Pt. 083 — Day 9 Afternoon

Claire had been in the Archive long enough for the room to stop feeling quiet. At first there had only been pages. Paper sliding beneath her fingers. The soft tick of her pen. The occasional whisper of her hair moving behind her when Crowning Glory noticed something before the rest of her did. After a while those sounds had accumulated into a kind of private weather system.

Right now, she preferred it to thinking.

Claire turned another page and read it before the paper finished settling flat. Page Turner made the process almost offensively efficient. A season summary that would have taken an hour before the Hotel could now disappear into her head in minutes, complete with footnotes, sidebars, and enough context to let her see the shape of things left out.

She wrote three words beneath her latest comparison column.

AMORAL, NOT RANDOM.

Then she stared at them, hair tightening near the end of her ponytail. “Very helpful,” Claire muttered in frustration.

A plate appeared beside her elbow, clicking against the table..

Claire jerked hard enough that three nearby papers fluttered. Her hair fanned outward in a red halo before she caught it with both hands.

Lizzy froze with one hand still on the plate. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

Claire looked from the sandwich to Lizzy. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough that you should have noticed.”

“Oof,” Claire said, smoothing her hair back into place. “That’s concerning.”

“It was more concerning when you missed lunch.” Lizzy glanced around the table. “What has you so engrossed?”

Claire looked down. Three empty paper cups had migrated to one side of her research station. Two books sat open on top of other books. One stack of notes had developed the dangerous lean of a condemned building.

“I was organizing,” she half asked half said.

Lizzy picked up one of the cups, examining the tea stains.

Claire pointed at it. “The caffeine was critical to the organization.”

“Mm-hm.” Lizzy allowed the statement to pass unchallenged and began to clean.

She carried the cups toward the bin near the Archive entrance. When she came back, she nudged two abandoned pencils into their tray and left Claire’s precarious stack of notes exactly where it was.

Claire raised an eyebrow. “You know, you don’t have to clean up after me.”

“I know.” Lizzy moved a book six inches to the left. “I want to help.” She pointed at the sandwich. “You eat, I’ll take care of this.”

Claire looked at the sandwich again. Her stomach betrayed her with an audible complaint.

Lizzy smiled. “See?”

“Traitor,” she growled while looking down. She picked up half the sandwich. She managed two bites before saying, “Can I ask you something?”

Lizzy paused.

Claire immediately regretted the phrasing. It was too serious. Too much like the start of one of Evelyn’s conversations where the next sentence rearranged your emotional furniture.

“It’s not…” Claire stopped. “Actually, I don’t know what it is.”

Lizzy put down the papers she had been aligning. “Okay.”

Claire glanced toward the nearby aisles, but saw no one. She let Crowning Glory stretch its strange awareness farther. Shelves. Tables. The uneven edges of stacked volumes. The broad empty mouth of the next aisle.

Claire lowered her voice anyway. “I overheard something.”

Lizzy’s expression changed almost imperceptibly, and she turned more fully, giving Claire her full attention.

Claire hurried on. “Not on purpose. At first, anyway. I was looking for something and two people were talking and I heard enough to realize it was private.”

Lizzy waited.

Claire’s thumb rubbed against the bread crust. “And then I kept listening for a little while.”

Lizzy’s eyes dropped toward the table. Her fingers found a loose sheet and straightened it against the others.

Claire saw something in her face. “You’ve had this problem before.”

Lizzy sighed and pulled out the chair across from her. “I did have something sort of like that happen once.”

Claire sat a little straighter. “Sort of?”

“I learned something about someone that they didn’t know I knew.” Lizzy’s gaze dropped again. “And they didn’t know they were even doing it, really.”

Claire stopped chewing.

Lizzy quickly added, “I can’t tell you what it was. It isn’t my secret.”

Claire swallowed and nodded. “What did you do?”

“I handled it badly.” Lizzy’s mouth twisted. “I kept thinking that if I waited long enough, I would figure out the perfect way to talk about it.” Lizzy rubbed one thumb over the other. “Except waiting didn’t make it easier. It made everything after that feel like another decision not to say anything.”

Claire looked down at her sandwich. “That sounds uncomfortably specific.”

“I talked to her eventually.” Lizzy hesitated. “It was better after. Fewer secrets and all that.”

Claire’s hair shifted forward over one shoulder as if trying to join the conversation. She caught the lock and tucked it back. “So your advice is talk to them.”

“My advice is don’t let being embarrassed about how you found out justify letting something eat at you.” Lizzy gave her a small smile. “That sounded smarter in my head.”

“No. It was smart.” Claire looked toward the aisles again. “Annoyingly smart.”

Lizzy laughed softly.

Claire finished the first half of the sandwich, then pushed her notes aside and finally helped. They worked their way across the table, stacking books by subject and returning loose cards to their folders.

Lizzy held up one of Claire’s pages. “What’s this?”

Claire took it from her. “Just working through some ideas.”

