You are Alabaster Soliloquy, hot-shit destroyer of anime pussy and five time champion of the North High Quiz Bowl. Your manly scent is the number-one cause of cock addiction amongst nukige heroines.
...But that was a lifetime ago.
This morning, you're just another C-average engineering student, passed out, face-down and pants-down on the top-bunk twin mattress of your tiny dorm room.
What wakes you from angelic dreams of Tamagoro doujins yet-to-be is an awful ritual you thought you would never have to endure again: your older sister rapping her knuckles against the back of your head.
"It's 8:00," Cerise says. "You're gonna be late."
Disoriented, you flop over and jolt upright, banging your forehead against the ceiling. There's a momentarily blinding pain accompanied by a room-shaking thud. The commotion startles Cerise, who falls off the ladder of your bunk and lands with an equally vicious sounding thud on the floor.
"What the FUCK, Alabaster," she groans. Her voice sounds muted from all the way down there.
"What the fuck?" You sputter. "Fuck YOU, what the fuck!" You're still inarticulate from pain and lingering sleep-inertia. It's like you've been rudely dragged out of a coma that lasted for four years.
You rub the fast-developing welt on your forehead. "How did you get into my dorm?"
Cerise is standing now. You peer at her over the rail of the bunk. "Your RA let me in," she says.
"That's illegal," you say. "I could have you BOTH arrested for this."
"Suck my dick."
"Your degenerate media has got you confused over your own gender now. And the flow of time, too, apparently." You grope for your phone and check its display. 7:57 AM. "The interview isn't until 10:00. I've got two hours."
"Exactly!" Cerise says. "An hour to get ready and an hour to drive there. We need to get going!"
"It only takes me 5 minutes to get ready. I've got plenty of time left to sleep."
Cerise folds her arms. "You are NOT going to this interview all unshowered and wearing a pair of cum-stained jeans that you picked up off the floor of this fucking wank-lair. You're going to present yourself like a civilized human being for once in your life."
"Suck my dick," you rejoin.
"You ungrateful little shit. I put my reputation on the line recommending you for an internship here. I'm not going to let you embarrass me, Alabaster! Get up!"
After you return from a quick shower down the hall, Cerise watches you dig through your drawers for an outfit she'll find acceptable. You're wearing only boxers.
"I usually charge for a show like this," you tell her over your shoulder. You pull out a pair of dark grey jeans and hold them up. Cerise gives you a thumbs down. You toss the jeans aside and go back to rooting around.
Finally you pull a pair of dockers from the bottom of the drawer. Cerise meets these with a shrug rather than a thumbs down, which is good enough for you. You start to step into them.
"You're not changing your underwear?" Cerise demands. "Are you the grossest human being to ever live or what?"
You pause, one leg in and one leg out. "You want the boxers to come off too? I definitely charge for that."
"Do I seriously have to be your fucking mother, Alabaster? Change your goddamn underpants. Jesus Christ."
You use your index finger to make the universal signal for "turn around," and Cerise obliges you at least that level of dignity. You change in relative privacy.
"...Do you have this dorm to yourself?" Cerise says, glancing around. "How did you get so lucky?"
You shrug - even though she can't see you. "I had a roommate. He killed himself a few months ago."
Cerise starts to say something but you cut her off: "Don't. Playing tee-ball is beneath you."
"If you have this place to yourself, why are you still sleeping on the top bunk?"
"Because top bunk is best. Everyone knows that."
"Whanging your head on the ceiling every time you get up is best? You're retarded enough as it is without doing that every morning."
"You can turn around now."
Cerise does. You make a half-heated "ta-da" motion, showing off your pleated pants and button-down shirt. It's itchy and hot in this California spring morning.
"Do you have a tie?"
A few moments later, Cerise is tying your tie for you in front of a mirror. You sit in a chair as she leans over your shoulder, her cheek against your cheek. Her fingers are quick and nimble.
You would never say it aloud, but you like the way her perfume smells.
As she works, the two of you fuss and bicker without fully forming any real sentences. It's just a back-and-forth of: "come h- will you- stop- for the- Ala- Ceri- just stop mov- tch- hss-"
She swats your hands away every time you try to move them towards your collar. It's mortifying.
Finally, it's over. "I could have done that myself," you say.
"The first five minutes of watching you try was more than enough," Cerise says. "We don't have all day."
"Do I look like a human being?" You grouse.
"Just barely. A hireable human being, though - we'll see."
When you step into the hallway, you see another unwelcome face.
"Ally~"
"Ohh man," you say.
"You're actually awake. I thought I was gonna have to bust down your door and wake you up myself."
Cerise steps out now as well. Whitney smiles at her.
"So that's why you're up so early," Whitney says. "I should have known you'd never rise from the dead on your own before noon."
You don't understand how Whitney can dress so shamelessly - her tank barely covers her breasts and her spats are cut so low you can see the extreme edges of her pelvic bones.
Granted, she usually seems to be dressed a little more conservatively - but not much more - whenever you bump into her around campus. It's only whenever she swings by your dorm room that she borders this close to violating California's lax indecency laws.
You try not to think about why that's the case - or how it connects to certain events from the past.
"Alabaster has a job interview today," Cerise tells Whitney.
"I know," Whitney says. "I came to make sure the dork was up on time to get dressed like a civilized human being for once in his life."
"For the love of-" you begin. "You're one to talk, huh?"
Whitney's smile is bright white, wide and pointy. "You look like a real geek, you know? You'll fit right in with those Silicone Valley losers."
"Silicon Valley. As in the element. Not the stuff you'd need to look like you're actually a woman."
Whitney licks her palm and reaches out in an attempt to flatten your cowlick. You deftly dodge the attempt with a sidetstep - once, twice, and a third time - before her dexterity gets the better of you and her wet palm ruffles the top of your head. You grimace.
