The sun hung high and lazy over Lili's garden, washing everything in golden warmth. Lavender swayed in the breeze, bees danced lazily between strawberry blossoms, and fat hens clucked somewhere behind her crooked treehouse, their voices soft and repetitive like half-forgotten lullabies.
It was a perfect day for dreaming.
Lili lay on her belly in the soft grass near the slope of her garden's rise, elbows planted in the dirt, chin cradled in her palms. Her bare legs bent at the knees, feet kicking idly in the air behind her. Her skirt, stitched from rabbit hide and rough nettle thread, had hiked up slightly, exposing her grass-dusted thighs. A narrow strip of hide wrapped snugly across her chest—tight, itchy, and annoying, though she'd finally stopped pretending she didn't need it.
Spread out before her like a melted board game lay the clay kingdom of Lili's Lake—half-destroyed towers, crumbling city walls, and sun-baked little people who leaned in all the wrong directions. It looked more like a village hit by an earthquake than anything functional, but Lili didn't mind. It was hers. Every cracked hut, every drooping banner, every clay face smeared into oblivion by too much rain and not enough patience—hers.
She had built it all slowly over the years, layer by layer, vision by vision. No blueprints, no rulers. Just her fingers, imagination, and time.
In the center of it all stood King Washington, looking particularly heroic today despite his half-collapsed neck. He was made from two clay lumps mushed together—one for a head, one for a torso—with arms that stretched unevenly outward like he was about to hug a ghost. A stick jabbed into his back served as a cape, flapping slightly in the warm breeze. His chest bore a crooked sun symbol she'd etched with a twig and then colored with dried berry juice, now faded and blotchy.
Beside him stood Mother, elegant in her lopsided way. Lili had tried to make her tall and graceful, giving her long arms and a sweeping grass-hair mane glued down with hardened honey. The face had started as kind, but a smudge of dirt from a chicken's foot had turned one of the eyes into a haunted black pit. Lili decided it made her look wise instead of creepy.
They stood proudly atop what she called the "Royal Tower," though it more resembled a crumbling cone of clay pancakes stacked unevenly in the dirt. Below them, the mine buzzed with activity—or would have, if the figurines could move. She had placed them with care: tiny miners hunched with pebble picks, carts filled with blackened stones, bark planks leaning as makeshift bridges across little clay trenches.
Lili reached out and gave one of the carts a nudge with her finger, sending it lurching forward on its twig-wheels toward the "refinery."
"W-work faster, damn you!" she barked in her deepest, most commanding voice, channeling King Washington's full royal fury. "The war is won, but we still need r-resources! The empire must rebuild!"
The command echoed off the inside of her mind like it always did—dramatic, heavy, inspiring. She could hear the fantasy trumpets in the distance, the rolling drums of a patriotic soundtrack that only she could hear.
Then her voice shifted—softer, higher, calming.
"Now now, dear," she said in Mother's voice, speaking through the bent grass lady standing beside the king. "The war is over. Let them play a little. Why don't you… say something inspirational instead of just yelling?"
She sat up slightly, threw one hand into the air in salute, and cleared her throat theatrically.
"M-m-my citizens!" she bellowed. "Your c-c-courage has built this world! Go forth and m-mine more iron! Build me a c-cannon! Build a t-toaster! Build…"
She paused, tilting her head dramatically.
"…C3PO."
She burst into giggles, flopping back down onto the grass. The blacksmith, Sir Ironrat, sat nearby—more blob than man, with squat legs, a square anvil chest, and arms too wide for his body. She had pressed little ridges into his "hammer," which she now imagined striking sparks of enchanted steel as he toiled away beside a crooked forge made of rocks and burnt twigs.
Around Sir Ironrat, she'd placed relics of imagination—a broken clay gun, a rune-streaked longsword, a square "monitor" made from bark and painted with soot to resemble a screen. In her head, the blacksmith grumbled about software updates, cursed magical glitches, and insisted he was this close to getting C3PO's memory core working again.
"They're all h-happy now," she murmured, watching her little clay people stand immobile in the dirt. "They got internet last week. The g-galactic war's over. They c-can play Warcraft and send cat pics again."
Just then, Big Mama, one of her oldest hens, clucked loudly behind her and strutted right through the mine district, her thick orange legs trampling a clay cart with a crunch. One miner was flattened instantly, his smudged face cracking apart as his body was mashed under chicken toes. A few more figurines toppled in the chaos like dominoes, one rolling dramatically into a mud puddle.
Lili gasped, hands flying to her face.
"Oh no," she whispered, her tone shifting to grave officialdom. "A d-disaster. The infrastructure c-cannot hold."
