You are Alabaster Soliloquy, dead man.
December 25, 2001
It's Christmas morning at the Soliloquy household. Sitting on her haunches underneath the garland-covered tree, your sister opens the last of her presents: a VHS box set of Sailor Moon, her favorite show.
You've been here before. You remember this.
You remember the look of joy on Cerise's face as she tears the wrapping away to reveal the VHS packaging.
You remember her jumping up and down and shouting "thank you thank you thank you!!!"
You remember her hugging mom, then stopping herself short from hugging dad because he's busy poring over the assembly instructions for her new bike.
You remember her running upstairs to watch the tapes right away.
And you remember sitting sullenly in the corner, watching this unfold, waiting impatiently for your turn to open your next present.
What you DON'T remember is being a disembodied consciousness spectating on all of this from above.
"Where am I?" you ask. None of the Soliloquys below notice you speak.
"Watch," comes the baritone reply from an equally disembodied entity, somewhere to your left.
(Whatever 'to your left' actually means, since you're -- you know -- disembodied.)
It's been years since you thought about those stupid old VHS tapes Cerise received today. Sneaking them into your room while she was at school was your first experience with anime.
Err-- will be your first experience with anime?
The flow of time seems a bit wonky right now.
And if this is the Christmas Cerise received those tapes, that means--
"Alabaster," your mother says. "There's one more present for you, I think. Right... there." She winks at your five year old self.
"Of course," you -- the five year old you -- says. "I can see it. I'm not stupid."
You crawl over to the box and drag it out from under the tree. It's practically as big as you are, and heavy.
"I know we've been struggling a little bit," Mom says. "I'm sorry we couldn't get you more."
You don't respond. You just tear at the ribbon and wrapping paper, shredding it into streamers that you trail haphazardly behind you.
Underneath the wrapping is a shinily laminated, black-and-green package that says XBOX in giant block letters.
You stare at the gift, your dimpled cheeks depressing with a bratty frown.
"Well?" Mom asks, expectant, her hands wringing in her lap. "Do you like it?"
"I wanted a Playstation 2!" you spit with venom in your voice. "I told you that last month!"
"T-the man at the store said they're basically the same--" Mom begins.
"They're NOT the same! You're so stupid! You're the worst mother ever!"
"I-- I just--"
"You can't get anything right! I hate you!" You spring to your feet and storm out of the living room, leaving the Xbox underneath the blinking tree and your mother sniffling back tears.
"I thought they were the same..." she mumbles, over and over. "I thought they were the same..."
"Jesus Christ," the disembodied you says. "What the fuck was wrong with me?"
"It's true," the voice beside you says. "The first woman a man ever hurts is his mother. But you picked up the skill rather quickly. There's a lot more to show you."
"What do you--"
You feel gripped by a sudden centrifugal inertia, like being flung against the wall of a rotating carnival ride. A sick whirling sensation roils in your stomach and you see a billion starlike points of light flooding past you in vorticial tendrils.
November 8, 2005
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, smartest third grader in West Elementary's Gifted and Talented Education Program. You and a smattering of other intelligent children attend this supplemental class every Tuesday and Thursday, while the less gifted attend PE.
"What the fuck was THAT-- Oh Christ, I'm about to be sick--"
"The incorporeal cannot be sick," your guide says.
"I'm going to be incorporeally sick all over the fucking place--"
"Shut up. Watch."
Amongst these dorks, you are king: your word is law for everyone, from the lowly first graders up through the much-larger fifth graders. You sit in the back and dictate the course of all group assignments, making sure to give yourself the least amount of work. The others kowtow to you, and you enjoy it: these are the only children in a two-mile radius who actually respect intelligence in their peers.
"We have a new student joining us," your GATE teacher announces at today's session. "Her name is Rose Mallory. She's in the first grade. Rose, say hi to everyone."
Watching from above, the disembodied you registers surprise. "Rose was in my GATE class?" you say. "I don't remember that."
"Hello everyone," comes Rose's demure voice from the head of the room. She speaks so softly you can barely hear her.
"Heh. New meat," third-grade you snickers to a nearby friend. He laughs.
