Roast!, Part 2

The party that followed lunch was a slow-burn morph from communal eating contest into something with structure, ritual, and just enough lurking threat to keep everyone at the table honest. The terrace felt brighter than before—whether it was the sun, the sugar spike from the volcano cake, or the low background hum of a dozen people all trying to avoid being the next one singled out, Andy couldn’t tell. He sat near the head of the table, not quite at its apex, but where the vector of attention was likely to collide with him first. Sam, of course, had orchestrated the whole seating plan—he’d only realized it once he’d sat down, and by then it was too late. She’d stacked the deck with all the repeat offenders, everyone who’d ever left an impression—positive, negative, or both—anywhere in the known Harem Hotel universe.

As the plates emptied, Sam let the noise build to a comfortable boil before climbing—again—onto her chair. She didn’t bother with the glass this time; she just cleared her throat, waited until every conversation ebbed, then announced, “Now that we’re all properly fed and at risk of bursting like novelty balloons, it’s time for the real reason I called you all here. Andy, you have officially run out of excuses. The roast is on.” She let the table react, soaking in the mock-groans and a slow clap from the far end. “If you have something to say, now’s your chance. Get it out of your system, before the wedding makes it all official.”

A ripple of unease ran the length of the table, pooling at one end where Matt Hawkins, looking faintly like a man who'd been dared into an ice bath, found himself the first object of Sam's scrutiny. She didn't call on him by name, just flicked her eyes in his direction—her way of saying, I know what you're thinking, and I know you're going to do it anyway.

When the room's attention veered his way, Sam arched an eyebrow at him, clearly expecting a turn. Matt just raised his glass instead, a beat too quickly, and shook his head. "Not me. I've only been in my season for three days—I haven't earned the material yet." He said it easy enough, but Andy caught the way his eyes flicked over before flicking away again, checking. Sam let him off with a shrug and moved on, and Matt settled back, clapping along with whoever came next, the fingers of his free hand drumming a quiet, steady rhythm against the side of his glass.

If anyone noticed the nerves behind the words, they didn’t say. The attention shifted almost instantly, Sam’s gaze leapfrogging to the next likely instigator. This time, Laura Black was already halfway up from her seat, stretching her back so her wings unfurled just enough to shade the chair behind her. She eyed Andy, mock-severe, then grinned, showing teeth.

“When I first met Andy, he was still trying to come to grips with the whole harem thing.” She shrugged. “Now he's added so many people I'd be careful not to accidentally leave anyone behind. They might be in his harem by the time you got them back. But seriously, I must have made quite the impression on him, since afterwards he decided to get a Laura of his own, twice.” The audience laughed. “I am glad he managed to finally pass me on getting his women pregnant though. I was really making you guys look bad, and I'm a woman. He's cheated his way past every obstacle, and forged his harem into a family. To Andy, soon-to-be god of second-guessing!” She folded her arms, leveled a finger at Andy, daring him to argue, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Andy threw both hands up in the universal pose of “guilty as charged,” but his answer was dry, low-voiced: “I’m pretty sure you’re going to catch up in no time, Laura.”

The table howled, someone banged a fist hard enough to rattle the cutlery, and Laura took the comment like a pro. She bowed her wings making a show of it, and sat back down, muttering something about “poisoned chalices” that only the next two seats heard.

The laughter hadn’t even finished echoing before someone nudged Felix, who tried his best to make himself smaller, which was hard when you were six feet and built like the lifeguard everyone claimed they didn’t secretly want to drown in front of. He got up slow, hands tucked into the waistband of shorts, a faint flush on his face that made him look younger than any of the others at the table.

“Andy, the richest sad boy, with simultaneously the best and worst luck in existence,” Felix tried his own roast, voice barely above the clatter of forks. “Became a millionaire, but didn't have what most mattered. Showed me that having money and success doesn't matter without those you love... You got the money, the brains, even the hairline. But you still spent more time mooning over lost love than actually enjoying any of it. You once told me that you'd trade all of it—every last cent—if you could just go back and fix the one thing that mattered.”

He hesitated, like maybe he’d already gone too far, but pressed on anyway: “So, I guess… you taught me that it doesn’t really matter what you have, if you don’t have the people you care about. That’s something, I think.”

He went to sit, then, but Andy cut him off with a hand on the shoulder—a real, solid squeeze—and said, “The money never mattered, Felix. This—” he gestured at the table, at everyone, “—matters more.” He didn’t have to say the rest. The brief hush that followed carried it better than any speech would have.

Attention drifted along the table, searching for the next target. A chant started at the end, rising up as cups began thumping against wood: “Van. Van. Van.” The name built, ragged but irresistible, until even Andy joined in.

