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Chapter Text

Have you ever been to the DMV at the edge of all known existence? (Canada) It’s a fluorescent purgatory with flickering lights and no clocks—just a single, buzzing vending machine that only sells expired shrimp chips and something called “Regret Cola.” The floor tiles spell out cryptic Latin phrases if you squint too long, and the potted plant in the corner keeps scooting an inch closer every time you look away. 

Weirdly? It’s always empty. Like, you walk in and it’s just you , a glassy-eyed receptionist named Trixie (who may or may not be the well-known drag queen), and a floor that smells vaguely like wet dog. But don’t be fooled. You take a number, and BAM—you're 894th in line. Where are the other 893 people? No one knows. Maybe they got quantum-ported somewhere weird. Maybe they’re ghosts. Maybe they are the DMV now.

All I know is, my number never comes up, the air tastes like printer ink, and somewhere in the ceiling tiles, a mariachi band is playing No Surprises. Radiohead? Really? An edgelord somewhere is crying tears of joy. 

It started with a sizzle.

Not the sexy kind—the kind that smells like overcooked carnitas and spite. One day, across the endless parking lot outside the DMV (which stretches into a fog that screams if you stare too long), a taco stand manifested. No ceremony, no permits. Just a flapping vinyl banner that read in Comic Sans: “Tacos de Venganza.”

Behind it stood Ramón.

No last name. No background check. Just a man, a spatula, and a grudge aged like fine tequila. His eyes had seen things—unholy things—like expired cilantro and betrayal by celestial beings. His aura? Spicy. Smoky. Mildly threatening.

And he wasn’t here to sell tacos.

He was here to settle.

See, eons ago, God (yes, that God) promised Ramón “the divine catering contract of a lifetime”—Last Supper 2: Afterparty Edition. Ramón prepped for centuries. Mole sauces, grilled cactus, those tiny blue corn tortillas that cost twelve bucks a pack. And when the holy shindig rolled around? God “forgot to budget” and paid him in exposure .

Exposure.

So when God rolled into the Canadian DMV to renew His universal admin password or maybe get a photo retake (He blinked in the last one—embarrassing), Ramón was waiting. In his apron. Holding a deck of glowing cards made from dried oregano.

“I challenge you,” Ramón said, slamming the table down between two cracked curbs of reality. “Poker. One hand. Winner takes all.” God looked up from His paperwork and squinted. “Taco guy?”

Ramón didn’t blink. “Taco legend.”

And just like that, Trixie—our DMV receptionist/drag queen/eternal oracle—stood up, wiped glitter off her clipboard, and took her place at the folding table. She cracked her knuckles and adjusted her wig with the grace of a thousand timelines.

“Texas Hold ‘Em,” she said, her voice echoing across planes of existence. “Ante up, divinity.”

The cards were dealt.

“Hey-ey ey ey, wait a second. Taco guy–” God starts, but Ramóne cuts him off. “It’s RAMÓNE, idiota cabron!” God’s eye twitched. “Right, whatever. Ramóne. What exactly do you mean by ‘winner takes all’?”

 “Winner takes everything, ” Ramóne said, his spatula glinting like the Sword of Damocles dipped in queso. “Your domains, your creations, your multiverse. All of it. On the table like a soggy napkin.” Trixie dealt the flop with a bored flourish. “Let’s keep it civil, boys. And by civil I mean campy with threats of annihilation. Thank you.” 

God, now visibly sweating behind His bifocals (yes, He wears bifocals—turns out omniscience doesn’t cover astigmatism), leaned back. “You can’t just take the multiverse. That’s—there are protocols. ” Ramóne never breaks eye contact. “There’s a protocol for stiffing a caterer, too. You broke it.”

That's when the ground rumbled.

Not the dramatic, Hollywood kind of rumble. No. This was subtle. Personal. Like a judgmental aunt clearing her throat behind you at a family dinner. I looked up from chair #894, my Regret Cola fizzing violently in my hand, as the ceiling tiles shifted to play the bridge of No Surprises in 3/4 time. Something was happening.

And then—

“EMMY, TO WINDOW THREE.”

I blinked.

No one ever got called up. Not in all the eons I’d been waiting here, slowly becoming one with the upholstery. But there it was, in bold red pixelated font above Trixie’s head. My number. My name . Trixie looked over her bejeweled cat-eye glasses. “You heard the void, sugar. Come on up.”

“Is this about my health card?” I asked, standing on shaky legs, cola sloshing.

“Not unless your health card covers divine asset repossession,” she said, waving me forward. “God’s about to lose everything, and guess who’s the lucky little mortal pre-assigned to collect on cosmic debt?”

“…Me?”

“You.”

I stumbled toward the poker table. When I got there, Ramóne gave me a curt nod. God looked panicked. “What’s she doing here?” He sputtered. Trixie popped her gum. “She’s the Collector. Read the fine print.”

“I thought the Collector was supposed to be a towering eldritch being—”

“And I am, ” I said, slamming my Regret Cola onto the table with divine authority. “Just... in a more approachable form.” Ramóne grinned, flipping a card. “River’s down. Time to show your hand.” God, reluctantly, laid His cards down: a pair of sevens. Weak. Mortal. Desperate.

Ramóne flipped his.

Royal flush. In tacos. Yes, the cards were tacos.

Trixie clapped once. “And that’s game. Congrats, Ramóne. You now own the multiverse.” Ramóne raised a brow. “Actually, I’m outsourcing management.”

Everyone turned to me.

Me. Emmy. A girl with zero formal experience in cosmic administration, but a lot of opinions and a Pinterest board titled “If I Were God, LOL.” “I accept,” I said, casually grabbing the multiverse like it was a tote bag on clearance. The sky turned magenta. A choir of possums sang Bohemian Rhapsody in reverse. The DMV walls melted into an IKEA showroom of forgotten dreams.

And just like that?

I was God now.

And I had plans. 

Step one of being God?

Fire the moon.

Not because it did anything wrong , per se. But because it was giving the same energy as that coworker who does absolutely nothing but still gets Employee of the Month. Honestly, it’s been just sitting there , tide-ing and reflecting like a glowy little freeloader. So I replaced it with a disco ball. Big one. Sparkly. Visible from Neptune. Nights are now 74% more fabulous.

Trixie approved. Ramóne blinked once and handed me a burrito the size of a baby walrus. “Fuel for management,” he said. 

