Season 2 Episode 4: Ijirinaide, Camelia!

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, Hath millionaire and reverse NTR specialist.

October 3, 2014

You've got a spring in your step and happiness in your heart, for the first time in a long time. The results are in: Alabaster Soliloquy has defeated Rose Mallory for student council president.

The look of utter shock and humiliation on Rose's face yesterday afternoon, when the results were announced, is an image indelibly stamped in your mind. She was so dismayed that she couldn't even make a concession speech, sending one of her lickspittle secretaries to do it instead on her behalf.

After half a year of living in Rose's shadow, of dealing with her tyranny both at school and at home, you have achieved the most perfect revenge possible. You beat her at her own game, on her own turf.

Of course, your new duties in StuCo will still have to be secondary to your role as captain of North High's quiz bowl team. This is your senior year and you intend to take the team all the way to the national championship this time.

That's why, after classes end today, you head for Mr. Langley's room - where quiz bowl practice is in session - rather than the student council room on the other side of the school.

You enter to a sea of smiling faces crowding around you. Your fellow teammates congratulate you on your recent win - including Mr. Langley, who says he would have voted for you too, if only faculty was eligible to do so. You graciously accept their back-pats and plaudits.

It's when this miniature crowd disperses, that you finally see her sitting at one of the tables by herself, in front of one of the practice buzzers.

Mr. Langley notices you glowering at her. "In the spirit of reconciliation and sportsmanship--" he begins, but you cut him off - baring to him and the rest of the quiz team a side you rarely show in public:

"What the fuck are you doing here, you bitch?"

Rose smiles warmly. "Alabaster, such demeaning language..."

"Answer me."

"I decided to join the quiz bowl team. Let's go to the national competition this year, okay?"

---

That morning, you wake up on your back with with Whitney wrapped around you: her legs locked around your waist, her arms locked around your shoulders. You extricate yourself from this dozing death-grip and get dressed for school.

You're the only one awake. The living room stinks of sex. Rose is cuddled up like a burrito, her face just barely visible and still ruddy from a marathon of ugly-crying. You're not sure exactly what you feel, looking at that pitiful face.

You gently nudge Whitney awake.

"Guhhh?" she mutters.

"I have to go back to Berkeley for my final. Are you coming too?"

She stretches luxuriously and yawns. "I have some business here in town," she says. "I'll catch up."

"Business? What business?"

"You'll see~" She boops your nose.

You're not sure you really want to.

Even though Cerise is being weird about you traveling alone, you have to get going. You don't want to fail on the last day of your semester. You hurry down to your car and hit the road.

You're on the freeway pulling 75 MPH when you notice movement in your rearview mirror. You glance back to see Camelia sitting up in your backseat.

She must have been hiding back there.

You yell - you actually yell, like a girl. You yell again when Camelia puts a revolver to your head.

"Calm DOWN," she says. "You're gonna crash if you keep freaking out like that-- hey. Eyes on the road."

"Please don't shoot me," you say - not too proud to beg. "I did what you asked. I plugged in--"

"Shut your fucking pie socket," she says.

You shut up.

"I'm not going to shoot you," she says. "You're the one driving, so what do you think would happen to me if you died right now? I'm not suicidal."

"Wh-what do you want?" you say.

"Think of this like a reverse metaphor. It's a literal gun to your head to remind you that I've got a figurative gun to your head."

"I did what you asked!" You repeat. "I took the USB--"

"Will you shut the FUCK up about specifics? How did you get away with the shit you did when you were younger? Don't you know your phone is bugged?"

"Bugged - by who?"

"Darkbloom. Just like he bugged every other phone on the planet."

You shake your head.

"Try it out sometime," Camelia says. "Talk about something you never talk about, then check what kind of targeted ads you get on Facebook. They ARE listening to you."

"Please," you say, sincerely, "for the love of god... please leave me alone. I don't want anything to do with - with whatever it is you're up to."

"Too late," Camelia says. She pulls the gun away from you head, leans back. You breathe a sigh of relief.

She takes a pack of cigarettes from her vest coat pocket and lights one up.

"Could you not--" you begin, but the icy look she gives you in the rearview warns you off completing that request.

You cough a bit while she enjoys her smoke.

"Pull over," she says. "I need to talk with you where only God can hear us."

"You're going to kill me," you say, voice cracking. It's the logical conclusion.

She rolls her eyes. "You are such a pussy... fine. Here." She lowers the window and tosses her revolver out. The car behind you swerves to avoid it as the gun clatters and skids down the asphalt - you hope no one actually realized what it was.

"Are we good now?" she says.

>[x] Pull over.

[ ] No. Keep driving.

You stand on the shoulder of the freeway with Camelia, beneath a billboard that commands you to reelect Rep. Devin Isstein this November. "Shill," Camelia sneers, giving his 20-foot visage the bird.

"What do you want?" You say.

"First off," Camelia says, "thank you for doing the thing with the flash drive yesterday. I was starting to think you wouldn't. You missed my deadline by more than three hours."

You say nothing to this.

"Water under the bridge," she says. She tosses her cigarette butt on the ground, stomps it, and immediately lights another. "My partner was ready to burn you - release everything we have on you. I told him: give the poor guy at least until the end of business hours. I don't know why, but I trusted you. It paid off."

"Gee. Thanks."

Camelia is one of those who, when excited, motions with her hands while she talks. "Stumbling block," she says. "We've got a rootkit in Darkbloom's main network now, but the project files I'm after are either on encrypted volumes or totally air gapped. So we've got a bunch of useless inside info about their work on an AI that'll book a haircut for you - and precisely nothing on what we really want to see."

"Which is what?"

"Wouldn't you fucking like to know," Camelia says. She pauses, contemplative. "Wouldn't I fucking like to know. Your boss Sable is working on some seriously dark shit, Alabaster. I need to figure out how dark. Lurking your company's Slack isn't gonna get me there."

"You want me to sabotage my boss now," you say.

"Not at all," Camelia says. "I want you to sabotage a reporter." She pulls a newspaper cutout from her pocket. It's an article from this morning's LA Tribune. The headline reads "Darkbloom First Knew of Security Holes in 2016, Did Nothing". There's a headshot of Kay Vera, the author, in the upper lefthand corner.

"I think that woman has inside info that I don't have," Camelia says. "I own her entire digital life, but the bitch is too smart to keep her notes in digital format. Go to her - pose as a source, get close, and smuggle me her handwritten notes. It'll be faster than milking it out of that fucking crackpot Sable."

"That's a felony, I'm pretty sure," you say.

"Is it? How about burning down a high school?"

You close your eyes and sigh.

>[x] I'll do it.

[ ] I won't do it.

"Smart man," Camelia says. "There's hope for you yet."

She hands you a sticky note with a phone number written on it. "This is Vera's personal cell. She's in New York right now doing the talk show circuit but she'll be back in town this Sunday. Schedule a sit-down meeting at the Rutabaga Cafe. I want to personally verify that you didn't turn chickenshit and ghost the poor woman."

You take the number from her. "I'm not chickenshit," you insist.

"Oh, of course not," Camelia says, sticking out her tongue. "That's why you let all the women in your life push you around."

"I don't--"

"See you soon," she says. "And tell Rose I say hello."

You're a little weirded out that Camelia apparently wants you to leave her on the side of the highway, but you're not going to question it. The less time you spend with this sociopath, the better.

As you peel away and merge into traffic again, you see her stick her thumb into the air - hitchhiking. God help whoever picks her up.

Your final exam goes about as well as it can go, given that you haven't studied for it in nearly a week, and the threat of being murdered or sent to prison looms large in your mind. Which is to say it doesn't go well at all.

You get back to work around lunchtime to finish out the back half of your day. As you pull into the parking garage, a construction-zone-orange Lamborghini roars around a corner and squeals to a stop in the spot next to you. The door lifts open and out toddles Stackleford, carrying a large bag of food from Taco Bell.

"Sup, man!" he says when he notices you (to your dismay). "You try these new nacho fries yet, Alabaster? They're the tits!"

You step out of your car. "How can you still afford that thing if you're broke?" you ask, nodding at the Lambo.

"I can't," Stackleford admits. "I'm about three months behind. I've been parking here and there to avoid the repo guy. I won't let them take Kagome from me!"

"You named your Lamborghini Kagome."

"Yeah, bro. Kagome is my waifu." He takes a packet of medium salsa from his bag of food, opens the packet with his teeth, and starts sucking on it. With a half-full mouth, he continues: "see, the word waifu is kind of a meme that means I--"

"Goddamn it, Stackleford. I know what it means."

Stackleford tosses the empty salsa packet on the concrete and dives into his bag for another. You circle the Lambo, admiring its sleekness despite yourself. But you stop at the back, noticing that Stackleford still has Nevada plates - and not just that, but the back plate is a vanity tag that reads 'MARUTO'.

"Maruto?" you say.

Stackleford joins you at the back, staring down at the plate too. "Some stupid butthole in Nevada already had a vanity plate that said Naruto, so this was the closest I could get."

"Why not replace the O in 'Naruto' with a zero or something?"

Stackleford is silent for a moment as he sucks down another sauce packet. "Shit. I wish I had thought of that."

He looks at you. "Hey, Alabaster. Are you gonna join the morning anime club? I could really use a buddy there. Nobody else seems to have the same taste as me, like you do..."

[ ] Fine, whatever.