"There. Perfect."
You massage the bridge of your nose and sigh.
"We're just on our way out," Cerise says.
"Hold up," Whitney says. "I need to talk to Ally about something."
>[x] Cerise, go pull the car around. I'll be right down.
[ ] We should really be going.
As Cerise walks away, Whitney doesn't even pretend to not be looking at her ass.
"Contain yourself," you say.
"Your sister is like one of those dairy cows they keep all penned up for their whole life so their muscles get all supple and shit."
"Is that what you call containing yourself?"
"I should start calling her Kobe."
You shake your head. "What do you want, Whitney? I can't afford to be late to this thing or I'm going to wind up living with Rose again this summer."
Whitney frowns. "Did you forget something last night?" She says.
Your eyes dart left and right. And then it hits you. "Shit," you say.
"Yep. There it is," Whitney says. "I failed my test this morning because of you! We were supposed to cram!"
"Well -- see --" you begin, rubbing the back of your head. "I was so busy doing interview prep that--"
"Oh, shut the fuck up," Whitney says. "I might be stupid, but I'm not dumb. You forgot about me. Again. Too busy jerking off to your gay cartoons. What is it this time, horse girls?"
"Don't insult me," you say.
"Look at this," Whitney says. She roots around in her backpack and pulls out the exam. You take it from her.
"Holy..." you breathe. "Were you purposely trying to get the lowest score possible?" You flip through the pages. "You... you thought the Rape of Nanking was something that happened to a woman named Nan King?"
"I would have known who she was if YOU had been there to help me!" Whitney says. "I had to practically beg the professor for a redo."
"...You got a redo. On a college exam."
"It's tomorrow morning. Look, if I fail this class, they'll kick me off the soccer team. You have to help me, Ally. I'll do anything."
>[X] I'll come by your dorm tonight.
[ ] I'll come by your dorm tonight... for a price.
[ ] I'm too busy right now.
Whitney jumps up and down and twirls around on one foot. Before you can stop her, she's behind you - standing on tiptoes, chin perched on your shoulder - and then she kisses you on the cheek.
"You're not half-bad for a faggot," Whitney says, her voice a silky whisper.
In contrast to Cerise, Whitney's scent is much earthier and musky. She must have been running earlier, before her exam - it's her morning ritual.
You try to shake her off, but she holds on tight. Her arms are draped across your chest, and she isn't going to let you loose for anything. "I need to go," you say.
"Don't forget me again," she tells you. "I'll make it worth your time. I swear. We'll celebrate lots... you getting a job, me not failing college... and it'll be way better than your cartoons."
"I REALLY need to go-"
She nibbles your earlobe. You blanche, then flush deeply. The shock of her forwardness gives you the strength to wriggle free of her grip and beat a hasty retreat down the hall. You'd rather not repeat what happened three years ago.
"See you soon, Ally~"
"Yeah..."
Outside, Cerise is already waiting.
"Good," she says when she sees you. "She didn't rape you to death. Let's go."
Cerise's car is a tiny sub-compact that makes a truly spooky rattling sound whenever it goes over 55. Rent in Palo Alto is too expensive for her to splurge on things like regular auto maintenance.
The first half of the drive passes in silence - save for that spooky rattling sound - but Cerise has a nervous energy that starts to grate on your nerves. She won't stop drumming her fingers on the steering wheel and adjusting the rearview mirror for no reason.
"What's with you?" you ask. "Did someone finally report you to HR for sleeping with management?"
"I got an email today," Cerise says.
You wait for the followup to this. When it doesn't come, you say "no shit? People email you now? Wow, that's amazing."
"I'm getting promoted."
"So it's the opposite of the HR thing. Sleeping your way to the top is finally paying dividends, I see."
"They want to make me 'Head of Digital Forensics.' Whatever the fuck that means. This is coming from David Darkbloom himself. The CEO personally emailed me and personally told me I was being promoted."
Even you can't come up with a witty retort to that. It's sincerely impressive. David Darkbloom is one of the richest and most powerful men on the planet.
"From how he makes it sound," Cerise says, "it's basically one step down from the C Suite. I'm climbing like five rungs on the corporate ladder at once."
"Do you know anything about digital forensics?" You ask.
Cerise takes her eyes off the road to look at you for a moment. "I'm really fucking scared here, so don't give me any shit. Okay? I can't deal with your shit right now."
"Just keep your eyes on the road," you say, glancing away from her.
Another long pause. Four minutes, five. Then Cerse says: "I'm part of the interview team now, too."
"Seriously?" You say. "Thanks for giving me advance notice. How did you end up on the interview team?"
"It comes along with the promotion. Darkbloom said it would be best for me to take part in the process... one of the interns we hire is going to be my direct report."
The thought of Cerise being your boss makes you shudder.
"So don't embarrass me," Cerise reiterates. "Since I'm taking part in the interview, I can kill you immediately if you say something dumb."
"Isn't this nepotism?" You ask. "I mean - more than it already was."
"I don't like it either. It feels wrong to be part of the decision about hiring my own brother. But I'll try to be objective and not just reject you right away like I normally would."
Darkbloom Analytics looks like any other fashionable Palo Alto tech campus. Clean-looking and sharp geometry, broad paneled windows giving it a wide-open look, trees everywhere to suggest an eco-friendly stance, plenty of bike racks for the same reason. What seems a little ominous though is the multi-tiered fountain occupying a central location in front of the entrance. It features a giant bronze globe in the middle, atop which, on the North Pole, looms a 10-foot bronze "DA" in a Gothic serif font.
The implication is decidedly... world domination-y.
