Season 2 Episode 2: Working!!

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, notorious image board shitposter and newly hired intern at the world's biggest tech company.

It's 5:30 AM on what will be your first day of work. A Monday morning that begins the same weird way Friday, Saturday and Sunday did: with your childhood friend Whitney snoring not-so-softly beside you while you drift in and out of sleep on the bottom bunk of your dorm room bed. Whitney has been inseparable from you - literally, more or less - since she stole your virginity a few days ago. Her naked body is so warm it's almost hot, the muscles taut but softly so, and she's easy to hold. Comfy.

It's your phone that wakes you, the vibration of its ringing rattling it across your bedside table. But you've always been slow to fully regain consciousness after sleeping - and it's Whitney who, springing into wakefulness, lunges across your body, takes the phone and answers it.

"That's right, bitch!" she says. "I told you-- oh. Hi, Cerise. Sorry, no, I didn't mean you-- yeah, he's here. Hold on."

You grab the phone from her. Covering the speaker, you hiss: "what the hell was that about? What's wrong with you?" She sits up on her knees and shrugs, her skin weirdly blue-tinted in the predawn light coming through the window.

You put the phone to your ear. "What do you want?"

"Why is Whitney answering your phone?" Cerise says. "Is she your secretary now or what?"

You don't answer.

"Where are you, anyway?" Cerise asks.

"I WAS sleeping. You know, in my bed."

"Then why is Whitney--" there's a brief pause on the other end. Then: "Oh. I see."

Another awkward pause.

"Tell Whitney she needs to make better choices," Cerise says. "I know she's not the brightest but I didn't know she had such awful taste, too."

"Did you call me just to shit on me, or...?"

"Not that I care about Whitney or anything," Cerise says, "but you're not just leading her on, are you? She really cares about you, as dumb as that is."

[ ] She's my girlfriend now.

>[x] Forget about it. Get on with whatever you called about.

"Always the chivalrous one," Cerise says. You can hear the disapproving frown. "Meet me on level B-3 of the parking garage across the street from DA. 6:30."

"Why?"

"Vivian's orders. She wants me to chaperone you in. And god knows Princess Vivian always gets what she wants."

"At the risk of sounding like a broken record - why?"

Cerise sighs. "Been watching the news lately? There's tons of protesters outside the DA campus. And security, too, because of the protests. It'll be a nightmare getting through the crowd. Plus there's an all-hands meeting at 7:00. Mandatory attendance."

You massage your face. "I'll be there, I guess."

You hang up. "I have to go to work," you tell Whitney.

She pouts. It's kind of cute, honestly.

"I'll be back later on tonight," you tell her. "I'm in this dorm at least until my dynamics final on Wednesday."

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and start to stand, but Whitney latches onto one of your arms and pulls you back into the warmth of the sheets and blankets.

"One more time before you go!" she insists.

[ ] One more time.

[ ] I can't be late on my first day.

>[x] I can't be late on my first day.

Whitney's pout this time is genuine, and a little heart-rending, albeit still pretty cute.

"You better not cum inside anyone else while you're gone!" she says.

...Okay, the cuteness of it is an acquired taste.

"I'll make it up to you," you tell her, standing and groping in the half-light for your pants.

"You're going to fuck so many girls while you're on your internship!" Whitney moans. She grabs the sides of her head with both hands and buries her face in the covers. Her voice is muffled now: "I taught you how good sex with a 3D girl feels and now you're gonna abandon me!"

You peer down at her, unsure how to respond. Frankly, unless another girl forces herself on you with the same audacity of Whitney, you're not sure you'd have the social skills to find someone who would willingly cheat with you.

...Cheat?

"It'll be fine..." you tell her limply.

Whitney's head pops up. "No! I'm making a rule!" she says. "Executive action!" She hobbles to her feet and stands on her tiptoes to whisper in your ear. What she whispers turns your eyes to dinner plates.

"Got it?" she says.

"Y-yeah."

"Okay. Whew." She seems genuinely relieved.

You finish dressing with THAT thought in your mind. Before you go, you peck her on the lips - a peck that she returns by grabbing the back of your head and turning it into a deep tongue kiss that you struggle to get away from. It's like she's trying to suck your soul out.

"More where that came from," she says on your way out.

You leave her lounging naked on your bed. You're pretty sure she's going to spend the day sniffing your underwear or something.

Cerise greets you in the parking garage. Her work clothes are a bit rumpled and her eyes have deep bags. She's holding two tall styrofoam cups of coffee, one of which she hands off to you. You've never been a coffee drinker, but you have to admit a little caffeine would be nice right now.

"You smell like beer," you tell her, which is true. "You drove here like this?"

"You smell like rancid jizz," she shoots back. "Ever hear of showers?"

You sip from your cup, and grimace. The coffee is straight black, bitter and pungent against your tongue. "Jesus," you say, "a little milk and sugar next time, huh?"

"You are such a faggot," Cerise says. "Anyway, I'm not your maid. You're lucky I got you any at all. It was 2 for 1 at 7-11 today."

"I've been meaning to ask you," you say, smarting from her insults. "How do you get away with wearing that choker to work? I've heard of business casual, but what is that - business slutty?"

"Go suck a fuck, Alabaster. And hurry up, or we're gonna be late."

The street outside is swarming with angry protesters, just as Cerise described. The front gates of the Darkbloom campus are sealed shut, and police in riot gear patrol the perimeter.

You spy signs bearings slogans like "NO ROOM FOR DARKBLOOM" and "DON'T SELL MY DATA" and "OCCUPY SILICON VALLEY" and "PRIVACY IS A RITE" (sic).

"This is life now, huh," you murmur.

"Yep," Cerise says.

You take a bracing sip of your coffee.

Cerise shows her employee ID badge to a police officer, who takes the two of you through the angry crowd. The crowd, noticing this, jeers and shouts epithets at you. You get called everything from "pig" to "fascist" to "shill" to, more simply, "asshole."

It's not a fun way to start the day.

Inside the main building's enormous lobby, the crowd looks just as large and unruly as the crowd outside - only these are employees waiting for upper management to tell everyone what the fuck is going on. You hear snippets of worried conversation: wild speculation that layoffs are coming, or the business is being shut down entirely. The mood is as grim as a funeral.

A man you recognize as Nelson Berenstoin - head of cyber security and member of the company's board - waves to Cerise and pulls her aside for a conversation you surmise is private. You're left to navigate your first few moments as a Darkbloom Analytics employee on your own.

As you approach the crowd for a better vantage, you bump into someone whose presence makes your heart sink. Rose Mallory.

This, on top of all the other bullshit you've been through just to get to work this morning, is almost too much. You briefly consider turning right around, walking out the door and never coming back again. But you're not going to let her win like that.

Rose's face visibly goes through the same set of emotions as she makes the same set of calculations about the situation. The perpetual battle between the two of you to make the other one blink first is not going to end here.

"What are you doing here?" You hiss.

"Showing up for work," she hisses back. "On time."

"How did you get hired? I saw you after that interview. I know it didn't go well."

"Maybe. But they must be desperate - if they're hiring YOU, too. Their other prospects must have turned them down when the news broke."

"So why didn't you?" You say. "Surely this isn't the only place you got an offer from."

"O-of course not," Rose says. "I had plenty of great offers. It's just that even with DA in crisis mode, this was still the most appealing choice. I always consider the long-term view of things."

"Uh huh. What offers?" You demand.

