1

A shitty movie was playing. It involved a magical world where land-people were being attacked by a pod of sadistic killer whales who could fly through the city, picking people up and ripping them to shreds, giggling, and tossing the gut-flailing carcasses back and forth between each other like some stupid, orca-invented variant of volleyball. The effects sucked harder than ex-President Ronald "Ramrod" Ramadan Roundo-Rump, who was fired after being caught on film soliciting sex from underage boys so he could blow them while they called him Daddy. Oh, and his policies sucked, too. Yeah, it sucked harder than him, which wasn't difficult—but, still, it needed to be said.

Three girlfriends sat watching the movie together on Movie Night, a weekly tradition which used to involve four girlfriends.

"Can you imagine what Lenora would say if she saw this shit?" Sally asked—a topic brought up every week since Lenora's sudden and mysterious disappearance. Sally was a big brown-haired girl—technically a man—who possessed many bionic parts, including (but not limited to): shoulders, arms, legs, abdomen, penis. She'd thought about getting the penis replaced with a cunt, but she liked the idea of still having something to fuck with, especially if it could fuck for hours before it needed another squirt of lube from the can.

Maybell, the horse-whisperer of the group and also the blonde, gripped her whip and flexed the leather of the strap. "She'd probably make some absurd comment about whether orcas have intercourse in missionary or doggystyle. And we'd all laugh, and somehow we'd talk for a half an hour before we realized the movie was still playing and we'd lost interest."

"Like anyone who fucks for the fun of it," Lizbeth said knowingly, "doggy all the way." She got down on all fours, barked, whipped around her red pigtails and spanked her surprisingly wide rear. Though the politically correct name for her occupation was "Lady of the Night," Lizbeth simplified things and just called herself a dirty slut. It got the message across better, she felt, and it got her Johns' hopes up that she was just an easy lay—made payment time that much sweeter when they realized too late that sucking on one big toe while the other was wedged deep up her butthole cost extra.

"I miss Lenora..." Maybell said, trailing off to an expected sigh. "I wonder where she went?"

"Who knows?" said Lizbeth. "I'd love to find out, though. Girl owes me twenty bucks an' a new fur coat after she got the last one I lent her soaked in semen."

"Then why the fuck don't we go look for her, huh? We're strong, independent women." Sally scratched at her stubble. "Well, except for me. Not 'til I scrounge up enough dough so I can get that sex change." She pounded her incredibly robust bosom. "Not that these need much changing. But I'd love to have my dick up something and get three of 'em up inside me."

"It was a cold case, Sally. The cops said they couldn't find nothin'."

"Those fuckers couldn't find their own dicks if they were glued to the palms of their hands."

"Where would we even begin?" Maybell asked. "If we were to go about looking for her, of course."

"Lenora's prick of a boyfriend, Laniel. I remember he showed me his dick and asked if I could touch it."

"Did you?" Lizbeth asked, curious as to whether she and Sally had touched the same dick.

"Hell, I sucked the fuck outta that thing. Sucked it 'til it was limp and raw. It was big. Biggest part of that little weasel, that's for fucking sure."

"Same."

"Are we really doing it? I hope we don't end up regretting it..."

"God, Maybell. Live a little. I shouldn't have to say that to a whore who films herself getting fucked up the ass by a horse, but apparently so. And enough of this shit." Sally turned the movie off. "Killer Whale III: Triple the Awesome—my fat, hungry ass." She stood, raised a meaty leg and ripped a fart that reeked—surprisingly specifically—of a gourmet crème brûlée with a side order of spicy curly fries, and then belched out the chorus to "Anaconda" while she cracked her back. She found her black top hat with the goggles positioned above the brim and set it on her head. "Coming, girls? Otherwise I'll just give that little bitch Terry a call and get him to order me a pizza while he eats my ass."

"You should enter my trade," Lizbeth said, standing and making sure her many scarves—which she used to extend the duration of her Johns' experiences (more money!)—were properly tied around her arms and neck. "Guys would pay good money for that." She grabbed her pink umbrella.

Maybell flattened her white dress and checked the buttons of her black vest. "I don't see why you insist on carrying that dreadful umbrella everywhere, Lizbeth."

"You ever given a blowjob in the rain, Maybell? It's useful."

"That's why I wear this top hat," Sally grunted. "And these bionic arms of mine are so I don't get tired jerking these poor, confused fuckers off."

