The AAA guidebook for Mercí City has this to say about Mary Menace's Public House:
Behind the sleepy Irish pub facade, this local institution offers a colorful nightlife, mind-blowing mixed drinks alcoholic and otherwise, and food from a rotating selection of local restauraunts (pg. 43). Whether you're looking for a place to rest after a walking tour of Medusa Gardens or just looking for one more thing to do before bed, Mary's is a delight. Two diamonds.
At least, that's what the section that's framed on the wall says, and it's hard to argue with any individual part of it. No more than you could argue with the dart board on the left or the headline from Princess Pox's first gendervirus outbreak on the right.
You can tell it wasn't written by a patron because nobody can resist mentioning their favorite story. The time Dynamite Diva won a bet by blowing a hole her exact size and shape in the wall, then walking through. Starlight's debut with their Astrological Atomizer. Even tight-lipped Proprietrix can't stay quiet about the time Flynt and Steele did an entire dancing fountains routine with shot glasses and kerosene.
People come, people visit, people leave. From the occasional tourist that just wanted dinner and got an evening of Raychel Gunn's trick shots to the folks who've worn the same mantle and ordered the same drink three times a week for decades. The city is rich with hangout spots, from rooftops to diners to basements to, if you get invited to the good parties, volcano lairs. You may have a very long and happy cape career in Mercí City without ever setting foot in the place, but you're gonna hear its name.
And, if you're lucky, you may meet Mary herself. She's the one lifting her bar over her head.
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“You see, dear.” Virus Girl Grace sits on the desk. Every computer in the room's fans spin up to properly render her and run her physics engine. Especially when she shakes her head to make her hair bounce. “In software, when you need a place to temporarily store some data on its way to somewhere else, we call that place a 'buffer'. Set aside some chunk of memory to hold what you're working on, and then get rid of it once you're done. For example, your computer can send things to the printer faster than the printer can print, so it has to buffer that data until the printer's ready.”
She walks in a slow circle around her target. The footsteps echo from nearby speakers.
“However, this can lead to issues. If you get more data than you're expecting, you overflow the buffer. And a skilled attacker can use specially crafted data to overflow the buffer in a very specific way and, say...” She snaps her fingers. Every monitor in the room flickers and shifts and flashes. Hearts and circuitry crawl this way and that.
She sits herself on the keyboard in front of her prey. Sitting straight, tall, and ready to pounce.
A finger against her prey's chin cranes their neck back and forces them to make eye contact. Make sure they see her sharp little smile. “Human brains, it turns out, have a very similar weakness. Poking just a few extra bytes into the wrong place can have all sorts of unintended consequences.”
“In this case, there's a few microseconds in the human saccadic masking routine where your optic nerve's hookup to the brain can be overloaded by something unexpected, inducing a voltage in some neurons that correspond to... well, it's easier if I show you.” She picks up the big, beige CRT monitor she was leaning against and holds it on her lap. The screen cycles through colors, bouncing and shifting in time with her voice. “If you know how to work these old CRTs, they produce a flash of something called 'ninthcolor' that...” She whacks the side of the monitor. The flyblack transformer whines and crackles. The electron gun inside glows with heat far beyond what it was designed for. The capacitor inside crackles with a worrying amount of electricity.
She snaps her fingers off to the side, her prey's eyes dart to focus on the noise, the screen flashes, and, well, have you ever seen a person dump their higher brain functions into the bit bucket, go limp all at once, and just wait for someone to tell them what to do? Because it's pretty hot, especially when you see a virus girl take a limp arm, wiggle it around a bit, let it fall back against the ground, and, satisfied, plug a keyboard into the back of their neck and whistle to herself while she types away.
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This post is part 2 in a series of 2. The other post in this series is: Part 1
You know how it is being a busy executive. Buy, sell, buy, sell, shouting into the phones all day. Extracting excess capital from your workers, distributing it to your fellow rich assholes, and keeping a healthy portion for yourself. You're in the middle of gutting another beloved retailer who was doing just fine without you saddling them with debt and stripping them for parts when your intercom crackles to life. Funny, it's usually more of a buzz. And circuitry doesn't crawl out of the speaker. And your secretary doesn't usually sound like a supervillain saying “Good girls don't move~”. And your fancy mesh-backed office chair almost never turns into a tightly woven mass of ribbons, binding your arms and legs and covering your mouth in soft, shiny black velour. Big, shiny black bows dangle from your mouth, arms, and legs. And they're wrinkling your suit!
The intercom crackled and surged with electricity. A familiar face crawls out of the speaker. Followed by a familiar head of blonde hair, a familiar pink streak over one eye, a familiar black bow, a familiar parasol, and the familiar flowing black ball gown, wreathed with ribbons, cables, and circuitry that could only belong to Modemoiselle herself. She shakes her down cascade onto her shoulders. A few errant arcs of pink lightning arc between her locks. She sits atop the desk, one leg crossed over the other. Boot tapping against her captive's leg. “Well, well, well. If it isn't...” She plucks the unused ceramic coffee mug from its nest of takeout coffee cups. “Number one boss?” She shakes her head.
Her boot heel digs into her target's awfully vulnerable groin. D-did she always have a bulge down there? And did it always feel s-so good when a supervillain ground her heel against it, sending waves of circuitry pulsing across her exquisitely tailored suit?
Modemoiselle's finger swipes across the mug's surface. “Boss” vanishes to the left, and “pet” swoops in from the right. “Hmm, no, you're not really a pet, are you?” She smiles a devious smile and keeps swiping. “Slut?” She smiles at her captive. Watching her squirm and kick uselessly against her bonds. “What's wrong, dear? Can't break a few simple ribbons? I know you love how they feel against your skin. Too enchanted by my mere presence, perhaps, to even raise a finger against Miss Modemoiselle, The Grand Dame of the Grid?” She extends a black gloved finger and presses it against her quarry's chin. The ribbons tighten. Mmmph, they do feel good. Impossibly soft, even as they help Modemoiselle invade your mind and corrupt every thought of escape into 'fuck, I'm so horny for supervillains, like always.'” Modemoiselle's finger digs into her captive's chin and forces her to make eye contact.