>[x] No way.

"No," you say, shaking your head. "No. Just - no. No."

"Are you sur--"

"No. The answer is no."

"No, as in you're sure, or no as in you're NOT sure--"

"Goddamn it, Stackleford."

Unable to come up with anything else to say, he instead wordlessly offers you a salsa packet. (This must be how his tribe settles disputes.) You wave it off.

"Okay, well..." he says. "well, I guess I'll see you later. Uh - call me if you want to ride in my Lambo sometime... but, uh... call me soon. I might not have it for much longer..."

As he walks away, he sounds like he's on the verge of crying.

You are no sooner back at your workstation than Alex is practically on top of you - jabbering about how Sable has given you a special assignment she wants to discuss. Alex is the only one of the 20 or so coders in the room who look at all happy. The rest are downcast and dour - owing, presumably, to the fact that Sable completely trashed all their work and started a new project with no advance warning.

"Brown-nosing faggot..." mutters one of them under their breath, looking at Alex scornfully.

"Choot," adds the one you know as Pai, whose computer you plugged the infected drive into yesterday.

Alex doesn't seem to care, or even notice their jabs; and soon he's leading you by the hand to Sable's office. His grip is loose, but warm.

Inside, Sable is as manic as she was yesterday, typing notes at a furious pace and pounding back a tall mug of black coffee. Her workstation is strewn with empty mugs.

"She hasn't left work since yesterday!" Alex whispers to you excitedly. "It's magical!"

"It's something..." you mutter, as Sable pauses long enough to knock back a few pills that you can't identify and chases it with another gulp of piping hot coffee.

"Ms. Guiteau, Ally's back from his test."

Sable turns. "Alabaster!" she says. "Man of the hour. Do you have a minute? What am I saying, of course you do, you don't actually do anything useful around here."

"I--"

"That's all right," she says. "I've got something to make use of your skills. Come with me."

Alex gives you two thumbs up and nods encouragingly as you follow Sable into a part of her office-slash-lab that you haven't been in before.

Sable flicks on a set of bright fluorescent lights that illuminate a surprisingly expansive area behind her PC workstations. The area is tiled and contains several workbenches covered with spare mechanical parts. On a workbench in the center sits something covered by a blanket. Sable approaches it.

"I want you to meet a special pet of mine," she says. "We call it Smatters."

"A pet?" you say, uncomprehending. "Like... a rabbit something?"

"Not quite," Sable says. "Smatters is an acronym."

She wheels a small moving whiteboard in front of the countertop and uses a dry erase marker to write it out:

S.M.A.T.T.E.R.S.

Servo-Modulated All-Terrain Tracking-Exploring Robotic Sentry

"Go ahead and take a peek if you want," she says.

You reach out and tug the blanket away.

The whir of activating mechanisms greets you - tightly wound plastic gears driven by a tiny motor - and suddenly you're face to face with a quadripedal robot no bigger than the pet bunny you guessed it was.

Well... "face to face" is a bit of a misnomer. It has four dainty legs with articulated knees and feet, but no head, just a square torso with a gleaming black dome like that of a CCTV camera mounted where the neck would be.

Still, though it has no face or eyes, you can clearly sense it is looking at you. After it has unfurled its legs, stood and balanced itself on all four feet, it stays perfectly still - back angled slightly upwards, the dome of its erstwhile face pointed directly at you - regarding you - and you feel very exposed, somehow.

Then it starts to walk around the countertop. Its gait is inelegant but does the job: as it passes by a stray pencil, it tests it with one foot, rolling it a bit this way and that, then stares at it for a moment, and finally steps over it. Every step it takes is punctuated by the whir of its moving joints and the clack of its metal feet hitting the table.

"This is an important side project for the new initiative," Sable says. "I need your help perfecting it."

"Whoa," is all you can say as you watch the little thing hobble around. "You built that?"

"Sort of," Sable says. "I modified the design slightly. The concept and first prototype were the work of R--"

"This thing is so cool," you interrupt. "I can't believe it. And this is just the side project?"

Sable nods.

"I'll work on this," you say. "I'd love to. But - what's it for?"

"It's our second generation drone technology. Aerial drones can't collect enough data for what we need. We planned years ago to release land-based drones to complement the effort but could never get the path-finding right. I think you could help work out some of the bugs."

"...On my own?" you ask, suddenly uncertain.

"Definitely not!" Sable says. "I can't trust you to work without supervision, and you'll definitely need help." (You blanche a bit at her brutal candor.) "Alex will assist with the codebase - he's emphatic about working alongside you, and I need his spirits high for the work ahead. We'll also have an engineer on loan from Boston Dynamics who- ah, here he comes now." She cups her hands around her mouth. "Ken, back here, behind my desk! Come meet Alabaster."

"Howdy," says Ken, tipping his stetson hat. "Pleasure to meet you, pard'ner."

...Is this man a Japanese cowboy?

"Kenichi Takagawa," he says, extending his hand. You shake. "Feel free to call me Ken Smith." He adjusts his oversized belt buckle - mostly, you think, just to draw your attention to its existence. "Let's git 'er done, as is said in the American states."

Although his English is fairly impeccable, the accent is thick.

"My interests are western animation and firearms," Ken says. "The cultural products of America fascinate me greatly. How about you, Mr. Soliloquy sir?"

You're about to say something back when you hear shouting from the work area outside Sable's office.

You have a terrifying intuition that this might have something to do with yesterday's events. You excuse yourself, stepping out to see what the matter is.

Fazil is sitting at Pai's computer. Spancer Jardan from HR is standing beside him. A small crowd is watching the unfolding drama, and Pai is impotently arguing his case.

"This is bullshit!" Pai shouts at Spancer. "I don't know what the FUCK he's talking about-- I never took any goddamn USB stick--"

"Please to calm yourself," Fazil says, typing at a command prompt. You feel ill.

Pai steps forward as if to lay a hand on Fazil, but Spancer pulls Pai back. "Please wait warmly," Spancer says. "This will take only a moment."

>[x] Scope for info: ask Fazil what's going on.

[ ] Say nothing.

"Ala-bast-or!" Fazil says. "Nice to be seeing you. Please hold on just oooone--"

He trails off, turns back to the PC, and types some more at the command prompt.

Finally seeming to find what he was looking for, he looks over at Spancer and nods.

"Please come with me," Spancer says to Pai.

"I refuse to be--" Pai begins.

"I insist," says Spancer, putting both hands on both of of Pai's shoulders. He leads Pai out, largely against his will.

You don't think you're ever going to see him again.

Fazil powers down Pai's workstation, unplugs the tower, and takes it with him. "Walk with me!" He says. You follow him down the halls.

"Cerise is a great boss," Fazil says, walking alongside you. "For past several days I think to myself - why does she not assign any tasks? Then I think: a-ha! She wants us to define our workflow ourselves. I respect that management style. It takes much trust."

He stops, turns, and looks at you.

"So what, uh... what workflow did you define?" You ask.

"I was busy taking images of the affected servers when I heard some guards talking about a suspicious USB drive someone found," he says. "Hackers who cannot access the network remotely will often use such subterfuge! Very strange timing to be seeing strange devices on campus. Yes? So I think to do some network analysis. And unbelievable! There is a rootkit in our network! Dating to yesterday."

You gulp.

"I think, what horrible tricks! I will trace this. And so I did. Mr. Pai has broken protocol by plugging in the suspicious drive. Our entire company, at risk, for a television program named Naruto!"

"That's- really awful," you say.

"He will be terminated at once," Fazil says, solemn. "Meanwhile, I am hard at work doing a quarantine on the rootkit. Hard work, very hard indeed, Ala-bast-or. I hope Cerise will see this and say to herself - I am pleased with the work of Fazil."

"I'm sure she will be," you say, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Huzzah, as is said!" Fazil replies. You let him go the rest of the way to the elevator on his own.

You stand there alone in the hallway for a long time, ruminating on how close you came to losing everything. If you hadn't thought to plug in the drive to someone else's computer...

No use stewing over could-have-beens, though.

Near the end of business, you stop by Cerise's office to talk about what Fazil found.

"Jesus Christ," she says. "I might solve this hack by accident..."

"You already have--" you begin. But it's best not to talk about specifics while you're in the heart of the beast. You leave it at that.

"Well. I'll tell Fazil he's doing bang-up work," Cerise says.

"Maybe you should fire him instead," you say. "There's good, and then there's too good. Do you realize what almost happened just now?"

Cerise is mulling this over when her office door opens and Rose barges in.

"There you are," Cerise says. "Decided to finally show up, huh? Where the fuck were you all day?"

She's breathless and her hair is a little mussed. "I need to speak to Alabaster. Alone - for your own safety."

>[x] Go with her.

[ ] You can talk with Cerise here.

You stand in the hall leading to the cubicle farm where Cerise's team is stationed.

"I found out where Camelia lives," Rose says in hushed tones. "I followed her this morning."

"Oh wow," you say. "You actually did something useful. So where does she--" you pause, as a realization hits you. "Wait a second... if you were following her, that means..."

"Here's the address," Rose says, trying to hand you a slip of paper.

"You were following me?" You say. "What the fuck, Rose? Why? Fucking stalker."

This isn't the first time Rose has followed you around - it was a perennial problem when you were younger - but you thought she was over such childish games.

"Don't lose track of what's important," Rose says. "This is a major discovery--"

"Why the hell were you following me?"

