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! ↩
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."
The intercom crackled and surged with electricity. A familiar face crawls out of the speaker. Followed by a familiar head of blonde hair, a familiar pink streak over one eye, a familiar black bow, a familiar parasol, and the familiar flowing black ball gown, wreathed with ribbons, cables, and circuitry that could only belong to Modemoiselle herself. She shakes her down cascade onto her shoulders. A few errant arcs of pink lightning arc between her locks. She sits atop the desk, one leg crossed over the other. Boot tapping against her captive's leg. "Well, well, well. If it isn't…" She plucks the unused ceramic coffee mug from its nest of takeout coffee cups. "Number one boss?" She shakes her head.
Her boot heel digs into her target's awfully vulnerable groin. D-did she always have a bulge down there? And did it always feel s-so good when a supervillain ground her heel against it, sending waves of circuitry pulsing across her exquisitely tailored suit?
Modemoiselle's finger swipes across the mug's surface. "Boss" vanishes to the left, and "pet" swoops in from the right. "Hmm, no, you're not really a pet, are you?" She smiles a devious smile and keeps swiping. "Slut?" She smiles at her captive. Watching her squirm and kick uselessly against her bonds. "What's wrong, dear? Can't break a few simple ribbons? I know you love how they feel against your skin. Too enchanted by my mere presence, perhaps, to even raise a finger against Miss Modemoiselle, The Grand Dame of the Grid?" She extends a black gloved finger and presses it against her quarry's chin. The ribbons tighten. Mmmph, they do feel good. Impossibly soft, even as they help Modemoiselle invade your mind and corrupt every thought of escape into 'fuck, I'm so horny for supervillains, like always.'" Modemoiselle's finger digs into her captive's chin and forces her to make eye contact.
"You're a smart girl. You went to…" Another ribbon lashes out from that fancy office chair. This time, it snatches the diploma off the wall. "Brown. Jeez, way to pick the hardest Ivy to tease you about." She drops it and lets the glass shatter on the floor.
"But that was always your perogative, wasn't it? Always playing it safe. The safest school, the safest career, the easiest money." She's back at the mug again. Swiping from "pet" to "harem dancer" to "onahole" to "sex doll", making sure her victim gets an eyeful of each. "The meekest secretary who's too afraid of losing her job to turn down your advances. Maybe we should see how you like it." She swishes the mug to say "Number One Secretary."
The captive's breathing gets heavier.
"Now as for the nameplate, how long does it take to get a new one of these ordered?"
The ribbons get tighter.
"Sorry, two new ones ordered. One for me, one for my brainwashed little fuck typist."
Too tight.
"Oh, look at me, fussing like some useless exec who doesn't know how to type, much less what the company actually does."
The ribbons begin to tear.
"I'm sure I can issue some useless strategy memos that my underlings will use to bludgeon the real workers into compliance with their own petty goals."
A blinding flash of light vaporizes the chair and the ribbons. New pink ones fly in from every corner of the room, twirling around what was once Modemoiselle's captive, and is now a spinning blob of girl-shaped transformation sequence summoning the powers of goodness, light, and ribbons to bear against her foe. Her plain brown hair explodes into chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry streaks, promptly tamed by a flowing pink ribbon tying itself into a neat little bow. Pretty standard magical girl stuff, you see a lot of it in the mid to high fantasy villainy business.
"In the name of all that is good and right, Ribbonmancer will never cease to fight, fight, fight!" The light fades. Instead, the same person stands. Her tailored suit transformed into pure light, and now into a tight white top with a big pink ribbon covering her breasts. A too-short black pleated skirt and a pair of panties are the only thing separating her new bulge from the world. She twirls her wand between her white gloved fingers and levels it at the dastardly supervillain who defaced her mug.
"I coulda sworn you had a better battle cry than that. It sounds like a high school fight song."
"I didn't get to pick it, it's the Sacred Oath of the Seamstress's Sanctum." She flicks her wrist, sending infinite lengths of pink ribbon flying out from every direction. Modemoiselle lept backwards off the desk, still holding the Number One Secretary mug.