"Wait here," Cerise tells you, leaning over the console to speak to you through the open passenger-side window. "I have to go park in the garage across the street. Be back in five minutes."
You sit on the edge of the fountain for a moment, mentally preparing for what comes next. A sudden whir knocks you out of your reverie - you jump up only milliseconds before the fountain activates a dizzying array of aquatechnics on the bottom tier. They must be on a delayed timer.
You reach back and feel the seat of your pants. Horrified, you find they're a tiny bit wet. You're trying to crane your neck over your own back to see your own ass when you hear a voice addressing you.
"Do you have the time?"
You whip your head back around and try to pretend you weren't just caught in a really weird position. The girl standing in front of you has dazzlingly red hair and one of those dangerous faces that could be 15 or 25 or anything in between.
She's wearing an eyepatch.
"Uh, sure," you tell her. You glance at your phone "9:11."
She takes out a pocketwatch and starts tuning it. A cute girl like this using something as antiquated as that piques your interest. Young girl, old tech: it's definitely a case of gap moe. To spare yourself the awkwardness of not knowing where to look while she tunes the watch, you browse your phone instead.
"You know, you really shouldn't use those things," the girl says, still fiddling with her watch. "They're bad for your health."
"Of course," you mumble, not looking up. "I'll take that into consideration."
"Thanks. See that you do, Alabaster."
An electric jolt of adrenaline courses through you. You look up. "How do you-"
"Funny world we live in, isn't it?" the girl says. She's looking directly back at you now. The eye that isn't covered is a rich ocean-blue and glimmers when she smiles. "See you around."
She breezes past.
[ ] Follow her.
>[x] Forget it.
You don't have time for mysterious transfer students. Or whatever the fuck that girl was. You've got a job to land.
Cerise comes back a few moments later. "Your pants are wet," she says.
"Goddamn it."
---
The first floor of Darkbloom Analytics is a giant, wide open lobby with enormous sun roofs, smoothly curved and polished wood paneling on the walls, and huge pieces of abstract art in the form of geometric metal work hanging from the ceiling. A mezzanine to the second floor rings the lobby, with huge curved staircases leading up on both wings. In the center, lying beyond a guard desk and brief security checkpoint where people walk in and out, scanning employee badges - is a 20-foot portrait of the man himself: David Darkbloom.
David Darkbloom. TIME man of the year 2015. Number 3 on the Forbes billionaires list. With controlling shares in Facebook, Yahoo, Alibaba, and rumors floating about his plans for a hostile takeover of Google. Rumors about hopes for a Presidential run, too. The king of Big Data. Arguably the most important person in the world.
He's going to be one of the ones interviewing you today. He likes to take a personal hand in the hiring of interns.
You gulp, and hope Cerise doesn't hear it.
Cerise shepherds you past a disinterested guard and towards the elevators. She presses the button for the 20th floor. That's you: straight to the top on day one.
The elevator feels like it moves at 100 miles an hour and even still, the ride to the top floor takes forever.
You don't know what spurs on this moment of softness. Maybe it's that portrait of Darkbloom putting the fear of god into you. Maybe it's the awkward sensation that the nothing-space of a quiet elevator has always given you. Either way, you turn to Cerise and say: "I still can't believe you work here. Already hanging out with the bigwigs in the C suite and everything. I mean, David Darkbloom..."
You pause. Then you add: "She would have been really proud of you, you know."
Cerise stares at the ground.
"Not that I'm proud of you," you add, "but you were always her favorite anyway-"
"Don't talk about that," Cerise says.
You shut up.
At the top, you walk down a short hallway, at the end of which is a tall pair of oak doors. You open one of the doors, glance into the reception area beyond, close the door, and spin on your heels.
"What is it?" Cerise asks.
"Rose."
"Rose--"
"Rose fucking Mallory is sitting in there."
"Shit," Cerise mumbles. "They scheduled her interview for today too, huh..."
"You knew about this?" you say. "The whole reason I'm trying to get this internship is so I don't have to live in Rose's house again over the summer! I'm sick of being the Harry Potter to her Dudley Dursley every year!"
"Oh, get over yourself," Cerise says. "Rose's parents treat you like a prince. You're actually better off with them than working here anyway."
"Rose once stapled a list to my door about the top 100 ways I'm perpetuating rape culture. It was eleven pages long. Eleven. She deleted all the anime from my PC one day while I was at school. She slapped the first beer of my 21st birthday out of my hand because it was a Yuengling." You stomp your feet. "She's crazy! I can't live with her. I can't work with her!"
"Try to find a way, Alabaster. She's our cousin."
"Once removed! First cousin, once removed!" You're getting loud enough that you suspect Rose can probably hear you in there. You tone it down. "You set this up, didn't you."
Cerise throws her arms wide. "What was I supposed to do? I was on the phone with Mrs. Mallory the other day and I let it slip that I got you an interview. She wanted me to set Rose up, too. Do you think I could say no to the woman who saved you from a fucking orphanage? Who paid our way for over a year? Who still lets you live in her house?"
"Yes! Definitely! I would!"
Cerise sneers. "No you wouldn't. Liar. You've never said no to anything Mrs. Mallory ever wanted. You're Mr. goodie-fucking-two-shoes when she's around, and you know it. So build a fucking bridge and get over the fact that Rose is here. Otherwise you can leave right now. I'm not discussing this anymore."
She barges in, to go through reception and take her place with the other executives on the interview team. As the doors swing closed, you hear Rose say "Hi Cerise. Is Alabaster coming too?"
>[x] I'm not backing out now.
[ ] I'm not going to suffer proximity to Rose.
You take several deep breaths to center yourself and then step through the doors.
