Author's Note

Yeah yeah.

It's probably obvious by now.

For those of you who haven't figured out who this is, I'll play face and protect the "mystery."

In the meantime, enjoy some cringey randomness that I've no business writing.

Who knows, maybe someone out there in the universe besides me will get their jollies from it.

Zoop.

Subject Thirty-Three

Flash Sentry awoke crying—as he always did—only this time his shuddering breaths belonged to an angel.

In a fright, he opened his eyes wide. All he saw was darkness. Flash panted fitfully, feeling tiny, trapped, alone. But most of all tiny. The air in the room was strange. Hungry. Intimidating with a taste of black metal.

A lump formed in his throat. Flash hadn't been punched or insulted or maligned in anyway. Nevertheless...

...he just felt like sobbing.

In an effort to remain brave, he flexed his limbs. They refused to budge. This was more than just sleep paralysis; he felt like his arms and legs were being held down by savage, dark weights. He squirmed, attempting to flex the rest of his body. That's precisely when a sharp pain rippled up his spine. He gnashed his teeth, feeling the urge to grunt, only...

...another voice yelped at that precise moment. The high-pitched sound echoed across invisible bent walls, bouncing around. Tickling him. He blinked, pondering who else was in the room. They sounded like a young woman. He thought of calling out to them—when he heard the same woman murmur:

“Hello? Who's there?”

Flash felt dizzy. His extremities tingled with anxiousness. But what made him even more paranoid was the sensation that those extremities... weren't quite so “extreme” any longer. Flash's body was stretched and splayed out in the dark, but somehow he was certain there was a great deal less of him. The whole situation was numbing, and he was certain he would pass out any moment—were it not for the hot tears dragging over his face... keeping him alive.

“Please... anybody...” The woman's voice repeated. “...can you tell me where I am?”

Flash's breath caught in his chest. Maybe if he could win this woman's trust, the two of them could figure a way out of this place together—

A loud buzz filled the room. A set of speakers crackled somewhere, followed by a muffled voice amplified with maximum echoes: “We have you back, Subject Thirty-Three.” Static. The voice was stern. Dry as a stone. After another electronic belch, it returned. “Are you conscious? Has the manaflux ceased? Please copy?”

Flash felt his face distorting in confusion. Had he fallen asleep to some godawful sci-fi movie on Netflix again? As he fumbled for a response to give—

“Please. Can you tell me what's going on here? Where am I?” The woman's voice spoke in his place. “I'm sc-scared.”

The speakers above and everywhere once again crackled: “Subject Thirty-Three, do you still feel a shift in manaflux? We can't enter the chamber until we know for sure that the experiment is over. Please copy.”

Flash bit his lip. He waited... waited...

The voice whimpered in response: “Please, I don't understand.” She was sobbing uncontrollably now. Flash envied her. “I'm so sorry. I just... d-don't understand...”

“Oh for crying out—” The speaker crackled once again. Even the static was angry now. “Abort mission! Cut power! LIGHTS!”

Flash Sentry's eyes were stabbed by bright luminosity. He winced, squirming in his restraints. Once again, he felt that pain shooting up his body. Only now—it clearly had a source. His lower abdomen felt... stiff. Confined. Uncomfortably warm. And—on top of it all—he was now certain that something was inserted into him.

The tightness spread all throughout his body, so that he was sure that he was wearing something that covered every square inch of his frame just below the neck. As his burning eyes tearfully adjusted to the invasive brightness, he realized he was indeed wearing a bodysuit of sorts. It was made out of a glossy, solid black material and it hugged every curve the young man had. In his mind, it was much like the “plugsuits” he had seen characters wear in popular anime. There was only problem... … ...Flash hadn't had the body of an “anime” character since high school.

He didn't have much time to focus on this. For as his foggy vision cleared—layer by layer—he realized that his body was attached (more like anchored) in the center of some impossibly gigantic contraption. It looked as though he was nestled deep in the chest cavity of some onyx robot; once more the late night Netflix anime binges were haunting him. The plush seat he was reclined in looked like a throne befitting a BDSM cyborg queen. His arms and legs were sunk deep into multi-layered metal orifices with rigidly-reinforced steel bolts. The walls and ceiling and floor surrounding his “bed” were bent ominously towards him at rigid, geometric angles... as if he was deep in the womb of some soundproof testing chamber.

