You are Alabaster Soliloquy, faceless MC and ugly American.
"Goodbye!" Gustav calls, waving a handkerchief at you from the runway. "Auf Wiedersehen! Ciao! Au revoir! Sayonara! Aloha! Hasta la vista! Don't come back!"
You watch his receding figure from the window of your well-fueled mini-Leer. As the landing gear retracts and the plane lifts off, you turn to face Mom and Whitney in the cabin. "I don't think he likes us," you say.
"Really? I never noticed," Whitney says, sincerely. "He seemed like a nice guy. Even if he was kind of fruity."
"Of course he hates us," Mom says. "You children were rude. I place blame squarely on that awful Renee Carte person. She's a bad influence. If it weren't for her--"
You lean back and close your eyes, letting Mom's patented anti-Carte rant wash over you.
Sneaking out on Rose, Vivian, and Cerise -- leaving them behind -- was difficult. Hopefully they accept the heartfelt apology you wrote. This is how it has to be.
Smatters glides lazily up and down the central aisle, his shadow casting itself across the beige carpeting and creme walls. Ms. Carte and the twin Spancers are in the cockpit, piloting. This leaves just you, Whitney, and Mom to while away the 15 hour trip together.
Of course, there isn't an in-flight movie.
What the flight does have is ample space and nicely adjustable seats.
You lie atop your mother, the seatback reclined to its limit. You fuck her as deeply as your cock can reach, the tip of it kissing her womb. You bask in the soft give of her flesh underneath you and the hot, inviting folds of her most intimate place. You squeeze her breasts, each one warm and weighty in your violating hands. You entwine your legs with hers, angling yourself so that you can force your throbbing dick to its root inside her.
Your jackhammer thrusts transform your hips into a blur of motion. Mom's head lolls to one side as she cums wetly around you, doped on incestuous pleasure. You can feel her shuddering from the inside-out.
When she speaks, her voice has the quality of someone talking through the whirring of electric fan blades. "Al-aa-baaa-ssterrr," she groans. "Yoo-oou're beee-ing t-tooo rouuuugh--"
She says this -- but even as she does, she runs her fingers through your hair and draws your face closer to her neck. Her cream pools on the faux-leather seat underneath you.
It is true you're being rough, though. You want to be rough. You want to make sure she remembers the shape of your dick and the hot, filling sensation of your seed pouring into her. No matter what happens next, she won't forget that. You won't let her.
Behind you, Whitney watches the spectacle. Her spats are bunched around her ankles and her legs are spread wide as she masturbates openly. She uses one hand to molest her own cunt and the other to tweak her nipples, first one and then the other. She chews on her lip and her face contorts in orgasm as she drinks in the lewd show.
"I'm cumming," you tell her. You don't break pace.
She grunts and groans unintelligibly, twists and turns her face from side to side. She tries once more to speak, but the exertion of getting fucked so hard robs her of breath. She begins to pant like a bitch in heat as your orgasm mounts and you prepare to let go.
You make a guttural noise and blow your cum inside. She reaches down to grab your ass, as if trying to force your spurting cock even further inside her. Her belly, arms, and neck muscles go taut, straining, as you mark her with your semen.
As always, very few sensations can compare to relieving your aching lust inside your own mother.
When you finish emptying yourself, you dismount. Dazed, you stumble back and fall into the seat beside Whitney, who's still busy masturbating.
Whitney sees her opening. She stands, kicking off her spats. She falls to her knees in front of Mom and pushes Mom's quivering knees apart. When she catches sight of the mingled fluids spilling from Mom's cunt, she licks her lips and coos in delight.
"Stop--" Mom says breathily. She runs a hand through her sweat-slicked hair, trying to muster energy. "Wait... if you do that so soon... I'll go craz-- unnnffff--" Whitney cuts Mom's protest off by latching her lips around her pussy. Mom writhes, lifting her butt from the seat and arching her back to offer herself up to Whitney's suckling mouth and tongue.
You slump in your chair and enjoy the sapphic obscenity. But your view is suddenly obstructed by a pair of hands.
"Razzle dazzle~" comes a silken whisper in your ear.
You jolt upright and turn to face Rose. "Jesus," you say. You have to catch yourself from falling out of your seat. "Where the hell did you come from?"
You hardly have the question out before a new shock hits: sitting in the seats at the back of the cabin are Vivian and Cerise -- and also your father, reading the Sunday Times.