"Well," she says, "A staff writer position for the English language expansion of Megalia, for instance - just an example - and, uh... Google."

"You got a job offer from Google."

"Absolutely."

"You're worse at lying than you are at faking empathy for the downtrodden. Go away, Rose."

Rose opens her mouth to respond, but a voice from the center of the crowd silences her.

Vivian Darkbloom is standing on a milk crate, holding a megaphone. "Attention employees," she says, standing rigid with her chin pointed up. You guess she's trying to cut an imposing figure, but it's a hard sell when she's so short that she needs a booster just to address you.

"My father has instructed me to deliver the following message. This company is as healthy today as it was last week. We will unwaveringly pursue our mission despite the recent negative press. Do not worry about the gnats and bloodsuckers circling outside. They will go away, in time. And if not, we will crush them."

Not quite a great pep talk so far.

"Unless you have been spoken to directly by a manager, nothing has changed about your day-to-day tasks or the expectations placed upon you. Do nothing differently."

There is a murmur of relief at this, however measured.

"You will not be laid off. In fact, the recent crisis has triggered emergency retention and non-compete clauses in your employment contracts. What this means is that until the crisis passes, you cannot resign without losing any stock options you have, even if otherwise fully vested. You may also be subject to civil liabilities depending the circumstance..."

"Did this little girl just say she's going to sue us if we quit?" Rose whispers.

"I think so," you whisper back.

"That cannot be legal..."

You shrug.

As Vivian drones on, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. Probably Whitney sending you a lewd photo or something. Nonetheless, you check it.

It's a text from a blocked number.

>12:00 PM. Rutabaga Cafe on Middlefield near Hoover Park. Be there or you WILL regret it.

You have a sinking suspicion who sent this text.

>[x] Reply.

[ ] Forget it.

You clack out a quick and simple response:

>Who is this?

"Didn't anyone tell you that texting during a meeting is improper?" Rose tuts. She also tries to peer at the screen, the prying bitch. You turn, using the height difference to your advantage. Even on tiptoes she can't see past your shoulders.

You send the message. A reply comes instantly:

>You know who.

You try again:

>I'm not going to meet with you. Leave me alone.

Another instant response:

>Maybe you like prison better?

You frown.

>[X] I'll be there.

[ ] I'm not coming.

[ ] Don't respond.

There is no response to this text. You're not sure if that's a good or a bad sign.

"...to Spancer Jardan in HR if you have any further questions," Vivian continues. "Finally, a word about our media contact policy. Unless you have been specifically authorized to deliver a specific statement to the media, you are to have absolutely NO contact with any members of the press. If a reporter reaches out to you, do not respond. Say that you have no comment and direct them to our spokesman, Steven Armstrong."

The man you presume to be Armstrong is standing next to Vivian - a tall, balding man in a too-tight suit. He turns in a semicircle, giving a cordial wave like a contestant in a beauty pageant.

"Failure to follow this policy," Vivian says, her voice low and level, "will be met with immediate termination and life-destroying litigation. We will mercilessly root out any leakers and hang them from the gallows."

"Figuratively speaking," Armstrong clarifies, raising his voice to be heard without the benefit of Vivian's megaphone.

Vivian speaks over him. "Perhaps a literal gallows would not be out of the--"

There is an ear-splitting shriek of interference as Armstrong and Vivian briefly tussle for the megaphone. Vivian almost loses her balance as Armstrong gets the better of her and snatches it away. The milk crate tips precariously to one edge before landing back in place. Vivian holds out both hands like a tightrope walker to maintain her foothold.

"You are dismissed now," Armstrong says. "Please return to your workstations in an orderly manner. New interns, please see Mr. Jardan in room 101 for badges."

That's you. As the crowd files out with confused and worried grumbling, you and Rose walk together in the direction of the HR offices on the east end of the enormous first floor. These offices are truly open concept: workers taking their places at a series of standing desks in a little glass box visible to all the world, with Mr. Jardan himself at the center like a composer, or maybe the captain of a starship. He stands so rigidly that it's like he's balanced at the very precipice of the uncanny valley.

Spancer takes you and Rose to a small anteroom - more like a broom closet really, but at least it's away from the prying eyes of the world - where a camera on a tripod sits pointed at a corner covered with a sleek blue tarp. The camera is connected to a computer console and a specialized printer.

"Thomas Soliloquy," Spancer says in a dull monotone, typing at the console. "You will work with Sable Guiteau as a debugger for Project Ulysses. Her team is in sub-basement level 2."

"Thomas?" You say. "I think you've got my middle name swapped with my first."

"Sincere apologies, Thomas."

"Again, I think you've--"

"Stand here, please."

You stand in front of the blue tarp. Spancer takes your photo. The machine whirs to life and prints out a laminated badge card with your photo and your ostensible name on it: T. Soliloquy.

"Great," you mumble as you attach it to the provided lanyard. Rose couldn't possibly look more smug.

"Rose Manroy," Spancer says. "You will work with Cerise-"

"...Manroy?" Rose says, suddenly not so smug.

"You will work with Cerise Soliloquy's team as a data analyst. Her new offices are currently being set up on floor 13. Stand here, please."

"It's Mallory--"

"Stand here, please."

A few moments later, Rose is staring forlornly at a badge that identifies her as R. Manroy.

Cerise greets you outside the HR offices. "I'm here for my protege," she says.

Rose looks absolutely miserable.

To be fair, Cerise doesn't look much happier about it.

"So what exactly do they have you doing?" you ask Cerise.

"Fucked if I know," she says. "No one's really told me anything. I only know that I'm supposed to lead the investigation of the hack because it was all over the front page of FNCNN on Saturday."

You saw the same news article - a hit piece published by some two-bit hack blogger. What a bunch of bullshit.

"I've got Rose now, so I guess that's a help."

"I'm going to be ill," Rose murmurs. "Such a high profile - national news - I can't..." She looks green.

"Join the club," Cerise says. Then, turning to you: "I've got a team of bees now, too."

"Beads?" you say.

"BEES."

"BEES?"

"As in H-1Bs. Visa workers. My new offices look like a goddamn Pakistani call center."

"Points for diversity, at least," Rose says.

"Shut the fuck up, Rose," Cerise says.

Rose blinks rapidly, indignant and confused.

"How about you?" Cerise asks. "Where are you going?"

"They have me working under that Sable girl from the interview team."

Cerise cringes. "I'm so sorry," she says.

"Sorry for what? She was really nice."

"You know what they call her?" Cerise says. "Unstable Sable. You've only seen one side of her. And when she decides to show her other side..." Cerise snaps her fingers. "It's like that."

"She can't be that bad," you insist.

Cerise shakes her head. "Well... on the bright side, if you ever need any pharmaceuticals, she's got the biggest collection this side of a Xanax factory."

"I'll keep that in mind," you say. "Where is she? She didn't see fit to come get me?"

"I'm sure she doesn't even know you're working for her now," Cerise says. "If you never showed up, it wouldn't make a difference to her. Anyway, she's probably down in the creepy dungeon she calls her office, same as always."

>[x] Go exploring.

[ ] Report directly to Sable.

You've got time to kill (apparently) and you'd like to learn the lay of the land. So instead of taking the elevator down, to the sub-basement, you take it up, to the 3rd floor - the one labeled "cafeteria and recreation." Could be fun.