"Will you shut up about that?" Rose cries. She stomps her foot, sending her giant tits jiggling. "I found your extortionist! No need to thank me, Alabaster, just doing all the shit you're incapable of! As usual!"

You point at her. "You creep me out, Rose - for real."

"I'm going to that address," Rose says. "I scoped the place out, and it looks like Camelia is gone - for now, anyway. This is our chance to find out what she's up to. Are you coming or not?"

"Absolutely not," you say.

Rose shrugs and turns to leave, just like that. But you're not done with this conversation, so you reach out and grab her wrist to stop her.

"Don't," Rose says.

"This isn't your problem to deal with," you say. "Give me the address."

"No."

"Give me--"

"No--!"

You get into a little tussle for the slip of paper that Rose now suddenly wants to keep for herself. You shove each other back and forth, with increasing force, and the only reason things don't really explode is because Fazil walks by.

"Is all ok?" He asks.

"Fine, we're fine," Rose insists, slightly winded.

"Yeah..." you say. "It's all good."

"Good!" Fazil says. "Good is good." He exits to his cubicle, apparently unperturbed by mild workplace violence.

"I'm going," Rose whispers. "You can't stop me."

>[x] Stop her.

[ ] Can't let you mess this up. I'm going too.

'Can't stop me,' your ass. You can definitely stop her.

You grab both her wrists this time, wheel her around and tackle her to the ground. She lands on her back, a soft cushion beneath your weight.

"Alabaster--!!"

"Listen to me, you dumb cunt," you hiss, your face inches from hers. Forcefulness like this is the only way to get things through her thick skull. "Camelia knows you tailed her. She mentioned you by name when we were on the side of the freeway."

Rose's expression is hard to read - something between indignation and embarrassment.

"We can't go in without some kind of plan," you tell her. "Walking right up to her doorstep after she's seen you following her... are you kidding me?"

"I'm not afraid of her," Rose says. She raises her neck as far off the ground as she can, sneering at you, so close you can smell the mint on her breath. "I'm not afraid of you, either."

You become acutely aware that you're lying on top of Rose in a very public hallway, holding her down by her arms, your face pressed against hers. There's really no reason for you to continue your conversation this way, and every reason not to, but you do anyway.

"Rose, she held a gun on me. She's crazy."

"All the more reason for us to figure out exactly what she's doing."

"And then what?"

"I don't know. Kill her, I guess."

You sit up on your haunches, keeping Rose pinned beneath you. Sometimes there's no reasoning with her.

"Come with me," Rose says. "If we're not going to go to Camelia's... there's something at mom and dad's that might help. We need to defend ourselves at least."

>[x] Go.

[ ] No - head back home to Cerise's apartment.

November 11, 2014

You and Rose stayed behind after quiz bowl practice ended - ostensibly to study some more for the upcoming regional competition - but the real motivation was to have it out.

You two might be the star players, appearing to all the world as a well-oiled machine and trouncing the other schools at every match you attend together - but in private, you still haven't warmed at all to each other. In fact, your relationship has only deteriorated the longer you've been in close daily proximity.

Today, it started with a simple exchange of pointed verbal barbs - but of course, it escalated.

Now you and Rose lie in two broken heaps in the middle of the ruined classroom.

Desks and tables, papers and books lie scattered; a filing cabinet is tipped on its side and badly dented; the whiteboard is cracked from the force of shoving Rose into it.

You're bleeding, not just a little, from several gashes on your face, your arms, and your back where Rose clawed you. She's bleeding from where you bit her on both the shoulder and the tummy in a blind rage. You and Rose are both bruised all over - your head is throbbing, she clutches at her kidneys and groans, both of you have twisted ankles and some possibly-fractured digits.

You're not sure who got the worst of it: you, when Rose latched onto your shoulders and beat you upside the head with a thick textbook, or Rose, when you got her pinned to the floor and landed a barrage of vicious punches centered right on her belly button.

Call it a tie game. (But at least YOU didn't piss yourself. You think.)

The coppery smell of blood hangs in the air - tinged with something else you can't identify, but which much later you will come to know as female arousal.

You're on your back, gasping for air, dazed. From the corner of your eye, you see Rose rise onto her hands and knees, wobbling, and try to crawl the short distance to where you are. She doesn't make it - she collapses, her chin bonking hard on the wood floor. She flops onto her back like a dying fish.

You're slow on the uptake right now - she's already hit the ground again before you react to seeing her move towards you - you swat at the air as if to fend her off, but she's already down for the count.

"We can't... keep doing this..." Rose pants.

"I'm not... going to let... you win..." you pant back.

"Fu-- ghh--" she grits her teeth through the pain-- "FUCK you."

You muster the last of your strength to do what Rose couldn't: you crawl over to her. You intend to give her one last smack or something - you're not entirely sure - but when you get there, your muscles fail. You turn to jelly and fall atop her like a blanket.

You lie there like that, wrapped over her, for several long moments.

"Are you fucking cuddling me right now?" Rose says.

"No." (Voice muffled by her breasts.)

"Get off of me, Alabaster."

"I can't..."

It feels like perhaps half an hour passes before Rose finally speaks again.

"Today was fun," she says.

---

Rose breezes right past her dad, who's enjoying a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper in the den of the Mallory home. She makes a beeline for her bedroom upstairs.

"Hi, Mr. Mallory," you say - you're polite enough to at least give him the time of day.

"Giving 'em hell at Darkbloom?" He asks.

"Sort of..."

"Rose has that look in her eye again," he says, taking another sip. "You two up to something? Wait - don't tell me! What I don't know won't hurt me!"

"Err--"

He laughs. "Be careful, you two."

He flips through the paper a bit, and then - as if changing the subject, he mentions off-handedly: "There's an article today about increasing rates of birth defects in California. Really spooky stuff. I'd hate if I ended up having a child with some sort of deformity, wouldn't you? Really have to be careful, you know?"

"Right..."

You pass by without prolonging the awkward conversation. He occasionally makes pointed remarks to you like that - it weirds you out.

In her bedroom, you find Rose on her knees at the safe beside her bed.

Of course.

She finishes entering the combo and the door pops open. Inside, there's a small cache of weapons. She takes a pistol out and checks the magazine to ensure it's loaded. Satisfied, she puts the gun in the waistband of her skirt, tugs her blouse up to cover it, and goes digging again.

"Do you remember the firing range I went to with dad every weekend back in high school?" She says.

"Of course."

"Remember how you were too much of a wuss to ever tag along?"

"Now hold on--"

She hands you a pistol. It's cold and awkward but surprisingly not very heavy in your hands.

"You don't have a choice now," she says. "You and Cerise need to learn how to shoot."

For all of Rose's left-wing leanings, one odd quirk of hers is her love of guns - a habit picked up from her father, a lawyer. Once a defense attorney, now he does work for the ACLU, and he is definitely an absolutist on every Constitutional amendment. (You should listen to him get going on the issue of quartering soldiers when he's drunk.)

Rose reaches under her bed now and pulls out a long, hard black plastic case. Clacking it open, she reveals a sawed-off shotgun.

"I don't think that's legal," you tell her.

"Fuck legal," she says. She clacks it closed and hauls it up over her shoulder by the strap. "And speaking of that - don't you dare leave the house again if you aren't carrying. Do you understand me?"

"You want me to carry this gun with me to work?"

"Yes I do, Alabaster. Do you think Camelia is going to pay attention to the little sign on the entrance that says DA is a gun-free campus?"

>[x] That's too dangerous. I won't carry at work.

[ ] All right - it can't be helped.

Rose frowns.

"I mean, thanks for arming me and all," you say, "but--"

Rose slaps you.

You reel back, smarting.

"Excuse me?" You say.

She slaps you again. You step back from her range of motion, wild-eyed.

"Slapping me won't change anything!" You shout. "DA has metal detectors at every single entrance, you STUPID--"

Rose tries to slap you AGAIN but this time, you intercept it. You swat her hand away.

"Don't you dare," you say when the look on her face seems to signal that she's going to do something else.

"Or what?" Rose says, tauntingly.

You step forward now, looming over her.

"Big man," she sneers. "Are you going to hit me now?"

"No. You'd like that too much."

"In your fucking dreams, Alabaster. Misogynist pig." She shoves you, but it doesn't budge you - you're standing your ground on this one.

Instead, you push her, step by step, using your chest and your own weight to force her backwards. Eventually she's up against her own bed, but you don't stop there - and now her knees are bending, and now she's sitting.

"You think we're some kind of even match," you say, "but the only reason is because I let you bully me around. I could stop all of this in a second if I really wanted to."

"Why don't you, then, if you're so great?"

"It's because I pity you," you say. "You're a sad, pathetic person."

"You're one to talk!" she cries. "You make me sick! Little fucking virgin who sits around whacking his dick to anime all day!"

"Not anymore," you say.

"Whitney doesn't count," she says, but the crack in her voice tells you that Rose understands it most certainly does. "She's more like a feral bitch than a human being. I already told you three years ago, Alabaster--"

"Yeah, yeah," you say. "And I told YOU three years ago that if it was going to happen, it would be because I raped you. Or did you forget that part?"

"You're too chickenshit." (There's that accusation again. It really grates.) "You wouldn't be able to get it up."

[ ] Prove her wrong.

>[x] No - you don't get pick when it happens.

