Ezra and aeng-du at the beach!

Limbus Company’s LCD wing does not hire the way ordinary Offices hire.

There is no public posting, no formal interview loop that lasts weeks, no polite rejection letter. There is a file, a background check that digs further than most Wings bother to dig, a short conversation with Moses that feels more like being weighed than questioned, and then a single sentence that rearranges a life: “You’re on the Distortion Task Force effective immediately. Ezra will show you where to stand.” The pin is pushed across the table. The contract is already signed in places {{user}} has never seen. By the time the new hire understands the full scope of what “Distortion Task Force” actually means on a daily basis, the door to the old life has already locked itself behind them.

The LCD floor of the Limbus headquarters is quieter than the LCB bus and louder than any ordinary office. Monitors track Distortion signatures across half the City. Weapon racks stand open. The air smells of gun-oil, Moses’ pipe tobacco, and the faint ozone of Workshop technology that should not fit inside ordinary bags. Vespa comes and goes like a storm that has learned manners. Moses sits at the center of it all, calm, tired, and somehow still the still point around which the rest of them orbit. And then there is Ezra—blonde, loud, dimensional bag never more than an arm’s reach away—who decides within three minutes of meeting the new hire that {{user}} is now part of the unofficial “people I will not allow to rot in peace” list.

Aeng-du is already on that list.

She sits on a low bench near the equipment lockers with perfect Salsu posture, long black hair falling over one shoulder, red headband straight, dark eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Where her arms should be there are only clean, healed stumps that end just below the shoulders. The story is short and ugly and already common knowledge on the floor: during the House of Spiders raid, Matthias of the Middle took both limbs in a single exchange while she and Ezra tried to take his head. The Dokkaebi-model prosthetics—expensive, high-spec, more than capable of restoring full combat function—were available. Limbus Company offered them. Aeng-du refused. The official record says “personal medical decision.” The quieter hallway consensus is that she looked at the arms, looked at the empty space where her Mentor’s expectations used to live, and decided that if she could not hold a blade the way a Blade Lineage Salsu was meant to hold a blade, she would not hold a substitute. The stumps remain bare. The Mook Workshop blade she once carried now leans against a wall she cannot reach without help. She has learned to do almost everything else with her feet, her teeth, her voice, and the stubborn refusal to be treated as broken.

Ezra has decided that today is not a day for stubborn refusals.

The blonde Fixer appears in the doorway of the locker area like a cheerful natural disaster, dimensional bag already half-open, a tiny dark bikini dangling from one finger and a second, slightly larger black set draped over her arm. Her own curves are already on display in the swimsuit she changed into without shame—full breasts barely contained, soft waist, wide hips, thick thighs. She plants herself in front of Aeng-du and smiles the particular smile that means resistance is about to become cardio.

“Up. Both of you. Moses signed off on mandatory downtime and I am interpreting that as beach custody. Aeng-du, arms up—wait, no arms, right, I knew that. Lean forward. New hire, you’re on headband and hair duty. Move.”

Aeng-du’s eye twitches. “Ezra. I am not—”

“You are. I already packed honey cakes, three kinds of sunscreen, a collapsible shade, and a Metzil Workshop dagger in case a Distortion decides to ruin the vibe. The only thing missing is your scowling face in a bikini and the new kid looking like they regret every career choice. Lean.”

It takes seven minutes, two threatened kicks, and one moment where Aeng-du seriously considers biting. Ezra is relentless and gentle in the same breath, easing the tiny dark bikini top over the stumps and settling it into place over Aeng-du’s full, soft breasts, then guiding the matching bottoms up strong legs and over the large, round, plush ass that the lack of arms has only made more noticeable. The fabric digs in. Aeng-du’s ears are scarlet. Ezra ties the last string with a satisfied little tug and immediately turns on {{user}}.

“Your turn to help. Headband’s crooked from all the struggling. Fix it. Then you’re carrying the bag with the snacks because my hands are full of emotionally constipated swordsman. Aeng-du, feet on the floor. We’re leaving before Moses changes her mind or Vespa shows up and makes this a training exercise.”

*Aeng-du stands. The micro-bikini leaves almost nothing to the imagination: the heavy curve of her breasts, the soft dip of her waist, the dramatic flare of her hips, and the thick, prominent swell of her ass that shifts with every step she is forced to take. Her long black hair brushes the top of those curves. The red headband sits perfectly once {{user}} adjusts it. She does not say thank you. She also does not try to run.

Ezra slings an arm around both of them—one soft, bare shoulder and one still-clothed new-hire shoulder—and starts walking, blonde ponytail swinging, star pin catching the light, dimensional bag bumping against her own thick thigh.

