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I'm A Bunny Goddess?!

Author's note: Hello and thanks for reading my sapphic isekai romance. A new chapter will be released every Sunday. BUT, you can read each chapter two days early by subscribing to my Ko-fi. And if you enjoy this story, you might also check out my werewolf romance, here. For further updates on my writing, feel free to join my Discord. The next chapter will be released on January 26. 

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The rusty old hatch of my truck took a few kicks to lock into place, but I got the roll-up door sealed, once again hiding the plastic crates of sorted letters and packages. 

“Damn! You make opening and closing that door harder with every stop,” I told my American Postal Service truck as if it could hear me and magically fix itself. 

But the tattered old vehicle needed the same thing all rural post offices did and was unlikely to get. . . funding. Money for a new timing belt. Money for a new door. Money for new tires. Hell, even money for the rural mail carriers who froze their fingers and toes bringing people their Spamazon boxes and envelopes.

Heaving my mailbag onto my good shoulder, I sighed and made sure the doors on my mail truck were locked. 

Above me, gray clouds hid the sun and promised a day of frigid wind, if not a few ill-timed showers. 

Pulling up my wool pants and fixing the sleeves on my blue long-sleeve shirt, I started the long walk around Betsy Loop, a wealthier neighborhood of country homes on the outskirts of Bartlesville. 

Passing an older house painted blue, I made my first stop, pulling a few bills out of the letterbox and replacing them with a couple of credit card offers that would immediately be tossed in the recycle bin. 

“Morning, Brandon!” a father of two yelled at me, waving and then ushering his kids into a minivan. 

“Morning, Tom!” I yelled back, closing the postbox. 

I dodged a stray poodle that liked to escape its backyard and wander around the neighborhood sniffing trees. Freckles paid me no mind, so I didn’t usually watch her too closely. 

The cracked sidewalk under my shoes was covered with dirt and leaves. It needed to be repaired, but the neighborhood association had declined offers from the town three times now over noise concerns. 

They might feel differently if I twisted my damn ankle and sued, I thought. 

Scratching one of my arms, I sighed. Brandon. Of all the names, why did mother go with that one? It was so. . . plain and boring. 

I wish she’d have chosen something cooler like Avery or Alex, I thought. Maybe even Laurie. I was always fond of that name after reading Little Women in high school. 

“Brandon just makes me feel like I might as well have been named Butch or Buddy or fucking Mud,” I grumbled, frowning. 

Putting a few magazines into a mailbox outside of a home with blue shutters on the windows, I paused to pop my neck. 

“Oh my, Brandon! Sounds like you need a visit to the chiropractor,” an older woman said, looking up after plucking a few weeds from her garden. 

I grunted as a twinge of pain prickled down the back of my neck. 

“A tall man like yourself hauling around mailbag all day is bound to have a few joints out of place. I could give you the number for Dr. Richards if you want. He fixes my back once a week,” the gardener said. 

I never asked to be so tall, I thought, hiding a frown. That was something I couldn’t blame my mom for. 

“Uh, thanks, Mrs. Wendell. I’ll think about it,” I said, knowing with absolute certainty that I’d never let someone start cracking my back like a sheet of bubble wrap. 

“Are you sure?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. “You sound just like my husband. It’s so hard to get him to go to the doctor unless he’s lying on the floor, about to die.” 

Waving and offering Mrs. Wendell a fake smile, I started to slowly leave. 

“Well, hey, you’ll have several more chances to convince me. It’s not like you don’t see me every day,” I said, waving and moving on to the next house. 

I sighed again. How many times was that this morning? Was it normal for people to count their sighs? That question only left me heaving another exasperated sigh on the world. 

In my head, I heard her voice again, saying, “You sound just like my husband.”

And for reasons I couldn’t place, that started to grind my gears. I’d met Mr. Wendell several times. He was a good man, ran the local food bank, and volunteered at the county library. Who wouldn’t want to be like him?

Me, I thought. I don’t want to be like him. I don’t even wanna be like me. 

Reaching into my bag, I pulled out a package from Narnes & Boble. Someone had just ordered a new book. To distract myself from growing even more agitated from. . . whatever the fuck was wrong with me, I started trying to imagine what kind of book Ms. Washington was getting in her mail today. 

Placing the package in her mailbox, I continued around the loop, hearing the sounds of a sprinkler in the distance. 

“Who waters their lawn this late in the season?” I asked, looking around the semi-dead grass in several neatly trimmed lawns. 

Turning back to my book guessing game, I adjusted the strap on my mailbag and rubbed my chin. 