She sprang upright into "press conference" mode, voice ringing with faux urgency. "Ladies and g-gentlemen of the press—we are receiving r-reports of a catastrophic m-mine collapse in the Clay Region. Early estimates suggest t-t-twelve casualties and one minor outage in local broadband. Our best mud engineers are en route. They're bringing hay. And prayer. M-may the gods protect us all."
The hens barely noticed.
Lili collapsed back into the grass, letting her arms flop to the sides like a starfish in mourning. She stared up at the garden wall towering above her, thick with moss and crawling vines. Overhead, the blue sky stretched cloudless and vast, empty as the space between the stars. For a few heartbeats, she just lay there, breathing, listening to the breeze move through the trees and the sleepy rustle of the chickens behind her.
And for the first time in a long while, the silence didn't feel comforting.
It felt… lonely.
She sat up slowly, arms wrapped loosely around her knees, watching the gentle chaos below. Chickens scratched peacefully in the compost, butterflies drifted above her clay bakery, and bees traced sleepy loops between stalks of lavender.
The clay town remained broken. Her people lay scattered. Sir Ironrat still hadn't finished that toaster.
And it all felt... pointless.
She frowned, tugging absently at the end of her braid. "Wh-what am I doing?"
This wasn't a real city. It was a messy dream baked in the sun, crumbling like old gingerbread. She knew what real cities looked like—from books, from games, from memory. They had walls, proper ones. Sewers. Taverns filled with rowdy music. Inns with crooked signs and snoring drunks. Real cities had streets and trade routes and guards in uniform—not chickens with helmets made from berry caps.
She'd tried to build something that mattered. She had envisioned knights in formation, barracks and bathhouses, temples of marble and brick. But every time she began again, every time she stacked her muddy bricks or carved windows into wet clay, she always hit the same wall.
She was the only one.
No matter how many clay toilets she made, no one used them. No matter how many taverns she built, no one drank in them. No matter how many little shops and bridges and World of Warcraft-inspired banks she crafted, no one cared.
The animals wouldn't play with her. Not really. She had tried so many times. She'd carved chicken-sized armor out of bark, tied tiny belts around bunnies, even stuck feathers onto frogs like headdresses. Once, she'd spent an entire week trying to teach Sleemo the fox to wear a cardboard helmet and roleplay as a Night Elf rogue.
He just stared at her like she was the weirdest thing he'd ever seen… and then pissed on the helmet.
She sighed, pulling a bent stalk of mint from the dirt and chewing it thoughtfully. It tasted sweet. Refreshing. Simple.
Just like the rest of the forest.
The animals didn't seem to want anything more. The chickens kept laying eggs. The rabbits kept multiplying. Even the foxes, Scar and Sleemo, had already raised several batches of kits over the years—dozens of little foxes darting through the bushes, tumbling over roots, growing up happy, wild, and stupid.
They had friends. Families. Mates. They slept beside her fire during the worst winters, curled into balls, breathing softly against her chest. She'd treated their wounds, nursed their illnesses, fed them from her own hand.
And then they left.
Because they could.
Because they had others like them.
She didn't.
She hugged her knees tighter, resting her chin on her arms.
It wasn't just the loneliness that hurt—it was the stillness. The kind that stretched. That made the days blur together until even her victories—catching a fish, finishing a new clay house, surviving a storm—felt like empty little boxes to check.
She missed people.
She missed Frank most of all. His steady voice, his dumb but warm encouragement. His laugh. His kids. The way they called her "uncle Bruce," even when she didn't know what that meant anymore. Even Amber, with her constant insults—calling her retarded, lazy, good-for-nothing. At least she saw her. At least someone did.
She even missed Chad.
Stupid, cruel Chad who shoved her in the halls, who mocked her lisp, who called her "fag" and "Hodor" and made her feel small. But at least he had said something. At least he'd acknowledged her.
Now? Not even the chickens spoke.
Her eyes drifted to the cracked clay market square. One of the berry-juice signs had melted in the last rain. The toilet she'd built beside the tree had collapsed again—no one used it anyway.
She whispered, "Even the night elf dancers t-talked to me."
Her voice broke a little.
Back in her old life, she'd spent years in World of Warcraft. Never made it to max level. Never bought a mount. She gave away her gold constantly—especially to the dancers in Stormwind. They always asked. And she always gave. Because they smiled. Because they said "thank you."
Because for a few seconds, she felt useful.
She missed that feeling.
She missed logins and loading screens. She missed opening her mailbox and finding nothing but junk. She missed buying food she didn't need. She missed being told she was bad at the game.
She just missed people.
Even the terrible ones.
Her eyes drifted down to her chest. It ached faintly today—still growing, still soft, still not what she wanted. Her hips were wider. Her waist had thinned. She had hair now—long, golden, wild. Her feet were too smooth. Her skin refused to callus.
