You are Alabaster Soliloquy, anime hymen demolition expert and survivor of molestation. You are one of North America's foremost aficionados of mindbreak, but after getting fondled by your tomboyish childhood friend in a girl's locker room -- while wearing girl's clothes, no less -- you can't help feeling like you were the one who got mindbroken.
It wasn't until past 1 AM that evening when you dozed off. Even then, it had taken a couple hours on the panda to blow off the day's lingering stress. Between that insane loli who seems to be stalking you at every turn and your childhood friend Whitney's bold actions that afternoon, your mind needed those comforting images of male domination to remind itself that the universe really does have order.
You wake with a start in the dim glow of your PC's monitor, the rest of the bedroom swathed in pitch blackness. You were passed out, pants and boxers down, head leaned back in your desk chair, your jaw wide open. As you regain your senses and wipe the drool from the corners of your mouth, you become suddenly aware of two things: first, an odd buzzing, and second, a shadow in your periphery.
"Hey, asshole. Phone."
It's Cerise, your older sister. She bops you over the head with your own cell.
"It's been ringing nonstop for the past two hours. For a while I thought you stole one of my vibrators, but I realized there's no way you could have that kind of stamina. I'm losing sleep with all this noise."
You swivel around in your chair and grab the phone from her. "Now you know how I feel," you sneer. "I have to wear earmuffs on sybian Saturdays."
You become dimly conscious of the fact that you're facing your own sister with your pants around your ankles and your legs akimbo, but let's be real: this is far from the most compromising position one has found the other in. And you're too dazed from the lingering exhaustion of interrupted REM cycles to make yourself decent. "Besides, what do you need sleep for? You sleep all day anyway."
Cerise puts a hand on her hip and shifts her weight to one foot. "Pff. No wonder the sound didn't wake you up. You're absolutely vile, do you know that?" She leans in to glimpse your monitor and the last page you finished on before passing out. She grimaces. "Jesus. What happened to missionary?"
"Get out already. Don't you have some cirrhosis to be contracting?"
"You need therapy, you fucking weirdo. And start answering your phone when it rings."
She slams the door on her way out. You grumble curses at her as you accept the incoming call and draw the receiver to your ear.
"Alabaster Soliloquy."
Your eyes widen. That cool, self-assured voice is unmistakble. It's Vivian Darkbloom -- child prodigy, stalker -- rival.
"What do you want?" you hiss, leaping from your chair and spastically tugging your pants up with your free hand. Somehow, even over the phone, talking to Vivian half-naked makes you feel dangerously exposed. Plus -- there's always the possibility that the call could be coming from inside the house. You stoop down and glance around frantically like a jewel thief dodging security.
"You didn't come to Quiz Bowl on Monday."
"So what? Why are you calling me at--" you squint your eyes to check the time on your PC's taskbar. "--at 3:37 AM? How did you get this number?"
"I was working late with my PhD adviser."
"What do you need a PhD adviser for? You're in high school for fuck's sake."
"Unlike you, I prefer to be proactive about things."
You Solid-Snake your way to your window and peek between the venetian blinds. Sweeping your view right to left across the streetlight-illuminated cul-de-sac, you can't see any movement or other signs of human presence.
"I want my face-off, Alabaster Soliloquy. Today. After school."
You spin around and kneel on your haunches so your head is underneath the windowpane, as if you're hiding from an active shooter. "You're crazy. If you're so confident that you're the smartest, why do you need to test yourself against me?"
"It's not enough that I should succeed. Others should fail."
You remember hearing that saying before, but you don't know where. Right now all you can think of is that Vivian Darkbloom is completely out of her tree. No -- she's out of her goddamn forest.
[ ] I'll be there. But after it's over, you need to leave me alone.
[X] Forget it. You're insane.
"You belong in an asylum. Stay the hell away from me, you psycho."
"I thought you were a man, Alabaster. And yet you're too afraid to confront a little girl. Pathetic. You're not a man at all. You're a worm."
"Where did you get this number?"
"You of all people should know the breadth of things you can find on the internet."
...What's that supposed to mean? You shiver. "I'm hanging up now."
"I saw you with Whitney yesterday."
