You are Alabaster Soliloquy, moeblob connoisseur and owner of a lonely heart.
Later that evening, you hear Stackleford departing. It's not exactly daring espionage: it would be almost impossible NOT to hear him departing, between his heavy steps and labored breathing. The whole house shakes when he lumbers down the stairs.
And then there's his lispy voice, rising to your room muffled from the foyer: "bye, Cerise. Bye, Mrs. Soliloquy. Hope to see you soon!"
"Bye Stackleford!" comes Cerise's reply. "You can come anytime!"
You lie on your bed with your hands laced behind your head and fight the urge to vomit. The gloom of early evening is turning to night and your room is quickly darkening. You consider turning in for bed early. Perhaps it could help you forget the day's awful ending. But the soft patter of your sister's feet approaches your door, and with a sigh you realize that the day isn't over yet. She knocks twice.
Knowing her, she'll probably burst in whether you answer the door or not, but there are matters of principle at stake, too. After the stunt she just pulled, you're not sure you want to acknowledge her at all.
[X] Let her in.
[ ] Don't respond.
"Door's open," you call.
Cerise steps in. "Hey asshole," she says playfully. "Why weren't you hanging out the young Turks today? We're about to finish NeeKyu."
You shrug. You're not in the mood for banter.
"Fine, be a dick. Now, where did I put that--"
She kneels and goes digging around underneath your bed without warning. You bolt upright and throw your desk lamp on. "What are you doing?"
"Just getting this--" she says, hauling a cardboard box out. "Sensitive materials and such."
You peer in the box. It's stuffed full of Cerise's vibrators, dildos, lubes, and other perverse implements. The amount is truly staggering, way beyond what you had imagined. She could have funded the development of a small African nation with the money she must have spent on this collection.
"Couldn't let Stackle-faggot see my toys. Is that kid the most annoying twat who ever lived or what?"
You gawk at Cerise. Her behavior isn't squaring with her words -- what gives?
Cerise rifles around her box of toys a bit, frowning. "You didn't stick any of these in your butt, did you? I don't want your butt diseases."
"I didn't even know they were here. But it explains why my room smelled like a clam bake for the past hour."
"As if you could smell it over all the rancid jizz you're always spraying everywhere. I had to use a whole can of febreeze on that little present you left in my room, you cunt."
"Carry a lot of febreeze? Guess it helps freshen you up after a hard night of turning tricks."
You don't know how she ropes you into it. Here you are, bantering like always.
"Anyway," Cerise says. "I'll be in my room. I have something to do first, but how does 11 PM sound?"
"...Sound for what?"
"Family movie night, you little dork."
She doesn't wait for your response. She steadies the box against her shapely hip and leaves.
But something nags at you. And you don't want to wait for 11 PM.
Now it's your turn to stand outside Cerise's room.
You go to knock, but stop yourself short when you hear Cerise's voice from inside.
"Heyyy everyone! Sorry I'm late today..." Her voice is peppy and cheerful the way it never is when she speaks to you.
This would be the beginning of Cerise's cam show.
Your heart sinks further in your chest than it did when you saw Stackleford, and you feel a sudden itching all over your scalp. As if today could get worse.
Why is Cerise's personal life so maddening to you now? She's been doing this show for years and you never had a problem with it before. Now, thinking about all the perverted things she's doing for strangers online, you want to punch something.
From Cerise's PC speakers comes the dinging noise that signals when a viewer of her show has tipped her PayPal account.
"Already?" Cerise laughs. "I haven't even started yet! You guys are too nice. Tonight's show will be great!"
Your breath is short and your lips are trembling. You've never seen what she does on the other side of that door during her show, and you don't know if you want to.
[X] Go inside.
[ ] Leave.
You open the door.
Cerise is sitting at her computer desk in an outfit you've never seen before: a full French maid costume, a pair of cat ears, and large round glasses. She's never needed corrective lenses in her life.