The cafeteria promises to be way better than the ones at college - you see, as you approach, workers loading buffet lines with fresh trays of fruit, fluffy pancakes, bacon and other breakfast items - while cooks man the grills, making eggs and french toast, sausage and ham. The smell wafting through makes your stomach grumble. All of it is free, according to the informational email you got from DA on Friday afternoon, so you don't feel too bad about grabbing a quick bite.

You take a plate full of food that you grab almost at random and sit at a table near the far end of the dining area, which is separated by tall glass panes from a fully-furnished gym.

You eat and watch the fitness hounds working out. The gym is sparsely populated, but there are at least a few people here. Whackos.

And then into the gym walks Rose. She's got a towel draped around her neck, a white tee and shorts. She doesn't seem to notice you sitting in the cafeteria.

You've never known Rose to be much for athleticism. In fact, one of the few things you've ever agreed on is that Whitney's morning workout rituals are horrendously obnoxious. Rose's physique evince her aversion to exercise: she isn't fat, but she's certainly not a power lifter, either - she's a soft, overfed girl.

So this behavior is pretty odd.

She walks up to a treadmill, gets on, and fiddles with the front panel. It's clear that she doesn't do this often. She startles when the treads come to life, and starts jogging to keep up. But it's hopeless: she's quickly outpaced by the machine. She grabs onto the side rails for dear life, still kicking her feet madly, but too late. She falls ass over elbow and gets ejected off the treadmill in a moment of slapstick so divinely perfect that you know you will cherish the memory forever.

A man comes by and offers to help her up, an offer she swats away, her face reddening by the nanosecond. You don't hear what she says, but it's enough to make the man so mad that he simply walks away and leaves Rose to her own trouble.

[ ] Go rub it in.

>[x] Continue exploring.

You would never try to gild the lily. Nothing you can say to Rose would be as perfect as what you just witnessed. Plus, it's a good fact to surprise her with, should you ever need it.

Outside the cafeteria is a lounge area where video game consoles and televisions are set up for entertainment. These too, are only sparsely attended - they'll probably be busier around lunctime - and you pass by without lingering. But as you breeze past a darkened room labeled "theater", you hear the opening chords of a familiar song.

...Why is the Hare Hare Yukai playing?...

Oh god.

You glance inside.

A group of - variously - fat and gangly men, plus of course the token fat girl, whoop and cheer to the opening Haruhi Suzumiya. The fat girl is wearing cat ears and a dress cut way too short for her. She runs along to the front of the screen and - oh Jesus, you might vomit - pantomimes the dance. The guys cheer her on, and she eats up the attention.

You step back, unable to comprehend the horror you've seen.

Anime club has haunted you into your professional life.

Beyond the entertainment areas are a set of small rooms labeled "Rest and Relaxation" - and they're just what they advertise. Little dark rooms just big enough for a soft-looking twin bed and table-side lamp. Napping is permitted here, apparently. That's Silicon Valley for you.

Further back is an area labeled "sauna" but you don't get the chance to go that far before a spritely young woman accosts you from behind.

"There you are!" she chirps. "Are you Alabaster Soliloquy?"

You turn. "Uh, yeah."

She's a petite girl, wearing an outfit you would describe as, at best, unprofessional. Short shorts and a tank don't strike you as particularly suited to office work.

This girl reminds you a bit of Whitney, in fact, with her short-bobbed hair, tomboyish clothes and generally unfeminine air. You could almost mistake her for a boy, if she weren't so cute.

Maybe you just have a thing for tomboys.

"Oh thank goodness," she says. "I've been looking for you. My name is Alex. I'm here to help you with your orientation."

Three stories underground is a squat-ceilinged white box lit by harsh fluorescents, leading to an equally harshly lit labyrinth of offices staffed by pallid mole-people who look like they haven't seen the sun in decades.

This is Darkbloom Analytics' R&D department, and it is your home now.

You have Alex to guide you, thankfully, or you would never find your way. Even still it takes almost 10 minutes. Finally you make it to where the team for Project Ulysses works, the details of which you know nothing about - but to which you have been assigned.

Their work room is much less harshly lit, and carpeted, and tightly packed with a coterie of young programmers clacking away. It's kind of cozy, in its way. Your workstation is at a long table in the center of the room, side by side with six fellow workers and directly facing six others. Alex, apparently, will work right beside you. A ring of tables with other workstations line the walls. At the far end of the room is a door with a name placard: "S. Guiteau, R&D Lead".

"Here we are!" Alex cries.

Everyone is looking at you now. You feel just a little abashed. "Yeah. Here we are," you confirm.

"It's really nice to meet you, by the way," Alex says. "Sable told me you were pretty impressive after she interviewed you. You'll be a big help for the team!"

[ ] Can I meet Sable?

>[x] Tell me more about my job.

"We're on Project Ulysses," Alex says. "Integrating databases from Project Servo into a universal system of object classification."

"I'm lost."

"You've seen Darkbloom's drones, right? That wasn't just for mapping the planet. They collected millions of hours of footage while they were deployed. Then Sable's magic helped create a neural net that could identify specific objects in 3D space - 'this is a house, this is a car', like that - and now we have to make, basically, a dictionary - a universal classification system. At the same time, integrating it with data scraped from DA's social media projects. That will funnel into the next step of Sable's research."

You begin to feel you're in over your head. But Alex's enthusiasm is hard not to find at least a little exciting. This is definitely cutting-edge research.

It doesn't hurt that Alex is DEFINITELY cute. Her flat chest suits her perfectly, and she has a sweet scent about her that accentuates an otherwise barely-there femininity. Her voice and stature scream airhead, but you can tell that she's deeply intelligent, which is a bonus.

"I heard you're a mechanical engineer?" Alex says, snapping you out of your ogling. "Do you know much about programming?"

You shake your head. "I mean - a bit."

"It's okay," Alex says. "I'll help you. We all have our weaknesses... as a programmer, my back-end skills are second to none, but my front-end leaves a lot to be desired." She rubs the back of her head. "Never ask me to make a GUI... I'm hopeless with creating user-friendly interfaces."

"Thanks for the offer to help," you say. "I'll take you up on it."

"The funny thing is I wanted to be an artist when I was a little kid," Alex says, going totally off on a tangent, index finger thoughtfully to her lips. Her lips are very inviting, now that you focus on them - smooth and wet looking. "I was so set on it, even though I was just awful at it... until finally my father said-" (She lowers her voice an octave) - "'no son of mine is going to waste his intelligence with some useless art degree.'"

"Yeah, that sounds -- wait." You mull over what you just heard. "You mean no 'daughter' of mine?"

Alex laughs. "I don't have a sister. Or a brother, for that matter. I'm the only son."

"Only daughter, you mean."

Alex's smile disappears. "I see. It's like that."

You detect some snickering from nearby work stations.

"Did they tell you to make fun of me?" Alex says. "Everyone's always mocking me behind my back. Calling me names. Such cruel things..."

"No, I just-"

"It's not nice, you know. I wouldn't make fun of you."

"I didn't know-"

"I thought we could be friends."

"It's fine," you say, waving your hands to stop -- him, apparently -- from going into a meltdown. "It was an honest mistake... just, don't cry. Okay? We're friends now, see? I'm gonna need your help here, you know? I'm really counting on you."

Alex sniffles, once, and smiles brightly. "You mean it?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"Can I call you Ally?"

You suppress a grimace - you've always kind of hated that nickname - but now isn't the time to aggravate the poor boy any further. "Sure," you say.

He clasps one of your hands with both of his. "Let's be the best partners ever, Ally!"

"Work partners," you say.

"Yes! We'll be partners!"

"Work partners."