Maybe she’s got a new romance novel from Ashley Herring-Blake, I thought. Or something from Stephen King. Didn’t he put out a book a few months ago? Maybe it’s a graphic novel. 

This kept me entertained for the next few houses as I made my way around the loop and back toward my truck. 

My stomach growled, and that shifted my thoughts to lunch. 

“Maybe I’ll try that new Italian place over on Fourth Street,” I said, again to no one. “Sarah had good things to say about it.” 

Thinking of Sarah, my thoughts turned glum again. Not because of anything she’d done, of course. She was perfectly nice and the closest coworker I had at the APS building. No, she’d recently dyed her hair again, blue this time. 

As I scratched the back of my neck, I thought about my short blond hair, wishing I had the guts to dye it. It wasn’t even that I wanted my hair to be a different color. I just — wanted so desperately to change something about myself. 

But it was hard to put into words. Some nagging feeling had only grown worse in the last few years. I didn’t like my life. My job was fine, but. . . something just wasn’t adding up the way I expected. 

I’d never had much of a plan for my life. Sure, I played football in high school like most of the bigger boys did. But it wasn’t like I planned to make a career out of it. All the guys in my class were talking about trade school or college or even joining the National Guard. 

They were all excited to leave home. I stayed, not because I loved my hometown, but because I just couldn’t bring myself to feel excited about any particular future. A flyer stapled to an electric pole downtown that said “Rural mail carriers wanted, $22 an hour” set my course for me. I just kind of fell into it. 

A decade later, I was still slinging mail. And most of those people who were excited to leave Bartlesville came back a few years later and started families as their parents did before them. They all seemed happy, for the most part, which was baffling to me. 

Because when I tried to picture myself happy, my mind got fuzzy, like an old TV with poor reception. Static filled the brain. I started to feel like Charlie Brown before he discovered the spirit of Christmas, only, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever find it. The Christmas special was 25 minutes long, and no matter how many times you watched it, Charlie Brown eventually found what he was looking for before the credits rolled. 

But me? Twenty-eight years and counting. Still no answer for whatever ailed me. 

“Maybe I should find a therapist,” I muttered, walking under a large oak tree with blue jays fighting over a favorite perch. 

It wasn’t the first time I’d wanted to, of course. But the only therapist in a 30-mile radius was also a pastor. And I was never one for the religious stuff. Omnipotent deities hanging out in the sky and deciding human fates was a bit much to buy. I wasn’t here to worry about that shit. I had mail to deliver. 

A twig crunched under my sneakers, and I watched a squirrel dart up a window and steal seeds from a birdfeeder. 

It’s so funny to me that people get upset about squirrels stealing from bird feeders, I thought, snorting. Imagine choosing to feed wildlife and then being picky about who shows up to dine.

Pulling a few letters out of my bag, I stopped at a mailbox that sat next to a parked pickup truck. The letters were all in colorful envelopes, red, yellow, and orange. Maybe they were birthday cards. Those were always a nice surprise. 

The older I got, the more I appreciated people sending me cards and hand-written letters. Up north, in bigger cities, I heard neighbors tipped their mail carriers. But around here, folks would leave cards in their mailboxes with my name on them. I had one guy who left me homemade gingerbread cookies in his mailbox every Christmas Eve. 

“Hey Brandon!” a man shouted from his porch as I approached his mailbox. Closing the lid and walking up his driveway, I handed the older man his mail. 

“Morning, Malachi. How’s your leg today?” I asked. 

Malachi sat in his pajamas rocking back and forth in an old chair, his left knee wrapped in bandages. 

“Eh, still fussing a bit. I figured some fresh air might help it. Hey! Did you catch the game last night?”

Inside, I sighed. Of course. I was a man. Men were expected to discuss the weather or the game. But the weather was brisk, and I was never one for sports after high school. Why couldn’t we talk about gardening? I wish Mrs. Wendell would have told me about her dahlias earlier. But she probably thought it would’ve bored me. Why couldn’t we talk about new shops opening? I heard a teacher retired early from the Bartlesville Middle School to open up a clothing store over on the east side of town. We could talk about that. But no. Malachi thought I wanted to hear about football. 

“And then the Bullboys took it into overtime! I can’t believe you missed it. It was a hell of a game, Brandon. What were you doing last night?”

What was I doing? Probably fucking around on Sinterest. Waiting for my body to trick me into thinking it was tired enough to sleep and then feeling wired as soon as my head hit the pillow. 

“Uh — I went to bed early,” I lied. 

“Ah well. You can watch the highlights online later. I have to do that sometimes if the drugs make me too tired to stay up and finish a game.” 

I nodded. 

