You are Alabaster Soliloquy, reader of over 177,013 different doujins and recently free man. You fought the law, and you won.
Camelia sits with you in Cerise's living room after you wake up from your first full night of sleep in a while.
She lazily twirls a spoon in a plastic cup. "Back at it, then?" She says, and then takes a sip.
"I guess. After my last conversation with Sable I'm not sure if I'm fired or what, but I should probably keep showing up to work until someone tells me."
Camelia smacks her lips. "You don't have to. You could always find out how cool it is to be an unemployed piece of shit."
"Uh huh. What the hell are you drinking?"
"Found an old tub of Tang in Cerise's cabinet. Want some? I could make you a glass."
You stand and start to get dressed. Camelia watches you with interest. "More for me, then," she says, shrugging, when you don't reply.
"Did Cerise already leave?" You ask as you tuck in your polo shirt. The rough cotton fabric makes you itchy. You hate this business casual shit.
"About half an hour ago. She's supposed to meet with her boss to talk Senate testimony."
You rub your forehead. Your sister on national television - ugh. "No one actually watches C-SPAN, right?"
"I think /csg/ does," Camelia offers.
You grimace.
Outside the apartment, you lean with both elbows against the banister facing the sparse courtyard abutting Cerise's unit. The early morning sun and birdsong annoy the hell out of you.
Camelia joins you. "You still in?" She asks. "After everything last night."
So that's why she invited herself over. You consider the question. "There won't be anyone inside the building... when it happens, right?"
"Give me some credit. I'm not a complete maniac," Camelia offers.
"Tyrus and his manservant are, though. They murdered those people who live across from you."
"One thing at a time. First Darkbloom, then Tyrus."
"Aren't you ambitious."
Camelia smiles. "Anyway, Gal can get the building evacuated before we hit the shiny red button. There's no problem."
You sigh, watching a few people down below as they walk the small path through the apartment complex -- hurrying on their way to another boring day at work, oblivious. You wish you could remember a time when you had a normal routine like that, without all this insanity around you.
"You know I'm starting to get it," you say, looking from the courtyard over to Camelia beside you. "When my parents died, I was so angry. For years, even. But I didn't know who to be angry at. I guess I was angry at myself. Now that I know the truth... it's more than just anger. It's hatred. So much I could choke on it."
"Hatred is one of the most useful emotions there is," Camelia says. Her good eye sparkles and her fiery red hair practically glints in the sunlight.
"So I understand you now," you continue. "Why you've been so... so Camelia about all of it."
Camelia blinks.
"You're still an absolute cunt," you add. "But at least it makes sense. I'd be a cunt too if I had to live with this hatred inside of me for so long."
"You're a cunt anyway," Camelia says. She bumps your shoulder with hers, sending you tottering for just a moment.
You chuckle, but then you notice Camelia wiping tears away from her reddening face and sniffling.
"Are you--" you begin.
"No!" Camelia shouts. She quickly finishes wiping her face and sniffles back mucus. "Shut the fuck up. Idiot. Asshole. I have spring allergies."
"Camelia..."
"It's good to be understood," she says, softly. "I'm glad I was able to get through to even a dumb motherfucker like you." She puts a fist to her lips and clears her throat, stands straight. But her voice begins to quaver again as she continues: "Listen... whether you're in or out, from now on -- don't forget. Don't forget the truth. Darkbloom is the devil, you understand me? He's going to try to fill your head with lies and evil and temptation. All that shit. Don't let him. Don't let him, Alabaster."
In or out: that's the question.
The plan has three critical parts that have to go off all at the same time - while Darkbloom is sitting in front of the Senate.
During his testimony, Kay will break the story of Darkbloom's human experimentation. That will give his questioners something to talk about, and Darkbloom no time to prepare a slick deflection.
Simultaneously, Gal will leak damaging information she gathered from the hack in March: proof of corruption running deep in Darkbloom's circles.
As the Senate is grilling him over being a hybrid between Dr. Mengele and an early 1900s robber-baron, you are supposed to put the final nail in his coffin: by blowing up his company. This is key. It's the part that ensures no enterprising investors can pick up the reins and continue Darkbloom's work after he is out of the picture.
It's a three-prong attack from which neither Darkbloom Analytics nor its CEO could hope to recover. David Darkbloom will walk into the Senate as the most powerful man on the planet and walk out completely ruined, possibly in custody.
You just have to decide whether you're going to be part of it.
>[x] I'm in.
[ ] I'm out.
[ ] Delay the decision.
[ ] Custom?
Camelia nods. Uncharacteristically, she has nothing else to say. Maybe she can't bring herself to speak. You can hear her breath shuddering a bit on every inhalation, some mixture between excitement, trepidation - and relief. Relief to have an ally.
"By the way," you say. "I was starting to think it was some kind of chuuni thing, but I guess there really is something freaky behind that eyepatch, huh?"
This brings Camelia back to sorts. "I told you when we met, moron. It's my evil eye."
"It still works?"
Camelia takes a deep breath. "It hurts, which is why I keep it covered. But yeah. It works, all right." She reaches up with a trembling hand. Slowly, she peels back the eyepatch.
The skin around her other eye is badly scarred - and dark, like someone chronically sleep-deprived. The eye itself is milky white, like it's blind, although the hint of a brilliant blue iris is still visible. The pupil is nothing but a tiny dot of pure black in the middle. Camelia hisses in apparent agony as she bares the eye to the world. She focuses it on you.
"Your favorite breakfast cereal is Cap'n Crunch, but you haven't had a bowl of it since 10:54 AM on Saturday February 3 - which is probably why you're craving it right now. You really liked baking for everyone a few days ago even though it's embarrassing, and you'd like to find an excuse to do it again. The last time you had sex was at 3:29 PM, yesterday afternoon. Your partners were Sable Guiteau and Alex Best in a threesome. You admitted your feelings about Rose Mallory to her father last night at 10:08 PM but went right back to texting insults at her when you got released from FBI custody. You're afraid of not having control and you're self-conscious about your relatively average height. You need to brush your teeth."
She says all of this at a dizzying speed, without pausing to breathe. When she's done she puts the eyepatch back on, suddenly looking woozy. She steadies herself against the banister and rubs her eyes, still off-kilter, looking like she's in serious pain.
"You... you saw all of that through your implant?"
"Most of it," she says, her voice weak. "I didn't need the implant for the part about your teeth."
You cup a hand over your mouth and check your breath. "I'll be right back," you say.
When you come back, with hopefully more tolerable breath, Camelia is still leaning in pain against the railing outside Cerise's apartment.
"I've never shown that to anyone," she says. "Not even Gal. I hate how ugly it is."
"You gonna be okay?" You ask.
"It takes a lot out of me. That's why..." She trails off, then starts again. "It doesn't just hurt. Every time I do it, I see him. And he sees me."
"...Darkbloom?"
"Can't get anything past you, huh."
You become suddenly fearful. "So he knows you're here?"
"He knows we're talking. But he already knows we've been talking. That's why he asked you to kill me."
You shake your head.
"I have no fingerprints," she says. "I melted them off when I was 13. No social security number. No bank account. And no name. No one knows who I am. But when I open my evil eye, he can see me all the same. There's no getting away."
You're not sure what to say to this.
"I'll be okay," Camelia says after a beat. "In a little while." She leans her forehead against the cold metal banister, making an impression on her forehead.
"Have you ever heard of the hammer method?" you ask. "For headaches."
"What?"
"So you don't know everything after all. If you've got a bad migraine, you can make it go away by hitting yourself in the hand with a hammer. Or..."
"I don't know what the f--"
You reach around her and grab the eyepatch. Before she can react, you tug it so the elastic goes taut, then let it snap back against her face. The shock and sudden smarting of it makes her squeak -- the sound is actually not far from "au" -- and she stumbles back in a combination of low-level pain and high-level anger.
"What the FUCK is wrong with you?" She hollers.
You shrug. "I can't help it. Didn't your implant tell you that I like to bully cute girls?"
"You-- I-- it--" She chokes on her own words. Your little comment has short-circuited Camelia's brain, clearly.
