Dawson had always been something of a bully. Oliver had tried to teach her that the mere suggestion of violence could get one far, but once he was gone so too was all notion of restraint gone with him, and that was how she was for a long, long time.
Now on her knees with her bare stone-hard thighs pressing to the sides of her young admirer's head, Dawson supposed she was no different at her core. From her perspective, most people just wanted to be pushed in the direction that was best for them, picked up and carried there, or just sat on by someone who made them feel safe. A big enough bully would keep away others who didn't have one's best interests at heart.
But Dawson had Zelda's best interests at heart. She leaned her weight back to press her stubbled mound against the satyr's face and spoke in her Commanding Voice, "Lick."
The shuddering whine that had been escaping the girl's lips graduated to an overwhelmed moan as what was her first real kiss was taken by Dawson's cunt. The horned ork's mouth contorted into baffling shapes trying to engulf as much of the opposing lips as she could. Through their intermingled essence she could read the ork's thoughts, such that they existed in her: This is my only food forever now!!
Dawson put one palm on the satyr's forehead, possessively, assertively. "Eager little cunt eater, aren't you?" The teasing praise caused Zelda's already questionable mental faculties to devolve further, making of her mind a cacophony of sparks and pink fog. With minimal effort Dawson could push and direct these fireworks, wrapping her lover up completely until there was only her. Without any guilt Dawson pressed the immense weight of her desire onto the smaller figure as surely as she ground her pussy onto her mouth.
While Zelda ate into the space between her legs, Dawson reviewed in her mind what she'd surrendered, gently bucking back and forth on the girl's gradually slickening face. It was indeed Calista behind this game, and this wasn't the first she'd made. The dramatis regina had been making these simsense games based on Dawson's recent exploits and when she'd run out of exciting stories to twist and been left only with the garden variety law enforcement with no spectacle, only the grim drudgery of mundane crime, she'd dug into the past for another way to glorify Dawson's identity.
Why? Zelda didn't know why. Try as she might to squeeze the young satyr's essence and tease out some scrap of motive, Calista had kept her protege in the dark on that topic. And there was an overflowing adoration for Dawson in her, one that went far deeper than simple young lust. When Dawson had touched on that tense surface, emotional impressions had come to her in shudders: desperate acts with sharp regrets. Parents who should have been present and weren't. A longing for a home...
Dawson had let off of that with the same gentleness she would use for a loaded gun, setting the safety back on and removing the clip. Those kinds of memories ought to be shared by choice, rather than pried loose from a helpless lover. What she got was enough to explain the infatuation, especially with the way Calista was portraying her. Had been portraying her, with the bloody tusk street theater and now these simsense games.
Zelda knew all about them, of course. The first was called Blood ProfiC and saw the player initially take on the role of legally distinct elven serial killer "Jules Gehenna," a ritualist and junior executive working for the fictional "MayanCorp." As Jules players had to perform brutal murders with a priceless orichalcum knife, and then at the conclusion of the act the player would become Dawson and have to examine what they'd done, identify evidence to be collected and gradually piece together the motive: that Gehenna was collecting blood to power a machine designed to manifest the will of his patron, The Adversary. It led to a tense confrontation where spirit-possessed corporate security had to be fought through, and Gehenna subdued by several shots from the legendary Ares Accelerator. Dawson felt that was a little charitable to the antagonist, considering the figure he was based on had fired two desperate shots at her before giving up.
Yet the game was a curious mix of brutality and reflection, making the player do something horrible and then making them contemplate the consequences in material, moral and metahuman costs. Most simsense games were just senseless violence and destruction.
Zelda had been drawn in right away and played it obsessively. She was first in line at the arcade when the second game showed up: Inferno Galore. It invited players to take on the role of a fallen priest called Sabbath, also in service to the Adversary, who sought to manifest through blood ritual a living firestorm in the heart of San Francisco, and it was up to Dawson to stop him. Later Dawson would make mention of this to Illich and describe the red-robed, revolver-wielding priest gathering sacrifices, driven by terror and guilt, and he would say with a heartbreaking sadness in his eyes It is too kind a telling, mi hija. Too kind.
As Sabbath lay defeated he begged his god for forgiveness, only for the Adversary to appear as a smokey silhouette and drag his soul to hell before threatening Dawson with consequences for yet again interfering in his affairs. Dawson wasn't sure how to think of this--there was absolutely no doubt that the Adversary was a force in the sixth world but she couldn't recall meeting such a force directly at any point in her life, let alone having a conversation with it. She was much more inclined to conclude that people who were victimized turned to any hand offered to them, no matter what it might cost them further on. The Adversary was simply the one selling them the proverbial rope used to hang themselves.
This portrayal of events completely misrepresented Sabbath, painting him as a mad zealot led astray by the corrupt culture of Aztlan even though the old man had been born in a time before Aztechnology and the state had become indistinguishable. He'd stolen technology and tried to harness the power of nature to force the world to change, not because the adversary had promised it to him in exchange for an arbitrary number of souls. As with the first game it made users create a problem and then made them solve it, and Zelda by this point had noted that this was creating a player attachment not only to Dawson but to what she was doing--fixated on her not just for being hot and bossy (the satyr's description) but building an appreciation for her role in San Francisco. Making them understand through vicarious simsense experience why Dawson--specifically Dawson--was important to their wellbeing and security. Impressionable and vulnerable virgins (like Zelda had been until a short time ago) soaked up what was effectively propaganda like sponges. It was devastatingly effective at instilling hero worship of her.
