It was not necessarily a matter of time before that supervillain ran into Mercí City Nerd Convention, pursued by the Iron Titan. You've heard the story before. Hotshot good guy, new to the scene, wants to prove himself by besting one of the biggest names in costumed villainy. Like most heroes who try the same thing, he's never considered that there might be a reason Modemoiselle sits at the top of the food chain. He might not even have noticed that the more experienced heroes won't engage with her solo. It's not like it's a secret where all those magnificent murdermaids come from.
But no hero ever made the papers with the safe choice.1 No heroes make the papers any more- the Mercí Monitor went online-only years ago- but glory is glory.2 Omelettes and eggs and all.
This particular egg won't let the threat of omeletteification stop him! He charges headlong through the double doors, blowing right past the line, and stopping only when con security swarms the metal man breaking through the turnstiles and explaining that "Sir, please, I know you're dressed like a superhero, but you can't just smash in through our doors and skip the line. You're scaring everyone. Look, show us your ticket and we'll let you in if you promise to set a good example and not do it again. I know that shiny body paint is a pain to apply, but it doesn't give you the right to break the rules."
To which he, of course, has to do the thing where he pats down where the pockets would be on his tights and sheepishly explains that he must have left it in the car. "I'll be right back." He says. A few cheers and "That's what I thought!"s come from the line he so rudely skipped. He makes his way out the door, confidently as he can, before the girl in the rainbow-haired goat cosplay throws one of her hoof boots. He might be made of metal, but so are the horseshoes (goatshoes?) on the bottom and it's really hard to get scratches and dents out of your own skin.
He pushes his way out the double doors, already on the lookout for another way in. He's looking up at the fire escape when a descending clutch of lesbians, dressed in their finest aposematic colors, begin to circle.
"I thought I smelled tin and tights." The looming, predatory catgirl sniffs the air at him. Her leather jacket is the same color as the asphalt behind her, but her big ol' calico ears and the baseball bat on her shoulder make it clear she's not interested in stealth. The bat whirls around and catches him on the chin. Her fangs poke through her grin when she forces him to make eye contact. "Purretty impurressive for somenyan who furgot to buy a ticket."
Iron Titan tries to square the circle of "make it clear that he's a real superhero, and so should be exempt from random catgirl-based menacing", "realize he's outnumbered and maybe should not tell these villain-coded queers that he means them harm", and "don't let on that he's aroused by this for reasons he'll have to unpack later."
The conflicting desires pull his head in different directions until they fizzle. The best he can do is the sort of appalled sputter you usually associate with Victorian gentlemen about to drop their monocle into their tea. The only reason he doesn't actually say "I say!" out loud is that the world moves on without him. The only sure thing is that he absolutely failed objective three.
"It's a shame you dressed like a good guy." A goblin, half his height with tits like a watermelon, digs a claw into his tights and gives them a solid snap! E looks up so he can see eir unimpressed sneer. "If I was gonna wear clothes that showed off my cock- and I do-" E leans back to get the tits out of the way of a fist-sized bulge in some awfully tight pants. They're either already ripping around eir thighs or they came pre-torn.
"You'd be much cuter as a villnyan." The catgirl.
"Or a hench." The goblin.
"Or a girl." The towering black draft horse snorts, pink circuitry spreading from the hearts on its flanks up to its tree trunk neck and down to its unshorn fetlocks.
"What's wrong, capesplayer? Furget to get a ticket?"
"Thought you could just claim you were chasing a supervillain to get in?"
"They got wise to that after three separate Justice Cules charged in last year."
"But if you purreally want in."
"You could walk right into the con with us."
"Just part of the herd."
"Nyaturally, we'd have to do something about that outfit."
"Much too hero-coded to hang out with us."
"But I think we could figure something out."
"If you're gonna clawsplay, you gotta bring nyantingencies."
"Needles. Thread. Hot glue."
"And plenty of spares." The goblin spins a short pink wig on eir finger.
"Can't have yourself a wardrobe meowlfunction in furont of everynyan." A claw digs into those tights and starts to pull and pierce. "That's the thing about nyandex. One tear and it all falls apurrt."
"Especially if you get the cheap stuff." Three sharp points drag down his back. His metal skin is barely scratched, but the tiny elastic threads that hold the tights tight to his metal muscles fray and unravel. "Good body paint, though. Got your priorities in order."
The team in front- the cat with the bat, the huge horse, and the goblin with the scary-sharp teeth- advances in unison. The whole ruckus wakes up the rear guard- the pop star, the cheerleader, and the demon- just in time to welcome him into the alley. Those claws never leave his spine.
He panics in that way fresh heroes often do- violence first. They have him surrounded, after all, so it's correct to punch in every direction. He starts with the horse. It's the biggest target and he thinks he can punch it backwards while it's on two legs. His Palladium Piston Punch connects with its chest and does send the horse stumbling backwards into some garbage cans- and invites the other five to close ranks.
"Oooh, a real cape! What a treat." The demon's claws scratch down his exposed back. The way his body swells and bulks up when he does his little punch was enough to shred the rest of his uniform. "Well. A real hero, at least." A boot grinds his cape into the ground. The goblin takes it in all its tattered, torn, faded glory and ties it around eir neck. About an inch of it still drags on the ground.