Still no balls. Still no dick.
Just this.
She rested her head back against the sun-warmed grass and closed her eyes.
"Maybe next year," she whispered again. "M-maybe they're just l-late."
And then, as the wind shifted, she turned her gaze toward the overgrown cottage just beyond the garden wall—now fully swallowed in vines and moss, flowers sprouting from the chimney like bright, defiant memories.
Her mother's tomb.
She stared at it for a long time. Then bowed her head.
"S-sorry, Mama," she whispered. "I've been lazy. I-I'll go exercise now."
She stood slowly, brushing dirt from her thighs and picking a few crushed mint leaves from her knee. Her legs felt stiff. Her skirt itched. But she didn't complain. She walked to the garden gate that creaked as she pushed it open, the vines tugging softly against the crooked wood. She stepped out into the wild sun beyond the walls, blinking against the sudden light. The air smelled like warm earth, mint, and damp stone.
Outside, the world stretched—gentle and quiet, blissfully unaware of her.
A small herd of deer lay sprawled under the shadow of a birch grove, their legs tucked beneath their bodies, eyes half-lidded in slow, contented dozing. A dozen bunnies munched peacefully in the tall grass, their ears twitching in rhythm. Bees drifted in slow spirals through golden shafts of light, and a pair of squirrels argued in the upper branches of a tree with theatrical flicks of their tails.
Nobody looked at her.
Nobody even noticed her.
And that was what gave her courage.
She stepped softly toward the lake, brushing past stalks of lavender and tangled ferns. The water shimmered like a pane of blue glass just kissed by the sun. At the far end of the slope sat her stage—the ancient slab of stone she had named Victory Boulder back when she was five.
It jutted from the lakeside like a king's throne, worn smooth by years of bare feet, cannonballs, and heroic belly flops.
She stopped at the base of the rock and, with practiced ease, pulled off her rabbit-hide skirt and her chest band. The strip of hide clung slightly from sweat, but she peeled it free, exhaling with relief.
Automatically, she folded both garments with care—first the band, then the skirt—and placed them neatly on a mossy stone nearby, smoothing the folds like they were part of a royal uniform. She stepped back and looked down at herself.
Naked.
Still strange, still unfamiliar. Skin pale from winter but already tanning from summer sun. Legs slim and strong from running. Arms wiry from climbing. Her chest, budding. Her hips, wider.
Her body didn't match her memory. It never had.
She crossed her arms instinctively across her chest, hesitating for a heartbeat… then exhaled.
"There's no one here," she whispered.
Not Frank. Not Amber. Not anyone.
No one to judge her. No one to tease. No one to mock or leer.
Just her.
She stood straighter.
Let her arms drop.
Let the sun touch her bare skin fully and without apology.
Then, with the poise of a born performer, she stepped up onto the smooth stone of Victory Boulder.
She was no longer Lili of the forest.
She was Lili of the Arena—the undefeated diving champion of the Free Nations. The music rose inside her mind, swelling like a soundtrack on opening night. The sun became a spotlight. The waves whispered her name.
And before her rose the stands.
Massive. Carved from silver and marble. Draped in flags and firework smoke.
In the VIP section sat Frank, proud but casual, a thermos in hand, his legs crossed as he leaned back in a carved obsidian seat. His mother sat beside him, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. His father nodded stoically. Even Amber was there—chewing gum with a smirk, muttering something rude to the guy next to her. Lili smiled.
There was Chad, too—grinning like a smug golden retriever in a blazer. He twirled a pair of sunglasses and popped a grape into his mouth, leaning back like he owned the stadium.
But they weren't the judges.
No, the judges' box was even more absurd.
At its center sat Simon Cowell, black shirt pristine, arms folded, expression carved from marble. His eyes narrowed critically over steepled fingers.
To his right, Gordon Ramsay, hands on the table, leaned forward, muttering, "If she over-rotates the twist, it's bloody raw."
Next to him, Kamala Harris, smiling brightly and whispering strange metaphors into her mic like, "When she dives, it's like... a child jumping off the school bus of hope."
Donald Trump, farther down the panel, scowled as he straightened his tie. "She better be tremendous. The best. Nobody dives better than me. But I'll give her a 10 if she really tries."
Joe Biden was slumped over a clipboard at the end, drawing sunflowers and cats on a notepad, muttering, "That girl's got… she's got spunk. Reminds me of when I was your age. Wait. Am I your age?"
And between them all, wearing a bow tie and perched on a velvet cushion, sat Putin, bare-chested and solemn. A small bear cub lounged beside him, chewing on a flag. Putin nodded once, cold and unreadable.