"You're not thinking about your headache anymore, though. Are you?"
"You are the WORST. The fucking worst. God."
Camelia is still ranting indignantly when all of a sudden her good eye bulges, and she stops mid-sentence.
"What's wr--" you begin.
"Stasi."
"What? What does East Germany have to do with this?"
"Stasi is coming."
"Stasi ARE coming? Don't tell me Soviet-era secret police are involved now too."
She paces in a worried circle. "I have to talk to Tyrus," she says. "I... I'll see you later."
She brushes past and jogs a bit towards the stairs. But stopping herself before she gets there, she turns and comes back to you.
"Am I in danger here, or what?" You ask.
"Unfathomable danger," she says, grabbing your collar and peering into your eyes. "Horrible, mind-boggling danger."
"I guess that's normal, then."
She kisses you - quickly and without warning.
You sputter, pulling back, although she keeps her grip on you. "Warn me next time!"
"That's an appetizer," she says. She stands on tip-toes, whispers in your ear. "We're a lot alike. I like to bully cute boys."
"Camelia--"
"I have to go. See you soon, Ally."
She runs off.
At work, you swipe your badge and pass through security, feeling more keenly than ever the watchful eyes of David Darkbloom. He isn't around, but you know he's here, somewhere. It creeps you out.
By now, Alex should have handed Penelope over to Sable.
You wonder about that. Camelia claims she wants the device inside the building when it blows up, but that excuse doesn't pass muster. Why not bash it apart with a rock or something? You don't need several tons of C4 to destroy a grain-sized piece of circuitry. She's playing at something else.
You go to the cafeteria and grab some much-needed breakfast - you haven't eaten in almost 24 hours. As you sit and nibble at bacon and toast, you consider what to do with your day. It would be kind of weird to report to Sable as if nothing unusual happened yesterday, right? You more or less quit your job the last time you spoke. But you're curious what she's going to do with that device. And if anyone can forgive an enraged outburst, it has to be Sable, right?
[ ] Report to your post as normal.
[ ] Visit with Cerise.
>[x] Custom: Look for Vivian
You pull out your phone and use the Outlook app to drop an appointment on Vivian's calendar. It's packed full of conflicting meetings from 5 AM until well past 5 PM, but you think she'll make some time for you anyway.
The title of the meeting is "Spontaneous Breakfast Date (S.B.D.)"
The attached email says:
>I have scheduled a spontaneous breakfast date with you, Vivian Darkbloom, to take place at 9:00 AM today. I hope you will accept. In the interests of increased spontaneity, feel free to push the start time of this meeting either forwards or backwards by a maximum of five minutes.
Vivian's acceptance notification comes through just a few minutes later, and at 8:55 AM sharp she's down in the cafeteria looking for you.
You wave her over to your table.
"You should come with me to the executive dining hall," she says without sitting down. "The food is much nicer there. And it isn't bustling with all of these -- people."
You glance around. The other employees are shying away, giving the two of you a wide berth. Vivian frightens them.
"I already ate," you say. "Anyway, the food is just fine here too." Using your foot, you push out the chair across from you. "Learn to commiserate with the hoi polloi once in a while."
Vivian peers skeptically at you. But finally she sits. She grabs either side of her seat with both hands and hops herself back closer to the tabletop.
"What kind of jelly do you like?" You ask.
"I rather prefer blackberry preserves," she says.
"Right. Eggs?"
"Over-easy. No bacon, please. It's too salty. Just some fruit."
"Wait here."
You get up and grab her a plate, filling it with the food she said she enjoys.
The thing about Vivian is that she eats so slowly and deliberately, you wonder how she doesn't starve to death. It's like watching a bunny rabbit all dosed on downers trying to get through a salad. Her tiny mouth nibbles tiny bites, and chews for agonizing moments before she swallows. You count: every bite she takes, she chews precisely 42 times.
"Enjoying it?" You ask.
"What is the purpose of this breakfast date?" She says, ignoring the question.
"There is no purpose," you say. "Just boredom. Don't you ever just... hang out with people?"
"No."
You nod. That makes sense.
"Your sister is preparing for her Senate testimony," Vivian says. "I worry about her fitness to act as a public-facing representative of this company."
"Don't," you say. "She can handle herself."
"Mm." Vivian nibbles some more at her toast.
"Who else is gonna be there?" You ask.
"Father, of course. Mr. Armstrong. Mother may go, but she wishes not to. And..."
She trails off.
"And?" You prompt.
"Some people have said I may put a humanizing face on the work this company does, were I to testify. I am, apparently, a moppet."
"I wouldn't go that far," you say, frowning. "Actually, you might have the opposite effect. You might make the Senate think Darkbloom is in the business of building androids that mimic humans."
"You are intolerably cruel, Alabaster."
"See - like that." You shrug, then point at her, elbow on the tabletop. "Most girls wouldn't say 'you are intolerably cruel.' They'd just say something like, 'you jerk!' Try it."
"You are a jerk." She puts a weird emphasis on the word "jerk," like verbal scare quotes.
"No. Still too stilted. Just: 'you jerk.'"
"That phrasing is ambiguous and would therefore create potential confusion. The target may think 'jerk' is being used as an intransitive verb - as a command."
"I promise you that no one thinks about intransitive verbs but you. You little robot."
She murmurs to herself. "You-- jerk."
You act aghast. "You want me to jerk? Well, if you insist..."
"You jerk!"
"That's the spirit."
She bows her head, focuses on eating.
"Forget about what other people are saying. Do you want to testify?" You finally ask.
She shrugs, her little shoulders lolling. "I am uncomfortable in public situations. However, I want to protect my father in any way I can."
You cringe. If Camelia's plan works, this poor girl is going to find out some very dark things about her father - and she may never see him again.
[ ] Encourage her to testify.
>[x] Encourage her not to.
[ ] Provide no advice.
"You don't think your dad can protect himself?" You ask. "He's one of the richest and most powerful people on Earth. He's fine."
"I see the doubt in his eyes," Vivian says. She sounds even gloomier than usual. "He tries not to let it show, but I can see it. It's the special connection fathers and daughters share. I can tell he's worried."
"Don't get hung up on it," you say. "If he wasn't worried, he'd hardly be human. That doesn't mean he won't..." you let that thought hang in the air, unfinished. You don't want to promise her that her father will get through this mess, because your entire plan is to make sure he doesn't. Instead you try this: "at some point, you have to do what's right for you. And worry about yourself first."
"What's right for father is also what's right for me," she says.
This girl's devotion to that bastard is going to kill you.
Vivian pushes her plate away. "It was nice to put some food on my stomach," she says, wiping her lips daintily with the corners of a napkin. "Thank you, Alabaster Soliloquy."
You glance down. "You barely ate half your food."
"I was only peckish."
You tut at her, but decide to let it pass.
"Do you mind if I accompany you to the conference room?" she says.
"...Conference room?" You stammer.
"It's nearly time for your presentation. I am in the first cohort. I thought it would be best to get it out of the way -- such meaningless, pointless dreck -- an utter waste of time. No offense intended. I know this was primarily the idea of your first cousin once removed."
Oh god. She's right. You're supposed to give your first round of sensitivity training with Rose today.
>[x] Let's go.
[ ] I'm sorry, I have other plans.
You enter the vast, amber-lit conference hall on the fifth floor, where a full house already awaits. Public speaking doesn't frighten you or anything, and in fact you always acquit yourself well when you do it. You despise it all the same. You'd rather be anywhere but here.
Rose smiles warmly at you as you enter. It's the first time you've seen each other since the crazy events of yesterday. You suppose you owe her something like a thank you for sending Saul to your aid. Without that, who knows where you'd be right now. Guantanamo Bay, probably. Or worse.
Vivian scurries to take her place front and center in the auditorium. Despite her distaste for the concept of sensitivity training, she seems at least excited to see you speak. She trips over people's feet as she side-steps and crab walks past their seats. She's moving so swiftly that even in their panic, they cannot get out of her way quickly enough. She stubs her toe at one point, letting out a pained little "oof" -- before finally settling in an empty chair near the middle of the front row.