Van stared at the table, then at the ceiling, then at Sam. “I really don't have—” he started, but nobody let him finish. He'd never had much in the way of close friends before all this, and it showed in how badly he wanted to opt out of saying anything mean on purpose. The chant got louder, and someone at the far end even started slow-clapping, egging him on until it was clear he wasn't getting out of it. Eventually, Van got to his feet, shaking his head.

“I am not built for this kind of thing,” he muttered, then louder, “but, fine. Here.” He scanned the faces, looking for the least dangerous one to address, and settled on Andy anyway. He cleared his throat, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, and delivered what could only be described as a bad dad joke: “This guy's bought so many rings, he gets chased by a hedgehog.” He let it hang, the silence perfectly timed—and utterly unearned—then added, wincing at his own material, “I mean, Sonic. Sonic the Hedgehog. Because... rings. You get it.”

He sat back down, red-faced, but the table broke up laughing, more at the effort than the punchline, and Andy gave him a thumbs-up that, in this context, meant more than any witty comeback could.

By now, the group had split into camps: those who genuinely wanted to roast Andy, and those who wanted to be anywhere but the center of attention. The first group was smaller, but more dangerous.

Sam's gaze passed over Robert West next, and she paused just long enough to make it an offer rather than a demand. Robert considered it with the same careful stillness he brought to everything, then shook his head. “I'd love to help,” he said, “but I think you'd all notice pretty fast that I don't actually know the guy well enough to roast him properly. I've met him this once. I don't want to accidentally compliment him and ruin the mood.” He raised his glass in Andy's general direction instead. “Consider this a placeholder for later, once I've got material.”

Sam, never one to waste momentum, skipped over the shy and the dodgers, landing squarely on Mark Garret. Mark shook his head, grinned, and said, “I know the script, but someone here’s got to be the responsible adult today.” He gestured at his glass, then at the table: “I’ll pass. For now.” The table laughed, but let him be.

Sam pivoted, locking onto Kevin Burgmeyer, who straightened in his seat and took on the air of someone about to make a presentation at work. He even cleared his throat the way Andy’s high school biology teacher used to, just before telling them about frogs that exploded as a reproductive strategy. Off to one side, Matt clapped along with the crowd, forced a laugh, and didn't quite manage to hide how he was wincing at every joke and carefully watching Andy for any sign of genuine hurt. The laughter trailed off for a moment and he sat back into a relaxed pose, smiling as if enjoying himself.

“Andy, I’ve never been much for roasts. I’d much rather build someone up than tear them down, but since you already look like you model for Frank Frazetta I’m afraid that if I pump you up any more, you’ll pop. I haven’t known you long, but in that time I’ve already learned that you’re the kind of person who can overthink walking down a path. I haven’t met your wives, yet, but hopefully at least one of them is able to remind you that if you want to move forward you have to put one foot in front of the next. Then again, if you can’t find someone to do that among the, what, seven women you’re marrying, it’s probably hopeless. At that point, I have to vote that Sam takes the lead since she can at least organize a party. Maybe you can try out to take a turn as her jester.” He turned to Sam, and closed, “Sam, I know he’s not funny, so I really hope you don’t plan to take that into account when he auditions.”

He delivered it with a straight face, then sat down, arms folded, like he was waiting for someone to offer a counterpoint. Andy leaned back, tilting his head at Sam with the air of a man consulting his calendar. “He’s not wrong. Sam, pencil me in. I’ll work on my material.” He paused, then added, “Though in my defense, I did eventually figure out how to put one foot in front of the other. It just took me seven tries to get the ratio right.” The table’s laugh came in two waves, the second louder than the first.

Nick Reynolds had been doing an admirable job of being invisible until Sam’s gaze found him at the far end of the table. He got to his feet with the energy of a man who had just been called on in class and hadn’t done the reading. “I’ll be honest,” he said, “I had something. I wrote it down, actually.” He patted his jacket pocket, then seemed to think better of it. “But it felt wrong. Like making a joke at a funeral where everyone’s actually pretty happy.” He looked at Andy. “So instead I’ll just say: you’re the reason half the people at this table showed up. And I don’t think you know that.” He sat down fast, like he was hoping the chair would swallow him.

The table took a moment to find its footing, and the laugh, when it came, was the gentle kind—less punchline, more exhale. Andy looked at him for a beat, then said, “I’m glad you lost the notes, Nick.”

From the far end of the table, Adrien set down his cup with the unhurried precision of a man who'd had several thousand years to perfect the gesture. He didn't stand. He rarely did. “I've watched a great many young men make a great many promises,” he said, voice low and even, the kind that didn't need volume to carry. “Most of them break within a decade. You, Andy, have somehow made an entire harem's worth of promises and appear to be keeping all of them at once, which I find either admirable or actuarially alarming. I haven't decided which.” He considered his coffee, then added, almost as an afterthought, “For what it's worth, I once knew a man who tried something similar with considerably fewer women and rather less success. History remembers him mainly as a cautionary tale. I suspect you'll fare better, if only because you seem incapable of doing anything the efficient way.” A faint, dry almost-smile. “That's not an insult. In my experience, it's usually the inefficient ones who last.”