Stranger yet, she sits hunched over with some kind of electrical implement in her hand -- a soldering iron? Little sparks arc from the desktop as she works, deep in concentration. She chews her lower lip. She appears to modifying the broken remains of a Furby doll.
Her webcam's little red light beeps steadily: she's definitely on-air right now.
Finally, Cerise notices you. She wigs out. She quickly disconnects her webcam and starts gathering the electronic components on her desk. She sweeps them into a plastic bag and tosses her glasses in as well.
"I... I don't..." you stammer. Cerise looks at you guiltily. "--This is your webcam show?"
Cerise bows her head, too embarrassed to be indignant. "Don't tell mom, okay?"
"I just-- I thought your show was about putting things in your butt or something."
Cerise grimaces. "It's called circuit-bending fetish."
You shake your head dumbly, so she continues. "I dress up in this maid costume and fuck around with consumer electronics. Toys, mostly... make them do weird shit. Guys jerk off to it and send me money. Beer, too. Lots of beer."
You lean in to glance at Cerise's monitor. The window is divided into a pane for the cam feed -- which is now a black screen that says "OFF AIR" -- and a pane for the chat feed. You read some lines from the chat:
>Benderman1840: oh yeaaah baby fuck that furby up
>iodine__: use the soldering iron
>tom_servo: thats so hot i wish i had a wife like you
>janis12: i love the way you bite your lip when your concentrating
>purple_people_eater: huh? what just happened?
>Benderman1840: whered she go?
>kylereese: interrupted??
>DavidDB: Looks like someone walked in on her. How disappointing. I was approaching climax.
>pupacious: Probably her faggot brother -_-
You look at Cerise in disbelief. "What do you mean when you say you make the toys do weird shit?"
"It's-- hard to explain... here, just look."
Cerise pulls the Frankenstein-Furby out of the bag and sets it on the desktop. It's connected to a mess of networked wires and simple circuits, plus a few capacitors and transistors. It has no skin except its hard black plastic casing. But the really creepy thing is that it still has eyelashes and a beak -- a fluffy tail, too. You feel like you're looking at something from a Saw movie.
Cerise flips the 'on' switch underneath the Furby. Its eyes open and its beak wordlessly flaps for a few seconds while Cerise fucks with a few of the transistors hanging from the Furby's ass. Suddenly, the Furby speaks.
"Hail satan. Hail satan. Hail satan. Hail-- hail-- hhhhhhhh. Aaaa-choo. Worry."
You blink. "It's like if Mengele worked for Hasbro," you breathe.
"Hail hail hail RMMMMMMMMMMMMMM--" The Furby's beak gets caught in a gaping-open position and produces nothing but the horrible screech of plastic gears grinding on each other. Cerise turns it off.
"This is a sex thing?" You ask.
"For some people."
"...For you?"
"It pays. That's all it is for me."
[ ] Well... have fun with that.
[X] Let me watch you perform.
[ ] We need to talk about what happened earlier.
You sit on the end of Cerise's bed and motion for her to continue. "Don't let me stop you," you say.
"Alabaster, get the fuck out."
"No way. I want to witness this circuit-bending thing first-hand. How will I ever know if I'm a circuit-bending fetishist if I don't get the chance to see it?"
"Alabaster--"
"Stop oppressing me, Cerise. Geez. Hasn't Rose taught you anything?"
Cerise closes her eyes and sighs deeply. "At least scoot over," she says. "I don't want you on cam when I go back on air. Having another man in the room would lose me half my viewers. These guys are totally obsessed with purity..."
You oblige the request. Cerise puts her prop glasses back on and organizes her implements on the desktop. She types something into the chat and then activates the webcam again.
To be perfectly honest, it's a bit disturbing. There's something brutal and transfixingly horrid about Cerise's ability to manipulate the Furby's components. Her almost endless skill in making it do things it was never meant to. It calls to mind other fetishes: awful videos glimpsed in the dead of night, of women stomping on helpless animals, women torturing men's genitals.