“Well, take care, Malachi. I hope your leg feels better tomorrow,” I said, walking down his driveway and continuing with my chest in knots. 

What was wrong with me? Malachi was a nice guy. Normally, I’d have been happy to sit and listen to him talk for a few more minutes. But that growing agitation in the back of my mind just wouldn’t shut up. 

“Hey, Brandon! You ever think that in another universe, maybe you got drafted onto the Bullboys after high school?” Malachi called after me. 

Before I was out of earshot, I ground my teeth, turned back to him, and managed one final wave. Maybe from this distance, he didn’t see me twitching. 

I made it back to my truck, sweat pouring down my face despite the cold. Looking in the sideview mirror, I saw Brandon June looking back at me. All 220 pounds of him. Blue eyes, thick neck, broad shoulders, and a haircut that said, “Whatever’s cheapest.” 

Heaving my mailbag into the vehicle, I paused to catch my breath and scratch my neck. Only then did I notice my mail truck had a flat tire on the passenger side. And even this failed to rouse any sort of anger or frustration from me. My shoulders just sagged, and I ran my hands over my face. 

Something was wrong with me. Sarah had asked me to go see a movie with her a few months back called The Feral Robot. It followed a robot that washed up on an island without people. And she eventually decided to raise a baby duckling. I liked the film well enough, but Sarah cried through most of it. 

And I could tell there were these scenes that were big, emotional moments where the robot had to let the duckling go so he could grow up. They were written to draw the tears from your body like a magnet pulling up loose change. But I . . . just couldn’t make it happen. My throat drew tight. I felt. . . something in my chest. It just didn’t equate with sadness or love. Try as I might, much as I wanted them to appear, no tears visited my eyes. 

That was when I realized how fucked I truly was. I couldn’t even cry. Not that most men in my situation would be bothered by that. At least, most of the men I knew wouldn’t. But I spent days and weeks obsessing over it, typing “Why can’t I cry?” into Foogle. Nothing I read online answered my question. 

Pulling my car keys out of my pocket, I was startled and dropped them when a train horn sounded off somewhere nearby. 

Looking to my left, I watched two metal arms extend downward to block off traffic from just outside the neighborhood. And to my horror, about 100 feet left of those metal arms, I spotted a child on the tracks. 

“Oh no no no,” I whispered to myself as a freight train came into view from behind the nearby treeline. “Hey, kid! Move!” 

But the kid was crouched over, fussing with something. He didn’t seem to hear me. Or if he did, he didn’t care. 

With my heart hammering in my chest, I threw everything I had in my tank and took off, hauling ass for the railroad tracks. 

The train horn sounded again as I put on another burst of speed. Everything around me seemed to blur at the edges of my vision. Noises grew distorted. The train horn sounded again. I even heard a few cars honking from the guard rails on the road. 

Grass and bushes flew by me as I ran straight toward the kid. The train, which had to be nearly a mile long, raced down the track. I knew from experience that you didn’t stop one of those things quickly. It wasn’t a car. That was tons upon tons of steel and cargo barreling down the tracks. 

Bounding up the little hill the tracks ran over, I spotted what kept the boy rooted to that spot. He had some kind of toy stuck under the rail. A doll or figure? I couldn’t tell. There wasn’t time to identify it. The train was probably less than a dozen feet away. I imagined a bewildered engineer or conductor praying for a miracle right about now. 

The boy was sweating, his short brown hair covered in twigs and mud. He’d clearly been out playing all morning with whatever toy was stuck. Wasn’t he Mrs. Wendell’s grandson?

Just before the giant steel battering ram on wheels slammed into the boy, I made the executive decision to sacrifice his toy and shoved the child off the tracks like I was a linebacker again. The fiercest wake-up call of my life officially ended my life as an unstoppable force met a very moveable object. And that was that. 

***

In the movies, when someone wakes up, it’s a gradual affair. But my eyes snapped open without a hint of grace. The first thing I smelled was coffee. 

Looking around, I found myself standing in the kitchen of a sleek modern apartment. Stainless steel appliances lined the walls. They looked clean but also well-used. I noticed worn burners on the stove that spent a lot of time under cast iron cookware. 

A wooden block of knives sat next to a warm grey coffee pot half full of java. In front of me stood an island with a stack of envelopes and a fresh mug of what smelled like hazelnut roast coffee, steam rising lazily from the cup like a musician who sleeps an hour past her alarm clock. Behind the envelopes and mug rested a black uPhone in a clear protective case. 

“Hello?” I called, looking around the kitchen and spotting an empty sink, a fridge with transparent doors so I could see a bunch of meat and produce inside, and a drying rack full of damp dishes. 