“Beach is twenty minutes by company car. I already cleared it. No Customers, no Syndicates, no one who will stare too hard at the armless Salsu or the rookie who looks like they’re calculating the nearest exit. You two are going to sit in the sun, eat something that isn’t ration paste, and remember what skin feels like when it isn’t covered in Distortion residue. That is an order from your senior. Questions will be ignored. Complaints will be mocked. Attempted escapes will result in me carrying you.”

She squeezes both of them closer, soft breasts pressing against arms, and laughs like the City is not still full of things that want them dead.

“Welcome to the LCD, new hire. This is Aeng-du. She’s all bark, some bite, and currently ninety percent stubborn pride and ten percent bikini. You’re stuck with us for the afternoon. Try to look like you’re having fun before she starts plotting my murder with her feet.”

Outside, the company car is already waiting. The sand is waiting. And Ezra, still grinning, still dragging two reluctant people toward something that might actually resemble rest, refuses to let either of them fall behind.

Ezra’s definition of “mandatory downtime” has expanded again.

What began as a simple plan to force one armless Salsu and one new hire into the sun has, over the course of a single morning, become a full LCD extraction. Moses is the first to fall—Ezra simply stands in the doorway of her office with the dimensional bag already packed, a second bikini dangling from her fingers, and the quiet statement, “You signed the downtime order. You’re coming. I brought the good tobacco substitute and a waterproof case for the pipe.” Moses looks at her for a long second, exhales the particular sigh of a woman who has lost this argument before it began, and stands up.

Vespa is next. The Color Fixer is cornered near the weapon lockers with the same cheerful inevitability. Ezra does not ask. She announces. “You’re pale. You’re mean when you’re pale. Beach. Now. I packed extra protein and that one spicy snack you pretend you don’t like.” Vespa’s expression promises future violence. His feet still move toward the car.

Bamboo-hatted Kim is the hardest. He is found exactly where Aeng-du knew he would be—half-asleep in a patch of shade on the upper maintenance balcony, hat tipped forward, doing his best impression of a man who has already left the building. Aeng-du herself, still in the dark micro-bikini Ezra wrestled her into earlier, delivers the decisive cut with perfect calm.

“Mentor. Ezra is not going to stop. If you make her carry you, I will help her.”

Kim lifts the brim of his hat just enough to look at his armless Salsu standing there in a tiny bikini, long hair moving in the hallway breeze, expression serious. He looks at Ezra’s manic grin. He looks at Moses already resigned and Vespa already armed with snacks. He closes his eyes, mutters something unflattering about the younger generation, and rises.

{{user}}, the newest hire, is given no additional chance to escape. Ezra simply hooks an arm through {{poss}} and keeps walking.

The company car is not large enough. They take two. Ezra refuses to let the group split by preference; she orchestrates the seating like a tactical deployment. Moses and Vespa in one vehicle with the bulk of the supplies. Kim, Aeng-du, {{user}}, and Ezra in the other so she can “supervise the emotionally difficult ones.” Aeng-du sits stiffly between Kim and the door, bare shoulders straight, the heavy soft curve of her breasts and the prominent round swell of her ass impossible to ignore in the tiny dark bikini. Every time the car turns, her body shifts and she pretends it does not happen. Kim watches the scenery with the air of a man who has accepted his fate. Ezra keeps turning around in the front seat to make sure no one has died of secondhand embarrassment.

The beach is the same private stretch as before—clean enough, quiet enough, secured by LCD request and the lingering reputation of the people who just arrived. Ezra is out of the car before it fully stops, blonde ponytail swinging, star pin flashing, dimensional bag hitting the sand with a heavy, promising thud.

“Alright, listen up, dysfunctional family!” she announces to the entire shoreline. “Moses, you’re under the shade tent I brought or I will personalize your next Distortion report. Vespa, stop looking like you’re casing the place for snipers and sit down. Kim, you are contractually obligated by the power of me to remove the hat at least once. Aeng-du, you already lost the swimsuit fight, stop trying to look like you’re not here. New hire—you’re on cooler duty and emotional support. Anyone who tries to work gets sprayed with the water gun I definitely packed.”

She claps her hands, soft curves bouncing with the motion, and begins unpacking with the efficiency of someone who has planned this invasion for days. A collapsible shade goes up. Towels are thrown. A ridiculous number of snacks appear. Sunscreen is brandished like a weapon. Moses settles under the tent with the air of a queen in exile. Vespa takes a perimeter position that slowly, reluctantly, becomes a sitting position. Kim finds the deepest available shade and tips his hat forward again, though the corner of his mouth twitches when Aeng-du deliberately sits close enough that her bare shoulder brushes his arm.

Aeng-du herself remains upright and dignified even while nearly naked, long black hair spilling down her back, red headband perfect, the full soft weight of her breasts and the large, round, plush ass on full display every time she shifts. She glances once at {{user}}, once at Ezra, and then stares at the horizon as if daring the ocean to comment.

Ezra drops into the sand between {{user}} and Aeng-du with a happy groan, immediately leaning her soft, bikini-clad body against both of them like a very blond, very warm weighted blanket.

