You are Rose Mallory, hot-shit defender of oppressed minorities and three-time champion of the North High Student Council.
May 1, 2015
Mom's been letting you drive her Volt to the temporary grounds of North High because it's so much farther away now. Since the school burned down a couple weeks ago, classes have been held at a local technical college who graciously opened their doors for the students to finish out their school year. It's hard to adjust to sharing the halls with dead-eyed university dropouts, military vets and single moms (brave as they may be).
She thinks you've been carpooling with Alabaster, but there's no way you would share your car with someone so loathsome. He's got two legs. He can walk.
This morning, however, you're surprised to find Alabaster already awake and in the driveway as you pull out of the garage. He's got a giant teddy bear and a bouquet of roses in his hands.
You roll your window down. "What are you doing now, Alabaster? What is that thing?"
"Whoa! I'm sorry, I didn't realize you got deputized into the Bear Police."
"If you think I'm going to drive you to school just because you're toting around that ridiculous--"
"Did I fucking ask you for a ride? Christ you're obnoxious."
You roll your window up and peel out of the driveway.
At school, you walk about five paces behind Alabaster as he makes his way to his elective class on East Asian Literature. Surreptitiously, you catch a snippet of his conversation with (ugh) Stackleford:
"You really think she'll say yes?" Stackleford says in his usual creepy, wheezy voice.
"Of course she will. Look, Rose may pretend she's all aloof, but when I drop the bomb on her, she won't know what hit her. She'll say yes."
"She's already gotten like... three or four promposals, and she said no to all of them--"
"Idiot. That's because she isn't into any other guys but me."
You duck into another hallway before he can turn and notice you. Your heart is beating a mile a minute. You put a palm to your lips to steady your jaw against a sudden fit of shivering. It's not cold in here, why are you shivering?
What the fuck is wrong with Alabaster? That stupid prick wants to embarrass you in front of the whole school with a promposal? Who asks their first cousin (once removed) to the prom?
It's all to humiliate you. Of course Alabaster doesn't care about his reputation because this is his last year at North High, but he plans to leave YOU with the permanent label of "girl whose first cousin (once removed) asked her to the prom." One last fuck-you before he's gone for good. That asshole.
...What's the best way to handle this?...
Blowing up at him, acting embarrassed or angry - that's exactly what he wants. It's what he gets off on. That misogynistic jerk. That fucking worm.
You're not going to give him the pleasure. You're going to flip the tables on him: you'll do the unthinkable and say yes.
Oh, how you're going to love the look on his face when you tell him that of course you'll go with him, since he just couldn't find any other willing girl, and you'd hate to see him miss out on a rite of passage like senior prom.
A weirdly incestuous public display of affection becomes your magnanimous concession to Alabaster, the infinite loser. You look like a gracious cousin (once removed) and Alabaster looks like a pathetic weirdo and a creep. It's perfect.
You're a genius.
---
Before lunch, you slip into the restroom. You check your hair in the mirror, touch up your makeup, and test your breath with a cupped hand in front of your mouth. This is all utterly apropos of nothing - you just like to look your best, that's all. Popping a mint, you step back out into the cafeteria, find your usual table, and wait.
It isn't long. Alabaster comes in through the door you're facing, ridiculous teddy bear and bouquet in hand.
Your fellow student council members are yammering on. None of them particularly like Alabaster, and he never eats with you - prefers to eat alone, the creep. Usually they wouldn't pay him any mind, but as you try to calm your erratic breathing, one of the StuCo members - your former vice president, Brock - comments on Alabaster's entrance: "wow, what an idiot... Rose, did you ever find out the bylaws for impeaching a student council president?"
You hold up your hand without even glancing back at him: "Shush--"
He's getting close. You lock eyes with him.
The speech you practiced is suddenly disintegrating in your mind: 'Of course I'll say yes' -- no -- 'of course, Alabaster, if I need you to' -- NO -- don't lose it, Rose, this is an important moment -- 'of course, if you need someone, I'll be there' -- no, damn it, no-- that's not right--
"Rose," Alabaster says. His voice is uncharacteristically warm.
You squeak.
"Will you make me the luckiest senior at North High and go to prom with me?"
"I--" you begin.
"Oh god! I can't believe it! You're the best!"
You turn. A girl you recognize is jumping up and down.
"I was going to ask YOU! How did you-- Oh my goodness, that thing is huge!"
"What can I say," replies Alabaster, "I couldn't let you ask me without being prepared. Here, I got you these too." He hands her the bouquet of roses. "They... remind me of you..."
She squees. Literally, the noise she makes is "squee." Like a dog's fucking chew toy. Bile rises in your throat.