"The best ever!"

Sable steps out of her office. "Alex," she says. Her voice is muted and affectless. "Please come here. I need your assistance."

"Right away, Ms. Guiteau!" he cries, and scurries off into her office. She disappears behind him, closing the door.

A very un-programmer-ly looking guy - tall and muscular, wearing a polo shirt, leans back in his chair, facing you from his workstation against the wall.

"You're really making friends with Bitch-Made?"

His buddy, an equally loathsome looking guy, turns to join the fun. "The gopher? He's a useless piece of shit, you know."

"Total queermo. I'd stay away from him."

You sigh. Office politics were never your thing. "I'm not here to make friends," you tell them. "Just to get some help with my career development."

"I think you'll need it," the first one says. "Say, do you know how to optimize a binary search tree?"

"Or vectorize a 3D image for compression?" the other one chimes in.

You turn away from them and bite your tongue. Of course the answer to both questions is no, and if this kind of stuff is prerequisite knowledge for the job... you may need Alex's help a lot more than you thought at first.

[ ] Try to figure out what the hell you're supposed to do.

>[x] Go introduce yourself to Sable.

You enter Sable's office, to the apparent surprise of the rest of the people in the work room. But no matter. You have to be forward about these things.

The office is an almost pitch black cave of a room - spacious but crammed with junk, illuminated only by the pale glow of various computer screens, full of tables stacked high with assorted hardware and other dross, whiteboards lining the walls.

"...I understand," Alex is saying as you enter, his voice quivering. "I'll do better next time."

"You must do better," she says. "I won't accept this again."

"I'm sorry..."

"I'm sorry does not suffice." Her voice is still weirdly distant-sounding, like she isn't even really paying attention to the conversation, but her words are landing with a real wallop on Alex. He's already near tears.

"I'll do better! I promise!" He wipes away his tears and practically runs past you, eager to get back to work, apparently, and right whatever wrong he committed. Sable turns back to her main PC monitor without even acknowledging your presence.

"Uh, hi," you say. "I'm Alabaster. The new intern."

"Hello," she says, still not facing you. She isn't doing much of anything, really. Just staring at her screen.

"It's nice to meet you," you say. "If there's anything in particular you want me to do-"

"I look forward to working with you."

"Right. Me too. Absolutely. So if there's anything you want-"

"I said that I look forward to working with you. Is there anything else? Please go."

As you leave her office, she still does nothing - just stares, her back to you. It's more than a little creepy. Maybe Cerise was right about her.

Sitting back at your workstation, you see that Alex is hammering away at his own work, and you're a little leery about interrupting him. After that apparent dressing-down he got, he seems determined to please his boss. Still, you've got no clue what it is you're supposed to be doing.

For want of anything productive to spend your time on, you find yourself browsing *Chan, which is surprisingly not blocked by any work filters. After about half an hour, you see an email come through on your work account - from Rose, addressed to the entire company mailing list. It's marked with high importance and the subject line is: "Call for sensitivity training."

You skim through it, feeling like you could gag. "[...]an environment of toxic masculinity [...] have heard in my short time the free use of racial epithets and, worse, gendered slurs [...] calling on HR for an immediate emergency round of sensitivity training for all employees [...] please join me in this call [...]"

You almost feel embarrassed for her. The programmers who ribbed you earlier read it aloud to one another, laughing over it. Alex, for his part, is still too keenly focused on work to worry over the email. Or anything else.

>[x] Make friendly conversation with him.

[ ] Let him work, and while away the time until lunch.

[ ] Go back to Sable and ask her for a task.

"Sable's a bit of a hardass, huh?" you say. "Bosses... am I right?"

Alex shakes his head, still typing. "I'm not good enough. That's all."

Yikes. You try again. "How long have you worked here?"

"Sable is the smartest person in the universe," Alex says.

"So..." you say, not sure how that's at all connected to your question.

"She got started by writing the industry-standard program for detecting inefficiencies in manufacturing processes... when she was 15. Then she sold the patent for a billion dollars, just like that. That's billion with a B." Alex turns to face you, slaps his palm to emphasize the point. You're still not sure how this relates. "Not because she wanted the money, but because she was bored of working on the project. After that, she started working on neural nets and machine learning. That's when David Darkbloom noticed her."

"And you?" You ask.

"I've been here for a little over a year. I'm doing my best to keep up with her, but it's hard... I'm never good enough..." He tousles his own hair madly, turns and goes back to work.

You grimace.

"What does she do now?" you ask, since he seems so interested in talking about Sable, and not himself.

"What doesn't she do now?" Alex says, practically swooning. "She's got so many things going on that it makes you dizzy just thinking about it! She'll change the world for sure! I'm just happy I can be a small part of that..."

This guy is clearly either in love or on the verge of starting a cult for this woman. Maybe both?

For the next two hours you hear an exhaustive hagiography of Sable's life that includes her work on Facebook's friend-matching algorithms, her revolutionary research into computerized object recognition, and her ascension to the board of Darkbloom Analytics, replacing Darkbloom's estranged, now-disgraced former head of R&D.

You start to feel like you know Sable better than you know yourself, which is weird enough as it is. That's before you add in the fact that you're hearing all of this secondhand from what appears to be her world's biggest fan, turned slavish employee.

You glance at the clock. It's a bit past 11:00 AM. If you want to make you, uh, lunch appointment - you'd better get going.

>[x] Go.

[ ] Don't go.

When you enter the Rutabaga Cafe a little over 45 minutes later, you find exactly who you suspected, sitting by herself at a table in the very back. It's the girl who's been following you.

She's reading a thick book that on closer approach you see is a copy of Marx's Capital. You start to form a better image of her in your mind - an image which is immediately shattered as you sit down across from her and spy, sitting in an open canvas bag at her feet, a copy of Hitler's Mein Kampf.

"Stop following me," you say.

She doesn't even look up from her reading. "No."

You put your hand on the top of the book and gently push it down to the tabletop. She finally looks you in the eye. It's unnerving. "I mean it," you tell her. "I don't know who you are or what you think you're doing, but I'm not going to be a part of it."

"Oh yes you are," she says. "Would you like some coffee?"

Before you can say no, she takes a pitcher of hot black coffee from the edge of the table and pours it into the empty cup sitting beside it. "Cream?"

You decide to go on the offensive and make her uncomfortable for a change. "What's with the eyepatch?" you say.

"Oh, that?" She shrugs. "It's my evil eye. Sugar?"

"How did you get my number?"

"I typed Alabaster Soliloquy into Google. Are you stupid or something?"

"And then you messaged me," you say. "I thought cell phones were bad for your health?"

"You're right. Actually, it's one of my partners who found you and reached out. But the message is all mine. Speaking of which, do you want to see what I mean when I tell you that cell phones are bad for your health?"

You sort of half shrug, half nod.

"It's really something, how brazen these bastards are about it," she says. "It's all right there in your settings menu - hiding in plain sight." She makes a 'gimme' motion with her hand. "I'll show you."

You hand her your phone. She takes it, unscrews the lid of the pitcher, and drops the phone into the piping hot coffee.

"What the f-" you reach out for the pitcher, but she pushes it back and warns you off.

"You'll burn yourself," she says. "Forget about it. It's a total loss now."

"Fuck you!" is all you can manage. Not your wittiest moment.

"Now we can talk in private," the girl says. "I need your help."