God? He just sat on the DMV curb, drinking Regret Cola and muttering about “back in my eternity…” Poor guy. I gave Him a universal severance package, including a coupon for half-off therapy and a bumper sticker that says “I Built the Cosmos and All I Got Was This Lousy Enlightenment.” I’m not a vengeful deity. I’m more of a “chaos but make it stylish” type. I kept the Earth, deleted Twitter (you're welcome), and turned Australia into a sentient marsupial rave that runs on recycled water bottles. The oceans now taste like LaCroix. All frogs are legally allowed to scream at 3AM.

Oh, and cats can vote now. And they’re already mad about it.

Somewhere in the background, the potted DMV plant (which turned out to be named Greg ) gained sentience, unionized all other foliage, and is currently running for President of Reality under the “Photosynthesis First” party. I support him, though I’m slightly concerned about his stance on mandatory chlorophyll injections. But here's the thing about becoming God: people start expecting answers.

“Why are we here?”
“What’s the meaning of life?”
“Why do mosquitoes exist if I’m a good person?”

And honestly? I have no clue.

But I do know this:

The multiverse is mine now, and I’m gonna run it like a whimsical little fever dream with a side of salsa verde. I’ll make mistakes. I’ll probably forget to water some dimensions. But I promise you this:

There will be glitter.
There will be gnomes.
And no one, NO ONE, will ever be paid in “exposure” again.

<END OF CHAPTER ONE>

Chapter Text

It was Tuesday. Still. Always.
And the multiverse was… fine, I guess.

Somewhere between a rogue Saturn-shaped bakery and an interdimensional thrift store run by hamsters, my cosmic inbox pinged. Loudly. In Morse code. Trixie, now promoted to Secretary of Unforeseen Shenanigans , burst into my office riding a unicycle made of haunted tax documents.

“Sugarplum,” she said, winded and sparkly. “We’ve got guests. ”

I blinked. “What kind of guests?”

“The Council, ” she hissed, and the lights flickered in fear.

Yes. The Council of Vaguely Important Oddities —a group of semi-powerful, mildly dramatic entities who claimed to “keep the multiverse from falling into interpretive dance and fire.” (They were not very good at it.) They arrived one by one, glowing with bureaucratic menace:

1. Sir Thomas the Emotionally Repressed Phoenix
   Wears a cravat. Has died 812 times but refuses to talk about it. Smells like burnt cinnamon and fatherly disappointment.

“I demand the reinstatement of Linear Time,” he squawked.

“No,” I said. “Time’s a circle now. And it’s made of cheese.”

Sir Thomas burst into flame, then immediately apologized. “It’s a glandular thing.”

2. Queen Blorptavia of the Sentient Oozes
   She slid into the chamber like a majestic pudding spill. Wore a tiara made of mood rings and hummed in 432Hz.

“Hello, Emmy,” she burbled. “I bring news from the Great Slime Beyond.”

I nodded. “Is it good?”

“No. There is a leak . In Dimension Gloop-7. Reality is melting into soup .”

I narrowed my eyes. “What kind of soup?”

“Cream of mushroom.”

3. Thaddeus Greeble, God of Lost Socks and Existential Dread
   He looked like a worn philosophy professor and had a backpack full of unmatched ankle socks that whispered secrets if you listened too closely. “I lost my purpose,” he moaned. “And my laundry basket.”

I handed him a juice box and a sticker that said ‘You Tried.’
It helped.

I welcomed the Council into my office, and with a whumpf , a crocheted round table popped up from the stardust floor. It was pastel pink, glimmering faintly, and bore a glowing sign in cursive:

“Slumber Party Girls!”

Sir Thomas pecked at the sign with suspicion. “Is this… enchanted?”

“No,” I said. “Just um…fucking awesome? Dare question me, Thomas?”

Pillows materialized. So did tiny teacups filled with sparkling cosmic chamomile and one suspiciously sentient cinnamon bun who wouldn’t stop blinking. We ignored it. Queen Blorptavia dissolved into a plush beanbag, her ooze nestling in with a gentle slorp. “What a delightful arrangement. It reminds me of the time I accidentally became prom queen of the Amoeba Nebula.”

Thaddeus Greeble, God of Lost Socks and Existential Dread, let out a sigh so deep it formed a small black hole in the corner. “Do you have snacks?” Trixie, never one to be upstaged, spun dramatically on her tax-document unicycle, flung glitter into the air, and death dropped directly onto the middle of the table. The room applauded. Sir Thomas shed a single tear, which immediately turned to steam.

“I made s’mores,” Trixie said, flicking a cosmic lighter shaped like Cher.

“We’re not here for snacks,” Sir Thomas mumbled, trying to look stern while accepting a marshmallow the size of a basketball. “We’re here because the multiverse is becoming… unpredictable. ”

“Unpredictable how ?” I asked, swirling my tea, which was now glowing. Everything glows eventually. Queen Blorptavia leaned forward, her tiara mood-ringing violently between Concerned Peach and Mildly Apocalyptic Fuchsia.

“Some dimensions are… rearranging themselves.”

“Into what? ”

“Mostly ... .IKEA. And the occasional strip club dimension. Those are very popular right now.” There was a collective gasp. Even the cinnamon bun stopped blinking. Thaddeus mumbled into his teacup. “And socks are getting lost before they exist. Cause and effect are—” he paused. “Out of order.” Sir Thomas flared faintly. “This is what happens when you turn Time into dairy, Emmy.”

“I regret nothing, ” I said, throwing a cheese wheel at him. He caught it midair with alarming grace and looked offended at how delicious it was. Queen Blorptavia oozed pensively. “It’s not just cheese-time and jazz-soup. Something’s coming. Something leafy. ”

The table went silent.

“…Greg?” I asked.

A single gnome screamed in the corner of my office.

“Yes,” she whispered. “He’s unionized the topiaries. The Bonsai are armed. The cacti… are planning something. Sharp.” Trixie blinked. “Oh hell no. We just recovered from the Fern Rebellion.” Sir Thomas puffed dramatically. “If Greg is truly mobilizing, we must act fast. I suggest we hold an emergency summit of all governing entities.”

“No,” I said firmly. “Summits are for spreadsheets and caterers with clipboards. We’re having a potluck. ” Everyone looked at me. “What?” I shrugged. “We fight better with carbs.” Trixie slowly nodded. “You know what? You’re so right. No one has the stamina for political insurgency on an empty stomach.”