Whitney is too busy eating pussy and Mom is too busy enjoying it to notice this turn of events. They continue, oblivious, as you deal with the interlopers.
"We gave-- very specific instructions," you say. You measure your words but there is anger in your voice. "You weren't supposed to come with us."
Rose shrugs. "You know me. Always coming where I shouldn't."
"Did you think that stupid goodbye letter would keep us in Palau?" Cerise says. "Don't be dense, you little fucknugget. We're all in this mess together."
"Agreed," Vivian says. "Additionally, the vial of essence you left behind to keep me quote fueled up unquote was insultingly inadequate. You could have killed me, Alabaster Soliloquy."
You massage your eyelids. For a moment the only sound is the muffled thrum of the jet engines, the wet slurps of Whitney's tongue, and Mom's unceasing groans of pleasure caroming off the walls.
"How," you say finally. "Just... how."
Rose boops you on the nose. "Ways and means, Alabaster."
You cast Dad a worried glance. "How much of what just happened did you guys-- did he--"
Rose laughs. "Unless there are photos of it in the Lifestyle section, I don't think he saw anything."
Cerise watches Whitney working Mom over as you pull your pants back on. She has trouble drawing her eyes away from the scene. "So what's the plan?" she says after a turn. "How are we taking Darkbloom down?"
[X] As long as you're here, you may as well help.
[ ] "We"? I'm sorry, but I have to sideline you.
"There may be some operations in Alabaster's immediate future," Ms. Carte explains to Cerise, sitting across from her at a small wood table. The Spancers handle piloting as she lays it all out for the stowaways.
Mom murmurs and grumbles, lost in a post-climax trance, while Whitney wipes cum from her lips. You do the modest thing and cover Mom up with a quilt as she babbles to herself.
"I planned to do any medical procedures on my own, with assistance from Spancer," Ms. Carte says. "But having another person's input is always a help. And-- to be honest, I'd value your input."
Cerise shakes her head. "I just mess around with toys. What I did with Alabaster back when he almost-- it was a one in a million thing. I can't be messing with his insides like that on a regular basis."
"If you want to help us," Ms. Carte says, "that's where you're most useful. I can teach you anything you need to know."
"And I?" Vivian asks with a flourish. "How may I assist?"
"You're on reserve," Ms. Carte says. "Hopefully Mrs. Soliloquy can get the job done on her own. If she can't -- I guess we'll need all the help we can get. You too, Rose."
Rose nods.
Cerise rises to her feet. She stares you down. "So that's it? That's the big scheme? We're supposed to throw our mother to Darkbloom like some kind of... Trojan horse, and hope he doesn't catch her playing spy?"
You sigh. All you can say in response is, "she'll be okay."
"She won't be okay," Cerise spits. "Darkbloom wants to make her a mindless sex doll, in case you don't remember. Who's to say he won't get to work on that right away?"
"He still needs me. If I say no, he can't move forward."
"He could just hold you prisoner again. Then he can do whatever he wants."
Ms. Carte interjects. "If he tries that... it's on to plan B, I suppose."
Cerise's dour mood puts a dampener on the remainder of the flight. It passes more or less in silence.
Rose, Vivian, and Whitney amuse themselves with card games. Rose loses, which initiates a punishment game that takes place in the jet's private bathroom, but whose results can be heard throughout the cabin.
Mom sleeps. Cerise sits next to her, staring out the window, a worried expression on her face. She has a hushed conversation with Mom when she wakes up, which you don't hear, and have the tact not to listen in on.
Stateside, you touch down on tiny, infrequently-trafficked airstrip in the Mojave. You rent a car under a fake name and set course for home.
As Ms. Carte drives you through the dusty desert plains toward California, you realize you will soon be crossing the point of no return.
The first step is establishing a base of operations. A place you can work out of, and which Darkbloom won't find. You have just such a place in mind.
In town, you make a stop-over at a local clothing store to buy the proper outfits -- the goal here is to look as blandly official as possible. Ms. Carte purchases a conservative navy-blue pantsuit, and you purchase a black blazer with matching trousers. Carrying clipboards, you look the perfect image of disinterested bureaucrats. It's time to pay Whitney's father a visit.
You rap your knuckles -- once, twice, thrice -- against the door of the trailer Whitney used to call home. No response. You crane your neck and peer again into the gravel driveway -- her father's rusted pickup is there, so he can't be out. You knock again.