She throws her arms around him and kisses him, on the mouth, full-on. He kisses her back. People are clapping - they're CLAPPING for this obscene, revolting, ridiculous display.
The world throbs around you. Your vision is blurry at the edges. You try to blink it away, but it won't go away. Your face is wet. Why is your face wet?
Alabaster just asked Rose Catachresis to the prom. Is this a joke? Is he doing this to mess with you? It isn't working. Absolutely absurd. Why do you have the sniffles all of a sudden?
As the two of them walk off hand-in-hand, Brock snorts. "What a pair of shitlords. Rose C is just perfect for Alabaster... why do we even let anime club exist? It's so problema--"
"Brock," you say. Even you can hear how dull and emotionless your voice is. Somehow, you can't bring yourself to wear your usual cheerful mask.
"...Rose?" He says.
"Shut the fuck up."
He shuts up. The rest of lunch period passes in awkward silence as he and the rest of StuCo give you a wide berth.
Brock, who's been your faithful right-hand man since middle school, asks you to prom later that same day. He plays music and presents you with a handmade poster with cutesy slogans on it. You take a special sadistic pleasure in telling him - using your kindest, most gentle tone - that no, you would rather go to prom with a chimpanzee.
---
"Daddy... daddy, it's Alabaster. H-he's in trouble..."
As you say this, tears begin to stream down your cheeks.
You slap yourself in the face.
"Too melodramatic. Stupid. No."
You let your wrists go limp and shake your hands about, as if to drain away your anxious energy. Dropping your sad expression, you sniffle back your mucus, wipe your face clean. You look yourself in the rearview mirror of your car. You try again.
"Daddy... it's Alabaster... he's in trouble again..."
You slap yourself in the face.
"Again? Stupid. Stupid. Don't say again. Don't remind him that it's again. Do you want to save the dumb bastard or not?"
You ruffle your hands through your hair and roll your shoulders. You take deep, calming breaths. You rotate your jaw as if chewing on something.
Every interaction - every single interaction - has to be managed carefully. The right words in the right order with the right inflection can get you nearly whatever you want. But you have to be precise, you have to maintain the proper image for the moment. Now more than ever. This might be the most important interaction of your life: this is the interaction that decides what happens to Alabaster.
You check your phone. The pin indicator still shows Alabaster inside an evidence locker in a San Francisco FBI field office.
Thank goodness he never found out you put that tracking app back on his phone.
You give yourself one last reassuring glance in the mirror before stepping out of the car and walking up the driveway of your family home.
Dad is in the living room, reading a newspaper. You gently pull it down.
"Rosey, baby, what's wrong?" He says.
"Daddy... it's Alabaster. He's in trouble."
Mom comes in from the kitchen, a glass of wine in her hand and a serious expression on her face. "Alabaster?" She says. "Oh no... honey, what's happened?"
Dad's expression is much less concerned. More like angry.
"I think... I think he got arrested," you say.
Dad tosses his newspaper aside. "Again? Goddamn it." He's standing, hands on hips, shaking his head.
"Goddamn it" is right. This is already going south. You need to pull out some real waterworks here.
You fall to your knees, sobbing. "Daddy... I'm so scared... you HAVE to help him. You have to!"
"Maybe that little shit should fend for himself," dad says. "If I keep bailing him out, he'll never learn."
You cover your eyes with the crook of your arm and redouble your sobbing. Mom squats down and rubs your back to soothe you.
"Dear..." she says, to dad. "Don't you think you're being--"
"No, Charlotte. No. You're not going to talk me into it this time."
"Saul." Her voice isn't as soft now.
"Goddamn it. That ungrateful, criminal little twerp." His voice draws nearer - he must be standing over you. "What is it this time, Rose, huh? Another goddamn arson?"
"No..." you say. "It's... I don't know! I don't know what it is! They took him away to... to the FBI field office in San Francisco... oh god, Daddy, please, help him..."
You hear the sound of ruffling as dad grabs his things - coat, briefcase, car keys - and he barges out of the house without another word.
"It's okay, Rose sweetie... your father is going to help in any way he can."
"You promise?" You say.
"Promise."
You stand. Some of these tears are real, you think. "I need to lie down," you say.
"Of course. Do you want me to make some tea?"
"I'm fine," you reply as you're already on your way up the stairs.
You don't go to your room. You go to the attic. In a tool box, you find an electric drill and a fat, heavy-gauge bit.
You make a brief stop-over in your room to put on some sad music, and blare it loud enough to cover up the work at hand.