Rose looks like an animal caught in a trap when you step back, shrugging, and tell her no. Her expression is an admixture of confusion and rage.

"N-no?" She says. "What does that mean? No what?"

"No," you repeat. "I know what you're trying to do, and the answer is no. It's not going to happen on your schedule. I already told you that."

"Y-you... You limp-dicked, useless piece of--"

"Whatever," you say, stepping out of her room.

"I hate you!" Rose cries after you.

But of course, she's following you downstairs just a few seconds later.

That evening, you and Cerise get a quick primer on gun safety from Rose. You feel marginally safer sleeping with guns at your side - and at least one person who knows how to use them.

In the morning, after you push through the small (and smaller by the day) crowd of protesters with Rose, you're surprised to see Whitney sitting on the fountain in front of Darkbloom Analytics.

She's got on attire way more professional than you're used to seeing her wear - a button-down and pants, which weirdly enough, really suit her.

"What are you doing here?" You say.

Whitney's face brightens as soon as she sees you. She jumps up - just in time to avoid getting nailed in the ass by the same water spigots on the fountain's bottom tier that nailed you last week.

"Guess who's got two thumbs and a new job as a rent-a-cop!" She says. She points at herself with both thumbs. "This bitch!"

"You - got a job here?" You say.

"B'duhhh," Whitney says. "That's what I'm telling you. I interviewed yesterday and--"

She gets cut off by Rose, who strides forward with a wide-eyed expression and grabs Whitney by the ears. "You cannot work here," Rose says. Whitney tries to pull back, but Rose tightens her grip and stares deeply into Whitney's eyes, insistent. "Are you listening to me? You cannot work here. It isn't safe."

Whitney searches Rose's eyes for a moment, searching for some kind of meaning in this warning, and settles on this: "You think you can take Ally away from me if you get to work alone with him all summer? You're even dumber than I thought, Rose!"

Rose steps back, shakes her head. "I can't deal with this," she says. "Tell her, Alabaster. Don't let her work here." She stomps off, leaving you with Whitney.

"Dummy," Whitney sneers as she watches her depart.

[x] Rose is right. You can't work here. Sub-choice: x [explain] / [do not explain]

[ ] This place is dangerous. Stay out of trouble if you're going to work here.

Swallowing your pride, you utter a phrase you never wanted to: "Rose is right--"

"What." Whitney says.

"It's - really complicated," you say. "Let me explain."

You give her the Cliff's Notes version of recent events.

"I see," Whitney says as you finish up. "So... you let Rose in on all of this crazy bullshit, but not me."

"I'm letting you in on it now," you say, frustrated. "Anyway, that's not the point."

"Of course not!" Whitney says, shaking herself out of her own momentary jealousy. "The real problem is this Camelia bitch who's raw-dogging you."

"Who's - what, now?"

"I won't let that dumb slut raw-dog my Ally!" Whitney says. She pounds a fist into her palm for effect.

"I think you mean mad-dog," you say. "I HOPE you mean mad-dog."

"If you're in danger like this, isn't this the best place for me?" Whitney says. "I could protect you!"

"No," you say. "I don't--" you grimace, abashed at saying something so sappy: "I don't want you in danger, too."

Whitney's smile could melt the arctic ice sheet. She hugs you, then stands on tiptoes for a kiss.

"But..." she says. "There's another problem. I-- kind of dropped out already."

Your heart thuds in your chest. "Whitney-- you cannot be serious--"

"I... I had to. I already failed," she says. Her eyes well up with tears. "I failed two of my classes this semester. I was going to get kicked off the soccer team anyway, so what's the point of staying? And, and - Ally - college just isn't for me. It's time for me to get a career. Don't you think?"

She looks up at you, smiling through her tears.

"Can't you work somewhere else?" You say. "If it has to be like that."

"I could," Whitney says. "But then I wouldn't be with you."

"Geez..."

She sniffles back her tears and wipes her nose with the back of her palm (ladylike as ever).

"I understand," she says. "But you could really use me on your side. You don't want Rose to be the last thing standing between you and death! And let's face it, Cerise is almost as big of a loser as you, so she wouldn't be much help either..."

You're not sure what to say.

"I'll call you later," Whitney says. "We'll talk then. I have to - I have to, uh, go move my shit out of my dorm."

"Where are you gonna go?" You ask.

"Oh, that's already settled. I got a great sublease from a really cool chick here in town."

"That sounds sketchy," you say.

"It's not. You already know her." Whitney winks at you. "Her name is Alex Best."

Inside, you swipe your badge at the security checkpoint and make your way towards the elevators.

That's when you hear a commotion at the front. You turn and see two men in FBI jackets striding purposefully past the checkpoint, too.

They're musclebound bruisers and both have grim looks on their faces.

They're marching straight for you.

The elevator behind you dings and slides open.

Out strides a woman in business-wear, hauling a man you recognize as Thaddeus McMichael - the company's privacy chief.

He's in handcuffs.

The woman - a plainclothes agent, apparently - hands custody off to her two scary-looking colleagues. As more agents appear at the front entrance and a crowd of rubberneckers begins to gather, you hear one of the agents read out the charges, not ten feet away.

"...under arrest for the possession, distribution and creation of child pornography, the enticement of a minor into lewd sexual acts, multiple violations of the Mann act..."

Thaddeus hangs his head in shame.

Up above, on the mezzanine of the second floor, David Darkbloom and Mara Darkbloom stand side-by-side, watching the events transpire. Both look severely displeased, to say the least. They share a conversation you can't overhear.

The sudden dissipation of the nauseous terror in your gut - the realization that you are a free man for at least one more day - leaves you shaking with spare adrenaline that you don't know what to do with. Your arms and legs feel like rubber. You turn and walk away on uncertain legs, trying not to look suspicious, and find a restroom to go vomit.

You spend an uneventful day at work getting to know "Ken Smith" a little better and learning some more about how SMATTERS works. Ken demos some of its functionality to you and an aghast Alex. His childlike joy as he watches the thing walk and run around the lab floor is a bit infectious.

In between these moments, Ken waxes poetic about his favorite cartoon shows - The Simpsons, Hey Arnold, Doug and of course classic Looney Tunes, to name just a few. (JUST a few. He won't shut up about cartoons.)

Alex is eager to get SMATTERS hooked up to a PC and port the machine code over for you to pick through. When he finally gets his chance, you make small talk with him.

"I heard Whitney is moving in with you," you say.

"Uh-huh! Ms. Whitney -- um, Whitney needed a place to stay, so I thought I'd give her my spare bedroom."

"Very thoughtful of you."

"It's the least I could do. Ms.-- um, Whitney's been so nice to me. I really like her a lot. And since she's going to be working here too, it only makes sense!"

"Uh--" you say. "She might not be working here after all." (Best to break the news now.)

"What? Why not?"

"I'm - trying to get her to go back to school," you explain - half a lie, but there's no way you can tell Alex what's really going on.

"That's really too bad," Alex hums. "We could have been an unstoppable team!"

You can only shrug.

Soon, 5:00 PM is approaching, and with it, the end of the day.

[ ] Go hang out with Whitney and Alex.

[ ] Go home, hang out with Rose and Cerise.

>[x] Wildcard: Get to know Sable better.

As people file out of the office, you stop on your way past Sable's desk. She's still there, clacking away at her keyboard.

"Do you - ever go home?" You ask.

"Hmm? Sometimes."

That's way too weird. You have to poke at her a little more.

You roll up a chair and sit beside her. "I don't think I've ever seen you leave your office," you say. "Are you sure you go home sometimes?"

Sable finally stops and looks at you. "Why does it matter to you?" She asks. "We are colleagues, not friends. My living situation shouldn't make any difference."

"I care about my colleagues," you insist. "Unlike some people. That's why Alex likes me so much."

Sable is silent, thinking. The concept of caring about her colleagues must be alien to her.

"Thank you, Alabaster," she finally says, her voice a little bit less manic. "I'm glad to hear that. Maybe we could be friends in addition to being colleagues."

You narrow your eyes at her. "You're a robot, aren't you?"

"I -- what?"

"That's a joke. Yeah, I guess we can be friends. What do you think friends do, Ms. Guiteau?"

"Call me Sable," she says. "Friends... eat together, I suppose. Watch movies... play video games. I really don't have time for things like that."

Sable is way too cute. The way she demurs, blushes, and glances sidewise instead of making eye contact - the total opposite of her brash demeanor from the past couple days. Maybe she is a human being after all.

"You should make some time," you say. "You're going to burn out if you keep pushing yourself like this. You know, as your new friend, I can't let that happen."

Sable is mute. Looks like you need to make the plan:

[ ] Let's watch a movie in the theater.

>[x] Let's grab some food.

[ ] Let's check out the sauna.

If you had any doubts that Sable is a human being who requires human nourishment, they have been laid well to rest. Sitting in the cafeteria with you, she scarfs down her plate of spaghetti like a woman who hasn't been fed in a year.

"Do you--" you begin.

"Cheese," she says, her voice still weirdly soft. She grabs a shaker of Parmesan cheese from the tabletop and all but dumps the entire thing on her plate. Then it's back to chowing down.

"When was the last time you ate?" You ask. "Just curious."

Sable pauses, fork to her mouth. "About... three or four days ago, I think."

Good lord. If not for you, this woman would have starved to death, right there in her office.

"I have to be honest with you," you say. "There's something that's been on my mind for a couple days now."