"Rose," says the teacher, "please tell everyone a little bit about yourself. What are your hobbies? What's your favorite subject? What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"Ah--" Rose says, stammering. She obviously isn't comfortable with the spotlight. Quite the contrast to her current-day demeanor.
"W-well, my main hobby is reading, I guess. I really like Goosebumps and Harry Potter... I think my favorite subject is history... and when I grow up-- when I g-grow up, I want to be President of the USA."
You laugh loudly and obnoxiously, slapping your knee, purposely drawing attention to yourself. Everyone in the room turns to look at you. Rose freezes in place, petrified.
"Is there something you'd like to share with us?" your teacher asks, annoyed.
"Oh, no," you say. "It's just, I think Rose's real calling is standup comedy."
"W-why is that?" Rose stammers.
"No woman could be president of anything," you say. "Except maybe the United States of Kitchens. That's just common sense, right?" You wink and make pow-pow finger-guns at her. "It's a man's world, baby."
If the disembodied-you had a face to do it with, you'd be cringing at your behavior.
The entire class jeers and laughs at your crass remarks.
Looking at her from above, the expression of humiliation and heartbreak on young Rose Mallory's face as she stands there taking it, signals to you the beginning of a new course in life for her.
"You don't remember her," the mysterious baritone voice says, "because you got expelled from GATE two weeks later. But there's much more to show you and not a lot of time left. Let's go."
"You're not going to do that spinny vortex thing again, are-- ughhhff--!"
The universe goes topsy-turvy as you fly through years in seconds.
August 25, 2008
Your first day at South Junior High is not much different than your last day at West Elementary was.
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, friendless loser.
"Give me a WARNING when you do that, at least--"
"It never gets any easier. Trust me."
Your younger self wanders the halls of your new school alone. At 11 years old, you consider yourself above hanging out with "normal" children, but you're no longer accepted by the dorks and geeks who used to worship you. Instead you drift aimlessly through school life on your own, a reject from all social circles.
In English, you take what has become your customary seat: second from the back, by the window. In academics as in peer relationships, you have slipped considerably. You've been stuck in the remedial classes.
Just before the tardy bell rings, a boy rushes in, panting, and takes the only open seat -- directly behind you. He wears spats and a cotton tank, and he's drenched in sweat from running.
The smell is not unpleasant. And the sight of him makes you feel things that you don't understand, which in turn makes you irrationally angry.
The teacher gives a spelling test to gauge the class's weak areas. You ace it. Your problem in school isn't performing on exams: it's doing homework and other projects that take concerted effort. You'd rather sit around and watch cartoons.
After the test, the boy behind you pokes you in the back. "How'd you do?" he asks.
"None of your business," you grouse, not looking back at him. "And don't poke me. That's assault."
The boy seems unfazed. "It looked like you did really well. I couldn't get any of them myself... spelling is hard..."
You spin around in your seat to glare at him. "Were you copying off of me? Why were you watching me?"
The boy shrugs. "I dunno. I get bored sometimes. You looked cute."
"Homosexual!" you cry. "Deviant!"
The boy just laughs. "You're a weirdo," he says. He holds out a hand to shake. "The name's Whitney. What about you?"
"Oh -- so you're a girl. You know, girls should dress like girls. Anything else is unseemly."
Whitney stretches her back, interlacing her fingers over the crown of her head and baring her armpits. She stares at the ceiling. "Ah, I never cared about that stuff. Girl's clothes are so uncomfortable. Shorts are comfy and easy to wear. Hey, what does 'unseemly' mean?"
"It's obvious that you're mentally unbalanced. Stay away from me."
Whitney grins toothily. Her adult teeth are oversized in her little jaw. She sticks her tongue out at you. "Make me," she says.
The disembodied you is surprised. "I forgot Whitney had freckles when she was little," you say, staring down at her spackled face.
"You forgot a lot of things about her," your guide says. "Like how the first words out of her mouth when she met you were 'you looked cute.' Do you think she ever stopped feeling that way?"
"Really though," Whitney says down below. "What's your name? We should hang out at lunch."