Finally you hear the sounds of him stumbling and fumbling inside, empty beer cans and other detritus rustling in his wake. He answers the door, bleary eyed and bed-headed, wearing only a wife beater and boxer shorts.
"Whachu want?" he slurs, scratching his days-old stubble.
"We're from the Department of Fines and Levies," Ms. Carte says, handing him a sheaf of paper with bogus credentials on it. Then she hands him another paper with the words "EVICTION NOTICE" in bright red letters at the head.
"What's this all about?" he asks, suddenly somewhat more sober. "Eviction notice...?"
"You owe a great deal in unpaid taxes," you say. "Our department has sent you several letters to this effect, with no response..." You peer over his shoulder to his dingy dining room table, stacked high with unopened mail.
"As a result," Ms. Carte continues, "we have no choice but to evict you from the premises and seize your property."
"You mean-- you're-- you can't do this!" he booms, gearing up for a fight. "I got rights!"
"Please address any comments and concerns to our home office," you say. "The number is on that paper."
"You'll be happy to hear that this forfeiture clears the debt," Ms. Carte adds, beaming brightly.
"Fuck you!"
"Sir, be civil," Ms. Carte says.
Time to bait the hook. The two of you turn as if to leave. As expected, he follows, waddling after you. "Wait!" he shouts. "You can't just kick a man out--"
You whistle the signal. The two Spances take up position on either side of the mobile home and lift it into the air, placing it on the bed of a trailer parked nearby. They quickly secure the home with straps and chains.
"Thank you for your cooperation," Ms. Carte says, stepping into the rental car. The Spancers get onto the bed of the trailer and Ms. Carte takes off, Whitney's house in tow.
Whitney's father gives feeble chase, yelling and cursing. You watch, standing in what used to be his front yard. When the car easily outpaces him, he returns, huffing and panting, to spew invective at you. You shrug it all off and direct him once more to call the "home office."
You had better be going. You have to meet up with your mother in a few minutes. But as you head down the street, Whitney's father stops you.
"Wait a minute," he says, squinting. He nudges your shoulder, making you face him. "You're Whitney's friend, aincha? Little young to be doing this kind of work. You're like 12 or something, right?"
You shrug.
"You give me my goddamn house back, you little faggot. I swear you'll regret it if you don't."
"Aren't you going to ask where your daughter is?" you say. "She's been gone for a while."
"Do you think that's gonna get under my skin? I don't give a shit about that. She's probably turning tricks in some whorehouse, huh? Always said she'd end up like her slut mother. Ain't no skin off my back. Now gimme my back my house."
You push him to the ground. It doesn't take any force at all. He whines and rubs his tailbone, sitting on the cracked asphalt and staring up at you.
"Goodbye, Mr. Price," you say, and leave it at that.
"Shitty," you say. "But liveable. Sort of."
You sit in the living room of Valorian Manor, a motel on the wrong side of the tracks. Literally -- it's on the wrong side of the tracks, as in just downwind from a rail line used to freight toxic chemicals. Their halogen reek suffuses the room even despite the air fresheners you place at strategic intervals.
Stackleford's home is nearby, and you think this unfortunate positioning explains a great deal about him.
The motel offers a daily and a weekly rate, and plenty of roaches. Your unit's carpet is a dull grey color that may have once been blue. Unvacuumable dust and crumbs stick to your feet if you walk barefoot across it, so you and Mom elect to wear socks at all times. The kitchen is the size of a linen closet and the only bedroom is not much larger. Hanging on the wall, a watercolor portrait of a sailboat fails to conceal water damage from the adjoining unit's broken plumbing.
But hey, there's color TV.
"Does it seem believable enough, is the question," you add.
"I think so," Mom says. "Darkbloom has to believe we're destitute. This is pretty destitute, I think."
A bug skitters across the scuffed coffee table.
Destitute is right.
Here's hoping Darkbloom realizes you're in town and approaches you sooner rather than later. Until then, you have to pretend this is normal.
[X] Enjoy some quality time with Kaa-san.
[ ] Visit with Stackleford.
[ ] Check out the new HQ.
[ ] Bed. It's a school night, after all.
[ ] Custom.
Mom busies herself at the meager stovetop, stirring a pan of gravy for the one and only main entree she's good at: roast beef. She sways her hips side to side as she works, the tied-off bow of her apron bouncing in tune with her plump bottom. Her diligence manifests on her face in the form of furrowed brows and a bitten tongue.
