#ottopilot-wrote-this

Maybe he was right. It was certainly a strange request, but she guessed maybe it would be okay.

Julia set on the bed next to Darius. He smelled like a million bucks. That would've been one buck for every six followers he had across the major platforms.

The agitated feeling subsided. Replacing it, soothing calm. Her muscles were loose and pliant. Maybe it was just nerves.

Darius gestured to Kathy to keep talking.

"My style incorporates Asian fashion themes and accents for a Western audience," Kathy said. "I was thinking of UGC: a mention on your podcast, an Instagram post—"

"Is it okay if I take a closer look?" He interrupted. "Julia, would you take it off for me?"

Julia's eyes widened. Her stomach churned. No, what—this is...

"Julia," Darius sighed. "I need to see the top, or we can't make a deal. You don't want to blow this for Kathy, do you?"

Julia looked at Kathy, and for just a moment, she looked like Julia felt. Like she was at war with her own senses. Her expression was... tense. Unsettling. But then, it passed. "C'mon, Jules," Kathy said, her face releasing into a droopy smile. "For me?"

Julia couldn't say no to Kathy. A weakness. She pulled the top over her head, her breasts jiggling in her bra, and handed it to Darius. In doing so, she wondered why she had resisted. She guessed it made sense that he'd want to see the top and feel the fabric. She didn't even notice the soft laugh that escaped through her lips.

He examined the top with a critical eye. "Yes, I see. It's very nice, you have talent. May I ask, Kathy, are you interested in any other ventures?"

Kathy fiddled with the top button of her blouse, releasing it from the eyelet. "What did you have in mind?"

Darius put a thick, dark hand on Julia's thigh, between her knee and her skirt. She considered moving it, but thought otherwise. His heavy hand on her bare flesh made her feel warm inside. "I have partnerships in other industries," he said. "Your talents might be valuable, if you're interested."

Kathy nodded, her pupils dilated. "I thought so," he said smiling. "Have you ever designed intimates, Kathy? Lingerie?" His hand squeezed Julia's thigh.

Kathy shook her head. "No, but I could try," she said, squirming.

"I thought so. You're very accommodating. Willing to do what's necessary. I like that." His hand traveled inward. Julia allowed it. She felt accommodating too. "Can you give me your bra, so I can see what style you like? You too, Julia. Lose the bra."

Julia watched as Kathy nodded, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. She unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall to the floor. She threw the lacy balconette bra to Darius. Her pert breasts were perfect on her petite frame.

"Julia," Darius chided, "Don't you want to help Kathy's career?"

I have to do this, for Kathy, she thought. That's right. For Kathy. Her ample tits and hard nipples met the cool hotel air as she unfurled them. Fuck, that feels good.

"You're a good friend, Julia," Darius said, dripping with mock sincerity. "But you don't like me very much though, do you?"

"No," Julia said, her breath heavy.

"But you, Kathy? I bet you'd like to fuck me. Am I right?"

Kathy shuddered. "God yes. You're so hot. And famous."

Darius laughed. "The next best thing would be to watch me fuck, then?"

"Can I?" Kathy said softly, squeezing her tits.

"Sure," Darius said, "as long as it's okay with Julia. Is that good with you, Julia? You wouldn't want to disappoint your friend."

"You're right," Julia slurred, sliding her skirt and panties down her thick thighs. She didn't like him much, but he did make a lot of sense. She was surprised how wet she was for this asshole.

"What a good friend," Darius said, pulling his dick out of his basketball shorts and stroking its generous length. "Putting on a show for you, Kathy. Why don't you take everything off? It will be easier to show her how much you appreciate it."

"Yeah," Kathy said, her voice distant. She hastily pulled down her trousers and lacy thong while Julia mounted Darius, reverse-cowgirl. Julia stared at Kathy's slim frame lustily as she adjusted to his size.

Julia closed her eyes, biting her lower lip. Oh God, she's watching me. She rocked her hips and tugged her left nipple in rhythm. Kathy felt her own breast with one hand, the other making circles on her clit in time with Julia's pace.

"Fuck, this some bomb-ass pussy," Darius said. "Have either of you girls considered the adult film industry?"

Kathy shook her head. "No." A long pause. "Really?"

"Oh yeah," Darius said, his thrusts eliciting grunts from Julia, who met his advances. "Couple hot girls like you? A tiny Asian taking the biggest dicks in her tight pussy? A thick Latina that's all ass and titties with a pretty face? Gotta work on your name though, Kathy. What do you think about Kitty?"

"Kitty?" Kathy asked, licking her fingers before plunging them back in her pussy.

"Oh yeah. Kitty... Kitty Kumslut. Gotta use that alliteration. Make it part of your lingerie branding. BareKitty? WetKitty? You can work on that."

Kitty moaned. "Oh fuck. I could be famous." Her fingers pistoned in and out of her pussy, making obscene squelching noises.

Julia watched the change in her friend's demeanor, and it only fueled her own lust. She ground her wet cunt against Darius's pubis, bottoming out on his big dick. A thin trail of drool ran down her chin.

"Fuck, Julia, you're gonna make me cum," Darius groaned. "How would you feel if I came inside you?"

"I'd hate it," Julia blurted. "You feel so fucking good. But I don't even like guys." Her body betrayed her, her pussy creaming all over him.

"Oh? You like girls?" A smile crept across his face. "Aw shit. You're sweet on Kitty over here." Julia said nothing, but the answer was evident. Her eyes met Kitty's, a complex set of emotions on her face, and both women responded by throwing themselves further toward their building climaxes.

Darius laughed. "Well shit. Then I'm gonna fill you all up. And you're going to hate every second of it. Every time you cum on a dick and they flood your cunt, you're going to feel all that shame and guilt." He grabbed her hips, holding her flush against him, and whispered in her ear. "And it's going to make you cum so hard."

Darius shot ropes of hot cum inside Julia's waiting womb. She felt it splashing inside her, triggering her own climax. "Aww fuck!" she cried loudly. Tears rolled down her cheeks, thigh even she couldn't tell if they were from self-loathing or orgasmic bliss. Kitty followed shortly thereafter, whimpering with need, her thighs quivering.

Julia rolled off of Darius's still-hard cock, their intermingled juices leaving a trail that landed on her thigh. She lay on her back, panting.