The table absorbed this the way it absorbed most things Adrien said—with a beat of quiet, unsure whether they'd just been complimented or quietly assessed and filed away. Andy broke the silence first. “I'm choosing to take 'actuarially alarming' as a compliment.”

“You would,” Adrien said, and picked his coffee back up, which seemed to be the end of his participation for the roast.

Sam, still running the show, climbed down from her chair but immediately called everyone back to order.

“Alright, before anyone else chickens out or tries to hide in the kitchen, we’ve got some contributions from the ladies who couldn’t be here today. Laura, Marissa, and company.” She fished a folded slip of paper from her pocket, flicked it open, and read: “Dear Andy, if you ever, for one single minute, manage to accept a compliment without turning it into a joke at your own expense, the world may tilt off its axis. Please don’t start now, we’re not ready for that kind of existential risk. With love, Laura.”

Andy started to make a joke, caught himself, and the pause drew even more laughter than the joke would have.

Sam pulled a second note, this one written in Marissa’s tight, professional script: “You have an annoying habit of treating every one of your own feelings like it’s a logic puzzle you need to solve before you’re allowed to act on it. Please stop. Sometimes you’re allowed to just feel things. Signed, your therapist, Marissa.”

Andy nodded, resigned. “That’s fair. And… yeah. I’ll work on it.” The terrace gave a collective, “Aww,” but nobody pressed the point.

Sam wasn't done. She fanned out the rest of the stack—six more slips, in six different styles—and flipped through them fast, calling out the gist of each without breaking stride. “Erin says you're impossible to stay mad at, which she's decided counts as a complaint. Emi and Dawn co-signed one that just says 'be nicer to yourself, or we will stage an intervention, and Emily's helping.' Speaking of—Emily's is three sentences long and somehow the most devastating thing in the stack, so I'm not reading it, ask her yourself later. Myra wrote something short enough that I think she talked herself out of most of it. And Claire just drew a little picture.” Sam held it up for half a second—too fast for anyone to actually see—then tucked the whole stack away before Andy could reach for it. “Anyway. Noted, all of you. He heard it.”

The table laughed, and Andy didn't even try to protest, just spread his hands in surrender.

The roast might have gone on forever—so many people, so many layers of in-jokes and near-misses—but before it could spiral into mutual admiration society, a Mildred leaned in at Kevin McAllister’s shoulder and said, low-voiced, “There is an urgent communication from Mistress Cummings, Contestant McAllister. It is for you, and must be read aloud.” She placed a sealed note by his plate, then vanished with the kind of poise only supernatural beings or truly dedicated hospitality workers could manage.

Sam, pouncing on the moment, shouted, “Looks like you’re up, Kevin! Hope you’re ready to be the messenger.”

Kevin looked at the envelope, saw the familiar glitter-pen handwriting, and went dead white. The envelope read: Read Me To Everyone!!!

The table stilled, sensing a new spectacle brewing.

Kevin took a slow breath, opened the envelope, and scanned the contents. The color drained from his face, replaced almost immediately by a flush that might well have spread to the tips of his bull’s horns. He cleared his throat, looked up at Sam, then at Andy, then at the table as a whole, and said, “Uh. Hi, everyone. It seems I have been instructed to deliver a message from Mona. She, uh, requests that you not shoot the messenger.”

The table tensed. Andy, suddenly deeply grateful for every bad roast he’d ever endured, braced himself for impact.

Kevin cleared his throat, the movement of his Adam’s apple almost comically obvious, and began:

“‘Hiiiiiiiiiii, Everyoooooooone!!!!!!! I got here for breakfast and I come to find out that Aife and I are the only Mistresses that are at the bachelorette party! And that’s okay. You probably are having a bunch of boring boy stuff, like sportsball and brown liquor and filing taxes and rotating tires. I am sure that I am having a lot more fun (and cake!) over with the brides-to-be! Then the nice maid that I assume is Arabella’s child (I think her name is Mildred?) told me about the speech dealie during your lunch and asked if I wanted to say a few words via Kevin here. Hi, Kevin! So, I wrote this real quick. I didn’t know exactly what to say, and she was nice enough to suggest that I write down the first few thoughts about everyone over there. So, I did! Sorry if they are a little too horny.’”