"My name is Alabaster," you say with an imperial flourish. "And I'd rather eat alone. First of all, quiet medidation helps my digestion. Second of all, I don't 'hang out' with people who are so clearly working-class."
Whitney slaps her knee. "You're a riot, Ash Blaster."
"It's Alabaster."
"I like you."
At lunch, you hurry to the cafeteria. It's there you meet a young and portly boy named Boyd Stackleford. But he prefers to be called Naruto.
His choice of nickname is amazingly cool -- you like that show, too! And just like the Naruto from TV, Stackleford knows all kinds of jitsus. Watching him display his ninja moves leaves you in actual awe. You wish you could be that awesome.
For the first time in a while, you have a friend.
Your fun is cut short by the arrival of Chad Esquire, your old nemesis from the fifth grade. The kid hit puberty circa age 9 and hasn't stopped growing. Now, by the start of sixth grade, he sports a visible -- if pubey and wispy -- mustache. He stands nearly six feet tall.
He also has his old retinue of toadies with him.
"Hey Ala-DORK-ster," he says in his bizarrely deep voice. "Found a new butt buddy, huh? Looks like I get to beat two faggots for the price of one!"
"Fuck off," you say, triumphant. It's the first time you've been so defiant to Chad. "My new friend is a black belt ninja and he'll--" you turn around, but Stackleford is nowhere to be seen.
You look back at Chad, gulping hard. He laughs his gonadish little laugh and pops his knuckles, one by one. He approaches you, his shadow engulfing you like a venus flytrap swallowing a fly.
You take a couple halting steps backward but you know what's coming and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Chad shoves you to the ground. His minions laugh and jeer.
Then, grabbing you by the collar and raising his fist, Chad--
"Haaaah----!!!" a voice to your left cries out savagely. You see a humanoid blur slide across the ground, tripping Chad's legs out from under him. Chad goes cartwheeling to the ground, landing on his nose.
The blur stops instantly, leaping from a sliding position to a standing position, defying all laws of momentum.
It's Whitney.
Chad stumbles to his feet, rubbing his now-bleeding nose. "D'yew wabba die?" he moans, almost unintelligible.
"You get one shot, faggot, make it count!" comes Whitney's reply.
Chad looks around at his expectant friends. He looks down at you. He looks at Whitney.
He takes a hesitant step forward as if to accept Whitney's challenge.
But when Whitney stands her ground without even flinching, he loses his mettle.
"Led's geb oudda heah," Chad says. "Dis bidge id crady."
He hurries away, nose leaking blood like a sieve. His cronies follow fast on his tail -- laughing at him now, instead of at you.
The threat gone, Whitney's expression softens. "Are you all right, Anapaster?" she asks. She smiles and grabs your arm to help you up, but you push her away.
"It's Alabaster," you grumble. "And I didn't need your help. I could have handled it on my own."
Shockingly, Whitney seems to believe this.
"Well, okay," she says. "But if you ever need my help, just ask."
"I won't."
"Hey, we should trade phone numbers."
"Why would I want your phone number? I hardly even know you."
"We could hang out on the weekends and stuff! Build forts, play dinosaurs! Or soccer!"
"That sounds asinine."
"As-in-ine...? You're so weird, Abadabster."
"It's Alabaster. Al-a-bast-er. Get it right."
"Hey, do you want to share a milkshake? I only have enough money to pay for half..."
"Go away."
"...All right. Maybe tomorrow."
"Maybe never."
"Uh huh. I'll see you tomorrow, Ala-- um-- Ala... I'll see you tomorrow, Ally!"
You scurry off to get away from this annoying girl and go looking for Naruto Stackleford, your new best friend.
"She's dumb as a bag of unmixed cement," your guide says. "But somehow you've always managed to be the stupider one. Funny, that."
You don't say anything to defend yourself before he whisks you through time.
July 4, 2009
You family's trip to the beach has been a resolute failure. Somehow you guys got turned around and wound up on the wrong highway for the better part of the day. You'll be lucky to make it to the shore before sundown now. You may miss the fireworks entirely.
Your harried mother drives, far above the speed limit, fanning herself with one hand in the stuffy station wagon. Dad sits in the passenger seat acting as navigator, nose buried in a road atlas.