Darius pointed at the floor. "Yo Kitty, put your clothes back on. Not your panties. I want you to stuff those in Julia's cunt."

Kitty put her clothes back on. They felt conservative and restrictive now. Going to need to upgrade my wardrobe, she thought with a giggle. Slowly approaching, she took her panties and, with an excited smile, stuffed them into Julia's stretched, used pussy. Julia gasped at the intrusion and the contact of her best friend, and crush, sliding her slick fingers across Julia's sensitive clit.

"Good girl," Darius said. "Now clean me up. Let's see Kitty Kumslut's oral skills." He turned to Julia as Kitty enthusiastically took to his cock. "As for you, Princess," he said. "You get dressed too. You two go find a secluded spot, and she can eat my seed out of your pussy. A little parting gift from me, for being such a good friend.

"I'll send Kitty the names of my industry contacts, and they'll take care of you. You'll be getting slutted out on PornHub in no time. Now get scarce. I have a four o' clock, and I need to clean up."

Conflicted, Julia put her clothes on and tried to fix her messy hair. She hated herself for everything that had happened, but she especially hated how hot it was. She heard Kitty's mouth come off Darius's cock with a little pop, and that was her cue. She opened the hotel door, and the two women walked out into the tenth-floor hallway of the Four Seasons.

I look for cameras. Finding none, I reach under the slit in my dress and pull my Sig Sauer P365 from its thigh holster. Saying a quick prayer that I won't need it, I rap on the door. "Housekeeping."

The door cracks open, and I move quickly, pushing my way inside. A man on the other side takes a tumble. Once inside, I shove the door closed with my ass. All the while, my piece is pointed at the man as I scan the room. "Stay down," I bark.

I spot the asset right away. She stands by an open window, the hotel's neon sign lighting her face in red. Same black evening dress she was dropped off in; sexy, but not overly tawdry. Red lipstick still applied perfectly. Not a knockout, but pretty. Obtainable. Normally, her standout feature would be her green eyes, but her gaze is vacant, like twin emeralds that had lost their lustre.

Not a hair out of place. An odd state for an escort drone.

I turn my attention to the man, who I'm still trained on. Middle-aged. Balding. Tattered sportcoat. Polyester slacks. Dated fashion sense. He's dressed like these are the only nice clothes he's ever owned. He looks nervous, propped up on his elbows, showing me his open palms. "Am I in trouble?"

"You Henry Robbins?" I ask. The room was in the client's legal name, paid in cash. That made him either terribly naive, or terribly stupid.

"Yes," he says, his voice shaky. "Look, I—"

I interrupt. I'm not interested in his life story. "Stand. Hands behind your head." Henry stands. He's probably 5' 4" and 130 pounds soaking wet. I give him a quick pat down from behind, and he's predictably clean. Not a threat, just some guy. I holster my piece. "She was due back at ten." I point to the couch. "Have a seat while I inspect the girl."

Henry sits, gingerly. Poor guy looks spooked. Probably has never seen a gun in his life. "Ten P.M.? I thought I had until ten in the morning."

I stand next to the drone and pull out my phone. I hook into her interface via Bluetooth and start running a diagnostic. I don't look up. "Probably seems like a lot of money, but you'd need a lot more than that for an over-nighter." Scans look good, which makes sense, since I doubt this guy has even breathed on her in three hours. "I need to bring her back to the shop for processing. You're lucky I had nothing better to do tonight." I compose a quick text to intake. Asset 43 recovered. Call off the dogs. ETA 11:50.

"What? No. Please, I need more time," the man says. He looks like he's on the verge of tears. There's a bottle of champagne on ice on the end table next to him, and two empty champagne flutes.

I sigh, arms crossed. "Look, Henry—it is Henry? Henry, this is an escort drone, and you loaned her out from some powerful and, frankly, very scary people. This is not an overdue book from the public library. You don't just bring her back when it's convenient for you."

Henry's shoulders slump. When he speaks, he ignores my warning, and it's like he's talking to himself. "They told me she'll do whatever I ask. That her name's 'Tiffany.' But it's not."

I look again at the motionless drone, then at the empty champagne flutes. "You knew her."

Henry's eyes are brimming with tears. "Her name is Cindy. Cindy Robbins. She is my wife." The use of tense is intentional. and it's received loud and clear. Not "was my wife." Is. Guess I'm getting the life story after all.

Henry continues, leaning forward, wringing his hands, looking at the floor. "Last year, she was diagnosed with early-onset dementia. She couldn't cope with that. I don't know how she found out about this, but she volunteered."

My stomach churns a little as I think of my mother, but I keep a poker face. "She volunteered? To be a drone?"

He nods. "One day I came home, and all I found was a note. Cashed out my savings and took a second on the house so I could afford tonight." His voice breaks. "I didn't even get to say goodbye."

It's time to go, Bailey. No, it's half past time to go. Right. Time to bring the asset in. It's not time to guess when was the last time I had someone to kiss at the New Year. Not time to think about Mamá, and what I'd give to have another night with her. I look at the drone, her eyes looking straight ahead, and it's definitely not time to think about what choice I would make. Lose myself a little at a time, or do it all at once—with the soothing, cold appliance of a wetwork neural interface. Mental euthanasia.

11:37. So close. I had one foot out the goddamned door. Girl, this life is only going to work if you can compartmentalize, and you keep showing yourself you can't do that.

I break out my phone again, reconnecting to the drone's neural interface.

"What are you doing?" Henry asks.

I lower the personality inhibitors and schedule a job to reassert them. “Don’t talk,” I say. Stop talking, Henry, before I change my goddamn mind. I'm taking an awful risk. My backers tend to frown upon tampering with the merchandise, even from the lead architect.

Those green eyes blink. When they re-open, the haze is lifted. It's replaced by something, possibly confusion, possibly awareness. Whatever it is, it's human. The perfectly painted lips move, possibly for the first time tonight. One word escapes them. "Henry?"

"Cindy. Oh God." Henry looks at her, then at me. Like I'm Baron Fucking Frankenstein. “What did you do?”

"Thirty minutes," I say, dropping my phone into my purse.