Lizzy leaned closer to read the three words. “Amoral, not random.”

“I considered making it prettier.” Claire tapped the page. “I’ve been trying to understand what the System actually wants beyond whatever Verena says it wants.”

“Entertainment?”

“That’s the easy answer.” Claire moved a second page beside the first. “But entertainment can mean almost anything. I’ve seen seasons where everyone seemed to genuinely love each other. Seasons that looked like elaborate fantasy adventures. Seasons that were basically social experiments with a resort attached. Ones where the Master was a woman. Ones where relationships barely looked romantic at all.”

Lizzy frowned. “And the bad ones.”

“And the bad ones.” Claire’s voice flattened slightly. She had read enough Archive records to know how much could fit inside those four words.

“The pattern I can actually support is narrower,” Claire said. “The System tolerates wildly different kinds of seasons. I don’t have evidence that it cares whether the result is loving, ugly, heroic, ridiculous, or some combination, so long as whatever conditions it requires keep being met.”

“Conditions like what?”

“That part is still inference.” Claire tapped the Archive page. “Audience engagement. Change. Enough tension, affection, sex, danger, comedy…some combination that keeps the season moving. The Archive shows me outcomes but it never shows me the rules.”

“So it isn’t good.” Lizzy leaned against the edge of the table. “But it isn’t trying to be evil either.”

Claire considered that. “I can’t find evidence that those categories matter to it.” She tapped the word AMORAL. “That’s what I mean. Heartless might be closer. Uncaring. Something wonderful can come out of a season without proving the thing running the season cared about the people inside it.”

“That’s horrible.” Lizzy looked around the vast Archive. “But also sort of better than thinking every terrible thing is personally aimed at us?”

Claire tilted her head. “Maybe.”

They were silent for a few seconds.

Lizzy picked up another book. “So what kind are we?”

Claire let out a long breath. “That’s where the whole theory becomes useless.”

She began counting on her fingers. “Superhero survival season. Relationship-repair season. Combat-preparation season. Trauma-processing season. Probably several categories I don’t have names for because in a multiverse, there are literally infinite combinations.”

Lizzy smiled. “Maybe Verena gets her own category.”

Claire’s stomach tightened. Verena’s name pulled the half-open locker-room door back into focus and, behind it, Van’s voice stripped of everything except fear.

They won’t respect me anymore, he had said. Her hair drew close against her shoulders as her imagination threatened to run wild.

Lizzy’s smile faded. “Claire?”

She smiled suddenly. It was brittle but practiced. “I’m fine.” The word came too brightly. Claire heard it herself.

Lizzy didn’t call her on it. She only put the book down.

Claire gathered the final few notes into her folder. “Anyway, I don’t think naming the season changes anything. If we decide it’s a survival season, the Hotel still kidnaps people. If we decide it’s a romance season, the Architect still exists. If we decide it’s some bizarre therapeutic death camp with room service…”

Lizzy made a face.

“...we still have to deal with the challenge tomorrow.”

“That one probably needs a shorter title,” Lizzy said with a grimace.

“I’ll workshop it.” Claire slid her phone into her pocket. “Thank you for the food.”

“You’re welcome.” Lizzy picked up the tray. “And Claire?”

Claire looked back.

Lizzy’s expression was gentle but stubborn. “Whatever it is, don’t let it sit there just because talking about it is going to be awful.”

Claire nodded. “I won’t.” She meant it when she said it.

—--------------------

Claire stared at the message on her phone.

ME: Can you meet me somewhere for a few minutes?

Van’s response had come quickly.

VAN: I want to but I’m busy right now. Later?

There was nothing wrong with the answer. It was perfectly reasonable, that’s what made it irritating. Claire walked slowly down the corridor outside the Archive, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

ME: No big deal. I was just going to ask you something.

She looked at it.

Deleted it.

ME: It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.

Deleted that too.

Finally she sent:

ME: Nothing important. We can catch up later.

Van replied with a thumbs-up and then, a few seconds later:

VAN: You sure?

Claire stared at the question until her hair curled around her wrist.

ME: Yep.

The lie was small enough to fit in three letters. She put the phone away. Claire had intended to go back to the Archive. Instead, she walked aimlessly.

She told herself she was clearing her head, which sounded healthier than admitting she was avoiding both her research table and the possibility that Van might become available before she had decided what she actually wanted to say.

The shopping corridor was quieter than it had been earlier in the week. Enough functional inhabitants moved through the space to make it feel occupied without producing a crowd. A woman with indistinct features at the far end carried three brightly wrapped boxes. Two closer figures passed Claire discussing shoes in voices clear enough to sound ordinary.

Claire barely registered them. She was halfway past Nixie’s storefront when a new sign caught her attention.

The sign had not been there before. Whether the storefront itself had been hidden, shuttered, or simply omitted from contestant access, Claire couldn’t say, and at this point the distinction held little meaning.

