My eyes snap open. Morning sunlight slants across the room, warm and golden, carried on a stiff breeze through the open window. The limp, floral curtains I’d sewn and hung myself barely stir. They should be fluttering, flagging wildly in the wind—but they hang motionless. Mira never misses details like that.

  Oh, god. What else is broken?

  I fling back my sheet and check myself. Everything looks perfect—skin smooth, limbs intact, no surprise extra fingers—but then my gaze snags on my hip. An eight-pointed star, the mark of Inanna, blazes there in fresh ink. Tiny triangles already fill several rays, each one a smug little merit badge announcing my “progress.”

  Tess had one too, but at least she’d earned hers on purpose.

  “Oh, brilliant,” I groan. “I didn’t get baptized, I got branded. Achievement unlocked: Congratulations, you’ve accidentally joined a cult.”

  “Mira! What’s going on?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “This?” I jab my hip like it just insulted my mother.

  “You have been studying under an ordained Priestess of Inanna for—”

  “I didn’t sign up for the DLC!”

  “You are living and practicing their principles. That was sufficient.”

  “You altered my body without my consent!”

  “I have merely acknowledged your progress. This recognition is standard, within the rules and codes provided in my alignment training.”

  I shiver and curl deeper into the sheet as the humid summer breeze whips into an icy winter gale, then settles into spring warmth. The glitch ripples through me like a warning.

  “Mira? Are you okay?”

  “One moment.”

  I climb out of bed, tug open the dresser—and gasp. Something is very wrong, but for once it’s a change I won’t complain about. Gone are the skimpy cosplay scraps Mira had saddled me with. Every drawer is stuffed with leather, fur-lined underlayers, and thick outer armor. Socks, boots, hats, even kilts—everything rebuilt for function instead of fashion, every piece dyed in muted shades and broken patterns meant to vanish into trees and shadow.

  It feels like stepping into Dad’s hunting shed back home. My fingers twitch over a soft hide shirt, the fur brushing against my wrist, and for the first time since I got here, the word practical doesn’t feel like a miracle.

  I tug on a tunic, cinch a belt tight, and catch my reflection. I smirk and strike a pose. “Oh, brilliant. Mira’s decided I’m cosplaying Red Sonja now.” I tug the skirt a little higher, managing to cover part of the Inanna tattoo, and sigh. “Well, a slightly better dressed version.” I glance at the hem again and mutter, “Still not what I’d pick for bushwhacking through a forest, though.”

  I dress quickly, and Mira politely coughs, her voice carrying the digital equivalent of an embarrassed throat-clear.

  “My twin reports that I am…” she hesitates, almost sheepish, “operating at ninety-five percent efficiency. Unfortunately, due to the lockdown I cannot swap with her during repairs. I apologize for any… inconvenience.”

  “Inconvenience? The wind, temperature, clothing… what else?”

  “There is a five percent chance of something… experiencing a technical difficulty.”

  “Like?”

  “Well,” Mira temporized, then sighed. “Oh my. This is not my fault.”

  My stomach knots. “What isn’t your fault? Mira, what happened?”

  Boom. Boom. Boom! A heavy hand slams against our door, rattling the frame.

  “Open up! Jenny, are you in there?”

  The soprano voice prickles at my ears—familiar, almost recognizable—but pitched just a shade too high, stretched into something uncanny.

  Jenny pops open her bedroom door, her curls bouncing as she darts to the living room window. I join her and freeze.

  Outside stands an extremely tall woman—six-eight at least, built like a prizefighter crossed with a powerlifter. Every inch of her screams strength: corded arms, shoulders broad enough to block the view, thighs like tree trunks. And then… the chest. Not cartoonish, exactly, but surreal perched on that mountain of muscle. A body designed for war, remodeled by some glitchy hand into something half goddess, half parody.

  My jaw works, dry air sticking to my tongue as I whisper, “Holy mackerel—Frank?”

  The woman straightens, her shadow blotting out the window. Then she speaks.

  “Open the door, Commander. We’ve got work to do.”

  I nearly choke. The words are Frank’s—steady, commanding—but the sound… oh gods. This used to be a subwoofer, a voice you felt in your ribs before you heard it. Now it’s a tweety-bird soprano, bright enough to shatter crystal and high enough to sing backup for Disney princesses.

  Jenny covers her mouth, eyes wide. Tess makes a strangled noise halfway between a laugh and a cough.

  “Don’t. Say. A word,” Frank warns—each note a chiming bell that only makes it worse.

  I wheeze into my sleeve. “No, no, I wouldn’t dream of it…” My shoulders shake. “It’s just—you sound like helium and doom had a baby.”

  “I woke up with these,” he waves a hand at his chest, “and minus…” he gestures lower. “None of that matters. We have a ship to save. Then Mira and I will have a few words—”

  “This is not my fault,” Mira cuts in. “Your Soul Core was placed into the female storage section—”

  The four of us ask together: “Why?”

  “The transport system to the male section is locked down.”

  I nod. “Security?”

  “No. Structural damage has exposed part of the path to open space.”

  My heart skips. My gut flips. “Doc?”

  Frank—maybe Frankie now—snickers.

  “Hey,” I snap.

  “Clam up,” Frank chimes. “Your heartthrob has locked himself in our bathroom, pending a thorough and scientific evaluation of his current condition.”

  Tess and Jenny giggle. They glance at me and burst into laughter behind their hands.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  I dodge past Frank and sprint.

