With the plumes of smoke rising above the ruins of the town, Ambrose and the Tyrant climbed back in the car. She was human-sized and nude, ash and caked blood painting strange patterns all over her body. Through the thick dust smeared across her face, her eyes blazed, wild and inhuman. They were the eyes of an otherworldly goddess, satisfied with her vengeance, and Ambrose couldn’t bear to look at them.

“You disapprove,” the Tyrant said suddenly.

“What?”

“Of what I did to that vermin back there,” she replied. “Don’t try to lie to me, either. I’m a hundred and sixty-three years old, old enough to know when someone isn’t telling the truth.”

“Yes,” Ambrose whispered, bracing himself to be thrown out of the car. But she didn’t move from her place, the flickering lights from the street playing over her naked body. Inside of that small form was enough power to raze entire towns, as he had just witnessed.

“Well, allow me to share a secret with you. When I first became…this…I tried to help people. Save cats from trees, rescue people from buildings, that sort of thing. But then I realized what a waste of power that was. I like the thought of people bowing to me so much better.”

Ambrose nervously licked his lips and said mechanically, without even really thinking about it, “They should bow before you, Tyrant.”

“And what would you have done in my place, Assistant? If I were to make you a god now, and believe me, I could, would you do the same sort of thing?” Her wide eyes were sparkling maliciously. “Oh, that sounds like a fantastic idea! We’ll try that sometime. Play good versus evil and all that.”

She’s insane, Ambrose thought. Completely mad.

He had a terrible feeling that it would be a very long ride home.

***

When Ambrose was back in his tiny apartment, he found his journal and began to write. Once again, he found it cathartic, especially after spending hours in a car with someone who had unjustifiably destroyed an entire town. I can make you a god, she had told him. Did she mean a being like her, whatever she was? Would he lose his mind as well, become like her? It was a chilling proposition.

He turned his attention to the blank pages before him and began to write:

I’m finally leaving tomorrow. It’s only for a few days but I’ll take what I can get. Honestly, I’m surprised that I’m even being allowed to go at all. Of course, I can’t risk leaving this journal here for that long, or worse, bringing it with me.

Ambrose stopped writing and then reached down into his pocket, pulling out a matchbook. As he tore out a match, his gaze wandered back down to the journal. He could always start a new one, but the thought of destroying this journal still depressed him. Ripping the pages from the book was a surprisingly painful process and he hesitated as he lit the match. There were no fire detectors in the building, of course; they were lucky enough to have heat and running water here. Ambrose touched the match to one of the pages, watching as the flame consumed it.

***

During the entire trip to Jonas’s cabin, Ambrose was afraid that he would receive a call informing him to turn back around, that the Tyrant wanted his assistance for something. He would have complied immediately, of course, but he would have hated having to head back. Especially now that he could see the mountains all around him, uninterrupted stretches of dark green wherever he looked. It was a stark contrast to all of those ruined cities that he had seen before.

For some reason, the Tyrant hadn’t decimated this area, instead preserving it so that it was the same as it had been during The Time Before. As he drove, Ambrose imagined communities hidden within these mountains, living blissfully unaware of the despot who ruled over the rest of humanity. Admittedly, it was a foolish dream but he still indulged himself in it, fantasizing about finding one of those hidden towns.

He was still daydreaming when he spotted the cabin. It wasn’t much, little more than a shack, but the sight of it lifted up Ambrose’s spirits. Freedom, if only for a few days. He savored that thought as he pulled his car beside Jonas’. Somewhere, seemingly light-years away, the Tyrant was joyfully torturing people…and he didn’t have to see or think about it.

Jonas and his girlfriend Trish were already approaching the car as Ambrose slid out. He was embarrassed to see the petite woman, with her curly blonde hair and round face that always reminded him of a cherub. Trish had introduced him to Sophia, his last girlfriend, and that had ended abysmally. In fact, Sophia’s last words before she slammed the door behind her was that he was a spineless coward.

As usual, Trish deftly avoided humiliating him, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. Her scent enveloped him, mostly the cheap soap that everyone used, although he also detected a subtle lilac aroma. Some sort of perfume, no doubt, probably expensive and almost impossible to obtain. But then again, Jonas had always been talented at getting what he wanted: placement at the best University, a cushy job, a girlfriend like Trish. A fierce jealousy gripped Ambrose, but only for a second. It was gone by the time that he pulled away from Trish’s embrace and followed them inside the little cabin.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. There were a few mismatched lamps scattered around the living room, illuminating the old furniture. The cabin and its furnishings clearly hadn’t been updated in decades, but Ambrose didn’t care. The threadbare couch and the worn chairs looked a billion times better than the glittering gold and jewels of the Tyrant’s palace.