With all the family's picnic supplies shoved into the back, available space is at a minimum. You sit wedged in next to your big sister Cerise.
Cerise, wearing her typically slutty Hot Topic apparel -- ugh, does she have no taste at all? -- brushes a sweaty forearm against yours. You jerk your hand back. "Watch it!" you spit.
"Oh, shut up, you ass-munch!" she shouts. "You're the one who touched ME!"
"Now you two behave back there--" Mom chides, glancing at you in the rearview.
"When was the last time you took a shower?" you ask Cerise. "I swear, sitting next to your stink all day is going to give me herpes by proxy."
"You're one to talk," Cerise says. "You know, they make a thing called deodorant now. You might want to check it out!"
You both huff in unison and turn your heads away from the other, staring out your respective windows.
"Were we always that bad?" your incorporeal self asks.
"Just watch," your guide says patiently.
Your family finally does arrive at the beach. The air is balmy and rank with the smell of sea life. The sand is warm underfoot. The sky is blanketed by thick clouds, obscuring the stars and making the night pitch black and starless, but the sea glitters by the illumination of a hundred bonfires all along the oceanside.
"Do either of you want to go swimming?" Mom asks.
"Who swims at night?" you retort. "I know you're not the brightest, but don't suggest such silly things."
Mom rolls her eyes and unfurls a towel on the sand. She sits down with Dad and Cerise.
"I'm going for a walk," you announce. "Be back in a bit."
"You'll miss the fireworks," Mom says.
You shrug, saying nothing else, and wander off.
You follow the curve of the beach, passing by family after family. They all seem happier than yours, laughing and joking and having a nice time. You wonder what the difference is.
Eventually you come across a small outcropping of rocks. You climb over it and stumble upon a tiny cove nestled away from the prying eyes of the public.
Jackpot.
You pull your swim trunks down and sit in the welcoming sand, rubbing your adolescent dick to hardness. Having only recently discovered the joys of self-abuse, you take every opportunity you can to indulge.
You sit in the sand panting and masturbating, the thrill of doing it in the open air adding to your pleasure. But sudden movement in your periphery jolts you with a surge of adrenaline. You fall forward, onto your elbows, and reach back to tug your shorts up.
"Pfff-- were you-- oh my GOD, Alabaster!"
It's your sister. Of all the people to walk in on this...
"What are you doing here? Go away!"
"I was looking for you, you little dork. Mom was worried."
She sits down in the sand beside you. You can feel the heat coursing through your skin, the physical manifestation of embarrassment at having been caught.
"You're such a pervert," Cerise says. "Only someone like you would do something like that in a place like this."
"I don't want to hear it," you say, turning the accusations back around on her. "Or maybe you think Mom would like to know about that copy of Limewire you keep hidden on the family computer in a folder labeled 'homework.'"
Cerise chokes on her laughter. "Y-you-- how do you know about that?!"
At this moment, a brilliant burst of green pyrotechnics in the sky illuminates your blushing faces. As the light fades, the crackling boom reaches your eardrums.
A few quiet moments pass. You stand. "I'm going back," you tell Cerise.
"Wait--" she says, reaching out to clasp your hand. "Why don't we stay here for a second?"
A blue burst of light flashes like a strobe in the sky, and you can see her expectant look.
"What?" you ask. "Why should we?"
Cerise shrugs.
"If you want me to do your summer homework for you," you announce, "you can just forget it. You're not going to butter me up so easily."
"That's not it. It's just... it's so nice and quiet here. I thought we could watch the fireworks together."
You pull your hand from hers and step back, looking her over. The fireworks begin to come in a continuous stream now, the bubble-wrapping pop of explosions and white smoke accentuating the glittering panorama of color.
"I'd rather choke on a rusty fork," you say, "than spend time with you."
Cerise's face crumples. You turn, climb back over the outcropping of rocks, and leave Cerise behind in that isolated cove.
"How could I have been so stupid--" your disembodied self begins to ask. But your viewpoint carthweels upward and the tendrils of the fireworks surround you as you go flying up, up, up and far away.