"I thought you looked better in the suit." Modemoiselle effortlessly twirls out of the way of every ribbon. She'll sidestep one, walk up another, then hook a third with the coffee mug handle and zipline down the length. "But, well, the slutty sailor scout cheerleader is a good look, too. Come on, say the thing again, but this time, stick a 'goooo team!' at the end." A flick of her wrist twists a length of ribbon into a perfect pom-pom shape, knotted around one of Ribbonmancer's hands.
"We arrested you last night! You should be rotting in jail!"
"Finally, someone gets it. You should tell your bird friend about that so she doesn't make a fool of herself when a supervillain puts her into a brainwashing dream pod and turns her into a brainwashed little pony named… oh, I don't know…"
"Clop Star?" A third voice echoes from the other side of the intercom.
"Ravenna?" Ribbonmancer's attention snaps to the speaker on the desk. "What did she do to you? What did she do to us?"
"What do you think, Star? Does that count? Did she get it before you?"
"It doesn't count if you had to explain the whole plan to her before she got it. At least Bird Brain remembered the dream bomb." The pony pouts from over the intercom.
"You're right. It was my fault for expecting more from an MBA." Modemoiselle nods.
"Hey!"
"Oh, I've been calling you a useless drain on society since I got here, but that's the last straw? Come on, dear, at least pick the right battle." She shakes her head. "Tell you what. I'll forget all about it if we can hear that cheer. I know you have it in you- I wrote the program myself." Modemoiselle swipes the text on the mug a few more times until it says "Number One Cheerleader".
New thoughts pour in through the magical girl's ears. Intoxicating music piercing straight through her mind. Entire lobes of her brain light up for their singular purpose. Her hips swivel and shake back and forth, powered by the rhythms borrowing her body and twisting her to Modemoiselle's villainous whims. She twirls on her toe and summons another ribbon pom-pom to match the one currently imprisoning her hand.
"In the name of all that's good and right! Ribbonmancer will fight! fight! fight!"
The ribbons start to shift. Pink gives way to black and green. Circuitry starts to replace the veins in her eyes. The poor thing struggles against the music rending her thoughts to pieces. Fists clenching. Body twisting. Brand new cock leaking right into her extremely visible panties.
"Better do what it says, dear. It'll just get stronger and stronger until you give in~" Modemoiselle idly pretends to inspect her nails through her gloves. "I wrote more cheers for you, and it'd be awfully rude to refuse to recite them for the supervillain who's currently up to her elbows in your brain. You'd look cute with your brain melted into a singing, dancing puddle, but I have bigger plans for you." The coffee mug dangles from her index finger while she leans forward onto her palms. All too happy to simply sit and watch the show.
"Miss Modemoiselle, please own my mind! This dumb cheerleader's in a bind! I can't think and I can't drive! My brain is ribbons, I'll be eaten alive! Take pity on this capitalist slut and let her show off her perfect butt!"
Every rhyming pair only feeds the music pulsing a circuit heart-shaped hole through her mind. But no hero would go down without one last-ditch effort to save herself. She had to be using that mug for something. It was her only weak point. Her body twirls, springs, and shakes from side to side, as is natural when being turned into a cheerleader by brainwashing music hooked directly up to your head through the dream pod being controlled by a supervillain. One of her wrists flicks outside of the prescribed routine. What a breach in protocol! What will Miss Modemoiselle say? The ribbon pom-pom on that hand unfurls, sending one lashing directly at the coffee mug.
"Ooh, I love the spunk, dear, but bad choice~" Modemoiselle lets the mug slip off her finger. The ribbon entangles her wrist, but it's too late. The mug tumbles down, down, down onto that fancy hardwood floor you insisted on, and it
shatters.
The sound of breaking ceramic echoes to and from every direction. The office facade falls away to reveal… well, nothing, really. An endless void stretching in every direction. Empty, save for Modemoiselle and a naked Ribbonmancer. The music in her head has subsided, but so has everything else.
"You really thought that shattering the thing that represented your brain was going to help you in the dream world? Haven't you seen, like, any fiction? Or had someone explain the concept of a metaphor to you?"