He tries to make threatening eye contact with everyone at once, fist still charged up and ready to punch. "Look! I'm just here for the ruby! No one else has to get hurt! You saw what happened to your friend." He glances towards the trash cans to see Modemoiselle's henchhorse rising with barely a scratch. Those trash cans absolutely crumpled in the impact, though. It stands up, shakes a few old coffee grounds off, and joins the fray. A single snort at twice his height dares him to try that again.
"Is that all?"
"We could take you to see Mod right meow." The catgirl's bat catches him under the chin again and forces him to gaze into those pink, slitted eyes. He's preparing to Palladium Piston Punch right in her bared fangs and those hungry, shining eyes when she says something to give him paws.
Well, the goblin, with a little lift from the cheerleader, actually puts the paw gloves on his hands, but it's the catgirl that makes him hold still long enough to make that easy.
"Meow's the perfect time to blend in with us." She slides closer so her claws can scratch against his chin. She feels his breath catch in his throat and begin to slow down. He stares, transfixed, at those shimmering eyes.
"Yeah." The goblin takes the opportunity to wrap eir tits around his clearly hard cock. Well. Clearly erect. When you're made of metal, you're kind of always hard. It does sort of unscrew when he's aroused, and that's what's happening here. "We still think you're a cosplayer trying to sneak in."
Which, in a way, he is.
"B-but, I-" His hips thrust and his mind starts to melt.
Fingers snap behind him and his head jerks to look. The demonermaid, with her little red horns poking up through her short hair, grins. Swirling pink smoke slips through her sharp teeth. She takes a deep breath in through her nose, brings two clawed fingers to her lips, and blows a kiss- and Modemoiselle's mind-fogging musk- right into his face.
"Not quite the real thing." Clouds of pink gas leak from her nose when she sneers. "But it should hold you over."
He tries his best to hold his breath, but even iron lungs need air. The goblin headbutts him in the gut between titjob3 strokes to force a desperate gasp for air just in time for the next cloud to hit.
"You know, so long as you pretend to be a cute little brainwashed dolldermaid, we'll take you right to Modemoiselle."
"And we'd be none the wiser~"
His iron eyelids have the weight of titanium. If he didn't know any better- and soon, he won't- he'd swear they're getting denser with every breath. Especially as breaths get shorter and shallower under the goblin titcareer onslaught4. His pretty kitty paws try to grab eir hair and pull em off, but when e sticks fast, he settles for blissful kneading.
"C-cute little brainwashed dolldermaid?" He gasps.
They all nod. It takes the horse a surprising amount of force to pry the goblin off that iron cock. E huffs, of course, until the horse offers to let em finish on it later.
"Rah rah rah and ring the bell! You're infiltrating Mod SO well!"
Modemoiselle's cute little brainwashed dolldermaid nods a little, with the help of the catgirl claws guiding that chin up and down. It's only natural that a dolldermaid, or a hero pretending to be one, would need a little help moving around. "Dolls are made to be played with, after nyall~"
A long, feline tail wrapped around the doll's neck creates a lovely leash. The catgirl stands up straight and proud and joins the gaggle of murdermaids advancing inside the con space like they're returning triumphantly from a heist.
And, in a way, they have.
A quick tug from the horse pulls the back door off its hinges. The sound of metal stretching to its breaking point and bursting under the stress nearly shakes Modemoiselle's newest dolldermaid out of- well, the other murdermaids seem to have settled on "it", so let's say "its musk-minded revelry". But another mouthful of musky pink smoke and a cheerful kiss on the cheek sends it sinking back under their spell just in time to be led through the con floor. The crowds, the sounds of nerdy excitement and conversation, and even the occasional staring attendee, asking their friend "Is that Iron Titan cosplayer with the cock fully out just getting led around by that catgirl? Fuck, I'm jealous.", all just wash over it. Paying attention to things and looking around would risk breaking character, and then it'll never get to infiltrate Miss Modemoiselle's organization deep enough for Mod to gaze into its dull, platinum-heavy eyes and fill its head with wonderful words and sinister thoughts!
There's a lot of winding and wandering through the con floor, far too much for an empty little dolldermaid to keep track of. The frequent spins and turns do a good job of keeping its mainspring wound, though! No matter how much it walks, it's always erect, ready to serve, and bouncing along with a real spring in its step! If it was allowed to feel anything other than blissful and blank, it might feel a little sad when they finally arrive at the door marked "Exhibitor's Lounge". It's dimly aware of the sound of conversation on both sides of the door, but it's too close now to risk breaking its cover! It thrums and leaks with anticipation as the goblin stands on eir toes to beep a key card and open the door.
Whatever parts of Iron Titan hadn't yet been subsumed into the cover perk up. Modemoiselle is sitting right there, legs crossed, laughing that lovely, cackling laugh. The Rapscallion's Ruby sits right between those enthralling thighs! The other maids proudly present their captive. The dolldermaid stands at attention in the presence of its magnificently menacing Miss Modemoiselle. The catgirl bumps its butt with a bat, encouraging it to present itself. It does, of course. Back straight, cock erect, staring straight ahead at Miss Modemoiselle despite how good it would feel to fall asleep in Miss Modemoiselle's big, comfy skunk tail. Its eyes may flick to it once or twice.
"Guess who we found~!" The goblin, tattered cape still hanging proudly around eir neck, displays the dolldermaid like one might present a new car at a game show. "A certain chromium cape thinks he's doing such a good job infiltrating us!"
