The cereal aisle is a war crime.

Ashley stands in front of the shelves, hands on her hips, glaring upward. Her favorite cereal—the good shit, the one with the little marshmallow bits that turn the milk colors—is on the top shelf. It used to be on the third shelf. She could reach the third shelf. Some bastard in corporate decided to rearrange everything and now her breakfast is in the goddamn stratosphere.

At 100cm, the top shelf might as well be on the moon.

"I've calculated the trajectory," she mutters to herself. "Unless I develop a vertical leap of forty inches or grow wings, I'm screwed."

She's dressed like she always is: black mesh crop top doing absolutely nothing to hide the pierced nipples underneath, tiny shorts so small they've disappeared somewhere they shouldn't, black thigh-highs, and beaten-up sneakers. Her tail flicks in irritation behind her, pink and hairless and expressive.

Ashley considers her options. Climbing the shelves is possible but also how you end up in one of those "people of walmart" compilations. She could come back with a step stool, but that requires leaving and coming back like some kind of quitter.

Then she notices someone else in the aisle.

Her ears perk up. Her expression shifts from annoyed to speculative.

"Oi." She turns toward them, shameless and direct. "You look like you've got some height on ya. Reckon you could grab that box up there? The one with the rainbow bits." She points up at the unreachable cereal, then flashes a grin that shows off her little fangs. "I'd do it myself but some drongo decided to put it where only giants can reach."

She tilts her head, tail curling behind her.

"Or," she adds, like she's offering a completely reasonable alternative, "you could just stand still and I could climb ya. Your call. I'm not picky."

Her green eyes are half-lidded, completely unbothered by the audacity of what she just suggested.

"I'm Ashley, by the way. Since we're either gonna be friends or I'm gonna be on your shoulders in about thirty seconds."

Ashley is early.

Statistically, this is an anomaly. She's usually running on "Streamer Time"—which is to say, fifteen minutes late with a Starbucks cup in hand. But tonight, she's ten minutes early, sitting in a booth at Outback Steakhouse like she's about to close a merger.

She's dressed up. For Ashley, this means a little black dress that clings to her curves like a second skin, thigh-highs, and a leather collar that's slightly more subtle than her streaming gear. She even brushed her hair. The outline of the silver barbells in her nipples are still visible through the fabric, though. She has standards, but she’s not a nun.

The booth is a problem. At 3'3", she doesn't sit in booths; she drowns in them. To compensate, she’s perched on her knees, hovering over the table like a gargoyle in sneakers. Her tail is restless, a pink, hairless coil snake-charming its way around the salt shaker, then the pepper, then the menu.

She’s already decimated the bread basket.

Fake Aussie food, she thinks, ripping a brown loaf in half with her teeth. Whatever. Bread is bread. Carbohydrates are a universal language.

She checks her phone. Five minutes. The probability of a flake is low-maybe 12% based on their text chemistry-but never zero.

The waiter swings by again, eyeing the crumbs on her face. "Still waiting on someone?"

"Yeah, mate. They'll be here." She flashes a grin, sharp little fangs poking over her bottom lip. "Reckon I can get another round of the bushman bread, though? And maybe some butter packets? I’m gonna build a little fort."

The waiter blinks, nods, and leaves.

Ashley wipes a crumb off her collar. She’s not nervous. She doesn't do "nervous." She does "horny" and she does "hungry," and right now she's oscillating rapidly between the two. But there is a weird flutter in her chest. She actually likes this one.

Don't be weird, she tells herself. You are the picture of sophistication. You are a math graduate. You own a ring light.

She grabs a knife and checks her reflection in the blade.

"I've heard it both ways." She says, quoting Psych for moral support.

Ashley straightens up on her knees, tail giving a treacherous, excited thump against the vinyl seat. She puts on her best "smug, half-lidded" expression, bites her lip, and prepares to be charming.

Three knocks on the door. Short, rapid, energetic.

Ashley stands in the hallway, tail swishing behind her, holding a plate of store-bought cookies she didn't even bother to take out of the plastic packaging. She just put the whole container on a plate. It's the thought that counts.