Your thumb freezes on the disconnect button. She can't mean... but no, she was in Quiz Bowl during the locker room incident. Wasn't she?
"If you think that lesbian can protect you, you are wrong. This is not the end of our relationship. I am going to hunt you down, Alabaster. I am going to break you like a wild horse. I am going to burn you to embers. I am going to bend you over and make you my bitch."
click
You look down at the LCD screen and listen to slow thrum of the dialtone. Getting an idea, you scroll through the call log and store Vivian's number in your contacts. It's not much, but having that gives you the feeling of having at least a small edge. Now you both have each other's numbers.
There is someone who could help you with this... but ugh. You feel your dinner rise in your esophagus just thinking about it. But Naruto Stackleford, your bandana-wearing hamplanet of a friend, didn't spend 6 months in juvenile detention for aggravated stalking without knowing a few tricks of the trade. He could trace this number.
[X] Call him.
[ ] Nope.
Desperate times, etc. You grit your teeth and dial him up. The phone rings five times and you're just about to throw in the towel when his stupid lispy voice picks up.
"Hey nigger. You're interrupting InuYasha. This better be good."
You can actually hear his fucking headband over the phone. "How many times do you have to watch that asinine show? It's the same show every time, you congenital idiot."
"Okay yeah, whatever. Bye."
"Wait! Wait--"
"I watch Inuyasha because Kagome is my waifu, bro."
You cringe.
"...Get it? See, 'waifu' is a joke on the four chan. You ever go there? It's a pretty dangerous place--"
"Stackleford. Listen to me. I have a stalker."
"Oh yeah? Lucky. I wish I had a stalker."
"No you fucking don't. This chick is off her rocker. 100% angus-certified crazymeat. She called me just now and I need you to trace her number."
You hear his labored breathing take a dithering tone. "Ah-- I mean, I don't know anything about stuff like that..."
"Come off. You know how to stalk someone. You went to juvie for a reason."
"..."
"I need to know as much about her as you can find out, and soon."
"Well-- I'd be violating my parole, you know? What's in it for me?"
"I have money."
"So do I. I just bought a sweet katana at the flea market. They fold the steel--"
"Goddamn it, Stackleford."
"How's this. Join anime club. Then I'll help."
[X] Fine. Whatever.
[ ] Fuck off.
"I'm not joining your stupid weeaboo club. Christ. I'm already in Quiz Bowl and now I'm involved with soccer, too."
"Soccer? Soccer's for fags, man."
"I'll pay you. $500. And not a dime more."
"No deal. Anime club or bust."
You sigh deeply as he continues to goad you. And then you say words you know you'll come to regret. "You meet tomorrow, right?"
"We meet every day of the school week now. It's great!"
"What are you guys watching?"
"Hmm? Oh, I dunno, something weird. I never heard of it, the title's something long and Japanese. Our new President doesn't even let us watch it in English. Maybe with you around we can outvote her. That's the main reason I wanted you there, to get something good on again."
You furrow your brow. That doesn't sound like the North High Anime Club you know at all. "One meeting," you say. "ONE. That's all I promise."
"Tomorrow?"
"You mean today?"
"No, I mean tomorrow."
"It's 3:40 AM."
"Well, not tomorrow tomorrow. I mean like... tomorrow."
"Goddamn it, Stackleford. Fine, whatever. I'll be there. Now write this number down."
You give him Vivian's number and hang up.
You try to sleep, but can't make yourself feel tired. Instead you find yourself sitting bleary-eyed at your computer listening to your favorite podcast: Sofia Sant-Elizabeth's Illuminati Report.
IR: Your eye on world domination, mind control, and government conspiracy.
"--And let me tell you something else! All this manufactured pop glurge from the heart of Hollyweird? Full of illuminati symbology! Wake up, sheeple!" Even when Sofia rants and raves, her voice's shaky cadence is somehow soothing. "You're being hoodwinked. You're all being hoodwinked. Nuke the flyover states already, they're the ones who're to blame. When the Jesuit rape squads come knocking, don't tell me I didn't warn you!! Pope Francis is a known rapist!"