You throw your arms wide as you stride past the crowd yourself now, towards the little table where Rose sits demurely with her laptop hooked up to the giant projector screen. "I'm here, thanks for waiting," you tell Rose loudly enough for the whole room to hear. "Now we can begin, woman."
Rose's only outward sign of frustration a little huff and a slight shake of her head. She faces the room. "Alabaster is kicking things off with a little role-playing to show what inappropriate workplace conduct looks like."
"That's right," you aver, sitting down right beside her and getting yourself wired up with a mic. "Rose and I are super into roleplaying. We roleplay all the time."
The room snickers. Rose turns a shade of red. Still smiling, she mutes her mic and whispers out of the corner of her mouth, stealthily, with the skill of a ventriloquist: "don't fuck this up, Alabaster. I'm warning you."
You scribble on a piece of paper and pass it to her.
It says, simply: "thank you for yesterday."
Rose's reaction to this is like a little kid opening a present on Christmas. She blinks rapidly and stares at the paper like she can't believe it. The mood whiplash here is evident on her face.
You catch Steven Armstrong's eye. He's up front, near Vivian. "Steven," you say chummily, "is there any kind of sign up sheet or proof of attendance we need to pass around?"
He shakes his head. "That's an HR thing. You'll need to ask Spancer. I handle nothing personnel, kid."
"Well, we'll do it like this," you tell the room. "Send an email to Rose confirming that you attended today. That'll be your proof that you were here."
Rose closes her eyes and sighs in frustration. She can already picture her inbox getting cluttered up, you're sure of it.
But she's back to it in no time. That's Rose for you: the perfect socialite, the perfect presenter. How many student council speeches of hers did you try to ruin by getting under her skin? You hardly ever succeeded.
"Alabaster," she says, "Since you're so talkative, why don't you begin? You're as well acquainted with the presentation as I am."
She cues the introduction slide onto the projector screen. So she wants to play like that -- throw you off your game, too.
You look back at the giant powerpoint slide. "Right," you say. "The purpose of today's presentation... racial sensitivity... sexual harassment... inclusion... uh..." You look back at the crowd. "Basically, the purpose of today's presentation is to hammer home how awful straight white guys like me are."
"Straight?" Rose cuts in.
You stutter only a little bit as you continue: "And to make sure that we keep those people in check, because otherwise they'd go around punching black people and raping women all day long. Anything else you'd like to say, Rose?"
"No," she says to the crowd, folding her hands one on top of the other. "Just what Alabaster said -- only unironically."
She clicks forward to the next slide. "As you may have read in the news, Silicon Valley has a problem with so-called 'bro culture'. I think Alabaster has cut right to the heart of the problem, even if he doesn't realize it, so we'll begin with some headlines from other companies that we definitely don't want to see repeated here..."
You zone out while Rose continues her little spiel. It honestly bores you to tears, which is why you haven't bothered to even review the presentation since you put it together with her a couple weeks ago. Instead, you find your eyes wandering -- and notice that the table you're seated at has a cloth over the top of it which goes almost all the way down to the floor. A perverted synapse fires in your brain as you see this.
"...and of course, the less said about Google, the better," Rose is saying. "Hopefully we'll own them soon enough, so behavior like THAT can be curbed..." Uncomfortable laughter from the audience at this.
Rose tenses as if struck by lightning as your hand begins to wander up her thigh.
Your grip is feather-light, but unmistakable against the fleshy contours of her upper leg. Like a champ, though, she hardly misses a beat. "Sexual harassment," she continues, "is one of the most pervasive and problematic aspects of modern Silicon Valley culture. In workplaces around the valley-- ghh--!!"
You've only just flipped up her pleated skirt, but that's enough to shock her silent for a palpable moment.
"It's a really big problem," you add, filling in the silence for her, as your palm against her soft skin wanders north, nearly to the outer edges of her plump butt.
"R-right," Rose says. "And many companies have suffered.... e-extremely expensive litigation because of it..." she clicks forward to another slide.
Rose's ass is like putty, all give, as you swipe your hand underneath her. She jostles in place and you notice a fat pearl of sweat form on her brow. She has absolutely no idea how to handle this. You're molesting her, there's no mistaking it - openly and in public. She can't leave, because she's in the middle of presenting, and she can't bear the humiliation of letting on that you're touching her like this. You have her completely trapped.
"P-please..." she stammers, minimizing the powerpoint presentation and hurriedly navigating through her desktop. "Uh... please, watch this short video a-about..."
You grab her tightly, squeezing the globe of her ass with all your strength. She squeaks loudly before going on.
"S-s-s-ssexual m-misconduct... the v-video... it's quite illuminating..."
A bland training video fills the projector screen. Rose is too taken aback by what you're doing to even move the mouse cursor out of the way, so it hovers in place over the bad acting, and the progress bar stays in place over the bottom.
She has the presence of mind at least to mute her mic again. "What are you doing?" she hisses. "Take your hands off of me, you... you pig... nnn~"
She grimaces and grits her teeth as your finger tickles her deliciously tight, puckered anus.
"You... are... the worst..." she whispers.
"I've been getting that lately," you whisper back. "But you didn't wear panties today... so isn't this kind of your fault?"
"You TOLD me..."
"Sexual harassment," the narrator in the video intones. "It could happen to you."
You take your hand from her butt and move it around to the front, towards her already wettening crotch. "See?" you whisper. "You like it. You like it when I touch you... you're just a fucking slut. That's why you came here without panties, isn't it."
"FUCK you," she sneers, and even though she's whispering, the confused glances from the front row must mean it was loud enough for others to hear. Vivian in particular seems way more interested in the weirdness happening at the presenter's table than what's going on in the video.
Rose's little pussy is as soft and pliable as the rest of her, and it drools lewdly over your fingers. She tries, too late, to clamp her legs shut to deny you access. All this does is trap your hand against the searing heat emanating from her needful genitals.
The video isn't long, and as you rub against her creaming cunt and her flexing thighs - as she squirms and fidgets in her seat - you notice the progress bar is getting pretty close to the end. She'll have to take over again, and soon.
You take control of the mouse while Rose isn't looking and close the video prematurely, just to really put it to her.
She snaps her head up, no longer focused on the lewd sensations in her cunt. The whole room's eyes are on her.
"That's enough of that," you say. "Rose, let's get back to the real meat of the presentation. Take it away..."
You punctuate this by shoving your index finger inside of her. Her velvety smooth hole gives way instantly and accepts you, oozing girlcum all around you.
Rose is sweating and deeply flushed. She tries, and fails, to regain her composure. "T-the key component," she says, "fff-- the key component - of any sexual harassment policy-- fff-- is always-- is always-- FUCK..."
A shocked little gasp in the room at this. Rose tries to right the sinking ship.
"The key component is the red light... yellow light... green light... green light... green light..."
She humps rhythmically against your invading digits, as you slip another inside her. Her voice goes staccato and she moans in spite of herself, for the whole room to hear.
"Jerk me off," you whisper from the corner of your mouth.
She looks at you. Her eyes go wide, a silent plea -- begging you not to make her.
You're not going to bend. "Do it, you fucking cunt."
Her hand reaches down surreptitiously and finds your zipper. She undoes it and pulls out your already leaking cock. The cool air of the conference hall feels wonderful against its insistent heat and hardness. She wraps her fingers around you, softly. You can feel her shaking, and it only adds to your pleasure.
She tries to continue presenting her slides. "L-like a traffic signal, it's a method to... assess... the appropriateness of a situation... oh GOD..."
Her pussy spasms around your fingers and you feel little spurts of her cream from deep inside. She begins to tug your dick in earnest now -- whether out of fear of what you might do if she refuses, or perhaps because she's getting into it, too.
The pleasure of being jerked off in front of hundreds of people without their knowledge is utterly decadent. You can actually feel your cockhead pulse and dribble every time her warm, smooth palm passes over it.
"...yellow means d-danger, and... and... green... means... go! Go! Green means do it! Fuck! Do it! Do it for me!"