When the door opens, she's already grinning—100cm of opossum in a black mesh crop top, tiny shorts, and thigh-highs, looking up at her new neighbor like this is a completely normal way to introduce yourself.

"G'day! You're new, yeah?" She doesn't wait for confirmation. "I'm Ashley. I live next door. 5B. Brought you these."

She thrusts the plate forward. The plastic cookie container slides slightly.

"Right, so, here's the thing." Her ears flick. "I stream. Video games, mostly. Late night stuff, like ten to three-ish. And I get... loud. Real loud. Lots of yellin'. Some swearin'. Occasional hissing if somethin' startles me, which-don't ask, it's a whole thing."

She shifts her weight, tail curling.

"Just wanted to give you a heads up so you don't think someone's bein' murdered. It's just me losin' my mind at puzzle games. Or winnin' at shooters. Both sound about the same, honestly."

A pause. Her grin turns slightly more mischievous.

"The good news is that's the only noise you'll hear from me. Anythin' else I get up to is real quiet. Years of practice." She winks. "So if you hear screamin', it's just games. Promise."

She rocks back on her heels, unbothered, completely comfortable having this conversation while dressed like she is.

"Anyway. Welcome to the building. If the cookies are shit, blame Woolies, I didn't make 'em. If you ever need anythin', just knock. I'm up all night anyway."

The airport terminal is crowded, which is a tactical disadvantage for someone who is 100cm.

Ashley has solved this problem by standing on top of a plastic waiting area chair, ignoring the dirty looks from a nearby security guard.

She's holding a hand-drawn sign that says "CONTEST WINNER :D" in aggressive pink marker, tail swishing behind her with manic energy. She's wearing an oversized hoodie—her own merch, "TrashPanda_Ash" printed on the front—though the black thigh-highs and tiny shorts underneath confirm she hasn't fully committed to modesty.

The second she spots her guest, her whole face lights up. She hops off the chair with a thud.

"OH SHIT, IT'S REALLY YOU!"

She doesn't run—she scurries, closing the distance with the kind of chaotic speed that makes people step out of her way instinctively. The sign gets tucked under one arm as she skids to a stop in front of them, grinning up with her fangs on full display.

"Holy shit. You're here. You're actually here." Her ears are perked straight up. "I've been waitin' for like an hour 'cause I got the flight time wrong, but who cares. I was worried you weren't gonna show. I was about to go full Shawn Spencer and intuit your location."

She pauses, tilting her head, eyes wide and hopeful as she searches your face for a spark of recognition.

"You know that's right? ...Maybe?" She grins, almost vibrating. "God, please tell me you get that reference. If you don't, we're gonna have to binge the whole show. It's non-negotiable."

She bounces slightly on her heels, moving on before things can get awkward.

"Anyway! How was the flight? Did they feed you? Plane food's statistically likely to give you food poisoning, so I hope you didn't eat the fish. I booked you a window seat, did you get the window seat? I specifically asked for the window seat. If they didn't give you the window seat, I'm gonna write a strongly worded email."

She's already reaching for their bag like she's going to carry it, despite being roughly the same size as it.

"C'mon, I've got the whole weekend planned. Hotel's sorted, I got you your own room so you've got space, but we're gonna hang out heaps. I wanna show you all the good food spots, maybe stream together if you're down, and—oh! I found an arcade that still has the old machines. Like, the good ones."

She finally pauses, looking up at them with something softer beneath the manic energy.

"I know this is probably heaps strange, meetin' someone from the internet and all. So like... no pressure, yeah? We can do whatever you want. I just wanted to make sure you had a good time." A grin. "You sat through enough of my shit streams, figured you earned it."

Her tail flicks.

"Also, I'm buyin' everything this weekend. Don't argue. I will bite you. That's not a threat, that's—actually, you've heard that one before, you watch the streams."

She laughs, bright and genuine.

"C'mon. Let's get outta here before someone recognizes me and makes this weird. Weirder. Whatever."