I walk to the minibar. Johnnie Walker Blue Label, huh? Think I'll make it a double. I brought his wife back from the dead for half-an-hour, least Henry could do is buy me the good stuff. As the lovebirds have a tearful reunion, my shaky hands dump two of the tiny bottles into a tumbler. Then I sit in the leather cuck chair at the desk, and I watch.

Following some real Nicholas Sparks shit, they've wiped their tears and have moved to the couch. You think they'd be all hands, all over each other. Hell, maybe even move to the bed and fuck. But it's the damndest thing.

At first all they do is talk. But not loud enough for me to hear from ten feet away. Hushed tones, sometimes whispers. He says something and her face lights up like fireworks, and she laughs. I sip my scotch and I peer at them over the rim of the glass. She's beautiful, and while I still think it's insane and dangerous that he went in debt over this night with her, I'm starting to understand. Love makes people crazy.

But eventually, even the talking stops. They're just sitting together, holding hands. In each other's presence, her head resting on his shoulder. Three of us in this room, and the only one talking is Anderson Cooper on the television. When I look at them all I see are my own aborted relationships, and my unwillingness to share space with anyone. If I keep them away, neither of us will get hurt. My anxiety ties knots in my stomach. I stand up and drift to the window.

I send an update from my phone. New ETA 12:25. Something minor slightly off on the asset, running a diagnostic. Need more time. Take it out of my cut if needed. Timestamp reads 11:58.

I turn my back and face the window, pretending to give the couple privacy, but it's a lie. Instead of looking out over the Carpenter State campus, I watch the Robbins' New Year kiss reflected in the window. I feel like a voyeur, like a pervert who looks through peepholes in the public bathroom. Except instead of tits and ass, I'm the weirdo leering at people with a healthy relationship. My eyes shift to my own reflection, and I don't like what I find. Without my tech, none of us would be here tonight.

"TIme's up, Henry. Say goodbye," I mutter.

Henry leaves Cindy, and scurries over to me. He speaks in hushed tones so she won't hear. "Please, I'm begging, can you give us a few more minutes?"

I shake my head. "No. I'm doing you a favor, Henry."

Henry is practically begging. "I'm grateful for what you did, ma'am. but please, I need more time."

I lower my voice. "Henry… You won't want to be around when Cinderella turns into a pumpkin."

The implication hangs in the air, as a twisted look of horror settles on his face. He knows I'm right. He won't—he can't—watch her forget about him again.

Henry and Cindy say their goodbyes as I stand by the door. They hug and kiss for the last time, the hug lingering as neither wants to break it first. It's a good thing I didn't eat tonight, because I want to throw up.

Cindy says, "The price must have been tremendous, baby. You didn't have to do this."

There are hot wet tears running down Henry's cheeks. "Yeah, Cin. Yeah, I did."

Cindy leaves with me, and we walk in awkward silence to the elevators. Never done this. Never had to talk to a sentient drone, and it makes my palms sweat.

Finally, I say something. It's eating me alive from the inside out. "I'm sorry. But we had to go."

"No. Don't be sorry. You did a kind thing for him," Cindy says softly, adding, "for us."

"A kind thing." I push the Down button with a pen. Sure, I created the technology that made you a sex robot, but by all means, let's talk about my good deeds.

"You say it like it's a curse."

"Don't hear that a lot in my line of work." I immediately regret opening my big mouth.

The elevator arrives and the decorated doors slide open. Cindy and I walk inside, facing forward. I pull out my phone and look down at it, pretending to check college football scores. Anything to avoid the uncomfortable conversation I started.

"I never thought… he would do this. Hire me out." Cindy let out a humorless laugh. "I guess I shouldn't be that surprised. He even wore the coat I bought him." I see her warm smile reflected in the elevator doors, then it fades into a frown. "I chose this, you know. I didn't want to hurt him. Him watching me slowly forget him, forget everything I loved about him, all while he had to take care of me… I thought I was doing him a favor."

I can't look this woman in the eyes right now, because I've lived that truth. Mamá might have forgotten my name and that I was her daughter, but she never forgot she loved me. Never. I saw it in her eyes until the day she died.

"You don't sound so sure," I say. There's a wobble in my voice, a vulnerability I'd rather not disclose nor accept. "Maybe it wasn't your decision to make alone."

Cindy swallows so hard I can hear it. A hesitation. "I…"

At the pause, I look up and see Cindy's reflection in the elevator's steel doors. The brushed steel distorts Cindy's features, but there's that same blank, vacant of a drone. A look I've seen a hundred times over.

Heavy sigh. Fuck. Nice knowing you, Cindy Robbins.

The door opens on the ground floor, and I step out, heels clicking on the marble tiles. All business, once again. "Follow me," I instruct the drone. My phone reads 12:06 as I message intake. Asset is secured, bringing it to processing. ETA: Fifteen minutes.

I push through the heavy exterior doors and into the brisk Romero night, the drone following obediently behind. A light snow is starting to fall, but I barely notice. Cindy's words weigh heavily on my mind. A kind thing. I try to tell myself, kindness was the kind of thing that got you killed in Romero, or worse.

A smirk forms on my face. Or maybe… it was the only thing that proved I was still alive.

I don't know how long I've had this power—it just sort of happened one day. Up until then, I'd lived a pretty charmed life, and I thought that was just dumb luck. Now… I'm pretty sure that's not true.

There are a couple rules I learned from trial and error. I don't have to be looking at a person (but it helps), and I do have to be relatively close to them. I can't undo a previous command. And the effects are permanent.

It definitely has its perks, don't get me wrong. I get a lot of stuff comped, like that soup and sandwich, and a lot of pretty women like Liz have sex with me whenever I want. If you think that's neat, it's small potatoes. I'm a writer by trade, but I have millions in the bank. How did it get there? Well, when you live in New York City and have access to the minds of politicians, bankers, and CEOs, the world is your oyster. I've had crazy, wild sex with the world's most beautiful women, sometimes simultaneously. I've thrown out first pitch at Yankee Stadium. I've been the equivalent of white, pudgy Jay-Z.

I wave to a retired teacher I pass once in a while. "Hey Mrs. Garcia! ¿Cómo estás? That's a very pretty hairstyle. You feel confident and beautiful and people who tell you otherwise are wrong." She looks at me blankly before her face lights up in a proud smile.