And at the end of the line, flanked by roses and a tiny podium, sat Terminator the Rooster, wearing a golden laurel crown and tapping his beak against the judge's table like a gavel.
The drums pounded.
The flags waved.
The crowd roared.
Lili took a breath.
"F-for the Republic," she whispered. "F-for Frank. F-for the g-garden. F-for... the chickens."
She bounced once on her toes. Twice.
Then leapt.
She soared.
Arms swept into her sides. Legs snapped tight. Her braid whipped around like a comet tail as she twisted midair, back arched just enough to catch the light. The lake rushed toward her, glittering like glass, and for a moment—just one perfect second—she was weightless.
A creature of sky and motion.
A girl without gravity, without fear, without past or future.
Just the wind on her skin and the sun at her back.
She straightened as she fell, body slicing down in a clean, perfect line.
And then—
Splash.
The surface broke with a whisper, not a crash. No belly flop. No splash damage. Just a clean slip beneath the blue.
The water embraced her.
Cold, sweet, wrapping around her like silk bedsheets in a long-forgotten hotel. She curled beneath the surface, arms spread wide like wings, eyes open, watching the sunlight ripple above. Tiny bubbles danced around her. Her heart beat once—twice.
She kicked off the lakebed with a flick of her toes and shot upward.
She breached the surface in a clean burst, hair fanning behind her like a golden halo. Droplets sprayed in a glittering arc. She floated on her back, chest heaving, water trailing down her cheeks like tears that weren't sad.
Lili grinned up at the sky.
The crowd erupted in her mind.
Flags waved wildly. Fireworks burst overhead in rainbow plumes.
In the judge's booth, Frank stood and gave a slow, satisfied nod.
"Ten," he said. "Good posture. Better arc. Classic Bruce energy."
Amber crossed her arms. "She still sucks," she said, chewing her gum. "But whatever. I guess that was kinda cool."
Chad popped another grape, shrugged. "Still think she's gay, but yeah. Ten."
Simon Cowell wrote something on a card, glanced up with a smirk, and said, "Better than anything I've seen this week."
Gordon Ramsay pounded the desk. "Finally! That's a dive! Not overdone, not undercooked—just right!"
Kamala blinked wide-eyed, clapped slowly. "That was like… if possibility wore a swimsuit of destiny."
Trump folded his arms. "Tremendous flip. She's a winner. No one dives like that. Maybe me, but close second. Ten."
Joe Biden startled awake and raised a paddle with a cat drawn on it. "I like the splash."
And Putin—silent, bare-chested, majestic—slowly gave a single nod. The bear beside him sneezed.
Then came Terminator.
He tapped his talon three times, then held up a slab of polished wood with a bold red "10" scratched into it.
The crowd lost their minds.
Lili spun in a slow circle, arms outstretched, bare chest barely peeking from the water as she laughed and cried and breathed all at once.
"Thank you, Earth!" she shouted to the sky. "Thank you, God! And thank you, Mister Frog!"
She turned—and sure enough, Mister Frog sat on his usual lily pad, unblinking.
"Still n-not impressed?" she said, raising a wet eyebrow. "Tough crowd."
She paddled toward the center of the lake, flipping once, spinning again, just for the thrill. She floated on her back, belly up to the sun, the water lifting her gently.
The cheering faded.
The fireworks quieted.
The judges blurred, melted into mist.
Only the lake remained.
Only her breath. Her pulse. The sky above.
And then it hit her.
Not sharp.
Not sudden.
Just… wrong.
A pressure low in her stomach. A tightness.
Then a warm trickle between her thighs.
She blinked.
Paused.
Kicked her legs lightly.
Red.
She gasped.
Her body twisted in the water, searching herself, panicking. Her fingers brushed the source—nothing cut, nothing broken. But more red curled into the water like smoke.
Her heart seized.
"No, no, no—" she whispered, thrashing toward the shore.
Mud sucked at her feet as she scrambled out of the lake, hands shaking. Water mixed with blood down her legs. Her thighs streaked with crimson, her skirt stuck to her side. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps.
"I'm b-bleeding," she choked. "W-why? Did I get stabbed? Did I step on s-something? A r-rogue attack? Poison dagger?!"
But there was no wound.
Only the ache deep in her belly, warm and wrong and ancient.
And then—
A sound.
A voice.
Real.
Not in her head.
A boy's voice. Calm. Unaware.
"Hold, Bruce. We'll rest here."
Lili froze.
The panic turned icy.
Someone was in her forest.
In her garden.
In her kingdom.
She stood there, soaked and naked, trembling, blood trickling down her leg, staring at the trees where the voice had come from.
Was it her father?
Had he finally come?
No. There was no trumpets. No light. No spaceship.
Just a man.
A stranger.
And her kingdom was no longer empty.