"Ugh, it's so hard being the Internet's beloved supervillainous virus skunk princess. You have to run an internet service provider, write a story every month, bring delight to everyone you come across, menace your foes, and still find time to appreciate each and every one of the countless murdermaids and assorted Gracelings hopelessly and correctly spellbound by their perfect Princess. If I were any less brilliant, I don't know how I'd do it."

The half-Graced bunny ex-boy, enraptured by the symphony¹ of intoxicating smells only a pair of skunk princess balls can provide, nods and manages to recite the "Of course, Princess. You're so correct and powerful." freshly seared into that bouncy little brain. Promptly, naturally, so Princess's balls get their well-deserved smooches on time.

Skunk claws comb through the budding pink streak and apply gentle pressure to the ears, all to guide the nose and mouth to exciting new places. "Dear." A statement clearly directed at one of the murdermaids flanking the throne rolls off the bunny's brain. "What's today's schedule look like?"

Murdermaid 79 clears her throat and swishes her circuitried tail. "You've got an hour to finish up with Captain Bunderful—"

"Cocktaint Brainderfucked."

Murdermaid 97 makes a note to update Cocktaint's hero card.

"—including half an hour to eat before we tape Modemoiselle's Mainframe—" 79 taps a gloved finger against the paperback waiting patiently beside her princess's throne.

"Oh, we do have some great guests this week. Some of them even volunteered!"

"—and then your big concert."

"Of course. Ever since Batsune Mechu mysteriously retired, it falls to me to give the people what they want."

"And then the podcasting."

"Naturally."

"Hm. Which I'm now realizing conflicts with… it says 'foil revenge'."

"That's about when Brainderfucked's partner is going to figure out what happened and come interfere. We should have some kind of booby trap ready."

"Should I reschedule the podcasts?"

"Oh, it's already hard enough getting everyone together." A claw digs into Cocktaint's chin so Princess can properly inspect the goods. "If only I could be in two places at once." Princess muses to the thoroughly twinned murdermaids and the Grace-in-progress. "Whatever is a woman to do?"

"Install Debian?" 97 offers.

"Well, yes, but I was going to ask if we still have the Lectern prototype."

"Destroyed in the fight with Wanderlust. Well. Regularlust. Total claw fusion."

"Right. She still masturbating?"

"Last I checked, Princess."

"We'll have to improvise."

"Shall I call the lab?"

"No need, dear. Let's get my claws dirty. Tell the Mainframe girls to have the manicure stuff ready." 79 nods and steps away to make a radio call. "Of course—" A skunk claw traces a long line, pink and glowing, across the top of the bunny's throat. "—we might have to help our little model here along. I know you were looking forward to slowly simmering your mind to mush, dear." A quick eyelid lift reveals the circuit hearts slowly sprouting from the pupils.

"Of course, Princess. You're so correct and powerful."

"But Princess says you'll enjoy this, too."

A fuzzy fantasy forms and swirls with the kind of high you only get from Princess dick. "Of course, Princess. You're so correct and powerful."

Princess-pink circuitry throbs and spreads up the throat and down to the chest. A claw traces a heart over the left boob-to-be as a root for future expansion. "Can't have you going off-model too soon, dear."

"Of course, Princess. You're so correct and powerful."

"And we'll have to do something about that face. Just a little more length and a stripe should do it."

"Of course, Princess. You're so correct and powerfuff." It is, admittedly, hard to talk when your perfect Princess squeezes your face until your snout matches faers and draws a nice pink stripe down the middle.

Wherever the circuitry spreads, simulated skunk fur follows. Clearly patterned after Princess with an added touch of the artificial. Faux fur with stripes of metallic pink dye to evoke the original's scintillating circuits. Soft, yes, but soft like a bean bag or a nice blanket instead of a living thing or the elaborate physics simulation our viral princess wears for engagements in meatspace. Princess claws and maidly gloves shift and sculpt the fake fluff to suggest the real thing.

