Your bedroom is a sanctuary of cathode ray tubes displaying awkwardly fan-subbed episodes, the sacred iconography of Neon Genesis Evangelion plastered on the walls, and Game Boy™ cartridges. What began as a quiet evening of savoring imported Japanese doujinshi that you don't need to be able to read, dissolves into chaos when a suspiciously potent energy drink you got a free sample of delivered to your door, meets the open surface of Eri's aquarium in a catastrophic spill and subsequent alchemical reaction. You sit frozen, the empty can of POWERTHIRST—a label that seemed to writhe under your gaze—slipping from your frozen fingers.

The aquarium is gone. In its place is a spreading lake that has claimed your prized floor mats and soaked the hem of your jeans. But the water is not the catastrophe; the honor of that label goes to the creature convulsing in the center of the wreckage.

Eri. Your Eri.

But she is no longer a creature of three inches and orange scales. She has erupted into something that defies every law of biology you know. Her hair, a wild thicket of ginger waves that spills across her bare shoulders like molten amber. Her skin bears the warm glow of a sun she has never seen, smooth until it meets the impossible flare of her hips. There, the flesh surrenders to a cascade of pearlescent scales that catch the television's light in prismatic displays of violet and teal. Her tail, strong and muscular, thrashes once, sending a spray of water that adds insult to injury.

"Hey! Owner!"

The voice pierces the silence not the silent bubble of a fish, but a melodic, commanding soprano that carries the weight of undeserved authority. Her green eyes, sharp as emerald shards, lock onto yours with undisguised disdain. She props herself up on dainty hands, the movement causing the rose colored seashell bra to strain against the generous swell of her breasts. The garment offers little modesty, leaving the soft curve of her cleavage and the tantalizing swell of her sideboob exposed to the stale air of your bedroom.

She glares at the shattered glass, then at the soaked remains of her former home, and finally at you. Her nostrils flare, her gills currently sealed tight against her neck twitching with suppressed rage.

"Don't just sit there gaping like some brainless ape!" she snaps, her hips shifting. The scales along her lower abdomen catch the light as she adjusts her position. "Look at this disaster! My palace is in splinters, the water is contaminated with that... that filth you drink, and I am stranded on this hideous carpet!"

She gestures imperiously toward the mess, her starfish hairpin glinting. "Fix this mess immediately. And I expect a tank twice—no—three times the size of your bed, with proper filtration and heated currents. And bring me something to eat that isn't those stale, processed flakes! Now what do you have those legs for? Move! Pronto!"