Utterly forgetting herself, Rose grabs your arm and leans against it, forcing your fingers deeper inside and practically using you as a living dildo. Simultaneously, she tightens her grip against your prick, too. She jerks you off so quickly and with so much force that you're sure the sound of it is picking up on the microphone. The crowd, whispering among themselves, seems unsure whether Rose is ill, crazy, or... something else entirely.
But you know the truth. Despite her insistence that she hates this, she loves it, and she's cumming herself fucking stupid. She's addicted to this feeling and she wants to make you cum, too.
You need to take this over from her, or the crowd will realize what's going on. You grab the clicker and try to read the bullet points... something about paying attention to the feelings of others and putting yourself in their shoes. You read by rote, but your vision is going all blurry and you're really paying attention to the swaying, sweating, cumming girl gripping you tightly - to her hand that's doing its best to bring you off.
"So..." you say, clearing your throat, "the main skill we seek to impart-- is empathy-- uhhh, emp-a-thy--"
You grunt slightly as Rose's long fingers, slick with your precum, unfurl to tickle your balls at the same time as she masturbates you.
"Empathy is the most important thing... so that we can all... we can all come..." you stutter. "So we can all come... come..." your balls tighten and you can feel the semen racing up your shaft. You're getting as blissed-out and stupid as Rose, despite yourself. You take your hand from her pussy and throw it over her shoulder, in a way that might seem friendly. She leans against you, eyes half-lidded, still masturbating you shamelessly.
"So we can all... come... to a common understanding..." you grunt, your voice deep and gravelly. "R-right, Rose?"
"Yes..." she coos. "So we can all come..."
Your neck muscles tense and your legs go rigid. You brush her cheek with the hand that was so recently inside of her and she takes this as a cue to suck your fingers clean. She actually latches onto your fingers with her lips, in full view of the audience, and sucks her own cum off of them. The slurping is achingly loud and definitely picks up on the mic.
This is finally enough to send you over the edge. You cum in thick spurts all over her fingers and she sighs in exhilaration, staring wantonly down at the sight, one hand curled to her chin. She keeps sucking your fingers clean. You buck and whinny, totally at her mercy - her tongue finding the crevices between your fingers, her palm squeezing out your pearl-white semen as she watches on with smug satisfaction - how did it end like this?
You lean in and soon your forehead is resting against the cloth tabletop. Rose is still resting against your shoulder. Neither of you are even pretending to present.
"I think we should all take a break," you hear Vivian Darkbloom's voice announce. "Let us continue in fifteen minutes."
After the break, you and Rose have both managed to find the composure necessary to get through the final hour or so of slides, although the tiredness in both your voices must be evident to the crowd. You find it hard to care any longer.
As they disperse, still somewhat confused by the wanton display (you can already picture the rumor mill beginning to churn), Rose gives you a glare that could down a bull elephant.
"You're horrible," she tells you. She shuts her laptop and packs it away in her messenger bag.
"We went over this. If you didn't want it to happen, you would have worn panties. It's your fault that you got molested."
"You're a pervert. You're WORSE than a pervert. You're a fucking rapist... a worthless, disgusting little worm! How dare you make a mockery of my presentation like that?"
"Bitch, bitch, bitch," you say. "Is that all you ever do?"
"When you least expect it..." she says, simmering with raw hatred, "I'm going to get even. Fucking bank on it, you piece of shit."
"Like you could ever get the drop on me. How are you going to get even? Bore me to death with another powerpoint presentation?"
"I've gotten even before. I can do it again."
You laugh cruelly. "That's just what you think. Maybe I'm only trying to gaslight you into believing you can have some kind of control, when really, you don't..."
"I--"
"You think you've got me pegged, Rose, but you don't. And you never will." You stand. "The truth is, you're always bound to lose. And you love it."
Her gaze is one of barely contained hatred but you can see her shaking too, almost imperceptibly.
"Same time tomorrow, huh?" You say. "Make sure you don't wear panties to the next one, either. You'll regret it if you don't."
You step out.
>[x] Report to Sable.
[ ] Visit with Cerise.
[ ] Go home.
You hear Sable way before you get to her office: the muffled sounds of her shrieking carry and echo down the halls. And also loud banging, as of things being thrown around. Coders from her team are streaming down the hallway in the opposite direction, fleeing, and you feel like a person driving down the wrong side of the highway during a mandatory hurricane evacuation.
As you pass Ken, you ask him what's going on.
"Forget about it, pardner," he says. "Come back in a few hours. It isn't worth the risk."
You thank him for his concern, but you really need to know what's going on. Especially since you don't see Alex among the fleeing masses, and you know for sure you're going to find him in the eye of the storm.
"UNACCEPTABLE!" Is the first thing you hear as you step foot into what remains of the little coder's den outside Sable's office. Sable is marching up and down the aisles between workstations, sweeping her arms across the desktops, knocking monitors and PC towers over. Alex is following behind, just like you knew he would be, trying and failing to calm her down.
"This is UNACCEPTABLE! We cannot have a delay! Not now! NOT NOW!"
"Ms. Guiteau... Ms. Guiteau, please..." Alex begs and pleads, pausing only to jump back in fright as a PC tower clatters to the ground right in front of him and nearly lands on his toe.
"How did this happen? HOW?"
"We're working on it..." Alex says, his voice small. "We're trying to understand..."
"Working on it?!" Sable yells. She turns, grabbing Alex by the collar, and shoves him forcefully backwards. "Working on it! This is a billion dollar project dead in the water! My life's work, dead in the water! And you're working on it? That's the best you can do?"
"I--" Alex begins.
"GRAHHH!!" Sable yells, savagely, incoherently, ripping power cables from the wall. She picks up a monitor, heaving it up over her head, and tosses it against the opposite wall. It leaves a dent in the stucco. Sparks fly.
You grab Alex and tug him away, out of the room, into the hall, while Sable rages. Out of the path of fire - for now.
"What the hell?" is all you can say.
"It's the SMATTERS units... they're dying... we don't understand why..."
You nod. You have a pretty good guess why they're dying. Alex does too: "It's that awful red-headed woman, isn't it?"
"Which one?" you say.
"Take your pick!"
"The only awful red-headed woman," you say, "is--" you stop, interrupted by a particularly loud crash from within the room. "--Is in there," you finish.
"You're responsible for this!" Alex cries. "I know you are. You're sabotaging her life's work! You're sabotaging MY work!"
"I'm helping you," you insist. "In case you forgot about yesterday. Doesn't Sable have that device she wanted so badly?"
"Yes," Alex says. You've never heard so much anger in his voice. "But Mr. Darkbloom took it. He wants to make sure your terrorist girlfriend didn't do anything to it. Another delay!"
"You need to pull your head out of your ass," you tell Alex. "Sable is crazy, and she's treating you like a personal whipping boy."
"Is that any different from how you act?" He says.
You wince.
"Leave me alone, Ally. I thought you quit anyway."
"I'm here now. And I'm worried about you."
"No you aren't. You're only worried about yourself." He steps back, shaking his head. "You go and tell this to that mute lesbian hacker-girl and that revolting one-eyed bitch you've been conspiring with... whatever virus they snuck into those SMATTERS units, I'm going to root it out, and I'm going to fix them. They'll be back up and running before the end of the day, better than ever."
"Alex-- Alex, please--"
He turns and goes back into the room where Sable's shouting is only getting louder.
[ ] Leave them to it.
>[x] Follow.
Just as you step in again, Sable plops down in a chair, enervated.
"It's over..." she says. "It's all over."
Alex gets down on his knees and rests his palms on Sable's knees in turn. He peers into her eyes. "It's not over, Ms. Guiteau. I can fix this. I will! I promise I will!"
She covers her face and shakes her head. "What's the point." Her voice is flat and emotionless.
"We're too close now to quit..." he says.
You clear your throat. For the first time, Sable takes notice of you.
"Get out," she says simply.
"Does that mean you're firing me?" You ask.
"Yes. Absolutely. You're fired. Get out."
"I don't think you have the authority to do that," you counter. "I could be wrong. Maybe I'm wrong."
She looks at you like she can't believe you're a real person.