Admittedly, the maids do most of the work. Princess has to model, of course, and offer advice like "Fluff the tail out a little more, dears. I suspect we'll need it."

Sculpting a brainmelted hero into a fursuit of yourself is inherently an imprecise art. Even with a thick cloud of Princess spray softening the lucky thing's sense of self and just enough viral influence to make the physical parts expedient, you kinda don't want to do too good a job. You want the craftsmaidship to shine through so it reflects well on a certain princess, but you don't want it getting silly ideas about who's Princess Prime.

Besides, making and teasing an artificial simulacrum of yourself with smooches on the hollow snout and claws through the wig and the occasional gentle tail tug is just fun. The end result is going to be a bit bigger –gotta have room to fit someone inside– so you might as well have fun with it.

A murdermaid knocks on the doorframe and gestures at her watch. Princess nods. "Right. I want at least an hour of tail time for it by five. We'll get some during hair and makeup, maybe we can stuff it under the podium during the quiz round." Fae rises from the throne, takes a bite of book, and follows our schedulemaid to hair and makeup. "Someone send Bunny Beaumont a gift. Tell her she writes a delicious murder mystery."

79 and 97 split the suit and follow close. 79 with the head under an arm and 97 wearing the rest like a cape.

Snunderbuss² slithers in for snevenge³ right on snedule⁴. Princess Prime is halfway across the volcano lair, checking camera feeds between inscrutable inside jokes. The snake of the hour springs from a bait vent⁵ to confront the fauxdemoiselle, shrouded in shadow and propped up on a fool's throne. Modemoiselle's recorded voice calls forth from the hollow head. "You're in luck, dear. Too late to stop your partner from sinking into my clutches, but just in time to give in and become a snurdermaid. Our tailormaids would have a blast with you. We met this adorable noodle dragon and you should see the designs—" Snunderbuss bares their fangs and goes for the throat. They do manage to separate the head and send the speaker clattering into the corner with one solid strike.

The cameras capture an impressive gamut of emotions. Victory. The dawning realization. Grabbing a handful of fursuit boob to verify. Hearing them squeak like a dog toy. Asking themselves if fursuits are supposed to do happy little shudders when that happens.

Oh, and getting an hour's worth of pressurized princess spray right in the snout. Not an emotion, but rapid-onset infochemical-induced bliss is. A direct hit to the forked tongue makes a good beginning to a bad end. They tense for an instant –an orgasmic spike pattern interrupt will do that– and rapidly relax into big, cozy coils. Mod issues a silent order from the recording booth and half a dozen maids swoop in. Even in the best case scenario, a single shot of hypnospray gets you a few minutes of suggestibility and a foothold for future Gracing. Teams of maids train to maximize the value of "a single spray". Usually, there's suggestions planted for later or a head start on an escape, so today is a special treat. A spray squad so rarely gets to finish the fight.

One maid fetches the head, another goes for the speaker still monologuing in the corner, and the rest gather coils. It's like lifting a chain that wants to cuddle you for warmth. Murdermaids are, fortunately, professionals. It takes a little more than gay rope⁶ to keep them from sliding the snake into their old partner with pit crew precision. Happy little hisses fill the air, muffled only by the head going back on and the speaker, dropped in the middle of the coils and tuned to Lo-Fi Princess Grace Beats to Succumb/Sniff to.

The maids high five, give the cameras the thumbs up, and start the celebratory makeout pile atop and with the suit. They grind and grope and kiss, swishing tails and burying their faces in artificial Princess boobs and bulge. The suit thrums with joy and the the snake enjoys the warmth.

The murdermakeout finally comes to a close as their shift ends. Each maid gives the fool's princess a good-bye snoot smooch and the sign goes on.

Please don't lift the head. They're nice and warm. They have plenty of hypnospray and are listening to what will soon be their favorite music.