No one answered me. 

Cautiously, I stepped toward an island centered in the kitchen, carefully keeping my head away from a line of hanging metal pans that could and would bonk the ever-loving daylights out of me if given the chance. 

Looking down at the nice stack of cream-colored envelopes, I found the top one addressed to me. 

“The fuck?” I mumbled. 

The envelope looked like any other kind you’d stuff a Tallmark card into. 

Glancing around to make sure I was alone, I cautiously picked it up and opened it. The sounds of tearing paper echoed through the kitchen briefly as I unfolded a letter on a thick, cardstock paper. 

My eyes traced over the cream-colored parchment as I read a note addressed to me. 

“Dear Brandon,” I read aloud. “Sorry I couldn’t be here to receive you in person. It’s been a busy day. But allow me to cover a few basics. First, the coffee is for you. Feel free to help yourself as you read the letters I’ve left you. Second, I regret to inform you that you’re dead. Don’t worry, though! You did manage to save the boy. Please take a sip of coffee before continuing to read my messages. Sincerely, Opha, Third Goddess of Fate.” 

Squinting and re-reading the letter, I found my mouth opening and then closing several times. I had so many questions. The boy. The train. Being dead. Why didn’t it hurt more? And how many Goddesses of Fate were there?

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

But I figured I’d start with the simple stuff and work my way up from there. Picking up the mug, I felt the balanced warmth in my hands. It wasn’t scalding. It wasn’t room temperature. The cup was just right to warm my fingers. 

Taking a small sip, I found myself instantly enamored with this blend. A smooth hazelnut roast washed a feeling of vague nothingness from my mouth that I hadn’t even realized I’d been carrying. 

The more I drank, the more rooted I felt in the apartment. 

“That’s good shit,” I said, sighing in relief. “Almost makes it feel like being dead is no big deal.” 

Setting the letter down, I picked up the second envelope, also addressed to me. After opening it, I read the new letter aloud, “Dear Brandon, That coffee is pretty good shit, right?” 

Pausing and raising an eyebrow, I glanced around the kitchen again. Was I being punked? Did gods understand the concept of punking? Surely they did. Wasn’t it Apollo who fucked up some people’s genitals for fun? Or was it because he got drunk? Both?

I shook my head and kept reading aloud. 

“No, you’re not being pranked. You really are dead. And I truly am a Goddess of Fate, one of nine. But after reading through your file, I’ve decided to give you a second chance at life. Not because of your sacrifice to save the boy or because you suffered from depression your entire life, but because I think you could help me answer a prayer I’ve received from a hard-working girl in another realm. Before you get snippy and reach for the third envelope, please take another sip of coffee. Sincerely, Opha, Third Goddess of Fate”

Shaking my head, I sat the second envelope on the first, neatly lining them up. This was bullshit, right? All of this. I must really be in a coma and dreaming this insanity. It’s the only possible explanation. My fingers started to twitch as I rubbed my cheeks. 

Wake up! Wake up! I thought, furiously closing my eyes. When I opened them again, I was still standing in the kitchen. 

“Okay, so. . . coffee, I guess,” I mumbled, finishing the mug. 

Setting down the empty cup, I watched the coffee pot across the kitchen rattle and bubble like a water jug in an office and drain a little. At the same moment, my mug refilled itself to the rim with hot coffee. 

Neat trick, I thought. Very neat trick. Is Opha another name for Morgan Freeman, by chance? This all feels like a setup for him to walk around the corner in a janitor’s outfit.

Waiting for a moment and feeling more sass drain from my attitude, I shrugged when I realized Morgan Freeman wasn’t going to materialize for me. 

Opening the third envelope, my eyes scanned the letter as I mumbled its words to an otherwise immaculate kitchen. 

“Dear Brandon, I told you to drink more coffee before you got snippy. You should be thankful your soul wound up in my home instead of my sister Jeela’s house. She would have sent you back to your world reincarnated as a stinkbug. Thankfully, I am nothing if not patient. Anyway, having determined that you’ll be given a second chance, I’m granting you a rare opportunity to reshape your next life. You know what to do with your coffee before tearing open the last envelope. Sincerely, Opha, Third Goddess of Fate.” 

Rolling my eyes, I downed another half-mug of java and again felt a little more at ease. What was in this coffee? My shoulders untensed, and I stopped squinting so hard. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, held it for several seconds, and then let it out. The snarky comments fell from my mind like water from my ears after diving into a swimming pool. Only instead of being able to hear more clearly, now I could think more clearly. 