Kevin stopped, glanced ahead, and muttered, “They’re all like this. Again, not my fault,” then continued, voice taking on the cadence of a man reading a prepared statement to a jury that might just convict him anyway:

“‘Mr. Reynolds, you only got one transformation? Oh, that’s sad, especially considering how I have been told that you have seventy quadrillion episodes on Harem Hotel Hereafter. You should really ask your Host for more! They’re fun! Also, I would not be opposed to trying out your Skeleton Key! Teehee!’”

Kevin grimaced, then added, “And yes, she wrote ‘Teehee’ with explicit instructions to read it out loud. She even told me to do it ‘extra girlie.’” The table exploded, the phrase echoing back at Nick as several people chanted it until he physically ducked behind his own glass. He was bright red but laughing, managing only a weak, “It’s a very specific key—not exactly something I’d just hand out to someone I barely know. And it’s not actually seventy quadrillion episodes, it’s—” before being drowned out by the next volley of laughter.

Kevin continued hastily. “‘Ms. Black, I masturbated to you!’” Kevin stopped, covered his face with one hand, and then forced himself to continue. “That is, to say, Mona did. I did not. Anyways, back to the letter. ‘Ooh, you have some fun stuff on your list. You can get yourself pregnant? Have you tried yet? What do you think will happen? Will your kid be a clone of you? Also, your wings are so HAWT. Have you tried midair sex yet? Where everyone can see?’”

Kevin, looking genuinely ill, pushed on. “Then she left a note to squee like a girl at a boy band concert and I am not going to do that.”

The table begged to differ—someone at the far end produced a very passable fake squeal, and several others joined in.

He lowered the letter to look at Laura Black, who burst out laughing, shaking her head. “Mona clearly missed the actual assignment,” she said, still laughing, “but I appreciate the enthusiasm. As for the questions, no comment.”

Kevin checked the next name and went even whiter. “‘Tyalangan, you have sooooo many transformations! It’s hard to pick which ones to focus on! Your Host must have really liked you! Still, the one I am fantasizing about right now is one you don’t have. I mean, I started with bigger boobs than you and that is a travesty! You should get some Mana Tanks like Tegan!’”

Kevin paused, looked up at Harper, and asked, “Ah, you aren’t going to smite me for that, ma’am?”

Tyalangan snorted, then shrugged, “The dirigible enthusiasts in the audience probably agree. It’s fine.”

He nodded, relieved, but Mona’s letter had more. “Mona also wants to know how big you would get…”

Tyalangan did a quick mental calculation, shrugging out an, “R-cups? And, if Mona tries to make that happen, I will let her try out having R-cups first. Should nip that in the bud.”

The table was still hooting when Kevin moved on. “‘Mr. Burgmeyer, you also seem to have missed out on getting a bunch of fun stuff. But, being able to assign house rules sounds cool. I got ideas! House Rule: No pants! House Rule: You can eat as many cookies as you want and you won’t get fat! House Rule: Free Hugs! I can keep going! Also, I bet it’s super exciting to see your game world come to life! You must have been a super horny DM. Slimes as sexy cleaning agents sounds especially fun!’”

Kevin Burgmeyer waited for the laugh to die, then answered in perfect deadpan: “‘The most important part of a good house rule is that it makes things more fun for everyone, not less, which is why they vary from group to group. If your table wants to play without pants, more power to you, but do me a favor—let me know first. Based on today’s behavior, if I invest in whatever company supplies your towels I’ll be the one cleaning up, not the slimes.’”

Somewhere, a glass hit the table a little too hard and water slopped over, but nobody noticed.

Kevin flipped the page, face set in grim determination. “‘Mr./Ms. Garret, my eyes glaze over trying to read all of your transformations. Why are they so long? Ooh, you can do the male/female body swap thing! Do you think you can stop it part way? You know, big boobied girl on top, big donged guy on bottom? Best of both worlds, like my fiancée Ootah! Of course, she has a pussy, too. So, not as good, but close! Ooh, and you can copy transformations? Does that work outside your harem? Cause, if so, you should totally copy Mr. Cooper’s split-into-two-bodies thing! Then you could blow yourself! Hawt!’”

Kevin paused long enough to state, “This is giving me a migraine…” then slumped a little, as if some vital spark was being drained away by the letter. Mark, entirely unfazed, called down the table: “Sorry to disappoint, but it doesn’t work like that. The swap only goes all or nothing, and the copying doesn’t reach outside my own set.” The table cheered.

Onward, Kevin continued, “‘Mr. Cooper, you haven’t done any of my sexy suggestions yet? I thought so long and hard on them… Well, maybe this one might tickle your fancy? Have you tried entering the Konami Code into your Portable console? That’s bound to do something sexy; every video game programmer makes it do something! Oooh, maybe it’ll summon a bunch of tentacles! That would be hawt! Or dinosaurs! That would be fun!’”

