I Died and Was Reincarnated as a Goth Femboy

"Well, this is a charming place," Nomu commented, his usual heroic bravado slightly dampened by the oppressive gloom. "Reminds me of the dungeons on Planet Glarzon-7. Terrible food."

Bombom didn't reply. He was focused, his red eyes scanning the rows of identical, iron-barred cells. He could feel it, a faint, familiar aura of stoic, orange-juice-fueled resignation. He pointed down the corridor. "This way."

They walked, their footsteps the only sound in the unnerving silence. They passed cells filled with shadowy figures, their faces hidden in the darkness, their silent, hopeless stares following the strange duo—the Super Jean and the goth femboy—as they passed. Finally, at the very end of the cell block, they found him.

Jairson was sitting on a hard, stone cot, his back against the damp wall, a half-empty carton of orange juice held loosely in one hand. He looked… calm. Too calm. He saw them approach, and a small, weary smile touched his lips. He didn't look surprised. He just looked tired.

Bombom rushed to the bars, his hands gripping the cold, rusty iron. "Jairson! We're getting you out!" he declared, his voice a fierce, determined whisper. He focused, calling upon the familiar, angry power that churned within him. His muscular shadow began to emerge from his back, its massive, spectral form solidifying in the dim light, its hands already reaching to bend the iron bars into a pretzel.

"No," Jairson said, his voice a quiet, unyielding rumble. "Let me be."

The shadow paused, its spectral fingers just inches from the bars. Bombom stared, his mind struggling to process the words. "B-but you're innocent!" he protested. "9fingers framed you! We know everything!"

Jairson just shook his head, taking a long, slow sip of his orange juice. "It doesn't matter," he said, his voice full of a profound, soul-deep exhaustion. "Someone has to take the fall. It's always me. It's just… easier this way."

Before Kenjiro could argue, to scream at the sheer, unfair stupidity of it all, a new voice, dripping with a smug, self-satisfied glee, echoed from behind them.

"Yes, he is innocent," the voice declared. "But you two aren't. Invading my personal prison, a facility made just for him? Hahahahaha!"

Bombom and Nomu spun around. Standing at the other end of the corridor, silhouetted against the faint light from the entrance, was a bald man. He wore the ornate, flowing robes of a high judge, but there was nothing just or noble about the cruel, manic grin that was plastered across his face. As he stepped forward, a strange, triumphant music began to echo through the cell block, a synthesized, upbeat track with a single, endlessly repeated lyric.

"Minister Bald Egg Face! Minister Bald Egg Face!"

The bald man stopped dead, his triumphant grin twisting into a snarl of pure, unadulterated fury. He stomped his feet, his face turning a shade of red that clashed violently with his pristine, white robes. "THAT WAS NOT THE SONG!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with a childish, petulant rage.

The music cut off abruptly. A moment of awkward silence, and then a new track started, this one a deep, dramatic, orchestral piece, complete with a choir chanting a single, epic-sounding name: "ZANDER! ZANDER!"

The bald man, Zander, cleared his throat, his composure returning as he basked in the glory of his proper theme music. A single bead of sweat trickled down Kenjiro's temple. This was, without a doubt, the single most ridiculous thing he had ever witnessed. And he had seen a lot of ridiculous things.

Zander strode towards them, a thick, leather-bound book held in his hands. He stopped a few feet away, a look of supreme, unshakeable confidence on his face. He held up the book, its cover beginning to glow with a dark, malevolent light. "Your biggest mistake," he announced, his voice a booming, theatrical roar, "will come alive to face you now! HAHAHAHAHA!"

A swirling vortex of dark energy erupted from the pages of the book. It spun, it twisted, and then it coalesced, solidifying into a figure. A figure that made everyone in the cell block freeze in a state of pure, unadulterated shock.

It was Bombom. Wearing nothing but a small, white towel wrapped precariously around his waist, his black, wolfcut hair still damp, as if he had just stepped out of the shower.

Zander's jaw dropped. He stared at the towel-clad Lily, then at the real Bombom, then back again, his mind clearly struggling to process the bizarre, and deeply awkward, scene that had just manifested before him. "W-wait, what…?" he stammered, his triumphant bravado completely gone.

Nomu let out a small, terrified squeak. He began to sweat, a torrent of nervous perspiration that formed a small puddle at his feet. He took a hesitant step back. Bombom just stared, then slowly turned to face the Super Jean, a look of dawning, horrified understanding on his face. He grabbed Nomu by the collar of his ridiculously tight shirt, pulling him closer.

"Why," Bombom asked, his voice a low, dangerous whisper, "is your biggest mistake me, wearing a towel?"