There are plenty of seats in this little receiving area, but you're not going to be cowed by this cow. With a person like Rose, asserting dominance is paramount. You sit down right next to her.
"Hello Rose."
"Hello Alabaster."
You both stare straight ahead, chins held up, as if there's something intensely interesting on the opposite wall. The only thing there is a bunch of empty chairs and a fern.
"Strange seeing you here," you say. "Don't you have a trash can to be tipping over somewhere?"
"Hmm," she murmurs. "You know, I hear that tiki torches are two for one at Home Depot right now. Limited time only. Maybe you should run along while you can."
"What are you doing trying to get into the most toxic and patriarchal company in the world's most toxic and patriarchal industry? Bit weird, isn't it?"
"The tech world needs people like me to rectify that."
"Bullshit. You're looking for a bullet point on your resume. And to annoy me, maybe."
"My what a big head you've got."
"You're the biggest hypocrite on the planet. I wonder what your social justice buddies would say about you if they knew what was in your internet history."
"I wonder what the FBI would say if they knew what was in yours."
A man with frizzy hair pokes his head out of the door to the conference room. "Mallory, Rose," he says. "We'll see you now." He goes back in.
Rose stands, and does her best to loom over you - using all 5 foot zilch of her height. "I suppose this is goodbye," she says.
"Hopefully forever."
"Mm hm."
She goes.
[ ] Take the opportunity to listen in on her interview and mentally prepare.
>[x] Stay put.
The wait is mental torture of the worst kind - you can hear muffled voices on the other side of the conference room door, but nothing intelligible. There are a couple bursts of laughter and the tone, at least, sounds generally positive.
But half an hour later, when Rose walks out, you've never seen her so pale, or so shaken.
You try to relish the image, but if she's that shaken, then you know it's going to be a rough ride for you, too.
"Bad news?" You say.
"Fuck you, Alabaster."
You tsk-tsk her.
"Goodbye," is all she can muster before she disappears out the door. Not even a parting jab. It must have been horrible in there.
Just a few seconds later, the man with frizzy hair is calling your name. "Soliloquy, Alabaster. We'll see you now."
It's show time.
>[x] Interview tactic: Brash confidence
[ ] Interview tactic: Radical honesty
[ ] Interview tactic: Modest sincerity
The man with frizzy hair shakes your hand. "Nelson Berenstoin, chief of cyber security," he says.
You glance around the room. There are five other people here, including Nelson and your sister. But the head of the table is conspicuously empty.
David Darkbloom isn't here.
"Don't worry," Nelson says, seeming to sense your confusion. "I know you were probably excited to meet the man himself, but he had an emergency to deal with. There's someone else here in his place."
That's when you notice her. Vivian Darkbloom: David's only daughter. At just 17, she has a de facto (if not de jure) position on DA's board of directors.
"Greetings, Mr..." Vivian ruffles through some papers. "Mr. Soliloquy. Hmm- are you Cherise's brother?"
"Uh, it's Cerise. But yeah," you say.
Vivian looks at Cerise for a long moment, then to the rest of the executives.
"I've been meaning to ask, in point of fact. What is the IT girl doing here to begin with?" Vivian sounds less than happy.
Nelson sits down and leans back in his chair, interlacing his fingers over his stomach. "Oh, you don't know?" he says. He is clearly relishing that the answer is no. "Your father promoted her this morning."
Vivian looks back at Cerise, appraisingly - and the appraisal is most definitely negative. She stares down her nose at your sister. And Cerise stares down at the table like an admonished dog.
"In light of the promotion," Nelson says, "he wanted her to take a more active role in the hiring process."
"Really. And what is her role now, exactly?" Vivian says, as if Cerise isn't there.
"I haven't the slightest idea," Nelson says. "I thought your father would have told you by now. He usually clues you in first."
"Cherise, was it?" Vivian says, turning to Cerise. "Would you like to fill us in before we begin with your brother's interview?"
Cerise just keeps staring down at the teleconferencing device on the oak table, saying nothing.
"Peter principle in action," Vivian murmurs. "All right. Well, let's begin."
Nelson starts. "You come to us highly recommended. Your sister said great things."
"I'm surprised," you laugh. "She usually says pretty terrible things about me."
This elicits precisely no laughs from the rest of the group.
"Right. Let's begin with some introductions. You know myself and Vivian, and your sister of course. And this man over here is Spancer Jardan, head of HR -" he nods to a strangely stoic looking, square faced young man wearing sunglasses - "and this fetching lady over here is Sable Guiteau, our R&D lead."
Sable appears to be quite deeply involved in writing on a pad of paper, and you can make out what appear to be partial differential equations. Nonetheless, she manages to at least nod when Nelson says her name.
"Interesting," says Vivian, looking your resume over. "Your GPA is a little... lackluster. 2.89? Why don't you begin by explaining that."
"Well the truth is that school doesn't hold my interest very well. I'd rather be doing something in industry, you know? My problem isn't learning the material, it's getting the homework done."
Vivian's frown only deepens. Cerise cradles her head in one hand, mortified.
"I see. Well, I don't think this is going to take long," Vivian says. "Does anyone have any other questions?"
Cerise picks up a sheet and begins reading from it. "W-why don't you tell us about a time when you had to juggle two c-competing priorities--"
"Let's dispense with that," Vivian says. "It won't be needed here."
"Yes, I have a question," Sable says, looking at you for the first time. Her voice is so soft it's barely more than a whisper. "What languages do you know?"
"English, of course," you say. "And conversational Japanese--"
"Programming languages," Vivian says. "She was asking you about programming languages."
"--Oh. Well. A little Java and C++. I mean, only a little. And, uh, HTML. Oh, I've done some work with PLCs..."