Andy deadpanned, “I’ve tried the Konami Code more than once, and all I got was extra lives. Which, depending on your outlook, is either a bug or the safest possible outcome.” Mildred, somewhere behind him, nodded in subtle but unmistakable approval.

Kevin’s next name made him actually wince: “She told me to shriek like an excited pre-teen at a concert to start this one and I once again refuse. ‘King Arthur is here? That is soooo cool! I bet he and his bros are totally enjoying the boring boy stuff at the bachelor party. It’s nice that Kevin isn’t the only contestant over there. Now, Kevin, be sure to get some sexy advice on how to please your boyfriend while you have the chance. Anyways, are you a top or a power bottom, Arthur? I bet it depends on which of your knights you are spending the knight with.’ Yes, she went for that lazy pun. ‘So you get to feel the wide girth of Sir Kay up your tushie, then play with Sir Galahad’s chastity cage while plowing him. HAWT! Ooh, how many threesomes do you get with Lancelot and Guinevere? I hope it’s a bunch!’”

The laughter that followed was a half-second behind, because half the table had just registered the name. Kevin himself lowered the letter. Mark had stopped mid-sip. Felix looked up from his glass with the careful expression of a man doing arithmetic. Laura Black had gone very still, her eyes moving from Kevin to the man at the end of the table. Burgmeyer’s deadpan had cracked just slightly, and he was looking at Art with the focused attention of someone who had just been handed a primary source.

A pause. Art looked at the table, then answered, completely unflustered: “My knights were not men. Caia, Galahe, all of them—women who stood by me and whom I love. And Lottie, whom Mona is calling Lancelot loved Gwenhwyfar long before she loved me. We get along very well.”

The silence that followed was a different kind than the ones before it.

“Hold on,” Felix said. “Art. Short for—”

“Yes,” Art said.

Mark put his drink down too, slowly. “You’re actually him,” Mark said. It wasn’t a question.

“I am,” Art said.

The table’s reaction was a ripple: a few nods, some muffled “damn,” and a moment of respect that cut clean through the roast’s intended razzing. Harper tapped her glass, like she was toasting the gender revolution a millennium early. Kevin looked at Andy. Andy gave him a small nod that said, yes, and also, I should have mentioned that. Adrien had the expression of a man who had already known and had been waiting patiently for everyone else to catch up.

The silence held another beat—and then Burgmeyer said, very quietly, “I have so many questions and none of them are appropriate for a bachelor party,” and the laughter that came back was less raucous but much richer.

Kevin, eyes a little wild now, pressed on. “‘Hi, Felix! I hope the last bit of your date on our set went well! Mine did! Ooh, everyone should get naked in solidarity of your whole ‘can’t wear pants’ transformation! I hope you brought Nox or someone with you in case you get horny over there. I mean, there is a sexy dragon girl at that party!’ Then she wrote that I should do a sexy strip dance ‘to maybe make Felix horny,’ but I am not going to do that. I have a feeling nobody here would enjoy it.’”

Felix, pink to his hairline but laughing anyway, muttered, “At this rate, Mona is going to get me permanent permission for pants out of sheer embarrassment. Please keep going. I want to see if she runs out of steam before I die.”

Kevin was almost done, but not quite. “‘Mr. Moore, hmm… Not a single transformation? What did you do to anger your Host? Still, you have that sexy DILF energy! When I look at you, I wanna put on a slutty schoolgirl outfit and have you spank me in a role play thing, while you explain the philosophical implications of the naughty schoolgirl kink. Sexy and enlightening! And we probably aren’t related, despite you being around, sexing up the ladies, since when there were living dinosaurs on your Earth. Probably.’”

Adrien, who’d barely reacted to any of it so far, let out a low, rich laugh and said, “The dinosaurs were extinct long before I was born, but the rest is surprisingly accurate.” He paused, added, “For what it’s worth, Mona, your letter-writing is more interesting than most of the Masters I’ve met.” He looked around. “No offense.”

There was a beat, then Andy said, “Adrien, do you have a take on the schoolgirl philosophical conundrum?”

He considered, then replied, “Roleplay, like all performance, is only as meaningful as the sincerity behind it. The rest is just details.”

Kevin stared at the last lines on the page, took a moment to compose himself, and said, “That’s the end of this page. But there’s more. I can see the pages. God help us.”

Matt called, “Do you need a water break, or are you going to keep going until you die?”

Kevin, voice small, said, “I think it might be both.” Feeling the subtle pressure of the entire table waiting to see if he’d survive, he squared his shoulders, found his place in the letter, and read aloud: “‘Van! Hi, again! Have you told Riot how much I love her explode clothes away power? How’d she take it? I bet she blew up some clothes to make you smile! I also bet that Wisp could give you a really fun handjob by phasing through your clothes! Dreamweaver could make some fancy porno illusions of you and Banshee to get you in the mood! That sounds pretty hot! I also heard you lift? Ooh, since most of you have super strength, Master lift me repeatedly contest! Any takers?’”