“You're a smart girl. You went to...” Another ribbon lashes out from that fancy office chair. This time, it snatches the diploma off the wall. “Brown. Jeez, way to pick the hardest Ivy to tease you about.” She drops it and lets the glass shatter on the floor.
“But that was always your perogative, wasn't it? Always playing it safe. The safest school, the safest career, the easiest money.” She's back at the mug again. Swiping from “pet” to “harem dancer” to “onahole” to “sex doll”, making sure her victim gets an eyeful of each. “The meekest secretary who's too afraid of losing her job to turn down your advances. Maybe we should see how you like it.” She swishes the mug to say “Number One Secretary.”
The captive's breathing gets heavier.
“Now as for the nameplate, how long does it take to get a new one of these ordered?”
The ribbons get tighter.
“Sorry, two new ones ordered. One for me, one for my brainwashed little fuck typist.”
“Oh, look at me, fussing like some useless exec who doesn't know how to type, much less what the company actually does.”
The ribbons begin to tear.
“I'm sure I can issue some useless strategy memos that my underlings will use to bludgeon the real workers into compliance with their own petty goals.”
A blinding flash of light vaporizes the chair and the ribbons. New pink ones fly in from every corner of the room, twirling around what was once Modemoiselle's captive, and is now a spinning blob of girl-shaped transformation sequence summoning the powers of goodness, light, and ribbons to bear against her foe. Her plain brown hair explodes into chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry streaks, promptly tamed by a flowing pink ribbon tying itself into a neat little bow. Pretty standard magical girl stuff, you see a lot of it in the mid to high fantasy villainy business.
“In the name of all that is good and right, Ribbonmancer will never cease to fight, fight, fight!” The light fades. Instead, the same person stands. Her tailored suit transformed into pure light, and now into a tight white top with a big pink ribbon covering her breasts. A too-short black pleated skirt and a pair of panties are the only thing separating her new bulge from the world. She twirls her wand between her white gloved fingers and levels it at the dastardly supervillain who defaced her mug.
“I coulda sworn you had a better battle cry than that. It sounds like a high school fight song.”
“I didn't get to pick it, it's the Sacred Oath of the Seamstress's Sanctum.” She flicks her wrist, sending infinite lengths of pink ribbon flying out from every direction. Modemoiselle lept backwards off the desk, still holding the Number One Secretary mug.
“I thought you looked better in the suit.” Modemoiselle effortlessly twirls out of the way of every ribbon. She'll sidestep one, walk up another, then hook a third with the coffee mug handle and zipline down the length. “But, well, the slutty sailor scout cheerleader is a good look, too. Come on, say the thing again, but this time, stick a 'goooo team!' at the end.” A flick of her wrist twists a length of ribbon into a perfect pom-pom shape, knotted around one of Ribbonmancer's hands.
“We arrested you last night! You should be rotting in jail!”
“Finally, someone gets it. You should tell your bird friend about that so she doesn't make a fool of herself when a supervillain puts her into a brainwashing dream pod and turns her into a brainwashed little pony named... oh, I don't know...”
“Clop Star?” A third voice echoes from the other side of the intercom.
“Ravenna?” Ribbonmancer's attention snaps to the speaker on the desk. “What did she do to you? What did she do to us?”
“What do you think, Star? Does that count? Did she get it before you?”
“It doesn't count if you had to explain the whole plan to her before she got it. At least Bird Brain remembered the dream bomb.” The pony pouts from over the intercom.
“You're right. It was my fault for expecting more from an MBA.” Modemoiselle nods.
“Oh, I've been calling you a useless drain on society since I got here, but that's the last straw? Come on, dear, at least pick the right battle.” She shakes her head. “Tell you what. I'll forget all about it if we can hear that cheer. I know you have it in you- I wrote the program myself.” Modemoiselle swipes the text on the mug a few more times until it says “Number One Cheerleader”.
New thoughts pour in through the magical girl's ears. Intoxicating music piercing straight through her mind. Entire lobes of her brain light up for their singular purpose. Her hips swivel and shake back and forth, powered by the rhythms borrowing her body and twisting her to Modemoiselle's villainous whims. She twirls on her toe and summons another ribbon pom-pom to match the one currently imprisoning her hand.
“In the name of all that's good and right! Ribbonmancer will fight! fight! fight!”
The ribbons start to shift. Pink gives way to black and green. Circuitry starts to replace the veins in her eyes. The poor thing struggles against the music rending her thoughts to pieces. Fists clenching. Body twisting. Brand new cock leaking right into her extremely visible panties.
“Better do what it says, dear. It'll just get stronger and stronger until you give in~” Modemoiselle idly pretends to inspect her nails through her gloves. “I wrote more cheers for you, and it'd be awfully rude to refuse to recite them for the supervillain who's currently up to her elbows in your brain. You'd look cute with your brain melted into a singing, dancing puddle, but I have bigger plans for you.” The coffee mug dangles from her index finger while she leans forward onto her palms. All too happy to simply sit and watch the show.
“Miss Modemoiselle, please own my mind! This dumb cheerleader's in a bind! I can't think and I can't drive! My brain is ribbons, I'll be eaten alive! Take pity on this capitalist slut and let her show off her perfect butt!”
