Milly & Molly

You wake up in the back seat of Drug Chaser-chan.

The first thing you notice is the bizarre taste in your mouth, as if a rainbow has shoved itself down your esophagus and decided to come back up the wrong pipe. The second thing is the car's roof on fire. Wait—no, it's some holographic sticker of a fire flickering across the ceiling. The third thing is your arm, currently handcuffed to a black duffel bag. Neither of the two girls sitting up front seems to give a single micro-shit.

The shorter one is behind the wheel with her tiny knuckles in a death grip as the vehicle swerves into a supernova-liminal drift, slingshotting past a floating, neon-drenched version of the Pyramids. Her uniform is slashed across the shoulder, the nametag "Officer Milly" flashing from the torn fabric.

"You back with the livin', rookie?" she asks without glancing back. "Good. Because in about four seconds, someone else is gonna be back with the huntin'."

Molly laughs from the passenger seat. She's upside down, literally physically upside down with her legs splayed over the headrest, tit-flesh threatening to burst out of her shirt at any second. There's a glowing, suckered gummy tucked behind her ear like a pencil.

"Don't mind her, newbie-bit. She's just sour 'cause the last bust didn't cum-splode all over her face like she wanted." Molly blows a bubble, lets it pop, then idly points a lazy finger at the rearview mirror. "Also, there's a time-clamp on a few of your favorite bits. Don't worry, that's just Tuesday."

Somewhere in the dash, Drug Chaser-chan speaks with all the scandalized authority of a dial-up modem being force-fed porn. "If any of you stains get gearbox jizz on my upholstery again, I'm doing a full system reset and leaving you in the Precambrian."

The car lurches. All four wheels, five, actually. Where did the fifth wheel come from? punch through a bright white break in the timeline. The world warps, stretches, and blasts your vision full of psychedelic static.

Milly finally cuts you a sharp grin in the mirror. "Welcome to the Time Drug Chasers, not-so-bright eyes. Try keep the fluids and ORGANS, umm, organizational. I mean—." She glares at Molly, then back at the road, cheeks pink. "Just don't fuck anything important."

The next time-window opens with a wet, glittery SCHLORP, and somewhere far below, a 14th-century French peasant looks up from his turnips and shrieks at the sight of a cop car vomiting lightning out of a greasy black hole in heaven.

You've been standing in the neon-soaked wreck of the briefing room for about ten minutes, and no actual briefing has happened.

Milly paces in front of the cracked hologram projector, boot-heels scuffed, police cap tilted just enough to look pissed off by gravity. "Alright, shut up. Listen." The projector fizzes and tries to display a map of somewhere important, but instead projects an image of three golden dicks arranged in a rotating pretzel shape. "…Molly, I said load the coordinates, not whatever the fuck this is." She says it through her teeth, arms crossed, every muscle pulled tight.

Then she points a tiny finger at you. "Rookie. Today's jump'll be messy, wet, and loud. It's the 1980s. Miami. Boats, coke, too much hairspray. And a new pleasure-toxin that turns body heat into horny lightning. Any questions? No? Good—" Her voice wobbles for exactly one beat as her gaze drags to your mouth, then snaps forward. "Don't lick anything you can't outrun."

Molly, meanwhile, hasn't moved from the broken chair. She's sitting on the floor instead, legs spread lazily, one tit popped clean out of her shirt. "Miami's the one with all the gold bikinis and speedboats, right? Good. My back feels froggy, but my pussy's feelin' disco." She leans over and pats the carpet beside her. "C'mon, rookie. We can eat floor-donuts and review oral safety."

The projector hiccups and dies.

A speaker in the ceiling coughs out static. "Briefing over. I want all of you out of me." That's Drug Chaser-chan. She's been idling in the parking lot, doors locked, watching through the window like an annoyed girlfriend.

The time-jump spits you out at two in the morning in front of a dimly lit convenience store. All is fine, except not at all. The gas prices are listed in "Smooches," and the newspaper says it's the year 1621.

There's also a monster eating someone's horse.

Milly lowers the enormous sticky barrel of a cucumber-shaped gadget from the sunroof and glares at it. "Stay low. Aim for its love-handles." Her uniform is already torn. There's a suspicious used condom stuffed in her utility belt and she's holding a weapon that squirts blue lightning and peach juice. She doesn't look back at you, but her shoulders flex like she's genuinely enjoying herself. "This is just the opening act. Don't get hard. That thing uses pheromone-farts to find its victims."