“I’m glad that you could make it,” Jonas said as Trish disappeared into the kitchen to get them something to drink.

“Thanks for inviting me. It’s good to get away from…work.”

“I can imagine that it’s been stressful. Especially considering the person that you work for,” his friend replied. Ambrose nodded slightly, hesitantly, as if the giantess could somehow see him. As if this agreement somehow made him a traitor. Trish sauntered back into the room and handed him a glass of lemonade. As he sipped his drink and half-listened to his friends, he imagined the Tyrant back in her throne room, ordering new batches of chained captives to be brought before her. She was insatiable, endlessly ravenous in her appetite for victims and power. More like a cosmic force than a person at this point.

He forced the lemonade down, turning his full attention to Jonas and Trish. Eventually, the thoughts of the giantess faded away.

***

That night at the cabin, Ambrose’s mind was wonderfully blank. He sank into a deep sleep almost immediately, his dreams giving him no trouble…well, not at first. Then they began to change, transforming from fractured everyday scenarios into a horrific nightmare. In it, he was on his knees, the floor cold and hard beneath him. His lips and nose were caressing something, something that was warm and soft. Pulling away, he saw the huge cylinder of pebbled flesh, a dark brownish-pink color. It was a nipple, an unbelievably huge one that was larger his head. And not just anyone’s nipple…the Tyrant’s. Distraught, Ambrose tried to jerk away, only to feel the leathery cords binding him in place. Thunderous laughter erupted above him.

“I’m afraid that you’re not going anywhere, Assistant,” the giantess said and he peeked up. She was curled up on her side, her dark hair obscuring some of her face. He could still make out her smile, though, arrogant and hostile. Another quick glance and he saw that the cords imprisoning him trailed across the marble floor and eventually led to her hand. The Tyrant was holding the cords like they were some kind of leash, which meant that he was the dog.

A quick twist of her wrist and she dragged him toward her face, his body sliding across the cold floor. Wisely, he didn’t fight her at all.

“I see you watching me all the time,” she said in that voice that usually inspired blind-terror. Except now it was inspiring something else: an achingly-hard erection that throbbed insistently between his thighs. She didn’t look at his penis; her eyes were focused solely on his own. “I see everything, Assistant.”

He was now close enough to her face that he could see the white tips of her colossal teeth, the heavy bulk of her tongue, which wiggled and twitched as she spoke. As her humid breath washed over him, he realized how many people she had mashed into bloody pulp between those huge teeth. How easy it would be for her to do the same thing to him.

“What are you?” It was a question that he never would have asked if he weren’t in this surreal dream-world.

“I used to be a person. Now I’m so much more,” she answered him. No further explanation was provided as her mouth opened wider and her lips, pillowy-soft, brushed up against his bare belly, then over his erection. The sensation was exquisite, especially when she closed her lips around his cock. Ambrose tried to look up at her but all that he could see was the underside of her nose. He didn’t dare to pull himself out, afraid that she would bite off his penis if he tried. So he just remained where he was, the warmth of her mouth strangely pleasant. Even when his cock bumped up against the wet hardness of her teeth, he wasn’t turned-off.

This wasn’t the first time that a woman had taken him into her mouth, but this was infinitely-better than when Sophia had done it. An intense pleasure, like nothing that he had ever experienced, caused him to gasp and grab at the giantess’ immense upper lip.

“My goddess,” he choked out and at that moment, she was. He came, the orgasm seeming to last for an eternity, every nerve in his body bursting with bliss. The Tyrant’s lips withdrew, the air chilly against his deflating penis, and she tilted her head to gaze down at him.

“Remember, Assistant,” she said with a devious wink. “I’m always watching. Always.”

Her enormous face disappeared abruptly as he was shaken awake. Darkness surrounded him and he struggled to remember where he was, his heart galloping in his chest. Then he saw Jonas’ face, lit by silvery moonlight, and it all came back to him. He was at his friend’s getaway, miles and miles from Her. It took his mind awhile to accept that he had been dreaming, and although it had been a hellishly vivid dream (he could still feel those cords biting deep into his skin, chafing his flesh until it was red and raw), he was safe. For now.

“Jonas? What the —,” Ambrose started. His friend raised one finger to his lips, which were ghostly-white in the moonlight.

“Shhhh. I need you to come with me,” Jonas whispered. He didn’t elaborate further, instead heading back toward the door. Still feeling drowsy, Ambrose slipped out of the bed and followed him, bumping into the dresser on the way out. The shooting pain instantly erased any lingering sleepiness.

He was rubbing at his sore hip, which was now probably bruised, when he noticed Trish in the living room. She was sitting on the living room couch, a laptop balanced on her legs. The thing was ancient, something that had probably been around before his great-grandparents were born. How it could even turn on was beyond him. Yet it was clearly working, casting a dim light over the couch.