"Fine." Ribbonmancer crosses her arms, calling up a few winding ribbons- in Modemoiselle's colors instead of her usual pink, of course- to cover her breasts and new cock. Out of habit, really. And she only knows how to tie them in big, bouncy bows, so that's what's going on with the naked Ribbonmancer situation. "You win, what was I supposed to do?"
"Dear, look at you." Modemoiselle snaps her gloved fingers. A sleek, human-sized, curved glass pod rises from the void. Inside is Ribbonmancer, still wearing her suit, headphones clamped to her ears, and staring at a hacked black ribbon over her eyes that's keeping her nice and under the supervillain's spell. "Did you really think you could think your way out of this one? You couldn't even think your way out of 'maybe my greedy, destructive business tactics are causing more harm than my heroing is doing good', much less 'capitalism is a prison'. Even if I did set up a puzzle box for you with some chance of escape, I don't think you'd get it. Why would I risk breaking up my matching set?"
"So all of us are…"
"In pods like this! Well, except for the one you already met. She's currently… hang on." Modemoiselle vanishes for a moment as she jacks out of the dream pod. She reappears a moment later. "…Practicing a musical number. She pushed me out of her room with her hooves and said it was a surprise for me and that I can't listen until it's done."
"She's also currently a horse."
"That she is! So, how are you doing?"
"Cold, naked, and brainwashed, apparently."
"Oh, don't worry, dear." Modemoiselle smiles. White coffee mug shards zoom from all corners of the void. "You're going to get much more brainwashed than this." The mug reassembles in her hand, still on 'cheerleader'. A few swipes of her finger set it back to 'secretary'. She sets it on top of the pod. The thick pink fog inside thickens. The music returns to the hero's head, even stronger than before. The hacked ribbon currently beaming thoughts into her brain kicks into overdrive.
Ribbonmancer can see the outlines of spirals drilling deeper and deeper into her brain, and she's starting to realize that it's good? That the machine wrapped around her cock and programmed to deliver perfect pleasure straight to her brain makes it hard to think about anything else? That Miss Modemoiselle was right all along? That her tongue is rolling out of her mouth, and her eyes want to roll up into her head? That Miss Modemoiselle's fingers are combing through her hair right now and a single tug would send her over the edge?
"You know, dear, I bet if you begged me, I'd tug your hair like the slut you are and shatter your mind into a trillion pieces." Modemoiselle gingerly collects strands of Neapolitan hair into her hand. Putting just a little pressure on. Barely enough to get her toy's breath quivering. "But with how rude you've been, you're going to have to wow me."
"P-please, Mode-"
"Miss Modemoiselle." A snap of Modemoiselle's fingers forces the words to catch in her throat. "Haven't you ever begged before? Make me want to assimilate you. Here, I'll even give you a hand, since we all know that capitalism and being a corporate stooge chokes out innovation."
A simple stool rises from the depths and bumps against her butt.
Ribbonmancer looks down, then up. She sits down. It's cold. Modemoiselle smiles and nods. "Now what?"
She looks unsure. She calls another ribbon up and lets it tie her legs together. Nice and tight, with a big ol' bow. Black ribbons with Modemoiselle's circuitry pulsing down their length. Tingly against her skin. Perfectly packaged for Miss Modemoiselle. Bound up, at her mercy, presenting yourself to her for her to use for whatever evil scheme she dreams up…
She barely needs the encouragement to continue. She binds her hands behind her back. The ribbons around her breasts fall away and retie themselves into a figure-eight knot. She ties her cock up with a neat little bow, a touch of pressure so she's hard and ready for action whenever Miss wishes. One last ribbon snakes around her mouth and seals it off. She looks up at Modemoiselle expectantly.
"Much better. Was that so hard?" Her boot's pressing against that cute little gift-wrapped cock again. Ribbonmancer's eyes roll back into her head and her mouth ribbon muffles a moan.
Modemoiselle levels a loaded parasol at her bound bounty. "You know what this is full of, right?"
She nods.
"And you want me to spray you with it, I bet."
She nods.
"Even though this much at this range will let me sculpt your brain however I wish?"
She nodnodnods.