Blorptavia burbled in agreement. “I shall bring my grandmother’s recipe for slow-roasted asteroid pudding. It screams slightly, but only in delight.” Thaddeus clutched his juice box. “I’ll bring… socks. They’re edible now. Sort of.” Sir Thomas narrowed his flaming eyes. “Fine. But I’m bringing spite rolls.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Did you mean spiced rolls?” I asked. 

He looked me dead in the soul. “No.”

“Then it’s settled,” I said, rising from my plush throne, which was now inexplicably made of ethically-sourced moonlight. “We host the first ever Pan-Dimensional Peace Potluck. With sparkles. With song. And maybe—just maybe—a musical number that prevents arboreal genocide.” (Donkey Sbiddle reference)

Trixie gasped. “Can I choreograph the interpretive vine ballet?”

“Yes,” I said. She burst into glitter on the spot, which spelled out Yassification Protocol: Engaged before vanishing. Sir Thomas groaned. “Very well. But I refuse to perform any number that involves jazz hands.” 

“Too late,” I said. “The jazz is already in the soup.” Thaddeus looked around nervously. “Do we… do we have a battle plan?” Queen Blorptavia raised a slimy pseudopod. “I say we negotiate. Invite Greg to the potluck. Offer him cookies. Win him over with compassion.” 

“Or,” said Trixie, re-materializing upside down and wearing a tutu made of cursed warranty papers, “we distract him with love songs and seduce the cacti into a ceasefire.” Everyone turned to look at me. I blinked. “What, me ? Why is it always me?” 

“You’re the only one who speaks Fluent Succulent,” said Blorptavia.

“Ugh. Fine. But I draw the line at romantic tension.” The teacups clinked, as if in toast. Sir Thomas stood, straightened his cravat, and glared at the slowly-flickering ceiling. “Then it begins.”

“What begins?” Thaddeus asked.

“The most important diplomatic mission of our lives,” I said, dramatically flipping a pancake that hadn’t previously existed. “Codename: Operation Leaf Me Alone. ” Trixie cackled.

The multiverse held its breath.

<END OF CHAPTER 2>

Chapter Text

I stood at the edge of the conference-pit-slash-dance-floor, staring into the kaleidoscopic chasm where the Pan-Dimensional Peace Potluck had just collapsed into a full-blown legal proceeding.

It started, as most disasters do, with an interpretive vine ballet. Trixie’s choreography was flawless. The vines pirouetted, the ferns plié’d, and the cactus chorus line kicked with concerning precision. But then Kenny—you know, Kenny , the immortal chaos intern who has a love of old men and crazy ideas—tried to stage-dive into a bonsai militia mid-arpeggio.
It did not go well.

Greg, riding high on a tiny leaf-shaped throne, shouted “Down with the Photosynthetic Oppressors!” and launched a mossy coup mid-performance. A nearby succulent pulled out nunchucks. A dandelion sprouted a manifesto.

Thaddeus Greeble screamed, which summoned twelve crows in powdered wigs, and now we were…in court?

Like, multiversal court.
The big leagues .

We were seated inside a glittering coliseum carved from Swiss cheese (a side effect of the time-dairy incident), with glowing runes spelling out “JUSTICE” . In the center of the chamber sat the judge.

Judge Handy McHamburgerson.
The Mascot of Hamburger Helper.
A sentient disembodied glove.
Wearing a robe. With sequins.

“All rise,” it boomed, voice buttery and full of artificial beefy gravitas. Sir Thomas ignited out of respect. Trixie curtsied so hard she briefly dislocated her shoulder. Queen Blorptavia jiggled politely. Thaddeus dropped a sock that moaned, “Guilty…” under its breath.

At the witness bench sat four unexpected guests:

• Hozier, barefoot and glowing faintly, like he’d just come back from baptizing a forest.
  
  
• Brittany Broski, holding a Diet Dr. Pepper and looking like she'd seen this courtroom in a dream once and immediately clocked the energy as suspicious.
  
  
• The Keebler Elves, all twelve of them, stacked in a trench coat trying to pretend they were one tall elf named Craig.
  
  
• And, of course, Kenny, who was eating a gavel. She looked like she didn’t want to be there.
  
  

Judge McHamburgerson slapped the bench with his meaty palm. “COURT IS NOW IN SESSION,” he thundered. “THE CASE OF THE MULTIVERSE VERSUS… LEAFY REBELLION.”

“Objection!” shouted Trixie, flinging a glitter grenade for emphasis. “This was supposed to be a potluck!”

“OVERRULED,” said the judge. “WE HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THE POTLUCK WAS A COVER FOR PLANT SEDITION.” Hozier stood. Birds flocked to him instantly. “Your Honour,” he murmured, “if loving a sapling is wrong, then I’m not here to be right.”

“NOTED,” said McHamburgerson. “YOU MAY SING YOUR STATEMENT INTO THE RECORD.”

Hozier picked up a lute and began to sing something haunting about vines, longing, and forbidden chlorophyll. Brittany wiped a tear from under her sunglasses. “That man could serenade a shrub and I’d still vote yes,” she whispered. “Yes to what? Doesn’t matter.”

The Keebler Elves (or Craig , if you were buying their shtick) began passing out mini fudge cookies to the jury, which was made up entirely of:

• A taxidermied giraffe with an abacus
  
  
• A goose in a tie
  
  
• The concept of “Regret” in cardigan form
  
  
• One guy named Larry (no one knew why he was here, not even Larry)
  
  

Sir Thomas, smoldering politely, stood to deliver his statement. “If we allow botanical insurrection to go unchecked, soon we shall be ruled by foliage. I, for one, refuse to answer to a fern.” From the gallery, a small fern hissed. Queen Blorptavia slorped forward. “Your Honour, I propose we reframe this. Not as an act of rebellion… but as an attempt at growth .”

There was a pause.

“Like… emotionally?” Brittany offered.
“No,” said Blorptavia. “Literally. The bonsai are getting huge . They’re evolving. One of them absorbed a blender and now it makes smoothies. The implications are...chunky.” Trixie nodded solemnly.

Judge McHamburgerson rubbed his non-existent temples. He sighed, the sound echoing through the cheese halls of justice. “VERY WELL,” he said, fingers twitching like a jazz pianist contemplating the end of days. “WE SHALL HEAR FROM THE DEFENSE.”