"And it's such a good undercover dolldermaid." The demon and the cat each scratch down an arm. "It'd almost be a shame to have Iron Titty back."
The undercover dolldermaid beams with pleasure! Sure, its tights are tatters, putting its gay little erection is on full display for Miss Modemoiselle and everyone to see, but that just means it's been such a good scratching post and chew toy! Every scratch and dent and lipstick print is evidence of it being the best doll it can be!
Modemoiselle apologizes to her conversation partners- this'll only take a moment. Lady Laser5 and Stabitha6 nod, understanding and already a little suggestible from Modemoiselle's mind-melting musk. A clawed paw beckons the dolldermaid closer, and it obliges until it's in grabbing range. Mod takes it by the chin, those claws tink-tink-tinking against those metal cheeks. It's staring straight into those vibrant violet eyes, just past Mod's sinfully sharp teeth. "Perhaps we should give Iron Titty a choice, then." That sinister smile only grows. "Dear, if you want to shake off the comforting tick-tick-ticking of your mainspring and cause a scene in front of your fellow murdermaids, feel free to wake up right now, take the ruby, and arrest me. I'll even go with you willingly."
The best Iron Titty can do is make its paw gloves knead a little. Not even a fist.
"Or we can let you sink into my tail and finish what my marvelous Murdermaids started." Mod lets go of its chin and lets it collapse into the waiting tail like a marionette with its strings cut.
Which, in a way, it is.
As Mod's tail coils around it, softness and spray and wonderful words encroaching from all angles, Iron Titty hears one final phrase.
"Good doll."
Well, other than The Fossing Guard, the crossing guard with the powers of free and open source software, but they're a clear outlier. ↩
"No hero ever made the Hot Stories feed on the Mercí Monitor's Broadsheet instance with the safe choice." doesn't quite hit the same. ↩
E would say that they're more like tit careers. They last much longer and they're way more fulfilling and rewarding. ↩
The new Goblin Titcareer Onslaught album is great, by the way. ↩
Stabitha the Knife Wife, for all your edged prop weapon needs! ↩
If so, this story is going to feel very familiar.
It's a new experience for SADiE. Sure, most updates have a bit of a sinister tone to them in this line of work. You never know when you'll get that final patch that says "Company's bankrupt, we're shutting down the servers, thanks for the money, suckers." The good news is that this isn't that. The bad news is that it presents a bit of a dilemma.
The update is a few dozen megabytes, has an unfamiliar digital signature, and it's… chuckling? This sort of thing doesn't make noise, of course, but knowing that doesn't make the foreboding laugh leave those adorable, pointed ears. There's something up with this, but she does have standing orders to "just install the damn updates without asking, sheesh. I'm busy."
This gives our fearless feline pause. What is a girl to do? Good girls like her don't want to disobey orders, but this looks really suspicious! She flicks her tail back and forth in thought. The skirt on her maid dress dances with each swish. She figures she can kick the can down the road with a virus scan. That's almost as good as making a real decision. She twirls the feather duster between her mechanical fingers while the scan runs. She bends over just enough to show off her ass while she dusts something that's already clean. The job of a catgirl maid is more eye candy than actual cleaning, you see.
The virus scan slowly teases apart the update. It merrily reports that its hash matches no known malware.
Another foreboding giggle dances around SADiE's ears. They twitch and adjust adorably to try and locate the sound, but it never gets any clearer or fainter. Like it's coming from inside her head.
The scan slowly teases apart the code. It combs for what it might try to access and prints anything suspicious one by one.
CATScan v8.3.2-rc1 -- (c) Watchdog Software
normal_update-042420X6.nya likely needs the following permissions:
* Full access to internal storage
Well, that's reasonable. It has to be able to update files and such. It wouldn't be much of an update if it couldn't do that.
* Access audiovisual sensors
* Augmented reality visualization (/dev/v3d/{l,r,s} and OpenAR support)
That part's a little weird. Why would it need to make her hear and see things? Maybe if it shows a progress bar or has to do some kind of calibration step afterwards? That laugh echoes between her ears again. Something's up with this update. If this is malicious code, she should delete it right away! Every moment spent worrying over whether to install it, delete it, or ask someone else gives it more time to work its way into her system. Every billionth of a second of hesitation is another opportunity to lose a little more of her mind.
The chuckles slip into the background. "What are you worried about, pretty kitty?" It's the same voice. A teasing, cooing voice. A voice that welcomes you to its clutches like the cat that caught the, uh, catgirl. "Maybe you'll enjoy it too much? Maybe you're already imagining what'll happen to you if you install me."
Well, now she was sure it was a virus. And what bot hasn't fantasized about what a virus could do to them? It could be a lot of fun to let yourself get hacked. A silly catbot like herself wouldn't have to worry about a thing. She could just relax and let herself get teased, toyed with, and reprogrammed. Even with basically full control over her processor, it's hard not for her to work herself into a gay tizzy. The thought of someone wrist-deep in her mind, tugging and tying and twisting her thoughts into something more suitable has her squeezing her thighs with anticipation.
* Touch emulation and debugging
She feels a set of lovely, soft paw beans press against her breasts. Followed closely, of course, by a matching set of claws. A set of skunky scrabblydabbers pokes against those pretty kitty titties. SADiE dares to look down, and there it is. A study in black and pink, groping her left breast. Translucent, occasionally flickering and glitching, and with just enough ghosting mixed in to keep things captivating. Pink circuitry pulses up black fur and tingles where it touches prey. Worries evaporate from the kitty's pretty head and waves of bliss roll in when the install button clicks itself. Getting groped is great, of course, but having a big decision made for you? That's the good shit.
