Season 2 Episode 3: Weeaboo;Sabotage

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, Idolm@sturbator and victim of felony extortion.

March 10, 2014

You've got your dick in your left hand and your favorite ShindoL doujin on the screen; life is good. It would be better, of course, if you couldn't hear the incessant thrum of Cerise's vibrator in the next bedroom over. The fact that your masturbation habits always sync up annoys you to no end. But it can't be helped.

You're deep into it when the downstairs telephone rings. Mom and dad are still out, so there's no one to answer it.

No matter. It's probably just another telemarketer - those are the only people who still call landlines these days. The phone rings for a bit and stops. But about five minutes later, it rings again. You're on the verge of orgasm by now, so you can't be bothered.

Vaguely, you wonder whether maybe it's mom herself - you told her to stop off at the grocery store and buy you some soda before coming home from her biweekly date with dad - maybe she has a question or something. Well, she can text you if it matters so much.

Ten more minutes after that, the phone is ringing - again. This is definitely weird. But you're in a post-climax torpor and don't feel like moving at all. You do manage enough energy to kick the wall and shout to Cerise: "get the phone already!"

"You get it, asshole!" comes the reply, muffled by the drywall separating your bedrooms. She's in a similar state of torpor now.

You kick the wall again. "It's for you!" you say. "Your stalker wants your autograph!"

"Fuck you!"

Then comes the sound of angry thudding, Cerise's bedroom door opening and slamming shut. Moments later the ringing stops. You lean back in your chair and enjoy the peace and quiet.

Your relaxation shatters when you hear a noise that you've never heard before, at least not in real life: a stomach-churning wail of anguish.

It's Cerise's voice.

There is nothing to compare it to, the way it breaks past every higher function of the mammalian brain and rings every klaxon in your hindbrain, throws every ancient signal that warns: "something is terribly wrong here." It's one of the worst noises you have ever heard.

What she shouts is just one word: "no" - just that one word, the O drawing itself out and transforming into a horrible sob.

You throw on your pants, step out of your room and down the stairs. Cerise is on the floor in the hall, on her knees and elbows, curled up with the telephone receiver to her ear. She rocks back and forth repeating "no, no, no..."

"Cerise...?" you say. "What's going on?" You already have an idea, though, what it must be. And already the first of what will be many, many tears is trailing down your cheek.

---

You just finished downloading Naruto.

These desperate times have brought you to unimaginable lows.

Before dawn, while Whitney and Alex still sleep the sleep of slutty angels who snore too loudly, you connect Camelia's flash drive to an old laptop that you intend to never use again. That's after pulling out the laptop's network card, covering the webcam with tape and running it in safe mode.

The flash drive's main directory has only three files in it: one is named "the_goods.mkv" and is quite large. The others are only a few kilobytes each, named simply "fuckem.lnk" and "seriously_fuckem.tmp"

You watch the video. It's what Camelia promised you it was. Apparently there's CCTV footage from across the street showing clearly the perpetrator of the North High fire. How no one ever discovered it before she did is mystery, but there's no denying it - especially as the video helpfully replays the few moments where the face is most clearly visible, in freeze-frame, for easy identification.

She's got you by the balls.

The other files have to be the payload she wants to get into Darkbloom's system. You copy them over to another jump drive - along with the complete series of Naruto Shippuden - and pocket it.

Then you power down the laptop, pull out the hard drive, and stash it under your bed. Later, when you're alone, you'll pulverize the platters.

By the time you're all showered up and ready for work, Whitney and Alex are both awake.

Whitney is naked.

Alex is wearing her clothes.

He looks utterly embarrassed. His face beet red, unable to make eye contact with either of you. Instead he worries his thumbnail and stares at the ground.

He may feel abashed to "crossdress" but other than the clothes being about half a size too big for his tiny frame, they suit him perfectly - a simple pair of shorts and a tank, not dissimilar from the outfit he wore (and soiled) yesterday.

Whitney looks way too pleased with herself. That always means trouble.

"Here he is," Whitney says, handing custody of Alex off to you. She pushes him forward, toward you, using his butt as a handle.

"You two have fun at work." She narrows her eyes at you. "But not too much fun."

Sighing, you grab your keys and shepherd Alex out the door, away from this maniac. Once again Whitney has taken advantage of your tendency to make bad decisions while drunk. Only now she's involved this poor, cute boy - err, this poor boy - in all of it too.

You'd rather pretend last night never happened.

The drive to work begins in awkward silence. Alex just keeps chewing his thumbnail to a nubbin and staring pensively out the window.

You're not sure whether you should try to make conversation. Maybe he regrets what happened as much as you do.

What's the etiquette in dealing with a drunken one-night stand with a trap?

[ ] Don't try to make conversation.

>[x] Try to make conversation.

Eventally you can't bear it. You speak up, trying for inoffensive small talk:

"Looks like it might rain later. What do you--"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ally," Alex cuts in. He's still looking away.

"I'm sorry?" Here comes a conversation you dread...

"I was supposed to help you with your orientation yesterday, and I didn't help you at all! I'm useless!"

...That's what he's so nervous about? Work matters? Not the whole "blowing you and snowballing with your girlfriend" thing?

"Um. It's fine," you say. "You were busy."

"It's not fine!" Alex shouts, whipping his head around to look at you directly. He leans on the center console of the car. His eyes are dewy. "I owe you for helping me! I owe you my LIFE, basically!"

"Let's not go that far--"

"I've got all of DA's policies and procedures in a big binder. I'll take you through every single word of it. I PROMISE, Mr. Ally."

It's still strange to you that this is what has Alex so upset. But if he's not at all perturbed about the events of last night, you decide not to be either. You agree to let Alex help your onboarding today.

"But, uh - you don't need to call me 'Mr.' Ally," you say. "Just Ally is fine."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ally. You and Ms. Whitney were so nice to me, and that's how I show respect."

"You're doing it again."

"I'm sorry! I'll try to keep a lid on it!"

At work, you send Alex down to Sable's R&D dungeon, telling him you'll catch up in a moment. You go meet with Cerise in her office on the 13th floor, to talk last minute strategy.

"Scrum," Cerise tells you.

"What?"

"All the teams do scrum at 7:45, that's the best time. You know -- for you to..."

To plant the jump drive where someone will find it, she means.

"What the hell is scrum?" you say.

"It's an agile framework for managing workflow across multi-functional teams in software and hardware development," Cerise says.

"Jesus. I can't get used to you spouting corporate buzzwords."