"Well, girls. We ready?"

"Ready to kick the shit 'n' piss out of Laniel."

They all nodded and smashed their fists together, then left Maybell's house. Dasher, her horse, neighed from his bedroom and mounted his prep doll. He had a whole jar he needed to fill.

2

Out in the sprawling city of Nimbus, the girls argued over where Laniel, Lenora's (ex-?) boyfriend, lived. Maybell seemed to think it was near the Sunny Sins strip club, while Sally argued adamantly that he lived in an apartment with a direct view into the Moo-No-More slaughterhouse's kill floor. Sally also claimed Laniel would stand at the window and beat off to the animals as they were being murdered, but Lizbeth found it hard to believe as he'd told her—when she asked him to eat her out after she blew him—that he was an ardent vegetarian and couldn't stomach the taste of week-old seafood. That turned out to be a twenty-dollar blowjob. And she stole his jug of mouthwash when he wasn't looking, because his spunk tasted like avocado.

Nimbus was a unique city in that it was balanced on the back of a flying turtle. The turtle, however, wasn't a real turtle—because that would be pretty stupid for a story such as this. No, the turtle was a mechanical one, crafted many years ago before the land had become inhospitable (but the inevitability of such a future was well-known). A fair amount of Nimbus' citizens were trained and employed to ensure the turtle didn't malfunction and crash, which obviously would've been catastrophic to such a ridiculous degree you might wonder why the hell anyone would choose to live on such an obvious death trap, and why they didn't funnel all efforts towards populating a nearby planet or even just creating an underground or underwater city. Would you believe that such things hadn't crossed their minds? No, you probably wouldn't—but that's why you're smarter than them.

"Girls, girls!" Lizbeth shouted above Sally and Maybell's bickering. "All we gotta do is look up the little turd's address."

That settled matters. They kissed and made up, then headed to the nearest phone booth.

Maybell went through the L section, searching for "Laniel." After whole minutes of looking, she turned to the girls and said dramatically (while being entirely serious): "You guys. He's not listed."

Sally rolled her eyes and jumped to the B's. "That's 'cause his last name ain't Laniel, dummy. If I didn't know no better, I'd say that horse o' yours has fucked your brains loose one too many times."

"Wait, really? I could have sworn his name was Marko Laniel... What's his last name, then?"

"Birkenhammer," Lizbeth said, pointing at the name BIRKENHAMMER, LANIEL.

"Lives at 82 Sunset Street. Ha!" Maybell grinned at Sally. "I bet that's near the strip club. Ten dollars."

"I ain't makin' that stupid fuck of a bet," Sally said as they left the phone booth and started walking for Laniel's house. "If you woulda made it ten fuckin' minutes ago, maybe..."

The sky was darkening and the clouds swirled all around. The turtle entered a misty patch and Lizbeth swore.

"What is it, Lizbeth?" Maybell asked.

Lizbeth used one of her many scarves to wipe the condensation that'd collected on her glass eyepatch. "Damn mist..."

"Say, Lizbeth," Sally started, "how much is it to fuck your socket, anyway? I might want to brain you with my bionic dick sometime, since you're pretty fuckin' hot."

"That's at least a couple hundred, Sally. Gives me a mean headache afterward."

They saw a man smoking a cigarette in front of an Olive Garden. He watched them the whole time, suspiciously, like he was wordlessly accusing them of some kind of crime.

Sally suddenly felt the urge to suck on something. "Hey, buddy, can I blow you for a cigarette? No?"

The man shuddered and skulked off, heading down a dark and dangerous alley, the closest exit to freedom he could find.

"Please, buddy! I'll let you sniff the fuck outta my anus, too!"

The man started running, tripped over a dead body, kept going.

"Fuckin' fag." Sally scratched her stubble. "Just 'cause I haven't shaved all week, these fools turn down a quick, sloppy blowjob. Their loss."

Continuing their walk, they turned down a road in need of repair and passed the theatre, which was playing Killer Whale IV: They're Evolving.

"Into a good fuckin' film, I hope," Sally muttered, and that was that.

They saw the turn onto Sunset Street and went down it, seeing the enormous Sunny Sins strip club lighting up the night with sweeping pink spotlights, glowing tits and a flickering neon backside. Looking up at the sequentially blinking landing lights, which gave one the impression it was navigating the observer into the lit-up backside's expansive butthole, the three girls felt like they'd finally come home to family. Hookers strutted their stuff, looking for clients. Others kneeled on the sidewalk, taking turns on Johns with their hard-to-decline offers of buy-one-get-one-half-price blowjobs.