You listen to the entirety of her 2-hour dissection of Justin Timberlake's FutureSex/LoveSounds. Sometime near dawn you actually find yourself in that weird penumbra between sleeping and waking. If you weren't so drowsy, you'd be worried that Sofia's words are starting to make real sense to you.
Unfortunately, you don't catch any real shuteye. Your cellphone buzzes just as the first beams of sunlight poke through your blinds. You swipe your hands through your hair to knock away the headphones and answer the call. It's Whitney.
"Ally~" she cries, without a hint of yesterday's awkwardness in her voice. "Are you up or are you up? Or are you up?"
"Whuh?"
"It's 5:30, silly. We gotta run laps!"
"Oh, screw that. What is wrong with you? Who gets up at dawn to jog?"
"That's how it works, kiddo. Soccer is work. You can't expect to get fit by sitting around and watching tentacle rape all day."
"I don't need to run. I'm not even really in soccer club--"
"You're in soccer club." Whitney's voice is a little bit menacing now. "You promised me."
[X] Okay, okay. I'm coming.
[ ] Let me sleep. I'm tired.
After that conversation with Vivian, you're more convinced than ever that you need Whitney's protection. That means keeping her happy. As for what happened yesterday afternoon-- if she doesn't want to talk about it, you can ignore it, too.
"We have to do double-time to make up for missing practice yesterday, you know?"
"Whatever. Don't expect me to do much running."
You hang up, stand, and stretch. If Whitney was a pain before, it's only going to be worse now. Is predawn jogging going to be a daily ritual?
You search your warzone of a bedroom for clothes that are least semi-wearable. A pair of jeans with only one mustard stain and a barely-crumpled tee will have to do.
Down in the kitchen, your mom is cooking breakfast for your dad, who sits at the table, hidden behind a newspaper's broadside. Your mom wears an apron and hums lowly to herself as she fries eggs.
It would look just like something from Leave it to Beaver or Father Knows Best -- if your mom was wearing anything else besdies the apron.
She turns and looks at you. Far from looking embarrassed, she simply casts an appraising look up and down, from your wrinkled jeans to your baggy eyes.
"You look like shit," she says. "Eggs?"
"God. You wanna put some clothes on?"
"Not really. What are you doing up at this hour? Are you fleeing from an imminent FBI raid?"
"Dad, tell her to put some clothes on."
No reply. He just flips the page.
"Look," your mom says, "if you don't eat these eggs, they'll go to waste. Which is fine, I guess. I don't care either way. It's no skin off my back if you don't want to eat my home cooking that I spent so much time on. I mean, it's not like I care or anything."
[ ] I guess I have time.
[X] See ya.
"I am not going to stay here and be traumatized by your weird breakfast sex play with dad." You cast an accusing glance in the direction of the newspaper broadside but gauge no reaction from the other end.
"I live in a family of sick animals," you complain to no one in particular. As you go, you see your mom practically fuming.
Outside, the coolness of nighttime has not quite worn off. In the morning's mist, you're surprised to spy Whitney jogging up from the end of the street. You walk out to meet her halfway.
"I thought we were going to meet at the track," you say.
"I didn't trust you to get up," Whitney says, jogging in place. "But you totally did! That's great, you're showing real initiative."
You shrug. "Vivian called me last night," you tell her, keeping you voice low as if someone might overhear.
"Who?"
"Try to keep up," you sigh. "My stalker. The one you're supposed to be protecting me from."
"Oh, her name is Vivian? How lame is that?" She turns so her back is to you. "Okay! Last one to school owes the other one lunch!"
She takes off at a breakneck pace. "Stop!" You call. "Hey! Why the hell are you running to where we'll be running? You're defeating the point--"
"It's fun!" She's already near the end of the street.
"This is just evidence of your addictive personality! Hey! Slow down! Don't you want to hear the sick things Vivian said?" You start after her but it's like running through cement. She's out of sight within moments.
You haven't even gotten to Cherry Street, two blocks away, before you're huffing air. You stop to lean against a light pole. Whitney texts you:
"yo slowpoke. you owe me lunch now~~~"
In the time it took you to get two blocks, she made it nearly 3/4 of a mile. Wincing, you pull away from the lightpost and decide to walk the rest of the way. If you try to run it, then the actual experience on the track is going to be impossible. And this isn't even the hard part. Eventually a soccer ball comes into the mix.