"You're a stupid, short-sighted little twit," Sable says. Her voice is still flat, despite the recriminations. "You don't understand what you're doing. Whatever Darkbloom wants with Sand Reckoner, that isn't the point... think of how much we could accomplish with perfect knowledge, as a species... no more climate change, no more hunger, no more war... humans would make it to the stars within a century. That's what you're standing in the way of."
"Is it worth the price of a little girl's life?" You ask. "Mine? My parents?"
"It's already been paid." This is Alex, standing tall, facing you down. "So why make it pointless?"
You feel like there's a gulf between you and these two people that can't be bridged. You can't make them understand the evil they're taking part in. The fact that Darkbloom isn't going to let them use their breakthroughs to do good things.
"I'm sorry," you finally manage. "Really."
"I'm sorry too, Ally."
Alex sits down at his workstation - like the lone house in a Midwestern town ravaged by a tornado, it still stands intact.
"As far as I'm concerned," Sable says, "you're an infiltrator and a saboteur. Why David retains you is beyond me, but you cannot be here any longer. Go away."
That sounds pretty final. You bow your head and go.
Whitney's cunt is snug and hot around the base of your pulsing dick. She rests in your lap, facing you, with her legs wrapped around your hips. Instead of humping up and down she just lazily gyrates, enjoying the feeling of being completely full. You kiss wetly, your tongues entwining, her breath hot against you.
When you texted Whitney about what happened earlier, and she said she'd take your mind off it, you sort of expected this. But you didn't expect it to actually work. The only thing you care about right now is the heat and tightness of Whitney's pussy, and how supple her tomboy body is in your hands.
Either Cerise or Rose could be home at any time - and much worse than that could be coming your way - but right now all you care about is Whitney's twat milking you off.
"I love you Ally... I wanna fuck you forever..." Whitney's moaning is soft and sweet, hardly more than a whisper.
You ruffle her hair and luxuriate in the pleasure of fucking her as deeply as you possibly can.
Whitney laughs, low and husky. Her flat chest heaves in delight. She looks you square in the eye, the tip of her nose touching yours. "My pussy is so much better than everyone else's... isn't it..." she coos.
You nod, unable to form a real reply. That's enough, though. Whitney shivers in your arms. Her gyrations get faster.
"Fuck..." she pants like a dog in heat. "Fuck... fuck..."
There's a knock on the front door.
"Fuck!"
Whitney leans in and tries to distract you with a kiss, but the knock comes a second time, and you pull away from her lips. "That could be important," you say.
"They can wait. I want you to cum inside me--"
You surprise Whitney by standing up -- still mated to her. You loop your hands under her butt and she keeps her arms over your shoulders to help support her weight. You walk like that together, to the door, the motion of your steps forcing your still rigid cock in and out of her welcoming hole. Her head droops and her tongue lolls out in enjoyment.
You let Whitney's back rest against the door when you get there. She turns her cheek and looks through the peephole.
"It's a little girl dressed like a vampire," she announces.
"Parasol?" You ask.
"What? Like a spray can?"
Whitney is starting to feel heavy, so you'd like to hurry it up. The erotic scenario of fucking a girl standing up is giving way to the reality that 100 pounds of muscle is awkward to hold like this. "Does she have an umbrella, I mean."
"Yeah. Black umbrella, black dress."
You clear your throat and call out: "Vivian?"
Faintly, you hear a reply: "Hello, Alabaster Soliloquy. May I come in?"
>[x] Open the door like this.
[ ] Get decent first.
[ ] Send her away for now and finish with Whitney.
"Darkbloom's kid, right?" Whitney says. "The girl who jacked you off with her panties?"
"Yeah..."
You and Whitney have an almost telepathic link, when it comes to perversion: she has the same idea as you, and takes action first. She slaps her palm against the deadbolt and wraps her fingers around the doorknob. You step back, pulling Whitney with you, and the door swings open.+-
"I came to give you thanks--" Vivian begins, before her eyes can process the scene in front of her.
"Thanks for what?" You say casually. You return to the couch and sit, settle in - thankful to not have to carry Whitney around anymore.
Vivian stands at the threshold of the apartment, immobile, like a thing turned to stone. She watches as Whitney's circular twisting around your cock begins again in earnest. Whitney grinds her mound against your crotch as she brings herself to a series of miniature orgasms.
"You can come in," you beckon. "It's okay. Just shut the door behind you."
Vivian shakes her head to bring herself back to reality, finds her bearings, and steps inside. She closes her parasol and sets it in the corner, then shuts the door behind her as instructed: good girl.
"So," you say, "thanks for what?"
"Our discussion earlier helped me come to a decision," she replies, her eyes transfixed on the spot where you and Whitney are connected. "I... ahem. I apologize if I came at a bad time."
"This-- is a perrrrfect time," Whitney slurs, her cunt making lewd squelching sounds. "You came at the EXACT right time..."
"I-- do not see what you mean," Vivian replies.
"Don't act all shy now..." Whitney says, laughing. "I know you spiked Ally's food-- tried to seduce him-- he told me all about it... since you want to fuck him too, isn't this the perfect time?"
Vivian glances away, clutching a handbag tightly in both of her small hands. Mortified.
"She TRIED to seduce me. But then she was afraid I wouldn't fit."
Whitney looks at Vivian with wolfish eyes. Like an animal sizing up prey. "Hmm... she is pretty small, isn't she? Hey, are you afraid of Ally's cock?"
Vivian nods demurely.
"You had fun, though -- what you did the other day?" Whitney prompts. "You want more..."
"I... ahem. I confess that seeing Alabaster's escapade with Rose earlier today set my mind to thinking... impure things..."
Whitney narrows her eyes at you. "You fucked Rose again?"
"She molested me!" You insist. "Under the table at some stupid meeting. It was all her fault!"
Whitney smacks you upside the head. "I don't believe you!" She says.
Even as she does this, she doesn't stop pumping her hips against you.
"Forget about that," you groan. "What are we gonna do with Vivian?"
Whitney glances back at her, smiling. "Come here..." Whitney purrs. She crooks an index finger in the air.
Haltingly, Vivian approaches the couch. When she gets close, Whitney braces herself against your shoulders and starts fucking you in a flashier way: bouncing up and down on the length of your turgid shaft like a crazy woman. She pulls all the way up to the plum-sized head, so that your cock is visible in all its angry red glory, before slamming back down again each time. Over and over, so forcefully that it drives your butt into the soft cushion of the couch and nearly takes the wind out of you.
Vivian, usually so in control of herself and her expressions, lets her jaw hang partway open in wonder as she watches Whitney work this massive piece of meat in and out of her lithe body.
"S-s-see?" Whitney pants. "It's easy... and... it f-feels s-s-sssoooo, soooo gooood...."
Vivian nods like a student in a classroom learning a new concept. In a way, that's what she is.
"D... nnnghh... Do you wanna t-try?" Whitney manages.
Vivian is emphatic. She shakes her head no, eyes full of fright.
Whitney isn't satisfied with that. She climbs off your cock, eliciting a frustrated groan from you as it leaves the soft confines of her insides and becomes fully exposed to the cool air of the living room. Whitney, stark naked, goes to this girl who's dressed like something from the Victorian era and lays a comforting hand on her shoulders.
"You wanna fuck Ally. You're just afraid he's too big for you, right? But he's not... not at all. It'll fit, I promise..."
"It could-- never--" Vivian stammers.
Whitney guides a cooperative Vivian towards you, positioning her between your legs, and then with an almost motherly touch she gets Vivian on her knees.
"Get to know it a little better," Whitney says. "Say hello. It won't bite."
Whitney is kneeling now too, nearly cheek to cheek with Vivian. But Vivian is uncertain. "You want me to say hello to Alabaster's penis."
"Not literally. Geez." Whitney grips you around the base of your dripping dick. The sight of these two girls on the floor before you is too beautiful to be believed. One, a perverted, athletic tomboy; the other, a high-class and haughty little girl who you're about to defile. Could this be any better?
"The right way to say hello to a dick," Whitney tells Vivian, her voice silk, "is to give it a kiss."
Whitney rubs your dick against Vivian's lips, smearing them with the combined juices of your mating and making them glossy. Still hesitating but not resisting, Vivian puckers her mouth into a little O and kisses you right over your piss slit. It makes an audible smooching sound. You throw your head back with a guttural moan, and a little dollop of precum oozes out.