In Alabaster's room, you pull open his PC tower, plug in your drill, and destroy both of the hard drives mounted inside. His laptop and the spare flash drives on his desk get the same treatment. And then the portable hard drive stashed under the moulding near his nightstand, and then the old laptop stashed on a shelf in the back of his closet, and the flash drive he's got taped to the underide of his bed frame, and the CD-r discs he has in a book at the bottom of a box in the corner.
You sit on the floor among the destroyed electronics, giving your frayed mind just a moment to rest.
Then you stand and head for your bedroom, drill in hand, to repeat the process.
>Choose who to follow next.
[ ] Rose
>[x] Whitney
[ ] Cerise
You are Whitney Price, hot-shit anime-nerd virgin devirginer and trap trainer.
You sit on the couch in Alex's living room, watching an episode of that old 90s sitcom, Dinosaurs. It's the one that ends with the ice age killing everyone. You demolish a bag of flamin' hot Cheetos as the grim finale draws to a close.
"What about the baby?" You mutter. "That's messed up. They're gonna kill the fucking baby and everything."
Alex comes in through the front door. He's hours early.
He breezes past, head low, straight toward his bedroom. Not a single word, not even hello.
Not on your watch! You wash your hands in the kitchen sink and dash after him. You stop him just in time, before he can close and lock his door.
"Hey," you say, pretending to punch him in the shoulder. "You're just gonna ignore your big sister like that? Why the long face?"
"Please... leave me alone," Alex says. He tries to shut the door, but you force it open and step inside.
"Don't be like that. Otherwise I'll have to spank ya."
"It's all over. It doesn't matter anymore."
"Okay, whoa. That's some suicidal-type talk right there. What the heck is going on?"
You steer him by the shoulders to his bed and sit him down.
"Ally hates me," he says.
You laugh. "Hates you? He's head over heels for you! You turned him gayer than the 1890s!"
"The... 1890s?" Alex says, confused despite his sadness.
"It's a reference. Look it up. Wow. Don't you read?"
"I know he hates me," Alex says. "He said so himself."
You nudge him. "Ally tells me he hates me all the time! Give him a few hours to get over himself and he'll be trying to get into your pants all over again. It's, like, his cycle."
Alex starts to cry again. "Whitney... do you know anything about David Darkbloom... killing Ally's parents?"
Your breathing stops. You almost puke. "What."
"Ally says David Darkbloom killed his parents."
This is the first you've heard of that. Ally sent you a text when he got back from his little trip, but all it said was that he'd talk to you later.
"And... because I work for Mr. Darkbloom... Ally hates me... he really hates me..."
You stand up and pace in worried circles. You can't believe this. That fucking billionaire asshole killed Mr. and Mrs. Soliloquy. Ally must have found proof of it last night. You need to talk to him - right now.
But then there's Alex, lying on the bed in the fetal position, weeping pathetically.
>[x] Comfort Alex first.
[ ] Try to get in touch with Ally.
You crawl into Alex's bed and cuddle up with him - playing the big spoon to his little spoon.
"I told you to leave me alone," Alex says. His voice is muffled by his pillow.
"Nuh-uh," you say.
You nuzzle his cheek and hug him tight. "Ally doesn't hate you," you repeat, "I know he doesn't. In fact... he's in love with you!"
"How would you even know that."
Okay, he called that bluff. Time to double down. "He told me so."
Alex turns around in your arms. He looks you in the eyes. "No he didn't. He did?" His voice is hopeful.
"Yep!" This is a lie, but you'll put a gun to Ally's head to make him play along, if you have to. "He didn't want me to say anything because he's struggling with, like, all these new emotions and shit. It's hard to fall in love with a guy if you think you're straight."
"But you didn't hear what he said to me," Alex insists. "Even if he loved me before..."
"Ally is emotional right now. If he thinks Darkbloom killed his mom and dad... I mean, wouldn't you be mad if someone murdered your parents?"
Alex nods.
"Hell, I'm mad for Ally too. I feel like throttling that bastard, if you wanna know the truth."
"You think it's true? He killed them?"
You shrug. "Maybe. If Ally said so, I believe it."
Alex feels weak and tiny. He shakes his head violently and it hardly jostles you. "It can't be true... it can't! If it's true, then that means Ms. Guiteau is part of it too... and I can't believe that. Ms. Guiteau is a good person!"
There's that name again. Ms. Guiteau. Alex hardly ever shuts up about that broad.
"Why don't we take a nap--" you begin.
Alex pushes you away, palms shoving against your flat chest. He struggles out of bed and stands up. He teeters a bit before catching his balance.