Ambrose couldn’t help himself. He marveled at the sight of the old laptop, wondering where Trish had found it. But just as he started to ask, he spotted what was on the screen: it was a video, the sound muted. Despite the lack of sound and the poor quality of the video, it didn’t take him long to figure out what was going on. Especially when he saw the giant human-shape moving at an alarming rate, smashing its way through block after block of buildings. The beautiful yet terrifying face, high up in the heavens, was the same one that had just haunted his dreams.

“It’s footage of the Tyrant from The Time Before,” Jonas informed him, as if he couldn’t clearly tell that it was the giantess, “When she first showed up from out of the blue.”

“Don’t you know that it’s illegal to have that video? If a Patrolman caught you with it, you’d be arrested. Or given over to Her,” Ambrose gasped, his eyes still on the laptop screen.

The video was blurry, grainy, and obviously filmed using a cell phone camera. Whoever had taken the footage had been running; the camera shook and rolled unexpectedly. First Ambrose saw the panicked crowd, swarming all around the cameraman; then he saw a colossal arm swing by overhead, crashing into the mirrored facade of a skyscraper. Shards of glass and steel rained down in a lethal hailstorm, smashing down indiscriminately onto people and vehicles alike. Shrill wails rose up from the mob of humanity, the sounds quickly silenced as a feminine foot plunged down from the sky, right into the midst of the crowd. The shockwave heaved the cameraman violently backwards and the cell phone went flying end over end. The final scene was of the gargantuan foot rising back up, the flattened remains of several people splattering down amidst the horrified survivors. Then the video ended and Jonas spoke.

“Oh, I know it’s illegal,” he said, almost casually, “And you know what? We have dozens of videos like this one. Believe me, some of them are a lot worse than this one.”

Ambrose could believe that.

Jonas sat down the couch next to Trish, who was still holding the old computer in her lap. The light from the screen made her look less angelic and more world-weary.

“Don’t you ever get sick of it, having to serve someone like that?” His friend’s question caught Ambrose off-guard. What Jonas was saying was seditious and would surely get his tongue ripped out. No, worse. He would face Her wrath and she was exceptionally talented at making people suffer. Especially rebels, because that’s what Jonas was. The realization made him sink down into one of the threadbare chairs.

“You’re one of them,” Ambrose said slowly, “Aren’t you?”

Jonas smiled, but it was a painfully sad smile. “Yeah. I am.”

“Do you know what she does to rebels?” Ambrose’s mind wandered back to that night when she annihilated an entire town for harboring rebels. Thousands dead, just to teach a few people a lesson. He unconsciously dug his fingers into the worn fabric of the chair.

“Of course I do. Crushes them, eats them, wears their heads on a necklace. Which is why she needs to be stopped.” Jonas exchanged a glance with Trish, who gave him a barely-perceptible nod. “Listen, you need to help us, Ambrose.”

Ambrose blinked rapidly, shocked. “Wait…me? You want me to help you?”

“Why do you think I helped you get the job in the first place?” Jonas asked.

“Because you’re my friend?”

His friend paused for far too long. Then he explained, “We needed more people on the inside. There are a few of us, of course. But so far, no one had been able to get that close to her…well, until you came along. She seems to like you, Ambrose.”

That was utterly ridiculous, of course, and Ambrose let out a nervous, barking laugh. “I don’t think she likes me, Jonas. I don’t think she’s capable of liking anyone.”

“She hasn’t killed you yet, has she? Besides, she asked for you personally when she was selecting the Chief Assistant job. Why else would she do that?”

“Because she’s fucking with me, that’s why!” Ambrose was practically screaming. There. He had said it. Trish’s eyes darted over toward him, surprise registering on her face. He had never shouted in her presence and he instantly regretted it, glancing away sheepishly.

“Don’t you want to be free, Ambrose? To live like a human being? I’ll be honest…there’s no guarantee that she can be stopped, especially since we’re not exactly sure how she gained her powers. But we have to try. Hope is the only thing that we have left,” Jonas told him.

Ambrose’s mind was a whirlwind of confused and contradictory emotions. Terror and despair and yes, hope. The hope may have been faint and overshadowed by the primal fear, but it was there. It lingered in the back of his brain as he looked at the two rebels seated across from him.

“For once in your life, don’t be a coward,” Jonas said and Ambrose, feeling suddenly cornered, muttered a reluctant agreement.

***

Over the weeks that followed, Ambrose gathered whatever information that he could, gleaning bits and pieces from his conversations with the Tyrant. Most days, she was silent or said very little, as if she didn’t want to stoop to talking with a mere human. Other days, she was unexpectedly chatty, addressing Ambrose as if they were old friends. Like the day that they were at the beach, which had been closed so that the Tyrant could enjoy it in private.