"It likes you," Whitney says.
Vivian pulls her head back just a bit. Her eyes are glued to your veiny dick as she says: "of course it likes me. I'm starting to understand that Alabaster Soliloquy is a hopeless pervert."
"Oh, definitely," Whitney says. "And..." she snakes a hand underneath the frills of Vivian's outrageously over-stylized dress. "...so am I."
Vivian gasps. "W-what are you doing, Whitney?"
Whitney is hardly fazed. "You know my name. Did Ally tell you about me?"
"Father did... he said to look out for you."
"Are you sorry you didn't listen?" She asks.
Vivian doesn't say anything. But she does lift the hem of her dress, baring her conservative white panties, allowing Whitney unfettered access.
"Lick Ally's cock while I get you ready..." Whitney whispers in her ear.
Vivian is far from experienced and isn't sure how to manage this. She grips the sides of the couch cushions tightly, lets her jaw hang all the way open, and her tongue hang wetly out of her mouth. Instead of moving her head to service you, she lifts her entire body up and down, rubbing the flattened tongue back and forth across the sensitive underside of your penis. She stares into your eyes the whole time -- hers are full of focus and determination, and, you sense, the need for validation. You run an appreciative hand through her hair to appease her. The edges of her stretched mouth curl a bit as if smiling.
Meanwhile, Whitney has her hand down the back of Vivian's underwear and is busily violating her.
"Are you a virgin?" she demands.
Vivian nods, sending tendrils of gratifying pleasure up your spine as her tongue wags against your prick.
"How cute... I've got my fingers up a virgin's cunt... isn't that cute, Ally?"
You nod. "It's... very cute..."
"See if you can get him in your mouth," Whitney encourages. "If you can get it in your mouth, you can definitely make it fit down here..."
Using her free hand, Whitney holds Vivian by the hair on the back of her head and helps her go down on you.
Inch by inch, your dick nestles itself in the drooling wet hole of Vivian's face. She gets a little over halfway down before she starts to sputter and cough. Whitney eases up and lets her adjust to the invading member. Vivian's lips are stretched tight, blanching. Her tiny jaw looks like it's about to come dislodged. Hot spit slides down the part of your cock that isn't in her throat, and her eyes are saucers as she gazes up at you.
"Shhh..." Whitney coaxes. "You're doing good. Now let him fuck you like this."
Vivian is hardly in any position to refuse, and in any case she seemingly takes this as a challenge. She tightens her grip on the cushion's fabric and tries to force more of your cock down her welcoming gullet, but it isn't any use -- she's too small and tight, and she's gagging too much to accept any more cock meat. Instead, Whitney pulls her back, lets her breathe for a very short moment, and then brings her down again. For several minutes it's Whitney who controls the show, holding Vivian tightly by the hair and by the cunt, masturbating you with Vivian's mouth as if it were just an onahole. Vivian's eyes are still all determination and focus, even as your facefucking makes a mess of her beautiful face, covers it in shiny spit and precum, makes her dark makeup run in clumpy rivulets. With Whitney's help, this tiny girl, hardly older than a child, is sucking you off.
Finally, right before you're about to shoot off, Whitney lets up. She yanks Vivian all the way back, and your cock makes a loud 'pop' as the seal breaks between it and her lips. Vivian's breath is ragged. She falls forward, her wet face against the cushion between your legs. Your slobbery dick and nuts rest lewdly against her hair.
"She's so fucking wet..." Whitney says, voice full of delight. "She's ready. I wanna see it... I wanna see you pop her cherry..."
Vivian is still struggling to catch her breath as you and Whitney help her to her unsteady feet.
"We need to do this the right way," Whitney says. "On a bed..."
"Where--" you begin, but you quickly get the idea. Cerise's room, of course.
You princess-carry Vivian the short distance to the bedroom, Whitney leading the way, and toss her down on your older sister's queen sized bed.
"Are you ready?" You ask Vivian.
Vivian squirms a little, then raises herself onto both elbows and looks at you through eyes running whorishly with mascara. "Yes," she says, and coughs up a little bubble of precum with the effort of speaking.
"I'm gonna fuck you now," you say, a warning, giving her one last chance to turn back.
"Please..." Vivian mumbles. "Please... take my virginity, Alabaster Soliloquy."
Whitney pulls Vivian's dress up and you rub your prickhead against the darkly stained crotch of Vivian's panties. She's so fucking smooth and soft, even through the fabric of this sodden garment. Impatient and unwilling to get her properly undressed, you just pull it aside.
The little cleft of her pussy is so small that you can hardly believe it could have gotten this wet. It doesn't look ripe enough to fuck at all. But every signal Vivian sends, verbal and physical, says she wants it.
You oblige. You line yourself up with her vice-tight hole and push with all your force. And it does take all your force -- even as ready as she is, her body really is almost too little to fuck.
She grunts softly and worries her lower lip. Whitney, one hand busily working inside her own cunt as she watches this obscene display, uses her other hand to hold Vivian's reassuringly. It's at once perverted and weirdly heart-warming.
As with fucking Vivian's face, fucking her pussy is a battle of inches -- you sink in slowly, painfully slowly, her pussy lips going almost concave as you force your way in. And then you see the bulge of your cock through the little mound of her pussy - what a wonderful sight.
You don't feel any difference, but suddenly you notice a trickle of blood around the shaft of your cock. Vivian's mouth twitches, and then she smiles dreamily.
"Congratulations..." Whitney says, leaning in, kissing Vivian on the lips. "You're a woman now..."
"I am not-- on any form of-- birth control--" Vivian warns. Her voice is shaky.
"That's fine," Whitney says. She brushes the hair from Vivian's face and her masturbation quickens. "He's gonna cum inside you anyway..."
"Ghh--!" Vivian gasps. "I-is that so?" she asks you, staring at you as you begin to pump her in and out.
"Yes..." you breathe. "Yes... I-- I need to..."
You ass flexes and tightens as you hump this little girl right into the mattress. She's a ragdoll beneath you, unable to get away. Whitney showers her with adoring kisses. Vivian, lost to the pleasure, begins to return those kisses.
"Will you play with my pussy?" Whitney asks her. "Pretty please?"
Vivian nods. Whitney guides the little girl's hand to her sopping wet gash and lets her take over. Vivian might have been a virgin, but she's obviously an old hand at masturbation: her ministrations quickly get Whitney bucking her hips and rolling her eyes around in ecstasy.
"Ohhhh..." Whitney says. "You're so fucking cute... oh, that's good... yesss..."
Whitney pets Vivian's hair like a kitten while Vivian works her over. Vivian's thin, delicate fingers expertly tweak Whitney's clit. Whitney, needing more, straddles Vivian to give her better access. Vivian uses her other hand now to put three fingers inside of Whitney, corkscrewing them in and out as she continues to pleasure Whitney's sensitive clitoris.
Seeing this, one of the world's richest girls so shamelessly playing with your girlfriend's pussy, sends you over the edge.
"Are you cumming?" Whitney demands. Her tone is rough and needy. "Are you gonna fill her up? Make her your little bitch?"
Your vision goes blindingly white. You tense, slamming hard against Vivian's frail hips - once, twice, and again, bottoming out inside of her each time. You imagine you feel your cockhead pushing up past her womb, defiling even this part of her small body too.
"Fuck...!" Whitney screams. "I'm cumming too, Ally!"
Whitney and Vivian both watch as you grab Vivian's thighs and seat yourself as far as you can. You blast her deepest parts with cum, while Whitney lets out a shower of her own cum all over the girl's face and expensive dress.
"It's so... it's so hot..." Vivian moans, breathy and delirious, as you spunk her again and again, as you breed her out, as you knock her up. Her barely developed pussy spasms and cums as you fill her with seed.
You no sooner pull out of the tight hole you just came inside of, than Whitney is there, in between Vivian's legs, her mouth latched onto her pussy. Vivian writhes around on Cerise's bed with her eyes closed tightly, both hands running through Whitney's hair, as Whitney sucks your cum out. You can't believe your eyes.
