“The winners of the 2023 Presidential New Frontiers Award will be announced by Honorary Trustee B. Alfred Cunning, who, for those of you who have not been around for long…”

Mrs. Colwig paused, a blood-red smile plastered to her pale face, golden locks static despite the wind. She reveled in the spotlight, absorbing some of the attention directed at the real stars of the show. “I am just so proud of you, dear, so proud you could make it! You guys are really putting our department on the map! You really didn’t have to acknowledge me!” (But her eyes had said something else: she wanted to be on it, wanted her name there, even if buried in the footnotes).

“...actually won this same award at its very inception, and, may I say, turned it into a lucrative opportunity for himself! Please welcome, Honorary Trustee, B. Alfred Cunning!”

Heavy steps across the stage, rhythmic knocking of a cane; they cut through the ovation, cut through the roaring wind. The entire Lodder Field rose up, hands clapping in unison until he waved them to stop. He was a big shot, a straight shot they wrote about him in those old press releases, where he’s young, proud, with a girl on his arm. He’d always had this shit-eating grin: it showed up on the mugshots, too, but you’d have to look very hard to find those now. Salma Cortez from NNN asked him about those, and he laughed it off – they just really liked my million-dollar smile! – but then Salma Cortez lost her job, didn’t she? Guess she didn’t complement that smile enough.

Wouldn’t be worth thinking about, any of that, if not for the pattern. Be quiet, though: grit your teeth and listen to him, and smile when the golden ticket’s offered. You deserve it.

(That’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re the only one who does.)

“It’s always a pleasure to be here,” B. Alfred Cunning said. “We meet here every five years, and sometimes I think we should do it more often, because I just like being here so much. It brings back memories… oh, sweet memories, and, you know, seeing the Bourke Computing Hall there in the back, I just long to walk the corridors again, be young again, surrounded by so many bright minds, with my mates and the girls there…”

Giggles rippled through the audience. Cunning allowed it to subside and went into the classic B. Alfred Cunning talk about changing the world. Allegedly, he’d done it, once; allegedly, the world needed a lot more changing, and he was so happy that there were people out there tackling the important issues. Bright beautiful people. Succulent young minds capable of solving anything they put themselves to. Elegant little ears waiting for his honey-like voice to pour into them. He tapped his cane excitedly. B. Alfred Cunning was so proud to present the winners with their trophies and fat checks. “It’s a hundred thousand to each of you,” he said, putting a strange emphasis on the you. “And let me tell you, it’s enough to start with, so don’t waste it! You don’t have loans, do you? I’ve always thought smart people don’t have loans, you must all be on university aid, and if you aren’t, then let me tell you, Mrs. Colwig’s administration has no idea what a good investment looks like! Maybe she can tell us how much she gets in donations from me every year! I mean, even this award… Ah, I am tired of talking about myself, I can see you are too… Let me introduce you to this amazing group… Oh, right… They will tell you about their project themselves but let me offer you a sneak peek: it’s about insect farms replacing beef for the sake of climate change… a novel idea, and as a man who knows numbers, let me tell you, it will do wonders for climate change! I mean, against climate change, we are not for climate change here! Ahem…”

He put on his glasses and finally glanced down at the sheet of paper left for him on the podium. He coughed again, then turned to the curtain and called out:

“Bernard Arndell!”

(Good job, Chani, but I think you’ve gotta change the colors on these figures. Also, your language on page 4 is a little too dry. Too much passive voice. Do you know what passive voice is? It’s when instead of saying “I made a brownie”, you say “A brownie was made by me”, which is really clunky and hard to read if there’s a lot of it. I left a couple of comments. Also, I’ve written this plan here… take a look. But good job, good job. Hang on, I’m getting a call.”)

“Look at him!” Cunning exclaimed. “Could be a young me, for all I care. Young man, let me present you with the Presidential Award! Come, come, let’s take a picture before the rest comes out.” (He’s probably winking). “Great, great, amazing work, Bernard! Bet your parents are proud. Alright, who’s next… Oh, before you all think I am senile, the next two specifically asked to be brought out as a couple… Emily Hamm and George Tsu!”

(“Sorry we’re late, everyone! George is just too convincing sometimes.”

“Come on babe, this time it was you.”

[kissing sounds]

“We might need to leave early, too, sorry in advance.”

“Yeah. She’s got me a surprise! And she just won’t tell me what it is.”

“That’s why it’s a surprise, honey!”

“I get excited just thinking about it. What do you guys think it is? I wonder if there’s going to be wine.”

“Wine and candle wax. Hot candle wax.”

“Ohhh! You hear that?”

“Aw, Chani, don’t stare. Also, yuk, put your shoes back on. You should consider showering sometimes. George and I had the decency to shower after…”

[click of the tongue])

“What a couple! Just look at them! I always said: you’ve got to have fun changing the world and this young man embodies that! My sincerest congratulations to you two, my friends! Ladies and gentlemen, these are Emily Hamm and George Tsu! Now please join Bernard over there and let me see… Hmm… I really don’t want to butcher this one, so bear with me… Sayed Hattal?”

(I’m sorry, I just really don’t know what to do about this, you know? Can you tell me how I can help? I’ve tried thinking about it but it’s hard and I am kinda behind on my other subjects. I tried going to ALAC but there’s too many people there and I think I just don’t get the attention I need. I really think it’s best if you just tell me what to do.)

“There he is! Welcome, everyone, Sayed Hattal! It is so great to see such a diverse group! Mr. Hattal, my sincerest congratulations, I hope you can put this to good use and start a great career today! You should be proud of what you’ve achieved! And now, ladies and gentlemen, this group has one more part, one more brilliant individual… let us welcome Chani Gardalay to the stage!”

(You are all thieves. I should destroy this.

Please, Chani, you should have just told me what to do!

Come on, Chani, let’s work it out. Wanna catch a drink? On me.

Hey Chani, that’s a little unfair. We just didn’t have as much time as you. Emma and I are…

Stop apologizing to her, George, she’s just being a little bitch.)

Chani Gardalay rose to her feet and walked onto the stage. Thousands of eyes focused on her; some of them, she knew, were understanding, but they were a precious few. She stopped before she reached Cunning and looked up at the massive, banner-sized PowerPoint Slide projected onto the taut screen. Her jaw dropped. It read:

“A Complete Assessment of the Viability of Cricket and Termite Farming with Reference to Local Climate and Global Economic Development”

A little lower:

“A Group Submission for the Presidential New Frontiers Award, 2023”

And even lower:

“Arndell, B., Hamm, E., Tsu, G., Hattal, S. and Galdaray, C.”

Her blood boiled. She walked on, flashing her groupmates a death stare. Arndell smiled with one of his champion smiles; he did, indeed, look just like a younger version of Cunning. George looked away; Sayed, pale-faced, shook his head. Emily returned the look, a smirk on her lips.

(She made the fucking slide.)

“Congratulations, Ms. Gardalay!” Cunning announced. She’d almost passed him but forced herself to stop. “I hear you’ve conceived the project, and you should be proud of that, we really need bright thinkers, someone who generates ideas, and, as you have found out, sometimes a good idea attracts great folks,” he waved a hand at the other four winners, “to work on them. Everyone, this is Chani Gardalay and let me present her with her portion of the prize!”

He held out a Letter-sized piece of laminated paper with her name on it. Chani stared at it. It was identical to the other four. It carried an identical number with an identical dollar sign next to it. She could cash it in somewhere and say that she won the Presidential, and the others could go cash in theirs, and they would never have to work together again. Ever since she’d decided to participate, her life had been a dark tunnel of late-night work, research, mind-numbing work and just having to deal with these four. She reached the light.

“Thank you for recognizing my efforts,” she said simply and accepted her prize. The audience gave her an ovation. Weaker than the preceding ones, she noticed. More salt in the wound. It all hurt more than she’d expected; somehow, seeing the rest of them standing on the same stage made it all real. Perhaps a part of Chani had clung to the idea that at least one of her groupmates would come forward and admit it. I spent the semester fucking around, or, sometimes, with Emily. I think Chani should get all the credit. But they had the gall, the nerve to come up here, shake Cunning’s hand, smile and wave at the crowd – like they belonged. Spoiled little bunch of-

“Miss Gardalay?”

Right. He wanted to shake her hand, too. She obliged; his palm felt soft and sweaty.

“You have a strong handshake”, he observed in a lowered voice.

She gave him a polite, curt nod and stepped aside, joining the rest of the winners. Cameras flashed as reporters took countless photos. Mrs. Colwig got back on the stage, and a couple more people from the university admin did. Prof. Suleika was absent, like he’d been the entire semester. She had only complained to him once, and he’d told her that is how the real world is: sometimes you have to work with people who aren’t as effective. Bullshit! In the real world, people get fucking fired. In the real world, there are performance reviews. There are consequences.

“This is mine,” she wanted to scream at them. “It’s mine! It’s just me. They are grifters, they’ve done nothing, they’ve learned their lines and changed colors on the slides! It’s all me, Chani!”

But she didn’t; she kept her composure, she faked a smile, she stood with them and pretended they were her best friends. Like she didn’t mind that Hamm moved her name to the end of the author list, with a typo at that. Like she didn’t want to fucking strangle Bernard: manage this, dipshit! Like she didn’t care about all the money they were getting – all the money she had to split with them, money she’d earned for them.

She played along. Once all the hubbub died down, they were asked to give a brief overview of their work. They had planned to talk about a slide each. Bernard was stellar: ticked all the dots, from a nonchalant joke to a smooth transition to Emily’s section. She puffed herself up so much you’d think she actually understood things – we performed predictive modeling, and the results surpassed our ambitions! – and kept doing these little excited giggles. George was boring, underpracticed and exuded false confidence. He kept glancing at Emma, as if every word he said was an inside joke. Chani would never want to know: over the past few months, she’d learned more about Emily’s and George’s intimate life than she’d thought possible. Sayed clearly wrote a script and learned it by heart, rushing through his section in that nervous voice of his; he also kept looking sideways at her, and she could read a longing for approval in his eyes. She didn’t grant him any.

Then it was time for her to step forward again. Chani had not prepared in any meaningful way: didn’t need to. She breathed the project, knew it inside and out, would be able to summarize things in her sleep. Once she was done, the audience once again erupted with an ovation. The Q&A section was short and unremarkable; Chani fielded the questions herself, pleased with the fact that at least this part highlighted her role properly (even if she was tempted to let Emily or someone else embarrass themselves).

It was all over, then, and suddenly she was no longer needed; a few more pictures, a few people asking for an autograph on a ticket or a printout, a few students with more questions – she stuck around for a quarter of an hour, and then Colwig waved for her to leave. The wind was picking up; the thick, gray blanket of clouds gathering overhead promised a rainy evening.

As Chani approached the gate, she heard steps and loud, laborious breathing behind her. She turned around to see Sayed, his face red, top button undone. He was holding his prize check in his hands.

“Chani,” he blurted out. His tone was apologetic. “It’s not fair. I am so sorry I was not a better…”

“Cut to the chase,” she told him.

He looked around, clearly embarrassed. His lips were trembling. She wondered if he was going to tell her he loved her or something similarly idiotic; she wondered if she should have mercy and stop herself from laughing or not. He didn’t deserve that, did he?

“It’s not fair and I want to give you some of my winnings,” he said. “To make it fairer. Will you accept?”

She raised an eyebrow, staring at him in disbelief. Sayed couldn’t bear it and looked at her shoes instead. Chani tapped her foot in place a few times, then asked him:

“How much?”

“S-sorry?”

“How much are you thinking?”

He opened his mouth. She could see the gears turn in his head.

