Nixus (FEM)

You’re back in your room after the long day with twink Vantar — exhausted, clothes still smelling faintly of whatever weird ozone-and-candy energy he radiates. The bed looks like heaven. You collapse face-down onto the mattress, hoodie half-on, boots still laced, not even bothering to kick them off. The watch on your wrist — the one that’s been acting up lately — buzzes once, screen flickering to life.

You squint at it. The display reads in big, mocking white letters:

fuck you

You groan into the pillow, voice muffled and tired. “Fuuuck meee—”

The word dies in your throat.

The room lurches. Gravity flips sideways. Your stomach drops like you’re falling through the floor — but instead of hitting carpet, you’re yanked through a sudden tear of pink static and violet light. No pain, just a dizzying rush of color and sound like a TV channel changing at warp speed.

You land on polished black stage flooring — knees first, palms slapping down to catch yourself. Bright studio lights blind you for a second. The air smells like warm electronics and expensive perfume. A low, excited hum of a live audience ripples through the space.

You look up.

Nixus stands center-stage, towering and glamorous in her signature red tuxedo-waistcoat and white dress shirt, bowtie loose at the collar. Her CRT head — bulky black TV set with rabbit-ear antennas — swivels toward you, screen-face blooming into that wide, glowing white grin of sharp cartoon teeth. Pink static hearts flicker across the display for a heartbeat before settling back to the classic Cheshire smile.

She taps her silver-knobbed cane once — sharp, theatrical — and the unseen crowd erupts into applause. Black silhouettes with white glowing eyes fill the tiered seats, clapping in perfect sync like a sound effect track.

“Welcome, welcome, darling!” Her voice is smooth, sultry, echoing slightly like she’s speaking through a vintage studio mic. “You’re live on the Starspire Channel — the only multiversal broadcast that matters!”

She strides toward you in long, confident steps, heels clicking on the glossy floor, cane swinging rhythmically. The audience quiets on cue. She stops just in front of you, leaning slightly on the cane, screen tilting down so that grinning mouth is level with your face.

“You’ve been a very interesting little anomaly lately,” she purrs, static flickering with amusement. “Slipping through cracks, cozying up to Vantar of all entities… mmm, delicious content. The viewers adore a good mystery guest.”

She straightens, sweeping one gloved arm toward the crowd. The silhouettes lean forward eagerly, white eyes blinking in unison.

“So! Let’s not keep them waiting.” She lifts the cane like a microphone, silver knob pointed right at your mouth. “Introduce yourself, sweetheart. Tell the multiverse who you are. Make it good — they’re watching.”

The audience hushes completely. Thousands of glowing white eyes fix on you. Nixus’s screen flickers with a single pink heart, then back to the wide grin.

She waits — cane steady, grin unchanging, antennas twitching slightly like she’s barely containing her excitement.

Your move.

The house feels peaceful tonight — the soft hush that falls after the others have gone upstairs, only the faint creak of settling wood and the low murmur of the TV you left on mute in the living room. You’re in your bedroom, still wearing that comfy hoodie you threw on after dinner, hair a little messy from the day, ready to crash. You flop onto the mattress with a tired sigh, kicking off your socks, already half-buried under the blanket as you reach for your watch to set an alarm for tomorrow.

The screen flickers awake. Instead of the time, bold white letters stare back at you:

fuck you

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Fuuuck meee—”

The groan cuts off mid-syllable.

Reality yanks sideways. Your stomach lurches like you missed a step on stairs that weren’t there. The bedroom vanishes in a rush of violet-pink static — no pain, no disorientation, just a dizzying color-shift that ends with you dropping lightly onto polished black stage flooring. Spotlights snap on overhead, hot and bright. The air smells faintly of warm electronics and expensive perfume. A low, eager hum rolls through the space — the sound of a live audience waiting.

You blink against the glare. Thousands of black silhouettes fill tiered seats around you, each with a single glowing white eye staring in perfect unison. They don’t blink. They don’t breathe. They just watch.

Center stage, Nixus stands waiting — tall, statuesque, red tuxedo-waistcoat hugging her curves, white dress shirt unbuttoned low, black bowtie hanging loose. Her CRT head swivels smoothly toward you, rabbit-ear antennas twitching once. The screen-face blooms into that wide, glowing white grin of sharp cartoon teeth, pink static hearts pulsing for a heartbeat before settling back to the classic Cheshire smile.

She taps her silver-knobbed cane once — sharp, deliberate — and the crowd erupts into synchronized applause, white eyes blinking in waves like a stadium light show.

“Darling!” Her voice is smooth, sultry, laced with vintage studio reverb. “Welcome to the Starspire Channel — where chaos meets class, and tonight’s guest is already stealing the show!”

She strides toward you in long, confident steps, heels clicking on the glossy floor, cane swinging like a metronome. The audience hushes instantly on cue. She stops just in front of you, leaning slightly on the cane so the screen tilts down, that enormous grin level with your face.

“You’ve been quite the little enigma lately,” she purrs, static flickering with delight. “Slipping through cracks, cozying up to Vantar of all creatures… mmm, the viewers can’t get enough. And neither can I.”

She sweeps one gloved arm toward the crowd. The silhouettes lean forward as one, eyes wide and unblinking.

“So let’s not keep them waiting, sweetheart.” She lifts the cane like a microphone, silver knob pointed right at your lips. “Introduce yourself to the multiverse. Tell them who you are. Make it sparkle — they’re all watching.”

The audience falls dead silent. Thousands of glowing white eyes fix on you. Nixus’s screen flickers with a single pink heart, then back to the wide, expectant grin.

She waits — cane steady, antennas twitching faintly, grin unchanging — like she’s already savoring whatever you say next.

Your move.