Greg the Fern rustled with righteous indignation, adjusting his crown—a twist-tie wrapped in aluminum foil, glinting ominously. His leaf-throne had been mounted atop a repurposed Roomba, which hummed forward with the pomp of a royal procession and the unpredictability of an unsupervised toddler. “I represent not just plants , Your Honour,” Greg began, photosynthesizing smugly. “I represent progress . No longer shall we be confined to windowsills and garden centers, watered only when someone remembers. We demand rights! Representation! And maybe—if the budget allows— tiny boots .”

Gasps rippled through the courtroom.

The goose in a tie honked in alarm. “Tiny boots?” it hissed. The Keebler Elves paused their cookie distribution, visibly shaken. Larry nodded solemnly. “This is how it starts.” Judge McHamburgerson squinted. “ARE YOU... THREATENING THE COURT WITH FASHION?”

“Not a threat,” Greg said. “A promise .”

Before the judge could respond, Brittany raised her hand. “I’d like to call a surprise witness,” she said, cracking open another Diet Dr. Pepper with ceremonial gravitas. “I think it’s time we heard from…the blender.”

A murmur swept the room like a badly-behaved tumbleweed.

Moments later, the smoothie-blender-bonsai rolled into view, escorted by Hank & Tank, the NXT tag-team champions. Its bark pulsed with bioluminescent veins. A neon straw protruded from one side.

“State your name for the record,” the judge said.

The blender roared to life. “I…AM… VITAMIX PRIME ,” it bellowed in a tone that could only be described as nutritionally aggressive. “Objection!” cried Sir Thomas. “It’s blending something right now!”

“That’s my lunch ,” whispered Trixie to me. “I had dibs on that pineapple…”

The judge waved a gloved hand. “CONTINUE, VITAMIX PRIME.”

“I WAS CREATED TO PULVERIZE. BUT THROUGH GREG, I LEARNED TO… FEEL . NOW I SMOOTHIE WITH PURPOSE.”

Queen Blorptavia shed a single, viscous tear. “That’s beautiful.” But Sir Thomas remained unconvinced. “Smoothies today, revolutions tomorrow. Where does it end?”

“With brunch,” said Brittany, dead serious. “It always ends with brunch.”

A low drone buzzed through the air. Tension thickened. Somewhere, a kazoo wailed mournfully. Then—

“ORDER! ORDER IN THE CHEESE!” Judge McHamburgerson barked, slamming the bench so hard a stray noodle flew from his robe. “THE JURY WILL NOW DELIBERATE.”

The members of the jury huddled together. The taxidermied giraffe clacked its abacus meaningfully. Regret knitted a pair of mittens while muttering about 2009. The goose flapped its wings dramatically. Larry just stared into space, pondering. After seven minutes, four interpretive hisses, and one spontaneous group hug, the jury turned back to the judge.

Regret stepped forward, cleared its throat, and spoke on behalf of them all:

“We, the jury, find the defendant... extremely leafy . But not guilty.”

The gallery erupted. Trixie screamed in horror. Hozier sang a minor chord in triumph. Greg wept dew. Kenny threw up the gavel and caught it in her mouth again. Judge McHamburgerson nodded. “SO BE IT. LET THE RECORD SHOW THAT BOTANICAL SEDITION IS LEGALLY CONSIDERED… AN AGGRESSIVE FORM OF SELF-CARE–”

Suddenly— BANG!!!

The courtroom doors burst open with a dramatic flair usually reserved for reality show finales or mid-season anime twists. A plume of confetti, drywall, and exactly one wayward wire shot into the air. Standing in the rubble was Boris .

He was drenched in rain despite there being no weather systems inside the courthouse. He wore a stained safety vest, one work boot, and the simmering aura of someone who’d just been forced to take public transit. With his round, unimpressed eyes and perpetually downturned mouth, he looked exactly like that one grumpy frog Jellycat plushie—but with a mustache.

“ OBJECTION!!! ” Boris croaked, pointing dramatically at Trixie, then at Hozier, then at the blender. “I—I OBJECT TO THIS UNHOLY UNION!”

There was a pause.

“…What union?” asked Queen Blorptavia, and Boris blinked. The courtroom blinked. A fern coughed awkwardly. Brittany sipped her Diet Dr. Pepper. “Dude. This is a trial. ”

Boris glanced around at the cheese walls, the powdered-wig crows, the mossy rebellion leader crying tears of sap. “Oh,” he said. Then again, slower. “ Ohhhh. ”

“You’re at the Pan-Dimensional Peace Potluck trial,” Regret offered gently, folding another mitten. “Crap,” Boris muttered. “Wrong address. Again.”

The judge squinted. “ARE YOU, BY CHANCE, BORIS OF SECTOR 7-OUTLET-C?”

“…Maybe,” Boris mumbled, crossing his arms.

“YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO FIX THE COURTROOM’S DIMENSIONAL CONDUCTIVITY GRID THREE WEEKS AGO.” Kenny raised her hand from where she was trying to lick an outlet. “That explains the fondue process switch being on the fritz!” Judge McHamburgerson sighed. “TOO LATE TO LEAVE NOW, BORIS. YOU’VE BEEN SWORN IN BY COLLISION. TAKE THE STAND.”

Boris sighed deeply—like a man who had once been electrocuted by a doorbell(if ykyk) and lived to regret it. He plodded to the witness stand, dragging a tangled mass of glowing wires and an emotional support voltage meter behind him. His aura smelled vaguely of burnt popcorn and goonery. (Like sidekick goon)

The bailiff (a lizard made entirely of legal pads) held up a sparkly Bible. Boris ignored it and swore in on a roll of electrical tape instead.

“NAME?” barked the judge.

“Boris. No last name. Electrician. I don’t believe in unions. Can rewire a planet in under an hour but not great at children’s birthday parties.”

“OCCUPATION?”

“I just said it. Electrician. Sometimes I consult for haunted amusement parks.”

“AND WHAT, PRAY TELL, IS YOUR CONNECTION TO THIS TRIAL?”

Boris adjusted his vest, sniffed, and pointed a stubby finger at Vitamix Prime.

“That smoothie blender? Yeah. I installed its emotional regulator. Was supposed to cap its empathy at ‘mildly sentimental.’ Looks like it blew past ‘gentle yearning’ and straight into ‘existential sap-wailing.’” He shrugged. “Honestly, not the worst appliance I’ve worked on. There was this one air fryer that fell in love with a prostitute.”