He looked up, eyebrows arched, and waited. The table pivoted to Van as one.

Van went so red it was visible even through his dark hair, then ducked his head and muttered, “I’m not sure if this is better or worse than being in my actual season. But it’s… flattering?” He looked at Andy for help and got none; Andy, like everyone else, was already laughing.

Kevin seemed to sense that letting Van stew would be cruel, so he barreled ahead: “‘Mr. Hawkins, it’s nice to see that I am not the only horny little gremlin that gets a fancy harem throne! Wow, the way you did that kinky stuff with your wife was soooo Hawt! And without any ‘make Master good at sex’ or ‘make Master sexy’ transformations to boot! Impressive! I bet you are gonna get laid so much this Week! Consent is sexy, so be sure to check often! Finally, get some more transformations.’”

Matt, who’d managed to coast through most of the lunch on charm and the careful equilibrium of a man who never let himself care too much, had to actually stop and regroup. His ears went pink and he tried to cover it by giving an easy shrug and winking at the table. “I mean, she’s not wrong. I am going to get laid a lot, and I am going to ask for consent every single time. It’s the hottest part.”

Kevin sighed, wilted a little in his seat, and finished, "‘Mr. West, you are in the movies! That's so cool! I bet all of your sexy actress harem girls are treating you super good on the casting couch. Are you in charge of casting for Wai-Fu Quest? Can I get a sneak peek? Or, oooh, a Magical Cuties Go Go adaptation! You need to get Mr. Ward to play Lord Tentacle!’"

Robert had been quiet through most of it with the particular stillness of someone who knew when to vanish. Now he tilted his head, considered, and said, “For the record, I didn’t build the casting couch. I inherited it.” He paused. “And who is Mr. Ward?”

A ripple of confusion passed through the group. Andy leaned forward slightly. “He is a Master from one of the demon-hosted seasons. Came to my birthday party. Couldn’t make it today—apparently his Host never even passed along the invitation.”

Robert absorbed this, then gave a slow nod. “Right. Well. He’s getting the call.” He raised his glass toward the ceiling, in the direction of wherever Mona presumably was, with the gravity of a man accepting an award.

Sam let the moment breathe, then climbed up on her chair with a slow, ceremonial precision. She looked at Kevin, at the group, then said, “Okay, officially: the roast is over. Nobody died, nobody caught fire, and we’re all still friends. Good job, everyone.” She gave a little bow—then stayed standing, and swung her finger toward Harper like a gavel coming down. “Hold on. You’ve been sitting there all lunch looking composed. You’re a groomswoman. There are standards.”

Harper looked at her own glass for a moment, as if consulting it. Then she set it down, pushed back her chair, and got to her feet.

Harper stood up and takes the podium. She rolled her shoulders, trying to get into showwoman mode. “Ladies, Gentlemen, Those that can be either when the mood strikes, Pets, Familiars, Entities from beyond time and space, even those degenerate perverts in the audience. I am a serious, dignified woman, with tendencies towards dour moods. Also, my emotional support banter bunny is in another dimension. Forgive me as I muddle through this. I suppose, as the Gina and Marcie Reviews official best Harem Hotel Master, I should let my hair down and begin.”

Harper enjoyed the sensation of her hair unbraiding itself. She had a tress grab the microphone Sam supplied from her Inventory so she could move around.

“Alright, Andi Cooper, Koala Warrior Princess, time for some inside joke check-ins. Have you been practicing using your ‘true form’ off-camera? We barely get to see her now. How are you going to stop the deadly dingo from stealing all the didgeridoos without some practice? Also, I was promised Laura cosplaying me. How are those projects going?”

Harper had her hair hold the microphone for Andy, hovering it in just the right place. Andy shifted to Andi right there at the table, the fake koala ears twitching into place, the mithril claws catching the light as she flexed her fingers around the mic. The chestplate Shar had made her caught the sun and threw it back twice as bright. “Koala Warrior Princess is always in training,” Andi said, deadpan, tapping one claw against the chestplate. “The dingo doesn't stand a chance. Neither do the didgeridoos, honestly.” She paused, considering the second question with visibly more caution than the first. “As for Laura's cosplay progress... no comment.” She held the mic back out toward Harper's hair with the solemnity of someone declining to testify, and sat down.

Harper smirked, then moved on to Sam. “Harem Queen Collins, a pleasure to speak with you again. It is a gift. Speaking of gifts, I hope you have enjoyed the ones I sent to you via the dear groom to be. The idea of you... researching my ravishing rabbit Tina with... probing intensity... brought her much joy. By the way, what happened to the statue?”