“Chani,” he bleated. “Just to make it fairer…”

“How ‘bout all of it”, she asked coldly. “Do you want to give me your entire prize, Sayed? One hundred thousand dollars? Sounds fair to me.”

“Chani, you can’t be-”

“I think you brought me a coffee once,” she mused. “So maybe ninety-nine-point nine percent, then. You can keep a little. More than the coffee’s worth. Sounds fair?”

“Chani-”

“Chani what? Chani what?!” she snapped, advancing on him. They were almost the same height, but Sayed seemed to shrivel, recede into himself, and she felt like she could easily walk right through him, over him. “Are you giving me all of it, or not? Sayed?”

She stopped right in front of him, fuming, hands curled into tight fists. Once again, Sayed lowered his gaze, staring at the tips of her mules. “No”, she heard a whisper. “No, sorry.”

“Get lost,” she advised him, turned on her heels and left.

***

Chani’s anger did not subside that night. She didn’t sleep well. She didn’t know what to do with herself the morning after, on Saturday, and spent it maniacally meal prepping until her freezer was full of reheatable meals. Curries, mashed potatoes with gravy, fried rice, and a few breakfast burritos.

Against her better judgement, she stalked all four of her groupmates on social media. Of course, all of them wrote puffy little pieces on LinkedIn, informing everyone of how proud they were to be recognized in such a way. Emily didn’t even tag Chani in her acknowledgements, which made Chani audibly groan.

“Scammers,” she kept thinking. “Freeloaders. Parasites.” But hadn’t she known them for what they were? She had spent months with these people; she’d figured them all out in the first week. She asked for a different group and was refused, sure. She tried to complain to Prof. Suleika and was told to suck it up. She had to accept them, and she thought she did – she could deal with it, do her part well, get her grade and let those four reap the consequences of their actions. Live and let live, right? Live – and let Bernard try to pretend he’s actually doing something beyond “networking” all the time. Live – and let Emily and George fuck each other’s brains out if they so wish. Live – and let Sayed keep shrinking away under the barrage of pathetic excuses. She could do that. She could watch them crash and burn.

Except, of course, she was Chani fucking Gardalay, and she desired the Presidential. She had loans to pay off and a future to fund. She had ideas for more projects, scholarships in her sights, places she wanted to visit. More than that, she wanted her fair share of the glory. So, she let them live, but she also worked, worked harder than she’d ever worked before.

But, until she ascended to that stage and shook Cunning’s hand, she hadn’t realized that at the end she really did not want to win. Not in this fashion. Not with four dead weights reaping the benefits of her work. It wasn’t right, it was not fair, and for a reason she didn’t understand it killed her joy. She knew she had to just take solace in her knowledge that it was all her, but she could not, and she hated them – and herself – for it.

Something had to give. She contemplated going to Mrs. Colwig and telling her some dumb but damning lie: say, they had faked the data. Chani had access to all the project files and knew them better than anyone else: she could easily introduce signs of forgery. Sure, it would ruin her, but she would bounce back, would she not? She knew how to, and these four did not.

Except, of course, that was fucking stupid. Besides, Emily Hamm would convince everyone it was just Chani’s fault, not…

She realized with sudden terror that technically speaking, nothing stopped Hamm from going after her even now. The other girl clearly had a grudge. She had George in her pocket, too. And Bernard would align with her. And Sayed – Sayed was useless, he’d say anything.

The award could still be retracted. Yes, it made perfect sense to her. Emily must have had a plan like that. She was malicious enough to do that.

That felt so easy to believe.

“It’s Saturday,” Chani thought. “I have time.” She sat down to back everything up, twice and thrice. She checked the official website of the Presidential Award and she saw that there was nothing about anything being retracted. Her photo was still up.

But she didn’t have a good feeling about this. They had been riding her, like she was some dumb horse, and now that she’d got them to the top, they would want to ruin her. That was why she was so angry. She felt the threat. She knew it could happen.

“Calm down,” she told herself. The clock told her it was almost time for practice. Chani changed, slung her bag over the shoulder and went outside.

***

Chani Gardalay lived in a tiny apartment block on the west side of Oak Street. The back entrance oversaw a large meadow, known among the college town’s residents as the Verdie. It felt a bit like a very large lawn with little in the way of shade. The southeastern corner of the Verdie contained a soccer field, where Chani’s team held practice. She was an amateur, of course: her studies didn't leave nearly enough time to pursue sports seriously. But playing gave her an outlet. She had a knack for it, too. Jessica, the team's current coach, told her she had a rare kind of natural precision in the way she moved and kicked. She was quite surprised when Chani explained her only experience was some casual kicking-the-ball-around with the boys after classes in middle school. “You are really tight,” Jessica told her. “In a good way. You are comfortable in close quarters.”

“Should have gone pro.”

“You're not nearly fast enough, sorry.”

“But I am very effective over short distances.”

Jessica did not catch the reference. Chani understood what she meant, though. She was competitive and had a cool head, and this helped her a lot: sure, she could not catch up to girls that were a head taller than her, but she sure could go face to face with people and outplay them with the simple tricks she'd learned back in middle school. It was often surprisingly easy to pass the ball between the legs or simply corner around people. More, she enjoyed the confrontation; in truth, moments when she was one-on-one with an opposing player were some of her favorite ones.

She could also kick. She had the best penalty record on the team, which didn't really say much because half the team would routinely miss the goal entirely, but still. Chani’s shots ripped the air like roaring cannonballs. Her long passes were accurate and reliable – albeit all too rare, because, once she got the ball, she preferred to keep it. Of course, Jessica criticized that heavily, and there was a point when Chani almost got moved to the B-team over her distaste for proper teamplay. She got better right around the time that they'd started working on the Cricket and Termite project at the university.

What a time. How did she fuck up the group choice so badly? How'd she end up putting herself through hell to earn this award?.. Soccer helped; it was one of her outlets. She ran, kicked, prevailed, scored – and all of it was chaotic and natural. And her team wasn't useless. They worked hard, some far harder than her, to try and succeed, even though they didn't have anything like the Presidential Award looming ahead. Their ceiling was a small local championship. They sometimes trained with local high school girls and they didn't even hold a winning record over them. But they tried. They wanted to win, no matter how rarely it happened; no matter how miniscule the rewards would be.

Emily, George, Bernard and Sayed had the chance at a top-level award, and they would throw it out, if it wasn't for one Chani Gardalay. Sure, she pulled through. But she couldn't even enjoy it. Those four spoiled it for her.

Saturday practice would be her first since she’d gone up on stage and shaken B. Alfred Cunning's hand. It gave her a good chance to think it over. There, under the scalding sun, tired, sweaty and exhausted, Chani finally realized why the whole thing offended her so much. The realization came just as she was called to shoot a penalty after a blatant shove someone gave her teammate some ten meters away from the gate.

She'd looked forward to the Presidential. She'd thought it mattered. But now it didn't – because you could win by doing nothing, you could leech, you could pretend and fuck around, and in the end, you'd get there by someone else's virtue. The whole thing never meant anything for Emma and her ilk. They didn't even care. Chani burned herself out and was left with a rotten prize. Even the money could not mask the taste.

And Cunning talked so much about changing the world. Try changing it with parasites at your side. Thieves and liars. Insolent little shits… and she’s the one who got them up there, she’s the one to blame when the four of them, inevitably, end up in politics and start ruining lives because they can’t be arsed to care.

She set the ball down on the grass. The goalkeeper was waiting, her red jersey in stark contrast to the idyllic green of the grass and the deep blue of the darkening evening sky. Chani took a step back. “I can think about this later,” she thought. She'd always been good at compartmentalizing things. The Presidential could wait. She had to score.

She had to hit the ball.

Chani looked at the ball – and for a second, instead of the ball, she saw Bernard Arndell's head.

She huffed, grit her teeth and kicked so hard her toes hurt. The ball went careening ahead and missed the horizontal rim of the gate by an entire foot.

“Shit,” someone said behind her. “Chani missed.”

She stood in place, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. “I did,” she thought to herself. Then gears turned in her head; ideas giving birth to more ideas. “But I won’t when it matters.”

***

When Gardalay returned to her apartment that night, she was in a rush. She undressed. Her t-shirt, sports bra and shorts all went into the washer. She almost threw the socks in too, then paused, balled them up and stuffed them inside one of her cleats. Chani quickly showered, changed into a loose-fitting combination of sweatpants and a hoodie.

Next, she went into her closet. It was a large walk-in; on the left, she stored her coats, shoes and dresses; on the right, she had a bunch of boxes still containing some items from moving. The things she didn't really use. A couple of those boxes hadn't been opened in a year.

She didn't even remember which one she needed. so she pulled out a few and started furiously digging through. Chani was lucky, though. The object of her search turned up almost immediately.

It was an elongated silvery box. Most of the consumer information and branding decor was covered by a large rectangular label saying “RECALLED – UNSAFE TO USE”. She opened the box, took out the device inside – it looked like a metal cigar – and went out of her room and into the kitchen.

She ripped an empty garbage bag off the roll and puffed it up with some air. Then she threw it upwards, letting it gently float towards the floor. Chani was quick with the trigger, though; before the bag touched the ground, she'd already pointed the “cigar” at it and fired.

The bag disappeared. Chani excitedly nodded and returned to her room. She placed the device back in the box, then found her phone and pulled up the group chat she used to communicate with her favorite group of people.

She sent a message and waited.

***

Bernard Arndell received the message while playing pool. He had a good group of mates around him; there were also a few bottles of great cognac, most of which already suffered significant attrition. He was having a good time, and he probably would not open the message, but he just so happened to be showing one of his friends pictures from a recent trip.

“You got a text from a Chani Gar-da-lay,” his friend told him, giving him the phone. “Sorry, I read it by accident. Looks like she wants to go out?”

“Chani!” Bernard laughed. He opened the chat, skimmed the text, laughed. “Dude, this girl…”

“I thought you're with Christie.”

“Mate, you know me. That doesn't mean anything.” Arndell laughed. “But no, not Chani… She's good, though, like, the kind of person you want around.”

He typed the response without thinking. Sure, Chani, that works. See you tomorrow!

“Why?”

“She's useful,” Arndell replied. “She's got the hots for me and she's a workaholic. The kind of person you hire.”

“Hire and?”

“And never promote. She's got… no vision,” Arndell said, waving his hand. “My dad talks a lot about people like her. Just… a bit boring. But man… were you still looking?”

He handed his phone, gallery open, back across the table.

***

“Emamm!”

Emily Hamm was cleaning her kitchen. She had a Febreeze can in one hand and a soap-soaked towel in the other, and she was on the hunt. Something, somewhere, stunk of fish. She'd told George to stop cooking fucking fish because it always got stuck somewhere and rotted and then you had to scrounge around…

“Emamm!”

At least he could come up with awfully cute nicknames!

“Yes, Georgie?”

“Chani's inviting us to a bar tomorrow.”

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Are you kidding me? Galdaray?”

“Do you know any other Chanis?”

“Fuck no,” she groaned. “Chani is one-of-a-kind class A be-a-a-ap-choo!”

“Bless you. You should dial down on that Febreeze.” George was now standing by the door. “It smells like a L'Occitane store already.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she shook her head. “Fucking wish. What does Galdaray want?”

“I told you! Bar. Tomorrow. Five. Arndell already said he's coming.”

“Surely we aren't?”

“Ehh…” George shrugged. “She does say she wants to bury the hatchet.”

“No way,” Emily said. “She wants to poison us all or something. Bitch can't accept she's beta.”

“What?”

Emily scoffed.

“I don't get you sometimes,” George scratched the back of his head. “But I think we should go. We can all make it big from now. No reason to keep her angry.”