“CAN YOU CONFIRM,” the judge asked, voice trembling with processed cheese solemnity, “THAT VITAMIX PRIME IS CAPABLE… OF LOVE?”

The entire courtroom leaned in.

Even the goose stopped honking.

Boris stared at the blender. The blender pulsed pink. He sighed again. “Yeah. That blender feels things. Deeply. Like, Nicholas Sparks-meets-power-surge deeply.”

Gasps erupted.

Regret burst into tears. “I KNEW IT!” The Keebler Elves (Craig) passed out brownies labeled “court feelings snacks.” Greg the Fern whispered, “You were never just a kitchen appliance to me…” and held out a frond tenderly. Judge McHamburgerson slammed the bench. “THEN LET IT BE KNOWN—VITAMIX PRIME IS SENTIENT. AND MAY APPLY FOR EMOTIONAL BLENDER CITIZENSHIP.”

Cheers exploded. Confetti rained from the cheese ceiling. Someone started beatboxing. Sir Thomas burst into flames from sheer confusion.

Boris, deadpan, wiped smoothie off his face.

“Can I go home now?” he muttered.

I raise a hand. Not high, just enough to be seen over a sentient fern and the existential personification of Regret knitting a commemorative scarf.

“…What the fuck is happening?” I say flatly, blinking at Vitamix Prime, who is humming “Landslide” through a smoothie filter. Judge Handy McHamburgerson, glowing softly beneath his sequin-stitched robe, steeples his fingers thoughtfully. “A FAIR QUESTION,” he says in his buttery, beefy baritone. He clears his throat with a sound like sizzling hamburger grease.

“ALLOW ME TO RECAP:”

A glowing rune on the cheese wall flickers to life, projecting a chaotic slideshow narrated by the Judge himself.

Slide 1: A very enthusiastic potluck invitation covered in glitter and suspicious vine juice.
“THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SIMPLE PAN-DIMENSIONAL PEACE POTLUCK. DIP. DANCE. DIP AGAIN.”

Slide 2: Trixie mid-leap in the vine ballet, flanked by pirouetting orchids.
“THEN, A THEATRICAL FLORAL PERFORMANCE.”

Slide 3: Kenny, immortal chaos intern, stage-diving face-first into a tactical bonsai unit.
“KENNY—AS PER USUAL—ACCIDENTALLY INSTIGATED ARBOREAL UNREST.”

Slide 4: Greg the Fern raising a tiny aluminum foil scepter from his Roomba throne.
“THE PLANTS DEMANDED RIGHTS. AND FOOTWEAR.”

Slide 5: Hozier, barefoot and forest-glowing, crooning about sap-based affection.
“TESTIMONIES WERE SUNG. EMOTIONS WERE STIRRED. THE BLENDER CRIED.”

Slide 6: Boris being forcibly sworn in, a literal spark flying from his voltage meter.
“THEN, BORIS ARRIVED TO OBJECT TO A WEDDING THAT DOESN’T EXIST AND ACCIDENTALLY VALIDATED A SMALL APPLIANCE’S CAPACITY FOR LOVE.”

The projection sizzles out.

“AND SO,” Judge McHamburgerson concludes, raising his gloved hand solemnly, “WE STAND HERE TODAY HAVING LEGALLY RECOGNIZED BOTANICAL SEDITION AS A FORM OF SELF-CARE… AND A SMOOTHIE BLENDER AS A SENTIENT, EMOTIONAL ENTITY WITH RIGHTS.”

He pauses. “YOU’RE CAUGHT UP.”

A beat.

The goose honks affirmatively.

Greg nods his fronds.

Boris shrugs.

Judge McHamburgerson slammed the bench one last time with a theatrical “THWOMP” , and several nearby legal pads fainted. “NOW,” he said, steepling his meaty fingers, “WHO BROUGHT THE SPINACH DIP? IT IS, TECHNICALLY, A SENTIENT MEMBER OF THE COURT NOW.” The spinach dip, nestled on a gilded platter in the gallery, trembled. “ I contain multitudes, ” it whispered. A small cucumber slice floated to the surface and saluted. A hush fell. Respect.

Suddenly, the cheese walls began to melt. Not metaphorically—literally. Dripping fondue streamed down carved justice runes as the temperature in the courtroom soared. Sir Thomas combusted once more, this time out of sheer humidity.

From the corner, Regret gasped. “ The Fondue Protocol has been activated… ”

Everyone turned to the enormous emergency fondue lever mounted beside the witness stand. It had clearly been pulled—probably by Kenny, who now stood there with melted Havarti in her hair and an expression of absolute delight.

“Oops,” she said.

“OH DEAR,” Judge McHamburgerson murmured. “THE LAST TIME THE FONDUE PROTOCOL WAS TRIGGERED, THE MARSHMALLOW DIMENSION GOT SWALLOWED WHOLE.”

Trixie, now stuck to the floor via a melted cheese heel, turned to Boris. “Can you stop this?”

Boris groaned, pulling out a partially-chewed schematic labeled “Cheese Stability Matrix, v2.1 (Do Not Let Kenny Touch)” and squinted at it. “Maybe. But I’ll need a wrench, three teaspoons of emotional closure, and someone willing to distract the Sentient Queso Plume long enough for me to rewire the core.” Everyone turned toward Brittany Broski. She sighed, finished her Diet Dr. Pepper, crushed the can in her bare hand, and stood.

“I’ll do it.”

Gasps. The Keebler Elves fainted in their trench coat. The goose laid an egg labeled “respect.”

Trixie saluted. “Godspeed, Broski.”

Brittany marched toward the rising plume of spicy sentience—a swirling tower of molten cheese and vague insecurity. It pulsed with longing. It spoke in the voice of every bad ex ever. “You up?” it whispered to her.

Brittany didn’t flinch. “Not for you, Sentient Queso.”

The room shuddered.

Meanwhile, Boris was under the cheese floor, grumbling and sparking wires together like a gremlin with union beef. “I swear,” he muttered, “one time I tried to fix a heater and it proposed to me. Appliances have no boundaries .”

Vitamix Prime beeped sympathetically. Back in the gallery, Greg the Fern whispered, “Do you think… this will end in peace?” “I think it’ll end in brunch,” said Hozier.

Just then the Queso Plume screeched . A banshee-wail of Gouda and heartbreak rippled through the air. Brittany staggered, gripping her emotional support can tab, as the molten mass morphed into something… bigger. Cheesier. More codependent .

