Leave to the compound
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 12
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Verosika reclined in the back seat of the nondescript black sedan, the kind of bland vehicle that blended into traffic like a shadow—nothing like her usual fleet of gleaming limos or custom sports cars. A massive, loose fur coat enveloped her enhanced frame, its plush folds hiding the bulging muscles and curvaceous power beneath. Huge, oversized sunglasses perched on her perfect nose, concealing those piercing pink eyes that now radiated even more smug dominance. She crossed her long, thick legs—feeling the quads flex subtly under the coat—and stared out the tinted window at the winding mountain roads, a faint smirk playing on her fuller lips.
Loona wasn't with her, much to the bodyguard's chagrin. When the bodyguard had protested—growling about leaving her mistress "defenseless"—Verosika had giggled smugly, peeling back one sleeve of her coat to flex a massive bicep that peaked like a mountain under golden-orange skin. "Oh, Mutt," she'd purred, voice dripping with condescension, "I'm a big, strong girl now. I can handle myself." Loona had been dispatched in one of Verosika's flashy luxury SUVs, trailing far behind to seed confusion—paparazzi bait, social media whispers of sightings in different directions. Perfect cover for her vanishing act.
Up front, Millie gripped the wheel with cheerful intensity, her short, pear-shaped frame bouncing slightly with the bumps in the road. The 26-year-old Texan was a bundle of energy—tan skin glowing under the dashboard lights, charcoal-black bob curling messily around her face, green eyes sparkling with long lashes and that signature beauty mark under the right one. Her gapped front teeth flashed in a constant grin, makeup shimmering: dark red eyeshadow, thick mascara, black lipstick. She wore her all-black ensemble with a yellow tint—choker, cold-shoulder crop top with golden buttons, fingerless gloves, torn denim pants, black shoes—like a punk cowgirl ready for anything.
"Yeehaw, Miss Mayday! These backroads are bumpier than a buckin' bronco at the rodeo!" Millie chirped in her heavy Texan drawl, loaded with folksy expressions. "But don't ya worry none—we're takin' the long way 'round, just like ya said. No one's tailin' us out here in the boonies."
Beside her in the passenger seat sat Moxxie, her boyfriend and one of the few men on Verosika's team. The 25-year-old was a picture of androgynous delicacy: white skin dotted with freckles on his cheeks, blonde hair pointing up in soft spikes, blue eyes wide and nervous behind subtle makeup. Feminine in build and manner, he fidgeted constantly—insured about everything, easily annoyed, clumsy in the best of times. Working for Verosika had turned him into a perpetual target for bullying; he lacked confidence, stumbling over words in her presence like a deer in headlights.
"M-Millie, maybe slow down a bit?" Moxxie stammered, voice soft and high-pitched. "The roads are twisty, and if we hit a pothole—"
"Aw, shush, sugar! Miss Mayday's tougher than a two-dollar steak now. Ain't that right, boss?" Millie glanced back in the rearview, winking.
Verosika hummed noncommittally, lost in thought. The drive snaked through roundabout paths and side roads—avoiding highways, dipping into forested valleys—to reach the compound: a cluster of former agricultural warehouses nestled in the remote mountains. The nearest town was a solid hour away, ensuring isolation. Cherri had handled the purchase indirectly, funneling funds through shell companies so Verosika's production empire wasn't tied to it on paper. Renovations had been blitz-fast: most warehouses converted into apartments for her inner circle, but one massive structure gutted and rebuilt entirely for her—opulent living quarters, private gym, spa, even a recording studio. A small advance team, including Odette, had been on-site for days, overseeing the final touches and setting up the scientist's new lab. Verosika had waited until her domain was perfect before making the move.
Meanwhile, her team had flooded social media with chaos: leaks of "overdose" rumors, conflicting "sightings" in exotic locales, cryptic posts hinting at "rehab" or "spiritual retreat." Fans were in a frenzy—speculating wildly, trending hashtags like #WhereIsVerosika and #QueenBitchDown. In a few months, when she unveiled the "Muscle Bitch" rebrand, no one would question the gains. Hard work, steroids, whatever—natural progression for a diva reinventing herself.
But Charlie, Lute, Cherri, and Sallie May… they were a wrinkle. They'd seen the transformation up close, poked holes in her "gym" lie. Verosika controlled them—through fear, seduction, manipulation—but not like Loona's blind enslavement or Niffty's fanatic devotion. Even Millie and Moxxie were easier: loyal, pliable. She needed a way to bind the skeptics tighter, make them swallow the story without questions. Threats? Rewards? Something more… intimate?
The car pulled up to the compound gates—high walls topped with razor wire, electric fence humming softly. Millie punched a code; they rolled inside. Warehouses loomed like silent giants, spaces between them wide enough for vehicles or gatherings. They parked near the largest one.
Moxxie scrambled out first, rushing around to open Verosika's door with fumbling hands. "H-Here we are, Miss Mayday. Safe and sound."
Verosika stepped out gracefully, fur coat swirling like a royal cape. Lute waited at the entrance—asymmetrical bob, cold as ever—in her military-clipped stance. "Ma'am. Quarters are prepared. Perimeter secure."
"Lead on," Verosika purred, striding forward with Millie and Moxxie trailing.
Inside the warehouse: a transformation of its own. Vast open space converted into luxury—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, pink velvet furnishings echoing her old suites but scaled up. Niffty waited in the foyer, bowing low. "Miss Mayday-sama! Welcome! Everything perfect! Hai!"