It's a lovely sight. You can't resist the temptation to sneak up and wrap your arms around her.
"Hey--!! D-don't disturb me while I'm cooking!" she snaps. "Don't you have any tact?"
You kiss her neck.
"I-I go to all this trouble to make a nice dinner, and you want to ruin it with your-- uncouth--"
You bite her earlobe. She draws a sharp breath through her teeth. Her knees go weak, but she catches herself against the counter.
"I have never met a more-- a more ungrateful, rude little--"
You pull her tight against your body, away from the stove. She scrambles to turn the electric burner off so the food doesn't scorch.
"Alabster," she says, peering over her shoulder, "we can't... it's so disgusting here."
"The bathroom is clean," you say.
You lead her by the hand to the white-tiled bathroom. She doesn't resist.
You sit her on the edge of the tub and paw at her jeans, pulling them down. "You're incorrigible," she chides, but not harshly.
You feel the warm flesh of her upper thighs in your palms -- so pliant, and such a contrast to the icy porcelain.
As you kiss her up and down her calves and thighs, all the way to the nape of her pantied crotch, she watches you and smiles.
"Whitney tells me that you deflowered your sister."
You pause, looking up at her. Her expression doesn't betray any anger or disapproval.
"How did it feel?" she asks.
You think for a moment. "It felt like justice," you say.
"Can an old woman like me ever hope to compare?" she asks, perhaps only half-joking.
You answer by burying your face in her crotch again. She whines in shocked delight.
Placing her fingertips on the crown of your head, she pushes your face deeper still. Her aroma fills your nostrils. You wet the fabric of her underwear with your tongue. Even through the lace and cotton, you can taste her sweetness. Hers is much like Cerise's, but deeper, more pronounced, and you can't get enough. You want to suck her cunt forever.
You pull her panties to one side, enjoying the up-close view of her genitals for a moment -- the engorged lips drooling with moisture -- before you dive back in. You swirl your tongue up and down, collecting the dew. She chews on her knuckles and watches.
Then there's a knock on the door.
"God fucking damn it," you say. You pause, hoping whoever it is goes away, but instead there's another knock.
Mom grins and pecks you on the lips. "Go ahead and answer it," she says. "I'll be here when you get back."
You step out of the bathroom and answer the door. Standing at the threshold is Cerise.
"Shit!" you say, yanking her bodily into the motel. You poke your head out of the door, glancing this way and that to make sure no one has tailed her, and then shut it.
"You're supposed to be back at Whitney's place with Ms. Carte and them," you say. "I'm sure there's a lot of cleaning to help with, that guy lived like a pig..."
"I wanted to see you guys," she says, simmering. "Is that such a crime?"
"Seriously, Cerise -- what the hell is wrong with you?" You pace back and forth. "Darkbloom could send his thugs here any second now. You can't just pop in for a visit whenever you feel like it."
"I want to see my mother before she dies," Cerise pouts, sitting on the raggedy couch. "Where is she, anyway?"
Taking the cue, Mom steps forth from the bathroom, still clad only in panties from the waist down.
"Mom," you say. "Tell Cerise she should be back with the others. It isn't safe here."
"Tell Alabaster he's being a jerk!" Cerise counters, throwing her arms wide.
You feel like bickering children.
"Now, now," Mom says soothingly, "Cerise is already here, so there's no harm in letting her stay around for a few moments."
Cerise sticks her tongue out at you. But Mom turns to face face her and continues: "you should listen to your brother in the future."
Cerise folds her arms and huffs. You make a face right back at her.
"Don't be like that," Mom says. "We can have a nice family dinner together, all right? And -- there's something I want to show you, anyway."
The thing Mom wanted to show you ends up coming first, as it happens.
This time it's you sitting on the edge of the tub, with Mom on her knees in front of you. Next to her is Cerise.
"You two should learn how to pleasure one another properly, if you're going to be doing it," Mom says. "That's only logical."
Cerise tries to feign disinterest. But she can't take her eyes from your red and pulsing member as she leans against her balled-up fists on the tile floor.
Mom masturbates you gently, keeping you hard-- as if you needed the help. "Have you sucked his cock before?" she asks.
This breaks Cerise's trance. She gawks at Mom, unused to that kind of obscene language from her. It seems to surprise her more than the sexual impropriety happening right now. She stammers.
"It's a simple question," Mom says.
"Of-- of course I have," Cerise manages.
"Show me."