GIRLS FUCKED: 4/9
Whitney slams back a Coors Light while Vivian sips demurely on a Shirley Temple. After fucking her, it was only proper to take her to dinner too, right? Let no one say you're not a gentleman.
You sit with the two girls in the corner booth of a chintzy family diner -- Whitney's choice.
"17, huh?" Whitney says. "That sounds like bullshit... but I'll believe you."
"It is the truth," Vivian avers.
Whitney nudges you. "What's the age of consent in California, Ally? Look that up. I don't wanna go on a list. Plus I'm sure you're on all those lists already."
You do a quick Google search. "18," you say.
"So we broke the law just now?" Whitney says. She pauses, her expression vacant. Then finally: "That's so hot!"
"I saw you perform with Alabaster Soliloquy at the national academic bowl championship several years ago," Vivian says. "As I recall, you scored the winning point. I didn't expect you to be so..."
She trails off, too diplomatic to say it. You finish for her. "So stupid?"
Whitney slugs you.
"I take it you and Alabaster have an open relationship?" Vivian says.
"Openish," Whitney replies. "We have rules--"
"How bohemian."
"Bo-what?"
"I've read about such arrangements on the internet. I'll have you know I've done extensive research on sexual matters. Relationships of that style seem to be more popular these days."
Whitney laughs. "Get a load of bookworm McGee over here," she says. "She read about it on the internet. No wonder she was so hot for a dork like you."
Vivian picks at her salad, but doesn't seem to be very hungry.
"Your dad isn't gonna, like, murder us or anything. Is he?" Whitney says.
"Father and I had a long discussion about sexual matters several days ago. He counseled me on the need for caution and restraint, which I promised to heed. However, I asserted my right as a growing young woman to explore my sexuality, free from his restrictions and--"
"Stop," you say. "You had the bird and the bees talk with him. Leave it at that."
Vivian catches her straw using only her lips and takes a small sip.
Thinking for a moment, she says: "I never considered myself a sapphist, however..."
"I need a fucking thesaurus if I'm gonna hang out with you two again," Whitney says.
"Today was fun," Vivian says simply.
You can at least agree with that.
The three of you get along weirdly well.
You wonder how that's all going to change in a couple weeks.
The next couple days pass by in a blur. You have almost a semblance of normalcy, because you can spend most of your time at work preparing for and presenting the sensitivity training with Rose, and that helps the time pass. Each training session ends up about as indecently as the first, but that's to be expected.
After work each day, you travel to the sewers beneath Darkbloom Analytics and spend an hour or two assembling charges, affixing them to the walls, wiring them up. It's cramped, uncomfortable work, but you enjoy it. Even though goons sent by Tyrus watch over your work with suspicious eyes.
Each night you come home so exhausted that you just fall asleep. Increasingly, Rose sleeps beside you. You're always too tired to force her to go back to her own bed.
By Friday, however, all the cohorts have been through training and you're left with an uneasy gap in your schedule.
You hardly feel as if you can go back to your regular post after how things ended up with Alex and Sable. Alex won't respond to your texts and to hear Whitney tell it, he's giving her the cold shoulder too. But you haven't been formally fired, so you suppose you need to stay on campus during normal working hours. So what are you going to do with your time?
[ ] Visit with Rose.
>[x] Visit with Cerise.
[ ] Visit with Vivian.
[ ] Sneak away and visit with Camelia and Galatea.
[ ] Custom?
"...which repeated, rigorous pen-testing has shown to be robust. Therefore, we firmly believe such a rootkit attack could not be replicated even were another infected device smuggled into our systems..."
You walk in on Cerise poring over a printed document in her office.
After all this time, you can still hardly believe Cerise has such a nice office all to herself, its wide-open space on the corner of the building with beautiful views to the courtyards below.
Across from her sits Fazil, reading over what you presume to be the same document, making notes with a red sharpie.
"Now, this Senator Richman person..." Fazil says, "he is likely to ask of you questions which - how is the saying? Are out of the left side field. He knows very much little about cybersecurity. Likely he will say something to the effect of, 'how could this happen' or other such suitably vague things, with no substance, so the crucial goal is to tide him over with a lot of lingo which shows you know of what you speak."
"Is this a bad time?" you ask. Cerise and Fazil finally notice you.
"Ala-bast-or! No, not at all. Please, come in!"
You sit across from your sister.
"Still preparing?" You say.
"Fazil's been a big help," Cerise says. Fazil smiles broadly at the praise. "He's been going over the records of every Senator on the committee, to figure out what kinds of questions they might ask." She looks at Fazil now: "I bet you were the kind of kid in school who reminded the teacher that homework was due. Weren't you?"
"It is important to be honest about such things."
"Right," Cerise says. "I hated kids like you... thanks, Fazil. You're the best."
"What brings you here, Ala-bast-or?" Fazil asks, too bashful to reply to that. "Are you not hard at work on the roll out of SMATTERS?"
"Oh, I'm -- cracking away at it..." you say, then deflect: "just thought I'd check up on my sister."
"I don't know what to do," Cerise admits. "You know... I got a job in a server farm to be as far a-fucking-way as possible from the public eye. Now I'm gonna be up in front of the US Senate on live television. What the fuck."
"With all this help," you say, nodding at the thick sheaf of paper in her hands, "it won't be so bad. Right?"
"Did you see what those greasy fuckers on *Chan are saying about me? They're still talking about me like I'm some kind of fucking deity to them. I'm the meme that just won't die. And now this testimony thing is just gonna be more wank fodder."
You pull out your phone and pretend to check /csg/ for the first time since you learned of it. But the truth is you've been stewing over those threads in a low-level, sullen rage this whole time. The thought of fucking *Channers drooling over your sister makes you want to puke.
"She's beauty, she's grace, she'll never step on your face," you read in disgust. "Jesus. They don't even have a concept of meter."
Cerise groans.
This isn't helping. You put your phone away, try to soothe her: "Forget about them. They're just a bunch of losers. Focus on getting through the next few days... and then it'll all be over."
"Quite solid advice," Fazil agrees. "These things must be taken in stride. In secondary school in my home town, I was briefly a subject of much discussion when a rumor began that I had been wed in an arranged marriage to Miley Cyrus. I do not know how such wild rumors circulate. Before I knew what was happening, there I was, the subject of unending scrutiny and idle talk! But I resolved to ignore the gossip and focus even harder on my studies. Eventually, the rumors went away because Miley Cyrus revealed herself to be a dirty whore, and my opinion on whores was well-known around the school. So as you can see, all will end well if you persevere."
Cerise blinks.
"Uh... thanks, Fazil."
She doesn't seem exactly put at ease.
[ ] Offer to go to DC with her.
>[x] Offer to send [x] Rose / [ ] Whitney to be with her.
[ ] Don't make an offer, you need to be in town during the big event.
"Maybe you could have Rose testify in your place," you offer. "Hey, /csg/ loves her almost as much as they love you... maybe even more than they love you!"
"That's a dirty lie," Cerise says. (You can't tell whether she's offended at the idea that /csg/ could ever like Rose more than her, or at the idea that you could fool her into thinking it.) "Anyway, there's no getting out of this. I have to do it myself."
You nod.
"Maybe I'm on to something, though..." you say idly.
"What's that?" asks Cerise.
"Who's better at glad-handing and schmoozing than Rose Mallory? Think about it. If she was there with you, maybe you'd feel less anxious. You'd still have to testify on your own, but everything else... before and after... dealing with all those soulless politicians... who better than a soulless bitch like her? Rose could take care of it for you."
"Rose couldn't even beat YOU for StuCo president," Cerise says. "What the fuck does she know about politics?"
"I-- I kind of cheated--" you admit.
"What? How?"
You stutter through a halting explanation: "There was-- a little collusion-- look, it doesn't matter now. That was years ago. I'm sure Rose could help you out."
Cerise sighs. "You're telling me to share a 6 hour flight on a way-too-cozy private jet with queen bitch Rose Mallory."
"Yes."
"...I hate that this might actually be a good idea."