Emily saw plenty of reasons, but she sneezed again, and so could not respond immediately. She reflexively sprayed more Febreeze, too, which made it worse.

“She stinks, too,” she managed to say. “And so does Hattal, but she's worse. I swear she never showers.”

“I doubt that's true. Babe, come on. Emmam. I'll buy the drinks.”

“Fine! Fine. Fuck it.”

George turned around, then paused.

“Huh,” he said. “Did you know her last name is actually Gardalay?”

“What?”

“Gardalay. Not Galdaray. I always thought it was Galdaray.”

“It's a fake fucking last name I swear,” Emily said. “Who cares?”

***

Sayed Hattal was the last to respond. Chani's text came in while he was having a family dinner, and it was a big no-no to have your phone out at Mama Hattal's table. He only got to it an hour after George Tsu said that he and Emily Hamm were coming.

“All good, son?” – Mama asked from her armchair. She was a small thing, Mama Hattal, but she ruled her family with an iron hand, and he'd long learned to pick up on the little things she did not say. She knew that something was not good, and she expected either the truth or a very good lie.

He chose the former.

“I am ashamed, Mama,” he admitted. “We didn't do right by Chani.”

She knew whom he was talking about; she'd been to the ceremony. “The short girl,” Mama remarked. “Who's we?”

“Emma, Bernard, George and I,” Sayed admitted. “She really did most of the work.”

“Most? How much is most?” Mama lifted her eyebrows.

“Well, almost all of it,” Sayed admitted.

She nodded, reclining in her armchair. He stayed silent, knowing she'd soon give her verdict.

“You know my opinion on this project of yours,” she finally said. “It was always a terrible idea. People are not meant to eat bugs. No one will ever make me serve bugs at my table. Ever! Did you do so little work because you were opposed to it, Sayed?”

“No, Mama,” Sayed sighed. “I did little work because, well, I was lazy, and Chani was so good at it. I asked her to teach me, but I don't think she wanted to.”

“Of course she didn't!” Mama scoffed. “When I served food at your sister's wedding in July, I had one hundred and sixty people to feed! One hundred and sixty! High stakes, and mind you, no bugs were served! But do you think I wanted to train anyone? No! I needed help and I needed people who knew what they were doing! No time!” She raised her hand and threateningly pointed a finger at him. “You must apologize to this girl, and you must offer her help, now. You have a debt.”

“I know, Mama,” Sayed said, secretly happy to receive such a direct instruction from his mother. “Actually, she is inviting all of us to a bar tomorrow.”

“Do not drink,” Mama Hattal instructed him. “But go and offer to help her.”

“What could I possibly help her with?”

“She is a short girl,” Mama Hattal said. “Tell her you'll clean and repair all the ceilings in her home.”

“But I have no idea how to do that.”

“Always good time to learn. Let me tell you how your father…”

***

At five pm on Sunday, Chani Gardalay occupied a dark booth in the corner of the Resting Rat, a little, cozy bar in on the intersection of Oak Street and Bank Ave. She slipped the waitress a few bucks to keep the closest booth empty for as long as possible; she was now in a secluded spot, not easily seen from the other tables.

On the seat next to her, there was an empty, clean Tupperware container; Chani loosened the lid in advance. The silvery cigar-looking device rested right next to it, switched to the safe mode. For now.

She was tired. She had spent the previous evening and most of the day preparing. She bought four old used iPhones and set them all up with a few custom apps; all four were waiting back in her apartment, strewn across her desk. She'd asked a few folks from her soccer team for a quick practice at six pm, and she was now getting nervous that she was cutting it a bit too close. It would not get dark until eight-thirty, though, so she had plenty of time even if the other four would be late.

But it couldn't go more perfectly. Her groupmates showed up in turns. Sayed was the first to show up; he was dressed up, which made the two of them a stark contrast, because Chani showed up wearing sneakers, shorts and a loose linen shirt with a sports bra underneath.

“Hi Chani,” he said, as he awkwardly sat across from her. “Listen, before the others get here…”

“Shh,” she said. “It's okay.” Chani stretched her arm towards him over the table. He sheepishly extended his. She hooked his fingers, picked up the silvery device with her other hand, pointed it at him and pressed the trigger.

Nothing happened. Sayed looked confused.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Fuck, sorry,” Chani said. “It's in safe mode.” She switched that off with her thumb and fired again. Sayed vanished.

Almost.

There was still something in her fingers; a writhing form no more than three inches in height. She immediately dunked him into a glass full of water, held him there for a couple seconds, then pulled him back out. Sayed was coughing, but she took that as a sign of life. Would be stupid if he just died from that… but she had to deal with the phone somehow, and this worked well enough, she figured.

She threw Sayed into the tupperware container and regained her composure. Her heart was racing. Fast. “I will think about it later,” she ordered herself. “I will finish it before I think about it.”

And so she did. Bernard showed up next, and she shot him while he was looking at the menu. Emily and George were twelve minutes late; George almost immediately went to the bathroom, so she shot Emily the moment she put her phone on the table. Then, feeling excited and risky, she stood up and walked over to the back of the bar. The toilets were all single-cabin and gender neutral; there were three of them, and two were occupied. She took a guess and waited for the door to open.

She turned out to be right. She brought George back to her seat, firmly holding him in a balled-up fist; he joined the others in the Tupperware container. Chani sealed the plastic prison – it had a tiny hole pre-drilled for air – waited for another five minutes and left. The waitress intercepted her near the door. She looked concerned.

“I thought I saw a guy going your way,” she said.

“He's an asshole,” Chani said. “I want to go get ice cream.”

“You sure you don't wanna stay? There are a few good folks here. I can tell them you'd appreciate a drink and company.”

“I'm sure.”

***

At home, she pulled the plastic box out of her bag and set it on the table. The four shrunken people were beating on the wall from the inside with their fists, but she ignored them: not a glance nor a word. She wanted it all to be fresh, unspoiled by preludes stretching for far too long.

Chani pulled out her shrinker and fired it four times; each one was directed at one of the phones she had prepared earlier. She carefully scooped the now-tiny devices onto a piece of paper, then opened the Tupperware and – ignoring the faint screams coming from her prisoners – tipped that piece of paper over into the box, letting the phones fall off. She swiftly sealed the box back. The four of them were already trying to unlock the phones, she could see, but they didn't have the pin codes, and she severely doubted that any of them possessed the skills to somehow bypass that. Chani herself certainly didn't, even if she was decently adept with tech.

She left the box on the table and went to change. She pulled on her running shorts and her jersey. She tied her hair and put on a headband. She picked up her duffel bag and stuffed a few things inside: a towel, her own phone, a water bottle, the shrinking device (put on safe mode again), and the plastic box with the four people inside. She zipped the whole thing up and went to her front door, where she pulled on yesterday's socks and put on her cleats.

Chani cast one more look at her apartment. Her gaze stopped at the wall-mounted mirror. She smiled at her own reflection and went out the door.

***

Chani arrived at Verdie a couple minutes past six. She threw her duffel bag down by a bench on the edge of the soccer field and went on a run around the field. It had been a hot, dry day, and you could feel it; despite the sun having long left zenith, the heat caused sweat to break on her forehead after just a couple of laps. By then, a few of her team members showed up, Jessica among them. With Chani, they totaled six.

She suggested they just do a for-fun three-v-three and received no objections. She could tell they sensed something was going on with her, but none of them asked; Chani Gardalay had the reputation of a woman that keeps to herself. She was thankful that they humored her desire to play this Sunday evening. For almost an hour, the air was filled with laughter, audible exhales, groans and playful insults, as the six women relentlessly chased the ball around the field. Chani's trio won three to two. By seven pm, everyone was exhausted. One by one, they left, leaving her alone with Jessica.

“You're mean today,” the coach told her. “More aggressive than usual.”

Chani shrugged. “Pissed off at some things,” she said. “I missed that pen yesterday.”

“Come on. Happens to everyone.”

“I want to practice some,” Chani said.

“You should have said that earlier… someone would have stayed to be the goalie.”

“I don't need that.”

“Little point, then.”

“I missed the entire thing yesterday,” Chani repeated. “I just want to strike it thirty times in a row or something.”

“Don't expect me to stay,” Jessica said. “I've got dinner to make. Can you drop the ball off later?”

“No worries.”

Finally, she was alone.

She waited for Jessica's silhouette to disappear somewhere up from the Verdie. She could see there were still more people around the park, but very few – and very far. It was a hot day, after all, and the locals preferred to avoid the soccer field while strolling around Verdie; the field didn't have guarding nets around it, and there was always a risk of getting hit by a ball.

Chani stretched a bit. Before Jessica left, she'd felt tired. Her energy was coming back to her now, fueled by a violent, carnal need to finally get it over with. She stopped her stretches early and went back to the bench, where the duffel bag waited for her.

She sat on the bench and stared at the bag. After a while, she leaned forward and unzipped it. Chani pulled out her phone first, then the plastic box. There were four tiny figures springing back to life inside. She quickly examined them, making sure all of them moved around. They already looked disheveled, she thought. Pathetic. She could tell them anything, and they would have to listen. She could…

She would.

With her left heel, she pushed the duffel bag under the bench, then lowered the plastic box to the ground right between her cleats. She snapped the locks on the lid open and lifted it, letting the four people inside gaze upwards – right at her. She could not hold a satisfied smirk as she saw them shake their fists and open their little mouths. Then she stomped her foot on the ground next to the box. Everyone on the inside jumped, their hands now held up to their ears. Sayed fell to his knees, which pleased her in a way she'd not known before.

Chani unlocked her phone, went into settings and flicked a switch on.

“The pin is 2405,” she said. “I will share the hotspot, it does not have a password. Your parental control settings will prevent accessing anything, though, so don't even try. I’ve installed Facechat on each one. Open that up and join the videocall, please.”

She saw them scramble around, undoubtedly trying to call someone – very likely the police. It was entertaining enough. Chani put a wireless earbud into her left ear, then joined said videocall herself and discovered Sayed's uncharacteristically pale face staring at her from the screen.

“Chani,” his voice came out. “Chani, please, what is going on, Chani, talk to us…”

“Stop blabbering,” she said. “And I want everyone connected. Now. Stop calling people, it won't work.”

Bernard's face appeared on the screen a second later. He was his usual pleasant self: the confident smile, the boisterous golden cowlick.

“Hi Chani,” he said nonchalantly. “I didn't know you played soccer. Are you good?”

She didn't answer and his beaming face got a shade darker. By then, George was on the call, too. She could hear a slight echo because of microphone feedback on their end.

“Chani WHAT THE FUCK-”

She nudged the plastic box with the toe of her cleat, and she could see it was like an earthquake to them: Sayed dropped his phone, the other two were thrown around wildly. She smiled.

“I want to see Emily,” she said. “Get me Emily.”

She could, of course, see Emily from above. The girl was holding the phone to her ear. She wedged herself into a corner of the box. Chani reached down – faster than any of them expected, she could tell, because the phone exploded with panicked noises – and, before the smaller woman could reach, Chani had her pinched by the shoulders. She deftly manipulated the tiny body, changing her grip to hold onto Emily's legs; she could even feel Hamm's spiky heels digging into her skin, and she thought to herself that that was certainly a table turn. Chani giggled as she gave Emily a violent shake, dangling the girl like bait on a hook. Satisfied after a few seconds, she lowered her back into the box. George's voice was suddenly the loudest on the call:

“Stop it, you are hurting her, stop it!!!”