This vision was further supported with one of the walls opened inward with a hydraulic hiss. Steam vented as tall, tall shadows formed against even more invading beams of light. The room shook with heavy footsteps as three figures entered—with a person with short violet hair arriving front and center.

Flash winced, squirming in the shadows of these intimidating giants. He once again heard the woman's voice: “Please d-don't hurt me!” His eyes widened as he gasped... for it now dawned on him that he had always been the only person in that room.

But now he could focus on nothing but the pale face bending down towards him. “Relax, sissy,” the person droned. “You're probably just disoriented.” She was a woman—more like two and a half women stacked on top of one another. The person was giant. A veritable amazon. And yet—as she spoke and moved and felt Flash's forehead with her ginormous hand—she carried the gait and possessed the voice of any normal-sized woman Flash had ever known. “You ported too friggin' far this time,” she continued, her fuchsia eyes cold, scientific, and with just a hint of bitterness. “It sent your manaflux all haywire. You've likely got spatial sickness. Haven't we gone over this time and time again?”

Flash felt himself hyperventilating. Even as his mind tried to rationalize this current situation, something... else within the young man was racing even further. All he could summon was panic: a fear of what this towering specimen could do to him. He tried to summon a response, but all he produced were squeaks—and each of them higher pitched than the last.

“Shit on a stick,” he heard another woman say. Flash's eyes darted to a person standing behind the one examining him. She was likewise a giant—a smirking vixen with teal-striped pink hair and adult freckles. Like the other two, she wore what turned out to be a full-body uniform comprised of neutral colors with the emblem of floating crystals emblazoned across the upper breast and shoulders. “Have you ever seen him this wasted?” She giggled like a schoolgirl—then switched to a full frown on a dime. “Goddess, I knew this experiment was a total bust from the start.”

“You're just upset that you got called in for a full shift when you could have stayed back at the Den stroking it to Feather Bangs videos,” spat a monotone voice at high speed. Flash's eyes darted to a uniformed woman in the back—the third—who was adjusting multiple dials on an instrument panel flanking his “bed.” She straightened a pair of glasses over nose, and as she turned to look at the others a long snow-white ponytail flopped over her shoulder. “The least you can be doing is taking notes so that this entire experiment isn't a complete bust.”

“Oh bite me,” grunted the second woman... only everything about her voice, her complexion, her everything—save maybe her extreme height—was obvious to Flash by now.

“Sour Sweet?” he wheezed. His eyes shifted back to the third person in glasses. “Sugarcoat?” He then faced the pale one leering directly over him. “Sunny... Flare...?”

The woman in question froze in place. Her lips pursed as she fished for a response, ultimately throwing the weight of some deep, innate authority. “Now... Subject Thirty-Three... what have we talked about using each other's real names? You know that these sessions are always being recorded—”

Flash raised his voice in desperation. Again, he heard that strange woman talking: “What's going on?" Their faces looked as young as they did back in high school. This was absurdly impossible. Nevertheless: "Is this Crystal Prep...?”

Sour Sweet blinked, nearly dropping her tablet.

Sugarcoat leaned in. “Uhm... did he just say 'Crystal Prep?'”

Sunny Flare leaned back, rubbing her chin in deep thought. Her eyes reflected a frightened yet beautiful face, awash in tears. Flash's head turned, and the reflection's did as well—

“What the Hell is wrong with him?” Sugarcoat looked at Sunny Flare. “Did the last port fry his brain or what?”

“Let's... not panic,” Sunny Flare spoke. As the other two tried to interject, her voice rose into a growl that shook Flash's whole frame. “Just try and stay focused!” She fumed, fumed, then calmed. “First thing's first. We have to get the subject out of here before his manaflux triggers another spatial displacement.”

“I'm not touching him,” Sour Sweet scoffed, bearing a wry smirk. “Who knows what dimension he's farted through. I don't want hell spiders popping out of my skin or something.”

“I've got him,” Sunny Flare grumbled, leaning over Flash and flipping several switches.