"What took you?" Whitney asks as you limp onto the track. "I've already done three laps."
You clutch your knees, still out of breath. "You're the fastest woman alive," you gasp. "Oh my god. I've never seen someone so minmaxed."
"You're the one who's maxminned. You need to shape up if you've got reverse pedophiles trying to murder you. Come on, get running."
On wobbly legs, you do your best to make a respectable showing. But you can't even jog for half a lap before you need to stop and walk a little bit -- running to school sapped you of all your energy before you even started. Every time Whitney laps you, she gives you a playful shove that makes you want to punch her. You remind yourself that you need her, and therefore can't anger her.
"How long-- does this-- last?" you wheeze. "Is this forever? Is this-- my life now?"
"Run until you can't run anymore."
"I can't run. I can't--"
She passes you and gives you a shove. "Pussy. You can run."
You check the time on your cellphone. Class starts in an hour. If you have any hope of being even a little presentable by the time the bell for first period rings, you need to go rest a bit now. Bowing your head half in shame and half from exhaustion, you break away from the track and go up the hill. Only when she sees that you've truly given up does Whitney join you. She's barely out of breath.
"Guess we've got a lot of work ahead of us," Whitney says.
"You are--" you stop, suddenly nauesous, and puke all over the ground.
Whitney pats you on the back and saunters off. "See you at lunch. I'll buy it for you even though you owe me... looks like you'll need it."
In the boy's locker room, you shower and change -- thank god you had the foresight to bring a spare this time. When you're done, it's nearly time for class. After all of this, you completely don't want to attend today. Plus, the thought of seeing Vivian in person makes your skin crawl. You could always skip until it's time for Anime Club.
[X] Skip
[ ] Go
You're going to lose what little sanity you have left if you force yourself through class, as tired and paranoid as you are. You need to have a little time to yourself.
Luckily, you're used to this. You know a few good spots on campus where you can blow off class and woo 2D bitches on your smartphone. Today, you figure you'll use the perpetually under-construction boy's bathroom by the gym. It's been blocked off by caution tape for two years, but the interior is perfectly usable. You step in, take the stall near the back, and settle into the romantic storyline of "Suck My Dick or Die!"
As usual when you're with your true passion, you fall into a seeming timewarp. Bells ring every once in a while, marking the passage of the day, but you barely pay attention. You're too busy committing atrocities against civilians -- and doing other things.
But just as one plot reaches its climax, get tossed from the throes of euphoria by a sudden clatter near the entrance. Out of well-practiced instinct, you put the phone into sleep mode and jam it in your pocket, even though you're in a stall. Simultaneously, you pull up your jeans. You listen close. Nothing.
[X] Step out and investigate
[ ] Stay still
Your heart is thumping so much that all you can hear is the rush of blood in your temples, but if this is who you think it is --
There is no escape. You gulp, close your eyes, and open the stall door.
"Oi! What are you doin in 'ere?"
You open your eyes. It's just Damon, the school's British janitor.
"I asked you a question, mate. What are you doin' in 'ere?"
You shrug. "Poopin'."
"Don't you see the tape? Under construction, wanker. Pinch logs somewhere else."
You shake your head and leave the bathroom. Guess you'll have to find somewhere else to enjoy your alone time.
As you step out of the gymnasium and into the quad, you fiddle with your phone. This keeps you distracted, and you almost bump into someone. It's Stackleford. The quad is empty except for the two of you.
"Jesus," you cry. "Where did you come from?"
"Thank god," he says, grabbing you by the shoulder with clammy hams. "That Vivian bitch who you sent me after has been following ME now. Last night when I traced her number, some... some thug called my house and said not to mess with her again. Then today when you don't show up for class... she starts interrogating me on where you are."
You stare at him. He continues. "I thought you must be jerking to your anime games on campus like usual, so I sent Damon in to flush you out."
"You couldn't come after me yourself?"
"Confined spaces scare me, man. It's why I can't shit anywhere but at home. Jesus lord almighty. How did you get this person after you? She's nuts."
"I don't know. I wish I knew. Look, we should get out of here. How do you know she isn't watching you right now?"