Laniel's apartment was right beside, and across the street was—

"Shitfuck!" Sally shouted. "I knew that big-dicked fuckin' pussy had a view of the slaughterhouse."

"I guess you would've tied on that bet," Lizbeth said as they waltzed into Laniel's apartment.

3

They found Laniel's room and Sally hammered on the door, even gave it a few kicks and pissed on the rug. The door opened and a thin, pale Laniel frowned at his feet, which were sloshing around in—though he didn't know it—urine that'd seeped under the door.

He saw who'd come to see him, a dark expression on his face until his eyes found Maybell. "Oh, hey, Maybell! Come on in!"

They entered, jumping over the piss.

"What brings you here, Maybell? Can I get you a drink, or cook you up something to eat?"

Sally said, "I'll have a shot of rum, some pizza if you've got it, and maybe a dollop of the thickest cum you can muster splashed into the rum."

Laniel glared at her. "Fresh out." He brightened when he looked at Maybell again. "How's the horse, Maybell? Dasher, right?"

Maybell nodded. "He's healthy, though I fear I might be working him too hard. We have had a lot of specific and intensive requests for videos lately."

"Oh, like dressing him up as an investment banker and having him rail you from all angles for a few hours?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Hey, Laniel, ain't that your fuckin' job?" Sally asked.

"Be quiet," Laniel said. He rushed to the kitchen and grabbed a plate of shrimp and cocktail sauce from the fridge. He set it down on the coffee table. "Thought you might like something to munch on, Maybell."

"I thought you didn't like seafood..." Lizbeth muttered.

"Week-old seafood," he said, his brow furrowed.

"Listen up, dirtbag," Sally said, shoving Laniel into a wall. She lifted him up by his collar and stared daggers into his fear-widened eyes. "I'm gonna be tapping Maybell's ass before you do, so you better get that fuckin' thought out of your faggy vegetarian head. We're looking for Lenora. Now, you can tell us what we want to know and maybe get a blowjob out of it, or we can kick the shit out of you and afterward I can sit my fat ass down on your face and blow you 'til you're withered and dead. Your choice."

He gagged at her breath. "W-Will Maybell blow me... if I talk?"

Maybell shook her head. "Sorry, Laniel. I'm simply a girl who likes to ride ponies. Lizbeth might."

"Sure, but it'll cost you twenty bucks unless you eat me out," Lizbeth said.

Laniel weighed his options. "Fine, I'll tell you and you can blow me, Sally."

"I said maybe," Sally replied, "and I'm gonna need some nicotine to get my mouth nice and fuckin' juicy first. You ever sucked dick with a dry mouth?"

"N-No. I've never sucked a dick."

"Well, it's a lot like rubbin' it with sandpaper. Especially with this tongue." Sally stuck her tongue out and showed him the coarse black hair growing off it, making it look like the world's most disgusting and abrasive toothbrush.

"Oh, God— Smokes are in the drawer beside the fridge."

Sally let him drop and went to get her system flooded with nicotine.

"Where'd she go, Laniel?" Lizbeth asked him. She didn't want to sit on the couch, as—sure enough—it had a direct view of the slaughterhouse's kill floor. She saw a guy riding a bleeding pig go racing past, and then another guy was repeatedly clubbing a cow in the head as he chuckled maniacally. Seeing these acts without any sound to go with them might have been more disturbing than they'd be with sound. Her mind could fill in the blanks, making things sound even more deranged.

"I dunno," he said. "Honest. She was studying black magick and kept urging me to read a book with her about it. There it is on the coffee table." He jerked his head towards a red-coloured book covered with pentagrams, disembodied goat heads and hermaphroditic Satans. "I never read a word of it. I'm not into that crap."

Sally, puffing on three cigarettes at once, walked into the room with photographs. "You're just into beating your meat to fuckin' cartoons and having your nuts clamped in a mouse trap. Enjoy these, ladies." She passed them around so everyone could laugh.

"Hey! Th-Those are personal!"

"Man, that's a nice long dick. Can't wait to suck the fuck outta it again."