"No... no, I have to go back to work... I have to talk to Ms. Guiteau about this... I need to know the truth."
This kid is headed for a walk down slit-wrist lane if he keeps going on like this.
[ ] Let him go talk to his boss on his own.
>[x] Tag along and help him.
"Please get out of my car."
"No."
"Please get out of my car, Whitney."
"No."
Alex softly bashes his own head against his steering wheel in frustration, again and again.
"I'm not trying to be mean," he says. "We're in the middle of a mission critical product roll-out. You don't even have an employee badge. How am I supposed to get you in..."
"You're the head honcho's favorite mook's favorite coffee boy! You're like two steps down from being CEO. They'll let me in if you tell them to." You pause, thinking. "Besides, I need to meet this chick who keeps pushing you around. I mean - what kind of dumb bitch thinks it's okay to just push you around? So stop whining and let's get going already."
Alex turns the key in the ignition. He glances over at you. "Please don't mess anything up, okay?"
"Scout's honor."
He cocks his head. "You were a scout?"
You roll your eyes. "It's a figure of speech, you fag."
"Whitney..."
"No offense. I don't mean fag in the gay way. I mean it in the you're a fag way."
Alex pulls out of his parking spot and starts down the road.
At the security checkpoint, you stay by Alex's side as he swipes his badge in the scanner and pushes past the turnstile. It all goes smoothly until a rent-a-cop grabs you by the arm and stops you on the other side.
"Miss, you need to scan your badge too."
"She's with me," Alex says. "She's a visitor... uh, a contractor, actually... here to verify the... the..."
His nervousness is getting the better of him. "I'm here to verify the flux capacitors on the proton majiggers," you say.
Nailed it. You glance at Alex, smiling proudly.
"No such thing," the wannabe mall cop says. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"No such thing?" You say. "How the FUCK should you know, professor? What college did you graduate from? Do you have a PhD in fluxology? Cause I do!"
"I'm giving you to the count of three, and then I'm going to call the police--"
"Let her in," comes a voice from behind. You turn. It's David Darkbloom.
"It's nice to see you, Whitney," he says.
"The pleasure's all yours," you sneer.
"How have you been?" He lays a hand on your shoulder. You shudder, push him away.
"Hands off, old man."
He just laughs. "Have you reconsidered our job offer? It would be so nice to have you aboard."
"Go fuck yourself," you say.
"Whitney..." Alex says, nervously tugging on your shirt sleeve. "He let you in. Please don't antagonize him."
"She's fine, Mr. Best. In fact, I rather like the fire in her. You two must be here to interrogate Sable. Am I correct?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Darkbloom," Alex says. "I know she's not an employee, but she's... ah... moral support, if you will..."
"I completely understand," Darkbloom says. "Whitney is a fine young woman -- you could do a lot worse. It makes me happy to see the two of you hitting it off so well."
"Every second you spend talking to me is another second you aren't shoving your own dick up your own asshole. Mr. Darkbloom." You step past him, head for the elevators with Alex.
"When you're done," Darkbloom calls after you, "please come see me. You should have my side of the story as well, right?"
On your way to Sable Guiteau's office, you walk past a miniature army of robo-bunnies marching down the basement hallways, followed by a miniature army of the dorks who love them.
"Wacky place you work in," you mumble.
Even Alex can agree with that. "It gets a little strange sometimes."
And then, past a few more doors, there she is: the boss from hell, stooped over her keyboard in her office, white as a fucking ghost. Frozen like time stopped. Staring at nothing.
"Ms. Guiteau?" Alex says timidly. "Are you--"
She turns around in her chair. "Alex," she says. Her personality does a complete 180, just like that. Suddenly she's bright and cheerful. "You came back. You left so suddenly - I thought I lost you... I didn't know what to do."
He shakes his head. "No! I'm here! I just--"
"You're gonna lose him if you don't tell us what you know," you say, stepping forward. "Weird-ass robot fucker."
Sable looks at you, confused. "I don't... who are you, exactly?"
Alex introduces you, but Sable's confused expression only deepens. "You're Whitney?" She says. "I don't believe it."
"Did Psycho McMoneybags upstairs kill Ally's mom and dad?" You demand.
Sable rubs her forehead. "Alex, please see this awful girl out. This isn't the time to talk about this--"
You grab her shoulders and wheel her backwards a few steps. Just to show her who's in control (you, duh). She tenses in your grip.
"This is exactly the time," you say. "What do you know?"
"We launch in two hours!" Sable says. "Unhand me! I'm not going to let myself be browbeaten by some idiot lesb--"
You slap her. Her head jerks, she clutches at her reddening cheek.