Every rhyming pair only feeds the music pulsing a circuit heart-shaped hole through her mind. But no hero would go down without one last-ditch effort to save herself. She had to be using that mug for something. It was her only weak point. Her body twirls, springs, and shakes from side to side, as is natural when being turned into a cheerleader by brainwashing music hooked directly up to your head through the dream pod being controlled by a supervillain. One of her wrists flicks outside of the prescribed routine. What a breach in protocol! What will Miss Modemoiselle say? The ribbon pom-pom on that hand unfurls, sending one lashing directly at the coffee mug.
“Ooh, I love the spunk, dear, but bad choice~” Modemoiselle lets the mug slip off her finger. The ribbon entangles her wrist, but it's too late. The mug tumbles down, down, down onto that fancy hardwood floor you insisted on, and it
The sound of breaking ceramic echoes to and from every direction. The office facade falls away to reveal... well, nothing, really. An endless void stretching in every direction. Empty, save for Modemoiselle and a naked Ribbonmancer. The music in her head has subsided, but so has everything else.
“You really thought that shattering the thing that represented your brain was going to help you in the dream world? Haven't you seen, like, any fiction? Or had someone explain the concept of a metaphor to you?”
“Fine.” Ribbonmancer crosses her arms, calling up a few winding ribbons- in Modemoiselle's colors instead of her usual pink, of course- to cover her breasts and new cock. Out of habit, really. And she only knows how to tie them in big, bouncy bows, so that's what's going on with the naked Ribbonmancer situation. “You win, what was I supposed to do?”
“Dear, look at you.” Modemoiselle snaps her gloved fingers. A sleek, human-sized, curved glass pod rises from the void. Inside is Ribbonmancer, still wearing her suit, headphones clamped to her ears, and staring at a hacked black ribbon over her eyes that's keeping her nice and under the supervillain's spell. “Did you really think you could think your way out of this one? You couldn't even think your way out of 'maybe my greedy, destructive business tactics are causing more harm than my heroing is doing good', much less 'capitalism is a prison'. Even if I did set up a puzzle box for you with some chance of escape, I don't think you'd get it. Why would I risk breaking up my matching set?”
“So all of us are...”
“In pods like this! Well, except for the one you already met. She's currently... hang on.” Modemoiselle vanishes for a moment as she jacks out of the dream pod. She reappears a moment later. “...Practicing a musical number. She pushed me out of her room with her hooves and said it was a surprise for me and that I can't listen until it's done.”
“She's also currently a horse.”
“That she is! So, how are you doing?”
“Cold, naked, and brainwashed, apparently.”
“Oh, don't worry, dear.” Modemoiselle smiles. White coffee mug shards zoom from all corners of the void. “You're going to get much more brainwashed than this.” The mug reassembles in her hand, still on 'cheerleader'. A few swipes of her finger set it back to 'secretary'. She sets it on top of the pod. The thick pink fog inside thickens. The music returns to the hero's head, even stronger than before. The hacked ribbon currently beaming thoughts into her brain kicks into overdrive.
Ribbonmancer can see the outlines of spirals drilling deeper and deeper into her brain, and she's starting to realize that it's good? That the machine wrapped around her cock and programmed to deliver perfect pleasure straight to her brain makes it hard to think about anything else? That Miss Modemoiselle was right all along? That her tongue is rolling out of her mouth, and her eyes want to roll up into her head? That Miss Modemoiselle's fingers are combing through her hair right now and a single tug would send her over the edge?
“You know, dear, I bet if you begged me, I'd tug your hair like the slut you are and shatter your mind into a trillion pieces.” Modemoiselle gingerly collects strands of Neapolitan hair into her hand. Putting just a little pressure on. Barely enough to get her toy's breath quivering. “But with how rude you've been, you're going to have to wow me.”
“Miss Modemoiselle.” A snap of Modemoiselle's fingers forces the words to catch in her throat. “Haven't you ever begged before? Make me want to assimilate you. Here, I'll even give you a hand, since we all know that capitalism and being a corporate stooge chokes out innovation.”
A simple stool rises from the depths and bumps against her butt.
Ribbonmancer looks down, then up. She sits down. It's cold. Modemoiselle smiles and nods. “Now what?”
She looks unsure. She calls another ribbon up and lets it tie her legs together. Nice and tight, with a big ol' bow. Black ribbons with Modemoiselle's circuitry pulsing down their length. Tingly against her skin. Perfectly packaged for Miss Modemoiselle. Bound up, at her mercy, presenting yourself to her for her to use for whatever evil scheme she dreams up...
She barely needs the encouragement to continue. She binds her hands behind her back. The ribbons around her breasts fall away and retie themselves into a figure-eight knot. She ties her cock up with a neat little bow, a touch of pressure so she's hard and ready for action whenever Miss wishes. One last ribbon snakes around her mouth and seals it off. She looks up at Modemoiselle expectantly.
“Much better. Was that so hard?” Her boot's pressing against that cute little gift-wrapped cock again. Ribbonmancer's eyes roll back into her head and her mouth ribbon muffles a moan.
Modemoiselle levels a loaded parasol at her bound bounty. “You know what this is full of, right?”
“And you want me to spray you with it, I bet.”
“Even though this much at this range will let me sculpt your brain however I wish?”
“And I'm going to take over your company, use its resources to help as many people as possible, all while you're my brainwashed secretary?”
Psssh~ Thick pink smoke envelops her face. Her eyes roll back into her head. Modemoiselle, as promised, gives her hair a mighty yank! and the poor thing moaned so hard, Clop Star could hear it from her room in the real world.
“Aww, hypnoslut's first orgasm.” Modemoiselle does not stop pulling, and the girl formerly known as Ribbonmancer does not stop coming. “Don't worry, dear. There's more where that came from during every step of your training.”