"And I'm going to take over your company, use its resources to help as many people as possible, all while you're my brainwashed secretary?"
Nodnodnodnodnodnodnodnod.
Psssh~ Thick pink smoke envelops her face. Her eyes roll back into her head. Modemoiselle, as promised, gives her hair a mighty yank! and the poor thing moaned so hard, Clop Star could hear it from her room in the real world.
"Aww, hypnoslut's first orgasm." Modemoiselle does not stop pulling, and the girl formerly known as Ribbonmancer does not stop coming. "Don't worry, dear. There's more where that came from during every step of your training."
Poor thing was too busy having pleasure centers she didn't even know about turned all the way up to really process what Miss Modemoiselle was monologuing at her about. Too busy having her brain reduced to its base components. Too busy being smashed to pieces so it could be rebuilt. And far too horny to realize the dream world metaphor Modemoiselle was going for with the mug.
Soon, the vicious viral vixen vanished. The pod kicked into overdrive, stretching its captive's perception of time to run her through countless training exercises. Exactly how Miss Modemoiselle likes her coffee1. Where every file and record is kept2 and how Miss Modemoiselle likes them presented to her3. And what happens when Miss Modemoiselle says "Showtime"4. All pulsed to the bedrock of her brain, where things like "kissing girls is good" and "water is wet, but not as wet as I am when Miss Modemoiselle looks me in the eyes" live.
"The report on my brainwashing and time in the pod, Miss Modemoiselle." Her heels click and clack against the ground. Same expensive suit as before, but pulsing with circuitry, tastefully accented with corrupted ribbons, and adjusted to show off her new curves. The walls lined with computers and pulsing circuitry, dusted by three Murdermaids sitting on each other's shoulders and working in parallel. Modemoiselle herself has her boots kicked up on the table, allowing her secretary to sneak a peak up her skirt. She does, of course.
"And~?"
Three minidiscs clatter onto the desk. "Perfect as always, Miss Modemoiselle. You're far too brilliant to allow some ungrateful hero to ruin your plans."
"And~?"
"Any time you want to kick your feet up on a different desk, the old office has been done up to your liking and awaiting your masterful direction."
"And~?"
"Would you like to adjust my body and mind more to your liking? You did a perfect job the first time around, but I know how you love to tinker."
"That I do, dear. Go check on the rest of the pods and practice your cheers with your pony friend. She said you were a little flat last time."
Her heels clicked off, her hips swayed just like how Miss Modemoiselle liked, and the halls echoed with the beeping of pods, the knocking on glass, and, soon, the distant practicing of cheers with a pony.
Fuck, it's good to be a villain.
She doesn't, she prefers soda. ↩
In the computer. ↩
You fanning out some disks on her desk, delivering a brief oral report, and asking if Miss would like to brainwash you into anything. A folder stuffed with papers if you need something that thuds on the table, but you don't have to print anything on them. ↩
[data missing] ↩
"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. ↩
That's why Modemoiselle is arriving at City Hall, heralded by MIDI fanfares and hella compressed MP3s, at two in the afternoon. Until she gets some real theme music commissioned, it's just generic royal procession type music with a little Never Gonna Give You Up mixed in. Her two strongest henches (formerly The Mighty Megadon and Strong Glad, now dressed like ponies) effortlessly pull her carriage while she waves to her adoring public. They're even cheering and waving back (as they should) ever since she seduced someone else with super strength who could pull the new speaker system with subliminal focusers. When she arrives squarely in front of City Hall, two of her maids hop out front and properly announce their perfect Lady's presence.
"All rise for Miss Modemoiselle! From her magnificent mind to her beautiful behind!" The first one calls. Her voice loud, clear, and easily heard, even inside the building.
"Mistress of her domain from peak to plain! From server to client, from mountain to mind, Modemoiselle is who you'll find!" The second knows how to really sell it. She's got the accent and everything. It's like the queen herself is telling everyone how horny you make her.
Modemoiselle steps off her carriage, twirling her parasol and looking around at her adoring public. She takes her sweet time. Both ponies get their ears scratched, a sugar cube, and a playful swat on the cutie marks to keep them nice and blissed out until she returns. Her heralds get to walk behind her. Their job isn't done yet. They open the front double doors for their Lady and bow to wave her in.