"Whitney! Stop!" Alex cries. He pulls you off of Sable. "I told you not to get carried away!"
"Try again," you say. "What do you know?"
"If I answer you," Sable says, "will you go away?"
"Maybe."
She shakes her head and seethes. But then she tells you.
Alabaster, Amber, Anna: Camelia, Catachresis, Galatea. A lot of it goes over your head, but you understand the important bits. Eyeballs getting plucked out, weird doohickeys getting shoved in. Would Darkbloom kill to keep this information from getting out? Sable claims she doesn't know, but you're still skeptical.
She also explains that she disagrees with Darkbloom's methods. Sable is a weirdo, one of those crazy genius types, but you can at least believe she's honest about this. The way she describes her desire to improve the world sounds genuine. And importantly, she didn't have anything to do with Darkbloom's fuckery insider Ally's skull. (You do some slow mental math to confirm this. If Ally was 5 at the time, and Sable is 26... that means... carry the 2... okay, she was too young to be doing surgeries at the time. You think.)
Near the end of Sable's explanation, her PC makes a ding.
"Ping," she says.
"It was more of a ding to my ears," you say.
She uses her feet to scoot her chair up to her desk again. "Ping," she repeats. "It pinged."
"What pinged, Ms. Guiteau?" Alex asks.
Sable pulls up a browser window that shows a map of the world. She zooms in on a pin indicator: an address in Oakland. "Penelope. It pinged."
"Who is Penelope?" You say.
"Not who. What. This is it... this is what I needed. I could complete Sand Reckoner tonight--"
Sable busily writes down the address. She hands it Alex. "Go there. I'm authorizing you to spend however much money they want for it. $10 million, $100 million, it doesn't matter. You have the full faith and credit of Darkbloom Analytics backing you up. Can I trust you?"
Alex salutes her. He actually salutes her, the dork. "Yes, Ms. Guiteau! If you need this-- whatever it is--"
You grab the paper from him. "What is this shit, the army? Why do you need this Penelope thing so bad?"
"Do you want to know the truth about what happened to Alabaster's parents? About anything you ever wondered? Penelope is the biological interface needed to go alongside my work. Their union is the final step in realizing Sand Reckoner. I was going to have to find a way rebuild it from scratch... but there it is, just a few miles away..."
You look at the sheet of paper in your hands.
If nothing else, having possession of this device, whatever it is, would be -- what's the word? -- leverage.
>[x] Go.
[ ] Refuse.
And:
>[x] See Darkbloom on your way out.
[ ] Blow him off.
You and Alex sit across from Darkbloom in a lush executive dining room. You hungrily gnaw on a lobster tail.
"It pinged," Darkbloom says.
"Seriously?" You say. "First of all, how do you know? Second of all, it was a ding. I swear you people need to get your ears checked. It was totally a ding. 'Ding'. Like that."
Darkbloom steeples his fingers. "I would go myself, or send someone, but it wouldn't do. She would know I'm coming. So you're the perfect person for this. If you--"
He stops, grimacing. "Whitney, please stop splashing butter everywhere. It's unseemly."
"Are you kidding me?" You say. "I'm eating on the run here. I gotta cram this five star shit down my mouth while I can." You cup a hand over your mouth. "Hey, waiter! More lobster! And some fucking coke, too!"
"Do you mean Coca-Cola, miss?" he says uncertainly.
"Yeah!" You look back at Darkbloom, laughing. "What did Ask Jeeves over there think I wanted, cocaine? Haha."
Alex stares at his lap, blushing.
"You're an interesting girl, Whitney," Darkbloom says.
"And you're an asshole." You point at him with the remains of your lobster tail. "You killed Ally's parents. Fucking prove you didn't."
"I cannot prove it, but I can answer your questions with full transparency. I'd like to get to know you better. I think we could make a good team."
"Enough with this dark side bullshit, Vader. Why do you need this MacGuffin?"
"MacGuffin?"
"It's a reference. Look it up--"
"It's an important part of my life's work," Darkbloom says. He launches into an explanation about ending suffering or some stupid shit, and you pretend to fall asleep.
"Fine," Darkbloom says, tossing his napkin on the table. "I see the details don't interest you. That's all right, being a big picture thinker is the mark of a gifted intelligence. So how's this. If you retrieve Penelope, deliver it to Alabaster - I'm sure you trust him, if you don't trust me. He'll understand the need to turn it over, in due time."
"Mmmff mff," you say through a mouthful of food - your attempt at "whatever."
"The woman who has it is dangerous," Darkbloom warns. "You've already overpowered her once, but try to use a softer touch this time. You can win her over through your shared connection to Alabaster."
