Season 1: Survival of the Fittest

  Ch 10: Oink for Me

  The ft greeted her with the same stale, sour air it always held, as if resenting her return. Nysera closed the door behind her with a precise click and surveyed her crumbling domain. No servants to take her cloak, no roaring fire to warm the hall — only peeling walls, battered furniture, and the faint, lingering smell of microwave meals. She shed her jacket with a queen’s disdain, draping it over the sagging arm of the sofa, and crossed the room to where Mira’s cursed ptop y blinking with impatient life.

  The direct message from one of her followers was still at the top of her mind.

  At least this one had the decency to open negotiations with tribute.

  She turned the message over in her mind, weighing the offer with the same gravity she would have once given a petition for nd or marriage alliance. In her old world, a vassal seeking favour would kneel, present gifts, and swear fealty before daring to lift their head. Here, it seemed, the custom was much the same — only the gifts were counted in pounds rather than jewels.

  Nysera moved through the grim ft with methodical precision, gathering what little she needed. She propped Mira’s battered office chair in front of the rickety coffee table, adjusted the cheap mp to cast sharp shadows across her face, and straightened the bck blouse she wore, ensuring every line was severe and unyielding. She pulled her hair back tightly, baring her throat not in vulnerability but in challenge, a queen daring lesser beings to approach.

  When she was finished, she surveyed her work critically. It was not the grand halls of her youth, not the glittering courts where crowns and lives were won or lost in whispers. But it would serve.

  Nysera retrieved the cursed phone and opened the chat with a sense of grim ceremony, as if unfurling a battlefield map before a council of war. The mortal — whose chosen name was something as profoundly stupid as SirSubForYou — had sent another message, eagerly grovelling in pixeted form.

  "Ready whenever you are, Mistress. Happy to pay whatever tribute you demand. Just tell me the rules."

  At least he understood the preliminary dance. That was something.

  She typed her response carefully, each word a blow of the gavel, a setting of boundaries as old as any royal charter:

  "You will present your tribute first. There will be no lewdness, no requests for vulgarity. You are here to offer obedience and wealth. You will address me properly. You will not speak unless permitted. You will end the session only at my command."

  She considered for a moment, then added, almost as an afterthought:

  "Any impropriety will result in your immediate banishment and dishonour."

  The reply came almost instantly:

  "Yes, Mistress. Of course, Mistress. Sending additional tribute for your strictness, Mistress."

  Moments ter, the banking app pinged with a new deposit — a small bonus tribute before the session had even begun. Nysera arched a brow, faintly amused. If only the dukes and barons of her old court had been this pliable. Perhaps fewer bodies would have littered the throne room.

  She set the phone aside with a sharp, satisfied gesture. The terms were clear. The tribute had been paid.

  Now, the supplicant would be judged.

  The cursed device buzzed again, signalling that the mortal had entered the private session. Nysera moved with calm, deliberate precision, seating herself in Mira’s battered office chair with the poise of a queen settling onto a temporary throne. She crossed her legs neatly, the stiff bck pencil skirt and sheer dark tights transforming her into a figure of sharp, effortless severity. She adjusted the camera slightly, ensuring the angle pced her above the viewer’s eye line — a simple trick of dominance, but effective even in this crude, modern sorcery.

  The screen flickered, revealing her subject: a middle-aged man, already flushed and twitching with anticipation, seated awkwardly in what appeared to be a cluttered living room. He waved pathetically, then without prompting, dropped to his knees and began to pantomime a pig’s snort, rolling on the floor and squealing with startling enthusiasm.

  Nysera blinked once, very slowly.

  Had this been a court of old, such behaviour would have warranted immediate expulsion and public flogging. Instead, she inhaled deeply, allowed a beat of silence to stretch unbearably thin, and then spoke in a voice like chilled steel.

  "You disgrace yourself," she said, each sylble nding with the weight of a blow. "Rolling about like a stable hound before your better. Have you no dignity? No shame?"

  The man whimpered joyously, clumsily typing in the chatbox: "OINK OINK FOR U MISTRESS ????"

  Nysera closed her eyes for a single, resigned moment, then opened them again, gaze sharp enough to cut gss.

  "Save your porcine mentations for the butcher’s block where they belong," she said icily. "Present your tribute properly, lest I cast you back into the gutter that birthed you."

  The sub froze for a second — then scrambled for his phone, visibly transferring another sum while babbling incoherent apologies. Moments ter, the banking app chimed again. Another ￡100 tribute, delivered with all the grace of a peasant tossing coins at the feet of a conquering army.