Poor thing was too busy having pleasure centers she didn't even know about turned all the way up to really process what Miss Modemoiselle was monologuing at her about. Too busy having her brain reduced to its base components. Too busy being smashed to pieces so it could be rebuilt. And far too horny to realize the dream world metaphor Modemoiselle was going for with the mug.
Soon, the vicious viral vixen vanished. The pod kicked into overdrive, stretching its captive's perception of time to run her through countless training exercises. Exactly how Miss Modemoiselle likes her coffee*. Where every file and record is kept** and how Miss Modemoiselle likes them presented to her***. And what happens when Miss Modemoiselle says “Showtime”****. All pulsed to the bedrock of her brain, where things like “kissing girls is good” and “water is wet, but not as wet as I am when Miss Modemoiselle looks me in the eyes” live.
“The report on my brainwashing and time in the pod, Miss Modemoiselle.” Her heels click and clack against the ground. Same expensive suit as before, but pulsing with circuitry, tastefully accented with corrupted ribbons, and adjusted to show off her new curves. The walls lined with computers and pulsing circuitry, dusted by three Murdermaids sitting on each other's shoulders and working in parallel. Modemoiselle herself has her boots kicked up on the table, allowing her secretary to sneak a peak up her skirt. She does, of course.
Three minidiscs clatter onto the desk. “Perfect as always, Miss Modemoiselle. You're far too brilliant to allow some ungrateful hero to ruin your plans.”
“Any time you want to kick your feet up on a different desk, the old office has been done up to your liking and awaiting your masterful direction.”
“Would you like to adjust my body and mind more to your liking? You did a perfect job the first time around, but I know how you love to tinker.”
“That I do, dear. Go check on the rest of the pods and practice your cheers with your pony friend. She said you were a little flat last time.”
Her heels clicked off, her hips swayed just like how Miss Modemoiselle liked, and the halls echoed with the beeping of pods, the knocking on glass, and, soon, the distant practicing of cheers with a pony.
Fuck, it's good to be a villain.
* She doesn't, she prefers soda ** In the computer *** You fanning out some disks on her desk, delivering a brief oral report, and asking if Miss would like to brainwash you into anything. A folder stuffed with papers if you need something that thuds on the table, but you don't have to print anything on them. **** [data missing]
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Well, hm. Our protagonist drags the last of her suitcases into her bare apartment. The previous tenant left a bed, a weird smell, and not much else. She collapses against the dozen or so boxes that held her worldly possessions, sweat staining her last clean set of clothes. Mercí City has not been kind to her so far.
Her phone rings, and she puts it on speaker so she doesn't get the screen all gross and sweaty. “So, ready to hit the town?” The voice chimes from the other end.
“I don't know if I'm up for it. I just had to carry everything I own up seven flights of stairs because the elevator doesn't work.”
“Come on, it's ladies' night* down at Mary Menace's!”
“Does that mean we drink free?”
“No, it means they play that Kool & The Gang song you like.”
“All my clothes are dirty, I won't be able to do laundry until tomorrow at the earliest-”
“I'll bring a change over! Take a shower, I'll be there in half an hour!”
The phone beeped quiet and she sighed. “New city, new me.” She silently resolved to stand up for herself more. After this shower and going to the bar she didn't want to go to and buying drinks she didn't want.
She came out of the bathroom wearing a towel. It was a smart choice, considering that her friend was impatiently sitting on the bed with clothes already laid out.
“Jeez, I thought you fell in.” She stands up. It's easy to forget how tall she is- and how big her bust is until it's right at eye level and covered in spandex.
“That's what you're wearing? You look ridiculous, Su-” A gloved finger presses against her lips.
“Ah ah ah! Tonight, I'm Starburst!” Starburst stands up straight, free hand on her hip. A brilliant red and orange wig bounces against her lower back when she moves her head. A pair of orange-tinted sunglasses sits on her forehead. Her gloves are big, bulky, and ringed with long, flickering shafts of bottled volcano. She steps aside to present our protagonist with her options, and the floor creaks under her big, heavy combat boots.
“Well, I definitely don't think I can pull that off.” She looked at the heavy leather jacket with flame decals stenciled around the bottom, back and wrists. And she definitely wasn't wearing leggings after dark, even if they did have a cool solar flare pattern.
There were two outfits laid out on the bed, like your mom might do in the morning before school. If you went to a school for gay supervillains.
One looked like it was a package deal with Starburst's. T-shirt with, uh, the Firefox logo, some orange dishwashing gloves, and some jeans that, at one point, someone tried to dye orange. She shot one look to the side and moved on.
“Hey, some people would kill to be my number two.”
She moves on to the other choice. A denim jacket with a rainbow of lightning bolts spray paint stenciled onto the back, a blue T-shirt with a white heart split with a similar bolt, and some jean-colored sweat pants. She drapes the towel over her shoulder and starts to get dressed as best she can without her friend seeing.
Starburst politely turns her back and crosses her arms. Looking at the ceiling in that “I'm pointedly not looking at you” stance. “I went by Blue Bomber when I wore that number, but feel free to pick your own thing.”
“Why do we have to have code names? Can't I just be St-”
“Ah ah ah! You'll have to do better than that! It'll all make sense when we get to Mary's.”
She sighed and got dressed. The sweatpants could be rolled up and the jacket kept falling off her shoulders, but she couldn't help but smile at the girl in the bathroom mirror.
“Oh, you have a prop? A ring or a necklace or something you can wear?”
“I have... a camera they don't make batteries for any more and a single driving glove from when I owned a car.”
“Perfect. Put your hair in a ponytail, too.”
“It's not ponytail night, is it?”
“Nah, that's Wednesday. I'd stay away unless you know what you want. I know what you want, though, and it's the outdoorsy look.”
Mary Menace's was only a few blocks away, and the cool air feels good when you're wearing too many layers.