Sable jots this down. Her small wrists and slightly unkempt hair, and disheveled appearance combine to make her... very, very cute. And she's at least a little friendlier, it seems. "You know a lot about PLCs?"
"Not a LOT. Just enough to-" you stop yourself. Better not talk about that. "I have some experience with robotics. And of course, I'm willing to learn."
"Hmm," is all Sable says.
Vivian rolls her eyes. "What is it, precisely, that makes you think you have any qualifications to work for the most prestigious technology company in the world? Our most recently departed intern is about to graduate as the valedictorian at CalTech. What possesses you to think you are anywhere near that level? I am genuinely curious."
"Uh..." you begin, your mouth dry, looking from blank face to blank face. "I just- I have a drive to succeed. That's what sets me apart. I learn quickly. I learn well. And if I'm motivated, I know I can do great things. I could succeed here. I know I could. Just give me a chance--"
"Success," Vivian says. "And what is success to you, Alabaster Soliloquy?"
Time to go for broke. "Success is more than just my success," you say.
Vivian chuckles. "Team player, are you?"
"That's not what I mean. I mean that it's not enough for me to succeed. Others should fail."
Nelson stifles laughter, but Vivian is visibly taken aback by this. She cocks her head and regards you as if she's suddenly looking at a different person. But she quickly composes herself.
"Thank you, Mr. Soliloquy, for wasting our time," she says. "We'll--"
Sable leans across and cups her hand to Vivian's ear. She whispers something, and Vivian frowns, yet again.
"...Is that it?" You ask. You look over at Cerise, who seems to be on the verge of tears.
"That is all," Vivian says. "We will be in touch. Expect a call back in less than 24 hours. Make sure you pick up."
"--What?" Cerise says. She looks back at you, jaw slack. Does the promise of a call back mean good news?
"You may see yourself out," Vivian says.
"I don't know how the fuck you did that," Cerise says as she walks you out, "but don't fuck this up any more than you already have. Pick up the phone when they call you back. They're definitely going to hire you."
"And you were worried I would embarrass you."
"You DID embarrass me," she says. "So fuck you very much for that. But at least I'm not about to get canned over it. I think."
"I'll see you around," you tell her. "Good luck in- whatever it is David Darkbloom has you doing for him now."
"Thanks. I'll need it."
On your way out of Darkbloom Analytics campus, you get a text from Rose, of all people.
>From: The Most Annoying Cunt On Earth
>I saw your sister chauffeuring you in like she was your mother. Why don't you have a car yet?
You text back:
>I'm buying a used car later today, in fact.
>The real question is: why don't you have a job yet? I just got myself hired. How about you?
The reply is instantaneous:
>Fuck you, Alabaster.
A few minutes pass, then:
>If you need a ride back and you pay for half the gas, I can drive you home.
[ ] Get an Uber back to your dorm.
>[x] Ride with Rose.
[ ] Call Whitney and bum a ride off her.
"Sure," you text her back. It beats waiting an hour for Whitney to get here, and it sure beats the Uber fee.
Rose pulls up not two minutes later.
...Was she watching you from across the street or something?
"Get in," she says. Her Prius is refreshingly cool from the quickly warming afternoon.
"You stink of flop sweat," Rose says. "Are you certain you got hired?"
"Are you certain that's not your own flop sweat? You wanna tell me how it went?"
"I impressed them. That's all."
"Uh huh. Why don't I believe you? When you got out of there, you looked more stressed than you did on election night."
"Will you get over that already?" She snaps. "You beat me in a total fluke one time almost four years ago. Are your high school glories all you have left to brag about?"
"I just love the reaction it gets from you."
"God, do I hate you. Hand over the gas money."
"I beat you," you gloat. "I bee-aa-t you."
"This is violence."
"President Soliloquy. You'll never forget it, Rose. President-Elect Soliloquy Defeats President Mallory in Student Council Election."
Rose's knuckles on the steering wheel are totally white. Her face is red.
You fish through your pocket, pull your wallet out and hand her $10. "For your troubles," you say. "It's the least I can do."
Rose pulls into a gas station halfway between Palo Alto and Berkeley. While she's filling up, you recline in your seat and take a moment to relax, free from her naggy ranting. But when you look out your window, you see something that puts a lump in your throat.
It's that girl from before. She looks less conspicuous in a hoodie, but it's definitely her. She's at a pump across from you, filling a beaten-up looking sedan from the 1990s. She leans against it, arms crossed, smiling at you. When your eyes meet, she makes a gun with her finger and points it at you - bang, bang.
[ ] Say something.
[ ] Play it cool.
>[x] Play it cool and say something cooler.
You step out of the car.
This elicits what looks like genuine surprise on her part. She must have figured you as someone easy to bully.
"You stalking me?" you say.
This also gets Rose's attention. She turns to watch the scene.
"Just a free woman traveling on the land," the girl says. "Don't mind me."
"Bullshit. If you're stalking me, you'll have to get in line. My girlfriend here wouldn't approve."
"W-what?" comes Rose's shocked reply.
The girl throws her head back, laughing. "You two, dating? Give me a break."
You turn to Rose and give her a serious look. "She's really stalking me," you mutter. "Play along."
Rose's face goes through so many emotions it would be impossible to count them, but finally settles on anger.
She walks around the car and steps in front of you. "That's right," she says to the girl. "You leave him the fuck alone. He's mine."
"You're hers?" the girl says, talking right past Rose.
"Well -" you say. "I wouldn't exactly characterize-"
Rose turns and gives you a shove, and you shove her back, and the whole thing threatens to turn into another of your meltdowns. But Rose de-escalates, thankfully. She turns to the girl again. "You heard me."
"Pfft," is all the girl says. "I guess I'm not surprised. You two deserve each other."