Hesitatingly, Cerise reaches out. Her hand replaces Mom's around your shaft. Her entire body is trembling. She darts out her tongue and licks you like a kitten at a cup of milk.
"That won't do at all," Mom says, frowning.
"I can't do it with people watching!" Cerise complains, averting her gaze.
"I think you'd better learn," Mom says. "Pay attention, now."
She leans forward and swallows your dick in one swift motion, all the way down to the base. She strokes you a few times with her wet, tight throat, the slurping echoing off the walls. After a few moments she releases you. Your member twitches with unrelieved lust and glistens thickly with saliva.
Taking your dick in hand again, Mom rubs it underneath Cerise's nose. "You try," she purrs. "Learn his smell and his taste and the feeling of him using your throat. Learn to love it. Go on, now."
Cerise gives it her best attempt, but whether it's her lack of experience or mere nerves, she can't take your entire length. She makes remarkable progress but begins to gag three quarters of the way down, leaving the base of your cock frustratingly unattended.
She reaches up to try and manually stimulate this unburied section of your shaft, but Mom swats her hand away. "NEVER use your hands," Mom says. "That's cheating."
Cerise's shoulders heave with frustration. She snakes her tongue out and tries once more to take the rest of you, but only retches.
Mom tsks. "Alabaster, you'll have to help her."
You look down at Cerise. She goes bug-eyed but doesn't pull away, and you take that as permission enough. You grip her by the ears, and -- as gently as you can with your lust-fueled needs directing you -- you fuck yourself into the back of your older sister's throat. She sputters, spewing thick saliva all around you as you force your way in.
"Relax, relax," Mom says, rubbing Cerise's back as if soothing an infant. "Breathe. That's it. You can do this. Your mouth was made for this. You just have to relax..."
Mom grins up at you. "How is she?"
"Great--" you manage in a choked voice. "She's great..."
With Mom's tender prompting, Cerise's throat loosens. You establish a steady pace inside her. She slobbers all over your balls each time you bottom out. It's not long before you can hump her face with complete abandon. She hardly gags at all.
"I'm gonna cum," you say. "Should I do it in her mouth?"
"Why not?" Mom says. She reaches around Cerise and rubs the girl's naked belly up and down. She pushes her cheek against Cerise's to watch your cock stabbing in and out.
"What do you think?" she whispers in Cerise's ear. She uses one hand to rub Cerise's sopping pussy. "Don't you want your brother to cum in your mouth?"
Cerise can only make a muffled moan, but it's obviously one of begging. You pour your ropes of slimy cum directly into her sucking gullet. Mom coos with delight, kneading your balls as they flex and spurt, her other hand still molesting her daughter.
"Now," Mom says, clapping her hands together. "No son of mine is going to get through life without learning how to really pleasure a woman. Let me see how you and Cerise fuck each other."
Lying on the floor with Cerise beside you, you groan and stir. "But I'm tired..." you complain.
"No buts! Up!" She sits on the lid of the toilet and watches as you rouse Cerise from her stupor.
This experience may truly be intended to instruct the two of you, in case Mom doesn't survive -- but it's clear she takes her own pleasure in it, too. Her naked cunt is dripping wet.
Mom directs you rather like a composer as you sit on your haunches and pull Cerise into your lap. "Good," she says, "I can see both of you this way."
Cerise stares down at her own pussy as you push into her for only the second time ever. She bucks her hips and whinnies, her eyes clenching shut. The heat and velvet tightness is unbearable, especially in front of an audience, and you fuck her senseless.
"You're always too rough!" Mom says. "You have to pay attention to the woman's pleasure, too!" She clasps your shoulders. "Slow down. Feel the way her insides wrap around you. Respond to it. Don't just rut inside her like an animal."
"Mommy..." Cerise mewls, suddenly and apropos of nothing. It's clear she still isn't used to being seen in such a compromising position. Her entire body is flushed a deep crimson. "Please... please..."
"Shh," Mom says. "Let me help you cum, okay?" She uses her thumb and forefinger to play with Cerise's fat clit. Cerise throws her head back and howls as you establish a rocking motion in her pussy. The two of you assault her without mercy.
"I'm cumming!" Cerise yells. "Fuck, I'm cumming! Alabaster... mommy...!!"
A new, perverted synapse fires in your brain. You perch your chin on Cerise's shoulders and take one of Mom's nipples in your mouth. She obviously didn't expect to become a direct participant here -- she gasps in surprise as you begin to suckle.