  Nysera allowed herself a thin smile, folding her hands neatly in her p. She said nothing, simply watching him fil and fawn, letting silence and disdain fill the space like a rising tide. Mortals could not endure silence from their betters. It forced them to act, to debase themselves further in search of absolution.

  Already, he was typing again, desperate for approval: "Property of ViscountessV! Property of ViscountessV!" over and over, a digital prayer to a goddess who had barely deigned to notice him.

  Nysera exhaled softly, the thrill of command settling into her bones like the first warm draughts of wine.

  This was not courtesanship. This was not survival. This was rule.

  She allowed the mortal to babble for a few moments longer, the chant of "Property of ViscountessV" scrolling past like a pathetic battle standard. Then, when the moment had ripened to its most pitiful, she spoke again, her voice low, clipped, undeniable.

  "You will cease your mewling," she said, leaning slightly forward so that her shadow sharpened on the grim wall behind her. "You will address me only as the Viscountess. Nothing more. Nothing less."

  The man froze, wide-eyed, the modern light of his screen gleaming off his cmmy forehead. He nodded frantically, words tumbling from him.

  "Yes, Viscountess! Sorry, Viscountess! Anything you command, Viscountess!"

  Nysera settled back in the chair, crossing her arms with the casual authority of someone who knew the throne was already hers.

  "Proper obeisance must be shown," she continued coolly. "You will bow. Now. Forehead to the floor. And you will stay there until dismissed."

  The mortal scrambled awkwardly, knocking over a cheap mp in his frantic desire to comply. Nysera watched with an expression of distant disdain, the way a queen might regard a dog performing tricks for scraps. His forehead thudded against the stained carpet, his entire body trembling with eagerness.

  "Lower," she said simply.

  He shifted, his back hunching deeper, until he looked like nothing more than a penitent worm before a goddess.

  The banking app chimed again: another ￡50, another offering id at her feet without even the need to command it.

  Nysera sat in perfect stillness, allowing the silence to stretch unbearably once more. She drank in the spectacle, the tributes, the easy, unquestioning obedience. In her old world, loyalty had been won through blood and terror and endless politicking. Here, it seemed, all it took was a few well-pced words, a gre sharpened to a bde, and the firm expectation of payment.

  When she judged that enough time had passed, that the mortal’s knees must ache and his pride must be worn thinner than the carpet beneath him, Nysera spoke one final command.

  "You have served enough for today," she said, her voice cutting through the crackling static of his cheap connection like a bde. "Begone, until summoned anew."

  There was a frantic flurry of movement—the man scrambling to offer yet another thanks, another desperate pledge of loyalty—but Nysera ended the session with a precise tap of her finger, severing the connection as effortlessly as severing the head of a snake.

  Silence recimed the grim little ft. The only sound was the soft, insistent ping of the banking app updating her bance.

  Nysera set the phone down gently on the coffee table, leaned back into Mira’s battered chair, and crossed her arms, letting the moment settle over her in slow, electric waves. The taste of it was sweeter than she had anticipated. Not merely survival. Not petty scrambling among desperate mortals.

  It had been so once before.

  In the old world, she had broken a creature just like this—a boy stripped of his station, no power—had shaped him, house-trained him, taught him obedience. And he had risen higher than she intended, in the end. Become something monstrous, yes, but strong. Terrifying. Necessary.

  Nysera gazed out over the grim, grey sprawl of the city beyond the window, the flickering lights like stars drowning in a swamp.

  Perhaps she would do it again.

  An army, this time. A host of loyal wretches falling over themselves to serve her, worship her, enrich her — and perhaps, if any of them had the spine for it, to become something more. Vilins of their own petty stories. Weapons she could unleash when needed.

  She smiled, slow and sharp.

  Let the saints have their trembling flocks.

  She would command an empire of pigs and monsters—and they would pay for the privilege of kneeling at her feet.

  This time, no noble title would be given to her by birthright.

  This time, she would forge it from tribute and blood.

  Before retiring for the night, Nysera retrieved the cursed phone one st time, the screen warm against her palm. Her fingers hovered over the ptform’s posting box, the audience already buzzing faintly at the edges of her growing court.

  A final decree, she thought, something to mark the evening’s conquest.

  She typed:

  "First pig rolled over tonight. Tribute received. Kneel properly, or don’t bother kneeling at all."

  Satisfied, she set it down smiling to herself.