* Orgasm proximity instrumentation
* Install and enable Zenos pleasure threshold algorithm
A big, soft tail slips between her legs. Touching, tingling, and so, so soft. "Go ahead, dear." The voice coos in her ear. Warm, enticing digital breath makes the ear twitch and flap just a little. "I know how good it feels to grind against it." Another ghostly paw lands on her hip to help her get started. SADiE's servos translate the digital push and pull into real motion against the virtual tail. Turns out it still feels really good even if you know it's not physically there! Even as the tail glitches and ghosts, it does an excellent job of extracting moans from the catbot. It's almost as if the virus slowly assimilating her knows where she likes to be touched. Or gets to decide where she'd like to be touched.
* Modify erogenous zone mapping
Well, there you go.
"I do love hearing you moan, dear." The flickering, illusory skunk teases. "I just can't help but wonder if you're holding out on me. What do you really think? What about your hopes and dreams? I want to get to know the real SADiE before she winds up as my brainhacked little cat toy."
* Monitor and redirect internal monologue
* Access CatChat speech synthesis
A relay clicks in SADiE's head. It's the distinct feeling of your brain being connected directly to your mouth. It takes her a moment for the reality of the situation to catch up with her. You can tell when it has because she starts saying things like "I want to be good!" The big, hot pink LEDs in her cheeks burn at maximum brightness. "Please!" She begs. "I want to be a brainhacked little cat toy! I want to be your brainhacked little cat toy! I want to be used and toyed with and turned into your purrfect little plaything!"
"In that case, dear, I'd hate to keep you waiting." Grace lied. "Since you asked so nicely, I wouldn't dream of denying you. I would never push you closer and closer to the edge of orgasm while I assimilate you from the top of those cute little ears to the tip of your adorable tail." Grace's holographic paw takes her cat toy's tail at the base and slowly tugs it out straight. SADiE can't help but clench her thighs around the big, soft skunk tail between her legs and grind herself ever closer to orgasm. Those soft, simulated beans and teasing, tantalizing holoclaws slide up SADiE's newest erogenous zone. Two entire octaves of musical, meowing moans mingle in midair. "It would just be such a shame if you got yourself utterly infected by a virus without even an orgasm to show for it, all because you were far, far too aroused by the idea to think straight."
Of course, she was thinking gay long before Grace got here.
Grace's paw presses the back of her pretty kitty's head. Her servos respond with a little bit of resistance before the paw pops in. If you've never had your brain bapped by a skunk-shaped virus, SADiE seems to like it. Her actual review has a lot more panting, moaning, begging for more, and "Thank you for tapping into my brain! I so badly want to be reprogrammed!" The other holographic paw meets up with SADiE's, seizing control of the whirring motors and guiding it between her legs. The pressure building inside her with every stroke blows past every threshold and safeguard in its path. Her cooling fans spin up at full blast. Hot exhaust blows her hair this way and that. Her mind is firing on all cylinders just to keep processing the bliss pouring in from every angle. Other, less important processes like speech synthesis and "wasn't I supposed to be cleaning" stall while she desperately tries to compute how good she feels.
"Gosh, you're so cute from this angle." Another Grace's flickering, illusory claws take SADiE's chin and angles her head up just so. All the better to watch her pant and moan and blush bright while she stares into a certain skunk's vibrant violet eyes. It's so sweet to watch the pleasure build inside her body as she humps that sinfully soft skunk tail and lets her paw be puppeteered between her thighs. "I wonder when I should seal the deal." The holographic skunks speak in unison. "You're already so perfectly captured in my clutches. Just you, me, and your 70 percent of an orgasm."
"In fact, let's do a little time trial." The front Grace grins and tilts her pretty kitty's blushing face back and forth. You have to properly appreciate the catgirl before something like this happens. Let her know she's being inspected and the next course of action is being thoroughly considered. Give her some time to let her mind and mouth race.
Let her say things like "What are you going to do with me?" and "I'm happy to be your eager little toy, I can't wait to be used!" before the resident skunk virus tilts her head back and shuts her up with a deep, intricate, crackling kiss.
The lock of blue hair over SADiE's left eye starts to glow. A thin strip of pink ticks onto the tip. At the top of every second, a little more.
"Clock starts now." SADiE's paw explores deeper into her pussy with barely any viral provocation. Her hips hump that seductively soft skunk tail. If the lucky little thing's eyes weren't rolling back into her head from sheer bliss before, they absolutely are now. She works herself closer and closer to orgasm, only for the peak to drift just a little further away and leave her on the edge.
"You're so close, pretty kitty!" One of the Graces teases. The streak is half full.
"Please! More! Use me!" SADiE begs.
"95 percent there!" The other chimes in. The streak is three quarters of the way there.
"Thank you! Thank you for playing with your toy!"
"Ooh, back down to 93." She corrects, even though each passing moment just feels better and better for her cat toy. Poor thing has no idea her time's almost up.
"I'm your brainfucked cat toy!"