Dawson's relentless inspection of the girl's memory had caused her to enter a semi-vegetative state, barely moving her tongue. Reaching down, Dawson gripped Zelda's forehead in one hand and squeezed. "Who said you could stop?" she growled. Zelda moaned into the shaved mound and resumed her furious lapping. No skill, but plenty of enthusiasm. The bully in Dawson enjoyed getting to set the bar by which all future lovers might be judged. To compensate for her inexperience, Dawson began to gently grind back and forth over the satyr's face. It sent her fogged mind to an ever-distant, ever-cloudier place.
The third game was a complete reversal, to the shock and awe of eager fans. Titled Burning Heart, the player was for the first two-thirds of the game thrust into the role of the late Ivan Ionfist, beginning with his raid on the California Rangers armory north of San Jose. This was the event immediately preceding the gang war between the Bloody Tusks, the Cutters and the Ancients as they fought brutally across neighborhoods and streets, and the game delivered it in gritty detail as Ivan clashed numerous times with gang leaders: a lithe motorcycle riding maniac titled The Crimson Wheel and a gun-toting pair of oafs from southeastern Canada dubbed The Trailer Park Boys. Constantly interfering was Lone Star's TacDiv squadrons, including Riot Control, SWAT, and later on Irregular Assets. The cops were led by a tough-as-nails lieutenant the tusks called Iron Max, depicted as having metal on his face even though Sokoth didn't get his facial reinforcements installed until after Ionfist had broken his jaw while escaping from prison.
Another bastardization, especially because it characterized Ionfist as some kind of fucking warrior-poet waging a war on the sixth world's "weakness and corruption." Weakness WAS their evil, she recalled him saying in the cistern. Him, or some simulacrum of him. This game at least didn't attempt to spin the tone of events, correctly showing how brutal and wasteful the go-gang fighting had been. More often than not whatever they were fighting over was destroyed in the process and at its height it was beginning to approach the insanity of the occupation, which had been media sterilized in the years since but remained as fresh as ever in Dawson's eidetic memory.
Ionfist had been smart to show himself only rarely on the street in that time, because if he had the bounty hunters working for Irregular Assets would have been all over him. The game carefully never showed him fighting Neon Justice until after he was apprehended by Iron Max and The Dark Star, the mythologized portrayal of Dawson that some of the tusks now sought to emulate. From prison he was freed by none other than The Adversary, inflicting him on the world to wreak yet more chaos and devastation. A culprit who was ironically more pure in his motives than the true perpetrators: Reymont at the behest of the Yakuza who wanted Ionfist in their debt again, helped by Ishikawa and a prison guard on the take whose name was public but whose identity was mostly unheard of because he'd turned evidence almost the moment that another witness with a SIN had materialized to testify against Reymont.
All those factors had been ignored in this and for what? To make Ionfist seem like some kind of fucking underdog with the devil's luck on his side, and to make Dawson look like some kind of hero.
And then this newest game. "Valkyrie's Wrath." Showing Dawson in her youth, every bit the fucking war criminal she was. She bore down with her crotch on Zelda's face, reflexively punishing her for being so fanatic about it. The ork muttered in half-fright, half-joy and Dawson let up. Suffocating her in cunt would teach her nothing, and anyway she would enjoy it making it an effective punishment.
For a moment Dawson wondered why this latest game would seek to paint her this way after all the others made people want to eat off of her lower back but holding Zelda by the head and testing her emotions revealed the reality: people in San Francisco still hated the Protectorate. The city bore the scars of the fighting in more than a few ways, and there were many people who were gone as a direct or indirect result of their actions. People who were still missed.
That part Dawson understood perfectly. Did pretending to be the living weapon Ares Macrotechnology used to drive them up against the wall, high out of her mind the entire time on kamikaze and every other drug Knight Errant's paychecks could buy her, serve at all to make them feel better?
Zelda's emotional memory suggested it did. It made them feel... complicit. Just like the other games, it invited them to take the final step. Be a monster instead of a victim of one. A destroyer with a benefits package. A killer on the right side of history. The bigger bully.
Dawson let go of Zelda's head, leaving the girl's eyes vacant and faintly glowing pink. Her mouth meanwhile continued to serve, and having learned all she expected from this particular informant Dawson dedicated her energy to getting off using her fangirl's face.
"What am I supposed to do with you, hm?" She pressed her bare thighs to Zelda's head, putting firm pressure on it. "Crush your head like a grape? Would you like that?" The satyr nodded vigorously, lips still working. Dawson curled one corner of her mouth.
"I'll bet. But no, not today." She leaned away from Zelda and arched her back, allowing her to main the pressure on the ork's head while beginning to slide back and forth. Not enough to give her prey fresh air but enough to make more use of her willing surface area.
"Lie still," she instructed, "And be my sybian. Do you know what that is?"
Zelda shook her head no, as much as her prison of muscle would permit.
