Cameron To Candy

Marcus had roped Greg into coming over because the old press beam in the shed had finally gotten too warped and needed replacing. It wasn’t complicated work, just heavy enough that Candy wasn’t able to help with it. It troubled her, knowing she could have done it before her transformation. The loss of muscle mass and height was something she lamented regularly, especially when jars were involved.

To make matters worse, Marcus had made a batch of lemonade the night before, specifically so Candy could bring out glasses of it to him and Greg and pretend she’d made it. It was a very womanly thing to do in Paddlewick, and playing the role was humiliating for Candy.

“Marcus, Greg, would you like a glass of lemonade? You’ve been working so hard,” she’d asked, per the script, balancing a tray with glasses on it.

Greg thanked her enthusiastically, and Marcus rubbed salt in the wound by responding with, “Thank you Candy. You’re a real sweetheart.” Sweetheart my arse, she’d thought.

Marcus drank his glass in slow steady gulps. When he was done he let out a satisfied “aaahhh” sound, then whipped he brow with his shirt. Candy did a double take. Just for a second she stared at Marcus’ sweaty, gleaming abs. She’d seen them before when she was Cameron, in battle trials, at the men’s bath house, just throwing axes in the backyard. This wasn’t new, but now she couldn’t help but look. Damn it Maeve! Now every time she saw them she’d think of her stupid story!

Fast forward an hour and Marcus and Greg had the beam halfway lifted while Candy stood nearby holding the rope that was supposed to help guide it, which meant, in practice, she was mostly standing there watching two men do the work.

Greg grunted as he shifted the weight. “Alright. Lift on three.”

Marcus nodded. “One. Two.”

They lifted. Candy tried to help steady the beam but the thing barely moved under her hands. Greg set his end down for a second and wiped his forehead.

“Man, that thing weighs a ton.”

Candy stared at the beam as if it were cursed.

Marcus didn’t comment. He just adjusted the rope and said, “We’ll carry it the rest of the way.”

Candy folded her arms and carried the small metal works needed to secure the beam in place.

When it was done they began cleaning up, but halfway to the shed Greg stopped.

“…Hold up.”

Marcus nearly walked into him. “What?”

Greg pointed toward a patch of leaves near the treeline.

“Anyone else see that?”

Candy squinted. At first, it looked like someone had dumped a piece of lace in the woods. Marcus stepped closer, and then the lace moved. Two oddly shaped snake heads rose from the leaves. One was black as night, the other white. Their hoods spread wide. The scale patterns flared out like delicate lace cups. Candy stared.

“Those… those are bras!”

Marcus glared at the tree line and finally replied flatly, “CoBras.”

Greg barked a laugh. “You’re joking.”

Marcus pointed at the ground. Inside the curved shape of the nest were a dozen pale eggs sitting neatly in the “cups.”

Candy groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The coBra was aptly named. It resembled cobra’s of other varieties found throughout the Cone, but the flaps on either side of its head were cups, and it’s scales in the area resembled lace. The total effect was a snake with a bra grown into its head. It was laughable.

Candy took two steps back. “Oh, and they’re venomous too. Magic venom. Nasty shyte.”

Greg and Marcus stepped back and regrouped next to Candy. CoBras might have been ridiculous creatures by Paddlewickian standards, but their magic venom could not only kill a person, it could also do far worse.

“Huh. Cleavendale's got a lotta weird stuff in it, but bra snakes? Never heard of ‘em. This is hilarious!” Greg barked. “Why are they here?”

Marcus shifted his weight, slow and careful. “I don’t know. They shouldn’t be. They don’t like the cold.”

Greg frowned. “So why? This place sucks. It’s all rocks and snow.”

Marcus gave him a look. “Well, snakes follow food and warm places. We don’t have the warmth, so they must have followed something they like to eat.”

Greg glanced around at the trees like one of them was about to confess. Candy very intentionally stayed behind Marcus.

Greg nodded toward the nearer snake. “What part of Cleavendale are they found in?. Brazango Jungle? What’s it called?”

Marcus’s mouth tightened. “I don’t know.”

Greg whipped a tear from his eye as his chuckle ran to an end. “Okay, so why do they look like that?”

Marcus didn’t answer right away because the snake chose that exact moment to lift higher, hood opening wider, patterned like stitched fabric stretched over a frame.

Greg turned to Candy. "You've been around the Cone a bit. You know anything about these?"

Candy kept her eyes on the snakes while answering Greg. “Cleavendale has whole regions with fabric-based ecosystems. Clothing-shaped plants, clothing-shaped animals. Cloth growing snails.”

Greg’s brows pulled together. “Okay, you made that last one up.”

“No, seriously. Sock snails. They cluster in -”

“Candy, quick version, please,” Marcus cut in. He’d remained steady, watching for the strike range.