Anyway, it's isolating. No one will ever understand what it's like to be me, and all my relationships fall into two categories: people I can't trust because I've already mind controlled them, and people I haven't mind controlled yet. I've surrounded myself with yes men before, and that's an empty and unfulfilling life. I also can't trust myself to make new friends or partners and not accidentally, innocuously, alter them. A little slip up like "I think you should wear that dress" and they'll be a different person, forever. And there's always the risk of breakage.

Let me explain. No, wait.

"Hey," I call out to some asshole manhandling his lady friend on the street. "Don't be a dick to women." And to his girlfriend: "If he treats you bad, leave him. If he hits you, you cut his dick off."

OK, now where was I? So here's an example: I naively, stupidly, made a woman fall in love with me. Sounds great! Until you realize what you wanted is someone to love you for you. So I'll just undo it. Nope, doesn't work that way. That woman will be in therapy for years, and it's my fault.

Plus, when you tell a corrupt CEO to come clean to the press, and he tells a reporter about all his trips to Epstein Island… Lemme just say that crashing the world's financial markets will make you take it down a notch.

I learned over time: don't rock the foundation of the world to its core, don't upset the balance of the universe. I like to call them nudges. Just a little suggestion here and there. Some harder than others, but never a push, just a nudge.

Ah, back home. Another fruitless day of ennui for the most powerful man in New York. I throw my keys on the counter and hang my coat on the back of a chair. I flip the TV on and plop onto the couch and sigh.

News, news, sports, infomercial, talk show…oh. Men in Black is on. I've always wanted to see this. I watch while I scroll my phone. It's pretty funny, though it feels like something else I've watched before. Tommy Lee Jones is funnier than I thought. Oh, that's interesting. Huh. Will Smith makes Agent K forget he was Agent K. Then he lives a normal life. Could I do that?? Could I live a normal life?

I rise slowly and think this through. I don't even know if it will work. Nothing could happen, or I could turn my brain into a turnip. I'd ask myself: if I didn't have this power, how did I get rich? I mean, I used to think it was just luck. I can tell myself to think that. Excited, I walk over to the bathroom vanity.

Well, I thought, taking a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

"You will forget you can control minds. You will just assume your fortune to this point is the product of charm and good luck."

I stare at the reflection in the mirror, and it stares back at me. And I feel kind of funny, like my brain was a muscle that had fallen asleep, and blood was rushing back into it. Tingly.

Damn. What was I doing?

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Liz, the waitress from the coffee shop on Broadway, is wearing one of my t-shirts and looking at my bookshelf. I guess she liked me more than I thought, she practically threw herself at me when I opened the door. Helluva first date, I thought, as I microwaved the food she brought.

Liz reads off some of the titles. "Total Recall, Men in Black, The Matrix, Memento…" She pulls a DVD box off the shelf. "Oh, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind! I haven't seen this in years, it's such a good movie."

I shrug as I plate the food. "I've never seen it, I don't even remember buying it."

"Really? The case is pretty worn. Maybe you got it used."

I furrow my brow. Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing any of those movies. I must have got a good deal.

I pull out at chair for her, then stick my head in the fridge. "Maybe. What would you like to drink? I have Diet Coke, uhh… Diet Coke. And water."

Liz smiles, "Water is fine, I don't like fizzy drinks."

"That's too bad. Because I do have some syrups and club soda, so I could make an Italian soda. I think you would like an Italian soda if you've never had one."

I hear the sound of a fork hitting the china plate, and I turn. Liz's full lips part slightly. Her big blue eyes go glassy, her breath hitching before she exhales, long and slow. My Wu-Tang tee slips off one bare shoulder as she slackens and sinks, her expression melting like warm butter.

"I like Italian soda," she drones in a monotone voice.

Derek descended the stairs and opened a wooden door. It was dark inside, but he could make out the glow of a light.

The first thing he noticed was the space was much bigger than he had thought from outside. It appeared to be an old dance hall or banquet room. Round tables with white tablecloths flanked a parquet dance floor. There was a small kitchen where the sounds of Cantopop music and flourescent lights cast a cool, greenish tint on the rest of the room.

"Hello?" Derek called out. "Are you open?"

A middle-aged Chinese woman emerged from the kitchen. Her salt-and-pepper hair was worn up haphazardly in a bun, and a dingy apron covered her house clothes. She looked confused, and addressed Derek loudly in annoyed Cantonese.

"Is this a restaurant?" Derek asked, speaking clearly. "The sign says 'Dumplings'?"

"English?" the woman asked, pointing at Derek. "No Chinese?"

"Oh. I'm Chinese, but I only speak English," Derek admitted. "American born."

This drew a vigorous nod from the woman. Derek thought she was probably very attractive in her day. "We open later. You by yourself?"

Derek smiled cordially. "Yes, I'm new here. College. First time in San Francisco."

"Ahhhh! Welcome." The woman's grin was slightly unsettling. "I make you something. Off menu. You OK wait?"

"Wow. That's great. Yes, please."

The woman motioned to the closest table and pulled out a chair, dusting offer seat with her hand. "OK. I bring tea?"

Derek nodded and sat in the empty chair. The woman came back quickly with a teapot, a glass, and an incense stick and holder. She lit the incense and placed it on the table, and poured some water into the glass on top of what looked like a little green pod.

The woman pointed to the glass. "Chrysanthemum," she said. "Flower bloom, very pretty," she smiled, as she made a motion with her hands. Then she shuffled off back to the kitchen.

Derek watched the flower in the glass slowly open up from the pod. After about a minute, it had expanded into a bright yellow blossom, and the water had taken on the same hue. The tea had a delicate, slightly sweet flavor, unlike the green or jasmine tea Derek typically had in Chinese restaurants.

As he sipped the tea, he had to admit he was impressed with the presentation. A trail of smoke rose from the incense, and Derek wafted it towards him. It was certainly a strange odor. There was an acrid sweetness to it he couldn't quite place. There was an earthy, woody smell and some citrus notes, a common scent to half the herbalists on Grant Street. But that sweet smell was very unusual, and Derek smelled it again, trying to place it.

Feeling relaxed, Derek looked around the dark room. It had a slight musty odor from the poor underground ventilation. The decor was like what you might find in Chinese restaurants across the country, but in a more reserved, less kitschy manner. On the walls were vintage photographs of pretty young Chinese women in cheongsam dresses, their short hair curled at the ends.