The lettering above the door was elegant and irritatingly tasteful.

REALITY REVISION

Claire stopped, her hair lifting in questioning little curls.

“No,” she told it. “Stop that!” The hair retreated a bit, but stayed loose and floating.

Claire looked through the front glass. Inside, an elven woman stood on a short ladder arranging objects on a high shelf.

She had the same pale coloring and pointed ears as the others. The resemblance was obvious, but the presentation was entirely different. This woman wore black trousers and a charcoal blouse with the sleeves rolled above her forearms. Dark lipstick sharpened a pale face, smoky makeup deepened her eyes, and a strip of black cloth kept her hair out of the way while she worked. Half the shop was still unfinished. Empty stands waited beneath covered frames, and wooden crates occupied most of one wall.

Claire opened the door, causing a tiny bell to chime.

The elf looked over her shoulder. “We’re not open until Day Eleven.”

Claire stopped one foot inside. “Oh. Sorry.”

“You can come in.” The elf climbed down from the ladder and dusted her hands together. “Just don’t expect a lot of magic today.”

Claire glanced at the open doorway. “So closed, but not forbidden.”

“Occupational distinction.” The elf offered a hand. “Trixie.”

“Claire.”

“I know,” she answered with a private smile.

“Of course you do.” Claire took in the black lipstick, shadowed eyes, and nearly monochrome clothes. “Is the reality-witch thing part of the uniform?”

Trixie glanced down at herself. “No. The lipstick is recreational. Humanity got that one right.” A faint smile appeared.

Claire looked around. “So this is the Reality Revision shop.”

“That will be the service. At the moment it is mostly shelving.”

Claire held up both hands. “Fair.”

She thought about leaving, but something gave her pause. “What exactly is a reality revision?”

Trixie looked at the half-unpacked shop, then back at Claire. For a moment the expression on her face was less annoyance than recognition of a conversation she had apparently had too many times.

“If you want the mechanism, I’ll answer,” she said. “If you want to know whether I can erase bad decisions, no, and I would prefer to get back to the shelves.”

Claire planted her feet, feeling challenged. “Mechanism.”

Some of the weariness left Trixie’s face. “Good. A transformation changes you. A revision changes the relevant reality around the desired result.”

Claire’s expression sharpened. “That sounds much bigger.”

“It can be.” Trixie rested one hand on the open crate. “Bigger is not automatically better. It is usually more expensive, and it always gives you more consequences to account for.”

“Can you give me an example?”

Trixie pointed at Claire’s hair. “Suppose Nixie changes your hair from red to blue. You return home with blue hair. Your family asks why your hair is blue. Your school photographs show red hair. Old recordings show red hair. Everyone remembers red hair.”

Claire touched a lock automatically. “And if you did it?”

“If I performed a revision in which blue had always been true, the history would have to support that fact. Your family would remember blue hair because that is what they lived through. Photographs would show blue. The teacher who once complimented your red hair would instead remember complimenting your blue hair. The memories are not a separate trick. They are consequences of the coherent reality.”

Claire stared at her. “That’s horrifying.”

“Yes.” Trixie said it without offense. “That is why scope matters. A revision can be useful, merciful, even necessary and still deserve respect for what it touches.”

Claire almost laughed. “You make your own shop sound dangerous.”

“It would be irresponsible not to.”

Claire almost laughed despite herself. “Can you change anything?”

“No. And before you hear that as reluctance, a wider revision is not automatically a better revision.”

Claire paused. “People complain a lot?”

“Often enough.” Trixie’s mouth tightened for only a moment. “The System protects outcomes it requires. You were selected as a contestant. I can’t do anything that would alter your suitability for the role.”

“So the limit is paradox?”

“Protected causality,” Trixie corrected her without condescension. “Sometimes the smallest viable revision is very large. Sometimes changing one local assumption solves the problem. My job is to know the difference before someone pays to create a world they did not actually mean to ask for.”

“What about things that happened here?”

“Completed show events can’t be changed.” Trixie lifted a crate onto the counter. “I can change context around them. I cannot revise the season into having never occurred, or remove something the System requires in order for the season to reach the point it is supposed to reach.”

Claire’s thoughts accelerated. Family history. Public laws. Social expectations. Medical records. A person’s reputation. A relationship that had always existed because reality now insisted it had.

She looked toward the covered displays again.

Trixie followed her gaze. “The covered pieces stay hidden until Day Eleven.”

Claire conceded with a small motion of her hand. “I wasn’t going to ask for a sample.”

“Good. You may be teachable.” Trixie opened the crate. “Come back on Day Eleven.”

“Right.” Claire backed toward the door, then stopped. “I’m looking for Van.”

Trixie did not look up. “You missed him.”

Claire’s heartbeat stumbled. “He was here?”

“Not here. Nixie’s.” Trixie removed a wrapped object from the crate. “A few minutes ago.”

Claire stared through the shared corridor toward the transformation shop. “What was he doing there?”