A yelp escaped Flash's lips. His arms and legs were freed from the womb of the machine. He rolled over slightly—but not from gravity. His sheer trembles were enough to send him flying. He felt as light and flimsy as a feather, and were it not for a pair of strong arms cradling him—he just might have collapsed to the floor of the chamber.

Instead, he felt himself being lifted up briskly. A faint memory rippled through his dizzied head—a tiny infantile echo from childhood, and just as precious. Somewhere in the sensation there were enough triggers to tell the man that this was a woman carrying him. He clung thoughtlessly to that bosom, discovering that it was Sunny Flare's. Her arms were as indifferent as they were strong, and soon the foreboding chamber blurred away, replaced instead by blinding white laboratory hallways with more tall... undeniably feminine figures strolling through. It was a whole building of them, like the Silicon Valley of Themyscira. Flash spotted strange faces looking his way. A few were concerned, but most were merely confused and unfeeling—much like the jaded colors of their matching uniforms.

Sugarcoat and Sour Sweet were following closely behind. The footsteps of all three women shook Flash to his core. He felt that same fear before—an inescapable anxiety over what these vaguely familiar haunts from the past might do to him. Only... it wasn't quite fear. It was something else, beating deep beneath the paranoia. Crackling with a strangely longing sensation. Like hunger.

“If he turns into a vegetable now, we're done for,” Sugarcoat said without a hint of emotional inflection. “We've wasted enough time as it is in collecting data just so he can extend his reach further and further. All because you've been giving him leeway. But now what? The dateline is coming up and the Magistrate expects quantifiable results. Do you know what will happen when we have nothing to deliver?”

“Yeah, Sunny Flare!” Sour Sweet nodded, breathless. Panicking slightly. “She will totally nullify you for good! She'll nullify all of us!”

“Don't lecture me about Mother,” Sunny Flare grunted. They reached a tall gray door and Sunny Flare nudged a button with her knee without dropping Flash. “I've handled her thus far. I can get us through this.”

The door slid open like some sound stage prop on Star Trek. Flash watched as he was taken into a broad locker room. Each of the lockers looked tall enough to handle basketball players. In fact, they looked even taller. There were smells in here... smells that were both foreign and familiar. In any case, Flash couldn't shake the fact that there was some importance to these scents. Something that sent his heart pulsing wildly.

“... … ...the fuck are you going to do?” Sour Sweet could be heard stammering. “Hide him in a gym bag and pretend he ported into oblivion? Boy would THAT go well!”

“Will you just shut up?” Sunny Flare gnashed her teeth. She sat down and cradled Flash in her lap. The ease with which she did so was fantastical. Flash felt he was looking up at Santa—granted a female Santa Claus with violet hair, pale skin, and permanently-resting-Judge-Judy-Face. “I don't think this is manaflux shift sickness.” Her massive fingers reached in and... caressed his face and eyelids with a remarkably delicate touch. “This... is something else.”

“So now you're a doctor of medicine too...” Sugarcoat's rhetorical question dangled on an invisible cliff. Flash looked sideways to see her folding her arms as she stood indignantly beside Sour Sweet and the woman cradling him. “This is the worse condition he's ever come back in and you know it. The smart thing to do is report the premature cancellation of the mission and see to it that Subject Thirty-Three is taken to the infirmary.”

“Pfft! And then what?!” Sour Sweet tossed her arms. “Just hand in our careers?! Just like that?!”

“You can hand in your career,” Sugarcoat droned. “As for myself—I have enough credits staked in the Astrophysics Department that I can stay afloat as the Corporation attempts to compete with Queen Sparkle.”

“Oh, that's rich! Always thinking of yourself, eh, Sugarcoat?” Sour Sweet sneered at her. “You've been plotting this dick-between-your-legs retreat all along, haven't you?!”

“You're being a condescending attack-on-all-fronts coward, as always, Sour.”

“What kind of a Valkyrie backstabs her own sisters-in-arms?! Y'know, I've been onto you ever since you got Lemon Zest and Indigo Zap kicked out.”

“They left on their own volition because they didn't have what it takes to remain with the pack. Besides—you've got more of the Corporate Fountain to yourself since they're gone. So why bitch about it?”