December 17, 2011
Vivian sits propped-up in a hospital bed. A mess of IVs, wires, and other devices are connected to her. A bandage is wrapped around her skull, covering the left eye. The other eye has no glimmer whatsoever. She stares ahead blankly.
The only sound in the room is the steady beep of her heart monitor.
The door opens, and David Darkbloom enters. His clothes are wrinkled and his signature goatee is nothing more than a scruffy five o'clock shadow. He has deep bags under his eyes and his hair is mussed. It's likely he hasn't slept in quite some time.
He sits down in a stool beside the bed.
"Vivian."
No reply.
"Vivian, we need to talk."
No reply.
Darkbloom reaches out and takes Vivian's hand in his. She refuses to even look at him.
"Vivian, I'm sorry. We couldn't save her."
No reply. Darkbloom, still holding his daughter's hand, leans his forehead against the beige plastic rail on the side of the bed. His enormous body is wracked by silent sobs for several minutes before he finally goes still. Another silence descends.
When he can speak again, Darkbloom says: "we'll get through this. Vivian, I want you to think of today as a second birth. And -- and you have a second mother to thank for that. You remember Ms. Carte? She saved you."
No reply.
"I'm not going to let you grow up without a mother. We'll be a family again, I promise. I'll marry Ms. Carte right away. How does that sound?"
"You changed me," Vivian says.
Darkbloom is taken aback for a moment, but recovers quickly. "You're a little different. Yes. Better."
"I never asked you to do this."
"We had to. If we hadn't done this, you-- would be--"
"You didn't save mom. You could have. If you saved me, you could have saved her. You let her die."
Even with an accusation so damning, Vivian's voice is flat and affectless. The same way it is in the present day. She continues to stare straight ahead.
"I had to choose. I'm sorry. There was only enough time--"
"You should have let me die."
Darkbloom can say nothing in response.
"Please go," Vivian says.
Darkbloom obeys, his hangdog expression going from bad to worse.
When he's gone, Vivian picks up the oversized remote control from her nightstand and turns on the wall-mounted television.
She flips through the channels, but gets static on all of them save the local PBS affiliate. She sighs in a way that suggests, "just my luck," and turns up the volume.
"--back to the California State High School Quiz Bowl Championship. Today's match: The North High Mindbreakers, led by team captain Alabaster Soliloquy, versus the Glengary High Brain Trust, led by team captain Jen Kennings."
Vivian sits forward, wiggling around a bit to get comfortable. She watches the screen intently.
"Let's get to know our team captains a little bit. Alabaster-- it says here your hobbies are video games and animation?"
"That's right."
"Interesting. Those don't seem like normal hobbies for a quiz bowl champion. Most of these other guys sit around reading history books for fun -- but somehow Mr. video-games-and-cartoons is outclassing them. How is that?"
"Well, that's because I'm not normal. Normal people are beneath me."
The host seems a bit lost for words at this. He recovers, flipping through his note cards. On her hospital bed, Vivian cocks her head, entranced.
"Ahem. Yes. In just three games this tournament, you've racked up a stunning 15,300 points -- that's more than the next three players in the top 10 combined. So tell me: what makes you such a fierce competitor? What drives you to succeed?"
The camera focuses in on you. You grin a sneering grin. "It's not enough for me that I should succeed," you say. "Others should fail."
Vivian blinks. She turns the volume higher still.
February 7, 2013
You come home from school to find Cerise sitting at the dining room table, doing paperwork.
"Oh, so my lazy older sister is finally looking for a job?" you snort as you stroll past the table toward the kitchen, looking for a snack. "Did you get tired of mooching off the rest of us, then?"
"Shut the fuck up, Alabaster. Don't you have little girls to be molesting?"
"Don't you have strangers to be blowing? For money in an alley?"
You sit down across from her, cracking open a can of soda. As Cerise focuses on filling out the current form, you take a moment to snoop from afar. You read the watermark at the top of one of the forms: "University of California, Berkeley."
You snatch one of the trifolded papers from the tabletop. Cerise's handwriting -- a bizarre amalgam you can only describe as sloppy-neat -- fills the blank field below the header.