"So Lenora told you where she went, Laniel?" Lizbeth asked, unable to look him in the eye. What he did in the photos would cost about eighty bucks and a ride home—a hundred and ten if she had to help set the trap.

He shook his head. "Nope. And that's what I told the cops. All I said was, 'She was acting strangely and dabbling in the dark arts, and then she disappeared.'" He struggled to think of more, as he secretly hoped turning out to be helpful would convince Maybell to bang him—she was the only one of the former quartet he'd never gotten to bang. "Oh, she did mention some guy named Zander. I think he was her Satanic Master, or something."

"Last name?"

"Zander... Zander... Not Schrute. Ah, what was it...? Schravalapagos! That's it! Zander Schravalapagos."

Sally put her cigarettes out on her tongue so she could save them for later. They sizzled. "Drop your drawers, Laniel. Mama's comin' home, and she's one bacon-hungry bitch."

4

Armed with a name—and, in Sally's case, a stomach full of semen—the ladies went in search of Zander Schravalapagos. Lizbeth was glossing over the book of black magick, which had some truly frightening pictures inside (like a spell to make someone go inside out). They reached a phone booth and searched up Zander's address.

He lived on the south side of Nimbus, in an area rife with crime. Fastest way to get there, in fact, was to head into that dark and dangerous alley the smoking man had escaped through.

They headed thataway, chatting about the weird taste of Laniel's spunk, and declining propositions from the Johns they passed. They had a mission: Find Lenora. There wasn't any time for a quick screw, unfortunately—though Sally would've likely made time if anyone had asked for her orifices in particular. (They didn't. Matter of fact, they made every effort to ensure she wouldn't mistake their advances on Maybell and Lizbeth as being ones toward her—this included putting their hands up to block out her body while they delivered their sweet nothings to the other two; curling up into a ball and pretending to be dead if she started talking to them; and running away, even if it meant getting hit by a car or jumping off the flying turtle to their watery doom.)

They found the alley and moved through, stepping over broken bottles, syringes and cold grey corpses—some of which had green mould growing on their faces and bugs living in their barren eye sockets. Following the alley as it twisted and turned, they came to a warehouse area. Surely there were serial killers at work in said warehouses. In fact, I'll just come out and tell you: There were serial killers at work in said warehouses.

Zander lived at 666 Bethlehell Road, which in a movie would've served as a red herring of sorts, and the real Zander would've moved out months ago because he would've realized the name of his street would've looked like an obvious target for bad stuff; of course, he might then start thinking the name of his street was too obvious a target for bad stuff, and thus he'd be able to hide in plain sight. This being a short story—and one I'm trying to hammer out so my competitor has something at all to compete against—however, means there's no red herring whatsoever. It was just a stupid name that fit the character's interests. 666, Satanism, Bethlehell Road—get it? Good.

People were doing drugs and nodding off in front of the various buildings. Sally snagged a bag of coke from a man who'd overdosed and died while trying to escape from a cardboard box lying on its side.

"It's great to plug up your ass while you jerk some motherfuckers off," she told her friends. Then she ripped the door open with her bionic arms.

Zander's building was littered with candles, most of them burning, but some were sitting in a stacked heap, like a pile of logs. They followed the light and moved up a creaky set of stairs. Maybell panicked when the stairs started wobbling and she thought they were going to collapse, but then she heard Sally laughing from behind.

"Just shaking the fuckin' things for the fun of it, Maybell. Relax, bitch."

Entering a darkened room, only a single candle burned in the far corner, creating all kinds of spooky shadows on the walls.

"I thought you'd come for me." A man's voice.

Sally spun around, flailing her arms and legs, attempting to do damage to everything in her immediate vicinity. She caught ahold of something and started choking it and groping it, whatever it was. The lights came on and she realized she was beating the shit out of a mop wearing a bra.

"You!" Maybell said, mouth wide like she was seeing Dasher fill two whole jars without requiring a protein-shake break.

"Me," the man said. It was the man from outside the Olive Garden, smoking the cigarette. "Zander. So. You're here to kill me? I warn you. I possess the power of Sssssatan." That last word was hissed, hence all the S's.

"I doubt that," Lizbeth said, wondering how much she could get from him for a blowie while calling him the Dark Lord. Probably sixty-six bucks and six cents.

"We simply wish to find our friend," Maybell said, unable to stop the plea from taking over her voice. "Lenora. Do you know her? You must know her! Please!"