You swallow hard. "Camelia?" You say.
"Indeed. She thinks she knows everything, but she has her blind spots. Alabaster is one. That device, in her hands, could do irreparable damage. It is imperative that, if nothing else, Alabaster has it. At least then it won't be weaponized."
---
It may have been minutes or hours - you have no way to tell time in this featureless white box. But finally, a man in a nice fitted suit enters the interrogation room. You know him already.
He sits across from you at the metal table.
"I just won $50," Agent Cohle tells you. "Agent Cooper -- remember him? -- he made a bet on how long it would be before you ended up back in this room. Put the over-under at five years. I took the under."
"Good for you," you say.
He kicks back. "Alabaster Soliloquy," he says as he flips through a manila file folder. "I never did mention -- that is one hell of a name, young man. Whoever came up with that one deserves a medal."
"It's French, actually," you say.
"Oh really? How interesting."
"Yeah. Roughly translated, it means: 'I want a lawyer.'"
Cohle sets the file folder down, laughs. "Okay, that's a good one. You got me." He leans in, elbows on the table, and keeps his voice low as if letting you in on a secret: "we can get you a lawyer, but that isn't your best move here."
You say nothing.
He leans back again, frowning. When you still say nothing, he opens the file folder, pulls out a set of glossy color photos, and arrays them on the shiny tabletop. They make your stomach turn: gory pictures of men in biker gear with their heads split open. You look away.
"Pretty sick stuff, yeah," Cohle says. "I'm gonna cut the bullshit here. These men you helped kill are Russian mob. Very, very nasty people. When things like this happen to their footsoldiers, they repay the favor - and then some. Have you ever seen a man flayed alive?"
You close your eyes and shake your head.
The door of the room clicks open. Noelle enters.
"Hello liar," you say.
"Hello murderer," she replies. She glances down at her partner. "I'll take it from here, Cohle."
He bites his tongue, even if he doesn't seem happy about it, and leaves the room. He takes the photos with him.
"I want a lawyer," you repeat.
"You're not getting one," Noelle says simply.
"Excuse me? That isn't--"
She kicks the table, causing its legs to screech across the floor, and you to jump back in fright. "Shut up," she commands.
You obey.
"You're not getting a lawyer. This is a matter of national security, which means all those warm and fuzzy constitutional rights they taught you about in civics? Superseded. You've got one chance here, Mr. Soliloquy. I'm offering you a sweetheart deal, since I like you so much, and you've got good taste in anime. If you tell me everything I want to know before I walk out that door again, you'll have immunity. Your friends, too. The US government won't press a single charge against you - you'll walk free. It's called 'queen for a day.' So what do you say, Alabaster? Do you feel like a queen?"
You fold your arms and stare her down. She stares you right back.
You think she's serious.
And what's more, despite doing your best not to show it, you're about ready to shit yourself.
Directly refusing your request for a lawyer cannot be legal. And if she's willing to break the law, what else is she willing to do? Is coming clean your best option?
"Don't waste my fucking time," Noelle says. "Or it's only going to get worse for you. Ever hear of extraordinary rendition? Gitmo? Waterboarding?"
You bow your head, stare at the shiny chrome tabletop. This can't be happening.
"Let's start with the 421 Boyz. Was Marquis Kang with you when you killed those Russians?"
"I..." you begin. "He--"
"What the hell is going on here?" You look up. It's Mr. Mallory.
"Did I hear your partner correctly out in the hall there?" Saul says. "You're trying to offer my client some fantasy immunity deal contingent on not speaking to a lawyer? I know you feds like botching cases, but you could at least try not to hand it to me on a silver platter. Make it at least a little hard."
Noelle only frowns at him.
Saul laughs. "If you're going to spit on the constitution like that... just put a damn burlap sack on his head and whisk him away to a black site why don't you, you wannabe fascist."
"That comes next," Noelle snaps.
Saul tilts his head just slightly, staring back at Noelle like he can't believe what he just heard.
"I'm not the local sheriff," Noelle says. "I'm the special agent in charge of the FBI's cyber crimes division. Your JD doesn't mean shit to me."
"It means a lot to the federal court system," Saul says. He shrugs. "I'm used to it not meaning much to cops, though. From the sheriff on through to special agent in charge of whatever-the-fuck. Never bothered me before, doesn't bother me now."
"Alabaster Soliloquy is suspected in a whole slew of major felonies," Noelle says, "including sabotaging Darkbloom Analytics - a major contractor with the US government on national security issues. Your adopted son is quite likely responsible for the 3/10 hack. I could, and should, throw him in a deep, dark hole where no one like you can get at him."