Is that the same basic principle at work here? An urge to see something beautiful wield such destructive power?
--Ugh. Did you just think of Cerise as beautiful?
You look at her, her face front-lit by her own swiveling desk lamp. Her skin is milky white -- pale and smooth from a life spent shirking physical activity. Yet she's got a woman's body: pear hips, well-endowed chest, angular face. If you were posting online, anonymously, you'd call her an old hag; you'd pretend to find her disgusting. But the truth is she stirs a primal instinct in you, some urge in some obscure part of your hindbrain too evolutionarily primitive to check her against the incest taboo.
Cerise connects the Furby to her PC's tower. With a few mouse clicks, she makes the Furby belt out a few lines of Dethklok, interspersed with its pre-programmed "I'm a little teapot" song. This new absurdity is enough to derail your train of thought, for now.
But for a moment there...
Your stomach drops.
Oh god.
You want to fuck your sister.
And judging by the steady ding of Cerise's electronic tip jar, a lot of other people want to fuck her, too.
"Not on your life, fuckers..." you mumble, clenching and unclenching your fist. "I was here first."
Cerise mutes the cam long enough to hiss: "Shut the fuck up, assjerk. God."
You smile to yourself as Cerise resumes the show. For you, this broadcast of hers is yet another new angle to her, something you never could have guessed. And you may not be a circuit-bending fetishist after all, but tonight you've learned something equally important: you have a complex of your own.
After the show, Cerise kicks back in her chair, propping her feet on the desk. She cracks open a beer and slugs back a few gulps, still wearing her maid costume. It's a strange contrast.
"Well?" she asks. "Was it everything you hopes for? Are you a circuit-bending fetishist?"
"Apparently not," you say. "The way you take advantage of these men is low, even for you. You should stop the show."
"Like hell," Cerise says. "It's paying the bills."
"I'm a millionaire," you say flatly.
"Yeah, and I'm Abe Lincoln."
"No, I'm serious. Darkbloom offered me a million dollars to compete in quiz bowl. He's giving it to me at the end of school year."
Cerise stares at you.
"So I guess what I'm saying is, you don't have to do this anymore. We're pretty much set for cash."
"A million dollars is nothing these days," Cerise says, rather lamely, as if looking for excuses. "Anyway... I like doing this. It's fun."
You feel that old jealousy from earlier rear its head. Why would she willingly choose to prostitute herself for strange men? And then there was that behavior earlier, the stunt with Stackleford.
"Why did you invite Stackleford into your room?" you ask.
Cerise shrugs. "He volunteered to clean for me."
"Is that it?" you ask.
"Why wouldn't it be?" Cerise's expression is hardened now, slightly frowning.
[X] Were you trying to make me jealous? Well, it worked.
[ ] Were you trying to make me jealous? It didn't work.
[ ] Drop it.
"Jealous?" Cerise breathes. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Come on. You won, all right? You don't have to rub it in. Good job, you got me mad. Happy?"
"You need to go back on your meds. Stackleford was here because he offered to clean my room free of charge. That's it."
"Don't play stupid, Cerise, it doesn't suit you. You know he wants to fuck you."
"Of course I do. What, you don't trust me not to? Fucking STACKLEFORD, of all people?"
"That's not what I'm saying--"
"I'd rather fuck a hippo. What is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?"
"That's not what I'm saying!"
"Then tell me what you are saying."
You close your eyes and try to think. How can this be salvaged?
"Look. Don't you think it's weird that he volunteered out of the blue to clean for you?"
"It's no weirder than anything else he does. He wore a fucking kimono to school the other day. He thinks 'gomenesai' means 'hello.' Think of who we're talking about."
"Yeah. Well. He came over because he's mad at me."
"Yeah? Mad over what?"
"He knows about me and Whitney. He's using you to get back at me."