Her eyes half-lidded, Cerise sees what you're doing. In her haze of desire, she decides to join in. She takes the other nipple in her mouth.
"Y-you two--" Mom stutters, her voice pinched. "What are you-- I never said you could--" she trails off, unable to protest. Soon she reaches down to finger herself, making a sloppy mess of toilet lid. She masturbates as her children suck her off.
You fuck deeply into your sister, enjoying the wanton perversity -- but something interrupts your own mounting climax. Your eyes go wide as you feel a warmth trickle to the back of your throat. Cerise's eyes go wide, too.
Your mother is lactating.
Her milk comes out in warm pulses and quickly fills your mouth. You have no choice but to swallow or down. Cerise is less prepared for the assault, and the creamy white fluid pours down her chin and across her tits. Mom sighs and holds both of you to her breasts.
You release her nipple just long enough to say: "I'm cumming again."
Cerise shudders in your embrace. Mom forces your lips back over her nipple and pants: "do it, then! Cum inside your sister! Make her pregnant, baby! Fuck! Fuck!"
As you guzzle down her sweet, almost sugary milk, you fill Cerise's spasming pussy with burst after burst of your own milk. She shrieks in ecstasy, her voice muffled by her mother's breast. Her face and body are blurred underneath the slathering milk covering her. You cum, and cum, and cum.
Dinner is burnt. No one remembered to turn off the oven.
You eat it anyway, and no one complains. The three of you are painfully aware that this could be the last meal you share together.
Cerise tries to convince you and Mom to find some other way, and abandon your plan to con Darkbloom. Mom squeezes Cerise's hand and says through teary eyes: "don't be such a worrywort. You'll turn into me at this rate."
Tellingly, she doesn't try to reassure Cerise that she'll be okay.
---
The next day, you return to school. You carry a note to the registrar's office, signed by your mother:
>Please excuse my son's extended absence. We were on vacation.
>Sincerely, S. Soliloquy.
And God bless California's crumbling public education system -- no one bats an eyelash. You go back to your classes as if nothing ever happened. Your teachers will even let you make up any homework you missed.
School, as it turns out, is dreadfully boring without Whitney and the others around to spice things up. You drift through your day aimlessly.
Your quiz bowl coach Mr. Langley, is ecstatic to see you back.
"A vacation!" he shouts, stamping his foot. "In the middle of the season! What nonsense!" He rubs his palms together like a merchant seeing cheap wares. "Without you and Vivian, the team's been falling to pieces. Pieces! But you'll be along for rest of the season, right?"
Appearing to the outside world as if you're living your life normally again is of paramount importance for this scheme of yours. Darkbloom has to approach you, thinking that you've given up on opposing him. Rejoining quiz bowl could aid in the ruse. But are you still a quiz bowl kinda guy, Alabaster?
[X] Hell yes.
[ ] No way.
Mr. Langley squeals -- he actually squeals, for godsakes -- and hugs you tight. It's weird.
You almost get through the rest of the day before seeing the face you dread. But it's inevitable. As you come out of calculus headed for PE, you Stackleford's frame lumbers toward you.
"Suuuup my nigger?" he says, offering his palm for what he calls a "negro handshake." You don't return the gesture. He lets his hand hang awkwardly in the air for a moment before it falls limply to his side.
"Heard through the old grapevine you were back in town," he continues. "What've you been up to, man?"
"Oh, you know, this and that," you say. You try to walk faster than he can keep up with. But the excitement has given him freakish stamina. He maintains pace.
"No, seriously. Deets, dude."
"There aren't any 'deets'. I went on vacation in-- in Azerbaijan. Stackleford, have you ever heard of Listerine? It might help you make some friends..."
"Azer-what? Where the fuck is that? The ocean?"
"Yeah. It's in the ocean. Christ."
"Say--" he puts a hammy claw on your shoulder to stop you up. "Do you know where Whitney went? Did she go with you or something? She disappeared the same time you did."
You shrug. "Dunno. We-- ah, we broke up."
Stackleford's face beams with badly concealed joy. But then it becomes shadowed again as he puts two and two together -- if you don't know where she went, she may be gone for good.
You turn and continue down the hall. Glumly, Stackleford follows.
After a few moments, he says: "You coming to anime club today, buddy?"
[ ] Yeah... no.
[X] Why not? My day couldn't get shittier.