Cerise huffs. "I'm trying to help you here, you fucking faggot."

"That's better."

"The standup meeting takes 15 minutes. Everyone will be busy. You'll have enough time to get it done."

You think for a moment. "If I'm the only one wandering around when everyone else is supposed to be at a meeting, won't it look suspicious?"

Cerise folds her arms. "Fair point. The other option is to represent your team at the scrum-scrum."

You stare at her blankly.

"It's a cross-team meeting to recap the scrums of every individual team. They have it from 8:05 to 8:20 in the recreation area - supposed to make it more fun or some shit. When it gets out, you'd still have enough time to make it to the theater before anyone else. Probably."

"Probably."

"Yeah, probably."

Such confidence.

[ ] Skip the morning meeting and plant the jump drive then.

>[x] Attend the morning meeting and plant the jump drive afterwards.

"Any second thoughts?" You ask her.

"Look at this shit," Cerise says, by way of answering. She hands you a single-page document: it's a press release. You skim it.

"So what?" You say when you're done.

"So they put that out yesterday without even telling me," Cerise says. "Copied my signature and everything. I never signed off on that!"

"Is that what you call a signature?" you ask dryly.

She shakes her head. "They've got MY name on a document that gives congress a big fat fucking middle finger, as if I was part of the decision."

"Bitter?" you say.

"I don't know what I am. But I'm not having any second thoughts."

Cerise's phone dings. She grabs it from her belt - she actually wears a goddamn belt clip for her phone, if you can believe it - and checks the display.

For the first time in these tumultuous few days, you see your older sister smile.

She stares at the screen for a moment, quietly thinking and biting her lower lip, then clacks out a reply that takes several long moments.

Then comes another ding from the phone, another smile, and more typing.

"I'm sorry," you say, "am I interrupting something?"

"Yeah. You are."

"Since when do you have friends?" You shoot back.

"Maybe it's a guy," Cerise says, sneering. "You're not the only Soliloquy who can sleep around, you know."

"Now I know you're lying," you say. You stand up. "Whatever. I'll see you at lunch."

A couple days ago, Whitney's birthday came and went. When you realized you hadn't gotten her a gift, you told her that you and Cerise would treat her to lunch instead.

She wanted to go to one of those "fancy as fuck places in Palo Alto" - whatever that means - and in your stupor last night before the incident with Alex, you drunk-texted Cerise to set the date. No backing out now.

Hopefully lunch won't be interrupted by anything crazy. Like Camelia murdering you, say.

You sit alone with Alex in a meeting room downstairs. He's got an enormous binder with multicolored sticky notes poking out from three sides.

"Should I go top or bottom first?" Alex says.

"Top, I guess."

He opens the binder up and begins straight away: "Okay. Our policy on what to do if there's an active shooter... spooky. So, the purpose of this policy..."

He reads, and reads, and reads. You pretend to be listening closely.

About half an hour later, Alex is well into describing the Darkbloom Analytics code of conduct - Respect, Excellence, Integrity - when you get a text from a blocked number.

>Tick tock.

You shudder.

"Hey," you say, cutting Alex off. "The scrum is coming up soon. Should we do anything to get ready?"

"Hmm?" Alex murmurs. "Scrum?"

"You know what that is, right?"

He nods, suddenly excited. He balls his hands into fists and practically bounces in his chair as he chirps: "Of course I know! It's an agile framework for managing workflow across multi-functional teams in software and hardware development! Everyone knows that!"

You massage the bridge of your nose.

"But..." Alex says, deflating a little, "I've never seen Ms. Guiteau do anything like that. She's a more traditional manager."

[ ] Go speak to her about it.

>[x] Go on your own.

As you think through your options, you get another text notification - thankfully, this one is from Whitney, and not the psycho blackmailing you.

It's a photo of a tiny pink negligee with lace trim, along with a matching and equally sheer pair of crotchless panties. These items are pictured lying on your dorm room bed, so obviously she already went ahead and bought them.

She follows the picture with:

>What do you think?

The idea of her wearing that outfit makes you arch an appreciative eyebrow, but it really doesn't seem like her style. You text her back with that sentiment, more or less.

Her reply comes quickly:

>What?? No its not for me its for alex

You put the phone face-down on the table and slide it away as if to distance yourself from the words on the screen. You lean back and take a sharp breath of air between your teeth. Ohhh man.

"Are you okay?" Alex asks.

Not at all.

"Listen," you say. "I need to take a break. I'll be back in about 15 minutes." (Better you don't involve anyone else in your plan here.)

You stand and slip away to attend the scrum-scrum.

At 8:05 on the dot, you stand in a semicircle with other team members around an artificial bouldering wall in the rec area. The man you recognize as Nelson Berenstoin is at the center, in front of a whiteboard with different names on it, moving post-it-notes from "to do" to "in progress" to "Done!"

Rose is here, too - representing Team Cerise, it seems.

"Looks like your team is behind," she whispers smugly. She isn't wrong. Sable's name has a giant mess of post-it notes under the "to do" column and none at all under the other two categories. It's obvious she's been neglecting these planning meetings for a long time.

"Alabaster," Nelson says, turning to you. "So glad you could make it. Do you have any updates from your team?"

"Uh..." you say dumbly, not even sure how to begin. Rose is beaming with satisfaction at how lost you are.

You're not going to let her have that satisfaction.

"All done," you say smoothly.

"Excuse me?" Nelson responds.

"Yeah - all that stuff on the board, it's all done now."

Rose snickers. But Nelson is sincerely impressed: "Amazing work," he says. "You're making waves already." He grabs the post-its and moves them to the "Done!" column. Rose is clearly stupefied at how easy that was.

"How about you, Rose?" Nelson says next. "Any updates?"

"Uh..." she looks side to side, blushing. "Uh, my team is all done too."

Nelson frowns.

"You're all done?" He says. He takes one of the post-its down and read it. "So for instance, you completed imaging the servers affected by the data breach?"

"Ah--"

"That's what I thought." He puts the post-it back up in the "to do" column. "Try to come to this meeting better prepared next time," he says.

Rose is silently fuming.

When the meeting lets out, it's time to beat a hasty path to the theater - the theater where those weeaboo losers like to congregate. A jump drive labeled "Naruto" will be like catnip to those fuckers - irresistible. Or at least, you hope so.

[ ] Take Rose along.

>[x] Go in solo.