Apparently, three young surfers hadn’t gotten the message and when the giantess had spotted them, her eyes had narrowed into slits, the muscles around her mouth bunching up. He had watched her step into the water, pursuing the unfortunate men. They had tried to swim away but she had bent down, plucking up two of them. The third one had beat at her fingers and so she had crushed him in her powerful grip. As soon as he was dead, she gazed down mercilessly at his companions, not bothering to say anything before she flung them as hard as she could, their bodies catapulted off into the distance.

Afterward, she had settled down on the sand, her black bikini contrasting with her exposed skin. Ambrose had turned his attention to the ocean, watching the bluish-green waves tumble toward the shore, when the giantess had sat up. She had been wearing a specially-made pair of sunglasses and he couldn’t tell where her gaze was.

“My father was a commercial fisherman,” she had said without warning, “He used to bring us home all kinds of seafood and it was always fresh, not the frozen shit that people bought in the supermarket. So anyway, I grew up near the ocean. It always fascinated me, something as immense and destructive as the sea. One time a huge hurricane once came through, flooded everything. I remember standing among all those ruined buildings and feeling so…awed.”

Ambrose had shivered despite the summer heat. Had she been purposely lying to him, fabricating stories as some sort of psychotic game? He couldn’t be sure, although he dutifully reported everything to Jonas, who listened and reassured him that what he was doing was important. Ambrose couldn’t be sure of that, either. Some days it felt futile, as if everything that they were doing was in vain. But somehow he clung onto that fragile thread of hope.

***

The Tyrant’s fingers, each the diameter of a telephone pole, drummed impatiently on the arms of her throne. Ambrose watched them rise and fall in rapid succession, the richly-violet nails glittering. He had seen the painters of those enormous nails, which included some of the most talented artists in the world. Usually, the giantess suffered their presence, clearly bored as they labored over each nail, crawling and climbing over her massive fingers. One time, though, one of the artists had tripped and her roller brush had smeared a bright line of red polish just below the cuticle. Enraged, the Tyrant had plucked her up and dumped her into the nearby vat of polish, holding her down in the thick liquid until she had drowned. When the Assistants had extracted her body, the polish had hardened into a crimson cocoon over her limp body.

Ambrose continued to watch the colossal, tapping fingers. For the last few hours, the Tyrant had heard been dealing with official matters, listening to the heads of her various agencies. There seemed to be no limit to them and even her Assistants were growing weary listening to their endless complaints. Finally, the Tyrant waved them away with one hand.

“I’ve had enough. Bring in the Entertainment,” she commanded and several of the Assistants scrambled away to do so. Ambrose remained by the towering throne, surreptitiously shifting from foot to foot. The overwhelming need to urinate had been bothering him for half an hour or so, but he didn’t dare to sneak away. If the Tyrant caught sight of him slipping away, even to use the bathroom…well, she would probably smash him flat. Or drown him in nail polish. Or something equally awful.

When the other Assistants returned, they had two strangers with them, men who had clearly fallen on hard times. Dressed in tattered clothing, their unshaven face speckled with stubble, Ambrose guessed that they were part of the vast underclass. Whether they were there by choice or whether it was simply bad luck, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they were being brought before the Tyrant.

The giantess had visibly perked up, looking down at the two disheveled men at her feet.

“So you know why you’re here?” She asked, her eyes moving from one man to the other. Tentatively, they both nodded, looking like cornered animals as the Assistants approached them with what looked like wooden mallets.

“This will be a fight to the death. The winner gets ten thousand credits, which is enough to buy…oh, I don’t know what. Something fabulous, I’m sure,” the Tyrant continued. Meanwhile, the two men were looking at each other with a mixture of nervousness and determination. Desperate men, no doubt about that, men who were risking their lives for money. Ambrose felt sorry for them as the Tyrant smiled and gestured, as excited as a fan at a sports game.

“May the best man win!” she said cheerfully as the men rushed forward, swinging their weapons awkwardly. The smaller of the combatants moved with greater agility and speed, but the larger man had a longer reach. Ambrose forgot how much he had to pee as he watched them try to hit one another. At first, it appeared that neither man would strike the other; then the smaller man stumbled and his opponent landed a devastating blow to his left shoulder. Bleating in pain, he dropped his mallet and fell to the floor. The giantess’ immense shadow fell over him as she leaned forward for a better look, her hand slithering down between her thighs.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered and Ambrose could hear the arousal in her voice. Biting her lower lip, the gigantic white slabs of her teeth sinking into the glossy red flesh, the Tyrant looked on as the larger of the combatants brought his mallet down onto his prone opponent. The sound that the mallet made as it connected with the man’s chest was ghastly, a muffled THWUNK! noise. Eyes bulging, the smaller man convulsed and coughed out a gruesome cocktail of blood and phlegm.

