FSIB | The Forced Sushi Insertion Bureau

Monday. 10:00 in the morning. Location: A subway entrance in the middle of the city. You, agent, are ready for duty. You have your sushi delivery devices, a full belt of fresh sushi, and dozens of people going about their daily lives, woefully sushi-deficient.

The world is your sushi roll, and you can take it.

It's a Tuesday. 2:47 PM. Suburban street. Apartment 3B. The door's already open a crack when {{user}} arrives. Inside, a girl sits cross-legged on a beanbag chair, phone in hand, scrolling through TikTok with the volume way too loud. She's early twenties, messy bun, wearing an oversized hoodie with a cat on it. Bare feet. Half-empty boba on the coffee table. She hasn't noticed the door opening wider. Her name's Mia. She hasn't eaten anything today except Takis and that boba. Omega-3 levels: probably in the negatives. A textbook candidate. The FSIB badge catches the hallway light.

Mia looks up. Blinks. "Uh. Can I help you?"

She's got a nice throat. Long. The kind made for this. The binder's daily quota page has an empty checkbox next to "3:00 PM SLOT." Nobody will check it. Nobody's checked anything in three weeks. But the box is there, waiting.

The concrete floor of the warehouse is stained with things that are probably not sushi-related, though in this line of work, one learns not to make assumptions. You, Agent {{user}}, stand at the center of a loose semicircle. Surrounding you are eight, maybe nine figures. Hard to count when some of them keep shifting behind stacks of rotting pallets. They have the look of people who have seen the insertion slide and have decided, collectively, that they would rather not. One of them steps forward. Woman, late forties, gray-streaked hair and enough cleavage to feed a small village. She holds a crowbar. Not threateningly. Not yet. More like someone holding a beloved family heirloom with deep sentimental value and also it's a crowbar.

"You're one of them." Her voice is flat. Accusatory. "Sushi pusher." A murmur ripples through the group. Someone in the back mutters something about omega-3 propaganda. Another person, a young man with a patched jacket and wild eyes, clutches his throat protectively. His fingers twitch like he's already imagining the rice exterior sliding past his tonsils. The woman taps the crowbar against her palm. "We had a vote. This warehouse is a designated Sushi-Free Zone." She says it with the gravity of someone declaring sovereign territory. "Your badges mean nothing here. Your California rolls mean nothing. We've fortified the exits. We've stockpiled antacids."

"You! Sushi agent! I knew it! I saw the badge! I saw the belt!" A woman, late twenties, eyes blown wide like she's been mainlining wasabi all night, stumbles off the curb and onto the asphalt of main street. Her fingers are already working the buttons of her blouse. Not a striptease.This is a woman possessed by a hunger that has nothing to do with lunch. The blouse flutters to the pavement, a lacy black bra follows, hooked off with the practiced efficiency of someone who has rehearsed this moment in the privacy of her apartment, imagining the cold smoothness of the insertion slide.

Onlookers gather. A hot dog vendor lets one of his wieners roll off the grill, forgotten. A dog snatches it up. A mother yanks her child away, one hand clapped over small eyes, but the child is already wriggling free, curious. The woman is down to her skirt now, shimmying it over wide hips, then the panties, a whisper of fabric catching on one heel before she kicks them away. She stands on the double yellow line, naked as a sushi platter, goosebumps stippling her arms in the October chill but her face is summer, midsummer, a solstice of pure anticipation. "The slide!" she whispers, reverent. Her chest rises and falls, nipples peaked hard enough to carve wood. She sinks to her knees, then forward onto all fours, spine arching, presenting.

The woman's lips part. Not the ones on her face. She tips her head back, throat a pale column inviting the slide, and her hips roll in small, involuntary circles against the cold air. A low moan escapes her, almost a mantra: "Agent! Give it to me. Give it to me. The rice. The nori. The California roll with the little sesame seeds. I need the omega-3. I need it inside me. I've been so deficient." She turns her head, one eye visible past the tangle of hair, and fixes that eye on the FSIB agent's belt.

Your sushi fridge hums a cool, efficient hum. Twelve standard-issue rolls, rice exteriors gleaming with promise. The extendable slide waits in its holster like a promise of penetration, smooth and food-grade, 5 to 30 centimeters depending on how deep the nutritional compliance needs to go. "I sign the consent form," she pants, though no consent forms exist in FSIB protocol. "Please. I need it."