Trixie finally looked up. “That sounds like a question for Nixie.”

Claire nodded once. “Thanks.” She stepped back into the corridor.

—--------------------

Mara and Lizzy found Naomi in the lounge with her feet tucked beneath her and a book spread open across her lap.

The cover was dark blue leather, soft with age despite having arrived through fan mail only that morning. Silver markings curved across the surface in patterns that looked almost like writing until Mara tried to follow them and realized the shapes repeated too gracefully to be decoration.

Naomi had made herself comfortable in the center of the couch, shoes tucked neatly beside it. She wore loose pants, a fitted top, and a thin dark shrug that she shed over the couch arm when Mara and Lizzy crowded in beside her.

Mara stopped behind the couch. “Is that the prayer book?”

Naomi looked up. “Apparently.”

Lizzy came around the other side. “Apparently?”

“I know it’s a prayer book.” Naomi tapped one page. “But I can’t really wrap my head around a lot of its lessons.”

Mara leaned over to see better. The page was covered in narrow columns of unfamiliar script beside an illustration of a dark-elven woman standing beneath an enormous full moon.

Mara’s eyebrows rose. “Oh.”

Lizzy looked over her shoulder. “What?”

“Nothing. I was expecting more candles.”

Naomi smiled. “The candles come later.”

Lizzy sat on Naomi’s left. Mara claimed the other side. Naomi shifted enough to make room for both of them. Lizzy’s shoulder brushed hers in the process; Naomi adjusted without comment and kept the book open for everyone to see.

“So.” Mara pointed at the illustrated woman. “Who is she?”

Naomi tapped the moon symbol under the picture. “That’s the goddess herself.”

Lizzy leaned closer. “An actual dark elf?”

“That’s what the book says.” Naomi turned the page. “It’s from a different world filled with magic. The woman who sent it said this goddess belongs to a dark-elven pantheon.”

Mara and Lizzy both went quiet.

Naomi looked between them. “What?”

Lizzy touched the edge of the page with one fingertip. “It’s just weird.”

Mara nodded. “Good weird, but hard to imagine.”

“Yeah.” Lizzy smiled faintly. “We keep finding out there are worlds where things we grew up treating like stories are just...normal.”

Naomi looked down at the illustration again. “Apparently somewhere there are people who would think superheroes are the impossible part.”

Mara laughed. “That sounds fake. What would people do with disasters?”

Lizzy traced one of the silver markings beside the picture without touching the ink. “Can you read this?”

“No, there’s a translation enchantment to English.” Naomi frowned at the page. “If you focus on the page long enough, the language changes.”

Mara studied the picture of the goddess. “So what does she do?”

“The parts I understand keep coming back to liberation and choosing your own path instead of accepting the role someone else assigns you.” Naomi flipped carefully through several pages. “There is also a lot of moonlight, dancing, swords, and magic.”

Mara’s smile softened. “I can see why somebody sent it to you.”

Naomi’s eyes stayed on the book. “So can I.”

Lizzy shifted closer as Naomi turned another page. The next illustration showed several dark-elven women dancing beneath moonlight. None of them were wearing anything.

Lizzy’s spine straightened.

Mara cleared her throat with suspicious dignity. “So.”

Naomi’s mouth twitched. “Yes?”

“Is the nudity religious, or is this artist just extremely committed to a theme?”

Lizzy looked at her in horror.

Mara looked back innocently. “That is a reasonable cultural question.”

Naomi turned a few pages. “I don’t know enough to answer that yet. But it shows up in the dancing, the sword practice, the magic…it clearly isn’t treated as shameful.”

Lizzy stood up.

Mara looked up at her. “Where are you going?”

“This place is a mess.” Lizzy picked one up. “These pillows are crooked.”

Naomi lowered her face toward the book, Mara laughed. Lizzy moved the pillow three inches, reconsidered, and put it back almost exactly where it had started.

The next pages didn’t help Lizzy. One showed nude devotees practicing sword forms beneath moonlight. Another showed a circle working silver-lit magic. A third returned to dancing.

Mara studied them with genuine interest. “They’re doing all of it together.”

“That seems to be part of the point.” Naomi studied the illustrations. “Whatever else I’m missing, the book does not seem embarrassed by bodies being part of worship instead of something that has to be hidden from it.”

Mara tilted her head. “That actually sounds kind of powerful.”

Lizzy, now reorganizing a stack of magazines that nobody had touched, said, “It would still sound powerful with clothes on.”

Naomi smiled down at the page.

Mara leaned back into the couch. “Are you planning to become an elven moon priestess now?”

“No.” Naomi laughed. “I don’t feel called to it.” She rubbed one thumb along the page edge. “And I don’t even know if this goddess can reach the Hotel. I don’t know if prayer crosses universes. I don’t know how much of what I’m understanding belongs to the original faith and how much passed through the Hotel before it reached me.”