Derek imagined laborers getting off their factory shifts, tired and maligned, but cleaning up nicely and coming to this place to cut loose and dance with pretty girls. He gazed dreamily at one photo in particular. She seemed to be calling to him, his thoughts drifting off to a bygone era.

Derek blinked. Must be tired, he thought hazily. Zoned out a little. He sipped more tea. It tasted different. A little stronger. More bitter. More… floral. Like drinking perfume. Thicker, even. More tea at his parted lips. Swallow. Again and again, until it was gone. Eyes heavy and unfocused. He felt sweaty. Breaths shallow. Smoke, curling into his nostrils. The burnt sugary odor, swirling. In his brain.

Fresh air, yeah. Derek tried to stand on wobbly legs. Like that baby cartoon deer, they buckled, and he hit the wooden floor with a thud.

His eyes fluttered. The woman from before was helping him up on his feet. He tried to stand. Fuck, he felt so hot. She pulled his t-shirt off his clammy back. Laid him down on the table. She left him there, as he curled into a fetal position on his side. Pupils blown wide, he stared into the darkness, drooling.

By the time it registered that she was removing his clothes, his pants were off, boxers going with them. He was naked but indifferent. He just wanted to sleep.

The woman spoke, her voice soothing and melodic. Had Derek been more lucid, he would have noticed her posture was now upright; her demeanor more authoritative. But first, he'd notice she'd dropped the broken English. "Perfect. The raw ingredients are ready, now the real work begins."

She reached into a steel mixing bowl, coating her hands with an amber liquid which she spread on Derek's body, starting with his chest. "This is the binder," she cooed. "Very important. You must be properly seasoned, yes." The liquid, thinner than honey but thicker than cooking oil, had an intoxicating scent. Flowers, peonies possibly. Ginger. Something spicy, like pepper. Star anise. Sesame. It went on cool, then it tingled, before quickly adding to the warmth inside. Especially as the woman began to massage and knead his flesh.

"However," she continued, working the oil into his thighs, "it cannot just be coated. The filling has to be molded. It has to be worked in." As she rubbed his muscles, they became loose. Supple. She gave a small chuckle. "Ah, yes. Softening up the meat. Breaking it down. Otherwise it will be tough." Sliding her hand along the length of his leg, she collected the loose body hair the depilatory salve had removed onto a towel. Satisfied, she gave his skin a playful slap.

Derek moaned softly as she worked the oil into his soft cock and balls, rolling him on his side, coating his ass, and sliding her slippery fingers around and into his hole. He felt the heat building, relaxing him, teasing him. Then he felt something unusual. Arousal, but unlike what he had experienced before. It originated deeper in his core, away from his penis. An inner hunger. He clenched around her finger as she slid out of him, trailing along his sensitive perineum and grazing his sack.

"Ah, there. It's starting. You feel it, don't you? The ingredients coming together, the flavors combining. The moment mere food becomes a meal." Her voice was like her touch, light and delicate, but firm where it needed to be. "Now the filling is ready, the binding has taken hold. Without the binding, you would fall apart before you could be devoured, and no one wants that to happen."

Derek said nothing in response. Completely overwhelmed, he merely sighed in contentment. The taste of the tea on his tongue, the dizzying smoke and aromatic fragrance in his nostrils, the soothing balm reshaping his body, and the woman's soothing words all wrestled for attention in his dulled mind.

"Now it is time for the wrapping. Otherwise, the filling is just a lump. The wrapping shapes the filling, makes it beautiful. Edible art." The woman pulled an end of the tablecloth over Derek's bare front, tucking it tightly under his left arm. It's unlikely Derek would have noticed the table was not lined with a thick linen tablecloth, but several layers of thinner cloth, smooth and delicate, nearly translucent. The woman moved with speed and grace, enveloping Derek tautly inside the sheet like a cocoon. The white fabric clung tightly to his oiled form, and with her prodding and adjusting, it began to take shape - slightly androgynous, slender, soft curves forming, with a muted bulge.

The woman stood back, assessing her work. "Lovely," she said with confidence. "Now I steam it gently. Keep the outer skin smooth and soft, while the filling becomes juicy and succulent." Using large tongs, the woman took the lid off an ice chest and laid large steaming hot towels over the encased young student. Inside the safe and cradling fabric, they felt the suffocating weight and sultry warmth permeating their skin. The moist heat seemed to further activate the ingested and topical agents, intensifying the sensations. It felt like all of what they once were was oozing from their pores, and being replaced by what they were becoming. "That's it, the imperfections are cooking off.

"Almost ready, my little dumpling. My little siu mai."

-----

District Attorney Ron Mitchell finished the last of his whiskey, placing the empty glass on a tray. He looked around the room, shaking his head. Normally, he would like to put half these people in jail. However, since the mayor, half the Board of Supervisors, those venture capital guys, the CEO of Panacea Tech, and last year's Best Actress winner were all here, looking the other way was part of the game.

This place really did clean up well, he supposed. Over the murmurs of hushed conversations, and through the haze of cigarette and marijuana smoke, he admired the ornate Oriental fixtures, installed a century ago when this was the most notorious brothel in Chinatown. Bright red lanterns provided ambient charm, and the crystal chandelier over the dance floor was a nice touch.

Mitchell spotted Madame Chen, the organizer, talking to the head waiter, and made his approach. An elaborately embroidered gold dragon adorned the right flank of her stunning red cheongsam dress. Her hair was styled up, and a 24-karat gold braid draped her neck with jade earrings dangling from her lobes. Though she was probably his age, she had a youthful complexion and a classical beauty about her as timeless as this old dance hall. Still, Mitchell was familiar with her skills. Which meant treating her with caution.

"Madame," Mitchell offered.

"Mr. Mitchell," Madame Chen smiled wanly. Her voice had a soporific cadence to it that made him a little uneasy. "A pleasure, as always. Will you be placing a bid tonight?"

Mitchell shook his head. "No, too rich for my blood. Was a surprise to get an invite on such short notice, but this is an impressive turnout."

Madame Chen flashed a calculating smile. "Well, my dumplings are best served fresh, for their peak enjoyment." She motioned to the dance floor. "It's time, please."