"Right. Because everything is always all about you."
"In this case-- yeah."
"So you come home from fucking some other girl and get mad at me for hanging out with a guy who I'd burn off my clit before even kissing. Is that the size of it?"
"We're not communicating properly. Let me start over. Cerise, I--"
"Get the fuck out, Alabaster."
This time you can tell she really means it. You bow your head. And then the indignant anger comes: "fine!" is all you can manage through the bile in your chest. You stand and leave Cerise's room, slamming her door behind you. It's the sound of death.
School the next day is Taco Friday. At lunch, Whitney sidles up next to you at your table in the cafeteria.
"Time for some nourishin' tacoage!" she says, shoveling salsa into the hard corn shell. She chews noisily.
You stare absent-mindedly at Rose on the other end of the cafeteria. All day you've been so zonked and depressed that you haven't even thought to play with her vibrator's remote. You can't get last night's disaster out of your head.
"What's wrong, Ally?" Whitney asks.
You shake your head and wordlessly sigh.
"Bad night? Just chill dude, I'll feed you some tacos and you'll dig it."
Rose cavorts and laughs with her student council friends, as if everything is normal: but there's a sheen of sweat on her forehead that isn't so normal for her, after all. All day long she's been in limbo -- just waiting for the hammer to drop. You frown.
"I'm thinking of something else," you tell Whitney. "How about a little fiesta with Rose later on?"
After school, you dismiss Spancer from his bodyguard duties. Before he goes, you ask for a status update on R.A. Netor.
"Neutralized," Spancer says.
"How neutralized?"
"Broken left third metacarpal. Broken right second metacarpal. Two fractured ribs. Sprained--"
"Okay, okay, I get the picture. Can you do the same thing to Stackleford?"
"Negative. Ms. Carte has flagged Stackleford as one of your friends. My subroutines prevent me from harming him."
"Well, I'm overriding that order."
"Negative. The subroutines cannot be overridden. This is to guard against Darkbloom coercing you into giving me certain orders."
You massage the bridge of your nose in frustration. "What good are you, then? Whatever. Wait for me outside the front entrance."
"Today is quiz bowl practice," Spancer reminds you. "Do you intend on going?"
"No. I have more important things to do."
"Remember," you tell Whitney in the empty school hallway. "I want to do it on my own this time."
"Gotcha, gotcha," Whitney chirps.
You've been waiting outside the student council room for over an hour and a half. Finally, the meeting adjourns, and students begin to trickle out. You take cover in a janitor's closet and watch through the cracked-open door as, one by one, Rose's cadre of polo-clad minions leave.
You expect Rose to be the last one out. And as usual, your instincts prove correct. Rose is 10 minutes later than the last of her fellow council members. She steps out of the room and locks the door securely behind her.
She's a fucking wreck. Sweat-sheened, red-faced, hair mussed, blouse partially untucked. She walks with a wobble in her step.
The weird thing is you haven't touched the vibrator's dial even once today. Yet she looks worse than the day you had her on a nonstop roller-coaster of orgasms.
"Do it," Whitney says. "She's ready for it."
You don't need the encouragement. You step into the hallway.
"Hello, Rose."
Rose wheels around. Her eyes go wide and wild, like a frightened native -- pure animal panic in them.
She turns and tries to run, but you chase her down and tackle her in a few short steps. You turn her writhing body on its back and pin her wrists.
"Did you wear the vibrator today?" you ask.
"I'm s-sorry!" she cries. "It's not my fault! I wore it, you can check for yourself... it must have broken or something! I did everything you wanted, I swear! I swear, Alabaster, I swear! I'm sorry it stopped working!"
You laugh cruelly. "It didn't break," you tell her, interrupting her little panic attack. "I just never turned it on."
Rose shivers underneath you and then goes still. You nip at her neck.
"W-why?" she stutters.
"You don't want me to," you say. "I'd never do something like that against your will. That would be rape."