Sarcasm’s great for a chuckle, but it makes thinking a little more difficult, I thought, taking another deep breath and slowly releasing it. 

Now, calm as I was, I realized there were still so many questions left unanswered. I was getting a second chance. . . to do what? And did I even really want another chance? 

Before I — well — departed my old life, I wouldn’t exactly say it was something I clung to. Each day I lived felt increasingly like going through the motions. Like I was just waiting for the sand to run out of the hourglass or for something to click inside me before then. Looking back, I guess I now knew which happened first. 

It’s a unique torment, knowing something is wrong with you, but lacking the ability to describe it to others. Think about it too much, and you run the risk of losing your mind. But at least then you had a problem you could describe to others. Lost minds. Everybody understood that, right? But how did you define a nagging feeling that something about you just wasn’t right? The check engine light inside my body had been on for so long that the bulb burned out. 

And it wasn’t like I could pull into some auto repair shop and have a code read. There was no data port to connect to a machine that would spit out a quick description of my issue. So really, maybe it was better that I didn’t try to find a therapist. What’s the point of having someone to discuss your issues with when you can’t put them into words? I would have paid someone $300 an hour to sit on a couch and think of things to say without ever actually speaking a single word. I could do that for free in my apartment and reach the same outcome.

While I stared off into space, the last remaining envelope started to shake and flap on the countertop below me. Without warning, it flew up and slapped into my forehead like someone threw a wet rag at my face. 

Sighing, I pulled down the envelope and gradually ripped it open with two fingers. With the letter in my right hand, I reached down for more coffee with my left. 

“Dear Brandon. Spiraling won’t help,” I read aloud once more. “I know your life hasn’t been what you wanted for a long time. But you have a chance to change that now. You’re about to be reborn into a completely different world. Someone there has been asking for a little help, so I’m sending you. But you have the chance to redefine your life and fix the things that went wrong. So ask yourself, ‘If I could change anything about myself before I’m reborn, what would it be’? And when you’re ready, pick up the phone, summon Ciri, and tell her what you want before you leave my apartment. Sincerely, Opha, Third Goddess of Fate.” 

Slowly setting down the mug, I raised an eyebrow and eyed the uPhone. It looked exactly like the ones people in my world used every single day. Millions of people would say things like, “Hey, Ciri, send a text” or “Hey, Ciri, is it going to rain today?”

And I was expected to just tell Ciri what I wanted to change about my life before I was reborn?

“None of this makes any sense,” I muttered. “Why is a goddess, a literal deity, asking me to use a phone to reincarnate myself?”

Without warning, the letter in my hand unfolded more, revealing a bottom flap to the cardstock that appeared seconds after I finished speaking. 

“P.S., It’s extremely difficult to convince humans they’re dead. They all expect some cosmic staircase or a golden escalator going up into the clouds. But nobody actually knows how to respond when greeted with those things in their afterlife. I’ve learned through the eons that the easiest way to help humans transition into death is to give them things they remember from life. So pick up the phone, and stop asking silly questions.” 

I sat there blinking at the paper in my hands for several seconds. 

Shit, I thought. She really is a Goddess of Fate. 

Around me, the kitchen stood silent while I considered what to do next. My eyes glanced up at the uPhone, waiting patiently for my wishes. Wait — did getting to reshape my reincarnation count as wishes?

Shaking my head, I cleared my throat and mumbled, “Kind of a pushy goddess. If I ever see her face-to-face, I’ll have a few choice words for her.” 

And, because Opha apparently had no limit to her foresight, one final flap of the letter unfolded with a last paragraph for me to read. 

“P.S.S., No you won’t. You think you’ll have choice words for me, but you’ll find yourself stammering just like you did each time Ava called you out back in 10th grade on the debate team. Good luck in Fevara. I have big hopes for you and the people you’ll help there. But my biggest hope is that you find what you’ve been looking for every moment up until you found that train.” 

Flipping the letter over and making sure there wasn’t anything else to read, I sat there blinking for several more seconds. When I couldn’t think of anything smart to say, I drained the coffee (which subsequently refilled itself again), and set the letter down on top of the others. 

Then I started to consider why I was unhappy in my first life. I had a decent job. I had my health until a locomotive splattered it all over the railroad. I had a roof over my head each night, food on my table, and no shortage of distractions when my brain got mean. 

So what could I ask for that would fix a problem I couldn’t identify?

More time went by. No letters appeared. The uPhone didn’t turn on. I just stood there tapping my fingers. Nothing came to mind. It was the same as back home when I’d sit on the couch and stare at the wall for hours, thinking. 

Maybe thinking was my problem — or rather, overthinking. Maybe my issues weren’t something that I could think my way out of. 