Throughout final period PE, you prepare your mind for the terrors that surely await. You didn't want to agree to Stackleford's goading, but you felt bad for him, against your better judgment -- and a voice in the back of your head said you should come.
While you distract yourself with these thoughts, you inadvertently run a three-minute mile on the oval track. The coach and the rest of the class is stupefied by the feat. You leave them standing around speechless, Coach Hill goggling at his stopwatch.
---
As you turn the corner toward the anime clubroom, you see a person in the hallway whose presence angers but doesn't particularly surprise you.
"Are you serious right now?" you hiss. "What the hell, Cerise?"
"Go away!" Cerise says. "What the fuck are you doing still coming to anime club? You fucking loser! Get your own club!"
"What am I doing? What are YOU doing? Do you not understand that death STALKS us at every turn? That Darkbloom's sinister machinations could, at any moment--"
"Oh, shut the fuck uuuup," Cerise groans. "We could die soon. I get it. But I had to see how these dweebos were doing without me. Now get out of my way."
You simmer with rage, but step aside. The truth is, as long as Cerise is with you, she's as safe as she'll ever be. And having her at your side makes this experience more tolerable. You enter the room behind her.
For all your mental preparation, none of it could have possibly proved adequate.
You and Cerise slowly sweep your astonished gaze over the tableau. Connor and Fartin' Franklin sit at pushed-together schooldesks playing the Pokemon card game, using sticks of pocky as the damage counters, arguing over whether Gardevoir or Ninetails is hotter; Stackleford is in the midst of loudly describing the similarities between Navy SEALs and samurai warriors to Earl, a club member you're mostly certain has a mild form of Downs Syndrome; Kimberly -- apparently having failed to bake some kind of cake -- is stomping madly on a flaming pile of food in the middle of the room, cinders of burnt flour spinning complexly around her; Mr. McMichael -- out from prison on special furlough, you assume, if his bright orange jumpsuit and shackles are any indication -- fumbles with a fire extinguisher, not quite able to manage it because his fogged-up glasses and handcuffs are in the way. What you can only assume is Mr. McMichael's parole officer sits in the corner, watching placidly, ankle on knee. He is not attempting to help in any way. An episode of Lucky Star, dubbed, plays on the projector screen. The room is littered with empty bottles of Mountain Dew, chip bags, and pizza boxes. It stinks like sweat, feet, and virginity.
"Mother of God," Cerise says.
You discern a rhythmic murmur near the back. Fazil sits curled up in the corner, hugging his knees and rocking in place. He mumbles to himself: "Bu yakında bitecek. Bu yakında bitecek. Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar. Bu yakında bitecek..."
---
Perhaps Cerise expected things to be bad. That would explain why she wore a whistle to the clubroom today. She fishes it from between her breasts and blows into it. Activity in the clubroom halts. All eyes turn to her.
"Cerise...?" Kimberly says. Then, her expression turning from confusion to excitement: "Cerise-chon! Oh my gosh! Cerise-chon!"
Kimberly runs toward Cerise with arms wide open. Cerise sidesteps the attempted intimacy. Kimberly tips forward, trying to hug the air, and almost loses her balance.
Despite this, Kimberly doesn't get the message. She spins around and makes another pass at Cerise. Cerise grabs the fire extinguisher from Mr. McMichael's cuffed hands. As Kimberly draws close again, Cerise whangs her upside the head. The dull thunk of metal against skull caroms off the clubroom walls.
Kimberly flies backward, landing in a heap on the ground. Connor jumps to his feet, pushing desks and chairs aside as he rushes over to her. He kneels and shakes her shoulders, trying rouse her.
Kimberly enjoys the attention. She pretends to be delirious with pain, shaking her head side to side and groaning.
"Come on, my darling," Connor says.
You can't help muttering under your breath: "come on, my ragtime gal."
The commotion brings Fazil out of his despair-induced torpor. He stands, blinking. "Can this be real?" he asks, and actually rubs his eyes with his balled-up fists. "Am I dreaming?"
Cerise aims the nozzle of the fire extinguisher at the flaming remains of Kimberly's dessert, and smothers it with foam. "What the hell have you people done to my club?" she says. "You fucking animals. There isn't a circle of shame large enough for you losers to feel the shame you need to be feeling right now."
When Fazil hugs you, you do nothing to stop him.
"It's been awful!" he says, shaking you side to side in his embrace. "For the past month, I think so often to quit. But then I think, what would Ala-bast-or and Cerise say if I give up? So I don't give up. But I come very close."