Naomi continued more quietly, “But it was given to me for a reason. There’s wisdom in it even if I never believe the religious parts.”

Lizzy came back to the couch and sat on the edge of a cushion. “That’s good.”

Naomi looked up. “Why?”

Lizzy tried to retreat and discovered she was already talking. “I just mean...”

Lizzy’s face turned pink. “I don’t know how I’d handle someone walking around the Hotel naked all day.”

Naomi stared at her.

Lizzy’s expression collapsed. “I didn’t mean you.”

Naomi lifted one eyebrow.

“I mean, obviously I meant you because you were the person we were talking about, but not you specifically. I mean anyone. A person. General nudity. Not your nudity.”

Mara covered her mouth.

Lizzy groaned and turned a pleading look on Mara. “You are not helping.”

Naomi held the silence until Lizzy became visibly desperate. Then she smiled. “I’ll try not to take it personally.”

Lizzy’s mouth opened to defend herself again.

“I’m joking, Lizzy.” Naomi laughed. “I would also struggle,” she admitted. “Probably for different reasons.”

“That was cruel.” Lizzy returned to the couch cautiously, as though Naomi might have installed another trap.

Naomi turned a page, then closed the book over one finger to hold her place. “Speaking of public nudity. Tell me about that cat apron of yours.”

Lizzy dropped the pillow she had just picked up. Her hands immediately went to the hem of her shirt.

Naomi softened the joke before it became too sharp. “I’m sorry. Really.”

Lizzy folded her arms with a little pout.

Naomi tilted her head. “But you have been thinking about it. You must have. We all received strange gifts, but yours revealed something about the audience.”

Lizzy’s blush deepened. “That isn’t fair.” The humor left her voice. “They keep doing it.”

“Doing what?” Mara asked.

“They’re paying so much attention to my body.” Lizzy twisted her fingers together. “There was the underwear gift. And the apron.”

Naomi closed the prayer book fully.

Lizzy looked down at herself. “I don’t understand what they want.”

She swallowed. “I’m not...” Her hand made a small uncertain motion over her own body. “I don’t understand. People always want other types of women, billboard women. The women guys stared at when they thought nobody noticed. I’m not bold or big or whatever.”

She stopped, then forced herself to continue. “So why are they so interested in seeing me naked?”

The question sat in the lounge.

“Maybe they think you’re pretty,” Naomi said gently. “Or maybe they want you to know that those other things don’t matter as much as you believe.” She watched Lizzy’s face for a moment. “Have you tried talking to a man about what they want instead of using advertisements as a benchmark?”

Lizzy’s face tightened rather than relaxing. “Sure, just talk to a grown man, ‘Excuse me mister, what body type do you prefer?’ Or maybe the audience likes watching me panic.”

Naomi nodded. “That could also be part of it.”

Lizzy hugged her arms closer. “I don’t know which answer I hate more.”

Mara leaned forward, forearms on her knees. “Then stop asking them.”

Lizzy looked at her.

“The audience.” Mara nodded toward the ceiling, meaning everything above them and nothing physical at all. “Forget them for a minute.”

“I’m trying.”

“No. I mean really forget them.” Mara’s voice stayed warm. “Not what they want. Not why they voted. Not whether they think you’re pretty or embarrassed or entertaining.”

Lizzy’s shoulders loosened slightly.

Mara smiled. “Ask yourself if there is someone you’d want to see you in the apron.”

Lizzy went scarlet. There was a soft double whisper of fabric. Her shirt and jeans passed cleanly through her body at the same time and collapsed around her ankles.

For one perfect second nobody moved. Lizzy looked down. Naomi looked at the ceiling, and Mara bit her lower lip so hard her entire face trembled.

Lizzy made a tiny strangled sound as Mara lost the fight and folded forward laughing. She grabbed the couch blanket and wrapped it around herself. “I hate both of you.”

Naomi was trying heroically not to look amused. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You were asking those embarrassing questions,” she said accusingly.

“That seems like a very low bar for guilt.” Mara got her laughter under control and wiped at one eye. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” She was still smiling when she added, “But I think we have an answer now.”

Lizzy disappeared beneath the blanket up to her nose. “No, we didn’t.”

Mara’s smile softened. “All right. Then you can decide what the answer was.”

—--------------------

Fiona had found a balcony high enough that the Hotel facility below looked almost peaceful. That annoyed her.

From up here the central courtyard was a clean geometry of stone paths, green lawns, and water features. The buildings were arranged with the kind of deliberate beauty that made everything below seem less like a prison and more like a place people would voluntarily spend money to visit.

She rested both forearms against the railing and stopped examining everything. She focused on the breeze moving through her hair, the smell of cut grass, and salt water. For once, nobody was asking her for anything.

The balcony door opened behind her with a loud bang.

Fiona closed her eyes in preemptive exhaustion. “Don’t start.”

Cassie stepped outside. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

She let the door close behind her and crossed the balcony with the exaggerated confidence of someone approaching a suspect trapped in an interrogation room.