Chani carefully deposited Emily back on the bottom of the box – the tiny woman immediately started crawling back to her corner. George was suddenly at Chani's fingertip, kicking at it madly. Without thinking, she flicked him in the chest, sending him flying into the wall. He crumpled in a heap, and suddenly Chani felt worried.

She needed to take control back, she realized.

“Sayed, check on them,” she said. “Fast!”

Sayed scampered to his feet and ran over to George. A moment later there was a voice on the call again. “I-I think he's fine,” Sayed said. “Just a bit short on breath. Chani, will you listen-”

“Chani you are such a bitch,” Emily's shrill voice cut through. “What is this some fucked up revenge plot…”

“Guys! Guys!”

Bernard's tone was his trademark Excited Corporate. Chani could see him standing tall; a moment later, he moved into the center of the box.

“I think we've all started on the wrong foot here,” Bernard said. “I think we've not been listening to Chani. Chani, I am so, so sorry we've not been good friends to you. I promise you I am listening now. I promise. Can you please talk to us?”

She laughed. What started as a giggle turned into hearty, sincere joy.

“Sure, Bernard,” she said. “We can chat while we play.”

There was silence on the call.

“P-play what,” Sayed's thin voice reached her. Chani wondered what he imagined at that moment. Some Hunger Games-style torture, no doubt. Perhaps even Saw.

“Soccer, of course,” she said. “Why else would we be on a field? Outside?”

Silence again.

“She's crazy,” Emily said quietly. “She's actually crazy.”

“Calm down, babe. We'll get through this.”

“Chani, please, stop this. You know Chani I came because my mom told me-”

“I'll play,” Bernard said, shutting everyone else up.

She glanced at her phone screen. He was still right there, still his best self. His eyes were big, innocent and honest. He nodded slowly at the screen.

“Sure, Chani. I'll play,” he repeated. “Let's play, and chat. I know we've disappointed you and I really want to know how we can make it up to you.”

He looked around.

“Do you want us all…”

“No,” she said. “I was hoping you'd volunteer. Come.”

He sheepishly smiled.

“Could you help me out of here?”

She reached in and unceremoniously picked him up. She found she didn't want to let him go. Thoughts flashed through her mind: it would be easy to pinch a little tighter, to rub her fingertips together, flattening the chest cavity; she just had to press hard, tight, don't let go until the lungs collapsed and the last breath escaped through those plush lips that surely someone wanted to kiss that exact moment. If she squeezed the belly, which direction would the guts go, up or down? Or would it all burst, like a grape? She cringed at the thought and set him down on the ground next to the box, just a few inches away from where the grass began. To his credit, he held his composure well.

“Don't drop the phone,” she told him. “Now, you guys… don't mind me…” Chani placed the lid back on the Tupperware container and clamped it down. One could never discount resourcefulness in the face of perceived danger, she thought. Even when it came to those.

“Stay on the call,” she ordered. “You’ll be cheerleaders. Bernard, walk.”

“Walk where?”

“Towards the sun,” she said. She could hear him start to say something – but he cut himself off. After a short delay, he said:

“Sure, Chani. Let's walk a bit, should we?”

“Don't hurt him,” Sayed blurted out on the call.

“She's not gonna hurt any of us,” Bernard said. “She's not like that, right? We've worked together for three months, and it wasn't always smooth, but we can fix all that. Right, Chani? You're gonna tell us how we can fix it for you.”

“Like I said,” Chani said. “Walk.”

He started off.

“Run, actually,” she added. “We haven't got all night.”

“Shoulda worn my running shoes,” Bernard said with a chuckle. “Should have grabbed a machete, too. There’s no ants or anything like that?..”

Chani didn't respond. She watched him cross into the grass, then looked around, locating her ball. She reached out with her foot, rolled the ball towards herself, aimed…

“Your bag fucking stinks,” Emily suddenly blurted out. “I almost vomited in there. You're a pig, Galdaray. How dare you-”

She heard a scuffle, then the sound suddenly cut off as Emma's mic was muted off. Sayed's, however, wasn't, so she could still make some sounds in his background. George was demanding that Emily stop antagonizing Chani. She didn't react, though; she was too focused on Bernard, who was steadily trudging forward through the grass. This patch of Verdie was kept neat: after all, a soccer field couldn't be allowed to become overgrown with weeds. Still, the trimming was not perfect nor regular, and he was having trouble.

She kicked the ball. Bernard jumped to the side, although he didn't need to: the ball would've rolled past anyways.

“Hey!”

Chani started walking. Behind her, George and Emily were arguing with each other, while Sayed, face pressed flat against the plastic, watched her.

***

Bernard Arndell gasped as the immense ball sped past him. He remembered a videogame he played as a child. The name slipped his mind, but he knew you had to play as a cartoonish skeleton wearing armor. There were enemies to beat and dungeons to explore – and some of those dungeons contained traps. One of the traps was a classic giant rolling boulder; the only way to live through that was to find a niche to hole up in as it zoomed by.

Chani's cleat hit the ball with a loud, echoing bang; it still rang in his ears. He realized he fell to all fours, his jeans already stained with dirt. He couldn't think anything except “holy shit"; those two words could as well be a blazing, neon banner in his mind. The ball was ahead now, still rolling, the grass already bouncing back in its wake.

“Hey!” Bernard forced out. He wasn't sure what else to add – and the next moment it didn’t matter, because, all of a sudden, Chani Gardalay was stepping over him.

There wasn't even a warning shadow. He just sensed the air move around him. He looked up and cried out; the dark, spiked sole passed overhead, raining dirt. Her heel settled in the grass just a couple meters away from him; it felt like there should have been tremors, but the earth cushioned her step well.

He'd had a few opportunities to compare his size with Chani's already; he felt utterly dwarfed by her hands, he couldn’t believe his head didn't even reach the lid of the container she used to trap them – but now he was almost face-to-face with the back of her shoe. He sprang to his feet and, to his dismay, saw that he would almost be able to rest his chin on the rim over the heel if he walked up right next to it… and stood on his tiptoes. There was a lump in his throat then – and he couldn't hold a startled gasp as Chani moved again, her immense form moving right above. She took another step, and Bernard watched, transfixed, as minute muscles and tendons of her ankle flexed under her tan, glistening skin. “She's not wearing the right socks,” a thought crossed his mind, but he wasn't going to tell her that. “You don't wear ankle socks for soccer,” it gnawed at him. All the while Chani kept walking, and now the foot right in front of him moved again, the shoe creaking as it flexed, the calf muscles suddenly engaged, the heel lifting ever so slightly out of the cleat, dirty white sock fabric briefly visible… and then the foot was off and away, crashing down somewhere ahead.

The grass, pressed flat, sluggishly came back up.

“Hurry up,” Chani thundered. Arndell jogged after her, his heart beating faster than it did that one time he tried out skydiving. He forced himself to get the Million Dollar Smile back on; now, more than ever, it could be his only chance of survival.

She was just an angry lady, he reminded himself. Nothing he'd not handled before, really. Sure, he didn't expect her to be quite so mad, but she was a student. Not a maniac. Not a killer. In the time that they'd spent huddling together in that plastic box, Sayed had obviously made his peace with dying. George and Emily seemed certain that Chani would just never let them go. It's like becoming small fried their brains. Sure, the girl was intimidating, but she was a girl, not a monster. Bernard knew what to do. Validate, offer ideas, nod along, make her feel comfortable. That's what he always did with his insane war veteran grandpa, too.

Of course, once this is all done, he was going to make sure she goes to jail. But until then – keep her talking, Bernard Arndell, and it will all go swimmingly. No biggie. (Except for the obvious one).

“Faster, Bernard,” he heard her and cursed under his breath. It really messed with him to hear her from above first and from the phone a moment later. The phone also spewed some inane bullshit that Emily and George whispered to each other. Bernard was a very understanding person, but sometimes those two grated on his nerves a little. Emily was a real uptight case.

He muted the phone and started to run.

“I'm trying Chani, honest, I do,” he told her. “Maybe you could give me another inch or two, huh?”

“No.” Up ahead, she put a foot up on the ball; her dark eyes focused on his form again. Her expression was that of curiosity; for some reason, he found it distressing. Chani's foot lightly tapped the ball; then, suddenly, the toe of it dove under the ball and she launched the thing up in the air. Bernard slowed down. Gardalay caught the ball with her other foot; she was now dancing in place, juggling, keeping it up in the air. She moved too fast; it fucked with his brain to see someone so big move so fast.

And she wasn't keeping to one place. He screamed, jumping aside, as she suddenly stomped over in his direction, her cleats throwing up dirt and smashing the grass just a toss away. He shielded his head from the tiny pieces of debris that were suddenly flying all around him. Blades of grass, crushed, turned into a greenish paste; they made a ripping noise when they broke. The dirt under his feet shifted, disturbed, and for a second he thought some great beast was making its way up – a worm, perhaps, like in Dune, or a trapdoor spider, or some other-

“Careful, please!” he screamed into the phone, and suddenly she stopped. The ball fell on the ground with another deafening, hollow bang.

“Keep walking,” Chani said coldly.

He nodded and stood up again. He moved ahead, slowly making his way across the grassy expanse. The prisoners of the box had long lost sight of him, he knew, but he kept up the camera feed on that damn phone, so they caught snapshots of his face – and of Chani's silhouette in his vicinity.

Another bang. The ball sped past as Chani carelessly kicked it along, moving in zigzags about him. Bernard was getting tired; sweat trickled down his forehead, and he desperately wanted a drink.

“You're not very happy with us,” he finally said, feeling that he must keep her talking. “Hey, I get that. I am an asshole sometimes. Really, I do get that. I think it's so easy to get complacent sometimes and ignore someone else's feelings. We've done you dirty.”

“Yeah,” Chani said. He thought that promising.

“So, like, you probably felt like you hate us, right,” he prodded. “Like, we've really angered you. It's not fair what we've been doing. We shoulda been more attentive, all of us.”

“Yeah,” she repeated as she hit the ball again. It crossed his path right ahead. He ducked instinctively. That thing was like a freight train, he thought. Different shape, same feeling.

“This is a creative way to get back at us,” he said. “Really, it is. See? I acknowledge it. Honestly, I am impressed, Chani. This is the sort of thing we can all laugh about later, when you feel like-”

“Later?” Chani asked.

“Later, year. When you're done with-”

“Why not laugh now?” she asked, once again just staring at him. There was a lock of hair stuck to her forehead. She shook her head, trying to get it off, it didn't work. Chani brushed it aside with her fingers. The girl was glistening, he thought. She was a sweaty mess.

She pressed her palms into her sides and leaned slightly forward.

“I think we can laugh about this now,” she said. “You jump every time I move. You can't look away from me. The others are locked in a leftover container. I think that's funny.”

He nodded sheepishly.

“Do you?” she asked.

“Uhm, yeah. Sure, Chani. Like I said, so creative-”

“Then why aren't you laughing,” she asked. “You’re looking gloomy. Aren't you having fun?”

He swallowed. “Listen-”

“Keep walking,” Chani said. “We have a match to play.”

Reluctantly, he took another ten steps. Then stopped.

“Chani, don't you think it's a little excessive? I obviously can't play anything with you. Listen, I am being really open with you right now, I get what you're feeling-”

“I don't need you to be open, I need you to walk forward. Move your feet. Let me show you how.”

“Stop interrupting-”

She jumped. She landed right in front of him, toes digging into the grass and the ground, a splash of dirt soiling his front. She rose on her toes, then fell back on her heels, the monoliths of her shoes creaking and stretching as she flexed in place before taking a step – a tiny one, ballerina-like, except that at the last second she barreled her foot into the ground, stomping right next to him – so close he could see the specks of dirt and tiny scoffs on the side of that old cleat. A wave of stale, sweaty air washed over him; he closed his eyes. Bernard's knees gave out and he fell, weakly cognizant of the fact she was right over him. A titan of a woman.