Rose whimpers.
You loom over her, sitting on your knees, and tug her skirt down.
"No--!" Rose screams, the fear coming back to her. "Please!"
She was telling the truth: she's wearing the egg. And also going nopan. Her pussy glistens with moisture.
"Slut," comes your simple and to-the-point analysis.
You tug the egg from her and toss it aside. It'll just get in the way otherwise.
Behind you, Whitney sets down a stool from the janitor's closet on the linoleum floor. You hear the dull scrape of its feet against the tile as shit sits.
Right here in the middle of the hallway -- you're about to rape the student council president while your girlfriend masturbates to it. Could life get any sweeter?
You pull your cock free and push Rose's supple thighs together. They're meaty, but deliciously smooth. With your weight pinning her and her juices providing lubrication, the slippery pressure pf fucking between her legs is a lot like your onahole. The heat and wetness makes you growl involuntarily.
Underneath you, Rose switches from fear to an attempt at defiance: "y-you're sick. What are you doing?"
You smother her protests with a lewd open-mouthed kiss. You force your tongue down her throat and let your drool flow freely into her. Only when she starts moving her tongue in return do you pull away. Rose's whimper this time is louder, more frustrated.
"I guess you're going to rape me," Rose says, a strand of spittle still connecting her lips to yours. "Well, get it over with!"
"Hmm?" you ask tauntingly, humping her legs. You feel her cunt lips against your shaft but resist the urge to drive yourself home. Patience is key.
"I'm not a rapist," you tell her. "I'd never have sex with you if you didn't want me to."
You pick up your pace, almost imperceptibly. At every outstroke, your glans brushes up against her clit. Rose's thigh muscles flex and her back arches. Her breathing is ragged.
"We can have sex if you want," you tell her.
"N-never..." Rose groans. "I'd neverrrrrrr--" her denial is cut off by her own thundering orgasm.
"All you have to do is ask," you say. "Otherwise, I can cum somewhere else."
Rose goes limp, and you don't have to hold her wrists down anymore. She lies there, unmoving, for several long minutes. The only noise is the wet slurp of your dick rubbing on her inner legs, and the schlicking of Whitney playing with herself.
"Please."
She says it so quietly that you're not entirely sure she spoke at all. She can't look you in the eye.
"What was that?" you say.
"Please."
"Please what?"
Rose's face contorts in a mask of anger, lust, and resignation.
"Please have sex with me."
"You can ask me better than that. Tell me what you really want."
"..."
You fuck her thighs at a steady, forceful pace. "Suit yourself," you say. "I'm fine with just this."
Rose's teeth clack together like she's shivering.
"P-please... Rape me. Use me. Pour your cum inside of me... make me your cum-dump... please... please..."
You smile.
"Well-- if you insist."
You stand up, dismounting her. Rose looks at you as if you've just shot her parents. She opens her mouth to say something, but you grab her by the hair and drag her to her knees.
"I already used your pussy," you tell her. "I want to try a different hole today."
You pin Rose in a sitting position, her head against the wall. Cupping her chin in one hand and the top of her head in the other, you force your cock inside her mouth and fuck her throat like a cunt. Her eyes tear up and her mouth salivates obscenely, fast turning her face into a wet and slimy mess. Rivulets of slop run down her cheeks and drip onto her blouse, soiling it.
The swampy heat of her throat muscles engulfing you makes you groan. They expand and contract freely to make way for your raping cock -- there's no resistance whatsoever from Rose. Every time you bottom out, her lolled-out tongue brushes against your balls, leaving a trail of wet drool on them, and your crotch slams viciously against her nose. Every time you pull away and look down at her, her eyes have a vacant, glazed-over look to them.
You pinch her nose, plugging both of her nostrils, just to see what she'll do about it: the answer is nothing at all. She doesn't fight or squirm, and the only response is a slight decrease to the volume of her lewd gagging every time you thrust into her face.