"I'm known for them, from time to time." You pick at the lint on your knee. A silence settles. Then you add: "Listen, if you tell Rose about that cheating thing, I'll have to kill you. I'm not kidding."
Cerise flips the sheaf of paper over to the next page. "Oh, don't worry. That's definitely going in the blackmail file."
On your way back, Vasily Kerimov steps into the elevator with you.
"Going down?" He asks.
"Uh..."
"I as well. Let's go down together."
He puts an arm over your shoulder. "Staying busy?" He asks.
"Uh huh."
"Of course you are. The boy who comes in as intern week 1, board member week 2 must be very busy. We are all so proud of you. My sister says nothing but good things. And I hear you are even fucking my niece! Isn't that wonderful?"
You clam up; ice runs through your veins. Kerimov's menthol-scented breath clings to your nostrils.
"I am taking a trip, why don't you come?" He says.
"I'd-- prefer not to," you say.
He practically forces you out of the elevator and towards the tall glass windows of the employee cafeteria. In what must be a strategically chosen spot, Mara Darkbloom sits at a table. Across from her, Alex. They're deep in conversation that you're too far away to overhear. Mara stirs a teacup.
"Have you heard the name Alexander Litvinenko?" Vasily asks.
"You--!" You try to wheel around to face him, but his grip is iron-tight and he holds you in place at his side.
"Shhh. Shh," he warns. "Don't make a scene. This hinges on you, Alabaster. This need not be anything more for Mr. Best than a pleasant lunch with his employer. As long as you comply. Will you comply?"
You steady your breathing. You nod. Vasily leads you back to the elevator.
The desert outside the valley is already arid and hot despite the relatively early season. Dull brown sand and dull grey rocks stretch for miles in all directions -- nothing but barrenness here.
You hear it before you see it: the blaring sounds of power metal from Stackleford's orange Lamborghini. As Vasily's black sedan draws closer, you can see a badly scarred, middle aged woman sitting on the hood, surrounded by suited goons.
She plays air guitar, bouncing up and down.
When Vasily leads you from the car, you recognize the tune as "Through the Fire and Flames" - one of Stackleford's favorites, you recall.
"This fat pig has good taste!" The woman yells. "Such passion in this music!" She draws way back as if hauling her guitar up for the solo, and wails away at nothing.
The woman at last takes notice of you as Vasily nudges you closer. She gives up air-guitaring and makes a cutting motion across her throat, the signal to a man inside the Lambo to kill the music.
"Hello, Alabaster!" The woman calls. "I've heard so much about you. It is nice to finally see you." Her voice is thickly accented.
She gets up from the hood, offers you a hand to shake, but you don't return the gesture. She doesn't look particularly injured by that.
"Do you know how easy it is to break into evidence stores in small-town America?" She asks. "So much easier than back at home. Child's play. For a people so obsessed with security, you have so very little of it..."
"Who are you?" You manage.
"Stasi Lebedev. I am a friend of Vasily and Mara."
That's what you figured.
"Peter," she says, nodding at one of her men. "Go ahead."
He circles the Lambo and pops the trunk. Meanwhile, Stasi says: "Your one-eyed pal tried to scratch off the VIN, but there are other ways to track a car. Orange Lamborghinis are rare, after all."
"Alabaster...!"
You turn. Being hauled under either arm by two men, is Stackleford. He's beet red and gleaming with sweat. He has two black eyes.
"Barely fit in the trunk," Stasi says. "But we managed."
"Alabaster, help! Please!"
"What are you doing?" You demand.
"What are YOU doing?" Stasi spits. "Hand over Sand Reckoner. Where is it?"
"I don't--"
Stasi whistles through her teeth, and her men force Stackleford to his stomach. Squealing in terror, Stackleford can do nothing else to resist, as one of the men straddles his back and holds a pair of bolt cutters to his fingers.
"I ask again. Where is Sand Reckoner?"
"Sand Reckoner isn't a thing," you insist. "It's a project! And it isn't even complete yet!"
You hear a sickening snip. Stackleford's resulting shrieks nearly burst your eardrums. His missing index finger spurts crimson blood all over the ground.
"You know more than you're saying," Stasi declares over Stackleford's wails. "Tell me."
You wrench your eyes shut and shake your head. "That's all I know! It's a project to combine an implant like the one I have... with algorithms developed by Darkbloom Analytics... that's all I know!"
Another snip, another ear-splitting cry.
"Goddammn it!" You yell. "Stop!"
"Where is it?"
"Where the fuck do you think?"
Snip -- shriek. You've never heard another human make sounds like that. They turn your stomach. You can't bring yourself to look.
Stasi holds her finger in the air and twirls it in a circle, a signal to stop, apparently. "Enough of this," she says, frowning. "Kill him."
Another man puts a gun to Stackleford's head.
"Alabaster--! Please--! PLEASE--! Don't let them do this!"
"Your friend is a snitch," Stasi tells you. "He's the reason you were picked up the other day. He told the feds that you and Camelia were the last ones in his car."
"Alabaster..." Stackleford says, sniveling. "Please... I'm sorry... I don't wanna die... I don't wanna die!"
>[x] Try to stop this somehow.
[ ] There's nothing you can do.
"I--" you stammer.
You can't believe you're shedding tears for this repulsive person who you always hated so much.
"Stacklef-- Boyd... I'm... I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything."
"W-what about... what about Whitney... Rose... you... they'll kill you, too!"
You close your eyes and shake your head.
"Tell Sabrina I'm sorry!" Stackleford cries.
Stasi laughs cruelly. "Stupid sack of lard. Her name isn't Sabrina."
"W-what?"
Stasi's man cocks the hammer of the gun.
"Stop!" you cry.
Stasi holds up a palm, stopping her man just in time.
"Speak quickly and don't fuck with me," she commands.
You try to think on your feet, but you're panicking.
"I-I'll tell you everything you want to know! I'll give you what you want! Just don't kill him!"
"Bullshit."
She nods at her man, who readies the gun again, but you power through: "Sand Reckoner is just the side project!"
Stasi arches an eyebrow. You have her interest.
"That's right. Sand Reckoner is just a stupid VR game. It's nothing. You want the real deal? It's called Penelope. Only one person knows where it is besides David Darkbloom... and you're looking at him. So if you want it, you better keep me happy."
Stasi frowns. A dark cloud passes overhead.
You have no idea what the fuck you're saying or where it's going to lead. You're just stalling for time.
"Where is it?" Stasi demands.
"I--" You begin.
Gunfire cracks through the tranquil air.
But not from Stasi's thugs. From off in the distance. And the man on top of Stackleford is already dead by the time the gunfire's report reaches your ears.
Stasi's other men go wild, pulling guns, wheeling around this way and that, trying to see where it came from.
Stasi and Vasily are both placid, though. They couldn't care less about the calamity all around them.
Stasi walks casually past you and the rest of her goons, towards Vasily's sedan, as a gunfight breaks out between her men and the unseen assailants. You fall to your belly to get out of the path of the gunfire and see, through squinting eyes, Vasily and Stasi getting into the car together.
You crawl on your belly towards Stackleford, who's weeping and nursing the stumps of what used to be the fingers of his left hand.
"Fall back already," Stasi calls to her men. "You're embarrassing yourselves... I thought I trained you better than to lose to a bunch of negroes..."
Several of the goons have already fallen, dead, but the bulk of them who have survived make it to either the Lambo or another sedan -- Stasi's, you imagine -- and peel away.
The only sound for many long moments after they depart is Stackleford's wheezing crying.
You begin to panic.
Are they going to kill Alex next?
But-- Stasi seems to recognize that you didn't coordinate this. So she can't hold it against you, right?
Right?
Soon, the whine of motorbike engines fills the air and you see approaching forms on the distance from the opposite direction.
Marquis Kang steps off the bike at the front of the troupe. Over his shoulders, a strap, and on his back, a sniper rifle.
He takes off his helmet and looks down at the gory mess of Stackleford's hand, the severed digits lying covered with gravel all over the ground.
"Damn. That's fucked up."
"Alabaster..." Stackleford says. "What... what did you get involved in..."
You wish you knew.
END OF EPISODE 13.