“Fine,” Candy said. “Bouborg has orchards where bras grow on trees.”

Greg stared. “Fruit?”

“Not exactly,” Candy said. “They’re not edible, but they’ve got seeds. You harvest them, dry them, and they work as actual clothing.”

Greg glanced down at his own shirt like it had suddenly become suspicious. “That’s insane, but sounds kinda familiar.”

“It’s normal there,” Candy said. “And the rarest ones are the golden bra trees.”

Greg’s eyes lit up for half a second. “Wait, those are real?”

“Oh yeah,” Candy answered. “And the golden ones only grow in the wild, and the bras fit to anyone they touch after being plucked. They’re supposed to be the most supportive bras in the Cone. An unfitted one is worth a fortune. And they’re a death trap.”

Marcus nodded once, grim. “Predators camp them.”

Greg looked back at the coBras, "like those?"

“Like those,” Candy agreed. “CoBras hang around the bra forest. So do giant land roaming corset crabs, bra bats, killer boo-bees, bra dragons. Not to mention the false bra tree vine they call ‘the booby trap'.”

Greg shook his head. “Damn our anti-magic field. If we took it down we could have fun critters like that roaming around everywhere! And booby traps? Come on! Are there zeBra’s in there?” he asked jokingly.

Candy shrugged. “That’s not exactly how the fiend works, but no, not in the forest. They live in the plains.”

“Wait, seriously? ZeBra’s exist? I was just joking!”

“Yeah, actually, they’re real. There’s probably nothing you can joke about that isn’t real there. Anyway… most people don’t make it to the golden bra trees. Everything down there is waiting for somebody stupid enough to go looking.”

Greg looked between Candy and Marcus. “Has anyone ever actually gotten one?”

Candy nodded. “Taylor Tythe did. He brought it back and gave it to the queen. Carmella’s mom… I don’t remember her name, but that’s how he became Cleavendales royal tailor.”

Greg whistled softly. “Okay. Respect.”

Marcus’s gaze never left the snakes. “Circling back. Either these things found food to follow, or someone was trying to transport them and lost control.”

Greg stared at the cobras again, suddenly less awed and more concerned. “Why would anyone bring these north?”

Candy shook her head. “Pompous above the law, underground stuff, probably. Private zoo, maybe, or exotic taxidermy.”

Marcus chimed back in with, “And given the eggs, it seems they were a known breading pair.”

“Huh,” Greg mused, eyeing the nest.

Candy looked between the two men. “So we’re leaving. We... we’ll call animal control, right?”

“No.” Marcus kept his voice calm. “I have snake tools in the shed. I’ve handled adders and riverbiters. These are basically the same.”

Greg cracked his knuckles.

Candy sighed. “Of course.”

“Greg, keep your distance. If they come toward you, you move back. DO NOT swing at them. And make sure Candy stays behind you!”

Greg gave him a look. “Okay, Dad.”

“Good,” Marcus said, already turning. “I’m grabbing the tools.”

Candy watched him head for the shed, then looked at Greg. “He has a kit.”

Greg nodded, impressed despite himself. “Your husband has always been a prepper. Not as bad as Owen but still, he likes his stuff.”

“Of course he does,” Candy muttered. “If there’s a rule or recommendation about it, Marcus has the tool.”

“So,” Greg started as they waited. “Did you hear about the knight who brought a ladder to the bar?”

“Huh?”

“He’d heard the drinks were on the house!”

Candy just rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Inside the shed, Marcus found a long snake hook with an iron curve, a pair of long tongs with flat padded jaws, thick leather gauntlets, some canvas, and a set of buckets made from smooth lacquered wood with metal bands around them. He came back fast and dropped the bucket at a safe distance, then unrolled the canvas like it was a serious document.

Greg stared. “You’re telling me you had this the whole time?”

Marcus snapped the tongs open and shut once, testing the tension. “Yep. These aren’t the first snakes I’ve had to end, and they won't be the last.

Greg glanced at the CoBras, then at Candy. “Don’t worry. We’ll take ‘em out. Hey, maybe their bra hoods will be in your size!” he laughed.”

Candy rolled her eyes. “Oh, haha.”

Marcus steadied the bucket and nodded once. “Alright. Greg, you take the bucket. Keep the lid ready. Don’t get closer than I tell you. Candy, you’re still staying back.”

Candy made a shooing motion. “Trust me, I’m not trying to prove anything today.” She shivered slightly. She hated snakes.

Marcus moved in first, slow and angled, hook low to the ground. The black coBra hissed and lifted higher, its hood widening, head tracking him, measuring the exact distance to strike. Marcus didn’t flinch. He slid the hook under the snake’s mid-body, not lifting, just guiding, keeping it from surging forward.

“Watch out!”

“I’m being careful,” Marcus said evenly.