“Dammit, Sugarcoat—!”

“Quiet!” Sunny Flare snarled. “The both of you!” She calmed a bit, leaning down to look into Flash's face more closely. “Subject Thirty-Three...” She swallowed, then spoke in an uncharacteristically soft tone. “...Flash... we're safe now. Far away from any recording devices. I promise.” Her fuchsia eyes narrowed. “... … ...now, can you try and tell us what's really going on?”

Sour Sweet and Sugarcoat leaned in. For the briefest moment, they didn't look angry or frustrated or intimidating. They simply looked...

...gorgeous.

Flash's fear... his longing... his hunger—whatever it was... it all vanished under a suddenly crushing weight of failure. He didn't know where he was or why he was. All he felt was this impenetrable wave of shame—as if he had somehow failed these women. He had somehow failed on all fronts, even though he couldn't see them. It made no sense, but the longer these giantesses looked at him, the more he felt directly responsible for all of their disappointment. There was simply nothing he could do.

Nothing he could do but cry.

“I'm sorry...” He whimpered. Again, he heard that voice from the chamber. He didn't understand it. He couldn't understand it. He couldn't do anything. “I'm so... so sorry...” He just wanted this dream to end. He reached out with every emotion, begging for a hand to pull him out. It had been decades since Flash had felt so desperate to depend on a mere wish. He singled on something beyond the moment—a pulsating heat between him and these three towering goddesses—and he felt that if he just hugged it tightly enough then maybe something might tug him back to the surface... or else drown him entirely. He wasn't quite certain at the moment which of the two options he preferred. “Please...” He mewled like a kitten. “...forgive me. For everything.”

His vision had fogged. Flash realized that tears were streaming down his face. What was that thing that Sunny had called him? A “sissy?” So this was a dream, only—unlike the others Flash usually had—this was just completely fucked up and sad.

Sniffling, Flash made a tiny fist with clutching fingers and wiped the tears off his face using the back of his shivering wrist. When his vision came two, he saw the three women still leering over him... … ...except that two new limbs had joined the huddle. Sugarcoat's and Sour Sweet's pupils had enlarged, and their nostrils were flaring noticeably with deep breaths. Only when Flash's eyes wandered downward... … …downward did he realize the reason for this sudden shift in complexion.

Both women were sporting third “legs,” only these legs—otherwise enormously pendulously things—were slowly rising upwards like ICBMs ready to launch. They were clad in a thick felt fabric, much like the material that comprised the women's uniforms. Only they stopped at a point near their abdomen, fitted on them like long woolen socks. More akin to sheathes, and past the border Flash could spot a hint of veiny flesh poking through. By the time that Flash had finished his coquettish, whimpering monologue, both “legs” were solid as gun barrels... and mutually aimed towards him.

“Huh...?” Sunny Flare's gaze followed Flash's, and when she saw the two otherworldly erections, she sneered through angry teeth. “Oh goddess dammit, you two! How many times do I have to tell you to wear the nullification bracelets!”

“But we are, Sunny—”

“Don't fucking lie to me, Sour! We're professionals and this is hardly the time nor the place! Now put them on!”

“She is not lying,” Sugarcoat said. Her eyes remained locked on Flash, and while she spoke as calmly as she could, there was a noticeable redness spreading across her face and upper neck. “There is...” She reached up and fanned herself while remaining deadpan. “...something different about him.”

Sunny Flare squinted at her. “... … ...no shit?”

“Can't you feel it too, Sunny?” Sour Sweet stammered. Her mouth was dry and she gulped. She shifted from leg to leg, her eyes affixed to Flash as well. “The Allure. It's intensified. I swear to Goddess I could cut it with a knife in this very room.”

“You know I'm nullified,” Sunny groaned. “Just spit it out.”

Sugarcoat did as she was told. “It's like standing amongst a Fountain full of unclaimed.”

Silence.

Sunny Flare blinked. She lifted and re-positioned Flash so that he was straddling her thighs and facing up at her directly. “Flash... listen to be very carefully...” Her eyes were firm and her voice firmer. “I need you to tell me—honestly—what is the very last thing that you remember?”