You brush past the doors to the theater, and are relieved to see that no one else is here yet. Slipping your hand into your pocket - using your shirt sleeve so you don't leave prints - you pull out the jump drive and set it on the red plush of a chair in the first row, where hopefully someone will see it.

You're just on your way out when the doors open again, half blinding you with bright light from the outside halls.

"Squeee!" comes a horrible shrieky voice like nails on chalkboard. "A new person! Someone else wants to join the Morning Anime Club!"

She comes running up to you, paunch jiggling. "I'm Kimberly! Kimberly Manlove! I run this show!"

You close your eyes and silently pray for strength.

A gangly beanstalk of a man comes in next. "Connor," he says, offering a handshake, which you decline. "Are you one of the new interns?"

"Yeah..."

More people are filtering in. Kimberly is already fiddling with her laptop, connecting it to a projector.

It would look awfully suspicious if you left now. And if you stay, you can at least try to make sure one of these people finds the jump drive.

By the same token, you don't want to be in the same universe as these people, much less the same room.

"We're gonna watch Inuyasha today!" Kimberly calls over her shoulder.

"Epic win!" a man named Franklin replies. This man is an adult, as far as you can tell.

[ ] Leave.

>[x] Stay.

You settle into a chair as far away from these idiots as you can sit without one of them telling you to come sit closer - a skill you've had years to practice in various unwanted social situations such as this.

Since the show they're watching is so beneath you (obviously), you instead choose to people-watch the club members - and maybe scout out the person most likely to take the jump drive.

Kimberly is rapt, staring at the action on-screen - Connor is talking to her, or more accurately talking at her (she doesn't seem to really care). He's actually referring to her as "lady," Jesus motherfucking Christ, but she doesn't pick up on his hopeless infatuation, either.

Franklin eats one candy bar after another, never slowing down for anything. Big fan of Snickers, it seems. A man named Earl picks incessantly at a hole in one of the chairs, pulling out the batting and - at one point - sniffing it curiously.

This is surely hell.

"So what's your favorite anime, Alabaster?" Connor asks, when it's clear that he won't make any progress with Kimberly today. He's wearing a shirt that says "Genius at Work."

"I'm sure you've never heard of it," you reply. "Hey, what's that on the front row--"

"Try me!" Connor says.

You sigh. "It's a close call between Strike Witches or Girls Und Panzer," you tell him.

"Oh, huh," Connor says. "Guess you're right. What are those about?"

You're about to launch into an explanation when you see a man you actually know walk into the theater. You can hardly believe your eyes.

It's Naruto Stackleford - your old high school friend.

"Alabaster!" he says. "Sup, my nigger?"

"What the fuck --" you hiss. "Why are you here?"

"It's a long story," he says. Despite the dockers and the button-down shirt, he still wears his patented pussy deflector from high school on his forehead.

Stackleford was a millionaire the last time you heard about him - he hit it big with an early investment in Bitcoin and moved to Vegas a couple years ago to live a life of luxury.

"I'm in data entry now," he explains.

"Why are you working some minimum wage job in data entry? Aren't you supposed to be partying on a yacht or something?"

He shrugs. "There was a big crash, bro. Really hit me hard."

"It didn't crash THAT hard," you sputter. "You don't have any money left?"

He looks away. "There was a lot of shit going on... someone stole one of my wallets... and then I made some bad investments... and Sabrina..."

"Sabrina?"

"I thought she loved me, man..."

You almost pity him. He lucked into and then squandered a fortune in less than two years.

You lean back, closing your eyes and suppressing a groan. Of all the people to run into...

"What are you up to now, nigwad?" He says. "Still crushing it?"

"I'm an intern," you say.

"Still crushing it?" He repeats.

"Yes, Stackleford. Still crushing it."

He pulls a bag of chips from seemingly nowhere and loudly eats some. "Still hanging out with Whitney?"

Stackleford's unrequited obsession with Whitney was the stuff of legend in high school.

>[x] Yes. We're dating now.

[ ] Yes. We're still friends.

Stackleford's jaw hangs slack. A half-chewed mound of potato chips rests wetly on his tongue.

Finally, he swallows. The gulp reverberates through the theater.

"D-dating?" He says. "As in... dating, as in dating?"

"Yeah. Dating as in dating."

"Oh. Uh... g-good for you," he says. "You two were always... t-tell her I said hi..."

He stands up. "'Scuse me," he says. He walks away, seating himself in the front row of the theater.

He watches the screen blankly for a few moments, like a soldier suffering shellshock. And then, in a moment of pure serendipity, he happens to notice the jump drive sitting on the chair beside him.

"Oh shit," you hear him mutter to himself. "At least something good happened today..."

You see him pocket the drive.

Thank god for Stackleford.

You duck out of the theater, feeling upbeat.

Downstairs, Alex finishes going through the policies and procedures binder right around the time you're due to head out for lunch with Cerise and Whitney. You are now armed, he says, with all the tools you need to be a model employee.

No more texts from Camelia, which you can only assume is good news. Her 24 hour deadline has passed. Stackleford must have done the dirty deed for you.

"Any questions?" Alex asks, closing the binder.

>[x] Wanna come to lunch with us?

[ ] I'm good, thanks.

His eyes actually sparkle with joy when you ask him. He's like a puppy, he's so innocent.

Cerise picked Ming's for the lunch date - a Chinese takeout place that she says is to die for.

When you arrive at the restaurant, she's sitting in a corner booth with her head cradled in her hands. Whitney is across from her, a straw in her mouth, loudly slurping the last bits of soda from between the ice inside her cup.

"Hey Ally~" Whitney says, noticing you. "And you brought Alex with you too! Awesome." She pats the seat beside her, motioning for Alex to sit. When Alex sits, she pokes him all over his body, rapidly, with both index fingers. He giggles and tries - but not very hard - to fight her off.

"What's wrong with her?" You ask, nodding at Cerise.

Whitney stops playing with Alex. "Cerise is a meme now," she says. "She doesn't like it."

"I'm gonna be sick," Cerise says. "Turns out that ever since my name made front page news, people have been obsessing over me. Look at this."

You sit next to her and she hands you her phone. You almost literally cannot believe what you're seeing: on screen is an image board thread dedicated specifically to her. The subject line is "/csg/ - Cerise Soliloquy General 24." In just a few days they've been through two dozen threads about her. (https://i.imgur.com/f5cWDo8.jpg )

You read aloud.

>Do you think Cerise ever wears the same underwear more than one day in a row?

>I want to smell them!

>>not wanting to smell her socks instead

>>implying I don't want to do both.