"I don't!" He looks around nervously. "Where can we go?"
[ ] The theater.
[X] The auto shop.
[ ] Anime club room.
[ ] Custom?
You lead Stackleford practically by the hand across campus, toward the garage where auto shop holds class. One of the buildings at the perimeter of the quad has a mezzanine that overlooks it, and as you pass underneath, you think you catch a glimpse of Vivian's parasol. When you look back, it's gone.
Inside the garage, you smell the cloying stink of diesel and hear the incessant whir of pneumatic tools. Menial professions like this are beneath you, but your hand is forced. Whitney has class here right now, and you're better off under her wing.
Whitney is on her back underneath an old beater, doing something or other to the underside. You prod her leg with her toe.
"Huh?" She jerks upward and you hear a muffled thud. "Ow!!"
She crawls out from underneath the car, rubbing her forehead. When she stands and sees you, she slugs you in the shoulder. "Never startle someone who's under a car!"
"I'm sorry I'm not familiar with the etiquette of blue collar drudgery. Believe me, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't serious."
Whitney looks from you to the beet-red, sweat-covered face of Stackleford and then frowns.
"H-hi, Whitney," Stackleford says, swiping underneath his pussy deflector with a hand the size of a dinner platter. His crush on Whitney is ancient and 100% hopeless. "Alabaster, you didn't say we were going to see Whitney."
"Yeah..." Whitney says. "You didn't say you were coming to see me..."
"We just need to hang out here until class ends," you say. "It's last period anyway. Then we can all go home."
"What about anime club?" Stackleford whines.
There's a pause and then Whitney's mouth curls into a grin of realization. "No way, Ally!" she laughs in genuine-sounding disbelief. "You're in anime club now too?" She walks to the sink to wash her blackened hands with gritty soap. "I thought you hated those losers."
"Hey, I'm in anime club," Stackleford says.
"Yeah," Whitney says, clearly to you. "I thought you hated those losers."
"It's in exchange for some help... the same way I'm dipping my wick into soccer for protection, I'm going to an anime club meeting for info on Vivian." Your eyes light up with a sudden realization.
"Hey," you say to Stackleford. "You didn't help at all, did you? In fact, you made it worse. I should have expected that from a degenerate like you. The deal's off."
"Wait," Stackleford says, his face gleaming with polyunsaturated pride. "I actually found out a whole lot about Vivian. I can tell you, but only if you hold up your end of the bargain."
You glance to Whitney. She gives a laugh that says this is all your perogative. "Fine," you say. "What do you know?"
"Vivian is loaded. Super loaded. Like, her dad's some kind of silicon valley billionaire. Until this year she was being tutored by this Swedish super-genius who specializes in homeschooling child prodigies. She could be in Berkley right now, but all of a sudden she decided she wanted to finish her schooling in dinky-ass North High."
Even Whitney's quick enough on the uptake to see the obvious implication. "She came here for you," Whitney breathes.
You shudder. You had a suspicion this might be the case, but having confirmation still makes your heart sink.
"She takes an actual helicopter to school," Stackleford says. "Comes here from Palo motherfraggin' Alto every day and lands on a helipad like five miles away, then gets chauffeured the rest of the way. Total. Balls. Insanity."
"Get a restraining order," Whitney suggests.
"Did I mention she's loaded?" Stackleford says. "I mean, uh, no offense, great idea Whitney, really... but it won't work. She's definitely got like, Johnny Cochraine or someone on the payroll. It'd never stick."
"What can I do?" You ask.
Stackleford rolls his oxlike shoulders. This is where his helpfulness ends, it seems.
The rest of the period passes somberly. Stackleford sits on a milk crate that bulges under his considerable weight and plays Pokemon. Whitney goes back to work on her car, although it looks beyond saving -- the repair work is strictly a pedagogic tool, it seems. And for your part, you just lean against the cold concrete wall of the garage and feel very, very small.
What can you do against a schizo billionaire-loli with an obsession and goddamn helicopters at her disposal?
Visions flash through your brain of Vivian standing over you, dissecting your guts with a butcher knife and peals of sadistic glee. You've seen it happen more than enough times. Have you already thrown your own death flag? Was there a way to avoid this? Why didn't you see it?