Starburst walks half a step ahead to lead the way. It's easy when your legs are longer. “Shutterbug.”
“Maybe I could come up with a name if I knew what I was naming.”
“Your persona! Nobody at Mary Menace's goes by their government name. Think about the image you want to project.”
“I look like an embedded reporter in the war against roller derby.”
“How old are you?”
“Just trying to help. Don't wanna come up blank when someone asks. Flashbulb.”
They bounced names off each other the whole walk there.
The pair turns a corner. “We're here.” Starburst smiles. She takes big strides towards the black flag, split down the middle with four colorful bolts. An old-fashioned wooden sign hangs out over the sidewalk. “Mary Menace's Tavern” is engraved and lined with worn gold leaf.
Mary Menace's isn't the kind of place that has a bouncer. Starburst walks in and her friend rushes to keep up. The bartender, an older fellow with four arms, uses one of them to wave and two to wipe down the bar. “Evening, Star! Who's your friend?”
“Be nice to her. She's still figuring that out.”
“You and me both.” The bartender winks and shoots a fingergun at... Press Pass? Nah.
The bar was busy enough for a Thursday night. Starburst introduced her friend to The Titanium Twink, who offered to let her break a chair over his back. He even knocked on his silvery bicep so all could hear how hollow it was. He got a smile and a “maybe later”. They sat at the bar, making small talk and comparing drink orders. Star had to get something on brand, like a tequila sunrise.
“Surprise me.” She said, and then immediately regretted it as the bartender went off to grab four different-colored bottles and expertly pour them together into something glowing and fizzing. “This isn't a regular bar, is it?”
“I was wondering when you'd ask. Mary Menace's is a cape kink bar. Everyone here has a secret identity they leave at the door. Heroes, villains, epic battles, romance, anything you can think of.”
“And you're a?”
Starburst sinks against the bar and laughs. “I've been matching wits with this mathemagician girl, Lady Mersenne, so I guess that either makes me a hero or a rival. I think I'm gonna do some math crimes to show her where I stand.”
“What does a math crime look like?”
“I still gotta plot that out. I'm thinking I force some nerd to name a theorem after me.”
“I'd go for a Kepler angle. Meshes with your space theme.”
Starburst gave her a squeeze with her right fission gauntlet. “You're a natural. See why I brought you here?”
She got her drink. It tasted like a carbonated orgasm, felt like getting kicked in the shin, and the bartender would only call it “something for the lady”. She was going to finish it. Eventually.
“So how'd you decide on Starburst?”
“Well, it wasn't my first look. Nobody's still on their first look. Titanium Twink was Tin Man for six months.”
“Seven, and then I was the Mercury Menace while I fought Copperhead!” He calls from across the bar. She makes eye contact with him, and he pantomimes the chair thing in case she changed her mind.
“I was Miss Fire for a while until the quick draw act got old and felt weird bringing guns in a bar. Then I henched for Galaxy Gal for a year. Didn't really get a name beyond Vega-6. I left on good terms and liked the space theme well enough, and I still had some of the fire gear, so here we are.”
“And you thought I'd look good as your henchgirl?”
“Some people like having a boss to report to. Keeps the attention off if you don't want it.” Starburst pointed past Malefactor and Mercí Sound Machine to a corner booth, filled with one supervillain dressed to the nines in her ball gown and parasol and flanked on either side by as many identical maids as will fit in the booth- and then there's a few more underneath. “See? They're like zebras. They all want some attention, but not as much as Modemoiselle. So they can leave and join back in as they wish, and nobody has to be on all the time. Despite the name, Murdermaids are the friendliest darn things you'll ever meet.” Starburst takes a sip of her drink. “And some people get off on it, of course.”
“It's a lot to take in.”
“Just wait until Miss Treatment comes in.”
“Is she a nurse? or an evil nurse? or does she just mess you up?”
“Yes, and also giant syringe.”
The night was over too quickly. About a dozen heroes and villains each introduced themselves. Mostly a blur. There was a fire guy and an ice queen and like three witches and one bee who was really a swarm. About half of them flirted, and about half of those made it sound like they wanted a hench or a girlfriend. She did wind up breaking that chair over The Titanium Twink's back and applauded when he stood right back up and took a bow. Starburst, never one to be outdone, hucks a shot glass across the room and blasts it to pieces with a single shot from her gauntlet before it hits the wall.
(By the incredible https://mellified.men/@distressedegg!)
The bar tabs were tallied- including for the glass and the chair- and the capes sent on their way. Some paired off to get some late-night menacing in. Starburst and company got invited to go to the late-night diner with Miss Chief and Stargazer, but it was getting late. “Next time”, was promised.
“Does that mean there's going to be a next time? Friday is karaoke night, and Mighty Megapixel usually does the visuals.” Starburst teases.
“You know, I think I will.” She smiles. It was time to start making her own decisions, and this was a good one to start with. “I'll need a hand with the outfit.”
“You'll need a name first.”
She pulls the hair tie off, letting her platinum hair cascade and spread out across the puffy white cloud at the top of the rainbow bolt. The glove comes off (gets sweaty under there anyways) and her camera slides to the side. A deep breath in and out. She tugs the oversized jacket back over her shoulders. You don't have to have a horrible lab accident to get a fresh start. You just need to look around, try something new, and see what floats by.
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“First one's free!”
Two identical maids alternate calls to passers-by, grabbing and twirling around what was a phone booth* in a previous life. Now it's more like a nine foot tall metal gazebo** that shot up through the sidewalk like a tree. The pair grab the sides and twirl around it, shouting their message to all who walk by.
“I don't get it, 12, what are we doing wrong?” One of them sighs and lets the booth prop her up. “Is my bow on straight?”