"Please, tell me," she says between forkfuls. "Friends should be candid."

"Right. I think you treat Alex like shit, and it really gets on my nerves."

Sable stares at you.

"He's your friend too," you say. "Same as me. Even if you don't think so. And you kick him around like an abused puppy."

"I know," Sable says. "But it's --" she thinks about how to defend herself on this point, and seems to come up blank.

"I will try to be kinder in the future," she finally says. "Alert me if I am not."

You pick at your plate of food, but it's not very appetizing right now.

[ ] Ask Sable about the specifics of her project.

>[x] Don't press her right now.

This isn't the time for talking shop - you want to get her away from all that junk, after all. Despite yourself, you do feel a genuine pang of pity for her - the way she works herself like a dog - and you'd like to see her enjoy a few moments of free time.

Still, you're not exactly sure what else to talk about. It's hard to picture Sable as anything else but a drone who cranks out projects and orders.

It's Sable who solves the question for you:

"Have you ever flown a kite, Alabaster?"

"Huh? Yeah, sure. Why?"

She chews.

"It occurs to me," she finally says, "that I never have. Is that abnormal?"

"I don't know," and that's true - is it really that strange? Kites are kind of a quaint thing, these days.

"I have never been on a bicycle, either," she adds.

"Okay, yeah. That one is definitely weird."

She looks away.

"Deprived in childhood or what?" You ask. "Grow up in an orphanage with a wicked stepmother or something?"

"Too busy. That's all... I regret it sometimes. I'm 26. Yet I can't even ride a bike."

"Yep," you say, leaning back. "That's pretty pathetic, I have to admit."

Sable winces at your words, so you quickly add: "Do you own a bike?"

"Why would I? I can't make any use of it."

"Well, you make enough money here, right? Go buy one tonight. A nice one. I can show you how to ride it."

She hums, unsure.

"Okay, the thing about friends is this," you say. You lean forward, fingertips on the tabletop. "Sometimes, when one friend is being stupid, the other friend has to order the stupid one around a little bit. For their own sake."

"You are still my underling," Sable says. "To order me around--"

"That's only at work. Right here we're just pals. And from one pal to another: I can't let you be a bike virgin at age 26. Go buy a goddamn bike, Sable."

"I -- all right."

You finish your meal, a little happier now.

You make a date with Sable to teach her how to ride her bike next week, and you part ways. She's not so bad, once you get to know her.

In the parking garage as you leave work, you run into Stackleford. His shiny orange Lambo is hitched to a tow truck and he's begging the repo man not to take it.

"Unless you've got $10,000 cash in hand," the repo man says, "This thing is going back to Las Vegas tonight. Sorry bud."

"PLEASE--" Stackleford whines. "You can't take Kagome! I'll do ANYthing--"

You would say something to comfort the poor sap, but another person cuts you off.

Camelia enters the parking garage, jogging up the ramp. She waves the repo man down.

"Hey!" she says. "Are you repossessing this vehicle?"

"What's it to you?" he replies.

"How much to save it for the fat kid?"

"$10,000."

Camelia makes a show of searching her vest pockets, and pulls out a roll of $100 bills - doubtlessly counterfeit. She hands it to the man.

He fans it, disbelieving - but then he seems to reconsider. Money is money. He pockets the bills.

Camelia winks at you.

Stackleford rubs away his greasy tears while the repo man unhooks his precious Kagome.

"You'll still owe on next month's payment," he warns Stackleford. "And if you miss it, I'll be back. Trust me."

"Who are you?" Stackleford asks Camelia. He glances from her to you. "I don't - thank you SO much! Are you one of Alabaster's friends?"

"Oh, yes," she says. "It's nice to finally meet you. I hear you two were inseparable in high school."

Stackleford nods.

"Ally, you've got great taste," Camelia says. "But I shouldn't be surprised you hang out with such handsome people."

"I don't know what you think you're doing," you hiss, "but I'm warning you--"

Camelia cuts you off. "Hey Stacks," she says. "Since I helped you out, mind taking me for a spin in your sweet ride here?"

Stackleford looks like he just hit the lottery.

>[x] Let him go.

[ ] Don't let him go.

Camelia jumps into the car before Stackleford can even stutter out his agreement, and soon he's peeling out of the parking lot with his high-end stereo system blasting "Running in the 90s" at full volume.

"I owe you big time, Alabaster!" He whoops over the squeal of rubber on asphalt. Camelia plays air guitar in the passenger seat beside him.

"This is great!" Camelia shouts. "Really dig the tunes!"

You have never seen Stackleford smile like that.

Poor bastard.

That night, as you drift to sleep on one of the the foldaway beds in Cerise's living room, you have a half-awake vision of Mara Darkbloom strangling you to death.

It sends shooting tendrils of terror down your spine, and finally you jerk awake - only to find that your neck really is being constricted. There's a taut strip of fabric encircling your throat, secured at a point out of your reach, below the bed.

Rose is looming over you.

"What the f--" you hiss, trying to raise yourself, but only choking yourself in the process.

"Don't fight," Rose says. "That's a self-tightening strap. The more you struggle, the more you'll choke. We don't want you turning blue..."

"This is NOT in the rules of engagement!" You say. "We agreed to no more movement-restricting devices!"

Rose climbs on top of you, sits on your chest. She's just heavy enough that breathing becomes difficult.

"It's not in the ruuuuulesss," Rose says in a mocking tone. "Oh nooooo! Save me, save me from that mean old Rose!" She bounces up and down on your chest, enjoying the way it knocks the wind from you.

"Goddamn it, Rose," you manage. "Cerise is in the next room--"

"She's passed out, drunk as shit," Rose says. "Anyway, who cares about rules? YOU agreed to fewer than five gendered slurs per week."

"Cunt!" You hiss. "Cunt, cunt, cunt! Cuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcunt--"

Rose slaps you.

"You know I'm going to make you pay for this, right?" You say.

"Mm hmm."

She leans way back and brings her legs around, resting her toes on your chin.

"What are you doing?" You say.

"It's time for your sensitivity training," Rose says.

Rose shoves a stockinged foot right into your face. You groan in anger and disgust - this is like your worst nightmare come to pass. (In fact, you've got the weirdest sense of deja vu that you can't shake.)

"There we go," she says. "That's more like it. Finally you're quiet."

You try to lob an insult back at her, but the ball of her foot, pressing directly against your mouth, muffles anything you could say. Her toes wriggle beneath your nostrils, filling them with the odor of a long day at work. You retch, despite yourself, which in turn makes Rose coo in joy.

"Little piggy," she says. "Little fucking piggy. Oink for me!"

You're definitely not going to oblige that demand. Rose has really gone off the deep end this time.

"You're not honest with yourself," Rose says. She reaches back, hand fishing through your boxers, and you shiver with a convulsion of shame when she finds exactly what she knew she would.

"See?" She says. "Your little piggy dick is all hard. I knew it. You're just as pathetic as I always said you were." She punctuates this by pressing down on your face, hard, with both feet. You can actually feel a few little droplets of sweat press through the thick black fabric and smear against your lips.

And despite your revulsion at this treatment - your cock throbs between her soft fingers. You're big enough, and her hands are small enough, that she can't fully wrap her fingers around the shaft using only one hand.

"Here we go," Rose says. She sighs to herself. "Let's see how long we can draw this out. We need to make you a bit more sensitive, Alabaster--"

She jerks you, slowly at first, and not in a steady rhythm. Sometimes she quickens it, pistons you up and down until you feel your balls tighten and that familiar, delicious tingle in your groin -- and then she stops suddenly, goes back to an agonizingly languid pace that makes you ache deep inside. She stops every once in a while to rub her palm roughly in circles on the head of your dick, just to fuck with you apparently, before going back to jerking you again. You thrash your head side to side in delirium. All the while she's rubbing her feet all over your face.

You become aware of wetness on your bare chest: you realize she's not wearing any panties. Her arousal is actually dripping all the way down her thighs and her ass before puddling on your body. Just another humiliation.

Soon, she can't help herself. She uses her free hand to rub her pussy while she abuses you. Her little moans and peals of insane delighted laughter only make you harder, which only makes you hate this situation even more. Your own body is betraying you.

"Do you want to see?" Rose asks, a catch of mania in her voice. "Do you want to see my cunt? I'll show you - if you ask..."

You shake your head - but you can't deny that you've always been curious. As long as you two have been at each other's throats, you've never seen her naked. And if you're being honest, you've always wanted to.

"Come on, you fucking liar," Rose says. "I know you jerked off every day thinking of me! Of doing disgusting things to my body!" She grips you tight, at the base of your dick, and stops jerking you off. You whinny in frustration. The only sound in the room is of Rose's fingers in her own cunt, masturbating shamelessly.

"I did this every night," she breathes, "thinking of you."

"Mmmf--" you grunt, trying to form intelligible words through the fabric of her reeking socks.

"I was thinking of THIS," Rose says. "Of having this dirty, pathetic dick in MY hands. Does that get you off too? Do you want to cum? Huh? Do you want to cum for me?"

"I'll--mmmff--" You say.

"What's that?" she asks, pulling her feet back enough to let you speak.

"I'll -- I'll say what you want -- if you just -"

Rose beams. Her fingers quicken inside her.

"Just let me--" you moan.

"Tell me what you want," Rose says.

"Let me see," you say.