"Do that, and in a year's time you won't even be able to work as a mall cop," Saul growls. "I'll make sure of it."
"Or you could go in the hole with him."
Saul doesn't flinch.
"You've got 10 minutes," Noelle says.
"I'm going to record the conversation with my client," he says. "You had better not."
"Uh huh."
She steps out.
"Thank God you're here," you say as Saul sets up a tape recorder. "I was almost--"
Saul rushes you and grabs you by the collar. "What did you do?" He demands. "What did you do? You piece of shit! You ungrateful psychopath! I never should have let you inside my home! What did you do?!"
You struggle against him - impossible, with one hand chained to the leg of the table. "I didn't-- it's not--"
"Is Rose involved? Did you get my daughter mixed up in this? Tell me! So help me God, Alabaster!"
You finally push him off. "Yes," you say.
"You're a cancer," Saul says. He straightens his coat and sneers at you. "I can't believe you. I can't believe I ever let Rose and Charlotte convince me to take you in. And to keep you after the first time we went through this. You're an absolute--"
"I'm in love with your daughter," you say.
"What."
You glance away. "Don't make me say that again. Jesus."
He shakes his head. "You're cousins."
"Once rem--"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm sick of hearing that. You're also siblings -- by law. Do you think you're helping your case here by telling me you want to commit incest with my little girl?"
"I don't care what happens to me," you say. "Just make sure it doesn't get back to Rose... or Cerise... or anyone else I care about."
Saul sits down across from you. "Start from the beginning," he says.
---
You are Cerise Soliloquy, hot-shit circuit bender and champion of... well, nothing. Your life hasn't gone the way you expected.
You lie in bed, your room darkened from the setting sun by blackout curtains. You're so paralyzed with fear and trepidation, worry and regret that you can hardly move.
Alabaster has been arrested by the FBI.
Rose is confident in her father's skills as a lawyer, but you have the pessimist's outlook. You know you may never see him again.
First mom and dad.
Now your brother.
It's all Darkbloom... it all goes back to him. It's all because of him that this domino effect of catastrophe began.
As long as your heart still beats, you're going to make sure he pays.
No matter what.
A loud knock on your door snaps you out of your morbid thoughts. You clamber to your knees, adrenaline coursing through you. You wait.
The knocking comes again.
You creep out of your bedroom, towards the front door. One of Rose's guns is sitting near her fold-out bed. You can go for it if you need to. But maybe this is worse than Camelia's thugs. Maybe it's the FBI coming for you, too.
"Who's there?" You call.
"Yo, open up. It's hotter than a motherfucker out here."
Definitely not FBI. You grab the gun and hold it at your side. You open the door.
Based on the description Alabaster gave you, this must be the man known as Tyrus Kang.
"Get that gun out my face," Tyrus says.
You glance down, where you hold the gun at your side - not even pointing it at him.
"I'm just holding it," you say. "It's not in your face. Don't I still have my second amendment rights?"
"Hmmph. Where's Bastard Man?" Tyrus says.
"He..." you choose your words carefully. "I'm not sure, but I think he got a visit from Mr. Blue. We're waiting for him to come home. You might want to try again later."
Tyrus squints at you. "I see what you mean. Well, let's hope he doesn't spend too much time talking to Mr. Blue, then. For his sake."
"I'd be careful about what you say," you tell him. "I don't like it when people make intimations about my brother."
"You're Crackergirl's girl, right?"
"...What?"
"Orange-hair bitch. More scared of the sun than most vampires. Watches Japanese cartoons."
"I'm not her girl anymore."
Tyrus tugs on his lapels. "That's a damn shame. You lesbians are so promiscuous and shit. That's why I hate seeing the L lumped in next to the G. Totally different worlds."
"I'm not a lesb--"
"No, of course not." He winks at you. "Look. I need to talk to you in private. This pertains to you, too."
Your hand twitches against the gun.
"Jumpy," he says. "No wonder you got along with Crackergirl. I'd call you two peas in a pod, but it's more like two Mexican jumping beans in a pod."
"Go away."
"I think you missed what I just said. Come take a ride with me."
>[x] Go.
[ ] Refuse.
Tyrus drives a car that's not nearly as ostentatious as his clothes. It's a beamer, but other than the prominent BMW insignia, it's not a car that would turn heads.
"Are we good to talk here?" You say as Tyrus drives.
"Yeah, I'm all Faradayed and shit in here."
"What do you want with my brother?"
"He's gonna blow up Darkbloom Analytics for me."