She pointed at Fiona. “Cornered like a rat.”

Fiona groaned. “Can you lower the Cassie level by about forty percent?”

Cassie gave her a flat look. “Um, no.”

“Twenty?”

Cassie planted both hands on the railing beside her. “I’m offended you would even ask.”

Fiona waited. Cassie waited too. Finally, Fiona turned her head slowly. “What?”

Cassie grinned. “Date night gossip. I need a full breakdown. I almost started a blog of the suite’s crimes, but there’s no internet here.”

Fiona turned back to look over the railing again. “Absolutely not.” She pushed away from the railing. “You must have hobbies or something. Go find something to entertain yourself. Do an anime, play League of Moba or whatever.”

Cassie struck a pose filled with false dignity. “My current hobby is investigative journalism.”

Fiona smiled despite herself. “You would be a terrible journalist.”

“I’m the best you got.” Cassie bumped her hip against Fiona’s. “Now, talk.”

Fiona moved half a step away. Cassie followed and bumped her again. Fiona planted her foot, and Cassie bounced back into place.

“Stop that,” Fiona said. “You know you can’t take me.”

Cassie’s exaggerated dignity returned. “Information can prevent further acts of violence.”

Fiona’s shoulders drooped with the knowledge that she wasn’t getting out of this, just prolonging the torture. She fought back a smile. “You’re unbearable.”

“I am a joy, Ms. Kavanagh.” She pointed at her roommate. “And you are still dodging the question.”

Cassie moved to bump her one more time, but Fiona caught her by both shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Fine, you big baby.” She turned pensive for a moment, then lowered her voice. “This stays between me and you, right?”

Cassie immediately went still, then nodded vigorously. “Absolutely.”

Fiona narrowed her eyes. “Van is a great kisser.”

Cassie’s face went blank in a flash. Fiona released her and stepped back, gauging her reaction. Cassie blinked once, twice, then shouted, “What?”

Fiona turned back toward the railing, looking around defensively. “Be quiet, Lin. People will hear you.”

Cassie grabbed her arm. “What are you saying right now?”

Fiona’s shoulders started shaking.

Cassie stepped around her. “There was no notification.”

Fiona pressed her lips together.

Cassie pointed at the empty air as if the System might be hiding behind it. “We would have gotten something. First kiss. Kissed Master. Romantic contact. Whatever stupid phrasing it uses.”

Fiona looked at her.

Cassie’s eyes widened further. “Was it during the wedding? Is that why there were no notifications? Is that a thing? Did you get points? Did he get points? Does he even get points? Was it during the…”

Fiona lost control, laughter bursting out. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears, and her face was flushed with the simple joy of the joke.

Cassie stopped in place, betrayal plain on her face. Fiona doubled slightly over the railing, one hand over her mouth.

“You’re lying.” Cassie’s expression became very flat. “You absolute bitch.”

That made Fiona laugh harder, shaking in place as Cassie crossed her arms. Finally settling, Fiona managed, “Your face made it worth while.”

Cassie fought a smile, then failed. “All right.” She pointed at Fiona. “One point.”

“Only one?”

“One small point. Tiny. Barely measurable.” Cassie leaned back against the railing. “So you didn’t kiss.”

Fiona looked at her as if she had asked whether they had jumped into a volcano. “No.”

Cassie was unrelenting. “Did you want to?”

Fiona gave her a flat look of rejection.

Cassie lifted both hands. “In the name of journalism.”

Fiona turned toward the view again. The wedding would be easier to talk about than the date. Realizing that made her feel stupid. The wedding had included alternate seasons, people from other realities, openly queer couples, women with wives, men in harems, women running harems, transformed people who treated biology like an optional suggestion, and enough impossible information to permanently damage anyone’s definition of normal.

Her own date had mostly involved dinner and then a very ugly room.

“Well, the Suite was awful,” Fiona said.

Cassie’s eyes lit up. “Here we go.” She leaned in. “What’d it do this time?”

“It was grossly masculine.” Fiona scowled at nothing. “Erotic wall art, a stripper pole, bondage gear on the walls.”

Cassie nodded solemnly. “That makes sense, sure.” She shook her head briefly. “I wonder who programmed that thing? Was it trying to piss you off?”

Fiona nodded. “That’s what I thought. Wait til you hear about the guest drawer.”

“Oh no.”

She grimaced at the memory, but determination took over. She wasn’t going to treat the make-believe hotel’s opinion seriously. “There was just one thing in the drawer, a collar.”

Cassie’s jaw dropped.

Fiona watched the reaction arrive and immediately plunged deeper to get it all out before she changed her mind. “No clothes at all, just a velvet pillow with a golden collar engraved with the word ‘Beloved’.”

“A collar?” Cassie repeated, gripping the railing. “I cannot believe I missed your face.”

Fiona shoved her sideways with one hand. Cassie laughed and caught herself.