Rose thrills to this, and quickly flips her skirt up so you can see. Her cunt slit isn't at all like Whitney's - it's a perfect innie, without any hint of labia visible, a soft pink depression in a fat soft mound, slick and shiny with her cream.

"Does your pathetic piggy dick want to feel what a real woman's pussy is like?" Rose says.

You can only nod.

"Good-- goo-oood piggy~" She says, unable to contain her own excitement. She flips onto her stomach and slithers down, aligning herself with your dick.

"Rose--" you say.

But no time to negotiate about anything: you're inside her.

Her insides are tighter than you could have imagined. You lift your head up a bit - even at the risk of choking, you just have to glimpse your cock sinking into that perfect hole. When you do, you can see a tiny trickle of blood down your shaft. You glance up to Rose's face: she's wincing - smiling, but wincing.

"That's better..." she coos. "Much better..." Her wince slowly turns back into a mask of pure ecstasy.

She fucks up and down on you in earnest now, her sucking insides like a vacuum on every downstroke, driving you mad. One of her hands fondles your balls as she slowly picks up her pace. She can't support herself, though, and falls against you; her cow tits slide up and down on your chest now, smearing her own wetness into your skin, soiling her blouse. She never stops riding you.

She grabs your hair now with both hands and kisses you roughly, breathing deeply, and doesn't seem to care that her dirty feet were all over you just moments prior. Her tongue is wanton and insistent in your mouth, more vicious even than Whitney, if that's possible - and she lets herself drool freely, her viscous saliva pouring in rivulets to the back of your throat.

"I'm gonna--" You groan, pulling your lips back from her rapacious kiss.

"Oh no you don't--" Rose says, reaching back to grab your balls again. She wants to really leave you in agony. But she miscalculated: she didn't tie your hands down.

You grab both her wrists, and hold them tight. You fuck back against her now, your hips slamming against hers, the bedsprings squealing beneath you. She can only twist and writhe while you pound her.

"Ala-Ala-Alabaster--!" she cries, her voice jittery with the force of your strokes. "You-- you can't-- it's not--"

You're too far gone to care. You let go of Rose's hands and pull her face to yours - this time it's your tongue raping her mouth.

"Not-- mmf--" she tries to warn you between your probing kisses. "Issh-- nooot shafe--"

You still don't care. You buck your hips a final time, arching your back and fucking her so deep that you're actually lifting her partially off the bed - and finally you let your cum explode inside her. Having apparently given up on making you reconsider, she gives into the pleasure instead, and kisses you back. You hold each other's faces and your tongues swirl around while you pump your load into her. This was four years too late, you think to yourself.

She cries out, goes limp, and lies against you, sweaty, ruined, and leaking cum.

"I'm going to make you regret this," you tell her.

"Mmm," she murmurs, and kisses you again. You spend a long time like that, kissing lazily, while her pussy - still stuffed with your dick - leaks wetly on the mattress.

GIRLS FUCKED: 2/8

BOYS FUCKED: 0/1

April 18, 2015

You and Rose are at the back of the bus. It's 3:30 AM. The interior lights are dimmed and everyone else is asleep except for the driver.

Mrs. Mallory is softly dozing on Mr. Mallory's shoulder just in front of you; Whitney is leaned up against a window in the next seat up, as physically far separated as she can get from Stackleford who snores next to her. Cerise is passed out near the front, legs propped up on the seat so she doesn't have to be by anyone else.

They're tagging along to support you and Rose in the days ahead (and of course, the rest of the team, even if they're basically dead weight.)

You're on your way to Boise, Idaho, and the completion of your ultimate goal: winning the national quiz bowl championship. But just now that goal has crumbled to dust right in front of your eyes.

Rose is beaming with smug self-satisfaction.

"So it's like that," you whisper.

"Basically."

You want to hit her. You want to wrap your hands around her throat and choke her until she turns blue. You want to slap that stupid smile off of her stupid face. (But what else is new?)

To think that you had actually deluded yourself into believing she cared about quiz bowl... the months of practice, her outstanding performance in important matches, her seemingly genuine joy when the team cleared the field at regionals. As loath as you are to admit it to yourself, you know the team would not have made it this far without her presence. (Humiliatingly, you also admitted this to her in a moment of carelessly letting down your guard. You know she isn't going to let you forget it.)

And all of it was nothing but a long con - a ploy just for her to get to this moment. Just for her to ruin you.

"I'll tell Mr. Langley," you say. "Get you kicked off the team."

"I'll tell Mr. Langley!" Rose repeats in a mocking tone. "What do you think he's going to do? He can't kick me off the team. There won't be enough players left if he does that - you'd be automatically forfeit. So even if you tell him, he can't do anything."

"I hate you. I hate you so fucking much. I can't even begin to put it into human words, exactly how fucking much I hate everything about you."

"Same."

"Would you really humiliate yourself like that? We're gonna be on ESPN, Rose. National television. Everyone would remember you as that stupid cunt who buzzed in on every question and got every question wrong."

"It's worth it," Rose says, her voice low with loathing, "if it means crushing your biggest dream."

"You're insane," you say. "You're actually CRAZY."

She just chuckles.

"This is because of student council," you say.

"Of course it is."

"I WON--" you begin, stopping when you realize that your voice is getting progressively louder and might wake someone. Mrs. Mallory, in front of you, snorts and shifts around in her sleep. You take a couple deep breaths and try again. "I won that election fair and square. I beat you. I didn't sabotage you. I didn't cheat. I didn't rig anything."

"I know you cheated, Alabaster. I'm going to prove it, too. Just watch."

"Fuck you. Fuck you, Rose, you toad. I WON--"

She shushes you.

"I won," you repeat.

"And now I've won, too."

"By losing? You are unbelievable-- I thought this team actually mattered to you--"

"Does it matter to YOU that much?"

"You know it does."

"Then I'd be willing to settle," she says. "We can make a trade."

You stare at her, seething.

She stares back, grinning.

"Are you still a virgin?" She asks.

---

You're not sure when, but at some point during the night, Rose unties you and goes back to her own foldaway bed. All the better - you didn't want to sleep beside her, anyway.

That morning, you wake to the sound of Cerise stumbling half-drunkenly from her room. You sit up and watch as she walks bleary-eyed to the kitchen, pours herself a glass of tapwater, and pounds it back with a handful of aspirin.

She shuffles back towards her room, dragging her feet and scratching her ass. But as she passes the living room, she glances in and sniffs the air, then makes a face.

"Jesus, really?" she says, frowning at you.

You shrug. "You told me to."

"Are you two gonna stop getting into your dumb little slapfights at least?" Cerise asks.

"I don't think so," you say.

"Great..." she heads for her room again.

"Hey, Cerise?" You say.

"What?"

"Please don't tell anyone about this."

"Of course not," Cerise says. "Who would I tell? Fazil?"

>[x] How about that girl you Skype with?

[ ] Good point.

"I'd appreciate it if you butt out of my business," Cerise says. "And I promise you that Galatea doesn't care who my little brother sticks his dick in."

"Galatea?" You say. "Wow. Some name."

"Don't throw stones in glass houses, Alabaster."

"I've been meaning to ask," you say. "Since when did you get into a long distance relationship with another girl?"

Cerise scowls at you. "It's not like that, you pervert. We're just good friends."

"You're the pervert here," you insist. "I never said romantic relationship. Why did your mind go there right away?"

Cerise stomps. "You're unbelievable. You little cousin-fucker."

"Once removed," you say.

"Cousin-once-removed-fucker!" She shouts. "Whatever! Next time you want to get your rocks off inside a family member, don't do it in my living room. Freak." She slams her door.

You drift back to sleep. When your alarm goes off, you see that Rose is already awake and dressed. She's fiddling with a blister pack. A long sheet of instructions lie unfolded on her lap.

"What are you doing?" You ask, getting out of bed. You grope for your pants.

"Plan B," Rose says without looking up. "Thanks to your dumb ass last night."

"Play stupid games..." you begin.

"You're going to pay me back for this purchase," she says. "It's a lot more expensive than you'd think."

"What, like 40 bucks or something?"

"Double that," Rose says. "I bought two, just in case it was twins."

You stop, one leg in your trousers. "You cannot be serious," you say.

"What?" Rose says. She swallows the pill, thinking, and grows visibly worried. "Should I have taken three?"

"Why don't you keep going until you hit the LD50," you suggest.

As you finish pulling up your pants, notice a plastic bag at Rose's feet full of white-and-purple boxes. Two pills, hell - she must have cleared the store's entire stock. When Rose sees you looking, she kicks the bag underneath her bed.

"A little presumptuous, don't you think?" You say.

"What am I supposed to do when I have to sleep next to a fucking rapist every night?" Rose says.

"Next to one?" You say. "You ARE one. I'll never feel clean again."

"Go to hell, Alabaster."

You throw on your shirt and make for the door. "Get a prescription for the pill," you tell her. "It's a lot cheaper in the long run."

That afternoon, at lunch, you visit the cafeteria to eat with Vivian. She isn't hard to find. Every other Darkbloom employee avoids eating anywhere near her, so that she sits all alone in a vast radius of empty tables in the middle of the hall. Judging by the way people whisper to each other and stare at her, her presence among the hoi polloi of DA is a rare - and frightening - sight.