"My greatest disappointment in life..." you begin, reading Cerise's words aloud. Cerise's head snaps up and her eyes widen when she sees the paper in your hands. "In my first summer after starting high school, my family visited the beach for Independence Day--"
Cerise snatches the paper from you. "Get the hell out, Alabaster!"
"What IS that?" you ask.
"It's the essay portion of my admission application to UC Berkeley."
"You know, they have a thing called word processors now--"
"A handwritten essay is more personal! It increases odds of acceptance!"
"If they can read it..."
Cerise grumbles, putting her essay underneath a few of the other papers as if to hide it from you.
"Besides," you continue, "do you really think they'd accept someone like you?"
"I don't see why not--"
"And what are you planning to major in, oh genius sister of mine?"
"..."
"Come on, don't be shy now."
"...Electrical engineering," she says. "Not that you would care."
You laugh derisively.
"What?" she says.
"You? An engineer?"
"Is it really so shocking? ...Y-you don't think I can do it?"
"What was the last math class you took? Trig? You do know an engineer has to be good at math, right?"
"..."
You stand up from the table, taking a swig of your drink. You chuckle again. "I think you should keep your goals realistic," you say. "You're supposed to be looking for work right now. Maybe if you get lucky, you can learn a trade or something."
You crush the empty aluminum can and toss it on the table.
As you walk upstairs, Cerise puts down her pen and stares pensively at her application form. After several long minutes of contemplation, she gathers up the papers and takes them to the trash bin in the kitchen.
Watching from above, you wish you could reach through time and throttle yourself.
"Stop," you disembodied form says. "Just... stop. You've made your point."
"I made my point all right," your companion says, "but I wonder if you've understood it."
Once again the universe twirls all around you like water going down a drain.
You have a body again.
You come to in a long, dimly-lit hallway. It appears like the hallways at North High: dull white linoleum tiling, plaster panels on the ceiling, ugly cream-colored walls dotted with posters and bulletins at regular intervals.
The only difference is that this hallway seems to stretch endlessly in both directions.
You blink and raise yourself to your feet, using the wall to support yourself.
"Hello?" you cry. Your voice echoes down the desolate hall -- "hello?--hello--hello-hello--"
With a dazed swagger to your step, you start walking. You try doors at random, but they're all locked.
Through the windows set into the doors, you can see various people -- some you know and some you don't -- sitting alone in featureless, windowless rooms. When you knock or otherwise try to get their attention, they don't respond.
They're crying.
Mom, Vivian, Cerise, Whitney, Ms. Carte, Rose... and those other, strange-looking girls you don't know, too. All crying.
Growing panicked, your pace quickens, until at last you're just running blindly down the infinite corridor.
"Hello?" you scream. "Hello? Where am I? Where--"
Suddenly, you collide with a human shape. You fall to your butt. Looking up, you see a redhead with a petite frame and a fiery glint in her eye staring back at you.
"Alabaster," she says. "There you are."
You stand up and grab her by the shoulders. You shake her to and fro, a crazed twinge in your voice. "Who are you?" you demand. "Where have you taken me?"
She shakes her head, and extracts herself from your grip. Her expression becoming menacing.
"Don't you recognize me? Is this some kind of joke? How dare you bring me to this awful place and play games like this--!" She slaps you across the face, sending you reeling and clutching at your cheek.
When you look back, she's gone.
"Wait--! Help! What is HAPPENING to me?"
"Stop crying, you drama queen."
This is a different voice: the baritone rumble of your guide from before.
You guide is corporeal now as well. He seems familiar, but his outfit makes identification difficult. He wears a hooded black robe, like some kind of monk or friar.
What little of his face isn't concealed by shadow is striated by deep, angry-looking scars.
"Where am I?" you ask.
"Think of this like a waiting room," he says.
"Am I-- am I dead?"
"You got impaled through the stomach and fell 86 stories. You tell me, Alabaster."
"Oh god..."
"Let's focus on the issue at hand." He sweeps his hand like a priest delivering a blessing. You notice a pentagram branded into the back of his palm. "I've shown you all these things, now: what is the common element."