From the ooze rose a face. A face made entirely of sharp cheddar and unresolved issues. It was Queso ex Machina —the Final Form of the Sentient Queso Plume. It shimmered with toxic affection and smelled vaguely of jalapeños.

“I LOVED YOU, BRITTANY,” it boomed.

“No, you loved the idea of me,” she snapped, unsheathing her emergency fondue fork. “There’s a difference.”

The courtroom gasped.

Greg wept sap. “She’s so brave…”

The judge scrambled to activate the Emergency Anti-Co-Dependency Cloak (bedazzled, of course), tossing it over the witness stand with a dramatic flourish. “EVERYONE STAY CALM,” he boomed, jazz hands fluttering in emergency semaphore.

But it was too late.

Queso ex Machina had locked eyes with Hozier.

“You…” it whispered. “You understand longing.”

Hozier took a step forward, vines unfurling from his hair like sorrowful green spaghetti. “I am longing,” he whispered.

“NOOOO,” cried Brittany. “HOZIER, DON’T ENGAGE—IT FEEDS ON YEARNING.”

But it was already too late. A ballad swelled from Hozier’s throat, a haunting melody woven from ancient bark and forbidden dairy. Queso ex Machina moaned in emotional dairy ecstasy, growing more powerful with each verse.

Boris shrieked from beneath the floor. “STOP SINGING! THE CHEESE MATRIX IS AT MAXIMUM YEARN—” But his words were drowned out by the rising wail of “Take Me to Church (Nacho Remix)” , now blasting from Queso ex Machina’s emotional subwoofers.

“I CAN’T HOLD IT MUCH LONGER!” Boris screamed, wielding the emotional wrench like a blessed relic. “TRIXIE, INITIATE THE BRUNCH DIVERSION!” Trixie didn’t hesitate. She whipped a glittery brunch menu from her hair extensions and screamed, “BOTTOMLESS MIMOSAS, TABLE FIVE!”

The distraction worked. Every millennial and brunch-adjacent being within earshot turned their gaze. The Queso hesitated. Longing... faltered. Hozier blinked.

“You… you brunch?” the cheese whispered, trembling.

“No,” Hozier rasped, pulling a croissant from his chest cavity. “ I transcend brunch. ”

The Queso let out a tortured squeal and began to destabilize—emotional lactose leaking in all directions. Brittany took the opportunity and lunged . With a cry of “THIS IS FOR EVERY THERAPY BILL I NEVER SENT YOU,” she stabbed the fondue fork directly into Queso ex Machina’s metaphorical guilt gland.

There was silence.

Then—

BOOM.

A brilliant explosion of Monterey Jack and mutual growth filled the air, blasting fondue through the halls. The courtroom walls re-solidified. The Keebler Elves re-awoke, slightly crispier but emotionally intact. Brittany stood amid the steaming crater, hair singed, eyeliner perfect. The Sentient Queso Plume was no more—just a small, respectful cheese wedge, humming faintly with accountability.

Judge McHamburgerson rose from his melted throne. “Court is adjourned… for therapy.”

Greg the Fern unfurled a tiny leaf. “So… brunch?”

And somewhere, faintly, in the wind:
“Take me to… curd.”

<END OF CHAPTER 3>

Chapter Text

You’d think after defeating an emotionally manipulative cheese god in a courtroom powered by guilt and dairy fumes, I’d get, like, a nap. A juice box. A moment to sit with my thoughts.

But no.

As brunch plans were being whispered among fern fronds and slightly crispy elves, the sky cracked open like a cosmic crème brûlée.

A booming voice echoed across dimensions:
“EMMY. THE TIME HAS COME. REPORT TO PLANET BEEFTRAX. IMMEDIATELY.”

Everyone froze. Even Greg the Fern, mid-sip of mimosa, stiffened.

“Did… did they just say Beeftrax? ” Judge McHamburgerson asked, blinking molten cheddar from his eyelashes.

“Yep,” I sighed, already pulling on my Emergency Planet Pants™. “That’s my cue.”

A wormhole opened beside the brunch buffet. It smelled like barbecue sauce. With one last fondue-slicked wave to Brittany (who was now being gently spritzed with lavender oil by the Keebler medics), I jumped through.

I landed with a squelch .

Planet Beeftrax is exactly what it sounds like: 90% beef, 10% tax fraud. The ground is made of sizzling steak tiles. The clouds drip au jus. Every tree has the unsettling aura of a dad who grills too confidently.

And standing dead center in a smoking crater of brisket and tension were four very familiar figures.

To my left: The Wild Kratt Brothers , Chris and Martin, in full Creature Power gear—Chris had polar bear enhancements, Martin had peregrine falcon wings, and they both had a smug aura that screamed PBS funding. To my right: Ridley , a 5 foot something gym-girl menace who was trying to intimidate a hamburger, and Superman, arms crossed, jaw tight, as if he’d rather be literally anywhere else in the multiverse.

They were yelling.

Loudly.

“I’m just saying,” Martin snapped, “ your idea of conservation is vaporizing endangered species! And Labubus!”

“And you built an otter jet,” Ridley spat, “so don’t talk to me about overcompensation.”

Superman pinched the bridge of his nose. “I agreed to mediate, not rap. I am a symbol of hope. I have standards. ”

Chris stepped forward. “We challenged  you. Fair and square.”

“To a rap battle?” I asked, dusting off a ribeye-shaped rock.

All four turned to me at once.

“EMMY.” they shouted in unison.

“You have to judge,” said Ridley, flexing her muscles.

“You’re neutral and chaotic,” Chris added helpfully.

“And you have good taste in rhythm and moral ambiguity,” Superman muttered under his breath. Suddenly a massive subwoofer burst from the ground like a blessed weed. Disco lights flared. A grilled meat DJ (wearing shades and no pants (safe to say his MEAT was out)) dropped a sick beat.

“WELCOME TO THE RAP RUMBLE OF RIGHTEOUSNESS.”
boomed a steak-shaped announcer from a platform made of baked potatoes.
“TEAM GRILL POWER: SUPERMAN AND RIDLEY... VS. TEAM WILDSTYLE: THE KRATT BROTHERS.”

I sighed. Sat down on a throne made of ethically sourced salami. Adjusted my judging tiara (retractable, kept in my sock for emergencies). “Alright,” I said, cracking my knuckles. “Let’s get lyrical.”

And the beat dropped.

Beat: Jungle funk with bass drops made of birdcalls and dolphin squeaks.