In fact, the only real evidence that Rose is alive right now is the way one of her hands furiously mashes her clit while the other works its fingers inside her creaming pussy. There's so much girl-cum leaking from her pussy that she sits in a puddle, the bottom hem of her skirt sodden and darkly stained.
So far, Whitney has been a good girl about letting you run free, but she can't hold herself back any longer. From behind, she eggs you on: "tell her what a fucking cunt she is, Ally."
You laugh. "It's true," you tell Rose. "You're a fucking cunt. But now you're our cunt, aren't you?"
Rose makes no attempt to respond as you pound her fuckhole of a throat. But that in itself is response enough. She's your cunt. A steady stream of precum oozes from your cockhead and down her gullet.
"And even though you're a cunt, I've got to hand it to you," you say. "You're a lot of fun to cum inside."
There's a loud hiss as Whitney breathes sharply through gritted teeth. She brings herself to a wet, sloppy orgasm and you hear her bouncing up and down in her chair as she fingers herself to oblivion.
That delicious ache courses through your nuts. You bury yourself as deep as you can inside Rose's cunt mouth. "Drink my cum, you little whore!" you cry. Your cock blows off, pulsing and pouring your seed directly into her stomach.
Rose's back arches and her pussy squirts, droplets of her juice spraying in a million different vectors. Demented with lust, Whitney falls to her knees and clamps her mouth to Rose's cumming hole, mewling and suckling the nasty slime like mother's milk. Whitney sucks and licks, and Rose screams her orgasm into your dick. The vibration only makes your own orgasm stronger.
You pull away and stare down at Rose's ruined, fucked-out, half-conscious body. Her clothes are splattered with slime and drool. Her hair is mussed and stuck to her wettened face. Her cheeks are flushed, her makeup is smeared.
Whitney continues her work on Rose's still-creaming pussy. With a free hand, she masturbates.
Rose babbles unintelligibly. You poke her with your foot. "Are you done resisting?" you ask.
"Cum..." Rose mutters. Her voice sounds far away. "Cum... cock..."
Whitney laughs through her nose, still lapping at Rose's cunt. She stops to look back at you and quickly say: "I think I want to play with her for a little while. If you want to stay, you're welcome to~"
"That's fine," you say. "I have other things to do. We don't both have to be here every time we want to play with her, do we? She's really more like a sex toy at this point..."
Whitney shrugs. "True," she says. "She's something for us to relieve stress with. So, rule three: we can play with our rape toy whenever we want..."
She goes back to sucking Rose's lower hole.
"Cum..." Rose babbles. And on that note, you leave Whitney to her fun.
You sit at the dining room table as your dad read the paper. Mom is in the kitchen, working on ravioli, or something. All of her pasta dishes are awful mushy starchy messes, indistinguishable.
You play with a ballpoint pen, clicking its retract/engage button repeatedly.
Cerise is up in her bedroom, pouting, like she always does when she's upset.
"Such useless children," Mom complains to no one. "One of them spends all her time sulking, the other never comes home before sunset... don't mind me though, I'll just do everything on my own! Just like always!"
Your cellphone vibrates in your pocket. You pull it out and read the text.
>quiz bowl competition tomorow rihtg? shuould come over for last second cramming
You don't have to check the number to know who it's from: it's Ms. Carte, and she's obviously been hitting the Jack again.
Tonight's main entree in the Soliloquy household may not be the most appetizing, but you were looking forward to the dessert: key lime pie.
But Ms. Carte is right, you need to cram a little bit -- especially since you've been skipping practice and with the first quiz bowl game tomorrow afternoon. Plus, getting out of the house and away from Cerise would be nice.
On the other hand-- mom's pie...
[ ] Stay home.
[X] Go out.
You sling your backpack over your shoulder and head for the door. Like a hawk, Mom senses this. She appears in the threshold between the kitchen and the dining room to growl: "where are you going?"