You gulp and gather your bearings. "Me," you say, your mouth desert-dry. "I'm the common element."
"You must be more specific. What is the common element. What about you connects the events."
"They involve the people I care most about."
"But it isn't about them. It's about you. It's always been about you, hasn't it? So what is it about you that ties these events together. What is the common element.
"I'm... I'm an asshole."
"Why are you an asshole."
"I don't know."
"Let's investigate this. What makes a man a man, Alabaster."
"Masculinity?"
"That's a tautology. Perhaps you're an asshole because you lack the intelligence to be any other way. You think the measure of a man is how many women he ejaculates inside. How demeaning he can be. How many people he can subjugate and terrorize to answer to his every beck and call. Do you call this being a man?"
"But-- what else could you call it?"
"I call it a quick way to lose everything you love."
You clutch your forehead. "I didn't know. Oh God. I wasted my life."
"Most people only get one chance. They live and die as assholes and never know. Look at me, Alabaster, goddamn it. You're a man, aren't you? Face the person speaking to you."
You look at him.
"How do I stop being an asshole?" you ask.
"Answer the question. What makes a man a man."
[X] (Custom): "A man protects the ones that he loves, at any cost."
"A man protects the ones he loves. At any cost."
The scarred face of your spirit guide curls into a grin.
"Hmm. So you're actually learning. But -- can you protect the ones you love from yourself?"
"I don't... I don't know... tell me how, if you know everything!"
"You're not living your life correctly, Alabaster. That much is obvious. So be the man you were meant to be. Be conscientious and receptive. Fill your mind with equanimity and understanding. Be patient. Don't kowtow, but don't be an obstinate little shit either. Pay attention to what your lovers need and want. Prioritize accordingly. Be kind, for fuck's sake."
"That's all easy enough to say-- but to DO--"
"You have a lot to do. The road ahead of you is long. Did you think Darkbloom was bad? This is easy mode. I only wish I could have it as easy as you do right now."
"I don't understand..."
"You will. Trust me."
He puts a hand on your shoulder.
"The ones you love mean more than anything. Remember what I told you."
The symbol on the man's palm glows with blinding technicolor light that spreads rapidly, engulfing your field of vision.
You hear a rushing sound, as of air whipping around your head, and feel a sensation like freefall. And then there is only white.
MEANWHILE...
"Rose, you're getting kind of pale--" Whitney murmurs.
"I'm fine..." her head droops to a critical point, causing her to jolt awake again. But she quickly begins to fall back asleep.
A steady stream of blood flows from an IV in the crook of her elbow, into a plastic bag, and from there into Alabaster's unconscious -- medically dead, in fact -- body.
"Forceps," Ms. Carte says.
Mom, wearing a surgical mask and gloves, snaps to and hands them to Ms. Carte from off a tin platter.
"Turbulence ahead," Spancer warns from the cockpit of the helicopter.
The girls brace themselves against the wall of the chopper as it rattles. Cerise examines the circuitboard on the table in front of her, and barely catches it when it falls off the edge of her workspace.
"You can really modify that thing?" Ms. Carte asks. "The way I said?"
"I... I have to try, don't I?"
She picks up a jeweler's screwdriver and bites her lip.
"Rose!" Whitney leans on Rose's knee and snaps her fingers in front of Rose's face, but she's nodding in and out of consciousness.
"That's enough, don't you think?" Whitney says. "You'll kill yourself..."
"I'm the only one here with AB blood..." Rose murmurs. "He needs it--"
Ms. Carte reaches for the rubber tube connected to Rose's arm. "Whitney's right," she says. "You really should--"
Rose jolts upright, suddenly alert, and points her gun at Ms. Carte.
"You keep that thing in my arm or I'll put a bullet in your fucking brain," she says.
Ms. Carte backs away, turns around, and resumes her work.
Vivian, standing beside the operating table, looks down at your moribund face. "You won't have a pulse anymore," she murmurs. "But that's okay, as long as you wake up. We can both be pulse-less..."
The helicopter putters forward over the azure waters of the Pacific.
END OF INTERLEWD 5.