>I want to fuck Cerise Soliloquy! I really want to fuck her!

"Stop," Cerise begs. "I really am gonna be sick if you keep that up."

You feel a twinge of anger reading these creeps comment on Cerise like this. You're not sure why. Do you have hidden familial affection for your older sister, after all?

You continue aloud, noticing posts downthread about you rather than Cerise. It's a surreal experience:

>Her little brother works at DA now too ... he's literally /our guy/.

>Lucky bastard.

>that feel when you will never be Alabaster Soliloquy and plow your hot older sister's NEET pu--

You stop before you make yourself sick, too. "How the fuck did this happen?" You say.

Cerise can only shake her head sadly.

Whitney is loudly slurping the vestiges of her soda again. "Could you stop?" you snap. She sticks her tongue out at you.

The waiter comes by to take your orders. Alex is first - he orders kung pao chicken.

Then Whitney: she asks for pizza.

"Seriously?" You say. "This is a Chinese restaurant. You're ordering pizza off the kids' menu at one of the best Chinese takeout places in town?"

"Pizza is Chinese!" She insists. "It's totally Chinese! Tell him, Alex!"

"I don't think that's right..." he says timidly.

"Who is this girl?" Cerise asks, noticing Alex for the first time.

The waiter just stands there awkwardly, watching the exchange unfold.

"Pizza is NOT Chinese food," You half shout. "It's Italian. It's the most stereotypically Italian food there is!"

"Erm..." Whitney drawls, gazing off into space while the cogs inside her brain slowly turn. "No - no, I'm pretty sure the Italians just stole it from China."

"That's pasta. Jesus fucking christ." You turn to the waiter. "She'll take the kung pao chicken too."

"Pushy, pushy," Whitney says. She kicks you under the table.

You ignore this. "And, uh, go heavy on the soy sauce for both of them," you tell the waiter.

He writes this down.

Whitney makes a face. "Yecch," she says. "I hate that shit." She addresses the waiter: "no soy sauce for me, thanks."

"You can give me yours if you don't want it," Alex says. "It's my favorite. I could practically drink the stuff."

You and Cerise order - the same thing you always do, egg foo young with crab rangoon - and the waiter scurries off.

"I'm Cerise," your sister says, shaking Alex's hand. "Do you work with Alabaster? I think I've seen you around."

"Uh huh! I'm Alex!"

"Look at you," Cerise says to you. "Real ladies' man nowadays..."

You don't have the energy to correct her right now.

When the food arrives, Whitney takes Alex's fork from him and tries to feed him herself.

"Oh my god," you say. "Don't do that, Whit-- you don't have to put up with that, Alex. Don't let her bully you."

"Err-" he says. "Okay..." he takes his fork back and starts eating on his own.

"Yes you do," Whitney tells him. "You gotta let me bully you. I'll be nice." She takes the fork from him again. Alex obediently opens his mouth, closes his eyes and lets Whitney feed him.

"Weird friends you've got," Cerise murmurs.

"You're a demented person," you tell Whitney. "Completely sick."

"Om," Alex murmurs softly, munching the food off the fork that Whitney holds for him.

"See?" Whitney says. "He likes it."

Back at work, you're sitting again in your workstation next to Alex.

Sable's office door is slightly ajar, and from where you sit you can see her sitting motionless at her monitor.

"What's up with her?" You ask Alex. "Is she always like this? It's creepy."

He shakes his head. "She goes through moods like this. A few days of being sad, then a few days of being really energetic. It comes and goes."

>[x] Is there anything we can do?

[ ] Let her manage it on her own.

You stand once again in Sable's creepy cave of an office. Alex is beside you. He suggested brightening her mood by reporting on the team's progress.

"So, uh..." you begin. "I stopped by the scrum this morning."

Sable regards you, her expression blank. "What is scrum?" She asks.

You goggle at her for a moment before catching yourself. "You're - joking, right?"

She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly.

"It's an agile framework for managing workflow across--" You stop yourself. "...I don't know what I'm saying," you admit. "Anyway, it went well."

"That is good to hear," Sable says. Then: "I decided to kill myself today."

Her face is as blank as her tone.

Alex starts to cry, almost instantly. "Ms. Guiteau - no! What are you saying?"

You have no idea how to respond to what you just heard.

"I have failed," Sable says. "I have no ideas. No path forward. This is the end." She pushes Alex back as he tries to hug her. "There is no reason to cry. I failed, and that's all there is."

"Ms. Guiteau, please - please!"

You try a different track than Alex: "You're going to make us finish all your work on our own? How lame is that?"

"Shut up, Ally!" Alex shouts. "Shut up!"

"All these meetings, this project development..." you say. "You expect us to handle it on our own? I barely made it through scrum by myself."

Sable's eyes dart from side to side. As if a light-switch has been turned, she buzzes with a sudden energy verging on the maniacal.

"Scrum," she says, loudly.

"--Scrum?" Alex says, sniffling.

"Scrum! That's it! How did I not think of it sooner - scrum..." She kicks the ground, sending her chair whizzing backwards across the lab floor. Just as she's about to hit another desk with the back of her chair, she swivels around and stops the chair's momentum by grabbing the edge of the desktop. She pulls up a blank notepad document on the PC there and starts typing, faster than you've ever seen anyone type, in what appears to be some sort of shorthand. "Scrum!" she repeats. "It's all a scrum!"

"So..." you say, drawling. "You want to do the morning meeting for me now?"

"Fuck your scrum!" Sable shrieks, still typing like a person gone insane. You and Alex both recoil as if you've been hit. "Who gives a shit about scrum? Jesus fucking Christ, Alabaster, you idiot!"

The two of you can only gawk.

"Everything," she says. "Everything is a big, a big - it's - have you ever known anyone who owns a stapler and doesn't have a home office of some kind? Think about it. Have you ever known anyone like that?"

You shrug, but you're not sure whether she sees you, or whether she even cares what your answer is, because she's still intently focused on her screen and her note-taking.

"Have you ever known anyone who keeps more than one Chinese takeout menu on their fridge and who also has a wine collection? It doesn't happen, Alabaster! It's not possible!"

"I'm sorry, but..."