The Tyrant moaned loudly, her hand now pushing up the golden gossamer fabric of her dress, fingers lightly caressing her sex. Ambrose wasn’t certain which was worse, the giantess’ delight in the brutality of her Entertainment or the beating itself. The larger combatant was too absorbed in pummeling the other man to even notice the Tyrant’s lustful groans. His face was now a mask of merciless resolve, his black eyebrows knitted together as he stood over his dying opponent. He slowly raised the mallet over the other man, the wooden head wet with fresh blood, and then swung it down, right onto his opponent’s forehead.

The dull ache in Ambrose’s bladder was forgotten as the man’s head smashed inward, his feet drumming wildly as he died. Meanwhile, the Tyrant gasped and shuddered a little as well, orgasming at the awful spectacle. Despite the fact that his opponent was dead, the winner continued to bash in the shattered remnants of the other man’s face, his lips peeled away in a feral grin.

“That was lovely,” the Tyrant sighed and for one moment, Ambrose absolutely loathed the murderous woman and the universe that allowed such a being as her to exist. Then the pressure returned in his lower belly and his thoughts went back to his need to relieve himself.

The giantess smiled down at the surviving man, like a Greek goddess towering before her mortal champion. “So it seems you’re the winner…”

The man nodded, still clutching onto the blood-smeared mallet. Bits of skin and flecks of bone clung to it, much to Ambrose’s revulsion. Still smiling, the Tyrant bent down, placing her gargantuan hand on the floor. Hesitantly at first, and then growing bolder, the winner climbed up onto the palm. As she lifted him up, Ambrose noticed how much better the man’s balance was. When he had been in her hand, he had almost fallen off several times; this other man held onto her ring finger but otherwise needed no support.

Holding the winner as if he were a baby mouse, the giantess sat back up. Most people would have been paralyzed with terror, being in the hand of the Ruler of the World, but the tiny man seemed to have become brazen with his victory. He craned his head to look up at the enormous woman, seemingly unaware of the malicious sparkle in her eyes.

“So I get my prize now? The ten thousand creds?” The naive eagerness all over his face was almost too much for Ambrose to bear.

The Tyrant pretended to think about it, still holding the man in her palm. “Hmmm…no, I think not.”

“When? In a few days?”

“More like never.”

The man’s mouth dropped open almost comically. “What?”

“I lied,” the Tyrant announced, her thunderous laugh reverberating throughout the bodies of everyone in the throne room. “There is no prize. Isn’t that just terrible?”

Most people would have wept or simply remained silent. Most people who valued their life, anyway. But this man seemed too angry to care. Darker and darker his face become, flushing an impressive shade of crimson. He raised one fist toward the smirking giantess, shaking it at her.

“Bitch! You fucking lying cunt!”

Hushed silence settled over the room. Never before had someone spoken like that in the Tyrant’s presence. Even though he wasn’t the one who had uttered those words, Ambrose still felt a wave of unreasonable fear wash over him. The ache in his bladder had turned into a painful throbbing.

The Tyrant laughed again, her reaction surprising all of the Assistants.

“And to think I was going to let you go! After all, I enjoyed that show a lot.” Her deafening sigh was overly dramatic. “But now I’m going to kill you.”

“Wait!” The winner protested, realizing his fatal mistake. “Wait, I—,”

His pleas were abruptly interrupted as she dumped him into the deep valley of her cleavage. The giantess’ shimmering dress was low-cut and the Assistants could see the man struggling to climb out from between the massive breasts. But her flesh was too soft and slippery with her sweat, so he kept sliding back down. Once, he almost made it out, scrabbling up frenziedly, but the Tyrant just pushed him back down with one finger. As soon as he vanished beneath the titanic mounds of her breasts, she reached up and nonchalantly cupped them in her hands. When she began to press them together, the man screamed, again and again. A minuscule hand darted up at one point, trying to pull out its owner. But the tremendous pressure from the two mammoth breasts was too much and the body pulped messily. Whatever was left of the man dribbled down the Tyrant’s chest and belly as she sat back in her throne.

“I think I’m ready for more Entertainment,” she said, tapping her fingers once more.

***

One single hair. That was what Trish told Ambrose that she needed. He had no clue why she wanted it and when he tried to probe deeper, she gave him a vague answer. Something about trying to unlock the secret behind the Tyrant’s incredible abilities.

“After all,” Trish had said as they both stood outside, trying to look nonchalant, “she was once a normal person, right? If we can just find whatever she did to herself, we could stop her.”