“Get the fuck up,” Chani hissed, “and keep walking. You're close.”

“Close to w-what,” he asked, his voice breaking for the first time. She didn't respond. He got up and walked, his throat dry and parched. Chani followed – or, perhaps, she was right ahead at the same time. The pillars of her legs stretched into the sky above him, muscles flexing, skin glistening. The spikes on her cleats mauled the grass so much he was quickly covered in green.

“Stop,” she commanded from above. “This is good.”

Chani took another couple of steps herself, though. She picked up the ball – she'd kicked it in that direction earlier – then returned, stepping over him again; his eyes were naturally drawn to that dark, damp sole. She took a step away from Bernard and set the ball down.

“The goal's over there,” she pointed. Bernard's mind connected the dots. He was right between the ball and the goal.

Instantly, color left his face.

“Chani,” he whispered into the mic. “Chani, let's talk. I've never known you like soccer so much.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she said in a tired voice. “Literally all I've ever asked of you is that you shut the fuck up. Can you do it now? For me?”

“I just,” he swallowed, “don't want you to do anything you'll regret.”

“I am not doing anything I will regret,” she snickered. “Stand tall, ha, face me, point the camera at me.”

“I don't want to-”

“Bernard,” there was a venomous undertone to her voice. “Face me, point the camera at me and keep it up. Do it and I promise you won't have to stand in that spot for long.”

‘'Chani-”

“Shut the fuck up and do it!”

There was an edge to her tone now. He understood it was useless to argue further. Trembling, he faced her, lifting the phone high up. She towered in front of him: she could be a monument to soccer at this scale, a personification of the sport itself, colossal and incredible. He gulped.

Chani Gardalay moved in a single fluid, perfected motion; her muscular leg swung in a controlled, focused arc, and her dirty cleat connected with the ball with a deafening bang; the air screamed; and the ball rushed towards Bernard, and Bernard shrieked, watching it get closer – he closed his eyes, bracing for an impact that never came as the ball cut through the air right above his head, flying off towards the goal. Bernard still lost his balance and fell on his ass. It took him a few seconds to be able to open his eyes again, and, when he did, he saw Chani's cleat impatiently tapping the grass right in front of him. He dared to lift his gaze and saw her deep in thought. She stared at the goal area.

“I thought you were gonna make me a keeper,” he blurted out. “Holy shit Chani this is insane-”

“Get up,” she said.

“Sorry?”

“Get up.”

“Are we going back?”

“Get up.”

He obeyed, noticing that now all three of the box's prisoners were staring into Sayed's camera; their eyes sometimes darted upwards, where they could probably see Chani in the distance.

“Okay, we are going back, right?” he asked, getting his smile back on. “I think this was a wonderful trust exercise, thank you very much, Chani-”

“I missed,” she said.

“You missed?”

“Not the entire thing. I wanted to hit the corner,” she said.

“I mean… that sucks?”

“For you, yeah,” she said.

A chill ran down his spine.

“Chani, what do you mean,” he spoke, suddenly short on breath.

“Stand up,” she said. “And get that camera again. Point at me.”

“Chani…”

“Stop saying my name,” she hissed. “Just fucking stop, bite your tongue if you have to, close your dumb little mouth, open your fucking eyes, look at me, and get it recorded. Do. It.”

“I-I can't…”

“Yeah you can,” she said. “Man up, golden boy.”

Bernard Arndell dropped to his knees, still looking up at her. He reached towards her with both arms; they were dirty. He couldn't smile anymore.

“Please don't do it,” he blabbered. “Please, just let me go.”

“Up.”

“I'll do anything! Chani, I will give you the money, just please, don't…”

Her eyes focused on his face. He couldn't see anything but disdain now. A kind of pure, burning hate mixed with disgust. Her lips curved into a grimace as she lifted her foot and inched it towards him; it almost looked like the worn cleat swallowed the ground as it got closer. All of a sudden, the toecap was in front of him; another second, and it pushed into his face, busting his lips. Bernard fell back and the toecap inched even further, the sole now covering his legs.

She studied him. Watched him. Ashamed, Arndell awkwardly leaned forward and kissed her shoe. He groveled beneath Chani Gardalay, silently begging for his life, tears streaking shiny paths down his cheeks.

“Please,” he whispered into the mic. “Please. I understood.”

“Okay,” she said. “Now get up, Bernard. I forgive you.”

Joy filled him – just like the taste of dirt and blood had a few moments ago. He scampered to his feet, suddenly aware of the warm sunlight on his skin, of the smell of freshly trampled grass, of the faces of the other three groupmates on the screen of that phone – he picked it up and told them he was okay, and then he turned to Chani again.

And screamed in terror – an inhumane, raw scream, as Chani's foot barreled into him, her cleat suddenly harder than stone. Gravity disappeared. His innards erupted in pain as organs rearranged themselves. Bones cracked, ribs pierced lungs, blood vessels burst, teeth clamped on the tongue, eyes bulged out of their orbits – and then Bernard was in freefall, careening through the air towards the goal. He hit the net, but still bounced through the opening, and crashed into the ground from a relative height of a ten-story building.

***

“Score,” Chani announced, her blood running hot. “A point to Chani!” She exclaimed, suddenly elated. She jumped in place. “You guys saw it? He kissed it for good luck and there he goes! Right in the corner!” She stomped her foot in place a few times for good measure, then, licking her lips, jogged back to the bench.

Chani fell onto the bench, once again resting her feet on both sides of the plastic box. The three people inside were hugging each other, she saw. Weeping. Crying. She got through to them. They'd probably seen that strike on Bernard's phone. They lived through it with him, she thought, debased themselves with him, got kicked with him. Like a livestream.

Fuck!

It didn't just feel good. It was liberating. It was Justice. She could feel his body deform, like she'd kicked a ripe grape. She could still hear the despair and betrayal in his voice. The golden boy lost his composure, smile wiped off that pretty face after all; no more Mr. Perfect, no more idiotic lingo, no management.

Chani tapped her feet in place, then calmed herself down.

“So,” she gloated, “you are probably worried I'm going to launch your asses into the goal too, aren't you. But I'm not. You can put that one to rest, Bernard there took one for the whole team.”

She leaned down and opened the box again.

“Sayed stays inside,” she said. “Lovebirds, you come out.”

The earbud in her ear finally spoke again – after a few minutes of cryptic silence.

“Please don't kill us,” George said. “Please, Chani. We'll go along with anything you say, just don't kill us, I beg you. We've got loved ones-”

“Shut up, then,” she said. “Bernard would advise you to shut up, too. Listen to him.”

That worked. There was nothing but panicked, raspy breathing on the call.

She reached in and, one by one, pulled out Emily and George. Both were unceremoniously dumped onto the ground. Chani snapped the lid of the box shut again and pushed it aside, accidentally knocking it over.

“Sorry, Sayed,” she said. “Okay, you two. Face me.”

They did. They pressed against each other, two tiny human forms. She noticed Emily took her shoes off and George removed his tie. She smiled at them.

“Strip,” Chani said.

She was met with quizzical looks on tiny faces.

“Don't make me repeat things,” she warned them. “Strip. Now. Quick.”

George pulled his shirt off. Emily wasn't moving.

“Emma, I can pull those tights off you myself,” Chani said. “I might rip off a leg by accident.”

Once again, a threat worked. It only took kicking one ass, she thought. Although it was more like kicking one face. Come to think of it…

She stretched a foot towards George, showing off the toecap. “Do I have blood on that?” she asked. The man nodded, then doubled over, dry heaving.

Chani smirked.

“Don't stop,” she said.

They were done in under a minute. George threw his stuff everywhere. Emily folded it neatly and stacked in a little pile. They hugged each other – what was it, some strange show of defiance? She cocked her head, studying them, naked little forms shivering despite the heat. Tiny. Weak. Hers. And… what was it? George's prick was half erect. How interesting, she thought.

“Fuck,” she said.

No reaction.

“I mean, fuck,” she repeated. “Go at it. Do it.”

They exchanged glances. George let go of Emily and scrounged around in the dirt. He found the phone and unmuted it.

“You can't be serious,” he said.

“Are you kidding me,” Chani said. “Do you have a death wish? I said: fuck. Screw each other. Now. You've never had a problem doing that, flaunting that. You two are literal rabbits. So fuck!”

They looked at each other again. She could hear Emily's faint voice. “You won't do it,” Emily was saying. “You won't, George Tsu. I would rather die.”

“So die,” Chani said, lifting her cleat over the smaller girl. She could hear George cry out even with her naked ear. He rushed towards Emily, and a second later Emily herself showed up, crawling from under the shoe.

“One last time,” Chani said. “Fuck.”

They pressed against each other – awkwardly, not at all like lovers. George's hand slipped between Emily's thighs. She leaned into his neck, her red little lips biting down on his skin. It was pathetic. A little fake, she could tell. But did it matter?

Watching them, she pulled a leg up and crossed it over her other knee. She slipped a finger into the cleat just behind the heel and pulled, sliding the shoe off. Her foot popped out with a barely audible squelching sound. Air rushed in, cooling it a bit. She let the cleat dangle on her toes, then she dropped it; it slammed into the dust near the tiny couple. Chani saw them jump.

“Don't mind me,” she said, squinting. Emily's face contorted in a grimace of disgust.

Chani lowered her leg back; her toes rested against the heel of the other shoe. She pushed. The second cleat came off in a much less dramatic fashion; she pulled her foot out, flexing it. The sock stuck to her hot, worked-up flesh.

“Emily kept telling me to keep my shoes on,” she murmured. “Sorry, Emily. Sorry you're so sensitive. But don't you worry. I,” she clicked her tongue, “want to help you out a little.”

Then, without warning, she flung her feet forward, both of them falling onto George and Emily, sending them to the ground. She pressed down – lightly, very carefully, making sure to just feel their wriggling bodies – then rested her feet in place, only rocking them slightly on her heels. She flexed her toes, feeling some more; shoulders, a head.

“Keep fucking,” she ordered. “Fuck her senseless, George. And breathe.”

She bit her lip and leaned back, feeling a familiar warmth rise under her stomach.

“Breathe deep,” she whispered.

***

Emily Hamm was in hell. She prayed she would pass out, whimpered, cried, but reprieve never came. She was locked down, trapped in a prison she could never, ever imagine before: she was surrounded by Chani Gardalay's oppressive feet. No escape. No remorse offered.

It would be an understatement of the year to say that her sensitive nose was assaulted. Chani's sweaty odor made the air feel thick, almost oily. It filled her lungs, forcing her into a never-ending coughing fit. It settled on her tongue like a thin acrid film. It burned her eyes and throat. It was everywhere; in fact, it this hot, smelly darkness, it felt like it was everything.