"You need to buy me a new fucking phone is what," you half shout. "Crazy bitch. Where do you get off? I could have you arre-"

She grouses, reaches into the pocket of her vest and peels out $500 in hundreds. "Will this cover it? I've got more important things to do than listen to you whine."

You take the bills, but hold one up to the sun to inspect it for evidence of counterfeiting. At this point, there's nothing you would put past this person.

"Don't bother," she says. "They're counterfeit. Superdollars from North Korea, actually."

You're still holding the bill up to the sunlight as you slowly turn your head and regard this reject from the loony bin. What have you gotten mixed up with?

A long moment passes. "What do you want from me?" you finally say.

"It's not what I want - it's what I need."

"Which is?"

"You're going to help me murder David Darkbloom."

You stand. "I think we're done here," you say.

Her voice takes a menacing edge. "You got into a lot of trouble after your mother died, didn't you, Alabaster Soliloquy?"

This stops you cold, standing between your pushed-back chair and the table.

The girl smiles. She knows she's got you now. "Geeky little quiz-virgin Ally Soliloquy, suddenly all full of teenage angst and misplaced anger at the world. Aren't you lucky you were only 17 when you did all the shit you did?"

"You're right," you say. "I was. And those records are sealed."

"Nothing is sealed forever. Information wants to be free." She leans back, folds her arms. "But that's the least of your trouble. Anyone could understand a boy who drops a few cherry bombs in a few toilets because mama died. Your trouble is they never knew everything, did they? How would the police like to find out who really burned down North High?"

You sit down.

"There we go," she says.

"You can't prove anything. I know you can't."

She fishes in her canvas bag and pulls out a jump drive. "The proof is right here," she tells you. "And it can be at the front desk of the San Fran FBI field office by the end of business today if you don't do what I tell you."

You snatch it from her.

"You really are stupid," she says. She takes the copy of Mein Kampf from the bag and sets it atop her copy of Capital. Underneath is a mass of identical jump drives. She takes the bag and upends it, sending them scattering all across the smooth concrete floor of the cafe. Nearby patrons turn to gawk.

Desperately, you fall to your knees and try to gather all the drives up. You don't know what's on them exactly, but if it's what she promised...

You wave off a couple people who stop to offer help.

"This floor is slippery," the girl tells you, watching you with amusement. "And those things can really slide. So make sure you get them all. There were 87 in total... or maybe it was 88, I can't remember..."

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I don't have a name."

You let that pass without comment - you have to get all these things gathered up. When you're done, you have 87 jump drives, which you dump back into her canvas bag. You hope you got them all.

You sit back at the table. You're almost shaking with adrenaline. In just a few moments' time you've been thrown headlong into something you can't even begin to comprehend. "I can't help you--" you begin, then, lowering your voice to barely a whisper - "I can't help you MURDER someone. Jesus fucking Christ. Crazy person. You're a crazy person."

"Sure," she says. "But don't worry. Now isn't the time for murder - that comes later."

"Could you lower your voice? Holy shit."

"Right now, all you need to do is take one of these flash sticks with you and plug it into your computer at work. Simple as that."

"Why?"

"The why is immaterial. Just do it."

[ ] No deal.

[ ] I'll do it.

>[x] I'll do it, but only if you tell me why.

"You're a cheeky one, aren't you? I just threatened you with federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison and you're still trying to act like you've got the leverage." She perches her chin on interlaced fingers. "Fine, if you're so insistent. Killing Darkbloom isn't enough. His sycophant of a daughter or psychopath of a wife or weird supergenius R&D lead will just take over and it's right back to the same old shit. Before I kill Darkbloom - and I will kill Darkbloom - I have to kill his company first. That's coming along just fine, but now I need a person on the inside for the next phase. That person is you."

"You're fucking with me," you say. "I don't believe you. You're telling me that you're the one who--"

"Of course. Well, I'm the mastermind, really, but I couldn't do it without help. Tell your sister I'm sorry that she has to deal with the mess now. If it's any consolation, David doesn't care that she's going to cock it all up."

You simmer with anger.

"Don't think of backing out," she says. "I know everything about you and everyone you care about, too. That knowledge can do damage. Here's your new girlfriend, for example." She pulls a manila dossier out of her canvas bag that has stacks of paper with info about Whitney. "Cheats on her exams and her homework like it's nothing, apparently. Bad news for someone who's being scouted by a pro soccer team."

"Whitney's being scouted...? She didn't tell me..."

"And here's your cousin." Another dossier joins the one on Whitney, equally thick. "A list of fetishes so long that they'd be surely disqualifying to the people in her social circles. Not that you care. But you do. She is your cousin, of course."

"Once removed..." you say, an instinctual tic even now.

"Mm hmm."

You glance through the file on Rose. On the top is a printout of text logs between her and - Whitney?

You read, too shocked to absorb what they say. "How did you get all this stuff?"

"It just takes a bit of social engineering - that's my part - and a bit of technical know-how - my partner's part. It's easy, really."

You shake your head.

"Then there's your sister. I have files on her, too of course, but that's complicated. I like her - I really do, and so does my partner - and neither of us want to hurt her..."

"Fuck you. Just fuck you to death."

"Do what we want, Alabaster. For their sake. The ones you love mean more than anything."

She gathers her things and stands to go. "You've got 24 hours. You don't want to know what happens if you disappoint me."

You stare at the flash drive in your hand.

"What's your name?" you say again. "Tell me that much."

"I don't like names. But if you need to call me something... call me Camelia."

She goes.

Back at work, feeling more alone than you've ever felt in your life, you decide to pay Cerise a visit in her new office. She was right about her new space being like an outsourced call center - it even smells vaguely of curry in here. But at least it's spacious, with a view to the greenery of the campus outside - and of course the throngs of rowdy protesters.

You find a young man in a fez who looks the most friendly. "Is Cerise here?" you ask.

"Ah, you must be the brother. Ala-bast-or?"

"Yeah," you say.

"Pleasure to meet! The name is Fazil. Yes, you sister is here - beyond that door."

Cerise is in her office, standing over Rose's shoulder. Rose reads aloud:

"Digital forensics (sometimes known as digital forensic science) is a branch of forensic science encompassing the recovery and investigation of material found in digital devices, often in relation to computer crime. The term digital forensics was originally used as a synonym for computer forensics but has expanded to cover investigation of all devices capable of storing digital data...."

"Okay, but what the fuck does that MEAN?" Cerise says.

Rose shrugs.

"How's it going?" you cut in. They look up, and neither seems exactly pleased that you're here.

"It's not going," Cerise says. "I've spent the whole day googling digital forensics and I can't even understand the Wikipedia page. I'm supposed to lead this investigation?"

"Does anyone out there know anything?" you ask, pointing at the door.

"One of them, maybe," Cerise says, glowering. "Some dude in an honest to god fez. Says he did doctoral research on the topic."

"Fazil? I just met him. He seems nice enough."

"Yeah, that one. Brazil. But I'm trying to teach myself a little bit before I broach the subject with Dr. Fucking Computer Forensics out there, or I'll look like a moron. I can't gain the respect of my team that way..."

"A digital forensic investigation commonly consists of 3 stages," Rose says, reading still. "Acquisition or imaging of exhibits, analysis, and reporting."

Cerise smacks Rose on the back of the head.

"Ow! Bitch!" Rose cries.

"Write that down," Cerise says. "That sounds useful."

[ ] Confide in Cerise about what happened.

[ ] Confide in Rose about what happened.

[ ] Don't involve them.

>[x] Confide in both.

"Hey..." you say. "Can I take you two somewhere private?"

