A new story woven into the original narrative arc.
A supplementary piece, available here for the first time:

Lila’s Letter.


Hi Dad.

I don’t want to shock you by writing you a letter—don’t worry. It’s not the kind of letter that’s sometimes customary in our country, where teenagers write down their final thoughts only to end up... on the barbecue as a sacrificial offering? What kind of shit did I just find out about...?

But that’s just how it is; I know about many of your dark secrets now. Why did you keep that from me? If it’s so normal for girls to be born sometimes just to serve as a feast for their families? Dad! What is this all about? Why didn’t I grow up knowing this about our culture from the very beginning?

Were you trying to protect me? Your last remaining daughter? My big sister ran away and doesn’t live with us anymore. But damn, I visited Anja. Dad! It was almost an interrogation. Did I inherit that dominance from you? I totally steamrolled Anja. Haha!
I managed to pry some more information out of Anja. Hehe. That porn collection of yours—the one about seduction and bondage games—was really helpful. Thanks for that.

But at first, it felt weird being with Anja. Knowing she was the twin left behind, while our sister Tanja was being roasted by you. Fuck. To Anja, it seemed normal. But... but not to me!
Dad! Damn it! I’m trying to stay objective, like you always say, but it’s so hard. You cloned me from Tanja’s genes? How much of Tanja am I? Am I really still Lila? Your youngest daughter? Maybe too young for feelings like this? Too young for these questions?

Dad! It’s not just loss and grief over my lost sister. There’s also a dark passion and a craving inside me. I felt desire when I looked at those roasted girls. Anja said it was normal. I hope so.
Um, yeah... so, we licked each other’s pussies. Yes, Dad—your young daughter Lila is licking your older daughter’s pussy! And Anja loved it. So tell me: is that normal in our culture?

Dad—damn, I don’t even know how to keep writing. Objectivity? Fine. Let’s give it a shot. You cloned me from Tanja’s genes. Cool. Great. So, am I Tanja 2.0? A replacement daughter? Or just Lila, another daughter for the silver serving platter? Because when I saw those pictures—those girls, their muscles glistening, their bodies arranged like a gourmet feast—I didn’t feel disgust. I felt hunger. Not the kind of hunger you satisfy with a snack. But the kind that makes your toes curl and your mouth water—in a way that really *should* scare you. But it doesn’t.
In my deep, dark fantasies, you fuck me before I get roasted like Tanja. I confessed it to Anja.

Anja says that’s normal, too. She said it so casually, as if it were a given—like asking if I want ketchup with my fries. She also mentioned that Tanja used to feel the same way. That’s exactly what turned my stomach. Did Tanja want what happened to her? Did she smile when you… no, I can’t even write it down. But I *saw* the pictures, Dad. She looked… peaceful. Almost expectant. And now I sit here, running my fingers over my own thighs, wondering if my skin—my flesh—would taste the same.

And yes, before you ask—yes, Anja and I, we did *other things, too*. You’re probably clutching that old scrap of paper in horror right now, but you know what? *She* comforted me. Said it was tradition. That twins—or clones, or whatever I am—are supposed to *know* each other. So we licked. And sucked. And fucked. With a steel skewer, just a few centimeters inside my pussy. And it felt good, Dad. Like, really good. My pussy was so wet — ugh, see? Just remembering it makes me get wet. Is that sick? Or is it just biology? Your science?

I need answers. Because the thing is: I don’t want to be repulsed by it. When I picture myself lying on that platter, perfectly roasted, and some rich asshole slicing into my thigh with a silver fork and a silver knife... I don’t scream. I shudder. And not out of fear.

Dad, come home; stop looking for secret technology in buried temples or forgotten military complexes. Don't we have enough tech in 2031 already? Damn it, Dad! The two fingers inside my pussy need to be replaced by you. I don't just want my loving father back; I want to get to know the predator inside you, too.

To your sharp mind, I’ll just say: sorry if my grammar and spelling are off again and I’m repeating myself in this letter—but according to our Celantan national constitution, I’m not an adult yet, so I’m still allowed to make these kinds of mistakes.

While you’re still away, I have plenty of opportunities to use your spare security key card for your private lab and showrooms. You really ought to be a bit more focused and stop leaving your notes and other things lying around in your study.

Dad, come home.

With love, your rebellious teenage daughter.