She puts the nozzle back on the pump, gets in her car, and peels away.
Rose watches the car's exit, and only once it's fully out of the lot and down the road does she start towards her own car again.
"I guess I should thank you for getting my back," you say. "She seems like a really dangerous person."
Rose punches you in the shoulder. It hurts.
"Are you blushing?" You say.
"That was practically rape," she says. "Forcing me into some, some imagined relationship with you. Absolutely demented. I might be sick."
"Yeah, you're sick all right."
"Get the fuck in, Alabaster. Let's go home."
As she approaches town, you wave Rose off from taking the exit for Berkeley. "I'm supposed to see your mom today," you tell her. "That's why I took the ride with you. We're headed to the same place."
"Huh?" Rose says.
"You heard me."
"Oh, this is rich. And what business do you have with mom, exactly?"
"What business of it is yours, exactly?"
Rose grumbles.
Back at the Mallory home, Rose breezes right in, but you stop yourself short. You were never quite sure of the etiquette of this situation - whether to treat this place as your own home and simply walk in, or use the bell like a guest. And since you want a favor - you err on the side of caution.
"Alabaster!" chirps Rose's mom when she answers. "Come inside, come inside! You know you can always come inside whenever you want!" It's honestly eerie how much she resembles her daughter.
"Thank you," you say, putting on your meekest voice. You step past the threshold. "It's nice to see you, Mrs. Mallory."
"For the last time, young man," she says, leading you past the foyer and into her spacious living room, "call me Charlotte."
Rose is already sitting on the couch in the living room, doing her level best to ignore all of this, but of course her mom won't let her. As far as Mrs. Mallory is concerned, the two of you are best friends.
"Rose, look who came to visit! Alabaster!"
"I know," she says flatly. "He came here with me."
Mrs. Mallory turns to face you. "How did your interview go? Rose thinks she impressed them. You as well, I hope?"
"Uh, yeah," you say, rubbing the back of your head. "I guess so. I'm kind of anxious to hear back from them. Hopefully we both got accepted."
"That's so sweet," Mrs. Mallory says. "You could be coworkers." Behind her, Rose rolls her eyes at you and pantomimes jerking off.
"Thanks just so much for doing this," you tell her. "It means a lot."
"I'll go get the keys," Mrs. Mallory says.
"--the keys?" Rose says, suddenly not so smug.
"Alabaster is buying my old Volt."
"MY Volt?" Rose sputters.
"Well--" Charlotte hums, "You hadn't signed the paperwork yet- and Alabaster really needs a car if he's going to be working, don't you agree?"
"That's MY car," Rose says. "How much is he--"
Behind Mrs. Mallory's back, you pull out your wallet and wave the money so Rose can clearly see it. Five paltry $100 bills. Way below market value. Rose's face is ashen with rage.
In the brief moment Charlotte is gone, you take pleasure in sloooowly counting out the $500 and setting it on the countertop between the living room and dining room. "Got a pretty good deal, don't you think?" You say.
"I -LITERALLY- can't believe you," Rose says.
"Why are you being so cunty about this? You don't need two cars. Greed is wrong, you know."
Charlotte pokes her head around the corner. She has her handbag and the keys to the car. "Hey, I just realized that it's low on gas," she says. "I'll run it over to the Shell station and fuel it up before you go. You can chat with Rose until I get back."
"Actually, I don't mind--" you begin, but she's already gone.
Rose walks up behind you. "Are you serious right now?" She says. Her tone is so pissy you can actually hear the curled upper lip and folded arms. "You're stealing my car?"
You turn around. "I'm buying it, you stupid cow. With money. You know, that green stuff people use to pay for things? Stealing would be if I decided it was mine just because I'm her son, and then took it without paying."
"You are NOT her son. And that is NOT your car."
"I'm speaking metaphorically. Try to keep up. You're the son in this analogy."
"Where the fuck did you get $500?" Rose demands. "I didn't know jerking off to anime rape was so lucrative."
"I don't need this," you say, and try to step past her. She sidesteps and blocks your path.
"Don't," you warn.
"Don't?" She sputters. "How about YOU don't? Don't steal my shit!"
You push through, but she grabs onto your arm and tries to pull you back. The two of you get into a quickly escalating shoving match, one that neither of you de-escalate this time. Well, that was inevitable. You go tumbling through the house, all but closed-fist punching one another, until you finally pin her against the wall in the hallway. You lean into her, forearm to her throat.
"For the last time-" you say.
Her eyes bulge in panic. She pulls a canister from a hidden pocket in her skirt. Before you register what it must be, you're already stumbling backward in agony. She pepper sprayed you.
"Gaahhh-- you, you -- you FUCKING cunt," you say between gasping breaths. You rub madly at your eyelids, which of course only worsens the pain.
With your eyes wrenched shut, you stumble forward, groping blindly. You somehow manage to grab hold of her hair, tight, at the root. She gives a choked yelp of mixed surprise and pain. Using her skull for leverage, you wrench your shoulder as hard as you can, and slam Rose face-first against the stucco. She hits with a satisfying thud that you only wish you could have seen. She falls to the ground.
You open your eyes now, narrowly, and painfully. Through the blur of tears you can see her still holding the pepper spray. You step on her hand to stop her from using it again, and she drops the canister. You press your toe down on her surprisingly delicate wrist, enjoying the tactile sensation of her palm flattening and splaying against the underside of your shoe.
"Alabaster--" she groans. "Stop - y-you're really h-hurting me now-"
"You said no more pepper spray!" You shout, spittle and tears flying wetly. "What the fuck happened to our rules of engagement, huh? Lying bitch." You kick the canister down the hall and out of reach.
