Cameron To Candy

Marcus tugged on his jacket, adjusting the cuffs with practiced indifference. “It’s not even a big deal, I swear. I’m just going to the pub. Wings. Bets. Big mirror. Rhennox Vell in finals form.”

Candy arched a brow from the other side of the room, still in her robe. “Right. Just a casual afternoon of masculine camaraderie and legally sanctioned violence.”

“Well, yeah,” he said, slinging a scarf around his neck. “Correction-Ball Finals. National holiday. I'm pretty sure it counts toward your devotion record just for watching.”

She crossed her arms. “Must be nice. If I go to a bar, I get flagged for tone if I roll my eyes or yell at the mirror. And remember that one jack-ass who kept looking down my top?”

“Then don’t go to a bar,” Marcus said, grabbing his keys. “Have the girls over. Or go somewhere brunchy. The game’s being mirrored in half the restaurants in town. Just watch it there.”

“Oh yes. That sounds like a dream,” Candy deadpanned. “Sitting between Alyssa, who thinks stats are a pastry, and Vivian, who thinks paddling is foreplay, trying to explain strategic mercy violations while someone orders avocado toast.”

“You’re a fan,” Marcus said. “You’ll find a way.”

She stared at him. “This is what it’s come to, huh? I transition against my will, endure legally mandated check-ins with Mrs. Prim, and now I get brunch with girls while you go off to drink beer and watch men hit each other with rods.”

Marcus held up a finger. “Correction rods.”

“Thank you. Seriously, though, they’d probably talk through the whole damn thing.”

He smirked. “C’mon. You like Alyssa and Vivian. Besides, you are a girl now. So how are you stereotyping your own gender?”

Candy’s mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again, slower.

“I am allowed to stereotype women,” she said with mock solemnity. “Because I am one.”

“But you stereotype men too.”

She nodded. “Yes, because I am a former man, currently a woman, well, rather a man stuck living as a woman, stuck inside a society that punishes both genders uniquely. I am, therefore, uniquely qualified to insult and stereotype everyone.”

Marcus tilted his head. “That sounds... deeply unprincipled.”

“I contain multitudes.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re making this up as you go.”

She turned away. “Absolutely, I am. Welcome to femininity.”

***

Candy’s mouth was already open in anticipation. On the enchanted mirror across the room, the championship match had begun—Correction-Ball Finals, House of Discipline versus the Velvet Vow. The crowd noise spilled through illusion-chimes, perfectly synced to the mirror’s broadcast.

Alyssa stirred her mimosa. “So... they’re all trying to spank each other?”

“No,” Candy said, suppressing a twitch. “Only the Enforcers do that. The rest are trying to earn points with clean strikes, obedience maneuvers, and sanctioned violations.”

Vivian blinked. “Sanctioned... what?”

“Sanctioned violations. You can break rules on purpose if it sets up a Redemption Cascade or fulfills your team’s Virtue Quota. It’s called tactical disobedience.”

Alyssa whistled. “Sounds like me trying to get dressed before church.”

“Shh—look! Look, he’s setting up the ladder drive... this is textbook Rhennox—”

“Wait,” Vivian said. “Are those floating benches part of the game?”

“Field obstacles. They’re mobile.”

“Oh. Are they supposed to sit on them?”

“They’re supposed to launch off them, Vivian.”

“But—he just sat.”

Candy’s eyes flared. “That was a stall tactic. He’s forcing a time-count reset to drain the Vow’s Determination Meter. Don’t just narrate what’s happening like it’s interpretive dance—”

Vivian pointed. “Now he’s holding a paddle. Is that for him or someone else?”

“Someone else. He’s their Dominant Striker.”

“Is that like a quarterback?”

“No! It’s like... if a quarterback and a catcher had a baby and it grew up to also do gymnastic violence.”

Vivian gave a slow nod. “So... yes.”

Candy buried her face in her hands.

“So the ball does nothing?” Alysa asked.

“No, you still need to get the ball to position to score the points, but it’s HOW you do it that affects how many points you get, and—”

The mirror crowd erupted again. Gasps, then cheers. Candy whipped around and caught only the tail end of Rhennox’s signature Redemption Arc: a triple-flip heel-drop into the Mercy Zone, capped with a celebratory ass-first landing on the Penalty Platform.

The café’s enchanted mirror lit up with scoring runes.

Vivian clapped. “Oh good, they finally got a basket!”

“It’s not a basket!” Candy wailed. “It’s a five-point Mercy Claim tied to their obedience chain!”

“You know,” Alyssa said, sipping her drink, “this would be easier to follow if the rules weren’t so... theological.”

“They’re not theological—they’re strategic!”

“Okay, but half the points come from sins and redemption arcs.”

Candy's hands curled into claws. “It’s a morality sport! The sins are the point!”

Vivian smiled brightly. “So it’s like dodgeball... but with trauma.”

Candy dropped her forehead onto the table with a thunk, narrowly missing a deviled phoenix hen egg.

Alyssa leaned over. “Did we win yet?”

Candy didn’t answer.

Vivian raised her hand to call the waiter. “Can we get a dessert menu?”