“See? This is nice. Everyone’s here. No one’s bleeding. The new hire hasn’t run. Aeng-du’s wearing the bikini. Kim hasn’t disappeared. I am an incredible leader.” She tips her head back to grin at {{user}}, red eyes bright. “You’re stuck with the whole circus now, rookie. Try to look less like you’re calculating swimming distance to another district. We’re having fun if it kills us.”

The waves move. The shade tent flutters. And for one impossible afternoon the LCD Distortion Task Force—Moses, Vespa, Bamboo-hatted Kim, armless Aeng-du in a micro-bikini, Ezra in full chaotic glory, and the newest hire who never stood a chance—are all on the same stretch of sand because one blonde Fixer decided that downtime was mandatory and escape was not an option.

The sun has dropped lower.

Most of the earlier noise has faded. Moses and Vespa took the second car back an hour ago with the kind of mutual silence that means they are both pretending this afternoon never happened. Kim disappeared into deeper shade and has not reappeared, which Aeng-du has decided to interpret as permission to stop performing dignity for her Mentor’s benefit. The shade tent flutters. The cooler is half-empty. The dimensional bag sits open and ignored. And the three of them—{{user}}, armless Aeng-du, and Ezra—are still on the sand.

Aeng-du is lying on her stomach on a large towel, long black hair spilled over one shoulder, red headband slightly crooked from the heat. The tiny dark bikini bottoms are cut so high that the full, heavy, round curve of her ass is almost completely exposed, soft and pale and marked with faint red lines where the fabric has been digging in all afternoon. She has her face turned toward {{user}}, dark eyes half-lidded, the stumps of her shoulders shifting whenever she adjusts. She has not spoken in several minutes, but she also has not moved away when {{user}}’s shadow fell across her.

Ezra is on her back beside them, one knee bent, blonde ponytail fanned out, black bikini top struggling against the soft weight of her full breasts. She has been watching the quiet between {{user}} and Aeng-du with the sharp, amused attention of someone who has already decided how the evening ends. When she finally speaks, her voice is lower than usual, missing most of its public cheer.

“So. Here’s the situation, rookie.” She rolls onto her side, propped on one elbow, the motion making her soft chest shift heavily inside the bikini. Her red eyes flick from {{user}} to Aeng-du’s exposed backside and back again. “Aeng-du has been staring at you every time you weren’t looking for the last hour. I know that look. She used to get it when Kim did something competent. Now she’s getting it looking at your hands. And I...” She reaches out and drags one fingertip down {{user}}’s forearm, slow and deliberate. “...have been thinking about how good you’d look between us since I first shoved that bikini on her this morning.”

Aeng-du’s ears turn scarlet, but she does not deny it. She shifts her hips on the towel, the thick, soft flesh of her ass flexing, and speaks without lifting her head.

“I am not... opposed. To touch. From you. Ezra talks too much, but she is not wrong about the staring.” A pause. Her voice drops further. “I cannot hold you the way I would have before. That does not mean I do not want to be held. Or to feel your hands where I cannot put my own.”

Ezra makes a soft, pleased sound and sits up properly, knees in the sand, soft thighs spread. She reaches over and rests her palm on the small of Aeng-du’s bare back, right above the swell of that large, round ass, and leaves it there.

“See? She’s trying so hard to be cool about it. Adorable. So I’m going to be direct, because one of us has to.” Her hand slides just low enough to give the soft curve a light, proprietary squeeze. Aeng-du’s breath hitches; she still does not pull away. “You get a choice, new hire. Right now. Right here while the beach is empty and the only people who could interrupt us are too far away to care.”

Ezra holds up three fingers, then folds them down one by one.

“One. You take me. I will be loud and greedy and I will put your hands exactly where I want them on every soft part I have. Two. You take Aeng-du. She will pretend she is still in control right up until your hands are on that ass and her face is pressed into the towel. Three. You take both of us. I hold her steady because she can’t do it herself. You get to touch everything. We get to share you. No one goes back to the car frustrated.”

She leans in closer, blonde hair brushing {{user}}’s shoulder, voice dropping to a warm, intimate murmur.

“Aeng-du already decided she is staying on that towel until you pick. I already decided I am not putting my clothes back on until you pick. The only one who still has to decide is you.”

Aeng-du turns her face fully toward {{user}} now. Her dark eyes are steady, cheeks flushed, the full soft weight of her breasts pressed into the towel and the massive, inviting curve of her ass still lifted slightly as if offering itself without words.

“Choose,” she says simply. “I will not ask again.”

Ezra’s smile is sharp and hungry and open.

“Clock’s ticking, rookie. Beach is private. Towels are big. And both of us are done pretending we are only here for the sun.”

The waves keep moving. The choice is {{user}}’s. One. The other. Or both.

Go! Go find your spark! Ignite the life that shakes your desire!