"Out," you say, shrugging.
"But... I cooked all this food--"
"I thought you never cooked for my sake," you say, grinning.
"Of course I don't! But there's so much extra, and it'll just--"
"Just go to waste. Yeah, yeah. Put a plate in the fridge. I'll eat some when I come home."
Mom's left eye twitches. "Don't order me around!" she says limply. "I'm not your maid!"
"Whatever."
You turn to go. Mom stomps back into the kitchen. As you leave through the front door, you hear her holler from the kitchen: "you better eat every bite of these leftovers when you get back!"
Ms. Carte's front door is still broken when you step inside. She's sitting at a desk in the living room, reviewing a pile of flashcards. An open bottle of whiskey sits on the desktop and mountains of books sit around her feet.
"There you are," she says. "A little fucking late."
You check the time. "It's only 7:00," you say.
"Which means we have 20 hours before the competition. We have a lot of ground to--" she hiccups, obviously still tipsy -- "we have a lot of ground to cover."
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"I've got a pot of coffee brewing. We'll be going at it all night long. There's no other way."
You already feel tired.
"First. What are your strongest subjects? Your weakest ones?"
"Ah... strongest... history, science, general knowledge-- weakest? Sports, math..."
"Just as I thought. The scholastic board is supposed to be going heavy on sports questions this year. That weakness is a serious problem if we're going to make nationals."
You plunk down on Ms. Carte's couch. "It's no big deal. Hank knows sports."
Ms. Carte approaches you. She drops a stack of heavy books in your lap. You double over, wheezing.
"Those are sports almanacs. Get reading."
"I'm not going to study sports almanacs for the next 20 hours."
"Of course you aren't," Ms. Carte says.
She sits down next to you and you think you catch a whiff of something familiar -- something like excitement.
"We're going to focus on your strong points tonight," Ms. Carte says. "Those reading assignments are on your own time."`
"This is so much work..."
"Life is work, you lazy fag-end. So get to it."
You set the books on the ground and turn to look Ms. Carte in the eye.
"I'm not not going to drill for quiz bowl all night without sleeping. You're crazy."
Ms. Carte leans in sensually, putting a hand on your thigh. Her voice drops to a silky whisper. "Don't be so stubborn," she says. "Learning is fun."
Her hand creeps slowly upward.
MEANWHILE...
The Darkbloom mansion's dining room has a table roughly five yards in length. David sits at one end and Vivian at the other. Between them, an enormous feast lies totally uneaten. It's more than two people could consume in a month, and neither of them seem very interested in it.
Pavarotti's rendition of Ave Maria plays over a phonograph, echoing off the vaulted walls. Darkbloom's manservant stands demurely at the room's edge, awaiting any orders from his employer.
Darkbloom cuts his steak, fastidiously and slowly. He chews.
"Will Alabaster Soliloquy be attending tomorrow's competition?" he finally asks.
"As far as I know," Vivian says coldly.
"Hmm."
A long silence, punctuated only by the impeccable operatic tenor of Pavarotti's voice and the ethereal strings of his backing music.
"You failed to secure Alabaster's essence again this week."
No reply from Vivian.
"You know what that means, Vivian."
"I don't need it. It's your little dolls that need it. Not me."
Darkbloom puts down his fork and knife, and wipes his hands with his napkin.
"Why don't you go play with Viv-tan number 510?" Vivian asks. "She's better than me anyway. Just like all the others."
"You're so unreasonable, Vivian. You will always be my daughter. My only real daughter. I want what's best for you. All this trouble with Soliloquy is for you."
"Fuck you." Her voice is flat and listless even here.
Darkbloom smacks his lips in frustration.
"What I do," he says levelly, "I do for you. For this family."
"We're no family."
Darkbloom stands up, sighing, and tugs at his belt buckle.
"It's time," he says. "Go get yourself ready."
END OF INTERLEWD 2.