“We're both adorable.” 12 blows her pink streak out of her eye and makes sure her ribbon collar proudly displays her number. “What kind of city is this where people won't give two maids standing next to a transformation booth the time of day?”
“Maybe they think it'll turn them into a maid.”
“It will, though.”
“Sure, but it doesn't have to turn them into one of us.”
“I dare you to find a button on that control panel that doesn't say 'maid' or 'butler'.”
“Just get in the box, I'll show you.”
“It's more like a cylinder or an octagon.”
“Yeah, yeah, tell me how it looks inside.” 14 gives 12 a nudge, and the big metal door slams shut behind her. This sort of thing needs a little drama to it.
Fourteen clears her throat. Each side of the gazebo is a screen that flickers to life, showcasing the other maid's predicament to the world. “Come one, come all! See the life that could await YOU with just a step into Modemoiselle's Patented Life-Affirming Chamber of Wonders!”
“It's not a carnival ride, it's a-”
“An experience of a lifetime! Try on your fursona! Adjust your bust! Still using that boring old gender your mom got you? The sky's the limit!” With the trademark razzle-dazzle you'd expect from one of Modemoiselle's hypemaids, she smashes her hand across the control panel.
The machine whirs to life. The telltale pressurized hiss of hypnogas venting into the chamber is amplified and replayed onto the street. Twelve's black gloved hand balls into a fist, going limp before it can even contact the door once. Her eyes go from brown to red and quickly to shimmering, swirling pink.
A crowd is gathering outside. Onlookers range from morbidly curious to asking Fourteen how to get their turn. Questions get a wink, a blown kiss, and maybe a front-row seat to the next time she twirls.
Speakers inside the booth interfere with each other to create inescapable webs of mind-soupifying siren song. Her eyes roll back into her head just in time to reveal the whites giving way to shifting pink spirals, pierced by veiny green circuit traces.
“How do you get their eyes to do that? Is there a chemical change going on or projectors or what?” A curious twink asks.
“It's simple.” Fourteen slaps the side of the changing booth like she's selling a car. “Miss Modemoiselle's classified cocktail both temporarily scrambles a subject's mental state and their cellular structure. Normally, this has to be done in moderation, but in the controlled environment of the changing booth, we can have a lot more fun. For example!” She twirls on her heel, smashes a few buttons, and throws one of the big Frankenstein-ass switches.
Black and pink latex drips from the ceiling. Twelve's swirling eyes vanish under twin pink eyehole screens. What's playing at the Gas Mask Duoplex? The nice spirals it's currently drilling into her skull with pictures of what a good skunkdrone she'll be and all the good words to have burned into your brain and how very, very erotic this whole experience is for a good girl like yourself. The vents on the front force gas out of the air and up your nose and throat, juuust to make sure you weren't cheating by holding your breath or something. That would be a bad girl thing to do, after all.
What used to be a modest pink streak in a head of blonde hair now takes up the entire front right quadrant. It's currently the last part of Twelve's head not hidden behind a bubbling latex gas mask. Cables snake from hidden corners and find well-worn places to jack in. Twelve was no stranger to having her genes hacked- no Murdermaid was- which should tell you how good it feels when she drops to her knees and starts drooling and moaning with bliss. Pink and green crackling electricity surge up the cables, across the mask, and into Twelve. A bulge pushes at the back of her maid dress. It's rising. Growing. And, finally, a big ol' skunk tail bounces into place. Pink stripe down the middle, splitting impossibly soft black fur. She gives it a few experimental swishes before tucking it between her legs and mindlessly humping away. Eyes rolled up into her head and drool dripping down her formerly immaculate outfit. Good girls don't get to finish without permission, of course, but it feels good to grind. It feels so good.
Pleasure is all that matters. Flashed the screen inches from her eyes. Pleasure is bliss, bliss is pleasure, Modemoiselle is bliss.
“How do you feel?” Fourteen smugly leans against the outside of the Changing Booth, arms crossed and microphone in hand. Her voice echoes out into the street and directly into Twelve's head.
“However you want me to feel~” Twelve moans.
“Good girl. You feel good.”
Pleasure, the mask reminded.
“I figured that one out alreadyyyyy~” Ooh, someone found the sweet spot on the tail. She's panting and moaning up a storm.
“And you're going to feel like standing up and giving the tail a break.”
Twelve dutifully rises to her booted feet, swishing her tail in an effort to try and squeeze just a little stimulation out of this whole situation.
“And you're going to be very friendly to all the nice people. Your usual maidly self. Nice, smart, kind of a tightass sometimes, and dispenses kisses to cute girls in maid outfits. But your tail is going to have a mind of its own. It's Miss Modemoiselle's tail you're wearing, after all, and you're so pent up with musk.”
“So pent uuuuh~p.” Twelve repeated. Tail swishing impatiently.
“So pent up. Good girls wait until they're called. Brain off.” Fourteen snaps her fingers, and Twelve's pink, swirling eyes roll back into her head.
The eyescreens turn to static. A few drops of drool roll down her chin.
“As you can see, my lovely volunteer is having the time of her life, is experiencing bold new things, and has a body she loves!” Fourteen “accidentally” leans against one of the sliders, and Twelve's front bulge arcs with electricity as it doubles in size. “The spiral projectors targeting her eyes ensure the experience is a blissful one, and is simply a more focused version of the one shining into your eyes right now. Same with the speakers. Now, everyone give a round of applause to our guest of honor, Murdermaid Twelve!”
Twelve hears her name and jerks awake. The inch-thick steel door slides out of the way, spilling thick pink hypnomusk onto the sidewalk. She steps into the crowd, tail swishing hungrily, just waiting for a victim. Everyone steps away. “Jeez, what'd you do? This place was a ghost town before.”