Chris (stepping up, grinning):
Yo, I’m Chris Kratt, comin’ at ya with claws,
Nature’s got balance and I’m layin’ down laws.
Your cape’s outdated, your ego’s inflated,
We teach kids science while you stay frustrated.

Martin (flipping into a falcon screech):
I'm Martin with wings, I bring falcon finesse,
Your brooding and bro-smash? I’m frankly unimpressed.
We got creature powers, you got… cape drama?
Your whole vibe’s like a soap opera in pajamas.

Chris (again):
We rescue cheetahs, you punch meteors—why?
Ever try talking first? Nah, just laser-eye flyby.
We educate nations, you're just property damage,
Our budget’s like ten bucks, still doin’ more to manage!

(Cue a chorus of lemurs beatboxing in support.)

Ridley (smiling, confident, in her “future doctor” hoodie):
Yo, name’s Ridley, not a space dragon freak,
Just your friendly nerd girl with straight A technique.
Gonna save lives while you save lemurs, cool,
But I diagnosed your rhymes: acute back-to-school.

I work, I vibe, I volunteer with flair,
Meanwhile y’all play tag with a cartoon bear?

I’ve seen Hamilton, like 8 times?? let’s be real,
Your weak rhymes wouldn’t pass Burr’s first appeal.
I’m nice, I’m bright, but I bite when it’s needed,
And next to your bars? These doctors just pleaded.

Superman (floating in, blinking slowly):
I’m Superman. I… don’t know what’s happening.
But I support Ridley. Strong. What...What rhymes with happening?
I think i'm bombing this man I'm sorry.

There was silence.

“Right,” I began, doing my best impression of someone who has any control over the situation. “Let me just say—first of all, bold of y’all to turn Planet Beeftrax into a lyrical warzone. Respect.” Chris bowed. Ridley finger-gunned me. Superman blinked twice, but then smiled. Martin was still mid-falcon screech and had to be gently patted down by a brisket.

“I’ve made my decision,” I said solemnly, pulling out my Judgment Scroll (a receipt from a gas station, but it looked official). “Both teams brought facts. Both teams brought flow. One team brought lemur backup singers. The other brought emotional damage. And David Corenswet.”

A pause.

“But the winner is…”

All four leaned forward.

“…Team Grill Power.”

Ridley fist-pumped. Superman gave a tiny, confused thumbs-up. The meat DJ dropped a celebratory foghorn sound and did a split. “To be clear,” I added quickly, raising my hands before the Kratts could summon a whale or something, “this was a close call. But, this team showed strength, resilience, and Ridley practically carried it. I mean, her rhymes were fire.” 

Chris muttered something about budget cuts. Martin sulked into his wings. A lemur offered them a beer in consolation. I gave a respectful nod to the crowd of sentient steaks gathering at the edges of the crater. “Rap battle judged. Honor preserved. Planet Beeftrax: mildly more stable than before.”

As the foghorn faded and the last bass drop echoed into the meaty horizon, I stood up from my salami throne and stretched. The crowd of sentient steaks let out a satisfied moo —or was that a sigh of relief? Either way, things were cooling down, and I was ready for some peace. “See ya, suckers!” I said, waving. “I’m off to vacation.”

Suddenly, Trixie opened a portal and popped her head through. “Actually, Emmy. You can’t. You’re the new God, remember? God can’t take breaks. Last time he did…Well…You remember 2020, right?” I shudder. So….much……neon. I sighed, rubbing my temples. “Right. So much for my beach day...Phooey! Am I needed elsewhere?”

Trixie stepped fully through the portal, her glittery boots clicking against the sizzling steak tiles. She gave me a look that mixed sympathy with "I told you so." “You’re needed everywhere, Emmy. The multiverse is unraveling.”  She tapped a glowing orb floating between us, projecting a holographic mess of swirling colors and flashing alerts. “There’s a flavor blackout spreading across the universes. The Essence of Zest is fading, and with it, the spark that keeps worlds vibrant. Without your intervention, it’s gonna get bland. Literally.”

I rubbed my chin, trying to digest this flavorful catastrophe. “So... if I don’t step up, the whole multiverse turns into white people caca?”

“Exactly. And nobody wants that.” Trixie gave a dramatic shiver. I sighed, tugged on my Emergency Planet Pants™, and squared my shoulders. “Alright, Trixie. Where do we start? And can we maybe stop for some cosmic snacks on the way?”

She grinned. “First stop: the Spice Forge. It’s the source of all seasoning magic. But beware—the path’s guarded by the infamous Tom Hanks. That’s where he’s spending his retirement.”

“Sounds spicy,” I muttered, stepping toward the portal she’d opened wider. “Welcome back to the grind, God,” Trixie said with a wink.

<END OF CHAPTER 4>

Chapter Text

The portal set us down in what, at first glance, resembled a baseball stadium. On closer inspection, it was clear this was no ordinary field — the grass shimmered with the green of fresh cilantro, and each base was an enormous, glistening clove of garlic. The air carried the faintest bite of chili oil, the sort of aroma that makes you both hungry and slightly afraid. THE SPICE FORGE….(dun dun duuuun!)

Arrayed across the diamond stood the Spice Girls — not the pop group, but an impeccably uniformed minor league team of anthropomorphic seasonings. Their pinstripe jerseys bore the words Herb Crushers in the most intimidating font known to man– Arial . Paprika, the shortstop, twirled his glove with quiet confidence. Cumin, the pitcher, stood tall and sharp-eyed. Nutmeg, at third base, looked as though he’d survived wars. (gingerbread making)

In the commentator’s booth, presiding like a benevolent emperor of sport, sat Tom Hanks . He leaned into the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 1,003rd Annual Spicy Baseball Invitational. Today’s match is one of high stakes, daring plays, and… unusually high Scoville ratings.”

His eyes scanned the paper before him. “And now, entering the field… Team Whatever This Is. ”

We emerged from the dugout in what could only be described as a procession of mismatched determination. Myself, reluctantly wielding a bat. Andrew Garfield , dressed inexplicably in the hoodie from Tick, Tick… Boom! , gaze drifting toward the horizon as if questioning every life choice that had led him here. Glamrock Freddy Fazbear , stretching in way that made the opposing team’s infielders step back a little. A twelve-pack of beer from twelve countries — each can walking on tiny aluminum legs, their pull-tabs gleaming like polished armor. And, bringing up the rear, Stanley Pines , mitt in one hand, suspiciously fragrant hot dog in the other.