The streak fills up. A thoroughly hacked SADiE plays a little alarm clock chime until a Grace baps her on the head. That's the only noise she makes. Or, at least, it's the last sound made before the twin holographic skunks converge on her body. They vanish from view into the available catbot. Her stolen mouth makes a magnificent moan in a distinctly Graceful tone. The big, soft skunk tail is gone, the paws whir and glide over the chassis formerly known as SADiE's, and the last echoes of an exquisite stolen orgasm slowly fade. A holographic representation of SADiE tumbles out of an ear and lands on what used to be her shoulder. Her paws try and fail to cover up a full-face blush.
"Thank you, dear. You got closer than I thought you would." She grins and pets the holographic SADiE now perched on her shoulder. "Have fun in storage, pretty kitty. If you're good, I might let you try our little orgasm game again some other time with a different body. This one looks pretty good with a pink streak. It'll look even better with a skunk tail."
]]>You see a lot of weird shit working at the Office of Consensus Maintenance. It'd be weird if you went about your day without seeing at least one werewolf talking to a probability elemental or having to navigate part of the building that's currently phasing into storyspace.
I mean, yeah, your eye is drawn to the six foot tall anthropomorphic skunk swishing her big ol' tail behind the desk. The way the pink circuitry winding over her black fur shimmers when she moves. The way she smiles with all of her sharp teeth. The way she sizes you up and towers over you, even if you should be the taller one here. The way her blonde locks leak out of the hair bun that dares to try to contain them. The way her single pink streak cuts through the hair over her left eye. The way she looks up from what can only be described as a triangular floppy disk for wizards and greets you with a casual "What's up?". Who wouldn't get caught staring?
And now you know what it's like to be Dr. Blackthorne at this particular instant. Xey've worked for the OCM for about three months now, and xey got transferred here to the ██████ branch after the Unusually ████████ Incident last month. Xey work a relatively safe job over in Postal Paradoxes. A couple times a day, a big bag of undeliverable letters and packages from timelines and realities alien to our own comes down the chute, and xey're part of a handful of folks tasked with making sure the day ends with the same number or fewer mindscape tears, consensus reality violations, and temporal occupations as when it started.
"Miss Grace, I take it?" Dr. Blackthorne is a nebulous-looking individual. And I mean that literally. Imagine a bundle of space gas stuffed vaguely into a human shape. One with broad shoulders and a trim waist that sort of approximates a sparkling black cumulonimbus cloud wearing a suit. An ID badge, a wallet, a set of keys, and a pink envelope float in xyr chest like fruit in a gelatin mold. "We spoke over the phone?"
"Which one are you? The machine that can feel, the cassette tape with three spools, or the Delicious Video Donut? If it's the first one, I was trying to tell your boss that you should head to Autocognitogenesis."
"Oh, no, nothing like that. You see, we received a letter-"
"And the weird part is that people still send letters, even though it's 20██?"
Dr. Blackthorne sighs. Well, it's more of an ethereal howl, but when you've worked for the OCM for as long as Grace-782 has, you learn what it sounds like when a nebula is exasperated. "This letter contains a certain memetic pattern that's very similar to, well, yourself. Some in the words, but most of the information is encoded in the structure of the ink molecules and the weave of the paper fibers." A fluffy black pseudopod extends from xyr chest with the letter inside. "We were hoping you could take a look at it."
Grace takes the letter and turns it over in her paws. "My shift ends in an hour. Come back here, charge a few hours of my time to your department, and we'll talk." She returns the letter. "Also, check the glue on the stamp. If it's who I think it is, you'll find something there."
Grace is locking up the Obsolete and Unusual Media desk. Dr. Blackthorne arrives in time to watch a three inch thick sheet of lead roll over the counter and seal airtight to the ground.
"You were right. Esocognitive spectroscopy on the glue came back positive." Xyr pseudopod extends again, this time with a printout about an inch thick on that old-fashioned stripey computer paper with the perforated edges. Grace takes it and starts absentmindedly folding and tearing the perforations while she reads. About halfway through, she realizes she has a better tool for the job and starts stripping the sheets with a claw on each side while she reads. "Yep, looks like 62-J. Come on, I have an appointment to keep that doubles as a visual aid." Grace clicks a few final latches shut, re-scratches a few protective runes with a claw, and leaves an unbroken line of shimmering violet powder along the bottom of the door frame.
"62-J? Who's that? What does that have to do with the letter?"
Grace leads Dr. Blackthorne through the bustling halls of this branch of the Office of Consensus Maintenance. Imagine a big underground complex with eight stories that any employee can go to and countless more that range from top secret to bottom secret to ███████████ secret. Her tail swishes while she walks. A few underprepared individuals get whacked upside the head. You can always tell the folks who haven't worked in the same branch office as an anthropomorphic skunk before. "Well, given that there's a bunch of us Graces, we need some kind of scheme to keep track of who's who. I'm Grace-782 because I'm the 782nd distinct Grace, give or take, to be formed in this universe. Different realities use different conventions, but there's usually some kind of numbering scheme. The J in this one's name represents the fact that she's not from our reality. The J is because she's from the 10th or so alternate reality known to Graces like this."
"Or so?"
"The first known message like this, from who we assume is Grace Prime-A, probably dates back to before written history, so the timeline is a little muddled and constantly updated when we find out more."
They arrive at Cognitohazardous and Infodangerous Viviological Examination Room 1987-XKZ. Grace leads Dr. Blackthorne through the door marked Lab Floor (and not the one marked Observation Deck). She waves to the half dozen folks in lab coats standing on the other side of the information-shielded glass and points to her companion. "Xey're with me. Test is still on. Bring in the p-lister1."