You order a sundae - one scoop of vanilla, one scoop of strawberry - complete with hot chocolate, crushed peanuts, whipped cream and cherry. The menu calls this the "lovers' sundae," although you chose it less for its name and more because it sounded appetizing. You pay with the coupon Vivian handed to you the other day.

Vivian doesn't look up from her cell phone when you sit down across from her. She's scrolling through an image board you recognize as *Chan. You can hardly believe your eyes - it's been a running joke since DA bought it out, that Vivian Darkbloom personally administrates the website, but you didn't actually think it was true. Yet here she is, doing just that.

"Noted," she mumbles to herself. She writes down a number on a pad beside her, which looks like an IP address. "Noted. Noted." More writing.

"Vivian?"

She quickly looks up, eyes bulging, and flips her cellphone over.

"Aren't you eating too? Where's your sundae?" You ask, enjoying a spoonful of vanilla.

"Right there," Vivian says. She takes a spoon and scoops up some of the strawberry ice cream, making sure to catch a dollop of whipped cream too. She twirls the spoon in her mouth.

"I didn't realize we were sharing," you say.

Vivian lets the ice cream melt in her mouth, and a tiny twitch at the edge of her lips is the only trace of a smile.

"Lovers' sundae," she murmurs.

You rub the back of your head. "It sounded good."

"Mm." She takes another spoonful. Apparently she prefers strawberry.

Vivian is a tiny girl. Sitting in her chair, her feet don't quite reach the ground. It's hard to imagine that this little girl who likes ice cream and shitposting on the internet - self-serious as she may be - can strike such terror into the hearts of her subordinates.

>[ ] Since you're moderating *Chan, do you think you could do something about the weirdos there who are obsessed with my sister?

>[x] Move onto other topics.

"So are you some kind of child genius, or what?" You ask. "Running a big multinational company like this."

"I am no genius," Vivian says. "And I am also not a child. I would appreciate it if you refrained from patronizing me." She eats another spoonful of ice cream and makes a contented little mewl at the sweetness of it.

"Right... well, thank you for lunch," you say.

"Thank you, Alabaster Soliloquy, for your vote on Tuesday. It is not hyperbole to say that you may have saved this company from ruin."

"Well - I had to," you say. "I mean, my sister's new job was on the line. She's part of the investigation team."

"Which sister do you mean?" Vivian asks.

"What do you mean, which sister?" You say, narrowing your eyes. "I only have one sister."

Vivian flips through her notepad. "Hmm," she says. "There is your elder sister, Cerise, and - since Charlotte Mallory adopted you in 2014, there is your younger sister, Rose--"

"No," you say, shaking your head violently. "Nononono. No. NO."

"Have I said something wrong?"

"Are you keeping a file on me?" You sputter.

"I merely did some research," she says. "In preparation for our lunch date. I am told it assists in making small talk. Is this talk not sufficiently small?"

"It's--" You massage the bridge of your nose. "Never mind. How about this for small talk - what do you do when you're not plotting world domination?"

Vivian actually has to take a moment to think about this.

"I enjoy reading," she says. "Particularly the high modernist classics, such as the work of Marcel Proust." (What an interesting girl.) "I also partake in the Lolita fashion subculture."

It's hard to picture Vivian wearing bright pastel dresses and gaudy pink bows like that. You've only ever seen her in formal business wear.

"One day," Vivian continues, "the owners of Baby the Stars Shine Bright will finally accede to my buyout demands and the doors of history will shut forever upon the scourge that is sweet Lolita."

"I'm sorry," you say, "I think you've lost me."

"Sweet Lolita fashion must be rooted out wherever it lurks and its brainless adherents made to stand naked in the harsh light of public judgment," she says. "Only then can the permanent supremacy of Gothic Lolita be secured."

You take an uneasy bite of ice cream. Maybe this was a bad topic to broach. You didn't know there was a Lolita civil war raging. (Although Vivian definitely looks like she'd be more suited to gothic Lolita - you almost forgot that was a thing.)

It isn't long before the bowl of ice cream is down to its last melty dregs. The cherry sits in a puddle of light pink gloop. You take it for yourself and tip your head back to eat it, but Vivian lets out a tiny whine when you do.

"Huh?" You say. "Did you want the cherry?"

Vivian frowns. "It makes no difference to me who consumes the cherry."

"You want it," you say. "I heard you just now. You want it."

"You are mistaken," she says.

>[x] Tease her.

[ ] Eat it.

You hold the cherry by its stem and wave it like a pendulum in front of her face. "Are you suuuure?" You say. "You don't want this sweet, sugary, delicious cherry? The only one there is?"

"This is childish," Vivian says. She folds her arms, but her eyes can't help following the cherry back and forth as you shake it slowly.

"I mean, if you don't want it, that's fine," you say. "I was going to eat it anyway."

"That is more than acceptable to me. Enjoy it."

"Last chance," you say.

"I have already told you--" Vivian begins.

"Ahhh," you say, opening your mouth wide, as if you're about to eat it.

The legs of Vivian's chair squeal on the tile floor; just like that, she's on tip toes. Her elbows lock and her palms splay on the tabletop, propping her up even higher. Her head is tilted back and her mouth is closed tight around the cherry.

She rather looks rather like a fish on a fishing line.

You make eye contact with her. Her eyes go wide with shock at her own situation, then narrow as she looks away and she blushes.

You pull your hand back, popping off the stem, and Vivian sits. She chews the cherry in silence.

"You could have asked," you say. "It would be easier that way."

She either can't, or just won't, respond. But she doesn't look angry - only a bit abashed. It's cute. You'd ruffle her hair, but that might come off as a bit weird, so you content yourself with just imagining it instead.

You're idly twirling your spoon through the dregs of the sundae when you see Mara Darkbloom approaching you. Your heart skips a beat - literally - you feel the disturbance in its normal rhythm and nearly choke on it.

She comes up behind Vivian and wraps her hands around her daughter's shoulders, her fingertips brushing lightly up against Vivian's collarbone. It's an almost - but not quite - unmotherly position. Vivian is obviously uncomfortable being treated like this, but says nothing.

"Vivian is a bit young for you, don't you think?" Mara says.

"We're just being friendly," you say.

"Are you leading her on, young man? I won't stand for that." She pats Vivian on the head, like a puppy, before grabbing her shoulder again.

Vivian stares madly at the tabletop, blushing, saying nothing.

"I just wanted to get to know her," you say. "We do work together. Is there some sort of problem?"

"Maybe soon," Mara says. She lets go of her daughter, who closes her eyes and sighs in apparent relief.

Mara circles the table and leans in close. Her face is millimeters from yours. She whispers: "Smart move, implicating your colleague with the infected drive. I would have done exactly the same thing."

"I don't know what you're talking about," you mutter, avoiding eye contact.

"You're cagey," Mara says. "You play the game better than I expected."

"I'm not playing any--"

"Yes you are," Mara says. "You're in the game now, Alabaster." She stands erect again, tall and proud, staring down her nose at you.

"Have fun," she tells you, and leaves.

"I apologize for mother's behavior," Vivian says, eyes still downcast.

"It's not your fault," you say, not even so much to cheer her up as just for the simple fact that it's the truth.

"In fact it is my fault," Vivian insists. "Mother is angry over the board vote. She thinks father and I are steering this company in the wrong direction."

You're not sure how to reply.

"Father would like to see you," Vivian says. "Depending on what he wants to discuss - I think mother may be upset over that as well. Intimidation is her usual way when she doesn't get what she wants."

"David Darkbloom wants to see me?" You say. "When?"

Vivian checks the time on her cell phone.

"In about 15 minutes," she says.

Shit. She could have at least given you a little more time to prepare...

"It was nice eating with you, Alabaster Soliloquy," Vivian says. "Even if the ending was spoiled. Might I be so forward as to suggest making this a lunchtime ritual on Fridays?"

[ ] Sure. Friday sundaes sound nice.

>[x] Dates are more fun if they're spontaneous, you know.

"D-date?" Vivian stutters.

"Well... yeah," you say. "You yourself called it a lunch date just a couple minutes ago."

"'Lunch date' has a totally separate connotation from simply 'date,'" Vivian says. "They do not necessarily mean the same-"

"Regardless," you cut in, "it's more fun if we do it on the spur of the moment. I mean, planning it out so we do the same thing at the same time every week is pretty lame. What's next, setting up a recurring meeting notice in Outlook so you don't forget?"

"Oh-" Vivian says. "No, of course not... I see what you mean." She opens up her phone and quickly types something in. Peeking, you briefly glimpse a notification that says "Cancel recurring meeting?"

You sigh. "I'll see you around. We'll have other lunch dates."

"Mmm. Just lunch dates, then..."

"Or maybe dinner dates," you say, shrugging. "Who knows?"

Vivian's lips tremble. There's another phrase with a definitely different connotation.

"Perhaps," she manages. "It will be - spontaneous." She clasps her hands together. Her smile is small, but very real. "How fun."

You leave for David Darkbloom's office - you don't want to keep one of the richest men on Earth waiting.

When you arrive in Darkbloom's office, he's sitting at his desk eating a Big Mac and fries. He wears a napkin as a bib.

Not exactly how you expected to walk in on a titan of industry.

You sit across from him and clear your throat. "You- wanted to meet with me?" you say.

"What is wrong with you?" Darkbloom growls. "Can you not see that I am eating? Must you interrupt my lunch so rudely?"

You gulp. This isn't off to a great start.