Don't be defeatist. Don't be defeatist.
Life is not some harem VN. There's a way out.
Flee to Mexico and change your name?
You rub your face with the heels of your palms. The bell rings to dismiss class. Stackleford stands with a fart he pretends not to notice and says: "boo-yah, niggas. Anime time."
Whitney snorts. "Uh, have fun, Ally. I guess."
[ ] No way. You're suffering through this, too.
[X] You're not heartless enough to subject her to this ordeal. Ask her to wait outside the club room.
"No prob," Whitney says. "As long as the BO doesn't make it out into the hallway. And of course, you'll owe me..."
"Yeah, yeah," you grouse.
The three of you steal away to the anime clubroom like assassins in the dead of night, trying to avoid unwanted detection. Vivian might be anywhere. And yet as you cross the quad and see a helicopter pass overhead, you get the strange sensation, however irrational, that it's Vivian going home for the day.
The anime clubroom is precisely what you remember of it. Formerly under the purview of Mr. McMichael the home ec teacher, anime club was -- you figured until yesterday -- disbanded when he got busted for certain felonies over the summer. His home ec class is still strewn with insipid meme-based anime posters and student-made fanart that would look more at home on Deviant Art.
There are already about a dozen other students here: Earl the guy with a bowl cut and a facial tic; Connor the dude who wears a trenchcoat and fingerless gloves no matter the forecast; Kyle the guy who you're 90% sure has downs; Kimberly the girl who writes slashfic about Mr. Langley and Mr. James the chem teacher; and Fartin' Franklin, whose nickname was not his choice but nonetheless apt. Amongst others.
Stepping into this writhing mass of human failure, you gird yourself make self-promises that this is only once.
Stackleford, blessedly, leaves you alone to talk with Kimberly, the only half-attractive person in attendance. This leaves you to sit in the back and hate your life in peace. But the wait becomes wearying. You ask Stackleford when the President is going to show up.
"She was late yesterday, too," he says nasally. "Guess it'll be a habit. I think she's a drunk or something?"
You don't have time to formulate a response before the door of the clubroom opens and someone walks in.
"Oh. There she is now," he says. It's your sister.
The reaction is nearly instantaneous. You leap to your feet and begin to shout something; Cerise bounds across the room and grabs you by the collar before you can get one syllable out. She drags you away. The peanut gallery hoots and cheers, not understanding what's going on, but entertained anyway.
She tosses you like a sack of potatoes into the hallway. Whitney watches with interest but doesn't intervene.
"What are you doing here?" Cerise hisses.
"What am I doing here? What are YOU doing here?" You stop and sniff at the air. "How drunk are you, anyway?"
"You're a fucking, asshole," she says with a strange pause between curses. "You're supposed to be at your stupid Jeopardy thing right now."
"You're supposed to be looking for gainful employment." You pace back and forth, disbelieving. "Why are you here? You graduated two years ago. And at the fucking anime club of all places?"
"They needed an adviser to fill the gap or they'd be disbanded. No one on faculty wanted to do it."
"Why would you?--" you pause, feeling the mental cogs spin into place. The unexplained post-school disappearances of hers when she was a student here... you always just assumed that she was out having sex with bikers or something. But...
"Anyway," Cerise huffs, "I'm getting paid to be here. So there."
"Yeah? How much?"
"The amount isn't important. What's important is that I'm working again."
"Pocky isn't currency the last time I checked. This is not a real job, you hose beast."
"Get fucked. Why are you hanging out in the anime club? You never had anything but insults for our members."
"Because you epitomize everything that's wrong and degenerate and evil about anime fandom. God. I knew you were the enemy, but I never expected THIS."
"I'm fixing it!" Cerise yells. "And I don't need you perving up my work in progress with your stupid moe bullshit. Go rape 2D kids somewhere else, you little scumsucker."
[X] Not on your life.
[ ] I don't need this. Whitney, let's get out of here.
"I am not going to let you corrupt the morals of these students any longer," you say. "And I'm sure whatever you have them watching is hopelessly pedestrian."
"Morals! Big words for someone who was jerking off to Radiohead last night!"