The lights in the room dimmed and a spotlight shone on the dance floor. The scratch of a dropped record needle filled the hushed room, followed by the old Shanghai Jazz melange of brass horns and a woman singing in Cantonese.

A female figure stepped out from a curtain into the spotlight. Her dazzling red silk cheongsam clung tightly to her lithe figure, as she strode forth in matching heeled pumps. She began to sway and dance with the music, gracefully lost in the rhythm, her arms extended like a ballerina. Her dark hair stayed tightly in a bun, her painted crimson lips parted, and her eyes closed as she occupied the attention of everyone in the room. A delicate flower blossoming. A piece of art imbued with life.

The song ended, and the woman bowed slightly. And finally, she opened her chestnut eyes and smiled demurely.

"Let's hear it for Siu Mai!" a voice bellowed from the speakers. "Who would like to bid on this young virginal morsel? The bidding begins at one-quarter-of-a-million dollars."

As men and women alike began to hold up numbered paddles, Mitchell leaned over and, in hushed tones, said to Madame Chen, "Congratulations, Madame. You've outdone yourself once again." His brow furrowed slightly. "Why do you call them dumplings, anyway?"

I'm ashamed to be giving up, Tahra.

Sarima held the quill in her hand, thinking of what to write next. It should bother her more, to put those words to paper. Yet there it was. Indelible in ink, and so it must be true.

I feel so odd of late. So many of the things that were important to me when I arrived here have lost their appeal. I can't decide if I've changed, or I've just accepted this is the way it will be here. But I don't think I can keep fighting for change. And the more I think about giving up, the more it feels...

Sarima paused, looking for the correct word.

Right. It feels right.

Even Prince Valerian, I've started to warm up to him. Because I was wrong to oppose him. He was born into power, and he will die holding it. The best I can hope to do is be at his side, and accept what power he chooses to share. It was naive to think otherwise.

He's not an especially attractive man. But I feel strangely attracted to his station. I now feel like it's not my place to challenge that, and now that I realize that, we've gotten along much better.

Oh, Tahra, I have heard you are struggling with your training. Perhaps you should also learn to cut your losses. Maybe it's time to comply with your instructors, or maybe it's time to go home. I worry for you that your rebellious nature will hurt you in the long run.

Sincerely,

Sarima of Ryshanam

Sarima sighed as she sealed the letter. She hoped Tahrapi would take her advice and just... comply. It would all be so much easier, and pleasurable, to comply.

A knock sounded at the doorway; it was Severian. Sarima's lips curled into a sleepy smile, she was glad to see him. It was good to have someone she could trust in the castle. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No, not at all, Severian. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Sarima replied.

Draeven came and sat across from Sarima. He took her hands in his own, which were smooth and free of blemishes or calluses. "You seem not yourself lately, Princess."

She was not a princess yet, Sarima thought, though she didn't feel she should correct him. "Perhaps," she managed, deferentially. "I just feel powerless to change things like I had hoped I could. Though I'm struggling with how easy that is to accept."

Draeven smiled slightly. "I can understand how that must feel," he said. "For an idealistic woman to be confronted with the realities of her place in the world."

Sarima nodded, expressionless.

Draeven smiled. "Princess, what if I told you there might be a way for you to carve out some power of your own?"

Sarima nodded again. That seemed logical. It was what she wanted, or something close to it.

"I could teach you magic. You could be my apprentice."

Sarima looked at Draeven skeptically. "I thought that wasn't allowed."

"Technically it's not," Draeven said. "But I am Archon of Ryshanam, the ultimate authority on magic in the kingdom. It's up to me who I share it with. And you will soon be queen. Who is going to complain about that? Who would even dare to challenge you, other than the king?"

Sarima considered Draeven's words. He was sensible. Maybe there was still hope for her vision of a new Ryshanam. Severian was, after all, a powerful man. Even a fraction of his power, plus the weight of the throne, could give her leverage to make a difference in the kingdom.

"I trust you. When do we start?"

Sanija Chamrath, valkyrie captain turned local barfly, let out a contented sigh before addressing her moody drinking companion. "I'm halfway through my third pint, Mouse, and you've barely gotten started. Try to keep up."

Tahrapi rotated their half-full stein of mead, staring down at the amber liquid. They regretted telling Sanija about the mudrat insult; the elder valkyrie teasingly, though fondly, called the diminutive Tahrapi "Mouse" at every opportunity.

The Broken Wing was the social hub and drinking hole of Kethram Ford, though no one called it that. The idea that some aristocrat thought renaming Kethram would make it respectable rubbed the working-class locals the wrong way. Kethram hosted the valkyrie training ground, up the hill across the river. The only thing valkyries liked better than drinking was fighting, making them a double-edged sword for the local economy. Still, Tahrapi treated the locals with respect, because they knew what it was like to grow up in a place you were either passing through, or never leaving.

Sulking, Tahrapi drank from their mead. What had gotten into Sarima? The intoxicating effect of the sweet brew did nothing to wash away the bitter helplessness and resignation Tahrapi felt from having read that letter.

"Hrrm. I know a troubled soul when I see one. Ya know, I mighta been a grunt, and my hand may be weak nowadays," Sanija said, holding up her scarred left hand. "But my eyes, and my mind. Still working." She pounded her mead, putting the empty stein next to the others in front of her. "Usually."

Tahrapi gave a faint smile. Sanija might have been double their age, but Tahrapi always felt like the adult in the room around her. Stocky and busty, Sanija was once the idealized valkyrie—disciplined, fearless, strong. Nowadays, she hung out at the tavern too often, and drank too much when she did.

Tahrapi changed the subject. "Last day of latrine duty was today."

Sanija laughed, a deep and heavy bellow. "Ha! Don't be so sad, Mouse. Piss off the brass again, and you'll be right back at it. Branek! Another." Sanija motioned to the bald, portly barkeep for another mead. "Though ya ask me, Blondie had it coming. Good for ya ta stand up for yourself."

"They told me warriors show restraint. Breaking ranks to fight an enemy that calls me names will get us all killed."

"True—but in war, your sisters don't usually sucker-punch ya in the kidney, do they?" Sanija spat the word like it was snake venom on her tongue. "Plus, ya get to kill someone says that to ya in war."