"It's not about people, it's objects! A big scrum of objects in an interconnected network that predicts the people in the middle. If you knew what was in someone's home, you would know the person... but we already knew that... but what if - what if there were CLASSES - classes of people, Alabaster, but not the way we talk about classes. Not middle class or lower class, not high caste or low caste, not ruler and oppressed. We historically can't categorize people the right way, we look at the wrong things, we're humans, we don't have the right analytics skills. We've missed it all along. Because what if the class of a person is - it all goes back to what they OWN, which is what they VALUE, which is who they ARE. What if there's a select group - no more than - 1,000, maybe, less? Objects. Wholly discontinuous. Non-overlapping. If you could FIND them--"

Then (as if she needs it), she grabs a pill bottle, pours out three ritalin, and eats them like tic tacs. You slowly back away, and she doesn't stop speaking for even a moment. "Scrum," she says, "It's all a big scrum, it's a big scrum..."

"Wait!" Sable cries. "Wait. I need your help."

"With what?" you say.

"There's an emergency board meeting in 10 minutes, up on the 20th floor. But there's no WAY I can go now, I'm too busy."

"I could go," Alex suggests.

"No! I need you, Alex! I need you to help come up with a new codebase. Totally new. We're scrapping Project Ulysses."

Alex looks way too happy for news so daunting as starting everything over from scratch.

"Go to the board meeting and act as my proxy," Sable tells you.

"Is that legal?"

She quickly prints out a document and hands it to you. "This authorizes you to vote in my interest," she says, and immediately goes back to her typing. Alex sits down beside her, as hopped up on energy as she is.

"But I don't know what your interest--" you begin

"Shut the fuck up!" She yells. "Just vote however Vivian tells you to. That's all I do at those stupid meetings."

So now you're supposed to be a proxy for a proxy. Great.

>[x] Go to the meeting.

[ ] Skip it.

You step out of the elevator, onto the 20th floor where you interviewed for your job just a couple days ago.

Vivian is sitting here in the lobby outside the conference room, reading a printout of something or other.

She looks up.

"Alabaster Soliloquy," she says. "You should not be here. Please return to your work space at once."

"Actually," you say, handing her the proxy authorization. "Sable sent me. She's too busy to attend."

Vivian reads the form. "Ridiculous," she mutters. "That crazy woman... Fine. This way, then. Please do not speak out of turn or embarrass yourself."

Inside the conference room, the board is already seated at their big executive leather swivel chairs, all around the oval conference table.

Vivian explains your presence to the group, who seem none too pleased to have you. Then she introduces you to the people you don't know already. Besides Nelson Berenstoin and Steven Armstrong, there's Vasily Keremiov, financial chief; Thad McMichael, privacy chief; and Dalton Cantor, security chief.

"Father is still flying back from Washington," Vivian says. "But mother just got back on an earlier flight."

"Hello," says Mara Darkbloom, not even looking at you.

"First order of business," Mara says, handing out some printouts of an email. When you get a copy, you see it's the call for sensitivity training that Rose sent out.

"We have been asked to host sensitivity training for all employees," Mara says. "With the recent bad PR, I think it would be unwise to ignore this issue. We don't need more negative press."

Steven, adjusting his glasses, reads aloud from the email. "An environment of toxic masculinity... need to establish a safe space for women and minorities... gendered slurs? Who is this cunt?"

"Rose Manroy. A recently hired intern," Mara says.

"Best to just do what she wants," Dalton says. "I vote yea."

"Whatever," Steven says. "Yea."

The vote continues. Everyone else votes yea too.

"Waste of time," Vivian mutters. She doesn't get to vote - she isn't of age and doesn't have an official position on the board.

Vivian's seeming displeasure gives you an out to vote nay on this motion - even if it won't make a difference - but voting nay would be going against every other board member.

[ ] Yea.

>[x] Nay.

You feel momentarily powerful.

"Fine. Motion passes 6 to 1," Mara says.

"A little dissenter, huh?" Steven says, grinning at you. "I like it. You know, I'm gonna have to set this bullshit up, which is way too much time and effort - so maybe it would be best to delegate."

"I'm sorry?" you say.

"You and this Rose bitch can put the training together. Try not to let her get carried away."

"Now, wait a second here--" you begin.

"Then it's settled," Mara says. "Now - onto the main purpose of this meeting."

You feel ill.

"I am moving that we immediately discontinue the internal investigation into the 3/10 hack," Mara announces.

Vivian shakes her head. "Father needs to be present for this discussion."

"I'm sorry..." Mara says, turning to her daughter, "I must have missed the memo. Do you get a vote now?"

"Mother--"

"David is in the air," Mara says. Her voice is pure ice. "This matter is too pressing to wait for him to return. Decisiveness is the only thing that can save us."

"You have not even allowed him a proxy. This is a coup," Vivian says.

"The board is in agreement. If David disagreed, he would be outvoted regardless."

"Actually," Steven says, leaning forward, "I've change my mind. Our public relations are at a breaking point as it is. Closing this investigation would worsen our position."

Mara's face betrays no surprise, but certainly contempt. "I have a press release ready for distribution the moment this vote goes through," Mara says. "I think it will look rather redemptive for us as an organization."

Dalton opens a manila folder and passes out copies of the prepared statement. This time, nobody hands one to you.

Vivian is the first to finish reading and the first to speak.

"Unacceptable," she says. "You would open our business to public scrutiny. Congress? Mother, you cannot be serious."

"I am serious and we are going to vote on it."

"You would send me to testify before the Senate? How can you do this to us?" This is the most emotion you've heard in Vivian's voice in the short time you have known her.

"We all would testify," Mara says. "Don't make this about you, Vivian. I've had quite enough of your idea that this company moves only on your say. We will all sit before a small group of Senators - Senators we own - they will cluck their tongues at us for the cameras and then all of this will be over."

Thad speaks up now. "Saying we want transparency is one thing. But actual transparency can't be a good option here. If we hand internal documents to the Senate, they will leak. I was ready to vote for this but you have to remove that from the press release."

Mara picks an invisible piece of lint from the thin shoulder strap of her dress. "Are we quite ready to vote now?" She says.

The vote circles around the table: Mara, Vasily, and Dalton are yeas. Thad and Steven vote nay. Nelson is last one to vote before you do.

"I have to vote nay on this," he says.

"What." Mara is surprised now. Her entire plan to do an end-run around her husband just collapsed on itself.

"We can kill this in the crib, but only if we keep our hands on it," Nelson explains. "Letting these morons in government use it as a photo op will sink us. We're coming up on midterm elections here, Mara - they want to make an example out of this company."

"For the love of God," Mara says. She stands. "You short-sighted, incompetent buffoons! You are letting a 17 year old girl tell you how to run one of the largest companies in the world. And because of that you have destroyed our only chance to fix this mess. Fools. All of you. Fools."