"Princess Nightslayer?" Zander asked, stroking his beardless chin. "There was a spell she sought my assistance with. I told her it was foolish, couldn't be done. Not without years and years of experience. So she fled. Went to find someone who could perform the spell for her. I never heard from her again." He noticed the book Lizbeth carried. "Is that— Is that Dagvaarden De Slang Heer?"

"God fuckin' bless you," Sally said.

"The book. Let me see it. I can point out precisely which spell she desired to perform." On Zander's orders, Lizbeth placed the book on the desk and let him riffle through it. He found the page and planted his finger on it. "This."

They gasped.

"Holy fuck tits," Sally said, reaching into Zander's black pants. "Buddy, you mind if I absentmindedly suck your cock? It soothes me."

5

The girls boarded a ship they'd chartered. It was set to take them to an island colony by the name of Niño, which Zander had said was home to a Master Satanist named LeCroix. Apparently Lenora had fled to Niño so she could learn LeCroix's black magick and Become her True Shape, which she'd apparently always dreamed of being (for just a couple weeks before her disappearance, as that was when she began dabbling in the dark arts).

Now, at this point in the story, you may be saying, "But, Mike—magick? I thought this was a sci-fi SmackDown, not a fantasy one." And the answer to that is, of course: magick is sci-fi. Why? Because the people in the world where this story takes place learned how to manipulate atoms and quasars and quarks and shit to such a degree that those of us in our world would find it to be indistinguishable from some damn fine magick.

Now quiet, you. I'm trying to write a story here.

The ship—the Alaskan Thunderfuck—could fly around with the birds, but it also had grey fins on the bottom so it could... not really swim with the fishes, no... but just glide on the surface of the water.

Sally buckled herself up and lit one of the smokes she'd bummed—literally—off a horny crewmember. The rear propellers began rotating, slowly at first, then so fast they became a solid blur.

A loud jolt as the Thunderfuck left the turtle's back, soaring across the sky and mangling a few seagulls unlucky enough to get sucked into its propeller blades. Another ship took off shortly after, trailing the Thunderfuck for a while before heading in a different direction entirely.

The journey in the sky took roughly two hours. And in that time Sally fucked most of the crew for fun, to numb the voices in her head that told her she was worthless and could never be anything more than a trashy slut, and of course for cigarettes. She would've fucked them all, but some of the crewmen had already busted their nuts with Lizbeth, and they were feeling too glum to screw when they realized they could've saved their hard-earned money and still gotten laid.

With a large jounce and a few small bounces, the Thunderfuck touched water and motored along at a steady pace. The island of Niño lay ahead on the horizon, rising up from the empty-looking sea like something that rises up from something else—let's say a tooth rising up from your gum; one of those sharp teeth, the kind named after a dog... Canidae. It looked like a big mountain with a bird's nest on top, hence "niño" (nest), except said bird's nest was actually a school of black magick, and it only looked like a bird's nest because birds are kind of like reptiles, and reptiles are evil in conspiracy-theory circles, and black magick is evil; therefore reptiles are black magick and, in turn, birds are black magick. Hence the bird's-nest school of black magick. Make sense? No? Well, too bad, because that's what it's called: The Bird's-Nest School of Black Magick and the Darkest of Arts. Its headmaster was a guy named Gandor, and he'd actually kicked the previously mentioned LeCroix out of school for being too evil. So you know this LeCroix guy must know his stuff.

"Land, ho!" cried Julius, one of Sally's most charitable lays. He'd given her the keys to his Buick and had also inserted her into his will.

"You hear that shit, Lizbeth?" Sally said. "You're wanted on land, ho."

The three chuckled merrily and grinned at the camera, creating a feel-good moment that contrasted well with the dirty–cornball mixture of the previous line.

6

"So you're sayin' that evil fucker was eaten?" Sally asked the fisherman, disbelief readily apparent because of the way she kept repeating the words: "I don't believe this fuckin' shit!"

"Ayup," Wendal the fisherman said, pulling in a net. Fish flopped around on the dock—some managing to escape their nylon prison and flip themselves back into the water where they would soon be caught once again; others simply suffocated. He was working the age-old job known as dock-netting, which sounds boring until you realize it's no more boring than your regular kind of fishing.

"Who the fuck ate LeCroix?"

"'Twas the Lady of the Sea... Ayup."