You've never been good with male-male affection, so you respond to Fazil by patting him lightly on the head. It feels a bit condescending, but he doesn't object. When he releases you, he gives you a thumbs-up.
"My star pupil," Mr. McMichael says, smiling broadly. "I'm glad to see you're back, Cerise. I heard you were running things in my absence." He holds out a clammy palm as much as the cuffs will allow. Cerise shakes it.
"No touching!" His prison-appointed guardian booms from behind him.
Mr. McMichael steps back, holding up both hands to show he's following orders. "No touching," he repeats. "No touching."
---
Cerise sends everyone home for the day, amidst grumbles and mumbles.
The two of you need a little time alone together to knock heads and devise a plan to save the club. As you sweep up the ashy leftovers of Kimberly's failed experiment, Cerise sits at the head of the room and recounts the horrors:
"Did you know they're not even learning Turkish anymore?" she says, folding her arms. "Because Rose fucked off, the rest of the student council let them drop the Turkish Cultural Appreciation act."
"That's not so awful," you say. "Did you really care about learning Turkish?"
Cerise glares at you. You blanch. You dump the dustpan into the garbage, saying nothing more.
"It's completely fucked," Cerise says. "The last time the club voted on what to watch, Fazil and Kimberly put their suggestions to a vote. Fazil suggested Yosuga no Sora and Kimberly suggested Death Note. Poor Fazil lost 7-1."
"So some course correction is needed," you say. "Okay. I suggest a regimen of one classic and one currently airing series. It's not a shit taste panacea, but it's a start."
"Who would have known you were capable of good ideas," Cerise says. She powers up the PC on the desk and finds a chart for new season. She rubs her chin, thinking.
"All right. For the currently airing series, which do you prefer -- Psycho Pass or the new Free?"
"You have got to be shitting me." You elbow her out of the way and scroll through the chart yourself.
"Hey--!! What the hell, Alabaster?"
"See?" you say, glancing back at her. "There's all sorts of great things on, and you want to watch crap like that? Look -- this Rokujyouma show would be perfect for the club. Good, wholesome fun--"
Cerise leans in and reads the description. "Goddamn it, Alabaster," she says. "This is haremshit. I am not watching this."
"Fuck you, you're not watching it. You're LIVING it."
---
(this is a scene from later in the episode. there would be some material in between the previous excerpt and this.)
Whitney meets with you on Friday evening at a chain restaurant, accompanied by Ms. Carte. You arrange the meeting through Cerise.
The girls are sitting tucked away in a corner booth when you arrive. You slide in, sitting across from them.
The more robotic of the two Spancers sits at a booth kitty-corner from yours, surveiling for threats.
Whitney is the one who insisted on this restaurant -- ostensibly for its crowded atmosphere and dim mood lighting, which makes it perfect for clandestine rendezvous -- but it quickly becomes clear that she's only in it for the deal on endless appetizers. She orders plate after revolting plate of doughy, deep-fried mozzarella sticks and packs them away like a prisoner on death row eating her last meal.
"Are they not feeding you?" you say. "If you're being abused, please tell me."
"Mfff mmmmf wfff," Whitney says. Crumbs tumble from the corners of her mouth.
"Miss Manners eats just fine back at home," Ms. Carte says, steepling her fingers. "More than fine. There's a doctoral thesis waiting to be written on her metabolism."
Whitney chomps a mozzarella stick in half, pulling the gooey filling into pendulous strings that dangle in front of her. Ms. Carte grimaces.
"How many of those have you eaten?" you say, frowning.
Whitney swallows hard and points at you with the uneaten half of her mozzarella stick. "They're endless, Alabaster. Value like that can't be beat. So lay off."
You shake your head and turn to Ms. Carte. "How are things going? Have you made much progress studying Vivian?"
"A little. I think the effects of X-11 dependency can be reversed. Not just on Vivian, but anyone affected."
"--But?"
"But-- I still need my old files from Darkbloom. If your mother can get them, I'm sure I'd make the breakthrough we need. She just needs to get close enough."
---
Season 1 ended abruptly here, with OP's announcement that he was feeling burned out and wanted to end things. FQ would not return until season 2 in 2018, for a totally rebooted storyline that ran for 3 full seasons. OP also briefly came back for a fan OVA.
After announcing that the series would not continue, OP posted notes about how the remainder of season 1 was planned to end. These notes are linked below as the "next episode."