Her boyfriend huffed on top of her; their sweaty bodies slid and squelched against one another, but Emma couldn't tell if the sweat was theirs or Chani's, because the larger girl's socks were absolutely soaked, and she nonchalantly rubbed that in. She was gentle, careful, almost sensual in what she was doing; her feet mashed the couple into the ground, flexing on top of them, pressing them together, sliding back and forth. Her toes found Emily's face and clamped on it, slid away towards George's head, playfully pulled it up – then drummed it back down. Amidst all that, George kept thrusting like a fucking maniac. The moment Chani's feet fell on them, he went into overdrive. Emily had always been happy about her sex life, but right now, George was something else. She kept telling herself it was because he wanted to save them both, wanted to try and satisfy Chani's deranged whims, but, in the back of her mind, Emily thought of another possibility, and it made her want to rage. Kill, even. If only she was given a chance to get back at Chani, maybe even swap places with her – oh, the things she’d have her do before turning her into a bloody stain…

…Chain's foot pumped on top of them, like their bodies were a pedal; she repeatedly pressed down with it while keeping her other foot closer, the toes doming over Emily's face. There was a brief flash of blue sky, fresh air ran in, and Emily hungrily gulped it – but it was gone before she knew it, and instead of air she deeply inhaled Chani's funk. The larger girl was either oblivious to her plight or reveled in it, her feet never relenting. Emily tried holding her breath, but it all seemed to seep it anyways. No escape, no… and George kept thrusting, moaning now, as Chani's other foot forced him onto Emily, into Emily, harder and heavier with every second.

She felt his swollen, hard member force itself all the way into her almost-dry, aching pussy; she cried and begged for reprieve, hoping he'd get incapable, soft, but he didn't, even if this must have been just as bad for him as it was for her. Chani continued to use him, push on him, squish the two of them together in that dark, tight space beneath her arched feet. The toes of her other foot once again slammed into Emily's face, the sweaty sock fabric rubbing against it painfully – salty taste assaulting her tastebuds as moisture seeped past her lips. Disgusted, she fought and struggled, but it was for naught: she was thrashing so wildly she'd probably get George off, but she could not match up to the giantess.

“Let me pass out,” she thought. “Please. Please!” She might have even said it, screamed it into the humid, claustrophobic darkness; but there was no mercy to be found. She was stuck, assaulted, tormented by Chani's odor – the same one she'd chastised the girl for before, whenever she caught a whiff of it in the library room they'd met at. And others always told her she overreacted, that she was just exceptionally sensitive; it all seemed so silly now, so stupid, when fresh air seemed like something from another, better life, because for sure she was going to die, just like Bernard did, except she was worse off, she would suffocate, drown, humiliated…

Disappearing would be even better than passing out. Neither happened, though. Emily Hamm remained in her spot, her back scraped by the dust and debris, her face rubbed raw by the underside of Chani's sock. No escape. She tried counting seconds out.

She lost count quickly; just like she'd thought, it was Hell indeed, and there was no counting time in Hell. All she could hope for was, perhaps, a pause, the shortest of them, a bit of light and air, an opportunity to speak out again. And, oh God, she wanted to get away, she would dig the ground with her bare hands if that would save her – but…

Reprieve arrived when George grunted in that all-too familiar way, his body contorting on top of hers. Emily's heart dropped. “Please,” she repeated to herself. “Please, let it end.”

***

The moment George came, he felt burning, all-encompassing shame.

His body hurt. Bad. He worked out, he had a bit of muscle mass; perhaps that was the only thing that saved him and Emma from broken bones and twisted joints. Still, he ached. Chani's foot was still grinding on top of him, mercilessly dominant. Hot. His back was tingling.

“Emily,” he whispered. “Emily, I'm-”

Chani's foot lifted off his back; the other one, which she sort of curled on top of the first one, also relented. Light flooded George's vision. Beneath him, Emily rapidly inhaled, going into hyperventilation in the span of a second.

“Emily-”

“G-get aw-away”, she blurted out. “G-get-”

Chani's sole came back down, crashing into his back, squishing the two of them together again. Emily screamed. George felt another tinge within his balls. He was still mostly hard.

He hated himself.

“Are you done already,” Chani said above them. “You little liars. You'd been telling us you're fucking all day long. That was, allegedly, the reason you weren't doing any work, am I right? Every day the same. We had sex, Chani. We had more sex. We had sex on top of a fucking stuffed unicorn and then we had tea and then we had sex again.”

She rubbed her foot on top of George, going back and forth. He groaned; Emily wept, still trapped under him. She opened her mouth, taking big gulps of air. Her face had a greenish tint to it; he suddenly wondered if she was going to vomit.

“Am I forgetting anything?” Chani mused above them. “Oh, right. Your feet smell, Chani.”

The giant girl leaned forward, inadvertently increasing the weight on the tiny couple.

“How about now?!” she inquired, sliding the foot forward; the ball of it smashed George's face into Emily's breasts, the massive toes clamped around their heads. “How about now? Liking it yet?”

There was a terrible droning quality to her voice; there was a sense of doom there, a certain premonition. He wondered if she had acted this out in her mind before coming here with them in this box. His heart tightened into a dense little rock and sank. Chani was on a roll; however bad it had been, it was about to get a whole lot worse, he guessed.

“I think you aren't,” Chani said. “I think he is, though. Let's check.”

Abruptly, her feet were in motion again; they effortlessly separated the two bodies, George's cock popping out of Emily with a wet sucking noise. He realized they didn't use a condom and could barely hold a hysterical laugh. A wave of shame came over him; he was still hard. Emily, panicking, immediately started crawling away, pushing at the ground with her elbows and heels. Chani ignored her for a moment.

“Look, Hamm,” she cooed. “I think he could go again. How do you like that?”

Emily's face was a mask of terror and disgust. If George’s heart felt like a sinking rock a moment ago, it was now a pin cushion, and Emily's eyes darted countless flechette-like pins. He bit his lip, trying to find the words. The truth was, he didn't really know what the words should have been. He didn't like Chani Gardalay; he was terrified of her and what she brought them today. He couldn't get that final shot from Bernard's camera feed out of his mind; her boot, so well-worn, so scuffed - like a well-used murder weapon; the way she launched that kick, cold, clean, without hesitation - it all came together in a perfect erotic storm. And now she could kill him the same way, and he desperately didn't want it to happen, so his body somehow connected the two and decided the only way to survive was to do what she asked, which meant… this.

But how was he supposed to explain it?

“It's just self-preservation, Emily,” he bleated, and immediately realized that wasn't the right thing to say, because her nostrils flared, and she looked away. She looked… bad. Violated was the word. Violated by Chani's foot, he told himself; he was just an intermediary, a step above a spectator. His pin-cushion heart didn't believe that, though.

“Emily's jealous,” Chani said. “But enough of that.”

He looked up at Chani; his face distorted by a mix of hatred and hope. She gave him the tiniest smirk; no magnanimous laugh, no evil scratching of her chin. Gardalay wasn't one for ceremonies and show-offs, he'd always known that. He wished that she was, though; maybe it would give him more time to think.

As if there was anything to think of.

“I had thought I would make you go again,” Chani said. “Again, and again, and again. I wanted you two to fuck each other's brains out in that dirt down there, but… I think if I do, it will spoil the memory. Like the second lick of ice-cream on a hot day.” She licked her lips.

“Emmam…” George whispered, intending to try and mend something before they had to comply with something else Chani wanted.

“Don't!” his girlfriend shrieked in an unnatural, nails-on-a-chalkboard voice. “Don't touch me! You're covered in her! Soaked in her! You, you smell like her!”

Emily started crawling away again. Chani whipped her leg out, once again trapping the smaller woman underfoot. Her sole rested on Emily, burying her under a mountain of socked flesh; the fabric of the sock, taut tight, worn to translucency in some places, exposed snippets of the reddened behemoth within. George couldn't look away; he thought of how this thing flexed on top of him, mashed him, when he sensed every little stretch and flex of it, every little sound her knuckles made.

Emily gave out a low, hollow sound, as she was once again undoubtedly tortured by the odor. Chani spread her toes, pushed them down, stretching the fabric of the sock over Emily's face; the expression on her face was now strangely peaceful. She pulled her over leg up, resting it over the knee of the first one, doubling the weight, and the sounds Emily was making suddenly changed to gurgles. George froze. Chani peeled off her sock; her foot, exposed, flexed in the air above him.

“You're killing her,” George forced himself to say. “Please, stop.”

She ignored him, studying her own foot. Awkwardly, on wooden legs, he walked over to where Emily lay. His cock was still hard; he pinched himself hard enough to leave a bruise, trying to do something to stop it, but it was to no avail. It came to him that perhaps at this size Chani's pheromones were overwhelming his nervous systems, causing this unending erection, and, as uneducated as he was in the biological sciences, he grasped at the idea like the proverbial straw. That must have been it.

He pushed at her foot, then knelt next to it, trying to do something and yet realizing his own complete futility. He circled it, approached Chani's toes; they clamped down hard, digging into the earth.

Her now-bare foot landed right next to him, the sole arching over him like a meaty, wrinkled roof.

“Kiss,” Chani said. “I liked when Bernard did it.”

Like Bernard, he heard, and he thought that must have been his death sentence. Still, he got closer to it; the wall of hot skin welcomed him. He leaned in and planted a kiss; inadvertently, his erect member touched a fold in her sole. George jumped; it was electric.

“No, George,” Chani said. “Leave that to Sayed over there.”

There was an almost comical gasp from the phone; it must have been somewhere nearby, but George didn't remember where he set it down.

“Get your girlfriend.”

She pulled both feet away. Emily remained in place; a squished insect, was his first thought, her legs and arms about her, her chest barely rising, face red. He jumped over to her, and this time she didn't protest; George got his arms around her and lifted her, trying to find words, find something-

Chani's fingers curled about both of them. He screamed: the sudden ascent almost gave him a heart attack. He could have dropped Emily, but Chani's grasp was tight enough to press them together into an awkward hug. Her hands faintly smelled of her feet; perhaps he'd never get that odor out of his mind now. She dropped them both into her other hand. Emily moaned in pain. He wondered if she had internal damage.

“Emmam,” he managed. “Babe. Please, babe, hold on. You with me?”

She hugged him. Weakly, but she did. He wasn't sure if he was forgiven; wasn't sure if it mattered. He responded, and for a second, there was bliss between them, and he thought that it really didn't matter that Chani Gardalay has just assaulted Emily with her foot-

Chani had something in her hand, he noticed out of the corner of his eye.

He lifted his head. It was a silvery, cigar-like device. Its tip looked like a polished black diamond, and the giantess pointed it at the two of them.

“Bye,” Chani said and fired.

A familiar sense enveloped George: burning skin, shifting point-of-view. But this time, the result was worse. This time, he was small enough that he would feel the ridges in her skin; the colors became oddly muted, lacking in reds, as if his eyes couldn't discern that anymore; the air at the surface of Chani's palm felt almost viscous. Emily was still in his arms, her eyes hollow and bloodshot. She weakly lifted her arm, pointing at the looming, immense face of the woman above them; uncaring, beautiful, cruel.

They called out to her. They could barely hear themselves over the sound of blood rushing through the vessels in the palm beneath them.

“Insects,” Chani said, her breath washing over them in a hot, minty wave. George would remember that minty odor; he would chastise himself for not holding his breath, taking it in. “Ugh.”

She tipped her palm over.

They rolled off, still grasping at each other.

George's erection went away. They were tumbling through the air towards a dark, expansive cavern. Chani's left cleat.

They fell inside, bounced off the insole, already coated in sweat. They were finally thrown apart, each of them finding their own way through the indents and grooves in the insole; yet both of them rolled in the same direction, to the indent made by her foot. George fought it; the moment he found himself on steady ground, he tried to crawl back towards the light, thinking that he could beg, pray to her for mercy, because he didn't want to die here. His last hopes died when Chani's entering foot blocked out the light. Then, the two of them were truly lost.

***

Chani inserted her foot all the way. She tightened the cleat. Tied the laces. It all felt exactly the same.

Too small. Too small to feel, but maybe that meant they were too small to die. Too tiny to be pressed flat, unless they got unlucky. Too small to scale the inner walls of her shoe, too. Condemned, she thought. But they had each other; perhaps they can have sex. The thought of that pleased her immensely; perhaps they'd be so bored, so done with being forgotten in there, that they would do that again, and again, and again, like she wanted. Perhaps Emily, like her boyfriend, would come around and fall into a state of perpetual arousal.