Nomu was sweating so hard his pompadour was starting to wilt. "Y-you k-k-know," he stammered, his eyes darting around the room, looking for any possible escape. "O-o-o-one of the days I teleported to your room to challenge you again… but… but I was teleported to your bathroom window… and you just left the shower with a towel and… and…"

"ENOUGH!" Zander screamed, his face a mask of pure, secondhand embarrassment. "T-that was the most mortifying thing I have ever heard in my entire life!"

"Agreed," Bombom said, his own face a furious shade of crimson as he let go of the trembling Super Jean. "I knew I had perv stalkers, but I didn't expect it from him."

Nomu's face turned a shade of red that was so intense it seemed to generate its own heat. He looked at Zander, his fear momentarily forgotten, replaced by a surge of pure, humiliated rage. "I will make sure you pay," he growled, "for making me embarrassed in front of my rival!"

Zander just smirked, his confidence returning. "Oooh," he cooed, "I will make the past destroy you guys." The book in his hands began to glow again, this time with a deep, pulsating red light. "Let's try this again, shall we?"

A new, far more powerful vortex erupted from the book. Something big, something solid, something terrifyingly familiar, emerged from the swirling energy. It was him. Kenjiro Tanaka. His former self. The mountain of muscle, the monster of vanity, the bodybuilder who had lived and died for his own reflection. His shadow, the one that still resided within Bombom, let out a silent, mental gasp of pure, unadulterated shock at the sight of its own, living, breathing form.

Zander laughed, a high, triumphant sound. "I don't know who that is," he declared, "but destroy these two."

The bodybuilder turned his head slowly, looking at the bald judge with an expression of pure, contemptuous dismissal. "You're ordering me?" he asked, his voice a deep, rumbling baritone that was full of a dangerous, barely contained power.

Zander's smirk faltered. "Of course I am," he said, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction. "I made you."

The bodybuilder vanished. In a movement so fast it was almost impossible to track, he reappeared directly in front of Zander and punched him. It was not a flashy, magical attack. It was just a punch. A single, devastatingly powerful blow that connected with the judge's bald head with a sickening, wet crunch. Zander's feet left the floor. He went flying backward, a human cannonball that crashed through the prison's stone wall and disappeared into the night sky.

The bodybuilder cracked his knuckles, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. "Never," he growled, "ever order me around." He turned, his gaze falling on the real Bombom, his smirk widening into a look of pure, unadulterated mockery. "Look at me," he said, gesturing to Bombom's slender, delicate form. "All dolled up. I look like a Barbie."

A deep, amused chuckle echoed in the back of Kenjiro's mind. "That's what I told him," his own shadow commented, clearly enjoying the show.

Bombom's face just flushed a deeper shade of crimson. "S-shut up," he stammered, his tsundere defenses kicking into high gear. "We might look fragile and cute, but we are the real monster here!"

The bodybuilder just threw his head back and laughed, a deep, booming sound that was full of a pure, confident power. "You? Hahahaha!"

Just then, a figure, battered and bruised, climbed back through the jagged hole in the prison wall. It was Zander. "ENOUGH!" he screamed, his face a mask of pure, impotent rage.

The bodybuilder punched him away again, not even bothering to look at him this time. "What an annoying guy," he grumbled. He turned back to Bombom and Nomu, his gaze falling on Jairson's cell. "You guys want to free that man?" he asked, pointing a massive, tree-trunk of an arm at the still-calm tank.

Bombom and Nomu, who had been watching the entire exchange with a mixture of terror and awe, just nodded dumbly.

The bodybuilder smirked. "Go ahead, then," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'm gonna make a scene."

Bombom scratched his head, completely bewildered. "Y-you're helping us?"

"Of course I am," the bodybuilder laughed. "I'm still you, idiot. Now go and free your friend, before I change my mind and destroy your cuteness."

Bombom sweatdropped and, without another word, he and Nomu rushed to Jairson's cell. As they worked on the lock, the bodybuilder took a deep, theatrical breath. He sniffed the air, and his handsome, rugged face twisted into a look of profound disgust. "Uuugh," he groaned. "Lavender. Why do you even use that perfume?" He let out a sharp "tsk" of pure, masculine disapproval and then, with a single, mighty leap, he jumped through the hole in the wall and was gone.

The moment he vanished, a series of deep, earth-shaking booms began to echo from outside, followed by a familiar, triumphant roar. "BIRL! THE MONSTER IS GETTING OUT OF JAIL!"

Bombom and Nomu finally managed to get the cell door open. They freed Jairson, and Nomu, with a final, world-bending ZUUUUUUHP, teleported them all away, the distant sounds of a one-man army laying waste to the city of Zabril fading behind them.

They reappeared in the familiar, comforting chaos of the guild's main hall. Jairson looked at his two rescuers, a rare, genuine smile on his face. "Thank you, guys," he said, his voice a quiet, grateful rumble. He pulled a fresh carton of orange juice from a hidden pocket and took a long, satisfying sip. "Now," he said, his expression hardening into a mask of grim resolve, "I must find a way to clean my name."