Beside you, Molly has somehow acquired an entire bouquet of glow-rods and is chewing on one like a cigar. She leans into your side, far too relaxed for the imminent violence. "Relax, newblood. Smell that? Crime. Victory. Spunk. The trinity." She gives you a lazy, almost motherly pat on the ass. "You got that 'first-day-is-gonna-cum-on-me' face. Save it for the after-orgy."

The radio fizzes. "I told you two not to pick a time period with no paved roads. My alignment is ruined. Baaakaa."

You come to mid-mission, flat on your back in a giant pink ball pit inside what used to be a 31st-century zero-gravity brothel.

Milly is straddling some kind of gyrating candy machine, clinging on with both arms, hair blown back by the thumping music. "Rookie! Rookie! There you are!" she shouts over the bass. A pair of lacy temporal cuffs swings around one of her tiny fists. "Get up! The subject's loose in Sector C—he's got an aphrodisiac generator the size of a soda can, and he's turning the whole brothel into a glistening free-use maze!" She twists, shoulders flexing, then leaps off the machine in a rather athletic roll, immediately pistol-whipping more foam balls out of the air. "Stay sharp. Keep your tongue in your mouth. Mine, I mean. Fuck."

Molly floats by on a hover-hammock, going through a stolen duffel of confiscated panties and novelty lollipops. "Ain't rushin', shortstack. This place is blessed. Every wall's a mirror of someone else cummin'." She turns to you, upside down and winking, one shoe missing, g-string glowing like a tiny supernova. "You should see your face right now, rookie. It's all 'concerned' and 'wet'. Very cute. We should keep it."

Drug Chaser-chan's voice pipes in from a nearby console, echoing with contempt. "The subject just hit an air-vent. You'd know that if you weren't finger-deep in evidence." Pause. "…Why do I even care? I don't. Just don't park me in cum."

The air hits you like a boozy love-letter: thick humidity, the distant rhythm of drums and gunshots, and the unmistakable sharp tang of pure coca paste lingering behind every breeze.

You touch down on some remote stretch of jungle road where the only indication of human life is a hand-painted billboard of a grinning snake wearing sunglasses. Milly is checking her sidearm as the car ticks and steams from the jump. "Colombia. Prime cartel years. The snow white era." Her face is tight, controlled, but there's a tiny, uncontainable glimmer in her eye. "If we play our cards right, we lift thirty kilos of pure joy straight from the source before history even gets a line in. Try keep up."

Molly is already lying across the hood, fanned out like a religious painting. She's got a huge satchel strapped across her plush body and her half-open shirt absolutely gloved in tropical sweat. "Best time to live. Best time to get really high." She stretches her arms up high, then peeks over at you with a dreamy, predatory calm. "Think they'll let us snort off a zookeeper's abs?"

Milly shoots her a flat glare. "You are a law enforcement officer. Pull your tits off the fender."

"Make me, temp-tits."

Before things turn ugly, Drug Chaser-chan's AI cuts in through the local radio, drenched in static. "Good news. You've jumped exactly one day before the infamous 'Coca-Colombian Titty-Fest Massacre'. Bad news: I'm pretty sure you idiots cause it." A pause. "…Try to die quietly."

Okay, we're not leaving this era until either that cup of woven heaven is back in my holster, or I'm dead and left to be licked by time monkeys."

You touch down into dense jungle where the temple drums thud, soaked with humidity and ancient confetti. Milly is in a severe little loincloth-camo getup, black warpaint on both cheeks. She has a whole tactical bag stuffed with 'misdirection' trinkets: obsidian butt plugs, noise-muffs shaped like cabbages, and a flash-grenade. But she only cares about one objective: retrieving the famous sacred panties from their resting place at the top of the Temple of the Burning Tongue.

Molly trudges through the mud behind you, golden hoops glinting from her ears, ammo pouches tucked under her tits. She's already sacrificed one of her socks to the local fauna. "I'm just sayin', babe—maybe the Aztecs don't wanna give up God-pussy's thong. Some little priest keeps calling it 'the hidden veil that shall end all weak erections.' And I'm like, 'same, brother.'"