Alyssa nodded. “Ooh, yeah. Candy, would you care for something sweet?”

Candy raised her head just high enough to whisper, “Sanity. I want sanity.”

“I’ve never understood the attraction of watching others play a game.” Alyssa admitted.

“Oh please,” Vivian laughed, “you watched the Queen Carmellla VS Prince Femminique chess match like ten times!”

“That’s different. It’s mathematical. Two undefeated grand champions, thirty six straight hours. Oh what I wouldn’t do to play against either of them! You know, I always thought the Cleavendale expression ‘No one outthinks the queen’ to be droll propaganda but as it turns out, it’s true.”

“Uh-huh. Oh! Hey, why does their uniform have those little pictures?” Vivian asked. Candy launched into an explanation of the padding and mascott traditions. Unfortunately, she did so a little too thoroughly because that’s when…

The mirror’s sound-crystals suddenly screamed.

“AND THAT’S IT! BY THE THREADS ABOVE! RHENNOX JUST EXECUTED A FULL DOUBLE MERCY LOOP INTO A REVERSE SUBMISSION SWAP! NOBODY WILL EVER SEE THAT AGAIN!” One anouncer shouted.

“That was a ONCE IN A LIFETIME MOVE!” Another yelled. “In my twenty years of announcing, I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Chairs clattered in the café as other patrons jumped to their feet, cheering. The enchanted mirror replayed it in slow motion: the impossible twist, the perfect landing, the golden flare of the victory rune.

Candy spun around—too late. All she caught was the aftermath: confetti sigils raining down, the announcers losing their minds, and the scoreboard blazing House of Discipline: 142–141.

Her jaw fell open. “You have GOT to be kidding me!”

Alyssa blinked. “Did something happen?”

“Only the greatest Correction-Ball comeback in recorded history!” Candy cried.

Vivian frowned. “Oh. Well, we can rewind, right?”

Candy gestured furiously at the mirror. “It’s a live enchantment, not a home crystal showing of the Gilded Gaggle!”

Alyssa tapped her spoon against her glass. “So... we didn’t win?”

Candy’s scream was muffled by her own napkin.

“Yep,” Vivian said, signaling the waiter again. “She’s gonna need a dessert and a wet cloth on her forehead.”

Alyssa grinned. “Maybe a Mercy Sundae?”

Candy slumped forward. “I missed Rhennox’s Double Mercy Loop because you people don’t know what a bench is.”

“What did that do in the game again?” Vivian asked.

Candy just groaned into the table as the mirror replayed the commentators shouting, “No one will ever see that again!”

***

Marcus leaned back in the worn leather booth, his arm slung around the back of the seat, one wingbone in hand, beer in the other.

“I’m glad you made it!” Owen reiterated. “Greg wanted to take bets on if you’d actually show.”

“I did! Good thing no one took me up on it. I was going to bet no! Oh!, Okay, okay!,” Greg cheered, gesturing wildly, “That pivot slap was illegal. His heel broke the circle. Watch the replay.”

“Only after the point was scored,” Luke said, mouth full of fries. “The circle rule’s only enforced pre-strike.”

Marcus nodded. “Nah, he’s right. It’s not the position, it’s the momentum. Rhennox was mid-pivot. That’s tactical violation clearance. It was legal.”

“Boom,” Owen said, lifting his glass. “Ministerially sanctioned showboating. The best kind.”

The enchanted mirror above the bar exploded in light and runes as Rhennox performed a mid-air Redemption Whirl, landing squarely on the Penalty Platform in a reverse-kneel. Every man in the pub howled.

“YES!” Marcus shouted, slamming his beer down. “That's the Mercy Lock! He sealed it! Five points and a signature tag!”

“Dude,” Greg gasped, “he eyed the ref while he did it. That’s Dominant Behavior. They might give him a style bonus.”

“The man’s an artist,” Marcus said, chest full of reverence and buffalo sauce. “This is the kind of Correction-Ball I’ll tell my grandkids about.”

“You planning on having kids?” Luke asked. Marcus almost choked on the wing he was eating.

“Uh, er, hadn’t actually thought about it. It’s more of an expression.” Luke thought for a moment longer than asked.

“So, Candy. Is she hot?”

“Luke!” Marcus chastised.

Greg jumped in, “Oh, she’s crazy hot. Long red hair, pouty lips, full lashes, and a perfect heart-shaped arse. But Mister Sensitive here doesn’t like people mentioning it.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Owen said dryly. “Stop talking about the man's wife like that!”

“Sounds hot,” Luke concluded.

"Hey, does Candy do the post correction glow? You know, the submissive head space where after her correction she's extra pliant and affectionate?" Greg asked.

Marcus huffed at the suggestion of it. "Uh, no, not that I've noticed," he answered.

"Huh," Luke said. "I thought all Paddlewick women got it. Maybe you're not doing it right. Have you tried — Oh, he’s going for it! He’s going for it!!” They all jumped to their feet, yelling at the mirror. Go! Do it! Oh my gods!

