown was gone—simply gone, as if it had never existed. She stood naked in the soft lamp light, her body impossibly perfect and yet very, very real. Not a model, not a myth. Just a woman, stripped bare of everything but skin and breath and the trembling line of her mouth.

Her breasts were full, natural, tipped with pale pink. Her stomach was flat but not unreal, her hips wide and soft, her legs long and muscular, the curve of her mound visible in the indirect light. Her arms hung loose, not posed, and her hands flexed and unflexed as if she wasn’t sure what to do with them. There were faint marks at her collarbone, as if she’d been gripped there once. A small scar at her left hip, the kind that comes from living, not surgery.

She looked at him with eyes that had none of the Host’s confidence. Just a naked need to be something other than what she was.

Andy stared. His mouth opened, closed. His brain couldn’t decide if this was the world’s most elaborate joke, or some kind of breakdown in the simulation.

Arabella took a step closer. She shook her head, hair falling over her breast. “I never do this,” she said, her voice a thread. “Never. Not in all my years.”

He swallowed. “You… want to…”

Arabella laughed again, softer. “Not that. Not just that.” She looked away, arms folding over her body, her hands digging into her own skin. “I had a difficult week, and there is more to come. Things to do, preparations to make, beyond my normal responsibilities. I needed… I needed to not be alone, just for a little while.” She glanced up, and for the first time since he’d known her, Andy saw real fear behind her mask.

He moved without thinking, crossing the room. He stopped a foot away, unsure if he should touch her, or if this was some kind of test. “I can make another cup,” he said, voice gentle. “Or we can just… sit.”

Arabella hesitated, then reached out, fingers brushing his arm. “Is it so strange, Andy? To want comfort?”

He shook his head. “Not strange at all.”

She looked down, then back up. Her mouth curled into the smallest of smiles. “You know, you’re supposed to see me as the villain. The all-powerful Host, here to torment you and your harem. That’s what they want. That’s what most Hosts lean into.”

Andy said, “Maybe you are. But even the villain gets tired.”

She let out a breath, as if she’d been holding it forever. “Thank you,” she said. Then, “Would you… just hold me? For a little while?”

He nodded, his own voice barely audible. “Yeah. Of course.”

She stepped in, chest to chest, arms curling around his back. He held her, gently, letting her head rest against his shoulder, the scent of her hair faint and clean. She trembled, once, then stilled.

They stood like that for a long time. The world outside the glass walls could have ended, and Andy wouldn’t have noticed.

At length, she pulled away, wiping her cheek with the heel of her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.”

He smiled. “Maybe it’s better this way.”

Arabella stared at him, searching his face for something. Then she stepped back, wrapping her arms around her own body, suddenly shy. “Do you want me to put something on?” she asked, as if she’d just realized she was naked.

Andy shook his head. “You look fine. Better than fine. But if you’re cold…”

She smiled, a little less haunted. “Maybe just a blanket. For now.”

He led her to the bedroom, pulled the comforter down, let her slip under it first. She watched him, green eyes luminous, as he lay down beside her, fully clothed. For a minute, they just lay there, side by side, her warmth bleeding through the sheets.

Arabella curled into him, her head on his chest, hair fanning out across his shirt. She was smaller than he’d expected—delicate, almost, when you took away the gowns and the Host voice.

Andy put his arm around her, careful not to grip too hard, and just breathed.

In the darkness, Arabella spoke. “You’re a good man, Andy Cooper.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t know how.

After a while, he realized she was asleep, or pretending to be. He stared at the ceiling, heart thumping, one hand idly stroking the soft line of her back. He couldn’t reconcile the woman in his arms with the Host he thought he knew.

But maybe, he thought, that was the point. He lay there, sleepless, holding her as if the world depended on it. Because, for tonight at least, it did.

As Andy finally drifted to sleep, Arabella’s eyes fluttered open just once. An almost imperceptible glint of victory sparked behind the vulnerability, and the shadow of a smile touched her lips, too subtle to read.

Audience voting for Show Yourself is open! Deadline is August 16, 2025 at 11.59pm EST.

While Audience voting will be averaged with Master voting for the final tallies, as Arabella mentioned, there will be BP prizes for the contestants based solely on Audience voting.

Furthermore, once you have voted, feel free to send me your top pick (either via DM here, via DM on Discord, or in the Discord channel, prefacing it with 'Top Pick: ' for easy retrieval). When the audience vote is tallied, up to 3 voters who picked the winner as their top pick will get to suggest one transformation each, to add to the TF round, for any one Contestant of their choice. The network reserves the right to tweak or adjust transformations deemed impractical or otherwise in need of a modification.

Happy voting!

Poll closed. Thank you!