“You had plenty of fun,” Fiona said. “Whole dorm room to yourself.”

“I did.” Cassie sighed dreamily. “I star-fished. I had maximum bed occupation. Total territorial victory.”

Fiona smiled again. “You’re such an idiot.”

“I might do it again tonight.” Cassie smiled. “You can sleep on the floor.”

Fiona snorted. “Empty threat.”

“Oh?”

“Verena would show up with a ruler and police tape to make sure we are both on the bed. No arms off the mattress!”

Cassie laughed as Fiona continued, slipping into a clipped imitation of Verena. “‘Miss Lin, your elbow has crossed the agreed territorial boundary by approximately four centimeters.’”

Cassie laughed harder.

“‘Miss Kavanagh, retaliatory blanket theft is not permitted.’”

Cassie leaned against the railing, shoulders shaking. Fiona smiled despite herself. Then Cassie said something under her breath, but the wind stole half of it.

Fiona pulled her hair dramatically away from one ear. “What was that?”

Cassie’s laughter faded quietly. Fiona noticed the change but not what caused it. Cassie looked at her for a long moment.

Then she spoke more clearly. “I said Verena wouldn’t have to force me to share the bed.”

Fiona barked a laugh. “Sure. Because you have a deep affection for sleepovers?” She turned back to the view over the rail. “Be serious.”

Cassie didn’t laugh, which made Fiona turn back to look at her. Cassie’s expression had gone awkward in a way Fiona almost never saw. The smart remark wasn’t loaded. The grin was missing.

Fiona frowned. “What?”

Cassie pushed away from the railing. “Fiona.”

The way she said her name finally put a crack through the misunderstanding. Cassie reached for her hand. Fiona looked down at it, then up at Cassie.

The answer came to her with sudden clarity. She stepped back so quickly she struck the railing. Cassie’s hand stopped in the air, still outstretched.

Fiona’s tone was flat. Empty of all the previous shared joy. “What are you doing?”

Cassie finally let her hand fall. The missing grin made the answer feel more serious than anything she had said all afternoon. “I’m flirting with an idiot, apparently.”

Heat climbed Fiona’s neck. “I’m not gay.” Her voice was hard and ugly. It made the words more than just a refusal.

Cassie held her gaze. “Okay. I wasn’t sure, I just thought you were…”

“Then why are you doing this?” Fiona’s voice rose, confusion and frustration warring for first place.

Cassie’s own voice was raw. “Because I thought there might be something here. I mean, I thought that we were… I don’t know.” She searched Fiona’s face for a reaction. “Was I wrong?”

Fiona slashed a hand through the air. “There isn’t anything going on between us.”

Cassie stepped backwards, the denial landing like a slap. “All right,” she said in an embarrassed tone.

It should have ended there. Fiona had given the answer, and Cassie had accepted it. Instead the words Cassie had said kept scraping at her: I just thought you were. Each syllable felt like an accusation. Fiona’s anger wouldn’t settle on any one thing.

“We joke around,” Fiona said, voice becoming more solid with each word. “We’re roommates. That doesn’t mean I’m…”

“You don’t need a label,” Cassie cut in. “I don’t walk around with ‘bi-sexual’ stitched onto all my lapels.”

“Don’t do that.” Fiona held up a hand.

Cassie’s brow furrowed. “Do what?”

“Act like you know what this is.” She pointed at herself now, finger shaking. “Like you know what I am.”

Cassie raised both hands in surrender. “I just said I don’t.”

Fiona’s tone was like broken glass. “I’m not like that.”

Cassie’s face emptied of humor. “You can say no without the disgust. It’s not an insult to be gay or whatever.”

Fiona folded her arms because she suddenly had no idea what to do with her hands. “Then keep the flirting to yourself. Or if you’re so pent up that you need attention that badly, go flirt with Van. That’s what this whole place wants anyway.”

Cassie looked at her for a long second. When she answered, there was no joke left in her voice. “I can take a rejection, Fiona. Don’t make me feel like I’m gross just because you said no.”

Fiona’s anger lost its footing. “That’s not what I…”

Cassie turned away.

Fiona’s words were weak, she heard it herself but couldn’t bring herself to say anything stronger than the name. “Cassie.”

Cassie kept walking. The balcony door opened and closed behind her without another word.

Below, people crossed the courtyard at the same easy pace as before. Fiona gripped the railing until the metal pressed hard into her palms.

—--------------------

Claire slowed before entering Nixie’s shop. Her hesitation irritated her enough that she went in with a determined set to her jaw.

The transformation shop looked exactly as it had the last time she visited: bright, orderly, expensive in a way that had nothing to do with ordinary money. Glass displays curved along the walls. Cards glowed softly behind protective panes. A handful of transformations rotated on elevated stands as if permanent alterations to the human body belonged beside jewelry.

Nixie stood behind the counter reviewing a floating list. She looked up when Claire entered. “Miss Mercer.”