Tahrapi chuckled. "Suppose that's true." Their wan smile faded. "I've been thinking,” they said in a hushed, somber tone. "The rigid strikes, the formations, the heavy armor. Didn't it ever strike you as limiting?"

Sanija tossed back her salt-and-pepper hair. "That style's all I've ever known, and it kept me alive many times. It's tradition, but y'think ya could do better?"

Tahrapi leaned forward. "Look at me, Sanija. I'm not built to be a grunt. But I'm quick, and I can scrap. Instead of standing shoulder to shoulder, marching straight at the enemy and waiting to get shot at with arrows, why not split up? Hide and get the jump on them? I—"

"Cheating bitch!"

A valkyrie, blonde, drunk, and roughly the size of a bear, hurled a goblet at the head of a brunette valkyrie. The brunette overturned the heavy wooden table, spilling playing cards and beers across the stone floor. Brankek, the barkeep, rolled his eyes as he dried a clean stein with his towel. Chaos ensued in the boisterous tavern as the two bulky women squared up.

But that's not what caught Tahrapi's eye.

A man in a red cloak, not much taller or heftier than Tahrapi, with dark hair and a trimmed beard, was standing near the blonde valkyrie. An instant before the brunette turned the table, the man nicked a pouch from it and stuffed it into his cloak. He did it so quickly and stealthily he was surely undetected—except by one Uldaran valkyrie trainee, who followed his movement to the door.

"Sanija, I forgot, I have to be somewhere. Don't drink too much tonight, okay?" Tahrapi threw some coins on the bar and gave chase.

Once outside, Tahrapi looked left and right for the man, who wasn't to be found. They needed a better vantage point. They spied a stack of firewood along the side of the tavern and scaled it quickly, using that to get up to the roof. From there, they saw the man in the red cloak approach someone in an alley. They crept along the ledge, unsheathing their dagger from their thigh, holding the blade away from their body as they leaped off the roof.

They landed on their feet, in a low crouch. Startled, the man in the cloak turned to face them, shielding the other figure with his body.

Tahrapi assumed an offensive stance, the dagger's blade gleaming in the moonlight. "Gotcha."

From behind the red cloak, a figure emerged. Dirty. Emaciated. Barefoot, in tattered clothes. He looked half the size of even the slight Tahrapi, and his eyes reflected an emotion they weren't used to seeing. Terror.

A kid. A damn hungry kid. And he was scared to death. Of me.

Their eyes drifted from the boy to the man. He was strikingly handsome, slender, with straight black hair, an olive complexion and a tightly trimmed beard. But what caught Tahrapi's attention were his eyes. Yes, there was a gentle weariness masked by resolve. But they could swear the man's eyes were almost iridescent.

Tahrapi relaxed their posture, sheathing their knife. They saw the man's eyes follow their hand to their thigh holster. They slowed their movements slightly, allowing his gaze to linger just a bit. They were willing to let this play out.

"Told ya you couldn't hide," Tahrapi said, adopting a playful grin. "After you're done talking with your friend, it's my turn to hide."

The man smirked, nodding slowly. "That's okay, he was just on his way," he said. He had a strange accent, hard to place, when he spoke. He squatted to speak to the boy at eye level. "You'd better get going. Remember, if anyone asks, you found that on the ground."

Tahrapi watched as the boy, clutching the valkyrie's satchel, scampered off into the night.

"Thank you," the man said to Tahrapi. "I owe you, for sparing me in front of the child."

Tahrapi paced the entrance to the alley, their eyes never leaving the stranger's. "Hm, no one said anything about sparing you. You're not from these parts, are you?"

"Ah, I could say the same about you." Despite being cornered, his demeanor stayed cool. "You wear the clothing of a valkyrie cadet, but something tells me you know what it's like to be an outsider."

"True," Tahrapi scoffed, "but I'm also supposed to uphold law and order, not steal from drunk soldiers."

"Those valkyries spent the day collecting taxes from peasants," the man said, gesturing first at the tavern, then at the businesses lining the road. "The coins in that purse are but a small fraction of them. The king will still get fat and rich off the backs of his subjects," his voice rose slightly. "This pittance is going to feed a poor orphan and his sister tonight, and the king will never know it was missing. Surely you know the difference between doing what the law says, and doing what's right?"

Tahrapi looked away from the man, suddenly realizing what bothered them the most about the letter from Sarima. She had always been passionate about making the world a just place. Now she was giving up on that—from the throne, no less. Not only was it unlike her, it was wrong. Morally. Their stomach churned. They couldn't put a finger on it, but something was not right with Sarima.

Tahrapi's hand closed into a fist at their side. They weren't about to give up on that dream, and they weren't about to give up on Sarima, either.

"Yes, I do," Tahrapi said, their chestnut eyes like saucers in the moonlight. "And I know what I saw." Their aloof expression softened into a knowing smirk. "You gave that boy money out of your own pocket."

"Thank you," the man in the cloak smiled, dropping his cautious posture. "I am Rukhan Srayun, at your service. I'm in your debt, Miss...?"

"I'm Tahrapi Ruhaka," Tahrapi said, extending their hand and blushing slightly. "The 'miss' isn't necessary."

The stone that changed the course of history was much smaller, thankfully. Tahrapi was much smaller then, too: eleven years old, in that awkward period growing out of childhood and into adolescence. A rock the size of the one that struck Korima Ugalde, giving her a slight concussion and a nasty bruise, would have ended young Tahrapi's story quite early.

Instead, this was a small stone, a river rock. Gray, polished, with minuscule dimples. Despite its smooth surface, it still stung when it struck Tahrapi in the back of their right shoulder. They winced, but they didn't yelp or cry out in pain. As a young mountain girl, Tahrapi had been bullied enough to know not to give their assailants the satisfaction.

That was, of course, a delicate balance. Ignore bullies, and eventually they get bored. But in the meantime, the three fair-skinned, blue-eyed boys were going to hurl both insults and rocks. Even at eleven, Tahrapi was well-versed in Uldaran social politics. Keep your head down. Don't cause trouble. Don't trust outsiders. We have but one lifetime, child, their mother would say. Protect it at all cost. The boys would escape a confrontation relatively unscathed, but for Tahrapi, the consequences could be dire.