Again, Harper held the microphone up for a response. “The statue,” Sam repeated, savoring it, “is currently the centerpiece of what I like to call the Hall of Questionable Decisions—the harem’s private trophy room. It's got its own little spotlight, right next to that painting of Norah in the cowprint bikini, six breasts, cow ears, the tail with the ribbons, the boots, the cowbell, the lasso, all of it. Used to hang in a bathroom, if you can believe that—total waste, nobody appreciates fine art mid-shower.” She grinned. “Andy tried to talk me into 'storage' for the statue, and I said absolutely not, a gift like that deserves to be seen.” She bowed. “Tina's a lucky rabbit, by the way. Tell her I said hi.”

The sea elf moved on. “Oh, hi, Mark. The Master of the first season me and mine reached out to. My apologies for what The Prick did to my efforts at helping you out. One of these days, we may need an intervention for your contract law fetish. I’d include an intervention for being a dirigible enthusiast, but I imagine I would be on the losing side of it. Oh, and I owe you a statue. Here you go.”

Harper held the microphone for Mark as she dropped the giant collectible limited edition Flora ahegao statue beside him from her Inventory. The lion-girl was bare except for a collar, her mouth agape, her eyes unfocused. Mark blinked, then pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed in exasperation, as the statue was almost immediately whisked away by magic, leaving behind only an unsigned thank you note, promising it would be put in a place of prominence. “I’m sure she’ll love it…” Mark’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he knew he was going to get a ribbing for this.

Moving on, Harper approached Felix. “Congratulations are in order, young Felix. You are down to 1.5 Craigs, which is a dramatic improvement, given that you started with 5 of ‘em. And, even better, you somehow convinced a majority of your harem to let you wear pants. You’re making good progress. I am proud of you. Keep making those baby steps towards greatness.”

Once again, Harper held the microphone out. Felix took it like it might bite him. “From what I've seen, I only have one Craig left, but I take your point,” Felix said. “As for wearing pants, alas, only around people who aren't in the Harem. But maybe decades from now I'll be able to wear pants at will.” He passed the mic back before Harper could ask a follow-up he definitely wasn't ready for.

The next stop was not too far. “Another young man here. Hello, Van. I have already written to you, but I imagine the letter has not been delivered yet. I feel bad about teasing you, especially since you haven’t even gotten past the first challenge yet. You’ll survive, young man, if you let yourself. Same goes to you, Mr. West, Mr. Moore, and Mr. Hawkins. Reach out when you need it. I will be happy to do what I can.”

“Mr. Burgmeyer, we have yet to interact, but you are a bit different. I have more serious notes for you later, but, for now, as a fellow forever DM, I feel a bit of kinship with you. Your party seems to be a bit lackadaisical, though. Where is the effort to power-level? You should stick a fire under their feet, get them cracking. They’ll never reach the level cap if they don’t go grind for XP. I also owe you a statue. I’m sure it will make a lovely addition to your Suite.”

Another ahegao statue materialized by a Master, this time of Elsie. Harper held the microphone with her hair for Kevin. He hesitated, his eyes looking distant for a moment before he answered. “Ms. Harper—or Mrs. Harper, please forgive me if I don't know how you style yourself—I thank you for the consideration of including me. As another forever DM, I'm sure you know that not all systems reward rushed progression. I'm also sure you're familiar with both the phrase and the experience of 'herding cats,' so I hope you'll understand when I say I'd like to avoid doing anything that might lead to too much retraining later. If your party requires excessive grinding to reach their goal, I'm happy to ask some of mine to reach out with advice - while they might have problems of their own, that hasn't ever been one of them. As for the statue, while I normally prefer to be the cause of that kind of expression rather than merely a passive observer, I can't claim that it won't match the decor. Now I just need to figure out how I should check if it's a mimic later. Even in my most braggadocious moments, I've never claimed to be equipped with a ten foot pole.”

“Given how long your season has been going, Mr. Reynolds, I am surprised we haven’t talked before,” Harper conceded as she moved on, “but no time like the present. Just like any season that runs long enough, we have some parallels. You and I are the only ones here that had the displeasure of going through three different Hosts. Unfortunately for you, your Hosts seem to just get worse and not better like mine. Still, you get a statue too. The joys of your season not doing fan-mail since I became aware of the concept. Enjoy.”

A third ahegao statue materialized by a third Master, this time of Dani. Harper held the microphone with her hair for Nick. Nick stared at the statue for a long moment before he found his voice. “I mean—thank you? I think?” He glanced between Harper and the statue, visibly recalculating his gratitude in real time. He opened his mouth like he might say something else, then just shook his head instead. “Nope. Not touching that. I'm just going to say thanks and quit while I'm ahead.” He looked at the statue again, clearly unsure where it was going to live. “But yeah. Thanks. I guess I'll just... find a shelf.” Under his breath, he added, “Dani's not going to be happy about this.”

