SS: Magical Girls Bathroom Buddy Squad

The stream murmured nearby, its crystalline trickle weaving through glowing underbrush like ambient music in a fantasy dating sim. Bioluminescent trees arched overhead, casting soft pulses of light across the mossy ground. It would’ve been romantic—if Monica weren’t currently impaling a mushroom with theatrical glee.

“Stab, stab, stab. Stabbie, stab, stab…” she sang, her voice lilting like a magical girl audition tape.

Allen winced as the fungi’s soft glow dimmed, the color draining from its cap with each of Monica's strikes. Though the mushroom couldn't speak, its silent withering was a desperate, unholy cry for mercy.

“Monica, maybe ease up on the mushroom murder,” he said, a silent prayer to the fungal gods. "It’s not even fighting back."

He glanced at the second spear leaning against a moss-covered log. They’d fashioned them from scavenged branches and the kind of desperation only sheer duress could inspire. Allen had armed them, yes, but now a more urgent need elbowed its way into his thoughts, a biological imperative that transcended tactical planning.

His bladder throbbed with a quiet, persistent betrayal.

Monica, blissfully unaware of his plight, was now busy directing her attention to a glitter moth, its wings shimmering with a light that smelled faintly of cinnamon and starlight. She twirled her spear, the branch an extension of her absurdly graceful fencing, as if she were dueling an invisible sparkle. Allen shifted his weight, trying to ignore the pressure building in his gut.

The spear in his hand felt heavier—not from the strain of holding it, but from the creeping dread of what he had to say.

He cleared his throat, aiming for calm dignity and landing squarely on awkward confession.

“I have to use the washroom,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Monica spun on her heels, her eyes lighting up with the unadulterated joy of a shared mission. “Yah! Bathroom buddies!”

She trotted toward him, her movements fluid and enthusiastic as if this were a team-building exercise in sparkle protocol.

Allen recoiled, thrusting out a hand like he was warding off a spell. “No. We are not bathroom buddies.”

Monica blinked. “Why not? We’re magical girls now. Shared sparkle, shared secrets, shared bathroom protocol!”

“I’m not a girl,” he snapped, heat rising in his voice. "And I never consented to be a magical girl. I’m here under magical duress.”

He exhaled, his shoulders slumping. “And also…we just don’t do that anymore.”

His gaze drifted away, a wistful, embarrassed look in his eyes. He remembered a time when they were just kids, when the world was made of bubble baths and ducky towels. It was all so innocent. So embarrassing. So blessedly ancient history.

Monica’s expression shifted—confusion giving way to a mischievous glint.

“Oh! Do you still have a shy bladder, Allen?” she teased, resting her palm under her chin like a nostalgic aristocrat. “Remember that ducky towel you used to parade around like it was royal regalia?”

Allen’s ears burned, a furious, crimson blush crawling up his neck. “That was different! We were kids!”

He turned to flee, his voice cracking. “Let’s just forget it ever happened. It’s not worth remembering something so lame.”

"Something so lame..."

Her voice pitched up behind him, and before he could react, she lunged—grabbing his pajama pants like they were the last thread binding their friendship.

Her grip was firm. Desperate.

“Wait—you hate me now?!”

“Monica!” Allen yelped, flailing with the grace of a startled octopus. The moss beneath them pulsed, vibrating softly as if it had evolved sentience and a taste for drama.

“Stop! Let go! I am not emotionally, spiritually, or narratively prepared for you to see my underwear!”

But then he froze.

The chaos paused. Just long enough for something else to filter through.

Monica’s hands trembled—barely, but enough. Her usual mischief-fueled grin had vanished, replaced by a vulnerability Allen hadn’t seen since grade school. Her eyes were wide, shimmering with confusion and something smaller.

Fear.

Allen’s breath caught. Not from embarrassment, but recognition.

Allen’s breath caught, not from embarrassment, but recognition. It was the same look she wore during sad anime endings. During thunderstorms. During the moments when the world felt too big and too loud.

She was still Monica.

Still the girl who sobbed over a cartoon cat in fourth-grade anime club. Still the girl who hid under the table with a blanket and a juice pouch when the thunder rolled in. Still the girl who clung to him a little too tightly every time reality tilted sideways.

Underneath the glitter and chaos, she was still that girl.

Allen’s heart sank. He softened instinctively, reaching back and patting the top of her head—the universal signal in their friendship for It’s okay. I’ve got you.

His fingers brushed her pink-streaked hair, and slowly, the tension bled from her shoulders. The moss beneath them pulsed gently, the soft, green glow of the bioluminescent plants flaring in response, as if the forest itself had exhaled in relief.

Monica let out a shaky breath, the kind that sounded like it had been building behind a dam of bravado. Her gaze lifted to meet his, searching for something—reassurance, maybe. Or just proof that the universe wasn’t about to fall apart.

“Monica,” he said gently, his voice low and steady. “You’re my best friend. I could never hate you.”

He paused, a tiny, awkward grin tugging at his lips.

"But I really, really need to pee."

Monica sniffed, gave a reluctant nod, and let go.

After he returned, they settled on a compromise: bathroom guard duty. A brief, hushed negotiation beneath the shade of a luminous mushroom, its light flaring brightly like a magical lamppost as they stood close.

When it was Monica’s turn, Allen braced himself for chaos. He expected a dramatic commentary—a rant about the indignity of shrub-based sanitation, or a snarky monologue about the proper Magical Girl way to find a private spot.

Instead, she simply picked a spot between two glowing bushes, did her business with brisk efficiency, and returned like she’d just completed a side quest in a fantasy RPG.

“It’s fine,” she said briskly, brushing dirt from her skirt. “Female adventurers do it all the time. Books. Movies. Video games. The world is your toilet.”

Allen blinked, processing the sheer scope of that statement. He gripped his spear like it was the only thing keeping his psyche tethered to reality.

Allen blinked, processing the sheer scope of that statement. He gripped his spear like it was the only thing keeping his psyche tethered to reality. This was the same girl who once cried for two hours over an anime beach episode where nothing sad actually happened. And now here she was—a master of forest survival, a philosophical queen of urination logistics.

Why was he even surprised anymore?

In the grand ledger of Monica’s logic, Magical Girl Transformation Ethics and Forest Urination Protocols existed in the same paragraph. Possibly the same sentence. Probably with glitter stickers. The moss beneath his feet hummed in agreement.