The runner-up, the brunette

You intend to grab your true love, the winner, and carry her off for a romantic getaway in your mountain hideout. But something feels off. At the last second you pivot and throw the gas mask in the face of the brunette, the robotic arm shoots out of your jetpack in response and wraps around her waist. Before you can take off with her the winner screams and takes a swing at you. You didn’t expect that kind of anger from a beauty queen, it’s almost enough to make you reconsider, but it is too late, the gas is on the stage and the blonde stops attacking you as she starts to pant and sweat, and the way she looks at you. . .

You remember the tests you ran at the history teacher’s convention and waste no time hitting the ignition and getting off that stage. You wanted no part of the orgy that was now taking place in the center of town square. As you and your new bride take off you look back to the street and the writhing mass of naked bodies and laugh. That lust bomb gas will take hours to wear off, and with all the reporters and cameramen preoccupied with their carnal distractions, no one will be following your trail anytime soon.

The flight back is quite nice. Your bride doesn’t throw up like that one lady you married, or scream and hit you as you try to take off like your first wife. She clutches onto you with her eyes closed, crying hysterically into your bullet-proof body armor. Who knew Acrophobia could be so romantic?

You fly through the hidden entry shoot into your mountain fortress and land with your bride. She collapses on the ground, having passed out from the excitement halfway through the flight. You look at her lying there in her beautiful gown and grin. Finally your wedding went off without a hitch.

“James.” You call.

“Coming master.” You robot butler responds.

“Take my lady to the bridal suite and let her rest,” you command, then with a smile, “she’ll need her strength for tonight after all.”

“I’m certain she will, sir.” Your butler replies dryly.

She sleeps for an hour, time you use to process reports on the effectiveness of the lust bomb, flash bots and your jetpack upgrades. It’s refreshing that everything went so well, but you feel a pang of sorrow that you don’t have anything obvious to pour your time into. Nothing motivates creativity like a good design flaw. Why the weeks after your second wife destroyed your jetpack were some of the most productive. . .

No, you wouldn’t think of her. You had a new wife, a proper wife. One who didn’t throw up in jet engines without even considering the ramifications.

You arrive in the kitchen and retrieve two glasses of Champaigne as James finishes the chicken tenders and green beans that you eat every Saturday for dinner. You smile to think he’s making it for two now. You pull out the capsule from your pocket and look at it. Your carefully constructed affection formula will cause her to fall hopelessly in love with you. But it kind of feels cheap. If you truly are soul mates you won’t need the chemical assistance, and the way she held you before she passed out on the flight here, you think there might be something worth exploring there.