You start to walk away on unsteady legs, wiping your reddened face with your shirt. Rose rises onto her butt. She supports her weight with the hand you didn't step on. Her nose is bleeding. Her voice quavers. "Alabaster--" she begins.
"No," you say, pointing at her. You walk backwards, to keep her in your sight. "Don't even. You stay away from me, you psychotic cunt. I'm warning you. Next time you'll regret it." Your voice quavers, too.
This is far from the first confrontation like this with Rose, and you know that despite your warning it won't be the last. Sometimes she instigates, sometimes you do - regardless, things always blow up when you're alone together for any period of time. You're not sure why it happens. Or why you always leave these bare-knuckle fights with a raging erection.
In the drive, after she hands over the keys, you give Mrs. Mallory a gracious hug goodbye.
"Are you all right, dear?" She asks. "You... look as if you've been crying."
In your peripheral vision, you see Rose standing on the porch, spying on you. You loudly sniffle back mucus to ham it up for Mrs. Mallory. "I'm - I'm ok," you say. "It's just... Rose said something to me that really... it really made me..."
"Oh dear," Mrs. Mallory says. "She didn't bully you, did she? I'll make sure to have another conversation with her about that."
"No - no!" You insist. "She was great. Actually..." You swallow hard and let a few tears fall. "Actually, she told me that - you think of me - you t-think of me like a son? Is that really true?"
Mrs. Mallory smiles warmly. She reaches out and takes your hand. "Of course I do," she says. "I can't ever replace your real mom, but - I love you just as much as I love Rose. As far as I'm concerned, you're my son."
"Thank you," you say, and hug her again.
She kisses you on the cheek. "Don't cry now, dear, it's fine... you're gonna make me cry, too..."
You glance up at the porch. Rose is gone.
The Volt rides like a dream. Best money you ever spent. On your way back to Berkeley, you call Whitney up.
>[x] Wanna cram?
[ ] Wanna get lunch?
Whitney opens the door to her dorm room and leans against the jamb. She's still wearing that same slutty outfit. "I'm alone in here," she says, apropos of nothing. Then: "...Were you crying?"
"Fuck's sake."
"Not trying to pry," Whitney says. "Geez."
Inside her dorm, you clear some space on her desk and sit down at it. Whitney pulls up another chair. "All hands on deck for education," she says, saluting you. "Give me your history knowledge."
"I can't just give you knowledge. I need to know what you're actually studying first. Do you have a textbook or something?"
"It's just the test I showed you, you idiot. I have to take it again."
"...Are you telling me it's going to be the same exact multiple choice test? No changes?"
She scratches her head. "Kind of. There's a list of about 100 questions he gave us as possibilities. I just need to know all of those. Plus three different essay questions he could pick."
She hands the study guide over. You grouse. "You could just google this stuff, you know."
"Yeah, but this way I get the answers straight from the world's biggest superdork. So I know they're right."
You quickly leaf through the study guide, circling the right answers for each question. The thing is so easy an unprepared middle schooler could pass it. You can't believe Whitney needs help with this. But as she watches you work, she appears genuinely impressed.
"You're a wizard with this shit," she says. "Quiz master Ally saving my ass again." She stands, circles you, and leans over your shoulder, watching intently. "How do you remember all this? The only history stuff I really remember is that William Howard Taft is too fat to fit in his bathtub since like 100 years ago."
You put down your pen and gaze back at her. "Wow," you say. "That sentence almost made sense."
Just a bit later, you're done. 100 questions answered in less than 10 minutes.
"Okay," Whitney says. "Now drill me."
"--Excuse me?"
"Drill me. Test my memory."
You swivel to face her in your chair. "Who was Prime Minister of England during World W--" you begin.
Whitney pretends to doze off with a snore.
"If you're not going to take this seriously," you say, "I can go."
"Make it fun, Ally! Geez. You're smart, can't you think of anything?"
You have a feeling where this is going. And then it goes there.
"It can be like when we drilled for your quiz bowl championship."
"Not that," you say. "That was a one-time--"
"Only in reverse!"
You glance at the door. It's locked.
From the inside, but still. It's the implication.
"Is this why you brought me here?" You say.
Whitney steps forward and sits in your lap. Her body is just a bit slick, and warm against you. The pressure of her as she straddles your crotch makes your stomach do cartwheels. She smells like sweat and lust. You push back with your legs, but all that does is roll your chairback up against the desk, and then there's nowhere to go.
"Why not?" Whitney says. "You're gonna be away all summer, aren't you? Fucking other girls too, I bet. Shouldn't we have a fun memory before you leave?"
"Whitney-"
"Why are you always like this?" Whitney says, her cheery voice cracking into a sort of pained whine. "You've been so fucking weird ever since I sucked your dick in Boise."
"You took advantage of my inebriated state," you say.
"Oh, come on," she says, rolling her eyes. "You wanted it. You want it now." She cups your crotch, and there's no denying what she finds there.
"We'll do it like quiz bowl drilling, only backwards," she continues. "You ask me the questions, and if I'm wrong, I have to take something off."
"You're only wearing about --"
"Two things," Whitney purrs. "And I really can't remember most of this stuff..."
"Jesus."
She puts her lips to your ears. "Teach me," she whispers. Her voice sends electric shivers down your spine.
"W-who was Prime Minister during World War II?" you say.
"George Bush?"
You shake your head no. She instantly peels off her barely-there tanktop and tosses it aside. Her breasts are tiny but pert, with small soft pink nipples that you can't help staring at.
"Are you staring at me?" she teases. "Per-vert~"
"You're the one waving them--"
She shakes her torso a bit, sending her little tits jiggling. "Go on," she says. "I don't mind. What's the next question?"
"Who was President of the USA during World War II?"
"...George Bush?"
"Jesus."