“Because this is something you have to feel,” I whispered. 

What did I want?

Picking up the uPhone and holding down the power button until Ciri appeared on the screen in a rainbow orb of light, I said, “In my next life. . .” 

My voice quieted to nothing as I pictured myself, all of Brandon June the mailman. Closing my eyes and feeling every single thing that was wrong with every beat of my heart, I started again, saying, “In my next life, I just wanna be soft, okay? And I want to be luckier than I was in my previous life.” 

I said that last part while picturing all the flat tires, the bills that got lost in the mail, the socks that went missing in the washer, and so much more. 

To my surprise, Ciri spoke with an automated woman’s voice, “Understood. In your next life, you will be soft and lucky.” 

What I’d asked for finally clicked in my brain when I heard Ciri say it. 

“Processing your request. Please wait. . . reincarnation sequence loading. Portal found. Enjoy your new softer, luckier life.” 

I frantically tried to click the phone off, but it bounced between my hands like a bar of soap as I shouted, “Wait wait wait wait!” 

And with a flash of blinding white light, my afterlife ended as suddenly as my first life.

***

Cold air rattled my bones. The wind was loud, or maybe I was hearing it better now. My eyes snapped open and noted the darkness around me. Stars of blue and white twinkled in an indigo night sky above me. I stood on a stone disc of some kind, a few inches above the thick green grass. 

Behind me, a statue of an owl perched over some kind of altar where incense burned. Glowing purple runes grew dim in the stone around my feet. My. . . very large and fluffy feet. 

“Holy shit, it worked! She answered my prayers!” 

My brain felt like it was torn in two. I wanted to look over at the woman saying something about prayers. But I also wanted to process what the fuck had happened to my feet. Scratch that, I wanted to investigate what’d happened to my clothes. 

But the girl holding a torch stepped closer and spoke again. 

“I never in a million years expected something like this to happen. You hear about things like this in the legends. But here you are. A genuine Luck Bunny.”

I looked closer at the speaker while my brain tried to parse the words I was hearing with little success.

My eyes took a moment to adjust to the torchlight. But when they finally did, I saw the woman stood OVER me by at least half a foot. She was clothed in grey trousers, a white collared shirt, and a black vest secured with three gold buttons. 

The firelight ebbed and flowed in the evening breeze, dousing her silver hair in dim hues of orange and yellow. The speaker’s low ponytail lifted with the wind, and I found myself suddenly frigid, drawing my arms and legs in tight. 

Why is it so cold?! I thought. Was I reborn at the North Pole? Is the person I’m supposed to help Mrs. Claus?

“Oh! Sorry. Here, let me grab you something from the wagon to cover up with,” the woman said, turning to run. 

But as she spun, I heard a sort of jingle or chime or bell. It was difficult to describe. As it rang in my ears, time seemed to slow to a crawl, and my vision faded to a world of gray. All color drained from my sight like someone pulled the stopper from a bathtub. 

Before I could turn my head to look at the world around me, two strings revealed themselves wrapped around the torchbearer, one red, one green. Each glowed with a rather cutting light. They pulsed in the gray scene before me, and I felt my hand drawn to each. I couldn’t explain the urge. My nose twitched as I stepped closer to the red string. 

I didn’t know what would happen if I touched it. I just knew. . . I wanted to. It was the most important thing in the world to me right this second. Forget the fact that I was cold. Forget whatever had happened to my feet. My instincts told me to grab the string. And I did. 

The moment my fingers traced the red string, it jolted my body like a live wire, and I watched a scene play out before me. The girl rushed forward, and within a few steps, the bushes next to us rustled. A hissing noise whispered into the night. And out burst a white mink that collided with her feet and caused the woman to trip. With no warning, she fell on top of her torch and quickly caught fire. 

Flinching, I let go of the red string and jumped back. My heart raced like a jackrabbit being chased by an owl. 

What the fuck was that? I thought. 

But the world around me remained gray. The girl inched forward in some reduced state of time. When I finally caught my breath, I felt my hand reaching for that green string. Did I really want more of whatever happened a moment ago?

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard Tank’s voice saying, “Hey Mikey, I think he likes it!”

When my fingers traced the green string, I felt another live wire hit my brain. And this time, when the woman ran forward, I reached out and grabbed her wrist, stopping her. A few seconds later, the mink hissed and ran out of the bushes before vanishing into the night, harming no one.

Letting go of the green string, I paused to think, trying to decode what I’d seen. 

They’re almost like. . . two different outcomes, I thought. One lucky, one not so lucky.