They look at you strangely.

"And... maybe leave your phones here," you add.

At a park down the street from Darkbloom Analytics, you sit with Rose and Cerise under the cover of a gazebo. The flash drive sits on a weathered wooden picnic table. They stare at it like something radioactive.

"What does she have on us?" Rose asks.

"Everything," you say. "Imagine something you don't want people to know about. She's got it."

Cerise steeples her fingers. "We have to report this."

Rose seems less enthusiastic about that approach. "Maybe we'd better do what this woman says. Who knows what lengths she would go to... or who she's working with..."

Cerise takes the flash drive. "You two are pussies. There's only one right way to deal with this." She starts to walk away, but you grab her by the wrist.

"You know what that would mean," you tell her. Glancing briefly back at Rose, you lower your voice to a whisper so only Cerise can hear. "She knows about the fire. Says she has evidence. It's on that flash drive."

"She can't know about that," Cerise says.

"But she does. And she knows --"

Cerise sets her jaw.

"You want me to work to bring down my own company," Cerise says.

"I mean - it's not like that," you say. "All we're doing is plugging in a USB stick. Right?"

"Right," Rose says, seconding you.

"I've been thinking about something else, too," you say. "That article on FNCNN. Is it true? You were at DA the night of the hack?"

"Yeah, so what?" Cerise says.

"Doing what?"

"David Darkbloom took four fucking hours to make the call that night to finally shut down the servers. Even while that cunt who's blackmailing us gang-raped our data stores, he didn't wanna do it."

"So what does that mean?"

"The servers were down for a few hours, the first time they've ever been down, so I decided to take the opportunity and rearrange some of the main cableways. Their cable management down in the server room was shit, truly horrendous, and I'd been wanting to do some work on it for a long time. But even with all the redundancies, I was never allowed to take any of the server farms down for that kind of work. Always have to maintain 99-point-999-whatever percent uptime. You know. God never stops watching you, so why should Darkbloom?"

"You mean you were inside the servers, physically, on the night of the hack."

"Yeah. So?"

"And now you're lead on an investigation into the hack that you can't begin to handle."

Cerise stares at you.

It's Rose who connects the dots. "David Darkbloom wants you to take the fall. For all of it..."

It's Rose, naturally, who comes up with the plan. Always a master of manipulation, that one.

Unfortunately, getting the USB connected to a computer at DA in a way that won't implicate any of you means making a trip you never wanted to make: a trip into the dark heart of anime club.

You shudder at the thought.

"Are you two still looking for apartments here in town?" Cerise asks as you walk back to work.

"Yeah," you say. "Rent is more expensive than shit out here. I was thinking of rooming with someone."

"I was about to sign some lease papers today," Rose says. Rich bitch.

"Fuck that," Cerise says. "It can't be helped. If we're in this mess together, we need to stick together. For our own safety. You'll have to live with me for your internship."

>[x] Ok.

[ ] No way.

Living with Cerise is one thing, but living with Rose too?...

Still, Cerise is right. It can't be helped.

"I'll move in Wednesday," you say.

"I can move in tonight," Rose says. "My finals are all done."

And so it's settled. You'll be living with your sister and your cousin (once removed) for the next three months.

While you surreptitiously commit major felonies against your company.

Such is life.

You finish out the rest of your day at work browsing *Chan, too dazed to even pretend to be doing anything useful.

Alex is typing away like a man possessed - he goes on and on for hours at a time - and you're pretty sure he didn't leave his chair while you were gone, either.

Eventually, you can't take it anymore.

"You want some lunch or something?" you ask. "I could go grab you a bite to eat from the cafeteria."

"Shut! Shut!" he says, "I'm laser focused right now!"

"Ah..."

"Sorry if I'm being rude! I'm making a breakthrough! Please forgive me!" He never stops typing.

You feel as if you work in an insane asylum.

An hour after that unpleasant exchange, he seems to be done.

"I should show this to Sable..." he says, looking over his work. "But..."

You turn, looking at him. He's obviously afraid to incur her wrath.

[ ] I'll show her for you, and say it was my work. If she gets mad, it'll be my fault.

>[x] We'll go together. I can be your hype man.

"Hype... man?"

"It's - a person who talks you up. Says how great you are at what you do. Vouches for you."

Alex considers this. Then he nods. "Let's do it!"

You walk together into Sable's office.

"Ms. Guiteau, I pushed the changes to the dupe checking algorithm. W... what do you think?" His voice is a mixture of trepidation and hope.

Sable doesn't reply, but seems to be browsing the same code that was on Alex's screen earlier.

"I've never seen code that clean," you say. "It's really spectacular. In my opinion."

Sable looks at you. "In your opinion."

"Yeah."

"What do you know about code? Nothing. Useless man."

You blink. "Weren't you impressed at my interview?"

"Absolutely not," Sable says, her voice taking a hard edge. "I told Vivian not to hire you. And what does she go do? All because she saw you in some silly quiz game years ago. Stupid girl. She's going to ruin this company with her entitlement."

You're not sure what to say to that.

"Is it good?" Alex asks. "Do you like the work?"

Sable stands. "You're even more useless than Alabaster," she says. "At least Alabaster isn't actively sabotaging my research. Don't bother coming in tomorrow. Useless... useless..." she storms out.

Alex sits down in the same chair Sable just vacated. He's weeping, openly.

>[x] Stand up to Sable.

[ ] Comfort Alex.

"Hey!" you call after her. She stops and looks at you like you're a being from another planet. Apparently she isn't used to being barked at like this.

"So I might not know clean code from a hole in the ground," you say. "Fine. That's true. But I know a dedicated worker when I see one. You've got 20 clowns out there who don't do shit, me included, and one person carrying the entire team. That's Alex. He's the only one out there actually working on whatever the hell it is you're trying to accomplish. You can't get it done on your own, not staring at your fucking monitor all day, at least. You need someone like Alex on your team, and you need to respect him too."

Alex is covering his face in total fuck-all terror by this point, literally shaking, but Sable is surprisingly passive at your accusing words.

"Is that true?" she asks Alex.

Alex shakes his head violently. "I'm useless!" he cries. "I'm the most useless one! Fire me!"

Sable furrows her brow. She seems to understand there's very little she can say to turn this around, save for one thing:

"Come into work tomorrow and do better, then. I'm relying on you."

Alex sniffles back his mucus and uncovers his face. "O-okay. I promise! I won't fail!"

Sable looks at you. "Thank you," she says. "I was too harsh. Make sure he's all right... I need to go home now... sleep..."

She goes.

Alex looks up at you, his face still runny with tears. "You saved my job," he says. "You're the best hype man ever."

"I think maybe we should get out of here, too," you say. "It's been a long day."

"No! I have to keep working... I can't disappoint Sable."

>[x] Forget about Sable. Let's go hang out.

[ ] I won't bother you, then.

"You would really want to hang out with a useless person like me?"

"Don't talk like that," you say. "Self-deprecation isn't attractive."

"You... want me to be more attractive?"

You purse your lips and look away. That's not the message you wanted him to take from that remark...

"What should we do?" He asks. "I'm sure you've got lots of cool hobbies... I hope I won't be too much of a bother..."

>[x] Wanna help me pick out a new phone?

[ ] Wanna check out the sauna?

>[x] Wanna meet my girlfriend?

Alex perks up at the mention of picking out a phone, then seems to deflate just a bit at the word "girlfriend," but overall his mood is way more buoyant than you've seen before. He wants to go right away, and for the sake of his sanity, you're more than happy to take him out of this dungeon.