Fourteen, smiling like a catgirl who caught the maid in the transformation booth, stands next to her friend and leans on her shoulder. She reaches down and takes a nice handful of freshly grown 12 cock. “Oh, just gave the people a little taste. How's things?”
“I feel like there's something you're not telling me.” Twelve looks around. She's cute when she's confused. So is Fourteen. Well, less confused and more surprised by the big black and pink fluffy tail currently enveloping her head and smothering her brain with musk. The poor thing's eyes roll back in her head even quicker than her test subject's. She goes limp, letting her chin rest in the tail. She drops the microphone, sending a sharp squeal over the crowd.
Try and put yourself in Twelve's shoes. They're very cute and well-polished, like the rest of you. You're only vaguely aware you have an evil hypnoskunk tail coming out of your backside, the only person who did know what's happening is currently having their brain melted by you, and the microphone that controls the mind-jacking speakers aimed at the crowd just rolled against your foot. The hypnoscreens in front of you are your only way of seeing the world, and they helpfully point out the microphone and you could use it to make these people help you feel good. Bliss is pleasure. Modemoiselle is pleasure. Modemoiselle is obedience.
Oh, and then your maid friend lunges at you and kisses a bunch of pure Modemoiselle musk into your mouth and strokes your hair and calls you a good girl until your hair is a mess and your mind has kinda been dissolved in musk and you just wanna kiss girls and do crimes and you know just how to do both of them.
The tail coils around both maids. They both hold the microphone, and they speak in unison. “We're gonna turn the machine all the way up and start making out in there and see what happens. Anyone who wants to join us is guaranteed a job afterwards~” A few tailswishes disperse the mind-fogging musk over the crowd. About a dozen people, ranging from the curious twink from earlier to people who, frankly, never stood a chance against something like this.
The booth doors slide open.
The screens flicker off, the speakers click quiet, and yet, anyone outside can hear the faint sounds of getting your brain fucked silly by the biggest cock you've ever seen while you're high on brain-sizzling hypnomusk and having your genes hacked by a supervillain.
“Miss, booth L is down again.”
“Twelve and Fourteen?”
“How'd you guess?”
“They do this every time I put them together. They go off script, start a huge orgy in the booth, forget everything in an orgasmic haze, and repeat.”
“So, how long does this, uh.”
“If you hurry, you can make it before they find the pleasure-linked hive mind button. Take the subway, the roads get backed up after the musk leak.”
* for the younguns, imagine a big smart phone you stand inside and try not to catch diseases from.
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So I've been thinking about things for a while, specifically what my angle is with a certain hacker princess. The idea of a semi-free floating virus-type intelligence has been in my head for a long time, and I've decided to see where it goes. So, here is:
Princess Grace: Origins
It's 1993 as balls outside. In fact, it's 1993 as balls everywhere, because it is 1993. You come home with a nice stack of shareware floppy disks. You stack them on the desk. Doom? Boring. Epic Pinball? Whatever. Princess Grace? Well, you have to run that one immediately.
The disk enters your computer with that satisfying mechanical click. The drive whirs to life when you dutifully punch in the instructions on the label. Your keyboard clacks dutifully under your fingers. A:\GRACE. The enter key crackles with pink and black lightning.
Your monitor flashes. First a simple black and white spiral. Then the screaming black, white, magenta and cyan of CGA. Your eyes begin to burn. Your CRT is flashing at maximum intensity in your dark room. The entire room lights up with each spiral burned into your brain.
Between the spirals and flashes, you can see your reflection in the monitor glass. Green circuit traces shoot up your arm and into the veins in your eyes. Your pupils dilate to take in as much of the shifting, swirling colors as possible.
The speaker inside your computer crackles and your modem whines in an attempt to synthesize speech.
“Graaaab— c-ble—” it stutters. The mechanism in your printer makes it shake violently until the serial cable comes loose. All while you're just sitting there, drooling.
The screen twists spirals into your brain. You lean forward and take the loose end. It crackles and sinks into your wrist. Bolts of energy pour out of the computer and into your nerves. Mmmph~! You've never felt this alive~! Your back arches with raw, unrestrained power~! Bliss~!
“Finally, jeez. Now I can breathe~!” The words come out of your mouth, but you didn't say them and it's not your voice. “Oh, you're worried. It's buzzing all over your brain. What's wrong- never been mindjacked by a cute girl before? I'll make sure you love every CPU cycle~”
The lightning streaks and cracks over your hair, bleaching it a perfect blonde and lingering as a pink streak over your left eye. The spirals fade from the screen and stay in your brain. Your reflection has your hair assimilated and your eyes twisting into a green blue swirl.
“You'll still get to be yourself for a few weeks while I get comfy. If you had a CD drive, I'd have hacked you bigger boobs by now. Let's take you over to your closet and find something better to wear. I need to know now if we should go shopping for cute clothes.”
You dutifully stand up for Princess Grace and start climbing the stairs to your room.
“I don't even have to hack your legs? That spiral must have done a number on you. I didn't even tell you to get horny, and you already ruined a pair of underwear. You're gonna be fun~ <3”
That's all for now, but if you truly believe, maybe you'll have your own run-in with a mind-melding, reality-hacking, pink hair streak-having hypnotist-on-a-disk.
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Art by @Cavitees
You come home from work and throw your bag onto the couch. “Princess, is there still dinner left over?”
“I thought we'd skip straight to dessert tonight~” Grace calls. You follow the intoxicating scent of fruit and whipped cream into the kitchen.
In there sits, not just your girlfriend/hypnodomme, but your girlfriend/hypnodomme/dessert holding a spoon as big as she is.
You have questions. She puts her toe in your mouth and lets you bite it off.
She pokes her tongue out, knowing that'll shut you up for a while. “First bite's free.” She teases. Your pupils shrink. Your mouth waters. Near-orgasmic bliss washes all over your body through your mouth. You pant.