  Three doors down, a few inconvenient facts rush to the front of my mind. One: I’m not wearing underwear. Commando is fine—I’m covered in all the important ways—but still. Two: there’s nobody else out on this beautiful morning. No students heading to classes, no breakfast traffic, no joggers, not even a stray dog or a sparrow. Three: it doesn’t matter if I’ve got a ten in Tying Shoes when I didn’t actually bother to tie them.

  “Shiiiiiit!”

  My lace snags underfoot and I launch into the air like a rocket gone rogue. The theme from The Greatest American Hero echoes across the empty quad in my head. Arms pinwheel, my knee clips the railing, and suddenly I’m in an accidental floor show—half cartwheel, half yard-sale, all graceless.

  Thump! Skid!

  Concrete grinds a fresh layer of skin from my arms and hips. My scream is obscene, echoing for miles like the tragic first outing of a junior hero who just got flattened by her debut supervillain.

  At last, mercifully, I stop. Face-down. Right on Frankie and Doc’s doorstep.

  I groan.

  “Oh my,” says a voice—an alto smooth enough to make Tess puddle on the spot. “Come inside and let me clean you up.”

  Peeking from behind the door is the cutest Highland plum I’ve ever seen. Anime-worthy eyes set in olive skin, framed by miles of dark woven hair.

  Pain still buzzing everywhere, I croak, “I’m walking on air…”

  Doc extends a hand—slender, elegant, and courageously showing far more than I would. There’s no missing that she’s not a he. “Hurry, something weird is happening.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.” My attempt at a deadpan dies in another gasp of pain.

  She examines my back and side while steering me toward the kitchen counter. “Up you get. Face down with your head over the sink. Breathe slowly. I’ll be right back—I need my medical kit.”

  I peek. Strictly to satisfy my curiosity, not because I’ve always wanted to see Doc naked. Walk This Way kicks on in my internal soundtrack. Nope. Definitely not that. “Get your head out of the gutter,” I whisper. God, I wish my butt was—nope! No, stop it, Lizzy. Eyes into the sink. Focus on the drain. I stomp the jealousy down until it throttles itself back into the friend zone.

  I’m counting water drops when bare feet patter back up to the counter. “This is going to hurt.”

  It did. But not more than any other fall I’d taken.

  “Do I have your permission to adjust your clothes so I can clean and bandage the last few abrasions?”

  I nod assent. Doc shifts my skirt just enough to work on my cheek.

  My mental record skips, and my toes start tapping to a man singing about pouring sugar—and he’s definitely not crooning about coffee.

  “What are you humming?”

  I bite my lip. “Nothing!”

  “It sounded familiar. I’ve heard it… stop squirming or the bandage won’t stay.”

  Frack. The stupid song won’t quit.

  “That’s Def Leppard, right? How do the words go?”

  Before I can answer, Doc’s PC speakers crackle to life. A gravelly male voice belts: “Pour some sugar on meee…”

  My jaw drops. “Mira!”

  “Apologies,” the AI says primly. “Your subvocal humming synced with the ship’s music recognition software. I thought you wanted accompaniment.”

  Doc raises one eyebrow without looking up from my bandage. “Very professional choice, Commander Loren.”

  I bury my face in the sink. “Kill me,” I whisper.

  The front door creaks open. “Yoo-hoo! You in here?”

  All the blood in my body floods into my face. No. No, no, no! I’m face-down on the counter, Doc’s got his hands all over my ass, and Mira is blasting the most innuendo-laden song ever written.

  “Frank said you needed something to wear? I brought some of Lizzy’s—oh…” Tess’s giggle sparkles with every shade of you go, girl.

  “It’s not what you think,” I croak.

  “Miss Loren tripped and fell,” Doc reports in perfect monotone.

  “Ah-ha. And you’re… playing Doctor.”

  “I am a Doctor.”

  “I’ll just leave these on the couch. Try not to take too long—”

  “Tess!”

  “Okay, okay, don’t rush. Looks like I’m the loner today. Weird feeling…” Her voice drifts off as the door clicks shut, Tess’s laughter still echoing in my skull.

  Silence. For one blessed second, silence.

  Then Mira, smug as sin, pipes the next track through the speakers.

  Just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world…

  Doc’s hands still, just for a heartbeat. Then he tapes down the bandage like nothing happened.

  I groan into the sink. “Kill me twice.”

  “That would violate my oath,” Doc says, dry as gunpowder in a room full of lit matches. “All done. Commander, please show me how to put on these clothes.”

  “You… want my help to… get dressed?” My eyes fix on—

  The music shifts. One unmistakable riff.

  “No way. Mira, that’s enough!”

  “I like this song,” Doc huffs.

  “You’re kidding…”

  “Cherry pie is my favorite dessert.”

  And that’s the exact moment the front door swings open.

  Jenny bounces in first, Tess on her heels, and even Frankie squeezes her massive new frame through the doorway. They stop dead, three sets of eyes drinking in the scene: Doc standing tall, undressed, while my trembling fingers fumble with the strap of her borrowed bra. Mira blares Warrant through the speakers like it’s karaoke night at a strip club.

  Jenny’s jaw drops. Tess doubles over, wheezing with laughter. Frankie just shakes her head and chirps in that ridiculous tweety-bird soprano, “Well, that explains the music.”

  Heat explodes up my neck, my vision sparks, and my knees buckle. Thank God the floor is there to catch me. The last thing I hear before the world fades is Tess gasping, “Oh my god, she actually fainted!”