A few quick sprays with her parasol get the security guards bowing, too. They're so cute when they get gassed for the first time. Their eyes roll back into their heads. You can see them twitch when the chemicals gain a foothold in their brains. The moan when the nanites find just the right paths to amplify. The raw bliss of knowing that you have a purpose in life, and she's only a few feet away. The heart flutter when you see her blowing a kiss, even if it's not at you.
This particular kiss is a pulsing green holographic heart blown at the security camera. It takes its time looping and swirling in the air. When it finally connects, it pulses down the wire at the speed of light. Hard drives spin up. Screens fill with spirals. The poor, lucky guards in the monitor room never know what hit them. That room turned into a blissful, hazy hothouse with lots of chanting Modemoiselle's name at the drop of a hat. More like the throw of a cop hat across the room in the throes of passion.
She steps up to the front desk and makes a big show of sitting on it. She inspects her Power Gloved hand until she gets the inevitable "Can I help you?"
Well, she got more of a "Can you put your ass literally anywhere else? There's no costumed weirdos on the calendar today." and a poke with a pen, but that works, too.
"Check again, dear." Modemoiselle plops her hand on top of the monitor. Green circuit traces drip down the screen and form a beating, pulsing, swirling heart. It slips down off the screen, through the computer, and over the network. Look at that! She's booked solid. In fact, she's already late for her 1:30 Kiss Modemoiselle's Toes appointment! "I'll just let myself in~"
"I'm gonna call the cops if you do. The ones with gas masks."
Modemoiselle winked. She snapped her power-gloved fingers. Every screen in the building lights up with that same pulsing, swearing heart. Being a supervillain is mostly about branding. Especially if you can brand some brains while you're at it. A tap of her parasol twirls the secretary towards the screen. Her eyes lock on to the calculated curves and shimmering swirls. "See that, dear?" She takes her chin and inches her head juuust a few degrees to the left. "Good girl. Now the spirals are hitting your corneas just right. You should start drooling and moaning my name in three~ two~ aaand~" There it goes. "Let the whine of the LCD drown out your thoughts, dear. You've been naughty and mean to Miss Modemoiselle, but she's been nothing but nice to you. Good girls apologize, and there's nothing more important than being a good girl for Modemoiselle."
"I'm sorry, Miss Modemoiselle. I just wanted to be a good girl."
"I know you do, dear. That's the most important thing there is. Do you know how to become the best girl you can be?"
"Wave an umbrella around all the time?"
"First of all, good girls know it's a parasol. It's-"
"Good girls know it's a parasol."
"The best girls love to watch Modemoiselle's screens. They love Modemoiselle in their heads. They love Modemoiselle in their hearts." She coos, adjusting her newest toy's head just so. "It's okay to just let your brain turn off and let Modemoiselle take over. Your head nice and empty for just a little bit. Your mind all mine."
She drooped a little bit. Nice and limp in her gloved hands. Modemoiselle whispered in her ear. "You get to sit here until I leave and fantasize about all the wonderful things Modemoiselle is going to do to you. The sky's the limit. She could tie you up and slowly slurp your brains out from between your legs~"
"Mmmph~ Yes, Miss Modemoiselle~"
"Or make you a little more like herself every day until you're her obedient little copy~"
"W-would I get a cute little pink streak?"
"When you earn it~"
Mmm, that got her moaning.
"Or even just being another cog in her machine, bringing her light to the world. Dressed up like my lovely little maids, programmed to serve my every whim~"
"Missssssshhh~!" There goes that pair of panties~
"You're a messy one. Cute~" Modemoiselle rewards her with a kiss- which only sends more delicious code pulsing into her brain and bringing her immediately to another messy orgasm. They're gonna have to get her chair steam cleaned.
"You've got some homework to do, dear." One more snap of her fingers burns a very specific URL into her brain. "We'll be in touch~"
Modemoiselle let herself into City Councillor Niumaker's office, maids in tow and plan in mind.
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