"Actually," you say, "uh - the vote isn't done yet. I do get to vote here, right?"

Pindrop quiet. You feel like you could die.

"Has Sable instructed you how to vote, young man?" Mara says finally. This is the first time she has ever made eye contact with you. It feels like being physically struck.

"She- gave me instructions," you say.

You're not sure what happens to Cerise, her team, or anyone else if the internal investigation closes and DA allows access to outsiders. You certainly have no faith in Mara and the rest of them not to pin this debacle on Cerise when they go to testify before congress.

By the same token, you're confident that Cerise is in serious trouble if the investigation continues, too.

But now you've spoken up. And now you have to vote.

[ ] Yea. End the investigation.

>[x] Nay. Continue the investigation.

"Motion fails, 3 to 4," Vivian says. Her voice has something approaching happiness in it.

Mara quakes with disgust and anger.

"You set this up," she says. She looks at her daughter. "You will pay for this. I promise."

"Mother, be reasonable. This is in the company's best interests."

"This meeting is adjourned," Mara says. "Get out of my sight."

As everyone files out, Vivian stops you, tugging on your shirt sleeve. "Thank you, Alabaster Soliloquy," she whispers. "You showed fortitude I did not know you possessed. Take this as a token of appreciation."

She hands you a slip of paper, with instructions not to read it until she's gone.

You start to go as well, but Mara calls after you:

"Alabaster. Please see me in my office."

You cast an uneasy glance at Vivian. Her expression is inscrutable, but that's enough to say she can't help you here. So instead of following the rest of the executives out the door to the lobby, you follow Mara through the door at the back of the room, which leads to her and her husband's spacious office suites.

Mara's office is like something from Lovecraft, a yawningly large and sparsely furnished and brightly lit room that only seems to expand as you move towards the back, where a white steel desk the size of an adolescent elephant is situated.

Mara smooths the rear of her dress and sits at the absurdly large desk.

"Sit," she commands you in turn.

You sit.

Mara folds her hands in front of her. She stares at you. She says absolutely nothing.

"Is this about-- what did you w-- what's going--" you stammer.

Mara smiles at you for a moment just long enough to be awkward.

Then she reaches into a drawer. She comes back up with the jump drive.

She sets it down between you.

It's the only object on the desk. A speck of black plastic in a sea of white metal.

"What is this?" Mara says.

>How do you respond?

"It looks like a jump drive to me," you say. If there was ever a time for a poker face, this is it.

Mara laughs huskily.

"A fat little nothing named Stackleford turned this in to security around lunchtime," she says. "He said he found it in the theater of the recreation area. Said it aroused his suspicions. Said he'd been the victim of a cyber attack very similar to that - a tantalizingly placed USB stick with malicious code loaded onto it."

"Did he-"

"Of course not," Mara says. "He didn't plug it in. Are you disappointed?"

You say nothing.

"You're on camera, Alabaster. Don't play stupid."

"I--" you begin.

"Take it," she says. "Do it."

"...What?"

Mara is standing. Before you even know what's going on, she's got you pinned against the wall with her hand to your throat.

"I said take it. Do it."

"Wh-why--" you choke.

"Vivian's father listens to her far too much - her silly ideas - both of them need to be taught a lesson."

"I don't know what you're talking abo--"

She tightens the grip on your throat. "A little chaos in this organization will show them both. Whatever it is you're planning, do it."

She lets go, and you fall to your knees, clutching your neck.

She drops the jump drive before you.

You grab it and leave her office as quickly as you can.

Alex and Sable are hard at work in Sable's office. The rest of the office has already gone home for the day. Sitting at your workstation, you feel quite alone, and very small.

You read the note Vivian gave to you.

It's a coupon for a free ice cream sundae from the cafeteria - it's one of the few items there that they typically charge for.

On the back of the coupon, she wrote: "please join me at lunch this Friday. My treat."

She's kind of cute, in her own way, but you have a hard time feeling happy right now. You're in deep with forces you don't even begin to comprehend.

You stare at your screen. Mara will know whether you "did it" or not. So will Camelia. You're out of time and options. Do you have any other choice but to obey?

You look down at the USB slot on your computer, then the jump drive in your hand.

>[x] Do it.

[ ] Don't do it.

You move to plug the jump drive into your workstation.

Then a different idea strikes you.

You wheel your chair over to the workstation of one of the coders you know as Pai. He's one of the idiots who was making fun of Alex yesterday. You plug the infected jump drive into his computer.

A command prompt appears for a split second, then disappears.

It's done.

You decide to leave for the day. In the parking lot, when you start your car, you're startled to see a silhouetted figure in your headlamps.

It's a woman, who visors her eyes as she looks at you. You roll down your window.

"You're in the way," you say.

"Kay Vera, LA Tribune. Do you have a moment?"

You recognize that name. This is the woman who put up that smear piece about Cerise - who broke the news about the hack in the first place.

"No comment," you tell her. "Move."

"I have just a couple questions," she says.

"I said move."

"No, I don't think I will. I'm just fine right he--"

You begin to pull forward, startling her backwards. She pounds a fist on the hood of your car. "Jerk! You could have hit me!"

"I told you to move. And to be honest, if I hit you, it would probably score me some serious points back at work."

Kay writes this down on a notepad.

"Don't write that down," you say, frustrated.

Kay circles around and leans in through your window. "Your sister is in trouble. People are starting to wonder if she's connected to the 3/10 hack. Do you have anything to say about that?"

[ ] Talk to her.

>[x] Leave.

You pull forward, and Kay - still leaning on your window - is jerked bodily forward by the momentum.

"Jerk!" she cries, spinning on her heels and barely keeping her balance.

"Please direct all inquiries to Steven Armstrong, our spokesman," you sneer, as you peel out of the parking lot.

"We're not done yet, Alabaster!" she cries.

Yeah, right.

[ ] Go home to Whitney.

>[x] Visit Cerise's apartment.

You knock on Cerise's door. Rose answers.

Ugh.

"Go away," Rose sneers, trying to close the door in your face. You stop it with a flattened palm.

"Don't you want to know how things went with the plan today?" You say.

"Not particularly. You're still alive, so I assume it went just fine. You're not supposed to move in until tomorrow, so give me one more night of peace, will you?"

You step past her, ignoring her protests. "I'm here for my sister, not for you."

"She's in her bedroom. I wouldn't bother her."

