The giantess stood watch. Not as a tyrant. As a reminder: when you make yourself large to crush others, someone larger is already learning your name.
They called themselves the Ascension Bullies. Clad in chrome and certitude, they had terraformed empathy into a weapon, shrinking dissent with a laugh and a laser. They piloted leviathans that peeled hope like a rind. But now, for the first time, they looked up —and saw her face in the ozone, calm as a murdered star. ascension bullies giantess
“You forgot,” she whispered, and the vibration rewrote weather patterns. “Ascension isn’t a ladder to kick others from. It’s an invitation.” The giantess stood watch
The bullies fired everything. Beams that had unzipped planets skittered off her skin like rain off a cathedral dome. She breathed in. Their missiles turned to dandelion seeds. She breathed out. Their armor rusted into kindness. They called themselves the Ascension Bullies
“Grow,” she said.