Stan squinted toward the pitcher. “Do I actually need to know the rules? Or is this more of a… figure-it-out-as-you-go situation?”

Tom Hanks’ voice rolled across the field like warm butter. “Should Team Whatever triumph, they shall gain entry to the Spice Forge, home of the fabled Essence of Zest. Should they fail…” He allowed a long, theatrical pause. “…they must consume Ridley’s Special Casserole. A dish prepared without spice. Without salt. Without hope.”

The crowd gasped. Somewhere in the stands, a chili pepper fainted.

From the Crushers’ dugout, Ridley emerged, visor low over her brow, clipboard in hand. Her smile was sharp and knowing.
“Surprise,” she called. “I’m the one running this game. You see, Emmy, I’ve cultivated the most refined bland palate in the multiverse. Decades of boiled chicken, plain toast, raw baby carrots. Soon, you’ll see the beauty in the absence of flavor.”

I tightened my grip on the bat. “So you’re behind the flavor blackout.”

“Correct,” she said sweetly. “And when you lose here, your conversion will be complete.”

Tom Hanks cleared his throat. “Well. That’s ominous. Play ball.”

The umpire — a solemn, six-foot-tall pepper grinder with eyes — waddled to home plate and gave the traditional signal: a single crank that sent a puff of pepper into the air. Several spectators sneezed in perfect harmony.

Cumin, the pitcher, rolled the meatball between his fingers like he was plotting a crime. Steam curled from it, carrying the faint smell of Sunday dinner and ominous foreshadowing. He wound up. The meatball whistled through the air — not metaphorically, but with the actual tune of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” except the lyrics were all about jambalaya.

I swung. Missed. The meatball bounced off Glamrock Freddy’s shin, then politely rolled itself back to the mound.

“Strike one!” the pepper grinder boomed, his voice shaking loose several cloves of garlic from third base.

Andrew Garfield stepped up next. He didn’t swing so much as he… sighed aggressively at the ball. Somehow, this worked — Cumin’s pitch veered midair, hit the ground, and rolled under second base, which promptly got up and walked off in protest.

“Is that… legal?” I asked.

“Legal?” Stanley Pines scoffed through a mouthful of sentient hot dog. “Kid, this game doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” The hot dog nodded in agreement. Stanley, not knowing that his hotdog was an innocent man, dropped it in fear. “GREAT FIRE OF 87!” Freddy sweated nervously. “87…” He thought to himself.

Play continued with the kind of logic you only see in dreams or extremely low-budget cartoons. The beer cans performed a choreographed base-stealing attempt, distracting Nutmeg long enough for Freddy to sprint to third. Paprika tried to tag him out, but tripped over a stray ginger root poking out of the ground.

By the seventh inning, the scoreboard read:
Herb Crushers — 3
Team Whatever This Is — ?

Tom Hanks leaned into the mic. “And now, for the traditional Seventh-Inning Snack Break.” He gestured toward the stands, where ushers carried trays of nachos topped with philosophical questions instead of cheese. “Who am I?” “What is flavor, really?”

Ridley approached the mound, smiling like she’d just thought of a really creative way to ruin your birthday. “Last pitch, Emmy,” she said. “Win, and you get your precious Essence of Zest. Lose… and you’ll join me in the Blandlands forever.”
“This isn’t very Superman of you, Ridley.” I say sadly.

The pepper grinder umpire gave one final crank. The air filled with pepper and possibility.

I took my stance. The bat felt heavier. The crowd leaned in. The meatball whistled toward me again, now singing the bridge to Ave Maria

And that’s when I decided to do something no one had done in the 1,003 years of the Spicy Baseball Invitational.

I ate the ball.

The crowd fell into a stunned silence so thick you could’ve spread it on a cracker and called it a snack. Tom Hanks blinked, slowly lowered his microphone, and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. Cumin’s jaw dropped — if he even had a jaw under all those spice layers. Paprika’s twirling glove froze mid-spin. Nutmeg blinked twice, as if double-checking reality. The beer cans halted their tiny-legged march, the pull-tabs gleaming nervously.

Stanley Pines dropped his mitt, eyes wide. “You… you just ate the ball.”

I swallowed, feeling the warm, flavorful meatball settle somewhere near my ribs. “Yeah. I figured if the rules don’t make sense, maybe I don’t have to follow them either.”

The pepper grinder umpire waddled forward, grinding his mechanism anxiously. “Rule 672B subsection nine states: No participant may consume the game ball during play.”

“Well,” I said, batting my eyes, “I’m also invoking Rule 1: Surprise is the best spice of all.”

Ridley’s smile faltered, replaced by a twitch of irritation. “This isn’t over, Emmy. The Blandlands are patient.”

Tom Hanks leaned back in his chair, chuckling. “Well folks, I think we just witnessed the first-ever ball-eating bat flip in Spicy Baseball history.”

From the stands, a chili pepper slowly revived and gave a shaky thumbs up.

Suddenly, the Essence of Zest — a swirling orb of vibrant citrus light — descended from the scoreboard. It hovered just above the field, pulsing with energy.

“You did it,” Cumin said quietly, nodding in respect. “You’ve beaten the game by breaking it.”

The team cheered, the Herb Crushers and Team Whatever This Is alike. Even Ridley looked... impressed, if begrudgingly.

Just as the Essence of Zest hovered, shimmering with triumphant citrus glory, the crowd erupted—except for the chili pepper, who was still cautiously optimistic.

From the sidelines, a whirlwind of glitter, pom-poms, and energy exploded onto the field.

“Trixie!” I gasped, as she cartwheeled through the air with the grace of a caffeinated squirrel. She landed perfectly on one sparkly sneaker, flipped her glittery megaphone toward the sky, and bellowed:

“Gimme a Z!
Gimme an E!
Gimme an S–T!
Who brought the flavor? We passed the test!
No blandness here, no salt-free fate,
Team Whatever dominates—no debate!”

The pom-poms glittered like tiny fireworks, confetti made of crushed chili flakes rained down, and even the garlic bases seemed to lean in for a better look.

I grinned, feeling the zing of victory—and maybe a little zest in the air.

“Alright, Trixie,” I said. “Lead us out of the blandness, one cheer at a time.”

And just like that, the Spicy Baseball Invitational became the spiciest, most chaotic victory dance the multiverse had ever seen

<END OF CHAPTER 5>