"For you? What the hell does the king of the garbagemen want to do that for? What's in it for you?"
Tyrus drums his fingers on his steering wheel. "I'm an upwardly mobile individual," he says. "Picture this. You start as a little kid, slinging dime bags on the corner in a Baltimore hood. Get in tight with the local legitimate businessmen. Make some connections, grow your territory, set up alliances. Gangster shit. Then you get outed. So you move out to the coast where people of your - proclivities - are more accepted. Make a real nice life for yourself. But you've still got that gangster cachet to fall back on. Owning a company isn't different, not really. Most CEOs are gangsters, you can look that up online, that's the truth."
"Get to the point. Good lord."
"Point is, I'm still upwardly mobile. I been picking up your trash and cleaning the literal shit out of your drinking water for 15 goddamn years now, why? Because you rich Silicon Valley idiots don't think anyone goes through the things you throw out. But we do. And so now Darkbloom Analytics blows its lid, who gets called in to clean it up? The biggest and best equipped waste management company in the bay area. Me. I get to come in and cart off whatever isn't blown to shit, then sell it to the highest bidder. Millions of dollars in singed circuits and half-ruined pieces of failed R&D. All for the taking."
"That's it? You partnered with Camelia to make a quick buck?"
"That's just the side hustle. See, I'm a smart investor." He taps his temple. "I'm what you call highly diversified. I got millions sitting in Dakbloom's third-string competitors, little guys trying to nip at his heels." He makes Pac-Man nipping motions with one of his hands. "All the Davids just waiting for Goliath to keel over. When he does, my investments mature. I get on the Forbes 500 overnight. All for the cost of a little fertilizer and the aggravation of working with you crazy motherfuckers."
So that's all this is to him. No personal motivation, no vengeance quest, no anger, just bloodless money-lust. It's all business.
Tyrus looks at you. He isn't smiling anymore. "You better hope the cops release your brother pretty fucking quick," he says. "And that he didn't squeal."
"We got him a lawyer."
"Yeah. Listen, I burned an important bridge last night. You fuck with the Russians, that means you're in open war. It's gonna suck a fat shit, and on top of that I won't have my favorite revenue streams open to me anymore. Which means the ones Bastard Man is supposed to open, had better open soon. I'm gonna miss those fucking Superdollars."
It feels like circling a drain: no matter how much you try to get away, you always come looping back. Tyrus drives you to Camelia's apartment. Or rather - Galatea's apartment.
You dither as Tyrus steps out of his car. He comes around and taps impatiently on the passenger side window. His voice is muted from the outside. "You're not my fuckin valet. Let's go, lady."
You crack the door. "You didn't tell me you were taking me here."
"Tough shit. If Bastard Man isn't available, you're the next best thing. Period Blood wants the honor of your presence."
You grimace. "Why do you call her that?"
"Because she's always wearing red, like she's a fuckin Blood -- and she's always acting pissy, like she's on her period."
You shake your head. "I told you I'm not with Gal anymore. I don't want to see her."
"You figure that relationship shit out on your own time. You're on the fucking clock here. Don't waste my time. Or my money."
You get out and follow him upstairs.
Across from the apartment's front door, Marquis is leaning languidly, one foot resting on the door of a different apartment.
He smiles when he sees Tyrus round the corner. "It's all done," he says, holding up his baseball bat like a proud child. The business end is red with gore.
"Jesus," Tyrus says. "Clean that shit up. We don't need a john coming by and seeing you."
He curtsies. "Sure thing, Tyty."
They kiss - with tongue - and Marquis disappears inside the other apartment. You catch a whiff of copper. You shudder.
Inside Gal's apartment, she's sitting on the floor, cross-legged, slack-jawed. The video of the operation on Camelia is playing on the TV screen, although the sound is muted. Gal watches Darkbloom's hands snipping and twisting and digging -- then rewinds, and watches again.
You feel ill.
"Gal..." you say.
She looks up at you. "oh. oh..."
She turns off the TV and tries to crawl away, but you kneel down and catch her. "What's going on?" You ask her. "Why does that awful woman want to see me?"
"it can all be over soon," Gal offers, unhelpfully.
"I don't--"
"Oh, hey." You look up, towards the sound of the voice: it's Whitney. She's with Camelia. And Alex, of all people.
"I thought it was gonna be way harder," Whitney says. "But it turns out, Camelia and sexy Velma over there are actually pretty cool. They handed Penelope right over."
"Penelope?" You say.
Whitney holds up the device you found in the desert. "Yeah. She wants me to give this to David Darkbloom. So does David Darkbloom! Crazy, huh?"
END OF EPISODE 12.