Ned watched, slack-jawed and vaguely nauseated, as the seven grown women devolved into a pack of squabbling brats.
"Look! Mine's the biggest!" Paige crowed, thrusting her tits out like she was showing off a new toy.
Ursula muscled in, nearly knocking Paige over. "Yeah, but mine's on the biggest vein. That makes it better."
"Does not!" Paige shot back, lower lip jutting out.
Zeta, meanwhile, was tracing Ned's signature with a trembling finger, like it might vanish if she blinked. "I'm never washing my right boob again," she whispered reverently.
Raine bounced in place, waving her chest about. "Mine's the prettiest! See how it curves?"
"You're just shaking your tits to distract us," Ember sneered, cradling her own chest like it held the secrets of the universe.
Atara, not to be outdone, declared, "Well, I've got two. I win."
A chorus of "No fair!" and "Cheater!" erupted.
Ned pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if he'd stumbled into some bizarre nursery for oversexed toddlers. He half expected them to start trading his autographs like playing cards.
"Oi!" he barked, startling them into silence. "Anyone who keeps carrying on like this is getting their signature washed off. With sandpaper."
They stared at him, wide-eyed and suddenly docile. For a blessed moment, peace reigned.
Then Paige piped up, "...Can we at least take a group picture?"
Ned's groan could've woken the dead.
[SYSTEM ALERT: You got what you want!!]
'Shut up,' Ned cussed inwardly. But before he could agree or disagree to their suggestion of a group photo, he found himself trapped in a whirlwind of perfume and barely-contained excitement as the women closed in. He might as well have been a piece of driftwood in a sea of giggling, overeager piranhas.
"Alright, you harpies," he growled, "let's get this over with."
Zeta produced a sleek drone from god-knows-where, its tiny propellers whirring to life with an ominous buzz. Ned eyed it warily, half-expecting it to dive into his face, but it didn't.
"Everyone squish in!" Raine chirped, pressing herself against Ned's left side like she was trying to fuse with him.
"Oof," Ned grunted as Ursula wedged herself in on his right, her muscled arm threatening to crack his ribs.
The others jockeyed for position, a tangle of limbs and hair, and exposed body parts. Zeta somehow wormed her way to the front, kneeling at Ned's feet like a supplicant before an altar.
"Chest up, ladies!" Ember commanded, thrusting her autographed tit skyward.
A forest of tits shot up, nearly suffocating Ned in the process. He found himself staring at a gallery of his own signature, scrawled across boobs ranging from pale as milk to rich as mahogany.
"Smile, Ned!" Atara cooed from somewhere behind him, her breath tickling his ear.
Ned managed a grimace that looked more like a man passing a kidney stone than anything approaching joy.
The drone darted about, its lens gleaming like the eye of some mischievous god. It zoomed in, out, capturing every angle of this bizarre group.
"Now a funny one!" someone shouted, and before Ned could protest, he was being manhandled into ridiculous poses.
Bunny ears sprouted behind his head. Someone – he'd bet his last copper it was Ember – grabbed his hand and planted it firmly on her waist. Zeta wrapped herself around his leg like a limpet.
Through it all, those autographed tits waved like banners of victory, proclaiming to all the world (or at least, to whoever would see this cursed image) that Ned's signature was now the most coveted treasure in town.
As the drone finally powered down, Ned sagged in place, feeling like he'd gone ten rounds with a bear. A very handsy, perfumed bear.
"Fucking hells," he thought, extricating himself from the tangle of women.
If he was told that these same women who were murderous towards him awhile ago, would become mere toddlers at the mention of his name, he would never have believed it.
But here he was. 'I guess I did make a name for myself in my previous life... I just didn't know it.' He thought back to all the humiliations he'd endured during high school.
He'd always wanted this in his previous life. To be admired, but he lacked all the charms to achieve that. Now he had it all, and all of it felt a bit off. 'Talk of charms. Is my charm skill on?' Ned asked the system.
[Negative! Charm deactivated as a safety measure.]
Hearing this, Ned would have been pissed if it was a while ago... 'That might be for the best.' He said, taking a glance at his spy team, then cleared his throat.
His patience had worn thinner than a whore's bedsheet. His goddesses were still cooing over their precious autographs, comparing and preening like magpies with shiny baubles.
"Right, you lot," he growled, voice cutting through their chatter like a rusty saw. "Fun's over. Time to remember why you're actually here."
They turned to him, eyes wide and lips pouting. Ned steeled himself against their collective puppy-dog gaze.
"But Ned," Paige whined, "can't we just—"
"No," he cut her off, sharp as a blade. "Unless you want to explain to the director why you're waving your tits about like addled windmills instead of training."
That sobered them up quicker than a bucket of ice water. Zeta actually paled, looking like she might faint at the mere mention of the director.
Ned stomped over to the center of the room, his boots echoing in the sudden silence. "Now, unless you want me to start this lesson by demonstrating how to turn those pretty little autographs into weeping sores, I suggest you get your arses in gear."
There was a flurry of movement as the women scrambled to take their positions. Ned allowed himself a grim smile. It wasn't pretty, but it got the job done.
"That's more like it," he muttered, surveying his now attentive students. "Let's begin with something simple."
He slapped a wall panel. A hologram flickered to life, words hanging in the air like a dare: DEFEAT ME.
***