You drive him in your car to a local big box outlet. Under the bright lights of the department store, his face is still obviously ruddy from crying, and - is that gunked up eyeliner around his eyes? It's just a tiny bit, hardly noticeable, but you're pretty sure it's there. This boy wears makeup?

You browse the iPhones, but Alex makes a face at you. "Yuck," he says. "Don't use that Apple junk. Get an Android or something... anything, not an iPhone."

"Why not?"

"It's inferior in... just about every way!" he says. "Everyone knows that. Look, I'll help you get your new phone set up, but..." He twirls on one foot and winks. "Only if you stay away from Apple."

"Fine, if you care so much..."

You find yourself looking at a Samsung, but Alex's face tells you once again that you're making a poor decision. What do you care, though, anyway? It's just a phone.

"You pick it," you tell him. "You know better than me, clearly."

He wants you to pick out a Pixel - perfect, he says, for modding, which is essential (apparently) to the experience. You're looking at the black one, but he clasps your face in his hands, and points your line of sight to the blue one. "It would match your eyes," he says.

A few minutes later the customer service rep is transferring your data plan over to a new blue cell phone entirely of Alex's choosing. He's smiling like you just bought HIM a $500 phone.

You pay with the counterfeit superdollars - what no one knows won't hurt you.

On the way out of the store, as you cross the parking lot, Alex runs ahead of you.

"What's up?" you say.

"Take a picture of me!" he says. "I want to be the first photo on your new phone!"

This kid is impossibly lame. But if it'll make him happy...

You take your new phone out and get him in its viewfinder, backlit by the setting sun and purpling sky. He strikes a pose - double peace sign.

Your heart can't deal with all these conflicting emotions.

To get it over with, you snap the photo and try to put the phone back away. But Alex is already at your side again, your wrist in his hands to keep you from doing it, and he's looking intently at the photo.

"It's perfect!" he says.

"Sure..."

"Thanks, Ally!"

He practically skips on his way back to the car.

"Is Whitney as cool as you say?" Alex asks on the drive back to Berkeley.

"I think that you'll think so."

"You don't think so?"

"She's going to like you a lot, too," you say non-commitally.

Alex kicks his feet like an excited kid.

You open the door of your dorm room. As expected, Whitney is still here.

"Ass munch!" she shouts. "I've been texting you all fucking day! Don't you ever check your phone? I should--"

She sees Alex peeking out from behind you. He seems a bit scared.

"Oh," Whitney says. "Ohhhh."

"Don't get the wrong idea--" you begin.

"Taking me up on the offer so soon? Come here," she says. "Who are you?"

"A-Alex," he says.

Whitney looks at you. "You didn't fuck her yet, did you?"

Alex turns a neon shade of red.

"Alex is a boy," you tell Whitney. "So no. I didn't."

Whitney narrows her eyes at you. "Hmm," she says. "I've seen the shit you look at online. I'm 100% certain that wouldn't stop you."

Alex is practically infrared by this point.

"I just needed to get him away from work," you say. "We're friends, that's all."

"Is that so?" Whitney asks Alex.

He nods timidly.

"We'll see about that," is all Whitney says. Maybe this was a bad idea.

A couple hours later, all three of you are tipsy on some Natty Lights that Whitney smuggled into your dorm. Way, way, way against the rules - but it can't be helped.

"You boss - is a total CUNT," Whitney slurs, pointing at Alex, her can sloshing beer all over the place.

"She'sh not too bad..." Alex says. "A little mean... that'sh all..."

"Cunt," you agree with Whitney. "Definitely. You deserve better."

Alex can't come up with a response, so he just takes another sip. Every sip he takes, he grimaces - you can't fault him, this stuff tastes like piss - but he does it anyway, seemingly to fit in.

A lull descends, and with the liquor in you, you pluck up the courage to ask: "Are you being scouted?"

"How... how did you hear about that?"

"A little birdie told me," you say.

Whitney crawls over to the bed, digs through her bag and pulls out a business card. She hands it to you.

"Pyotor Petrovovich, USWNT talent manager," you read aloud. "Some name."

"I just call him P," Whitney says.

"When were you going to tell me?"

"When I figured out how to explain that I said no..."

"--No? You're gonna say no to pro soccer? Why?"

Whitney demurs. It's Alex, hiccuping, who pipes up. "She doeshn't wanna leave - hic - leave you."

Whitney stares at the ground. "Your friend is a big-mouthed jerk," she tells you. "Even if he's cute." She shotguns the rest of her drink.

"Don't call other guys cute," you say.

"Pwah," Whitney chuffs. "You think he's cute too."

Alex can't bear to look at either of you.

"So what?" You say. "It's not my fault. He wants me to think he's cute."

Whitney puts a hand to her mouth in faux shock. "Alabaster," she says, uncharacteristically using your full name, "do you have designs on this poor, defenseless boy?"

"My heart is as pure as a boy scout," you insist.

"Liar," Whitney says. She points a twirling index finger at you now. "Li-aaa-rr~ You want to fuck him. Pervert."

"Contain yourself," you say.

"All this time, you said I was gay. Haha!"

"I told you to contain yourself."

Whitney circles Alex on all fours, wobbling from the effect of the booze. She gets behind him and takes his face in both hands and points it at you. Her chin on his shoulder, she smiles. "Do you like Ally?" she asks him.

He nods.

"Would you do anything for Ally? He saved your job, right?"

Alex balls up his fists in his lap and tries to look away, but Whitney won't let him.

"Y-yes," he says, nodding again.

Whitney's voice goes lower. "Have you ever sucked cock before?" she says.

Alex closes his eyes tightly.

"Have you?" Whitney repeats.

"No..."

"Let's teach you how."

You have no time to agree or disagree before  Whitney has her face in your lap. She paws at the zipper of your pants and frees your cock. It's already hard.

"See?" she says. "This part of you is honest, at least..."

She sits up, just quickly enough to grab Alex roughly around the collar and force him down with her. He's face to face with your cock now. It pulses in the air, bobbing in time to your heartbeat.

His eyes cross and he focuses on it intently. You can feel his quick little breaths against it.

"Watch," Whitney tells him.

She puts her nose against the sensitive underside and inhales deeply, filling her lungs with your scent. "I love your cock, Ally... it was no fair keeping this from me for so long... no fair..."

You take it in your hand and rub it against her cheeks and face. She turns her head side to side to help you along - she likes this game most of all. Your cockhead leaves little trails of precum wherever you rub it. Eyes closed and smiling, she's in absolute bliss. So are you. You hardly notice as she gently guides your hand - and your dick - to Alex's face instead.

Just like that. You're rubbing your dick leak all over the face of this cute boy you met just hours ago. And you couldn't be happier. Judging by the way he closes his eyes too and just lets it happen, neither could he.

Whitney wants her turn though, and she takes over again. Her lips purse into an O shape and she tries to catch the tip of your dick as you move it back and forth.

You play a bit of keep-away now, moving it out of her reach whenever she gets close, slapping her with it. The nearest she can get is wrapping her wet lips around the side of the shaft every few moments and kissing it, which sends shivers of delirious pleasure up your spine. Her eyes are half-lidded but keenly focused on the prize in front of her. Every time it slaps her, it produces a satisfying noise and a cute red welt on her where it lands. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth, maybe unintentionally. Drool pools on its tip and starts to run viscously down her chin.