Cerise's apartment is one of the most depressing places you've ever seen: the living room is furnished only with two foldaway couches - obviously purchased in preparation for you and Rose - and absolutely nothing else. The small kitchenette has nothing in it but empty beer bottles, empty bags of takeout from In-n-Out, and empty bowls of ramen. When you look in the fridge, it's what you suspected: nothing but more beer. When you look in the cabinets, the same: nothing but more ramen - Indomie brand, the only kind she'll eat.

It's mystifying how she can be alive after years of a diet like this.

"You're such a snoop," Rose says. "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm concerned about how my sister is living," you tell her.

"Yeah right. You've never been concerned about anyone but yourself."

"Oh, by the way," you say, stepping out into the living room again. "Your sensitivity training got approved. You'll be the one responsible for planning it."

Rose's face lights up.

"I'll be on the planning committee too," you say.

Her smile and optimism: gone.

"Bullshit," she says. She steps to you, glowering. "You're lying. You're trying to get under my skin."

"Back off," you say. "I'm warning you. I don't like that look you're giving me."

"FUCK you," she says, taking another step forward.

A few moments later, you're at one another's throats - literally - physically scuffling like unruly children. You don't even notice Cerise stepping out of her bedroom.

Cerise separates the two of you - it would be slapstick if wasn't so emasculating - she grabs both of you by the collar and hauls you apart and lets you go.

"If you two are going to live with me, you're going to behave like adults," she says.

"He started it!" Rose cries.

"Nuh uh!" You say.

"Holy shit, you two. I knew it was bad, but - is this everyday life for you? Is this how you normally treat each other?"

You and Rose look away, saying nothing.

"Look, I'm not in the business of relationship advice, but you two should seriously just fuck already," Cerise says. "For the love of god. You'll both feel better."

You and Rose start up at the same time, shouting over one another: "What?--" "What?--" "That is sick--" "You're sick--" "--Demented--" "You cannot be serious--" "--to think I would stoop so low--" "--that I could even think about it--" "--makes me ill, physically ill--" "Not to mention that we're cousins--" "--Once removed--" "--and a misogynist prig--" "--unrepentant degenerate--" "--colossal moron of a loser--" "--bitchy dumb fat cow--" "--of a pig of a fucking CREEP--"

"Goddamn it," Cerise yells. "I can't deal with this. I actually cannot deal with this." She gropes at her own face as if nursing a migraine. "You're both insufferable."

When you're calm again, you explain to Rose and Cerise the confrontation with Mara Darkbloom.

"I think I really will be ill now," Rose says. "We're so..." she stops, and holds a hand to her mouth to keep from hyperventilating. "You ruined my life, Alabaster..."

"What about that Camelia woman?" Cerise asks.

"No more contact," you say. "I guess she's satisfied. If she wasn't, I think I would have heard from her by now."

"I hope so," Cerise says. Then: "You should sleep here tonight. I don't think it's safe for you to be alone."

"I've got Whitney," you say. "She's basically the terminator whenever she thinks someone is messing with me. Plus, I've got my final exam in dynamics in the morning. I can't exactly miss that."

Cerise is doing that thing where she's obviously worried but too proud to show it. She shrugs and glances away.

[ ] Fine, I'll stay here tonight.

[ ] I should be going. Whitney will protect me, don't worry about it.

>[x] Fine, I'll stay here tonight.

You text Whitney that you'll be sleeping at Cerise's tonight.

Her response is typical:

>assjerk

You feel a little bad about standing her up on your last night living in Berkeley, so you make a compromise offer.

>Come over for a bit?

>Fuck yeah! You're the greatest, ally~~~

Three tildes. She must happy.

Cerise retires to bed. You and Rose sit on your respective couches, glowering at one another, neither one letting your guard down.

A bit later, you hear Cerise talking and laughing in her bedroom. Curious, you poke your head inside to see what's up.

She's wearing a headseat, chatting on webcam with a cute redheaded girl. You'll be damned: she really does have a friend.

The girl notices you, and must say something about it to Cerise, because Cerise suddenly wheels around and shouts at you. "Get out, Alabaster! Out out out!"

She slams the door in your face.

Back to glowering at Rose, you guess.

Rose is weaker than you: about 90 minutes later, the quiet staring contest has left her exhausted and she falls asleep sitting up. She snores softly, leaning against the arm of the couch. Her mouth is parted and a little trickle of drool comes out.

You stand and cover her with a blanket. Not because you care about her - it's just that the last thing you need is her catching a cold and spreading her germs to you.

Soon after, Whitney texts you that she's pulling up. You creep to the front door and let her inside. She instantly latches onto your face for a deep tongue kiss.

"Is Alex here too?" she whispers when she pulls back.

"No, he's at work. He's really into it, so I left him there."

"Oh well," Whitney says. "You're just as fun." She glances into the living room where Rose is still snoozing.

"Don't even think about it," you say. "We can go somewhere else if you want to fool around."

"Oh, what's the harm?" Whitney asks. "Besides, I've got a cool trick to show you. She won't wake up."

>[X] Well, OK

>[ ] Seriously, we should go somewhere else.

"It's all about upper body strength," Whitney explains. You're sitting on the floor in the living room, naked, your legs splayed out. Whitney is naked, too. Just seeing her plump little cunt on display is enough to get you hard these days. It's such a cute slit, invitingly soft looking and delicate.

You feel a little thrill of exposure here, too, doing something like this so close to where Rose is sleeping. From where you sit, you can see her - although with the lights out, she's not much more than a shadowed lump on the couch.

Whitney gets into a pushup position and then arches her back at an angle that looks downright painful. Then with a graceful push forward, she's standing fully upright, upside-down, on just her hands.

She walks forward with grace you never could have imagined for a person using their palms for feet. Her slight frame is probably a benefit, here. Her body is sleek and small-looking in the moonlight coming through the window.

"What do you think?" she asks.

"That's - impressive," you manage.

"Just watch."

She walks further forward still, until she's right in front of you. Her face is level with your crotch.

"You can't be serious-" you begin.

She's serious. She opens wide and engulfs your dick in the hot confines of her mouth.

"Oh my god," you groan. She pushes herself up and down, raising and lowering her throat around your cock. She's actually deepthroating you by doing standing pushups. She pistons back and forth, sucking you off, her movements agonizingly but deliciously slow.

Her neck muscles tighten and loosen with expert precision, milking your aching cock shaft. You leak precum straight into her, but gravity has the advantage: it seeps back down along with her drool all over your crotch, your thighs, and the floor.