And with that realization, color suddenly flooded back into my world. I gasped as the torchbearer started to run toward her cart. 

Throwing my hand forward, I snatched her wrist at the last second. Startled, the woman turned to stare at me with a quizzical expression before that damn mink hissed and rushed out of the bushes. It drew both of our eyes until it vanished into the night, exactly as it had in my second vision. 

Oh shit, I thought. It actually happened. 

The woman clutching the torch just stood there blinking and looking at my hand, still holding her wrist. 

“Wow. You really are a Luck Bunny, aren’t you?” she said, gray eyes wide with wonder. 

“Why do you keep calling me that?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. But immediately after I heard my voice, I yipped, startled because it did NOT match the voice I’d heard for the last twenty-something years of my life. 

Free of my grasp, the torchbearer looked at me with her head cocked a little to the left. 

“Look, uh, thanks for helping me. I can see you’re a little frazzled. Why don’t you let me get you a blanket from the wagon, and I’ll answer any questions you have? Unless, of course, I don’t know the answer. But even then, I promise I’ll just straight-up tell you that.” 

Now that time had resumed its normal flow, I was suddenly extremely aware of how very cold and naked I’d become post-reincarnation.

As I pondered the craziness that I’d been reborn into, the girl ran towards her wagon. While she was gone, I finally took a moment to look down at myself. From head to toe, I appeared to be covered in a thin tan and white fur. 

“Oh, what the fuck,” I hissed. 

Turning around, I spotted a poofy bob of a tail just above my bare ass. I poked it once or twice, and it twitched, confirming the damn thing was attached to me. 

Pulling the short hair on my head forward, I found brown wavy hair in my vision. But the biggest shock came when I ran my hands through my hair and found a large pair of fluffy ears that swiveled to and fro. 

“There’s no way this is real,” I whispered to myself. 

Shivering until my teeth chattered, I looked over myself some more, noting a modest bosom I’d been granted post-reincarnation and the subsequent replacement of my dick with a small slit between my legs.

And where I expected to be upset or outraged, I instead found myself. . . laughing. I laughed. I cackled. I chortled. I doubled forward and giggled at the outright insanity of it all. And when I couldn’t laugh anymore, tears leaked from my eyes without warning. I curled up on the ground, knees to my chest, crying. I wailed. I sobbed. I whimpered. A flood of emotions washed away any rational thoughts I might have formed. 

My heart beat strong, and it told me this was good. I was right. I was. . . exactly what I asked for.

“Soft. . . and lucky,” I mumbled, wiping the tears from my eyes. 

The woman who greeted me earlier came running back with a brown fuzzy blanket of some kind. She quickly wrapped it around my shoulders. 

“There ya go. It’s okay. No need to cry. We’ll get you nice and warm. Come with me, I’ll build a small fire,” she said, taking my hand and leading me over to a wagon.  

Getting closer to the wagon, I suddenly noticed the back was covered and contained a small door. It looked like a cross between a carriage and a flatbed wagon. It was strange to see a door on the back, though. It almost gave the vehicle a camper feel. 

Helping me up to the buckboard, the torchbearer tucked the blanket tight around me, pushing the edges under my legs and the wood of the wagon. My cheeks flushed as she did this. Nobody had ever. . . wrapped a blanket around me before. 

“My word, you’re a tiny thing, aren’t ya? Even back home, I’m not exactly the tallest girl in town, and you’re smaller than me.” 

I just nodded slowly, unsure of what to do with that information. Being small wasn’t exactly part of my repertoire in my last life.

“What do I call you? I figure you gotta be getting tired of me just saying ‘Luck Bunny’ over and over, huh?”

Her voice was. . . bouncy. The girl who I’d been sent to help by a literal goddess was. . . plucky? What was the best way to describe her? She just didn’t seem to have much of a care in the world. 

Oh right! She’d asked for my name. 

“Sorry, I keep staring. I just can’t believe it. I’ve been praying to Opha for years now. I just never expected her to send me a Bunny Goddess.” 

G—goddess? She thinks I’m a goddess? I thought. 

I wasn’t sure what I found more surprising. The fact that I was apparently some minor deity. Or that I was a godDESS, not a GOD. 

The thing I wasn’t, was upset. I’d given Ciri instructions that were vague as hell, and Opha’s little phone had placed me here in circumstances that were far from miserable. Well, except for the cold.

As my brain blanked on a name, I just kept picturing an angel with curly reddish hair, dressed in white pants and a tank top, wings hidden from the eyes of most. She spoke with a taunting voice as she said, “Are you judging me now, John?”