Speaking of which; Chani's kinky thoughts were dictated by arousal, too. She'd felt it first when she kicked Arndell. Now? Now she was close to dripping.

She stood up, rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, then swept her things up: this time, she zipped up the duffel before picking up the little plastic box. Her earbud exploded with sound: Sayed was blabbering some nonsense about his mom.

“Shut the fuck up,” she said.

“She'll kill me if I have sex out of wedlock,” he repeated.

Chani lost it right there and then, laughing for what felt like half a minute. Sayed probably had a bad time; she wasn't holding the box steadily while trying to contain herself. After taking a second to breathe, she spoke to him again:

“I assure you this won't count.”

She opened the box and fished him out. He wriggled in her fingers, slippery like an eel, and she almost dropped him – but didn't. He looked ridiculous in his tiny suit; a doll, truly, a doll. She gave him a good shake to calm him down before reaching down and – without saying anything – stuffed him down the front of her panties. She pressed him against her sex and inhaled sharply; then, she let her underwear and shorts snap shut.

Then, she walked. Fast. Her apartment has never felt to be as far away as it seemed that day. She basically ran all the way there; when she got onto Oak, she caught a few surprised glances. People around the block knew Chani, and she suspected they caught a sense of something being a bit off today, but she could not worry about that right now. Chani Gardalay was looking forward to having the best masturbation session of her life.

On her way, she passed the goal she'd used a bit earlier for target practice. Something caught her eye: a streak of red stretching from the back of the net and further into the grass border. Confused, she followed the trail; it only took a few steps until she noticed a battered clump of a human being inching forward through the massive lawn.

Impressive, she thought.

Chani didn't even address him. She stomped down, lifted her heel, turned her cleat around a few times – like snuffing out a cigarette – then kept walking, the blood on her sole quickly rubbing off.

***

Emily Hamm ended up under Chani's toes. Again.

She rolled forward while Chani walked. The process was a roller coaster; she felt weightless every few seconds, tumbling in the tiny pocket of air under Chani's toes. Sweat dripped all over her; droplets felt too large. She could sense their surface tension; it freaked her out to touch them at all.

She thought her nose would give out by now; she prayed to lose the sense of smell, but she could not. This was her life now, she thought as she tried to keep her bile down. This was the end. The rest of her life. George probably still held onto the possibility of being let go, or saved, but she did not. Why would Chani let her go? If Emma had a tiny Chani Gardalay in her hands, she'd probably pierce the bitch with a needle and attach her to a corkboard, like a butterfly. They deserved each other, she thought. It pained to have lost. It pained that she was now dead to the world, consigned to a fate of being united with Chani's cleat lint…

Chani stepped down. Hard. A second later, there were muffled screams from under Emily. There was something on the side of the sole, she realized. Someone. Someone dying… just inches away from her, just out there.

“Sayed,” she thought. So he was done, too. So he wouldn't tell anyone where to look for them, how to save them. Another thread torn.

Chani was walking again. Emma cried.

***

Out of the four victims, Sayed Hattal had the most time – and mind – to think of how he saw Chani Gardalay turned giant.

In the orange light of the setting sun, she seemed to be a being of liquid bronze. Burning hot, flexible, deadly. He couldn't take all of her in at the same time, it was always in pieces; her hands, which he'd seen type seemingly infinite quantities of characters, and which he's now seen pick people up: they were deadly, too, and they were beautiful. He'd got many shots of her feet on the camera feeds, and he also saw her sole flexing when she pulled that sock off, the sun casting a reddish shadow on it. Her hair, he thought, was stuff of legends; something right out of the old stories, where old women always have thick, long, black hair, because they are all witches, and black is a witch's color. Her teeth were white, her eyes – too dark. In everything, in every little detail, he saw power. He'd never noticed how muscular she was; put her in armor, he thought, and she would become an unstoppable siege machine. A force of nature, personified in a woman. Physical prowess reflected in nonchalant dominance. Which was, in turn, fueled by the immense amount of disdain she felt towards them. He'd spent months around Chani Gardalay; she wasn't one to go off the deep end without a reason.

“What should I do,” he asked himself, and the answer was finally plain obvious: look at Chani, see what it is she wants, and make it happen.

And, for the love of God, don't ask her.

So he didn't resist – aside from what little resistance his body threw itself into of its own, instinctive accord. He let himself be picked up. He squirmed a little when she stuffed him down there, but, once again, just because he panicked. Then he was in the darkness, alone, forced into her hairless crotch, moisture seeping into his clothes, a smell of sex invading his nostrils. Her fingers pressed from the outside, forcing him a bit deeper, and he tried to orient himself with his arms; that triggered a slap.

Too early.

The heat was maddening. She was walking home, he could feel; distant echoes of her steps reached him occasionally, and he could feel her thighs move somewhere dangerously close. (As far as he was concerned, being anywhere near Chani right now counted as dangerously close). His suit – a custom-tailored piece he spent a good chunk of his savings on – would be ruined soon if it wasn't already; it was already soaked on the front. He could feel the stubble in her crotch where she didn't shave too well; his face scraped against him. Sayed was afraid to poke around, but he could tell he was just above the area where her skin turned soft and wrinkly. From the way Chani walked – from the way she smelled – he suspected he was about to take a much better look at everything.

It was a strangely calming thought. Bernard was dead, and George and Emma probably were dead, too. Or they wished that they were, confined to her shoe; Sayed couldn't tell just how small she made them, but he had a good guess. When Chani shrunk the four of them, their natural differences in height persisted, which meant that her device (he still couldn't believe it was even real; he thought those were long outlawed and recalled) shrank to a percent of the original size, and then, perhaps, the second shot would once again reduce to the same percent… the math of it led him to think that George and Emma were now in the realm of a few millimeters, give or take. Stupid small. Ant-sized.

He wondered what Chani looked like to them. A goddess, no doubt. An alien creature; a world in her own right, an angry one at that. Would they ever get out of that shoe? If not, how would they survive? On water and crumbs from her feet, forced to subsist in filth, becoming one with it? Parasites; humans reduced to lice.

It was gross; but he couldn't stop thinking that Chani must have realized all that, too, and she still went through with it, which meant she wanted it. Did it make her mad? Righteous?

He couldn't get his mom's voice out of his head. He had to please Chani Gardalay, or he, no doubt, would follow in the steps of his former groupmates. Bernard tried to play some weird game of appeasing her, but he wasn't sincere, didn't believe a word he said. George and Emma… didn't get much of a choice, but she walked all over them, mashed them underfoot before they took any initiative. Sayed wouldn't make that mistake. Here was a scorned woman, and he was determined to make it clear he agreed she was in her right.

By doing whatever the hell she wanted from him. And more. Because, as their group project taught them, Chani expected more out of herself than was ever requested – and she got really angry when others weren't even thinking of how to pull their weight. Sayed took the lesson to heart. Sayed wouldn't ask stupid questions.

***

Chani locked the door behind her and went into a frenzy. She threw her duffel bag into the nearest corner and kicked off her cleats; one of them went sideways, but it was the right one, and so it didn't matter. Although, by then, Emma and George occupied very little of her mind; she wouldn't consider it a great loss if they fell out of that shoe – eventually, they'd just become part of that grey dust that collected on her soles when she walked around barefoot. Really, all of their remaining paths led in that direction.

It was a pretentious thought, but right now she was in the mood for it, so she doubled down. Yes. Fucking die. Trash. Sentient lint. That'll teach you. I am all-powerful!

She didn't say it out loud; she knew eventually she'd have to think it all over. For any bender, whatever your drug of choice, comes a moment of clarity and shame. But hers wasn’t there yet, which meant she could indulge.

She couldn't think of a better way to do that than – finally – getting herself off. And Sayed would have to help with that.

She rushed into her room, ripping off her t-shirt on the go. She jumped onto her bed and raised the pillow to rest against the headboard, then she lay down, feeling the fire in the bottom of her stomach get ever more violent and hungry. She reached into her panties and took Sayed out, her fingers curling around him and squeezing; he yelped and she laughed, enjoying her own power. Awkwardly, she pushed her panties down. Then, she raised her last captive towards her eyes.

“Do you know what to do?” she asked, panting.

She was worried. I don't, Chani. Tell me what to do, Chani. Just explain it to me, Chani, I really don't know, I am a stupid little piece of shit, a mommy's boy, her precious little dumpling with no dignity or mind of my own. Oh, she would tell him what to do in that case, oh, she would. Crucify yourself on my dildo and prepare for the last ride in your life. Let me get my nice shoes, then place your head under my stiletto. Oh, so many options; all deliciously symbolic, violently barbaric. Murder could be so erotic.

(Another one of those thoughts she'll feel shame for later. Perhaps she could go confess. Holy Father, forgive me for I have sinned: I crushed people like insects and forced a couple to have sex under my foot. May I buy an indulgence?)

No; no God here to watch. Except for herself, of course. She reasoned she was very close to being that for Emily and George. Even Sayed.

“I do,” was his response, solemn and laconic. For once. She lowered him towards her lower lips, spreading her legs and exposing herself to him; then, she pushed him forward.

“Get at it,” she roared.

***

Sayed Hattal had never gone down on a girl, but he was familiar with the theoretical side – and, besides, for once the tiny size seemed to be to his benefit. Were he normal-sized… were he normal-sized, he wouldn't ever dream of even holding hands with Chani, for one. Aside from that… he probably wouldn't really know the correct technique.

Now it seemed easy.

Her clitoris was like a bright, swollen lamp beneath a fleshy brown hood. It waited for him; yearned for him; and there was just one way to go about it. Sheepishly, Sayed walked the thin strip of the mattress between Chani's thighs; the surface beneath his feet quickly sloped down. He finally took off his jacket and shoes, figuring he wouldn’t need them.

“Come on!”

He approached her sex, eyes stuck to that little thing that could give women so much pleasure. He gulped: it sure didn’t seem little now. He noticed Chani slipped a hand between her legs while he was undressing, and her neatly trimmed fingertips were already pushing in between the labia; the sight was both arousing and eldritch.

“Sayed!” she spat. “To it!” There was anger in her voice now. It wouldn't take much more to deserve death, he thought, so he advanced. He knelt in front of her moist, hungry pussy, and he leaned in, his mouth open, and he went at it. Kissing. Licking. Smashing his face into it. Whatever he was doing, it was working; the noises Chani made left no room for doubt. He was probably a little too gentle; soon, her fingers found the back of his head and pushed at it, forcing him to get closer, even though he was already right up against it. He fought against her – without really thinking about it, just out of fear of getting smothered to death – and, with a huff, Chani lifted him into the air and brought her other hand over to violently strip him. His shirt came apart at the seams, buttons flying everywhere; his pants were next; his leather belt held, unfortunately for him, because it left skid marks on his thighs. Mostly naked now, he was deposited back and pushed in once again. He stuck out his tongue, closed his eyes and worshipped at that little mound of soft flesh as Chani moaned and trembled.

For a second there, he allowed himself a heretical thought: perhaps he was the one in control, he was the one who caused that pleasure. She disillusioned him swiftly; her fingers came back, pushing him in with renewed passion, and he found that she didn't want him to stop at the entrance. He swallowed complaints and pleas for mercy; in truth, Sayed had never been with a woman so into the act before, and he felt compelled to do whatever it is she wanted. It's just that what she wanted seemed deadly.