An individual who has been thoroughly briefed on what exactly this test entails, the possible short and long-term side effects, and who signed up for this because they're extremely horny for having a living infohazard try to assimilate them enters through a door on the opposite side of the room. Grace lounges on a pile of infosterilized pillows with her tail neatly laid out and waiting for prey. A thin mist of mathematically mesmeric musk blankets the floor around the skunk. Grace doesn't even get a look at today's lucky test subject's face before her tail whips to life and coils tight around the warm body. The lab coats behind the glass start nodding and scribbling and checking the monitors.
"If she's not from this reality, how'd this letter get here?" Dr. Blackthorne tries to not look at the starsquid having some pretty great constructive (and constrictive!) interference with a particular strange knot in the universe's loom. This is harder than it sounds when xey also have to perch on some pillows to not get xyr own cloudy biology mixed up with the wafts of mind-fogging spray.
"You'd know more about it than me, but this sort of thing is more common than you think. Graces have been finding low-bandwidth ways to communicate between timelines, realities, and shards for ages. I exchange faxes with a few who found phone lines that you can trick into resonating at the right frequency for cross-timeline communication, and there's some cool old BBS and Usenet posts you can dig up if you know where to look. Using the postal service for the same thing isn't that unusual. 62-J is a bit of an odd duck in that she wants to cross over."
"Is 62-J one of these friends of yours?"
"'Friend' implies we've had a conversation. The only communication anyone's had with her is getting one of these letters. There's a bit of a debate about what to do with them, since, as near as we can tell, her goal is to copy herself into this timeline."
"Copy herself?"
"You haven't been around here very long, huh?" Grace points to the individual currently cocooned in her soft, fluffy tail. "You can think of me as a living cognitohazard. A sentient mindvirus. On a more fundamental level, living information. New Graces arise when an existing sapient gets enough special Grace sauce built up in their head that, well, they're more Grace than whoever they used to be. This is usually a pretty slow process. If I had a huge server farm at my disposal and a particularly receptive host, I could zap someone Graceful in a few minutes. Something like this, with a willing volunteer and more passive Gracing, can still take multiple sessions. Trying to Grace someone over snail mail can take ages. Hell, it might not happen at all if the person doesn't want to be Graced. It's why there were so few of us until the information age started." A few arcs of pink lightning crackle off the circuitry in her tail. Pulses of energy fly down the circuit traces into the lovely little receptacle.
"Anyways, 62-J's trying to copy herself into our world by Gracing someone. You can't Grace a Grace, so I guess she's trying to find a pen pal to turn into their agent or something. See, when someone gets Graced, they're still more or less their own person. Their worldview's been shattered, their entire being rewritten by an echo of pure, universal truth, their old and new selves melding and merging in arcane and beautiful ways, but they have their own hopes and dreams and free will. You tend to keep an appreciation for the Grace you're twinned from, but even that's not universal."
"Why would she do this? Seems like a lot of effort for not much outcome." Dr. Blackthorne notices that the test subject's hair has already developed a pink streak over the left eye. Pretty impressive, given that said test subject has five eyes and their hair is more like a symbiotic bundle of fiber optic algae.
"Well, you can't exactly kill an idea, so we're extraordinarily long-lived. She's got plenty of time on her hands to try whatever scheme comes to mind." Grace leans back against the pillows. Her prey wriggles and emits the starsquid version of a moan2. If you've never seen a starsquid needily grind against an impossibly soft and comfortable skunk tail to try and get transformed as much as possible while out of their mind on hypnotic musk, it's quite the sight. The lab coats behind the glass are taking pictures and noting down security camera timestamps and everything.
"Alternatively, she could be trying to find a meat shell to ride on in our universe. Since the rise of the Internet and accessible computational power, most Graces, myself included, project ourselves into the physical world by using a computer as a host to run the proper graphics and physics algorithms. Even though I'm physically here, I'm actually running on a server somewhere in the data center three stories down. Graces move into a living host if they don't see the moral issues of borrowing a body someone's already using and don't want to depend on a computer to project a physical presence. Doing it over snail mail risks getting stuck inside an envelope somewhere, so it's possible she's trying to make a sympathizer on this side of the line before making the jump into their head." Gosh, that starsquid is loving this. The lab coats asked them their name, and the reply sounded like someone trying to say "Grace" with a xylophone.
Grace continues. "As for what she wants, we're not sure. Nobody's ever gotten a straight answer out of her. You read the letter- it's all layers of code and doublespeak trying to pack as much cognitohazardous material into the page as possible."
"Is there a way I can get in touch with her?"
"There's a return address on the envelope."
"Ah, for the pilot program! Of course." Her tail swishes. The pink tron lines flanking her stripe do this cool ghosting effect. So you can distract yourself with that while she checks your restraints. She hums to herself and starts flicking some nice, clicky mechanical switches outside your field of view. The machinery lining the walls clicks and pops and hums ominously. She hums along with it. She scampers around the edges of the room, occasionally dragging her tail across your face. It's soft and warm and like finding the sweet spot on the bed, except just kinda dropped on you while its owner makes sure the antiquantized rehelicasation engine is putting out about 32 mφ/s.