Eventually, even Whitney can't maintain her gymnastic pose. She begins to wobble. Not wanting to lose this delicious new pleasure, you lean forward and wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her against you. Now you're supporting her weight as she sits upside-down on your dick. She never stops sucking you like her life depends on it. Her ass bumps against your face as you hold her, and you do what any red-blooded young man would: you bury your entire face in it.

Whitney's asshole is tiny, tight and fun to probe. Even the smell is inviting, not dirty, but sweet and womanly. Every time your tongue breaks past the puckering ring, you feel her slobbery mouth tighten around your dick. You can control the tempo of her blowjob by controlling the tempo of your tongue in her ass.

You hear rustling from over by the couch now. Whitney doesn't stop, but you poke your head up to see what it is. It's hard to make out a lot of detail, but Rose is definitely awake, and she's looking directly at the two of you.

You're far beyond caring.

You turn 180 degrees, bringing Whitney along for the ride, and then tip her over so she lands with a light thud on the floor. She just giggles at the abuse: "meanie~" she coos, sputtering up a frothy mix of slime from the way you used her mouth.

"I need to fuck you," you growl.

She sits up on her elbows, spreading her legs as wide as they go, and holds her pussy open for you. She either has no idea Rose is watching or simply doesn't care. Either way, this is happening.

You climb over her. The positioning went just as planned: from this angle, Rose will be able to clearly see where your dick enters Whitney as you fuck in and out of her.

That thought in mind, you go balls deep in a single squelching thrust. Your body collapses against Whitney's as you shove your cock inside - and Whitney falls flat on her back with the force of it, her legs entwining with yours. Whitney is powerless to do anything now, pinned beneath your weight. Even athletic soccer star Whitney Price is unable to overcome your masculine power advantage. She can only let you rut around and fuck her as you wish, your ass bouncing up and down.

Right now you're using her body to get off, nothing more - and to make sure Rose sees every graphic moment of it.

"Fuck me," Whitney chants over and over in a sing-song voice, her voice an airy whine from the force of exactly that.

You hear a little "mmmf-" from the couch where Rose is sitting. You look over your shoulder - and Whitney is looking now, too.

Rose is curled up under the blanket, her face poking out as she watches the lewd display.

She's softly crying to herself, it sounds like - but there's also a rhythmic wet slapping noise muffled by her covers that definitely isn't chaste.

Rose is actually sobbing while she masturbates to you and Whitney fucking.

"Told you~" Whitney says to her. She laces her fingers through your hair and pulls you into a lingering kiss as your thrusts become more insistent, more needful. Her insides are searing hot and getting hotter, dripping wet and getting wetter - she likes to show off as much as you do, apparently.

"Cum inside," she tells you. "Cum in me, Ally. Cum in me!"

You groan - way louder than you intended - and let your cum paint Whitney's deepest parts. You shoot pulse after sticky pulse of semen into her spasming cunt.

"F-f-fffuck," Whitney squeals, cumming herself stupid too. You feel the wet explosion of it as she bucks back against you.

When your balls are empty, you roll over, panting.

Whitney stands. You reach out weakly to stop her, but she's already striding across the living room to where Rose is still crying and playing with herself.

"I told you," Whitney repeats, standing right in front of Rose's face. She spreads her cunt lips open and lets your cum slide down her legs as a final humiliation for Rose.

Rose lets out a pained gasp, biting her knuckles to stifle it, goes rigid as she cums, then collapses into a bawling heap.

March 15, 2014

Your parents are barely in the ground when the vultures from the bank come to discuss the mortgage with Cerise. The house has devolved to her ownership but she has no means of making the monthly payments, and they are recommending that she sell. Of course the bank is all too happy to take it off her hands and give her the equity back. It might even cover the rest of the estate's debts.

Meanwhile, a woman you had never met prior to the funeral on Thursday is in your bedroom, sitting on your bed. You sit in your computer chair, facing her.

This is the mother of Rose Mallory, the school's bitchy stuco president. Apparently, you're related.

You may not know Mrs. Mallory, but she sure seems to know a lot about you - she spent a long time talking with a rheumy-eyed Cerise after the wake.

"We drifted apart after high school," Mrs. Mallory says, "but I was very close to your mother when I was younger. She was technically my aunt, but we were pretty much the same age. We were more like sisters than anything."

You have nothing to say to that. You have nothing to say to anyone these days, really.

Mrs. Mallory glances around your hovel of a room, from the blackout curtains on the windows, to the piles of dirty clothes on the ground, to the wastepaper basket by your computer desk overflowing with tissues. But if the shabby way you live causes her any second thoughts about what she says next, she doesn't let on.

"If Cerise sells this house, I want you to know that you can come to live with me - free of charge. I know how important it is to stay with your friends, especially in times like these. You should have the chance to graduate from North High. Cerise thinks so, too."

Friends? What friends? Naruto Stackleford, that fat fuck, is just about the only person on Earth who ever hangs out with you - him and Whitney, who's almost as annoying.

You might as well go live in a group home or something. Or drop out and go live the life of a drifter. You can't be bothered to care about anything anymore.

Mrs. Mallory puts a hand on your knee. "I hurt for you, Alabaster. I can see the toll this is taking on you."

"What do you know?" you say.

"I know you need someone who cares," Mrs. Mallory says, smiling warmly. "At least come have dinner with my family and I tonight. I'll properly introduce you to your cousin, too."

The way she talks, it's already a done deal. First you've lost your parents, and now your childhood home. What next?

---

It's something like 4:00 AM when you wake up to a rustling noise from across the room again. Whitney is snoring beside you, sleeping soundly, and doesn't stir.

You glance over to the source of the noise. Rose is on her feet, wrapped in her blanket. She approaches your side of the room.

"You gave your virginity to that disgusting girl," Rose says. Her voice is flat but full of disgust.

"So?"

"I told you three years ago that it belonged to me," she sneers. "You disobeyed me."

"I can't believe you were serious," you say, keeping your voice to a whisper to avoid waking Whitney. "You actually meant that? You're even crazier than I thought. Holy shit."

"I will make you pay for this," Rose says.

"Cry harder," you say. "To think that rich bitch Rose Mallory actually wants my dick. How pathetic is that? We're cousins, you know--"

"Once removed."

"All this time you called me sick, and you're the sick one."

Her expression is hard to read as she stares back at you appraisingly, your face, your naked body, the way you hold Whitney close. She turns without another word and goes back to bed.

END OF EPISODE 3.