Perhaps the rebels wanted to perform some sort of DNA-test on the hair and try to reduce the giantess’ magic down to the pattern of her genetic code. That was his assumption, at any rate. But Ambrose had been reluctant. Passively gathering information was easy; stealing something from the Tyrant was much more difficult. He would have protested more if Trish hadn’t leaned closer to him, close enough that he could smell her delicate perfume again.

“I know it’s terrifying, but you need to be strong,” she had whispered.

Be strong, he told himself now, as he stood inside the giantess’ private chambers. Easier said than done. The Tyrant was amusing herself with more men, a fresh batch of handsome young specimens. Ambrose had heard that they were handpicked based upon their masculine good looks. Once upon a time, those men would have been envied for their beauty. Now they were pitied, their appearance condemning them to be the playthings of a brutal and lustful being. Of course, some tried to avoid that fate by whatever means possible; there was a story of a poor young man who had deliberately scarred his own face with a razor blade just to avoid joining the Tyrant’s harem.

The giantess was sitting upright, the newest members of her harem smearing buckets of fragrant lotion all over her titanic form. So far, there had only been one casualty and that had been partly the victim’s fault. He had been perched on the Tyrant’s breast, trying to apply the lotion too quickly, when he had tumbled off and landed headfirst on the marble floor. He had laid there, unmoving, for the longest time. Then the giantess had repositioned herself, sitting down on him. Thousands of tons of flesh had compressed the body instantly. Ambrose hoped that the man had been dead when that had happened.

He watched the men clambering all over her body, thankful for the distraction. While the Tyrant’s gaze was on her tiny slaves, Ambrose inched closer to his target. The dark hair had to be thirty feet long and thicker than his thumb, coiled up on the floor like a snake. Keeping his eyes on the giantess, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the folding knife. It had been strangely easy to sneak the knife past Security; he supposed that they weren’t concerned about someone trying to stab the giantess, especially when the blade was smaller than a thumbtack to her.

It took all of his courage to bend down, feeling like some prey animal out in the open. As he opened the knife and began to cut into the hair, he expected the giantess to whip her head around, to see him engaging in this small act of rebellion. And oh, how she would hurt him. That thought made him saw through the hair faster. In his reckless haste, the blade sank into his finger, searing pain coursing up through his hand. Ignoring it, he quickly stuffed the piece of hair into his pocket along with the knife. When he sneaked another glance, he saw that the giantess was still focused on the little men climbing all over her breasts, between the huge canyon formed by her thighs. He crept back to where he had been standing, his limbs trembling.

Ambrose couldn’t believe it. He had done it, it had been so easy—

Then he spotted the bright drops of blood, as big as old-fashioned coins. From the cut on his finger, no doubt. His eyes widened as he realized that he had bled on the floor, the splatters incriminating. He held his breath, not daring to bend down to wipe up the droplets. If he just stood there, she may not see it. After all, when someone was that gigantic, their vision couldn’t possibly be as good as that of a regular person.

As if she could read his mind, the Tyrant’s head and upper torso swiveled. One of her harem members was nearly thrown off; it was only through dumb luck that he managed to hold onto the swollen nub of her nipple, his entire body swinging like a broken pendulum. The giantess’ cruel eyes locked with Ambrose’s, then moved down to the trail of blood, that damning bit of evidence. But she didn’t grab for him or shout like he anticipated that she would; instead, she just smiled and went back to her helpless playthings.

***

Ambrose was getting ready to leave for the day, trying to mentally organize all of the information that he would report out to Jonas, when someone roughly grabbed his arm. Pain rocketed up to his shoulder and he twisted around to look at his assailant, expecting to see another Assistant. But the uniform was black and yellow and the man’s dark eyes were compassionless.

“C’mon,” the Patrolman growled, yanking him back toward the throne room. “The Tyrant wants to see you.”

Ambrose didn’t resist, hoping that the man wouldn’t break his arm. Fear had turned his insides to ice and each step closer intensified that terror until he was sure that he would pass out. The Patrolman practically shoved him into the throne room, which was almost empty except for the Tyrant and a handful of people. As he discreetly scanned the small crowd, his heart nearly seized-up. Jonas was there, half-hidden behind a big bruiser of a Patrolman. His friend didn’t acknowledge him, looking instead at the Patrolman’s broad back. Why was he here? Ambrose was too afraid to consider the possible reasons.

The giantess was on her throne, looking relaxed, even serene. That was a good sign. Maybe. Ambrose wondered why he had been summoned back here, his eyes shifting back over to where his friend stood. Jonas seemed to be composed, as if this were nothing more than another chore, like waiting in the food lines.