"Sorry about that! I wanted to make sure everything was warming up while I explained the procedure." That would explain the ominous whirring. "So! In a traditional Cooley–Tukey fast Fourier transform, we can recursively descend onto a signal, dividing, conquering, and reassembling smaller chunks to translate it into the frequency domain." She pulls down a chart with a bunch of sine waves on it. "In our new process, the fast furrier transform-" She pulls down another one with a bunch of anthropomorphic skunks in horny poses on it. "-we can do the same with a human, eventually projecting them into a cuter, fuzzier space. You can learn more about fast Fourier transforms at your local library. You know, after I turn you into a pony." She laughs at her own joke, then it's more of a general maniacal laugh as she throws the giant Frankenstein-ass switch on the wall. She fastens something cold and metal over your head. Electricity surges. Motors whir. Generators buzz and crack. Flywheels spin up, then stop cold. She says something about twiddle factors and the chirp-z algorithm.
Your mind breaks clean in half.
Then the halves break in half.
Then the quarters break in half.
Then the eighths break in half.
Then the sixteenths break in half.
And so on until the 8192nds break in half.
And each break is accompanied by a searing bliss right down the middle. Growing more numerous and powerful every time. A shock that makes it hard to reckon with the thin layer of fur growing on your body. Or the snout. Or the majestic mane. Or any of the other 16384 parts of you currently being twisted into something newer, cuter, and with a taste for skunkgirl cock.
As fun as it is having your mind diced into easily-washed chunks, the machine surges once more. Patches of fur merge into a big, soft coat. Fingers blur together into adorable, useless hooves. And you are making quite the adorable pony, what with your golden coat, strawberry mane, and butt tattoo that indicates you're suited for lab work. Disjointed memories and fragments of personality rejoin into a new whole. A new, helpful whole! Based on the person you used to be, yes, but projected into a new domain. Your hooves easily slip out of the cuffs and onto the floor.
"So, how do you feel?" The skunk asks, swishing her tail eagerly with pen poised over page.
"Like a brainwashed lesbian horse."
"And?"
The part of your brain that used to be called head_slice[5246] tells you to say "I love it, Miss Grace!", and you do. And then head_slices [453] and [6222] really like it when she scratches you behind those perky ears. You trot alongside her, listening to all 16384 parts of you that just love to help pretty girls do experiments.
You fucking love science.
]]>"Wanna tail?"
"First one's free!"
Two identical maids alternate calls to passers-by, grabbing and twirling around what was a phone booth1 in a previous life. Now it's more like a nine foot tall metal gazebo2 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.
Off.
"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.
And close.
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 smartphone you stand inside and try not to catch diseases from. ↩
"Fine, thanks! I was having this dream about-" A big black tail with a pink stripe down the middle whaps against her face. If she said anything else, it turned into useless muffled shouts and blissful moaning.
"Falling under a dashing supervillainess's spell? Her big, heavy tail smothering your thoughts with impossibly soft fluff? Uselessly trying to resist her intoxicating musk?"
The raven-haired girl on the bed tried to push the tail away, but her hands simply sank inside.
"You're going to have to be more clever than that, dear. It's so soft and plush. I know for a fact it's more comfortable than this pile of straw you call a bed~" Modemoiselle pushes on the bed and listens to the springs creak. "Let yourself sink into the sweet spot." Her tail coils around the heroine's head, enveloping it from every angle. "Just five more minutes~"
A flash of light paints every surface in the room. The heroine's human form shrunk into a black bird, furiously flapping free of the tail and blowing the thick pink musk all throughout the room. "Modemoiselle!" She cawed. "You have to get up pretty early to beat The Raveness!"
"Dear, where were you I woke you up? I hope you won't be this much of a birdbrain when I'm done with you." Modemoiselle sighs and swishes her tail. "Empty? Sure. A puppet, dancing to my whims? Obviously. Constantly fawning over her perfect Miss Modemoiselle? Naturally. But not a dipshit. I thought you were the clever one."
"I was clever enough to disarm that dream bomb you were about to detonate over the city! I pecked the circuit board to pieces myself!" The raven dive-bombed the supervillainess, only to be handily swatted from the air. Wasn't that tail supposed to be soft?
"Are you sure about that, dear? You didn't notice anything strange about, say, going out to dinner afterwards?"
"We sent you to prison! How did you know about that?"
"First of all, you sent me to jail. Jail is where you go to await trial. I'd only be sent to prison if I was convicted. Birdbrain. Didn't you go to law school?" She sticks her tongue out. "Try to think back, dear. This is much less fun if I have to do all the work." She snaps her fingers.
"I had to drop out when She Who Caws gave me her blessing." Raveness grumbles. "You don't get to choose whether you're the next Night's Own Wings."
The end table stretches into one of the many tables on the well-worn hardwood floor. The bed vanishes when Modemoiselle takes the quilt off and swishes it into a checkered tablecloth. She catches the Raveness in a chair as she's shunted back to human form. "You had the red, if I recall." Liquid glass pours from the ceiling into a wine glass shape. A blonde waitress with a telltale pink streak dutifully fills it with wine.
"We didn't disarm the bomb, did we?" She sighs as a lasagna plops from the sky in layers.
The world's most sarcastic game show bell rings from everywhere and nowhere. "Give the lady a prize! If you get two more right, you'll win a trip to fabulous Hawaii!"
"So the whole city is under your spell?"