Claire hated that Nixie always sounded pleased to see a customer. “Hi,” she said, reflexively polite and smiling despite her inner discomfort.

Nixie dismissed the list with an efficient gesture. “How can I help?”

Claire looked around the shop. “Actually, I’m looking for…”

Nixie glanced toward the displays. “Before you tell me you are not shopping, tomorrow is a Challenge day. You have enough BP for several practical options, and last-minute purchases are exactly what this room is for.”

Claire’s hair twisted together, tight against the nape of her neck. “I was actually looking for someone.”

“Then I will make the sales pitch brief.” Nixie came around the counter and indicated one wall. “A targeted improvement could make the difference in your ranking tomorrow. Competition is always fierce for Harem Queen.”

Claire folded her arms. “The other girls aren’t trying to beat me to first place with Van.”

“I am not asking you to compete for him.” Nixie’s tone remained pleasantly professional. “I am telling you that a high BP score usually doesn’t create VP. But buying the right transformation can do just that.”

Claire glanced at the nearest display, then deliberately looked back at Nixie. “I’m still not buying anything today.”

Nixie folded her hands together on the counter, assuming the posture of a patient servant. “Very well.”

The answer came easily enough that Claire almost distrusted it more than if she had pressed for the hard sell. Nixie broke the silence first. “Then what can I do for you? Is there an issue with Page Turner?”

Claire hesitated, Nixie watching her with that deliberate silence. Claire’s hand found one lock of hair and wound it once around two fingers before she let it go. “No, Page Turner works wonders.”

“I am glad.”

“It is useful. Ridiculously useful.” Claire held Nixie’s gaze. “That doesn’t make me all in on these recreational transformations.”

Nixie’s expression sobered. “No. Useful and invasive are not opposites. I sell functions, Miss Mercer. I don’t decide what those functions mean to the person who has to live with them.”

Claire had prepared for an argument and found herself briefly without one. “That was almost reassuring.”

Nixie gave her a brief smile. “I can add a sales pitch if it would restore the proper atmosphere.”

“Please don’t.”

Nixie leaned both hands lightly against the counter. “So. If you are not here to shop and not here to complain, what do you want?”

Claire looked toward the front window. “Trixie said Van was here earlier.”

Nixie’s face didn’t move. “He stopped by.”

Something in Claire’s chest tightened anyway. “When?”

“A short while ago” was the only answer the elf gave.

Claire glanced toward the door as if speed might somehow recover the time already lost.

Nixie noticed her gaze. “If you hurry, you may still find him.”

Claire took one step toward the entrance, then stopped. “What was he doing here?”

Nixie had re-summoned the floating list when she turned to leave. “I do not discuss another patron’s consultation.”

Claire turned fully back toward her. “Even his?”

She nodded. “Especially his. He is the Master.”

Heat rose along Claire’s spine, but Nixie didn’t sound evasive. She sounded like someone stating a rule she expected to be observed like the law of gravity.

“If I came in here frightened or embarrassed and asked you about something private, you wouldn’t tell Van?”

“Not because he was curious.” Nixie folded her hands on the counter. “The System calls you contestants, but that doesn’t make every private choice into communal property.”

Claire thought of the locker room and hated how close the shop keeper was to her current issue. “If whatever he discussed affects us, we should know.”

“If something purchased here requires notice to another person, the shop follows whatever disclosure the System requires. That is different from spreading private gossip for no reason.”

Claire looked past Nixie at the transformation cards lining the walls. “You just told me preparation matters. Understanding the Master matters to how I participate in the season. His priorities, his concerns, what he might be changing…those are strategically relevant.”

“They may be.” Nixie gave the argument the consideration Claire had asked for. “It still isn’t permission. The Master’s privacy is not for sale simply because you think the information may be useful.”

Claire let out a frustrated breath.

“If your actual problem is understanding Master Van,” Nixie continued, “I can discuss transformations designed around understanding his needs and desires. I would first ask what kind of question you are trying to answer before I can recommend anything.”

Claire stared at her. “You won’t tell me what he said, but you’ll sell me a permanent change so I can serve his needs better?”

“I would sell you whichever function you chose from among my creations. Some of those relate to his needs,” Nixie said. “I will not sell you his privacy.”

Claire looked at the nearest card, where a smiling woman leaned toward the silhouette of a man while colored lights linked their chests. She looked away again. “That distinction is going to bother me for the rest of the day.”

She turned toward the exit, but Nixie called after her. “Claire.”

She stopped, and the strange shopkeeper continued. “If you decide you want help understanding him, decide what you actually want to know before you start taking action.”

For once, Claire had nothing ready. She finally left the shop, still deciding if she had learned anything. The corridor outside felt too bright. Van was somewhere ahead of her.

Claire took out her phone. His earlier message was still there.

VAN: You sure?

Her own answer sat directly beneath it.

ME: Yep.

Claire stared at the three letters, then locked the screen without typing anything else.