"Lady of the Sea?" Maybell asked. She had the urge to crack her whip and neigh. "Such a name is mighty similar to the image we saw in the book."

"Ayup. Book o' black magick? I've read that rubbish, ayup, I have. Don't much care for it, myself. Ayup. It certainly wasn't no Green Eggs and Ham, ayup."

"Can you take us out there?" Lizbeth asked. She brushed up against Wendal and gave his crotch a squeeze. "I'll make it worth your while, mister..."

"Ayup, that would be mighty nice, missy," Wendal said, chuckling. "But that there crotch you're squeezin' is wooden, ayup. Lost it in the Great War of 2030, I did. Had my damn rooster blown off on account of my fellow soldier's bad grenade toss. Ayup, I did. That replacement don't work quite like the real thing, ayup, but it can still do a mighty nice job, ayup. So long as you don't mind no slivers, ayup. Ayup, but my experience is a good polishin' 'forehand generally takes care o' that, ayup. Ayup, ayup, ayup." Wendal brought some more fish in and stomped them before they could escape. "But, ayup, I'll take you out to see the Lady of the Sea."

They left almost immediately—roughly three hours later, after they helped Wendal catch a thousand fish; there was also the escapade that occurred when Wendal got his wooden penis caught in his zipper and they had to help him get it out; naturally, that led to Lizbeth and Sally each taking turns using it as a dildo (a rare moment where Lizbeth actually ended up paying someone else for sex).

Now, crashing through the stormy waters on Wendal's fishing vessel, with the dark clouds swirling ahead of them. It was unknown to either of the three whether there was a silver lining here. Was Lenora still alive? Or was she too far gone now to even recognize them?

"We're gettin' near close to the place she was last spotted, ayup!" Wendal shouted from the bow. He grinned at the raging sea, which extended as far as the eye could see. The nets were released. Now all they could do was wait.

They didn't wait long.

The waters ahead swirled and bubbled. Stillness. Then: an enormous form rose, pushing up through the water, higher, taller. A giant of a woman. The Lady of the Sea. Lenora. A black-haired beauty, granted greater size than she'd ever had in her normal life. She wore the ocean like a sheet to cover her naked breasts. Water spilling down and flowing back up. She scooped up the fishing net and examined it with her massive eyes—they'd been large, beautiful eyes before, but now they dwarfed Lizbeth and made even Sally seem small.

The three women rushed forwards to the bow, marvelling at what their dear friend had somehow become.

"Lenora!" Maybell called out, waving her arms and cracking her whip against the sky. "It is us, dear Lenora! Your friends! Remember?"

Blinking once, Lenora descended into the sea, low enough so everything below her upturned nose was submerged. She waded closer to the ship. Her eyes were level with Maybell, Lizbeth and Sally.

"Lenora," Sally said, "don't you fuckin' miss givin' blowjobs, girl?"

Lenora blinked.

"She can't speak, ayup," Wendal said. "It's one of them, whatchamacallits, complications of bein' a superior being, 'tis, ayup. Trade your voice for power."

"Can't fuckin' speak!?" Sally started kicking coils of rope and buckets. "The fuck was the point in comin' out here if our Lenora can't fuckin' speak!?"

"At least we found her," Lizbeth said, raising a hand to Lenora. "At least she knows we cared to look."

Lenora blinked again and a tear rolled down her cheek, falling onto the bow of the ship and soaking her three friends. She raised a hand from the water and allowed them to touch her.

For the last time.

7

A shitty movie was playing. It involved a land before time itself, when all there was was blackness and nothing more. One of those artsy films. It won a lot of awards, though no one could ever explain what it was really all about.

Sally ripped a fart that smelled like authentic guacamole, Fruit Roll-Ups, nicotine and old cum. "If I wanted to see a vast black fuckin' void for two hours," she said, "I'd spread my cheeks in the mirror and stare up my own asshole."

"I miss Lenora," Maybell said, trailing off to an expected sigh.

"You can see her from the window now," Lizbeth said, pointing frantically.

The other two joined her at the window. Sure enough, Lenora seemed to be travelling alongside the flying turtle, matching it stroke for stroke.

Lizbeth swore their friend was staring straight up at them, longing to reverse the black magick and return to her regular life. Maybe one day they could figure out how to do such a thing, if it were even possible.

Until that day, Lenora could always be found swimming with the city of Nimbus, never again leaving her friends behind.