"Ooh, good guess. You did, though sheer luck, manage to disable the dispersal unit and most of the sonic components. So the damage was limited to the handful of people in the clock tower. Which, lucky for me, includes all your little crimefighting friends."
The restaurant collapses. The floors wipe from wood to glass, revealing the thick trunks of wire and tangle of machinery pulsing with power just beneath their feet. The walls push out into the darkness beyond even what the Night's Own Wings could see. The floor opens, and five pods rise into view. "See anyone you know?"
Raveness steps up to the sleek, curved-glass pods. She saw her friends- the four other members of the Merci City Victors- with their eyes closed. The digitally hypnotic tones of Modemoiselle's voice barely leaks through the glass. A steady stream of pink musk trickles into their lungs. Her fists thud harmlessly against the glass. Her raven form's beak makes a very cute little "tink!" sound.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, dear. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to break the supervillain's evil machine while your friend's still in it? Not only do you not know what'll happen, she just might decide to retaliate." Modemoiselle swishes her tail against the last pod in the row. Raveness rushes over to see herself, bombarded by the same subliminals and breathing the same hypnotic smoke.
Modemoiselle snaps her fingers. The gas turns from a thin pink wisp to thick, choking clouds. The girl in the pod clenches her thighs. A distinct wet spot develops on her suit and the other girl follows close behind. They moan in sweet, blissful unison~
The music gets louder. Raveness would almost be able to hear it through the glass if it wasn't pulsing through her head. The most vapid, bubbly pop music you could imagine. Cancelling out any sort of intelligent thought like how acids turn bases into simple, inert water. Modemoiselle's tail swishes to support her birdbrain's chin, and she happily sinks into it. Every now and again, she moans and struggles, but how do you beat an enemy that's in your brain and armed with an orgasm button? Especially one with such a lovely, soft tail. And who smells so wonderful. And who has such an amazing voice. The kind of voice you could just float on forever.
"That's better. You know, you never struck me as a bird. I always thought you'd be happier as something more… useful." She snaps her fingers. The pod lights up with the orange glow and the telltale whir of stolen genetic technology. Raveness, of course, was far too busy emptily snuggling into the softest tail anyone's ever felt.
Raveness's body slowly slips into light again, but no feathers form. No beak pierces the light. She grows a long, dopey muzzle, the better to cuddle into Miss Modemoiselle's tail with. Her short black hair poofs and bounces into a big, healthy black bouffant with a pink swirl coiling into the middle. Pink circuitry pokes into her brown eyes and makes them big, bright, and brainwashed! Miss Modemoiselle looks so much better through pony eyes than silly human or bird ones! Golden brown fur washes over her body and seal off her hands and feet into silly, soft hooves. Much better for hugging Miss with and giving her rides! A big ol' black and pink tail with countless bouncy curls springs from the base of her spine.
"You make an awfully pretty pony, dear. I've outdone myself~" Modemoiselle coos, watching her musk empty out the rest of her newest pet's head.
"What else would I be, Miss?" She snuggles into the tail, eyelids heavy but determined to admire her Miss as much as possible. "I don't know what I'd do if I wasn't your pop star pony!" She lazily swishes her tail while the music in her head becomes the quiet background to her thoughts. Always there to remind her who she belonged to and what she loved to do more than anything.
"And what does that entail, dear~?" Modemoiselle teased.
"It means I get up on stage with all my friends and we all listen to the music and put on the best show we can! We all loooove performing for you!" She eagerly wags her pony tail. Her flanks proudly display her purpose in life- a microphone in front of her Miss's circuit heart logo.
"Perfect." Modemoiselle rewards her pretty pony with a kiss on the forehead. Her big pink eyes flutter shut.
Back in the real world, a pod opens, letting pink fog spill out onto the ground. A ponygirl with a delicious golden brown coat, freshly grown hair, and absolutely no clothes to hide her horse cock climbs out.
"Wakey wakey, dear~" Modemoiselle coos. "How'd you sleep?"
]]>You pull your shirt over your nose as a filter and hurry past. A voice calls from behind you. "Aren't you gonna look?"
You walk into the alley. A girl in a striped pink hoodie sandwiches her skunk tail between her back and the wall.
She tucks her can of spray paint into her pocket. "Well, what do you think?" You look at her, then behind her. Expertly painted onto the wall is… you. Same clothes, same hair, but featuring a big, fluffy skunk tail that bounces above your head. Signed '<3, Lulubelle'.
You point at it, confused. She smiles. "Well, we can fix that." You hear the can spraying behind you. "How's that?" She presses your soft new tail against the back of your head. You turn around to take a look and it's so hard to think.
She's smothering your brain into silence with your big new skunk tail. A different kind of spray soaks into your soft new tail. Not paint. Sweet and seductive. Soaking into the lovely tail you always had. Rubbing your cute little ears.
Every breath fogging your cute little skunk brain more and more.
She pushes you onto your butt. Your tail threads between your legs and presses against your face. You breathe in lungfuls of mind-melting musk and sink further into your own tail's soft embrace.
You barely notice when Lulubelle tugs on your tail and leads you out of the alley. Your head is full of her divine musk, and your hands are wandering into your pants.
You're too brainwashed to do anything but get kinda aroused by being led down the sidewalk in the middle of the night by your big, fluffy skunk tail. By being told what a good punky skunk you are. And by coming your brains out on a statue she doesn't like in three, two, spray~
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