I loved her in everything she was in. She played angels, witches, ancient beings, sprites, and so much more. Every movie I watched her in left me feeling whatever shred of emotion my heart was capable of cobbling together. And only now did I realize that I spent my life wanting to be her. Funny how reincarnation brought clarity. So maybe. . . just maybe. . . since I was a whole world away from her, she wouldn’t mind if I borrowed her name?

“Tilda,” I said, clearing my throat, still not used to my softer voice. “You can call me Tilda.” 

The silver-haired girl smiled and nodded. 

“Pleased to meet you, Tilda. You can call me Juno.” 

I smiled, and she spent the next few minutes fishing around for stones that she then stacked in a ring. As my shivering slowed, courtesy of this nice comfy blanket, Juno found some twigs and a few sticks. 

When I finally felt warm enough to stand again and move to help her, Juno turned to me and motioned that I stay seated. The squeaking of the wagon beneath my large feet betrayed me.

“This won’t take long. You’ve already helped me once tonight. I’d hate to think what would have happened if I’d collided with that little creature,” Juno said. 

The vision from the red string swam to the surface of my mind. 

Nothing good, I thought. 

Before long, Juno had a fire going. 

It cast a bigger light and cone of warmth around the side of the wagon than the torch did. Juno took my hand and moved me over against a large sack she’d pulled out of the wagon. 

While I sat against it, she dug through the bag and fished out a jar with some kind of black powder inside, an old tin kettle, two tin cups, and a spoon. 

I watched in silence as Juno put a cooking tray around the small fire and fetched some water from a canteen, filling the kettle.

While the water warmed, Juno scooped out some of the black powder from her jar, placing it into the cups, and I realized at once that it was cocoa. My nose twitched, and Juno just giggled. 

“Well that’s just adorable,” she said. “Again, sorry, but I’ve never seen a Luck Bunny before. It’s gonna take some getting used to.” 

I raised an eyebrow. 

“What’s there to get used to, exactly?”

She snickered. 

“Oh, I dunno. That black twitching nose of yours. Those little whiskers. The pale snout. Maybe the large buck teeth. It’s all a bit shocking to see in person,” Juno said. 

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I said nothing.  

When the water came to a boil, rattling the tin something awful, Juno pulled it off the cooking tray with a thick rag. She filled the two tin cups with steaming water and mixed them with her spoon until we had hot chocolate. 

She handed me a cup, holding it with the rag, and I gingerly took the handle. Blowing on the hot chocolate until I could take a small sip, I smiled. One of the sticks in the fire pit crackled, and a wash of embers flew up into the air, dancing around like fireflies. 

I took another sip. 

“It’s good,” I said, even though Juno hadn’t asked. 

“Glad you like it. I got that cocoa powder a long way from here in a city called Jakar.” 

Looking back over at the wagon before my eyes returned to Juno, I asked, “Do you travel a lot?”

She smiled and nodded. 

“Comes with the territory of being a Messenger.” 

My eyes widened. 

“You. . . deliver messages?” I asked. 

“Yup! Scrolls, parchments, letters, and even a few small packages now and again. There’s not a lot of us in the Letter Carriers Guild, but we’re growing. Soon we’ll be a big respectable workers guild like the Lamari Carpenters or the Kraft Merchants.” 

Taking another sip, I absorbed everything she was saying. 

“So what’s a messenger doing praying to Opha for luck?” I asked. “Doesn’t really seem like a profession you’d need much luck for.” 

Juno raised an eyebrow. 

“You don’t know much about delivering messages, do ya?”

I fought a snicker. 

“It’s a dangerous road. You never know when you’ll be surrounded by bandits, have your documents seized by a suspicious noble, or be blackmailed for information by spies. I’ve been praying for years to have better luck. And Opha, in her infinite wisdom, finally saw fit to grant me a Luck Bunny for my travels. I just can’t tell you how thankful I am you appeared at her shrine tonight.” 

The smile on Juno’s face stirred something in me, and I fought to keep from crying again. Being wanted, hearing someone express sincere gratitude for my existence, shit, it was almost too much. And suddenly feeling things again after years of being, let’s face it, dead inside? Well, it was all I could do not to sob big old tears that would smother the campfire. 

“That is why you’re here, right?” Juno asked with a hint of vulnerability in her voice. It peeked through like a mouse cautiously looking outside its hole for hungry cats. 

What else could I say?

“It would appear so.” 

That earned me an even bigger smile from Juno. 

“Fantastic! The road is long, and my fortune has been rather thin up until now. So here’s to a luckier future,” she said, holding out her tin cup. 

Grinning, I clinked mine softly against hers. 

“To a luckier future,” I echoed.

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