“That...” He hiccuped on another pent-up sob, his voice cracking against itself, rising high and higher. “...th-that I remember?”

“Before we took you out of the room just now.” Sour Sweet held her breath.

The other two did as well.

Flash looked at them all, still afraid of what was to come next—whatever it might be. Nevertheless, he did as he was told. It was the only thing he could do that felt comfortable. “I was lying on the couch... watching something on stream.” He swallowed. “I have t-to go into the shop tomorrow morning, so I set my alarm. Figured... I would shower before work. The... uh... the toilet was clogged. But I was too lazy to fix it.”

Sugarcoat and Sour Sweet exchanged shocked looks for some reason.

“I... uh... I think I ate too much pizza and I know I need to lose some weight,” Flash whimpered on, trembling. “B-but I just keep running into the same stupid habits over and over and all I can do is slump down on the couch and turn the tv on and—”

“Go back a bit,” Sunny Flare said, her eyes taking on a knifing glint. “What did you say was clogged?”

“My... uh... m-my toilet? Back home?”

“... … ...why would you need a toilet, Flash?”

He bit his lip, glancing at every woman. “... … ...to go in?”

Silence... then there came a prolonged hissing sound.

It was coming from a mile away deep within Sunny Flare's lungs. “Fffffffffffffffffff—” She shot up with a burst, carrying Flash with her. “—FFFUCK!!!” She paced in angry circles. “Fucking fuck fuck FUCK sticks!”

“Who what when where?!” Sour Sweet wrung her hands together, looking decidedly pensive and worried despite her gargantuan stature. “Who is fucking fuck sticks?!”

“It's the wrong Flash!” Sunny Flare paced and spun and kicked a locker. Clang! Flash yelped and clung to her like a spider monkey as she twirled about once more. His frightened eyes shot downward, and only in the middle of Sunny Flare's pacing did he spot that she too was sporting an extra "leg," albeit this one dangled meatedly flaccid and was bound to one of her uniformed thighs. “Don't you get it now?!" She continued rambling. "It's the wrong Flash Sentry who came back!”

“But... but...” Sour Sweet's mouth twisted in disbelief. “...how could that even happen? Did he get caught up in the leylines of the projected manaflux?”

“Sour Sweet it's obvious that a switcheroo has been committed,” Sugarcoat said.

“A switcheroo...?!” Sour Sweet did a double-take. “You mean... … ...our Flash Sentry did this on purpose?!?”

“Of course he fucking did!” Sunny Flare barked.. “The stupid selfish backstabbing pretentious manlet!” She kicked a locker again. “RRRRGHHH!” CLACKKK! The door bent inwardly at a savage angle, startling Flash even more. He slipped slightly, getting a face full of Sunny bosom—hot and sweat-inducing. “I should have seen it! I should have seen the signs from light-years away!”

“Yes, you should have,” Sugarcoat droned. The “third leg” she had been sporting had drooped considerably now, as had Sour Sweet's. “And now the real Subject Thirty-Three is untold dimensions away.”

“But... why?” Sour Sweet wheezed. “Why would he fuck up a perfectly-good operation like this?! What's in it for him?!”

“Does it matter?” Sunny Flare's voice rippled through Flash's body. She hissed and re-positioned him so that he was being bridal-carried with breaths to spare. “Fucking Hell... Now look at what we've got to deal with!”

“How are we going to send him back?!?” Sour Sweet exclaimed, tossing her arms. “Only Fla—... only Subject Thirty-Three was capable of porting past the dimensional barriers!”

“I do not believe that we can send him back,” Sugarcoat said. “Not with Subject Thirty-Three gone.”

Silence.

“Then what do we do?!” Sour Sweet's voice wavered with palpable panic.

“... … ...” Sunny Flare examined Flash's face closely. Her eyes thinned as she dragged a finger across his brow, then his bangs, then his neck and lycra-covered chest. A deep breath, then: “We sleep on it.”

Sour Sweet's jaw dropped. “You've gotta be fucking kidding me—”

“No I'm fucking not.” Sunny Flare looked at the others. “Look, he's a spitting image. Pure doppelganger shit.”