“Last, but not least, Ms. Black. The only other Mistress in the room. Also, arguably the biggest dirigible enthusiast in a room full of them. The whiplash you must be experiencing is tremendous. Yesterday was the birthday party, then you were thrust into a cheerleader costume contest and an orgy. Today is the start of the wedding weekend. I had close to a century between the two events. I hope you are adjusting. Also, did Shar complete your collection for you?”

Once again, Harper holds the microphone up for a response. Laura looked slightly puzzled. “I am not obsessed with large breasts, I do not know why people keep saying otherwise. There has been quite a lot going on recently, yes, but Andy's season is in quite a fast time stream, according to Shar. I have no idea what collection you mean, unless you are talking about the Candy statue that you sent, in which case no.”

Harper finally Mage Handed the microphone to Sam and took her seat, sighing.

Sam let the moment breathe, then climbed up on her chair with a slow, ceremonial precision. She looked at Kevin, at the group, then said, “Okay, officially: the roast is over. Only one thing is left.” Before anyone could claim the floor, Sam pointed at Andy. "Last word's yours. I know you're dying to."

Andy stood, took the mic from Sam’s offered hand with a small nod of thanks, and looked around the table like a man about to defuse something with a smile. “Okay. I've been taking notes.” He let that sit a beat, enjoying the way half the table immediately looked nervous. “Turnabout's fair play, right?”

He found Laura first. “Laura—Masters Support Association. I want it on record that I've never once asked to be the curve everyone else gets graded on. That's a you problem. Also, the shared calendar was absolutely your idea, and I have the episode transcript if anyone wants to relive that argument.”

He turned next to Felix, and the edge came off his voice. “Felix called me the richest sad boy alive, and, look, I can't even argue with that one—he's right, and it's fine, because the punchline turned into the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week. That's not a roast, Felix, that's a compliment with a mean haircut. I'm on to you.”

Van got a slow, deliberate point. “Van. Buddy. 'Chased by a hedgehog' is not a joke, it's a cry for help, and I want everyone to know he workshopped that for a full ten seconds before deciding it was ready.” The table laughed, and Van sank lower in his seat, grinning despite himself. “But you got up there when you didn't want to, and that took more nerve than half the actual jokes tonight. I'll take it.”

Kevin Burgmeyer was next, and Andy allowed himself an actual grin. “Kevin says I overthink walking down a path, which—fair, but I'd like the record to show that I got there eventually, and on schedule, and nobody had to carry me. He also nominated me for Sam's jester, on the grounds that I'm not funny, from a man whose idea of a punchline is comparing me to a Frazetta painting and then immediately implying I'd pop like a balloon. I don't know what that says about his taste in art, but I know what it says about his taste in comebacks.”

He looked down the table at Nick, and softened. “Nick had a joke ready and didn't use it, because he decided I didn't need it. That's not a roast. That's just Nick being Nick. I don't have a comeback for that, so I'm just going to say thank you, and let it be weird for both of us.”

He found Robert next, and grinned. “Robert declined to roast me on the grounds that he doesn't know me well enough yet, which I respect, because it's the most honest thing anyone's said all afternoon. Give it time. I promise I'm annoying in ways that reveal themselves gradually.” He raised his glass toward him. “Looking forward to whatever you come up with once you've done your research.”

He glanced toward Harper. “And Harper—thank you for the market research and the surprise inventory drop, though I'd like it noted that only one of those statues is actually my problem. Mark's already gone, Kevin's decor now, Nick's still figuring out where his lives. Mine's getting a spotlight and a place of honor next to a painting of Norah, which I did not vote for and was not consulted on, so I'd like the record to reflect that Sam is the one you should be terrifying, not me.”

Finally, he looked at Sam, who was watching him with the specific satisfaction of someone who'd engineered the whole afternoon. “And Sam—orchestrator, seating chart mastermind, professional instigator—if I ever try to plan my own party again, feel free to remind me that the last time I tried, I ended up getting roasted by a magical talking statue collection. You win. You always win. I don't know why I keep fighting it.”

He raised his glass, and the table quieted, sensing the shift. "But seriously—thank you, all of you, for making today what it was. I've been roasted by better comedians and worse friends, and somehow I ended up with the opposite of both." He looked around at them, and didn't try to dress it up any further. "To the wedding. And to whatever's dumb enough to happen after it."

The table raised their glasses back, and for a moment, the noise of the party swelled around them, warm and unbothered by anything as small as dignity.