"Oh, trying to take the moral high ground after you've been caught whoring yourself out to the underaged? Ha."
"Fuck this. Don't you dare come back into this clubroom. I'm warning you."
You take a step forward as if to test her. She sidesteps to block your way. You feint to the left, and she lunges for you, but her alcoholic stupor has made her easy pickings. You dodge to the right and run for the door.
At the threshold, she jumps on your back, latching on like a crazed cat. Together you go windmilling around into the clubroom proper. You fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
"Epic glomp!" Kimberly calls.
"Oh, fuuuck you, Kimberly" Cerise moans from the ground. Kimberly audibly winces.
You right yourself and dust yourself off. Cerise stands, wobbling, and braces herself against the desk at the front of the room.
"Today," she says, making a point not to address you but rather the rest of the club. "Is episode 3-5 of Watashi wa Watashi no Onee-sama ga Kyūketsuki Hantā Dhirimasendeshita, or NeeKyu for short." Her Japanese is flawless even despite the inebriation. "This is a seminal work of horror and won a lot of awards in Japan. The first arc really heats up today. Episode 5 has a big twist. I hope you enjoy it."
"Can we watch Bleach?" Comes Connor's voice from the back as he raises his gloved hand.
"I can pour bleach down your fucking throat," Cerise counter-offers. Connor puts his hand down.
"You know, this is dubbed," Stackleford offers. "I think we'd rather watch it that way." Murmurs of agreement at this.
"I think I'd rather watch you get hit by a truck, doublestuff" Cerise says airly, booting up her computer. The anime club looks around at one another uneasily. You can't help but grin.
You take a seat in the front row as Cerise scrolls through her laptop's messy folders. Whitney pokes her head into the clubroom and surveys the scene.
"Is everything all right?" she whispers. You give a thumbs-up. She looks uncertainly at Cerise for a few moments and retracts back into the hallway.
"Still hanging out with that lesbo?" Cerise slurs while she hooks the laptop to a projector. "What are you, dense? She doesn't want your cock."
You start to say something, but get interrupted. "Uh, Cerise?" Fartin' Franklin asks. "I was meaning to ask. Is this pirated?"
"Of course it is."
"Well, I mean, that's illegal..."
Cerise does not dignify this with a response. As she opens MPC and the show's death-rock OP starts to blares, Stackleford comes up and sits next to you. The chair he sits in groans at the applied pressure. You smell garlic.
"See?" he whispers. "She's a total Hitler. She's ruining anime club."
[X] "She's my sister."
[ ] Say nothing.
"She's my sister," you say folding your arms and not taking your eyes from the projector screen. "And actually, I think she's doing okay."
You feel the need to whisper this; but sitting not far off, Cerise may still have heard. If she did, she gives no reaction. She just watches the show's action on her laptop screen.
Stackleford looks from you to Cerise and back again. "Awww man," he says, and his crestfallen whine would be perfectly accompanied by a gameshow's outro music. Only now does he realize what a colossal mistake he made in seeking you out as an ally. Whatever your differences with Cerise are outside, there's a common enemy here.
This show has been in your backlog for a while now but you haven't gotten around to it. Dropped into the middle of the plot, you find it hard to catch up. Something about a guy who comes from a family with a long line of female vampire hunters. When he finds himself being targeted by the world's deadliest-slash-most-beautiful vampire, his long-lost sister swoops in to save him. Honestly, it seems kind of stupid. First of all, the only character who's even close to being a loli is the vampire, and she sucks.
Still, you watch with interest. You figured the only thing Cerise used her laptop for was prostituting herself to random basement dwellers, so seeing a hobby like this is a whole new angle. Of course, you're still repulsed by her. She slams back two beers during the first episode. When Kyle points out that alcohol isn't allowed on campus, Cerise throws one of the empty cans at him.
But you also find yourself annoyed when the other club members begin to whisper to one another and play on their cellphones instead of paying attention to the show.
Your bout of annoyance is interrupted by your own cellphone buzzing. Hypocritically, you check it. It's a text from an unknown number.
"You cannot run forever. See you tomorrow, Alabaster Soliloquy."
END OF EPISODE 2.