The Tyrant began to speak without warning. “I can remember when I first conquered the United States. Canada came next, and then Mexico, and after that, well, it was pretty much a blur. Anyway, I was at the site of the former UN Headquarters, watching the representatives crawl on their hands and knees before me, begging me to spare their nations, when this man rushed at me.”

Ambrose listened, trying to predict where she was going with this story.

“He had a knife, since he hadn’t been able to sneak a gun in. Not that a gun would have done much to me, but a knife was just so pitiful. So do you know what I did?” The giantess asked. No one hazarded a guess, so she continued, “I laughed at him, especially when he tried stabbing my ankle. Then I kicked him over and stepped on his head so that it popped. Because that’s what I do to those who dare to defy me.”

She made a gesture, her heavy bracelets rattling together like enormous bones. Two more Patrolmen strode through the doorway, holding a woman between them. She was obviously having trouble walking; the way that her right leg limped indicated a sprain or a break.

“Like her,” the Tyrant said, pointing at the prisoner. It took only a second for Ambrose to recognize Trish. 

She raised her head a fraction of an inch, her shackled arms drawn protectively close to her chest. Through the curly strands of her hair, she gazed fearfully at Jonas, then at the giantess, then at her boyfriend again. A deep purple bruise encircled one eye, the lid swollen shut, testament to the beating that the Patrolmen had given her. As bad as their interrogation had been, however, it was nothing compared to what the Tyrant was going to do to her.

“Bring her to me,” the giantess told the Patrolmen. Despite her injuries, Trish thrashed against her captors, trying to free herself. It was all to no avail. Her feet dragged loudly across the polished floor; one foot was bare, her shoe lost at some earlier point. She ceased her struggles when they reached the foot of the throne, her body going limp.

“Oh, you rebels think that you’re so clever. Every decade or so, a group of you vermin decide that you’re going to stop me. And every decade or so, I get the pleasure of stamping you out,” the Tyrant sneered. Trish gasped as the giantess reached down for her, the slender yet enormous fingers closing around the entire length of her body. Only her head showed, poking up from the top of the Tyrant’s fist.

“I have to hand it to you, though. Not many have bothered to try to unlock my secrets. But you know what? Those secrets are mine and mine alone,” the giantess said. The hair, the one that he had stolen, the one that was supposed to help them to understand what she was. Ambrose had no doubt in his mind that she was referring to that.

“So who were your accomplices? Wait! Let me guess…they’re in this room, aren’t they?” The giantess’ smile was viciously playful as she held the bruised woman near her face. “No, don’t answer. I already know.”

“Go to hell, bitch!” Trish shrieked at the top of her lungs. The Tyrant just continued to smile terribly, showing off her impressive teeth before she shoved her captive toward her waiting mouth. Those colossal white teeth separated and then came down on Trish, nipping off her head with horrifying ease. Trish’s headless body convulsed, spurting its blood all over the Tyrant’s chin and fingers. Ambrose had to look away, feeling sick. When he snuck another glance, he saw the giantess open her gargantuan hand, Trish’s corpse falling to the ground far below. Cruelty and cunning gleamed in the Tyrant’s eyes as she spat out the head as if it were merely an olive pit. When she spoke, time seemed to slow down, each word synchronized with Ambrose’s pounding heart.

“I have a feeling that you also know who the other rebel is, Assistant,” she said softly.

Ambrose said nothing, quivering beneath the intensity of her gaze. It was so silent in the room that when the giantess shifted in her throne, the clattering of her jewelry was cacophonous, deafening.

“Here, allow me to help refresh your memory, Assistant,” the giantess snapped, swinging her arm around, her finger aimed in Jonas’ direction. “He’s one of the rebels, isn’t he?”

Don’t lie to me, the Tyrant had told him in the Maserati. She had also informed that she would know if he were lying. Had she been telling the truth? Would she somehow sense if he lied? Most important of all, what she do to him if she caught him in a lie? Ambrose glanced over at Trish’s mutilated corpse and suppressed a shudder. That’s what she’d do to him, tear him into ragged shreds of flesh.

Seated upon her immense throne, the Tyrant stared down at him, her face blank, unreadable. Even her eyes were had become oddly emotionless, like two gigantic orbs carved from blue-gray stone. Oh, she would know. The second that the lie spilled from his lips, she would know.

“Well?” The Tyrant’s booming voice startled him.

Ambrose looked at Jonas, his best friend, then back at the living goddess glaring down at him. Beneath her gaze, he felt like a worm. No, less than a worm. A piece of filth, something that caused her discomfort just by existing. Ambrose opened his mouth, the simple act of speech becoming pure agony, as if his throat were filled with sharp metal shavings.

“I-I…well…I—,”

“Speak up, Assistant, or I’ll just kill you both.”