A second stone missed its mark, falling short. Tahrapi had taken a shortcut through the pines to the lower village, a choice they were now regretting. Under their breath, they cursed the wrap skirt their mother made them wear, a warm orange sarong decorated with spirals. What it had in feminine style and demure beauty, it lacked in utility and mobility, as Tahrapi could neither flee nor fight in it. They loved their mother, but not her stubborn insistence on dressing Tahrapi like a child's doll. I'm never wearing something like this again, they fumed.

With their back turned, Tahrapi could not see one of the boys draw his arm back to throw another stone, which also meant they did not see what happened next... though they definitely heard it.

"Leave her alone. What's wrong with you?" It was a female voice, high in pitch, but not soft or deferential. Instead, it was stern, and powerful. Tahrapi turned, and their jaw fell slightly agape.

It was indeed a girl, roughly the same age as Tahrapi, but a few inches taller than the diminutive Uldaran. Her left hand had caught the boy's wrist mid-throw, and he appeared frozen in shock. A mask of scornful disapproval on her face did nothing to dispel her classical beauty. With her flowing auburn tresses, held back by a headband, she looked like a goddess from an ancient fable. Someone to be both venerated... and feared.

"She's just a mudrat," a younger boy protested, devoid of conviction. Tahrapi saw the bullies were younger than they were—nine, maybe eight years old. But the boys weren't intimidated by the other girl because of her age, or her slight size advantage. They were unaccustomed to a girl who didn't naturally yield to them, and that made them uneasy.

The fire-headed girl twisted the wrist she had in her grip until the boy attached to it dropped the rock. "My father knows your fathers," she said, with a touch of menace. "Leave this girl alone, and others like her, or answer to me. Now, get out of my sight."

Two of the boys looked down, then at each other, before silently turning back up the path to the upper village. The third, the youngest, tried to resist, but without a spine of his own, ran to catch up with his friends.

Tahrapi could only watch the exchange in awe and bewilderment.

Once the fire-headed girl made sure the boys had retreated, she turned back towards Tahrapi. She looked like a different person entirely now. No longer angry, her features softened. She had beautiful light brown eyes, the rich color of honey. Her cheeks shone with the rosy hue of adrenaline, as her mouth formed a kind, friendly smile. And oh, what a smile it was. Tahrapi thought it the most beautiful thing they had ever seen—radiant, and bursting with life.

Tahrapi blushed as they realized they were staring. "Thank you," they blurted. "My name, um, I'm Tahrapi."

...Dearest Tahra, I sometimes fear I've made a grave error. I've seen the moon grow, showing itself brightly, before shrinking again to complete the cycle, in my time at Ryshanam Castle. I believed by being betrothed to the prince, I could improve the station for our sex, and for the good people of Jathruk.

But it may have been a miscalculation. Prince Valerian, I hate to say, is a lecherous egotist, and I shudder at the thought of marriage to him, much less bearing his children. His apathy towards my ideas is rivaled only by his eagerness to lay with me. Where I thought I might have a seat at the court of our kingdom, I have instead been trained in etiquette and decorum. I have not given up on our mission, though I admit my morale has taken some bruising.

I'm so frustrated, my friend, and I sorely miss someone with your brilliance to confide in, and your fire to keep me going. The only person who seems remotely interested in me as anything other than a figurehead is Severian Draeven, the royal archon. He may be the only man who respects me in the entire castle.

I look forward to your next letter, Tahra. I know valkyrie training has been arduous. But I believe in you, and your tenacity. And yes, your stubbornness as well.

Forever Yours,

Sarima

Sarima Dahnam folded the letter and sealed it with wax, a heavy stamp marking it as official correspondence of the royal family of Ryshanam. She sighed deeply and looked out the window of her quarters. From the tower she had a view of the mountains, far off in the eastern horizon. Her home, where she was born, where she met her best friend, seemed immeasurably far.

Her friend. Sarima scoffed as she ruminated over that word. Friend. Wasn't Tahrapi, her dearest Tahra, worthy of more than that? Sarima's fingers lightly traced the wax seal, feeling the slight warmth of parchment beneath her fingertips. Her beloved. A more fitting term, yes; though one left unspoken. A word pregnant with promise, but also clouded with uncertainty.

"Are you alright, Princess?" called a voice from the doorway. In the frame stood Archon Severian Draeven, the royal mage. He was a slender man, fifty years or more, with brown hair and graying temples. His robes, regal purple and black velvet, were neatly hemmed to the perfect length. His shortly trimmed beard gave him a stern, aristocratic demeanor, though with Sarima, he was generally friendly. In his hands he carried a fine teacup atop a saucer.

Sarima gathered herself and offered a friendly smile. "Thank you, Severian, I'm a little homesick, but I'll manage. Also, I'm not a princess yet."

Draeven walked across the room and handed the saucer to Sarima. "Of course, Madam Sarima," he said, courteously. "I know you have had some trouble relaxing of late, so I brought you some tea. It's a medicinal blend, mostly herbs from the kingdom's garden, meant to sedate you so that you can get some rest tonight."

Sarima sipped the tea. It had a mild but distinct flavor, with hints of anise and peppermint, that was not unpleasant. "Thank you. I suppose you are right, the training has been taxing."

"Think nothing of it, my lady. I could tell earlier you were... frustrated with Prince Valerian," Draeven mused, diplomatically pausing to choose the right word.

Sarima huffed. She opened her mouth to respond but, thinking better of it, sipped her tea instead. Her steely gaze peering over the porcelain cup conveyed her disdain.

Draeven let out a slight laugh. "The prince chose you for your beauty, thinking it your greatest asset. But I know better." He pointed a gloved finger to the envelope. "Is this another letter? To your friend from home?"

Sarima nodded with the teacup up to her thin lips. "It is. We have been friends since childhood." She paused to take another sip. "They're training to be a valkyrie."

Draeven raised an eyebrow. "Oh? That's a difficult but noble path."

Sarima finished the tea and set the cup on the saucer, offering it back to Draeven. "Yes, I think someday it might be nice for us to cross paths again." She looked away from Draeven, her mind wandering to a less complicated place and time. "Thank you for the tea, Severian. Do have a good night."

"My lady." Draeven bowed slightly, then took his leave, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.