Her lower lips parted as she pushed him inside – he was far too small to resemble a real sextoy, but she didn't seem to care. Her fingers entered at the same time, and he found himself mashed pushed awkwardly between them and the muscular wall against his back. He was getting soaked before; now it seemed he was in danger of drowning. The heat made Sayed dizzy, weak; he was afraid to open his eyes, and couldn't tell which direction the outside world was anymore.

It was very one-sided, too. Sayed couldn't relate to George. He sure thought Chani was attractive, alluring even; but where George's cock sprang up to desires hitherto unknown or sleeping, Sayed fell into a platonic reverie. The girl he'd annoyed for the entire semester became his world; an actual goddess who demanded service and administered divine justice. Oh, she was happy now; he felt the euphoric, violent shakes around him as she curled and bent, her deft fingers in tune with the all-too-recent memories of finally getting her way… but how much of it was him, and how much – his place?

None of it really mattered, of course. His mind desperately tried to rationalize any part of what was going on, searching for a way out – not a hidey-hole or a path he could flee down, but just a sign that Chani could find mercy for him. His best bet was that he was obedient, insignificant; he’d be willing if he wasn't scared for his life. Bernard, Emily and George tried to talk to her, to reason with her, like they were still just a bunch of people in a silly conflict; like they were still human. But they were not. Chani demonstrated that in a spectacular fashion.

Not a human. A toy, then, minute amusement, one last trophy. He squirmed, trapped inside her pussy; his hair wet and heavy, his eyes burning, his mouth full. Sayed felt her thighs clench; he imagined her bending her legs, toes curling at the very edge of the mattress. Her eyes would be closed right now, he thought; her dark hair is strewn across the pillow, like a dark halo for a fallen angel. She'd be covered in sweat again. She's biting her lip. Yes, he could see it-

There was a pause, then – a pause she announced with a loud, ringing “ah-ah-ahhh!” – and then there was a moment of weightlessness as her hips fell back to the bed, her motions slowing down. He managed to get a hand closer to his face and wiped it off a bit before opening his eyes. It was still dark – and something was dripping into his eyes from his forehead – but he did see a dash of light, and he slowly started making his way towards it.

Chani's fingers immediately moved again; they pressed against him, pinning him back to the wall of her vagina. Sayed whimpered, but stayed put. She held him there for what felt like a few minutes; then, he felt her… move again. More rhythmic breathing. More of that familiar tension… Sayed squirmed, fighting against her; he could tell that Chani enjoyed that.

***

In another five minutes, Chani Gardalay orgasmed a second time, and it was even better than the first. The mental image had a lot to do with that. She started with the memory of how Bernard's body flew into the net, then later popped under her treads. She continued with Emily and George; she wondered if they were still alive inside her well-worn cleat, if they could hear her, if, perhaps, they were having sex, too. She told herself they would, eventually, fuck under her toes again, because what else would they have to do there?

Prior to this day, if someone asked Chani if she liked being dominant, she'd shrug. Dominance had always seemed an abstract concept to her, a pretend play someone could end at any point. Safe words and aftercare; idiotic stereotypes; manipulation, fetishes, transactional relationships. It all seemed hollow; a game for immature adults. But this – this was real. She killed a man like he was an insect. She had two people make love to each other under her foot, then made sure they would spend the rest of their lives smelling her, always assaulted by her, always under her. She had a man fight for his life in her pussy, and she wasn't even sure if he was still alive.

This was dominance. This was real. She held the threads of fate in her hands. She could cut it. Could weave a sock out of it.

Perhaps, that also made her a murderer. With mild surprise, Chani discovered she didn't care right now. She suspected this would not change. It felt too good.

With a sigh, she pulled Sayed out of her vagina. He was wet. Dripping. Just like her. He was also all red, and clearly beat up, and he was spitting and trying to blow his nose. She ignored the feeble, incomprehensible sounds coming from him as she reached out for a tissue (she kept a box of Kleenex on her nightstand). She ended up pulling two. She bunched them up along with Sayed and used the resultant man-tissue lump to wipe herself clean. Then, she dropped the whole thing to the side of the bed.

“Wait a bit,” she said uncaringly. Chani stared into the ceiling, wondering what's next.

The anger she'd felt for the past few days was subsiding already; a cliche about a rock falling off one's heart was applicable, she supposed. She taught the fuckers a lesson. Moreover, she taught one to herself. Don't let people walk all over you – and, if you do, make sure you walk all over them in turn. Justice. Interpersonal, petty, cruel, small-minded – but it was justice, gratifying and arousing on its own. She felt weirdly proud. Renewed.

And she had so much evidence that she could use as porn. Each one of those phones had been recording and uploading directly to the cloud. She could keep watching her own cleat hit Bernard in the face. Could listen to Emily's desperate moans coming from under her own foot. And she could do more – Chani could sell those, for she happened to know there was a niche, well-paying market for that sort of thing. She'd learned about that back when she just got a shrinker.

It was a gift. A dumb gift, she'd always thought, not to mention the thing got recalled. She was supposed to send it in, but it didn't really work out; translation – it was a lazy occurrence, a rare phenomenon when it came to Chani Gardalay. Who would have known a faulty device would eventually come in so handy.

Too handy, even. God. She didn't have enough people in her life that she'd been pissed off at.

“This makes me a predator,” she mused. “Fuck.”

No, no, surely she could control herself? She doesn't have to kill people. She doesn't have to turn them into underfoot filth. Chani could just seek out other freaks. There was no shortage of guys with weird sexualities on the Internet, she knew that very well. Plenty of dudes wishing to very literally drown in pussy. Chani could exploit that.

She let out a nervous laugh. All of it was nice, but it wasn't like her. She'd probably end up cherishing the memories – and no more than that. Too much work on her table – and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Time for a shower.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

***

Sayed was trapped.

Somehow, this was the most humiliating part of the evening. He found himself encased in a ball of tissue paper soaked with Chani's pussy juices, which quickly dried around him, encasing him in a kind of a papery crust. But there was plenty of liquid remaining, too. There was a damp piece of paperlike fabric sticking to his cheek, and he couldn't get his arms close enough to his face to rip it off; but whenever he tried, that piece of damp tissue moved up and down, the corner of it sliding uncomfortably close to his eye.

It came to him that this was a little bit like wearing one of those unwieldy, massive dresses that noble European women used to favor back in the late Middle Ages. There wasn't anything binding him; Chani hadn't even told him to stay in place. He was just hopelessly immobile, contained within an actual piece of her trash.

He tried to move some more to wiggle himself out of this thing, but he was woefully unsuccessful; the whole thing felt glued together. He remained there, wishing for Chani to remember all this as soon as possible so she could free him. Maybe then she'd be more inclined to talk. Maybe she'll ask him if he wants to go home, and he'll say yes, but only if you let me, because I don't want to leave until we are good. Eventually, Sayed will be home, and Mama will ask him if he'd done well by the girl, and he'll say “oh sure, Ma.” Deep inside, he knew she'd probably approve even if she'd known the truth, as long as the goriest and most humiliating details are left out. Her approval would be that of substance, not of form: she wouldn't find it pleasant to know he was shrunk, weak and witnessed death, but she would be pleased with what happened to his spirit.

“Hey, Chani,“ he called out sheepishly, but there was no chance she heard him. “Chani, I am a bit stuck…”

He moved a little more. All he managed to do was to get his head a little further out into open air; now with his right eye he could see the edge of her bed, as well as a section of the ceiling above. No Chani.

Except that then, the next moment, Chani was there – a leg swung over the edge of the bed, muscular calf and a smooth round knee – could've been an ancient statue, he thought, immovable and perfect in how she was sculpted; weren't the Romans unparalleled in the knowledge of anatomical detail demonstrated by their sculptors? or was it someone else? – didn’t matter; his mind was mixing up the details anyways, because he also thought there was something in her from that Greek Colossus, or, perhaps, from the Peasant-Woman reigning over that great Exhibition of Such-and-Such in Moscow; certainly not the Statue of Liberty, though, nothing about Chani was speaking to him in the language of Liberty right now…

…Her sole came into view. Sayed’s thoughts fizzled out. His eyes went round. His mouth opened into a neat little ‘O’. That wrinkled, creamy sole came down fast – in a split-second replacing the rest of his view with a broad wall of flesh, hanging right over him, close enough to see every little fold, every drop of perspiration, mote of dust, even the edge of a callus which must have been just a little closer to the toes. All remaining thoughts of ancient art immediately fled his mind; he whimpered a very quiet “chanipleaseno”, before he realized it stopped moving – it was right over him, but it stopped moving, and that probably meant she wanted something again, one last act of worship, a final rite before she let him go, so he stretched his neck out and planted a peckish kiss on the ball of her foot. His lips connected with her skin. He closed his eyes and let himself draw in a tiny bit of air, making that kiss a little more substantial, thinking that it was interesting that she was a soccer player and did so much work with her feet, on her feet, and really there was something symbolic about it, and after all Mama always said it's disrespectful to show someone the soles of your feet – maybe Chani also thought something like that and so she really meant to drive the point-

The sole pushed into him. Sayed didn't have time to scream.

***

In retrospect, there might have been the briefest of moments when she felt something. Chani wasn't a tall woman, but she had a tall bed, so, when she sat on the edge of it, her feet weren't always touching the floor. She brought one leg over first, then the other one, then she let herself slide forward as she stood up – and that’s when there was a warning, no, a hint of a warning. Could she act on that? Probably not. She should have just remembered. If she paid the whole thing a little more attention, she'd realize there was obvious danger of stepping right on the tissue she'd just discarded. She'd done that in the past, after all.

But she stepped on it. Her bare foot landed squarely on that tissue, and there was a warm pop and a wet squelch. Cursing, she moved her foot aside and squinted at the flattened tissue. It was quickly turning pink.

“Fuck,” Chani said. “Sorry.”

She caught sight of Sayed. His skull looked intact. The rest of him didn't. Some part of him was still moving. There was blood; it was mixing with the other stuff in there. Chani bit her lip.

Somehow, that was sort of hot, too. The thought. Not the sight. She didn’t actually mean to kill him, but it really didn't seem like she had a choice anymore.

“Didn't mean it, Sayed,” she said. “You're a good guy. Sorry.”

She positioned her foot over the crumpled tissue – and the dying man wrapped up in it – and stomped down, then pushed her foot over a few times, steamrolling what remained down there. Pink liquid was coming out. Chani lifted her other leg, giving the remains one long full-weight press for good measure, then stepped down and off. Then, on one leg, she hopped over to the bathroom. She came back for Sayed's remains in a couple of minutes; she scraped them off the floor and flushed down the toilet. After that, there was just a little bit of cleanup left to do – and some evidence to destroy.

Later, she went to bed. She thought she'd sleep for ten hours straight – somehow Chani felt completely spent – but in reality she woke up after about seven and a half, ready to go and do something. But there was nothing to do, so she masturbated again, this time – to the thoughts of Sayed pleasing her only to die later (I am like a mantis, she thought, except I would not eat one of them, who the fuck knows what they ate). Then she donned a bathrobe, went to the kitchen, made herself a cup of tea, took a chocolate bar out of the pantry, went out onto the balcony, flung her feet onto the railing and watched the sunrise, content.

Inside one of her cleats, George and Emily were cuddling inside the dark print of Chani's big toe, hungry for each other's warmth. Neither of them could sleep. They could hear Chani walk around in the morning, and, while neither of them admitted it to each other, they were both carefully listening to her steps. There was nothing else to do but to pay attention to Chani. Nothing to smell but Chani. Nothing to hope for, to think about, to pray to, to wait for. Nothing else to smell, taste or feel. There was only Chani Gardalay, the sole remaining recipient of the 2023 Presidential Award.