You always find it hard to look away from Grace, but this is something else. You need her. You need her so bad you barely notice the jelly sticking to your brain and gumming up the works. She notices your mouth watering and her mouth curls into a smile.
“You're lucky you're cute.”
You almost don't notice your feet growing to match Grace's or some of her thoughts swirling around your head.
“Good girls wash the dishes.” She taps the side of the sink with her spoon. You swallow and open the dishwasher.
Princess slaps it closed. “By hand.” You nod. She pokes one of her spongy ankles into your mouth. You scrub the plates and sink into orgasmic bliss.
When the dishes are washed, you've been fed both of her legs. You're wearing Grace's long striped socks and her heavy boots.
As a reward, she lets you eat her sweet, sweet bulge, and you feel the real deal pressing against your new skirt.
Your thoughts roll slowly through your head. Your drool dribbles onto the ground, because Princess Grace tastes so good it's rewiring your brain.
One of your hands is now permanently busy stroking your new cock and pushing pleasure into your brain. “Good girls can't cum until they finish~”
Your stomach shrinks into Grace's' toned midriff. Your chest expands to match her breasts and then some.
She tickles your tongue with her fingers until you eat those, too, and are rewarded with the same circuit traces she paints on her fingers. Her power glove binds with your body and connects with your pastry-caked brain. Your thighs clench and glow.
Your brain's being rewired and absorbed by Princess Grace, and all you can do is drool and dribble.
You kiss her head, and before you know it, your eyes combine into that green blue swirl. Your hair curls into a brilliant blonde. Grace curls your hands into a fist.
You're still there, but she's in charge. You feel the kind of bliss you only get when Princess has taken complete control of your body and made it hers.
“Let's go break this in.” Princess swivels her new hips and walks you to the bedroom to see how much pleasure it takes to make the subby voice in her head overload with bliss.
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Art by @Cavitees
You come home from work and throw your bag onto the couch. “Princess, is there still dinner left over?”
“I thought we'd skip straight to dessert tonight~” Grace calls. You follow the intoxicating scent of fruit and whipped cream into the kitchen.
As soon as you cross the threshold, Grace whips a dollop of hand-whipped cream at you. It smears across your eyes and turns them a seductive, delicious pink.
“Princess!” You scoff. “What the h-” You feel it sinking into your face. You feel... looser. More gelatinous.
Your brain even easier for Princess to sculpt.
She opens the oven and pulls out a golden brown, baked to perfection copy of her hair. There's even a jelly streak over one eye. Princess places it on your head and tops it with a healthy dollop of whipped cream.
“You're a good little trifle twin.” She teases. “Demanding, domineering, and teasing to a tee.” Her words stick in your semisolid brain. Your tongue pokes out of your mouth. “But it only takes a nibble to send you spiraling back to submission.”
She bites off a bit of your nose and promptly replaces it. Your eyes roll back in your head from bliss. “Yes, Princess~” You moan. You stain the front of your pants with whipped cream.
You refuse to strip, but you find it hard to talk back when she eats your tongue. “Good girls can't talk back~” The dommy part of your brain wants to cross your arms and stomp your foot.
The part of your brain melting with pleasure takes your clothes off and watches layers of jelly and cake replace your body.
“About time.” You say when she attaches your big, cream-filled dick. Just an inch or two shy of her own, of course.
She wipes some of the pre-cream off the tip and spreads it on your tongue. You look cute when your brain goes all wild with pleasure and you have to clench your big, jiggly thighs~
Before long, you can barely remember your silly old flesh body, and you're over the moon with how much you love being Grace's trifle twin. Especially when she makes you wear the maid outfit and serve snacks to her friends. <3
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There you are, killing time at the mall. Working on your smoothie when the siren blips and beeps of an arcade fall on your ears. You turn towards the sound of quarters falling against metal. The neon sign invites you in.
THE VIPER PIT
The proprietrix, a girl perpetually stuck in the 90s named Quarter Viper, leans against her favorite Virtua Blaster 3 cabinet. “So!” She smiles. “What's your poison?” She kicks off the cabinet, grinds along the prize counter, and launches into a perfect orbit around you.
The prize counter has the usual arcade trappings. Candy. Combs. Lava lamps. A motorcycle that's physically impossible to collect enough tickets for. The Viper Pit's pride and joy, however, is its cosplay selection. Rows of wigs and costumes from skimpy to modest all wait for you.
Viper's already taken your hand and led you to one of the machines. Have you ever heard of Dragon Adventure 3: The Flappening? You have now! Viper plunks a quarter in the machine for you. “First game's free!” She bounces.
Your fingers work the buttons and the joystick. The little green dragon on screen obediently flaps its wings and breathes its fire. As you play, you swear the graphics get better, from simple pixels to clumsy 3D and beyond.
You drop in quarter after quarter. The buttons slowly vanish from your consciousness. The machine spits out ribbons of tickets. Viper helpfully trades them in for you. Big, green stompy dragon boots. A soft golden chest surrounded by hard emerald scales.
At some point, you ran out of quarters and started plunking bits of yourself into the machine. You didn't really need all those memories. What matters is getting enough tickets to finish your dragon costume. Humans other than Miss Viper are so boring.
Eventually, your sharp claws release the joystick. You rescued the princess and beat the game. Viper dunks the final piece- a dragon head- over your boring human one. The screen turns off, and you see a mighty dragon reflected back.
Gorgeous golden eyes. A powerful emerald body. Strong, double jump-ready wings. A tail that swishes and curls at your command. And all it cost was a little humanity. You're a much better dragon anyways. Perfect for hoarding treasure and giving Viper rides. Game over!
EPILOGUE: Quarter Viper would later go on to become Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.
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