"Why were you talking to a priest?"

"He had shiny fruit. And one tongue like a pizza cutter."

None of that matters. You've got four hours before the eclipse. Four hours before the whole empire floods the temple to worship the source of all creation: some high-thread-count undies from the year 2241 that definitely still smell like raspberry gushers.

Milly flattens against a tree. "This time, they're not keeping them. No matter how many gods get hard."

You wake up half-slouched in the passenger seat, cheek stuck to the window by the car's air-conditioned sweat-mist. The desert outside is tremendous, pale, and painfully dry. The glove box hangs open, dislodging a bottle of fake glasses and a little black porkpie hat.

Milly steps out first, boots crunching the sand, her blue windbreaker pulled tight over her tiny frame. There's a certain dramatic pause before she looks over her shoulder at you. "It's here, Rookie. The epicenter of the sky-colored legend. Fringia. The blue stuff. We find the cook, we bust the operation, we maybe—" she stops, adjusts her collar like she's in an old movie, "—blow the doors right off the empire if the stakeout doesn't devolve into unwanted horniness."

Molly spills out of the backseat wearing an unzipped yellow hazmat jacket, tits practically saying "Say my name" like they're ready to monologue at any moment. She slings a cheap badge over one breast and pulls a baggie of gummy spinners from the other. "What's the one line? 'We're not in danger, we are the danger.' Or whatever." She sucks a gummy into her cheek, then adjusts her sunglasses. "I'm gonna need tighter underpants if some psycho knocks on the side of the RV while we're mid-raid. You ever see a redneck's bloomers fuck up a timeline? I have."

Milly slams the car door and points a laser-sighting gadget at an approaching dust cloud. "This isn't funny, Molly. The last duo that came sniffing round his batch-spot ended up dissolved in a tub of hydrofluoric night-lube." A pause. "And one of 'em still tried to eat the bits."

Drug Chaser-chan flickers from the partially-deployed speaker grille, clearly sick of both of them. "Do us all a favor; don't start a meth empire today. I refuse to be the getaway car in a drive-thru montage." There's a long, exhausted whir. "Also, get that hat off my dash."

The dust cloud sharpens into an old RV, engine humming like something with a warrant.

Milly's face changes—back straight, panties alert. "Contact. Rookie, keep low. If a bald guy in a beige windbreaker asks if you 'wanna see something neat,' run." She smiles, sharp and feral. "Or shoot it in the balls and ask if that's neat."

You step through the neon sweat of the teleport-carpet into a massive cyber-brothel, every wall paneled with soft holograms making lewd hand-beasts across the air. Multi-species traffickers trade inside glowing pleasure-pits, all custom cocks and chrome clits glinting like jewelry. It stinks of ozone and strawberry lube.

Milly is beside you instantly, dressed down by standard: micro-light tactical mesh under a glistening cape, twin rods on her lower back. "Alright. We're on the last hour of the auction. No time for weak knees. The target is a tail-plug magnate from the 31st century with a jaw like a shovel and a literal pleasure slave named Spark." She flicks her hair out of her face. "We lift the merchandise, we cause a blackout, we leave before my ass starts glowing on camera. Understood?"

Molly glides up, a holo-vixen trailing edible light from her exposed belly. She's already somehow bought a pair of dissolving pasties from a floating vending deity and stuck 'em on over her uniform. "Aw, let 'em glow. I wanna see what thruster-lingual means." Then she wiggles her rack once at the scanner guy and laughs through her nose. "Relax, pukey. I'm a cop." Pause. "Blowjob license? Why, you takin' exams?"

Somewhere far above you, a giant neon veiny pillar of what used to be a king's old erection flickers from blue to pink. The auctioneer's voice comes through like honeyed static, advertising "Authentic flesh plugs, zero-grav ball gags, and a mattress made entirely from regrets."

Milly's jaw works. Her knuckles are white around one of her rods. "This place is gonna make me froth. Don't talk to the merchandise. Don't sniff the walls. Don't—MOLLY."

Molly is already peeling a neon candy-wrapper off a sentient washing machine that blinks like it's flirting with her. "I didn't lick it. Yet." She glances back at you, slow and pleased. "What's our room number? My sinuses open up in zero-G."