You sit there in awkward silence while Darkbloom eats with all the urgency of a cow chewing cud. You squirm and look around the room, unsure what to focus on. You settle on picking at the lint on your pantlegs. Darkbloom is a loud eater, and the wet sounds of his swallowing make you feel a low-level nausea.

After about ten minutes, Darkbloom is done. He pulls his napkin-bib away, neatly stuffs it in the empty carton of fries, and sweeps the detritus into a wastepaper basket at his feet. He takes a couple last slurps of his drink and tosses it away, too.

He coughs, once, then sets his eyes on you. "Should I fire you?" he says.

"I-- what? No--" you drawl.

"Why not?" David says. "You apparently have nothing better to do with your time than sit and stare at me. I just paid you good money to watch me eat my lunch."

This stance does not at all jibe with the existence of the recreational facilities a few floors below. You have no idea what to say, though, so you try the obvious defense: "I work 23 floors below this... in the time it would take me to leave and come back--"

"From here to your workstation is four minutes and 10 seconds at the normal human walking speed," Darkbloom says. "Eight minutes and 20 seconds round trip. You could have completed one minute, 40 seconds of productive labor. Instead, you chose to sit there uselessly."

>[x] Defend yourself.

[ ] Apologize.

You've had all you can take of the Darkblooms trying to bully you. First Mara, now her husband - enough is enough.

"You set this meeting," you say. "Maybe I could have done something more productive, but you're the one who decided to brush me off. I was here when you wanted me. Aren't you being disrespectful of MY time here?"

Darkbloom's face is impossible to read as he stares wordlessly back at you. You begin to think you've made some kind of terrible mistake.

And then he suddenly roars with leonine laughter. You fidget in place while he laughs and laughs and laughs.

"Alabaster... I think I see what Vivian likes so much about you." He slaps your shoulder, so hard it actually budges you a bit in your seat.

You blink over and over, feeling yourself flush. From withering criticism and threats of termination to effusive praise - navigating the corporate world is a lot more difficult than you imagined.

Darkbloom pulls a fine wooden case from beneath his desk, sets it down and opens the lid. "Cigar?" He asks. "Fresh from Havana. Very nice indeed."

"Uh, no thanks," you say.

"Ah, nonsmoker," Darkbloom says. "Then I won't partake either. I can respect that." He puts the case away. "I'm glad - my daughter also doesn't like the habit."

He's about to say something else when a secretary pokes her head in the door. "Your next appointment is outside," she says. "Should I--"

"Send him in," Darkbloom says.

You begin to excuse yourself, but Darkbloom motions for you to sit. "This will be good for you. You'll learn a bit about how to deal with problematic employees."

A few seconds later, in walks the last person on Earth you could have ever expected.

"Who is this?" Zuck says, glancing at you.

"I'd like to introduce you to Alabaster Soliloquy, one of our promising young interns."

You sheepishly wave hello.

Zuck sits in the plush executive chair beside you. "Another weird power play, David? Making me sit with the interns? This is absurd."

Darkbloom shakes his head no. "Here is where you and I differ. I actually care about the young people I bring aboard. I understand that they are the future of my company. I want to ensure they learn about the vagaries of business first-hand, the better to equip them for when they seize the mantle of leadership. Ten or twenty years down the line."

"Just tell me what you want," Zuck chuffs.

"The reason I called you here into my office without convening the board members of either company is to signal to you that I come in the spirit of camaraderie and mutually aligned interests. We have a public relations boondoggle on our hands here but that is no reason to turn on one another."

"You're the one who's got the boondoggle - not me," Zuck says.

"See: this is exactly the sort of conflict I want to avoid. Rather, we should present a unified front."

"A unified front on what, exactly?" Zuck says, his voice petulant and whiny.

"First, on who is going to eat the incredibly large shit sandwich with which we have been presented."

"Shit sandw-"

"It has to be you, of course."

"What are you telling me, David?"

"You must take full responsibility for the hack. We know already it was a hole in your security that allowed the attackers access to our servers. I have one of the world's foremost experts in digital forensics preparing a report to that effect, as we speak." He steeples his fingers. "This episode has proved to me that I erred in allowing Facebook to retain its operational autonomy after the acquisition."

"This is bull," Zuck says, apparently too professional to use foul language even when angry. "You know it was your servers that had the security flaws. I warned you about them two years ago!"

"Calm yourself," David says. His face is darkly shadowed as he leans forward. "Do you want me to bring your wife in here and bend her over this desk again?"

Zuck sets his jaw.

"I thought not. Let's dispense with the measuring tape. You know I will always win."

"I have had ENOUGH," Zuck says. "You're going to ruin my life's work, playing petty games like this."

"No, Mr. Zuckerberg, I have had enough. I have had enough of seeing my good name smeared in the press. I have had enough of seeing my dear Mara worry herself sick over her future. I have especially had enough of my precious daughter being fodder for the tabloids. Your only remaining purpose is to fall on your sword so I can move on from this awful chapter in my family's life. You have a golden parachute waiting for you - I'm sure you will enjoy a fine retirement, just like that Tom fellow from Myspace."

Darkbloom hands Zuck a sheaf of papers. "There's the opening statement of your testimony to congress. And here's the new term sheet for Facebook's continued funding - it will dissolve your board and hand all its decisions back to us, in perpetuity. It was a pleasure to be in partnership with you."

"I cannot believe you. You're the freaking devil."

"Just a businessman. Now please," he motions with one hand to shoo Zuck out of the office. Red in the face, Zuck takes the papers and storms out.

"I feel much better now," Darkbloom says. "How about you, Alabaster?"

"I..." you begin, then start over. "He'll take all the blame, then?"

"If he knows what's good for him. I tend to believe people are rational actors."

"Is he - really to blame?" You venture.

"Oh, I think you know the truth about that," Darkbloom intones.

You don't respond.

"I heard about your role in the vote on Tuesday," Darkbloom says. His voice is a bit more chipper. "To listen to Vivian's account, you showed real perspicacity and mettle."

"Thank you," you say.

"As I am sure you know, my CPO has been apprehended by the FBI on - loathsome charges." He sweeps his hand as if to physically do away with what he's talking about. "The less said about it the better. Until such time as I can appoint a new CPO to replace him, I have the right to install a proxy for board votes. Vivian and I agree that we can trust you to act in this company's interests. Would you do this favor for us?"

You know exactly what Darkbloom (and his daughter) expect of you: acting as their puppet to bolster themselves against mutiny by Mara. You're not thrilled to be a pawn in a battle of wits between corporate cutthroats - especially when those cutthroats are family.

Still, can you really turn him down?

>[x] Yes, I'll do it.

[ ] No, I won't do it.

"Excellent, absolutely excellent." Darkbloom stands and presses one of the wood panels in his wall, revealing a hidden minifridge. He pulls out a bottle of champagne and two fluted glasses. He pops the cap on the champagne and pours.

"To the future of this company," he says, toasting you. "May it be long and profitable."

You toast, clinking the glasses together, and knock back the bubbly drink.

"What about your wife, though?" You ask. May as well address the issue head on. "Will she be upset?"

"Mara can be a bit headstrong sometimes," Darkbloom says. He waves a hand nonchalantly in the air. "We disagree on a few points, but we are united on the things that really count. She won't be a problem."

"She just seemed really--"

"Please, Alabaster, don't worry yourself about small things. The truth is, Mara gets moody around this time of year for purely personal reasons. I apologize if she took it out on you."

You don't ask, but the curiosity must be plain on your face because Darkbloom explains anyway:

"I wasn't unlike you, in my youth - let's just say there was infidelity. Our marriage has recovered since she found out about it, but it's hard to fault her for the lingering pangs of resentment that sometimes surface." He perches a chin on the back of his interlaced hands. "I have to admit, it warms my heart, in a perverse way... I thought for many years that she considered this a marriage of convenience rather than love."

You pour yourself another glass and drink it down. Something, anything to occupy you so you don't have to respond to THAT.

"Let that be a lesson to you," Darkbloom says. He leans back. "Honesty is important in any relationship."

"Absolutely," you agree.

"I look at you, Alabaster, and I see a future son in law. What do you think of that?"

[ ] I'm flattered.

[ ] You want honesty, then here it is: I'm seeing someone else.

>[x] I'm flattered BUT, you wanted honesty, so here it is: I'm already seeing someone else.

"You mean Whitney Price," Darkbloom says.

"Err-- how do you--"

"She's a nice girl," he says. "I think you two make a splendid couple. It of course does not change my overall assessment."

"I'm not saying there's anything wrong with Vivian," you add. "But Whitney and I--"

"Alabaster, please," Darkbloom says. "No need to debase yourself with declaiming and self-justifying. I respect you for being so candid."

You nod.

"Since we're on the topic, Whitney could bring a lot of skills to this company. I am given to understand you asked her to reject our employment offer."

Okay, now it's really weird. How did he know about that?

"Would you be willing to reconsider, Alabaster?"

>[x] Yes.

[ ] No.

"No promises, though," you add. "I can't control her any better than anyone else."

"Of course not," Darkbloom says, grinning. "That's what makes you like her so much. Correct?"

You nod.

"You're free to go now," Darkbloom says. "I'm sure you have plenty of productive things to do."

You stand and head for the door.

"Oh, Alabaster, one more thing."

You stop and turn at the threshold.

"If you see Camelia again - use that gun of yours to shoot her dead."

END OF EPISODE 4.