“Yeah. Except for the fact that the Allure is off the fucking charts in this room! For Goddess' sake, Sunny, if only you could smell the flowering!”

“I don't care. Our jobs are at stake. The Magistrate's reputation.”

“Again with the reputation—”

“Shut it. The decision is made.” Sunny Flare held a hand out to Sugarcoat. “Give me the inhibitor.”

Sugarcoat rummaged through a pouch at her waist and produced what looked like a tiny metal cylinder. “So, let me guess.” She handed the device to Sunny. “You're taking him back to his Fountain.”

“Damn good mind-reading, Sugar.” Before Flash could react, Sunny swung a hand up to his neck. He felt her tugging on something that had been fitted beneath his chin all along—a choker? A collar? A leash? Tchhh! Before he knew it, the cylinder was firmly pressed to the object around his neck, and he felt a wave of exhaustion roll over his whole body. He didn't even have the strength to make a sound. His ears managed to catch the words of the women rolling through the foggy void suddenly surrounding him. “So long as this Flash is in the place where our Flash is supposed to be, it means less questions asked.”

“How long do you expect that to work? He lives with—like—a half-dozen Flitters. Fae like that synchronize, Sunny. They're gonna figure something's off.”

“I just... need to buy some time. I'll figure a way out of this. For all of us. That's a promise.”

“How are you going to get him out of there?”

“Hover car. Garage Delta. Won't be the first time I've had to take him... er... Subject Thirty-Three home exhausted out of his pretty little gizzard.”

“Well at least get him out of his friggin' port suit! Jeez!”

“No can do. If the real Subject Thirty-Three is gone, then so is the corporate property he was wearing. It'll help sell our story for the time being.”

“You really think you can pass this under the Magistrate's nose?”

“Sisters, I'm the only one capable of doing that.”

“Pfft. No argument from me there.”

“Go. Both of you. Tell the Board that Subject Thirty-Three passed out before full spatial displacement could occur. And for the love of Goddess—put on your damned bracelets!”

“Just... just c-can't help it, Sunny. Did you hear his little sissy voice—?”

“GO! Fucking go, already!”

By now, the world was a tempest of swirling colors and shapes. Flash had every reason to panic, but in the arms of this crazy tall woman who was most likely doing insanely questionable and unethical things to him... he nevertheless felt strangely secure. He clung to her as long as he could afford to in his numb, teetering state. Then—much to his saddening heart—he was weightless again. He felt himself strapped to a seat—albeit much less restrictively this time. He felt shifts in motion and gravity, accompanied by the dull hum of an engine.

“Goddess damn traffic,” he heard Sunny Flare mutter to his left. He became vaguely aware of her hands gripping something like a rudder wheel. “Of all the fucking afternoons...”

Flash licked his lips. He could have sworn he was drooling. The seat he was lying in swayed, and so did he—slumping ever so slightly against his restraints. He looked to his right and saw skyscrapers whizzing by. Four horizons kissed a beam of light in the center, forever rotating, full of glass and steel.

“What did he think he'd get out of this, huh?” Sunny Flare's anger was tempered by the faintest layer of melancholy. “I thought we had a connection. Purely professional. Scientific.”

More swaying. Beyond glossy sheen, flickering lights and bright letters strobed. There was laughter. Wind. A hint of green and more green. Smatterings of water and more engine hums.

“All this time... you strung me along, didn't you?” She was talking to him and yet she wasn't. The world came to a gentle hover. The engine lowered in its tone, as did her voice. Soft and vulnerable. “Was it his place that you took? If so... what did he have that this world's Flash didn't?”

Flash's world was dimming, but with a spark of emotion he broke through the surface, scalding with tears. “I'm so sorry...” He choked on a sob. “You deserve better.”

A sigh fluttered against his eyelashes. The next touch was a caressing one. “Stupid little sissy. You couldn't possibly know that.”

He felt his figure lifted—this time in her arms. He leaned into her bosom. There was no resistance. The voices were distant ripples now—fading with the darkness. Multiple shapes sashayed in and out, circling worriedly around the two of them, producing melody like birdsong. At last, he was deposited alone and limp against a plush surface. Tucked in.

And suckled by shadows.