You play a bit of keep-away now, moving it out of her reach whenever she gets close, slapping her with it. The nearest she can get is wrapping her wet lips around the side of the shaft every few moments and kissing it, which sends shivers of delirious pleasure up your spine. Her eyes are half-lidded but keenly focused on the prize in front of her. Every time it slaps her, it produces a satisfying noise and a cute red welt on her where it lands. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth, maybe unintentionally. Drool pools on its tip and starts to run viscously down her chin.

Alex is watching, supporting himself on his fists, entranced. He looks a little jealous.

Here's your cue to move on to the next thing. You scoop Whitney's spit up with the head of your dick and slowly feed her the slickened shaft. She keeps her mouth open wide and her tongue out to best service you. When she started just a few days ago, she was great at taking your entire length but bad about scraping you with the teeth. After some gentle - and not-so-gentle - instruction, she knows now to keep her jaw set wide when you use it as a fuckhole. She lies on her belly, propped on her arms like a lazing cat, and lets you go all the way to the balls in her upturned mouth. You can see the bulge at the back of her throat.

She gags and sputters, sending spittle flying, but gamely stays in place as you seat yourself. You grab her by her ears and hold her there when you're all the way in.

"Whitney..." Alex slurs. "Are you..."

You can't help groaning as Whitney's gagging worsens, becomes louder, and a thick stream of her drool slides down you rampant member. It's coming out of her nose now, too, and tears are streaming from her eyes - her face is an absolute fucking mess.

You pull out, nearly all the way, and she gasps for much needed breath. But her eyes never leave your cock, connected now to her lips only by strands of her spit. The tears are still flowing freely but the only emotion in those eyes is utter devotion.

"Now you," she says to Alex, her voice deep and hoarse from the abuse, and on fire with lust. As she speaks, more drool flows from the depths of the throat that she trained for your personal use.

"I'm not so sure..." he says.

Whitney clasps one of Alex's hands and guides it to your dripping dick. With coaxing, his fingers wrap around you, and she guides him until he can jerk you off without any help. You throw your head back and groan.

Whitney cups her hand around Alex's crotch. "Suck him," she whispers. "Suck his cock."

Alex leans forward and kisses the tip of your penis. That alone is nearly enough to make you cum, but you hold yourself off.

"It's salty..." he says.

"Put it in your fucking mouth already," Whitney says, forcefully. She isn't playing around anymore. And Alex must have an innate need to please stern women, because he suddenly has half your cock in his convulsing throat.

"Fuck," you pant. "Oh my god..."

Whitney circles you and kisses you deeply. "Is his mouth real nice?"

You nod. She kisses you again.

"You can cum down his throat," she says. Alex is busy trying to force the rest of your dick down his clamping esophagus, but all he's succeeding in doing is filling your lap with slimy drool.

"Just remember the deal..." Whitney says.

"You'd better tell him," you moan. "Soon."

Whitney leans down and whispers to Alex. His eyes bulge.

"Got it, you fucking faggot?" she asks him.

Alex nods, eyes welling up from the deepthroating, but pushes himself forward against you all the same. Finally, something deep in his throat gives way, and you're all the way inside. His gags now are deep and guttural, from somewhere in his stomach, and you're sure he's about to lose it - but you lose it first. Bucking your hips uncontrollably, you empty your aching nuts in Alex Best's tiny gullet.

You smell something else in the air, too. You look down. Without any other attention than his mouth being used to get you off, the darkening stain in the crotch of Alex's shorts is the tell-tale sign that he blew a load, too. Just from sucking you off.

Whitney leans back beside you. "Do it now," she commands him.

Alex stands on uncertain feet and hobbles the short distance to where Whitney sits. Swiping a strand of his hair behind his ear, he leans over, lets his mouth hang open, and lets your cum run in a long steady stream to Whitney's waiting mouth. He feeds it to her like a bird feeding a chick. Whitney puts her hand down her sodden panties and rubs herself off to an explosive orgasm that, despite the underwear, deeply stains your carpet with girl-cum.

Whitney isn't done, yet: she grabs Alex roughly by the back of his head, forces his lips to hers and sucks the rest of your cum out of his mouth, her tongue probing insistently. When she finally seems to be satisfied, she tosses him aside, like a used-up tissue, and he falls to the ground, panting, his breaths ragged. He looks like a fucked-out little whore.

"You can cum inside anyone," Whitney says, looking at you with a devilish smile. "But I have to be there... and I get it all back when you're done... that's the rule..."

Alex rubs his face in the stain Whitney made on the floor. He seems more than satisfied with himself. You're pretty satisfied with him too. Whitney purrs in your arms, lets her head droop to your lap, and suckles your dick like a kitten lapping milk. She gets even the last drops of cum from you, and smiles herself stupid over it.

Alex and Whitney are unconscious on the floor, cuddled up together, when you hear banging on your dorm room door.

You stumble to your feet and peer through the peephole.

Camelia.

You open the door and push her back. "Asshole!" she shouts.

"Stay the fuck away from me," you slur, leaving the threshold and shutting your door behind you.

"Good lord," she says. She plugs her nose. "It smells like a French whorehouse in there. Don't you have any shame?"

"I'm warning you."

"I'm warning YOU," she says. "You haven't done it yet. And don't bullshit me, because I'll know when you do."

"Tomorrow," you tell her. "I've got a plan for it."

"You better fucking hope it works," she says, frowning.

"You know..." you begin, stumbling backwards, struggling just a bit under your own gravity. You swipe at your hair. "I don't even know what you want. I can't tell if you're a communist or a nazi or what."

She shrugs. "Does it matter?"

"What do you mean does it matter?" you say. "Of course it matters!"

"I'm a product of my environment. I come from a generation awash in irony and cynicism - ambiguity is the zeitgeist."

"If you were any more full of yourself, you would pop. Do you realize that?" (You feel like you're about to vomit.)

"Have you ever heard of horseshoe theory?"

"More like horseshit theory. You can't go around equivocating forever and expect me to just - what, follow along? To what end? What do you actually believe in? Why are you doing this to me?"

Camelia shrugs again, and you're getting really sick of seeing her do that. "I believe in self-determination," she says.

"You and 7 billion other people. What do you actually mean by that?"

"I don't care what people do with themselves," she says, leaning in close. "As long as they're doing it with themselves. Are you sober enough to listen to me here?"

You nod.

"This country is headed towards something big," she says. "Okay. We know that. And if that means gay space communism, fine. If it means a fourth reich, go nuts, I can't stop that. The only thing I want to make 100% goddamn certain of is that Mark fucking Zuckerberg won't have a say in it. Or Peter fucking Thiel. Or David FUCKING Darkbloom."

She fishes in her breast pocket and pulls out a small object that she keeps gripped in her fist. "There's a hundred different revolutions coming, Alabaster. I don't care which one gets here first or which one wins out in the end. I'm just here to make sure these Big Data motherfuckers are the first ones against the wall. I have a bullet with David Darkbloom's name on it. Literally." She opens her palm, and there it is. "I etched it on the side, see? I'm gonna be the one who puts it in his skull."

"Did Darkbloom kill your dog when you were a kid? Jesus."

Camelia puts the bullet in her breast pocket again and steps back. "You can get aboard or you can stand next to him on the wall. I don't give a fuck."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Can't get anything past you. No wonder you were quiz champion." She pulls that pocket watch out and waves it in front of your face. "Tick tock, you dumb asshole."

She blows you a kiss and walks away.

END OF EPISODE 2.