She’ll know! She’ll know! She’ll know! The voice in his head wailed. Ambrose tried to ignore it but couldn’t, especially when the giantess leaned forward, a frown appearing on her face, ominous as the clouds from an approaching storm.

“I-I-I…he…yes.”

“What’s that?” the giantess demanded.

“Y-yes. He’s part of the group.”

Jonas’s thin lips drew inwards, an involuntary fear reaction, but he didn’t bother to defend himself. Perhaps it would have been better if he had exploded at Ambrose, screamed curses at him and called him a traitor to all of humanity. His silence was so, so much worse.

The giantess had risen from her throne, her flowing black dress tightening around her growing torso and arms. Her shoulders scraped the distant ceiling as she gained story after story, becoming even larger. Ambrose whimpered, instinctively shielding his face as her garment tore and exploded, ragged scraps of fabric fluttering down around him. She was going to grow right through the palace, bring it collapsing down around them. But perhaps it was better that way, to be flattened beneath falling rubble instead of being flattened beneath a foot or a hand or another body part.

Just before she burst through the glass ceiling, the Tyrant stopped her growth, her titanic torso blocking the fading sunlight that had been streaming in through the hundreds of panes overhead. With supernatural speed, her hand swooped down and plucked Jonas from the small crowd, Patrolmen and Assistants fleeing from her grasping fingers. She frowned, dangling him before one eye, regarding him with open contempt.

“No one defies me,” the Tyrant declared. Gripping Jonas’ left arm, she wrenched it violently, breaking it. He made a shrill noise, raw and anguished, as the giantess continued to pull, ripping the limb from its socket. Tendons separated and skin stretched and tore, blood spurting out in scarlet gushes. Ambrose raised both hands to his mouth, horrified.

The Tyrant dropped his severed arm and then reached for the other one. Jonas screeched something; the frantic words ran together, barely comprehensible, but it sounded like, “Oh, Jesus Christ! No! Don’t! Don’t!”

He tried to bat away the colossal fingers, darkly stained with his own blood, but it was no use. The giantess grabbed his remaining arm and yanked it free with a casual motion. Again Jonas howled, the noise echoing throughout the vast room. Ambrose’s hands were still at his mouth and he was only vaguely aware that his nails were biting deep into his own flesh.

Somehow, Jonas didn’t go into shock and die in the giantess’ hand. His eyes did roll up in their sockets, his skin turning the sickly color of cottage cheese, as she smirked at him.

“Like I told your lover, you’re just one of thousands who’ve tried to stop me. I can’t even remember their faces anymore, nor will I remember yours.” The Tyrant’s eyes were glittering with sadistic glee. In her fist, Jonas’s head drooped as his blood pumped from the ragged stumps where his arms had once been. Almost gently, the giantess lowered her hand and set him on the ground, a pool of red forming around his body. 

Then she stood back up, looking down at the dying man before she raised one foot over him.

“N-n-n-no!” Jonas protested feebly, squirming on his back.

The Tyrant continued to smirk. “Die, you fucking insect.”

She brought her foot down upon him, completely engulfing him. Ambrose couldn’t even see Jonas anymore, although he could hear his screams, muffled beneath her pale flesh. The giantess didn’t shift her weight onto him right away; she seemed to be concentrating on the man writhing pathetically beneath her sole. When she did step down, it was strangely anti-climatic. There was one last cry of pain, a sharp crunch, and clumps of viscera leaked out from around her toes, like thick paste slowly forced from a tube.

His best friend, dead, squashed like a beetle. The grief was huge, overwhelming, and it only became worse as the Tyrant lifted up her foot, hovering it over him. Glancing up, he could see Jonas’s flattened body dripping from the broad sole, his face squashed as though it had been made of putty, yet still grotesquely recognizable. Far beyond that were the giantess’ cold and inhuman eyes, watching him.

Ambrose closed his own eyes, something hot and wet splashing down onto his forehead. Jonas’s blood, no doubt. Soon he would be smashed flat as well, his pulped body stretched out next to Jonas’s remains. He prepared for the oppressive weight, the terrible pain of his own bones shattering as if they were made of spun glass. But when he didn’t feel her foot come down, he hesitantly opened his eyes.

The Tyrant stood before him, a nude yet human-sized woman. Confused, Ambrose stared back at her, trying to figure out what game she was playing as she walked toward him.

“Excellent job, I must say,” she purred and he looked down, blinking back the tears. As if they were lovers, the Tyrant ran her fingers lightly along the curvature of his jaw. Her tender touch disgusted and aroused him simultaneously and he had to resist the urge to push her away. Fortunately, she was already leaving, heading toward the door. The Tyrant paused just before she stepped out, her parting words surprising and unnerving him:

“I’m looking forward to many more years of service from you, Ambrose.”