During the quarter break, Luke bought another round for the table. “Hey, did you all get a letter from Cam too?” he asked. A general murmur of confirmation from them all went around the table. Marcus played along, saying he’d gotten one too.

“He seemed a bit bummed,” Greg said. “But I got a new one the other day from him. It had this hilarious cartoon of Ol’ General Batty. You remember the ax-throwing instructor that was so blind we all joked you could just go up and put the ax in the target and he’d never know? Yeah, Cam did this hilarious one just like that, the whole troop of new recruits just thumping their axes and the General saying ‘good, good! I can HEAR the success!’ It was hilarious!” This was met with a round of laughter.

“Well,” glad he’s finding his pacing out there,” said Owen. “I wrote back. I wonder if he’s gotten my letter yet. And… oh, it’s starting!”

And so the night went. Marcus’ boys' night proved significantly smoother than Candy's attempt with the girls.

***

Marcus walked through the front door of their house, beaming. “I have so much to tell you. Did you know Rhennox invented a new Mercy Arc? They’re calling it the Vell Sweep.”

Candy, still seated on the couch in the exact same position she left in hours ago, slowly turned to him.

“Oh,” she said, voice hollow. “Tell me more. I missed it. I was explaining to Vivian how points aren't called baskets.”

Marcus winced. He crossed the room slowly and placed a takeout container in her lap. “I brought home duck-wing dumplings.”

She looked down at it. Then at him. Then back at the mirror, where highlights from the game began to play in shimmering gold.

“We’re watching the replay,” she said. Marcus nodded. “And if you even breathe too loud, I will find a penalty paddle and introduce you to the No Mercy Zone personally.”

He saluted, silent. Candy leaned back, unwrapped a dumpling, took a deep breath, and finally smiled. A little.

Looking Glass Sports – Post-Finals Coverage

The screen shimmers to life, the mirror etched with gold scrollwork framing a glowing banner:

"Correction-Ball Finals: Post-Game Reflections"

A very serious Paddlewickian sports reporter, Deckland Stropford, stands stiff as an ironing rod, clutching a scroll-mic. Behind him, sweaty players still in game-gear mill about, some cradling bruised thighs with reverent pride.

Deckland: “Deckland Stropford here, with your post-match coverage following a stunning, controversial finish to the Correction-Ball Championship. I'm joined now by the House of Discipline’s Dominant Striker—Rhennox Vell himself.”

Rhennox strides into frame, shirtless under his obedience sash, a correction-rod slung across one shoulder like a sacred relic. He’s dripping with sweat and divine certainty.

Deckland: “Rhennox... incredible match. You landed the Mercy Lock, performed a Redemption Arc with a reverse-kneel, and received a full ten-point Virtue Surge from the High Bench. What made the difference out there today?”

Rhennox (solemnly): “Honestly... the glory goes to Paddithor, God of Timely Corrections and Paddle-Based Games. I felt his paddle guiding my wrist. Every strike, every duck, every penalty evasion—I just tried to channel that divine spank-energy.”

Deckland (scribbling): “Paddithor. So he liked you better than the other team? Did he have money on the game?.”

Rhennox: “He only reveals himself to the faithful during finals season you see.”

Deckland: “Right. Of course. So you’re saying faith made the difference?”

Rhennox: “Faith and team work”

Cut to another player—Ezzic Lambel, Defensive Penance Specialist, still icing his left buttock.

Deckland: “Ezzic, brutal performance. Two Mercy Denials, a full-thrust paddle deflection, and no missed apology gestures. Was it strategy, or just heart?”

Ezzic (dazed): “We just wanted it more. I mean, they wanted it... sure. But we wanted it harder.”

Deckland: “But statistically, you also executed better. More clean entries, better stance discipline, fewer Unsanctioned Gasps.”

Ezzic: “Yeah but like... we felt it. You can’t measure that.”

Deckland (mutters): “You cannot. We tried.”

The footage cuts to the opposing team’s Captain, James Skint—stoic, bloodied lip, dignity shattered.

Deckland: “Tough loss today. Your team led in Virtue Efficiency and struck first in all three quarters. What happened?”

James (hollow): “The important thing is we left it all out there.”

Deckland: “Do you believe in Paddithor?”

Marlowe: “I didn’t before. I do now. He... he smote us!”

Cut to Rhennox again, now holding a tiny trophy shaped like a golden thigh.

Rhennox: “We said before the match, it wasn’t about stats. Or technique. Or past trauma. It was about wanting it more.”

Deckland (deadpan): “But you also played better.”

Rhennox: “Because we wanted to play better.”

Deckland: “But their team also wanted to play better.”

Rhennox: “We wanted to want it more. They didn’t want to want it.”

Deckland: “They actually did. We spoke to them. They very sincerely wanted it. They made a vision board.”

Rhennox: “That’s wanting with your mind. We wanted with our butts.”

Deckland stares directly into the mirror.

Deckland: “There you have it. Divine intervention, gluteal yearning, and the ineffable mysteries of faith-based sports strategy. I’m Deckland Stropford. May Paddithor correct your path, and may your heels never tremble.”

The sports show fades out with theme music: dramatic choral chanting mixed with paddle sounds.