Page 11 of Corrupted Tyrant

Keeping my ears under my hood, my tail tucked into my pant leg, and my lips closed in public was something Candy and I discussed. Others are allowed out of the Zone to work, but very few of us have left the Los Angeles area. I don’t want to call attention to myself, definitely don’t want to cause trouble for Candy. We agreed to reevaluate, but this is the plan, at least for now.

“Yep. This place being just the other side of overwhelming is kind of the point, Mr. Big Bad Wolven. It’s supposed to be a lot. It’s supposed to make you feel something.”

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way her proximity makes me feel all sorts of somethings. Things I have no business feeling for my charge, no matter how magnetic her presence or how infectious her joy.

“And what do you feel?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.

She tilts her head, considering. “Alive. Inspired. As though anything is possible, even in the midst of all this beautiful, glorious mess.”

I nod, letting her words sink in. It’s a foreign concept to me, this idea of embracing the chaos, of finding beauty in the disorder. In the Zone, everything is regimented, controlled. Structure is survival; order is safety.

But here, in this explosion of color and whimsy? Maybe there’s a different kind of safety. The kind that comes from letting go, from surrendering to the madness and seeing where it takes you.

Candy tugs on my arm, pulling me toward a particularly eye-catching installation. “Come on, I want to get a closer look at that one!”

I let her lead me, trying to ignore the prickle of unease that crawls up my spine as we weave through the crowd. Though I’m desperately trying to blend in, I’m acutely aware of my otherness. Even with my tail tucked down one pant leg and my fur covered, I feel exposed. A target.

It’s nothing new, this wariness, this fear. I’ve lived with it all my life, the knowledge that to most humans, I’m a monster, a creature to be gawked at and shunned. But here, in this bright, shining world that Candy inhabits so effortlessly? It stings more than usual.

Candy must sense my discomfort, because she slows her pace, her hand tightening on my arm. “Hey,” she says softly, her eyes finding mine. “Just focus on me, okay? Forget about everyone else. It’s just you and me and this crazy, beautiful place.”

I take a deep breath, letting her presence ground me. She’s right. I can’t control how others react to me, but I can control my own experience. And right now, that experience is Candy, in all her vibrant, vivacious glory.

We spend the next hour exploring every nook and cranny of Randyland, Candy oohing and aahing over each new discovery while I try to wrap my mind around the sheer creativity on display. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen, a testament to the power of the human imagination.

As we wander, I find myself making mental notes, my mind spinning with ideas for projects I could tackle back in the Zone. A mural on the community center wall, perhaps, or a sculpture garden in the park. Something to bring a little color, a little joy, to a place that often feels so run down and lifeless.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Candy bumps her hip against my thigh, startling me out of my reverie.

I duck my head, feeling a flush creep up my neck. “Just thinking about how I might be able to bring a little bit of this back home with me. Liven up the Zone a bit, you know?”

Her eyes widen, a slow grin spreading across her face. “Courage, that’s brilliant! You totally should.”

Her words catch me off guard, something warm and full taking root in my chest. I’m not used to people seeing me as anything other than a warrior, a protector. The idea that I could create something, that I could make the world a little brighter, a little better… it’s exhilarating.

I clear my throat, trying to play it off with a shrug. “We’ll see. I’m not exactly the artistic type.”

“Bullshit.” She tosses her head for emphasis. “I’ve seen the way you look at the world, the way you take everything in. You’ve got an artist’s soul, even if you don’t know it yet.”

Before I can respond, a high-pitched squeal cuts through the air. “Oh my god, is that Candy Wood?!”

I tense, my hand automatically reaching for the concealed stun gun at my hip. But Candy just laughs, turning toward the source of the noise with a smile.

“Guilty as charged,” she says, spreading her arms wide. “What gave me away, the pink hair or the entourage of paparazzi hiding in the bushes?”

The group of girls materialize out of the crowd, tittering, their eyes wide with awe. “We’re huge fans,” one of them gushes. “Huge. Like, we’ve been following your career since KEN.”

Candy’s smile softens, genuine affection shining through. “That’s so sweet, thank you. It means the world to me that you’ve stuck with me all this time.”

As the girls clamor for autographs and selfies, I hang back, watching Candy work her magic. She’s a natural with her fans—warm, engaging, and utterly sincere. It’s a far cry from the jaded, cynical starlet I first met, the one who seemed to view her fame as more of a burden than a blessing.

But here, surrounded by the people who love her, who she’s touched with her music and her story? She comes alive in a whole new way.

After a few minutes, Candy extricates herself from the group with a final round of hugs and thank-yous. “I hate to run,” she says, “but I’ve got a concert to prep for.”

The girls nod in understanding, their faces flushed with excitement. As they disperse, one of them turns to me, her expression curious.

“Are you her boyfriend?”

---