"My bad," Whitney says. She turns, scoots forward and - while still sitting on your lap - peels off her spats. The synthetic material clings tenaciously to her thighs as she pulls it away, but slowly she reveals a cute pink pussy that's shaved completely bald and glistening. As she tosses the spats into the corner, she spreads her legs enough for the lips to part, and from your vantage you can see enough of the inside to know it's as invitingly pink as the outside.
The room smells like your hotel in Boise that night on the eve of the national championship. The sweet heady odor of female sex. You blink rapidly, gulping.
"You've got a naked girl in your arms, Ally. What are you going to do?"
"Things were a lot easier when I thought you were a lesbian," you say.
"Who's to say I'm not?" She faces you again and wraps her arms around you. She grinds her plump mound against the straining crotch of your dockers, leaving little trails of her wetness on the material. "You smell like Rose. Are you fucking your cousin, Ally?"
"Once removed," you grumble. "Are you a bloodhound or something? No. I'm not fucking her."
"You want to. You had a hardon already when you got here. From being with her."
She reaches down and unzips your pants. You do nothing to stop her.
"Are you still a virgin?" she demands. She has a crazed hitch to her voice, here. She fishes around and frees your dick from your pants. The cool air suddenly hitting it makes you hiss. "Or did you give yourself to that whore you call a cousin?"
You shake your head. " You got me, okay? Never had sex." Technically that's still true, even if Whitney isn't the only girl you've been with.
She buries her face in your neck and suckles sweetly, moaning as she grinds up and down on your cock. "We need to fix that," she says.
"I'm gonna-" you groan. "We're not going to-- to be able to fix that if you don't--" but she's already got the idea. She laces her fingers around the back of your neck, hauls herself up and hovers over the tip of your dripping cock.
"Whitney-"
And then you're inside her. All the way - to the hilt in one motion. It's warmer, wetter, and more snug than any stupid onahole you've ever even dreamed of. Her muscles ripple and contract with such precise motions that you wonder how you could have ever avoided this to begin with. You mind swims with a delirious pleasure that you didn't know could exist. You can actually feel her milking every drop of precum from your tip.
She humps up and down in quick but measured strokes. "Y-y-you are m-m-m-mine," she moans, her voice thrumming with her own pleasure. "I just m-made you m-m-m-mine... I'm so happy..."
Your phone rings.
"Whitney--!"
"Fuck that, fuck your stupid phone," she says, her balled-up fists pushing into your chest, forcing you back in the chair, so that you two are nearly horizontal now - Whitney on top. Her wet cunt pistoning up and down makes obscene squelching sounds that echo through the dorm. "Cum inside me," she yells. "Cum inside me! Cum inside me!"
"I need to--!"
"Yes you do! Fucking cum inside me already, you idiot! Mark me! Make me yours too!"
Your jaw hangs slack, you close your eyes, and then you lose it. As you cum, she mashes her lips to yours, and forces her tongue into your mouth. The force of the ejaculation in such a vice-tight enclosure is actually painful, but deliciously so. Your balls pulsate as you squirt her insides with so much cum that it starts to gush out. Her tongue roots around in your mouth to the same rhythm as the pulsations.
And then Whitney is cumming too, howling, her pussy spraying a geyser of her own cum, so much you can't believe it, all across your shirt and pants, ruining them.
"Yes!" is all she can say, loud enough to wake up Beijing, "Fuck yes! Fuck!"
You collapse, even further back, and the chair topples over. You land on the floor, Whitney still on top, both of you still mated together. Your phone isn't ringing anymore.
GIRLS FUCKED: 1/8
Whitney is still writhing around in her own private heaven as you crawl on shaky legs to extricate yourself from her, take your phone from your pocket, and check it.
It's a call from Darkbloom Analytics, just as you feared.
They left a voicemail.
Your heart sinks as your thumb hovers over the play button. Of all the lousy timing... Cerise is never going to forgive you...
You glance over. Whitney is rubbing her cunt, mashing the gooey white cum through her fingers. Then she pulls her hand away and holds it over her face, spreading her fingers, watching with fascination as the cum spiderwebs between them.
"I'm in love with you," she says, still staring at the cummy mess in front of her face.
"I know," you say.
Might as well face reality while you have something pleasant to look at. You hit play on the message. It's Vivian's voice.
"We will pay you a salary of $1000 per week. You start on Monday. 7:00 AM. Do not be late."
Whitney has her fingers in her mouth now.
The voicemail message no sooner ends than you hear the shrill ding of the text alert sound right into your eardrum. You pull the phone away with a jerk and check its display.
>From: The Most Annoying Cunt On Earth
>Turn on the news.
Whitney crawls over and sits beside you, still slurping your cum off her fingers. "What does that bitch want?" she says, reading the text.
You pull up FNCNN.com. A pundit is talking with a pretty female reporter.
"--Here again relaying the truly stupendous investigative work of Kay Vera in today's Los Angeles Tribune. A data breach of -- how many again?"
"400 million private accounts," the woman cuts in, who the title card below identifies as Ms. Vera herself.
"--From the private servers of Darkbloom Analytics," the pundit finishes. "Facebook data, email history, browsing history, even credit card info. By far the biggest single data breach in history."
"And it happened over a month ago," Kay says. "They knew about it but they never told anyone."
"Absolutely shocking," the pundit says. "The level of wanton disregard - well this story is still developing, but it's fair to say, in my estimation, heads are going to roll. Congress, at the very least, is going to be pretty interested in how this happened."
Whitney's head is lying on your shoulder, cocked sideways, and her eyes glazed over as she watches the report. "Hmm... Darkbloom Analytics... that's your company now, isn't it?"
You gulp.
END OF EPISODE 1.