Verosika shed her coat, revealing a simple tank and shorts that hugged her muscular form. Loona, Charlie, and Sallie May hadn't arrived yet—delayed for misdirection.
What happens next?
1. Odette wants to perform various tests on Verosika to try and understand the strange side effects.
2. Verosika walks to the junkyard behind the compound to test her super strength.
Loona wasn't with her, much to the bodyguard's chagrin. When the bodyguard had protested—growling about leaving her mistress "defenseless"—Verosika had giggled smugly, peeling back one sleeve of her coat to flex a massive bicep that peaked like a mountain under golden-orange skin. "Oh, Mutt," she'd purred, voice dripping with condescension, "I'm a big, strong girl now. I can handle myself." Loona had been dispatched in one of Verosika's flashy luxury SUVs, trailing far behind to seed confusion—paparazzi bait, social media whispers of sightings in different directions. Perfect cover for her vanishing act.
Up front, Millie gripped the wheel with cheerful intensity, her short, pear-shaped frame bouncing slightly with the bumps in the road. The 26-year-old Texan was a bundle of energy—tan skin glowing under the dashboard lights, charcoal-black bob curling messily around her face, green eyes sparkling with long lashes and that signature beauty mark under the right one. Her gapped front teeth flashed in a constant grin, makeup shimmering: dark red eyeshadow, thick mascara, black lipstick. She wore her all-black ensemble with a yellow tint—choker, cold-shoulder crop top with golden buttons, fingerless gloves, torn denim pants, black shoes—like a punk cowgirl ready for anything.
"Yeehaw, Miss Mayday! These backroads are bumpier than a buckin' bronco at the rodeo!" Millie chirped in her heavy Texan drawl, loaded with folksy expressions. "But don't ya worry none—we're takin' the long way 'round, just like ya said. No one's tailin' us out here in the boonies."
Beside her in the passenger seat sat Moxxie, her boyfriend and one of the few men on Verosika's team. The 25-year-old was a picture of androgynous delicacy: white skin dotted with freckles on his cheeks, blonde hair pointing up in soft spikes, blue eyes wide and nervous behind subtle makeup. Feminine in build and manner, he fidgeted constantly—insured about everything, easily annoyed, clumsy in the best of times. Working for Verosika had turned him into a perpetual target for bullying; he lacked confidence, stumbling over words in her presence like a deer in headlights.
"M-Millie, maybe slow down a bit?" Moxxie stammered, voice soft and high-pitched. "The roads are twisty, and if we hit a pothole—"
"Aw, shush, sugar! Miss Mayday's tougher than a two-dollar steak now. Ain't that right, boss?" Millie glanced back in the rearview, winking.
Verosika hummed noncommittally, lost in thought. The drive snaked through roundabout paths and side roads—avoiding highways, dipping into forested valleys—to reach the compound: a cluster of former agricultural warehouses nestled in the remote mountains. The nearest town was a solid hour away, ensuring isolation. Cherri had handled the purchase indirectly, funneling funds through shell companies so Verosika's production empire wasn't tied to it on paper. Renovations had been blitz-fast: most warehouses converted into apartments for her inner circle, but one massive structure gutted and rebuilt entirely for her—opulent living quarters, private gym, spa, even a recording studio. A small advance team, including Odette, had been on-site for days, overseeing the final touches and setting up the scientist's new lab. Verosika had waited until her domain was perfect before making the move.
Meanwhile, her team had flooded social media with chaos: leaks of "overdose" rumors, conflicting "sightings" in exotic locales, cryptic posts hinting at "rehab" or "spiritual retreat." Fans were in a frenzy—speculating wildly, trending hashtags like #WhereIsVerosika and #QueenBitchDown. In a few months, when she unveiled the "Muscle Bitch" rebrand, no one would question the gains. Hard work, steroids, whatever—natural progression for a diva reinventing herself.
But Charlie, Lute, Cherri, and Sallie May… they were a wrinkle. They'd seen the transformation up close, poked holes in her "gym" lie. Verosika controlled them—through fear, seduction, manipulation—but not like Loona's blind enslavement or Niffty's fanatic devotion. Even Millie and Moxxie were easier: loyal, pliable. She needed a way to bind the skeptics tighter, make them swallow the story without questions. Threats? Rewards? Something more… intimate?
The car pulled up to the compound gates—high walls topped with razor wire, electric fence humming softly. Millie punched a code; they rolled inside. Warehouses loomed like silent giants, spaces between them wide enough for vehicles or gatherings. They parked near the largest one.
Moxxie scrambled out first, rushing around to open Verosika's door with fumbling hands. "H-Here we are, Miss Mayday. Safe and sound."
Verosika stepped out gracefully, fur coat swirling like a royal cape. Lute waited at the entrance—asymmetrical bob, cold as ever—in her military-clipped stance. "Ma'am. Quarters are prepared. Perimeter secure."
"Lead on," Verosika purred, striding forward with Millie and Moxxie trailing.
Inside the warehouse: a transformation of its own. Vast open space converted into luxury—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, pink velvet furnishings echoing her old suites but scaled up. Niffty waited in the foyer, bowing low. "Miss Mayday-sama! Welcome! Everything perfect! Hai!"
Verosika shed her coat, revealing a simple tank and shorts that hugged her muscular form. Loona, Charlie, and Sallie May hadn't arrived yet—delayed for misdirection.
What happens next?
1. Odette wants to perform various tests on Verosika to try and understand the strange side effects.
2. Verosika walks to the junkyard behind the compound to test her super strength.
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June 13
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