The white coBra shifted too, coiling tighter, hood flaring. Marcus adjusted, keeping his body offset from the line of the head, never square in front of it. Then he made his move.

Tongs came in quick and clean, clamping behind the head with controlled pressure, not crushing. The hook supported the body so it didn’t whip free. The snake thrashed once, hood collapsing and blooming again, but Marcus kept the angle, kept the distance, and guided the whole thing toward the bucket like he was loading firewood that hated him.

Greg popped the lid. Marcus lowered the snake in, hook first, then released the tongs and snapped the lid shut. The bucket rattled hard.

Greg exhaled like he’d been holding his lungs hostage. “Gotcha!” he cheered as he secured the lid. “Okay. That was bonkers!”

Candy called from behind them, “You two done auditioning for ‘Idiots Who Get Bit’?”

Marcus didn’t look back. “One more.”

“Yeah, and it looks pissed!” Candy called out from a solid thirty feet away.

Greg glanced at the second coBra which was now even more agitated and swallowed again. “Yeah… cool. Love that for us.”

Marcus reset his grip. “Okay, let’s just do the same thing. But we only have the one bucket, so this time, Greg, I’ll pin it, you take its head off. We’ll take it slow. No hero moves.”

Candy muttered to herself, “I miss not being treated like I’m made of parcelin, but I don’t miss being shamed into helping with stupid things like this.”

The white coBra shifted, coiling tighter, hood flaring. Marcus adjusted, keeping his body offset from the line of the head, never square in front of it. Greg went to the side and waved, drawing its attention. Once Marcus came in with the equipment, a snake was pinned, and this time Greg took a tool that looked a bit like pruners, positioned it around the snake that was attempting to thrash, and SNIP. Off its head rolled.

Candy stared at it for a moment. The magic venom was potent...

"Marcus," she called. "Do me a favor. Save the heads! I have an idea."

***

That evening, the backyard smelled like smoke and spice. Marcus had cleaned the snakes, cut the meat into strips, and laid it across the grill like it was the most normal dinner in the world. Greg sat at the table with a mug and watched.

“You know,” he said, “when I woke up this morning, I didn’t think I’d be eating lingerie snakes.”

Marcus flipped the meat.

“They’re called coBras. Let’s not make it even weirder than it already is.”

Candy leaned against the railing.

“I hate that name.”

Greg took the first bite when Marcus handed him a piece.

He chewed thoughtfully.

“…Okay, that’s actually really good.”

Candy took a piece reluctantly. She chewed, paused, then, “ “…Damn it. That’s really good.”

Marcus nodded once.

“Told you.”

Greg leaned back in his chair.

“It's a good day. Fixed the beam. Killed fancy snakes. Got free dinner. Next a movie. What could be better?” he asked with a shrug.

***

An hour later, Candy found herself in the parlor. The Oracle of Dough, the book for that month's Literary Society meeting, lay open in her hands. It was just something to flip through while Greg ran his mouth the way he always had. The main character seemed to be in some kind of time loop, a pretty interesting plot development, one more advanced than she would have expected from a Plumpudding author.

They were waiting on Marcus to finish up some work in the study so they could watch the old scry-opera he’d loved as a kid. He’d called it “an eternal classic,” but in reality, it was one of those nostalgic things an adult liked only because they’d been introduced to it as a child. The scry-mirror was paused and ready. The room smelled faintly of ink and cinnamon polish, and the whole house had that easy, slow-evening hush. Outside, fireflies were starting to emerge, lighting the street in soft pulses to the tune of bullfrog ribbets out near the creek.

Greg, who’d stayed for the movie, had one boot up on the coffee table, talking like he owned the air. After Marcus stepped aside, Greg filled the silence with story after story, the way he always did when he had an audience. Candy was half listening while she read the month’s Literary Society selection, turning pages at an unhurried pace.

“So anyway,” Greg said, gesturing loosely, “that’s when the Captain turns around and says—”

Candy made a small noise of amusement without looking up and turned a page. She knew the next part.

“‘Alistair, you are the most insubordinate soldier I’ve ever met.’ He was cleaning the MKU’s for weeks after that. "But that’s when the Captain pointed at the map and told me to take the right flank. Cam says, ‘Sir, I think that’s the wrong way.’ And Captain Cutter says—”

“Cuffsworth,” she corrected automatically, still not looking up.

It didn’t register at first. She was halfway through a paragraph about enchanted brioche when she became aware of something missing, the sound of Greg droning on. She lifted her eyes and found him a few feet from her face. In that short span of time, the large man had crossed the room without a creak of the floorboard, then leaned down so he could meet her eye-to-eye. Candy’s stomach dropped as the realization caught up with her. Oh gludge.

Greg said only a single word in a low, gravely voice:

“Gotcha.”