You are Alabaster Soliloquy, galgamer and sexually curious young man. (You comfort yourself by remembering the first rule: it's not gay if the balls don't touch.)
April 19, 2015
The North High Mindbreakers have prevailed over the Sobu Beansprouts, bringing your team out of the round robin stages and into the tournament proper. One step closer to winning the national championship.
Rose has been on her best behavior since you struck your deal with her, and she came in clutch on a couple tough questions. Math was never your strongest suit, for instance; she fills your gap quite nicely.
You've got a couple hours of downtime to kill before your next match begins, so you do what comes naturally: you go back to your hotel room to masturbate. But when you open the door to suite #421, you find an unwelcome sight: Whitney sitting on your bed.
"How did you get in here?" You demand.
"Hehe," she laughs - a little wheeze of delight more than a laugh, really. She isn't going to tell you.
"Get out," you say. "I need to practice for the next match."
"Right," Whitney says. "And what practice materials are you using today?" She pulls your laptop from underneath a pillow. Your eyes bulge as she pops the lid open and reads from your browser history: "Let's see... 'Take Me to Ariake'? Looks interesting.... chicks with dicks, wild..."
"Give me that--" you demand, lurching forward to grab the laptop back, but Whitney is nothing if not nimble.
"Or maybe today you're feeling up for some 'Byuu Byuu Bitch'? 'Two Siblings Fela Pure'? 'MC High School'?" She dances around the room as you chase her.
Finally you catch her and tackle her to the floor, but you get the sense it's only because she let you. She tosses the laptop aside.
"This isn't funny," you tell her.
"It's not," she says. Lying beneath you, her bubbly demeanor is suddenly gone.
"I told you before not to go through my things," you say.
"I wanted to know. You're still jerking off to your old porn comics," Whitney says. "That means you're still dedicated to 2D girls. Right?"
"Of course. They're not annoying the way real girls like you are. What about it?"
"If you only like 2D girls, why did Rose have her tongue 10 inches deep in your mouth the other night?"
You sit up. Whitney wriggles free and sits up across from you, too.
So she saw.
After striking your deal with Rose on the bus, Rose sealed it with a kiss that turned into a lot more than a peck on the lips. She stole your first-ever kiss on that bus - and a couple other firsts, too.
"Your own cousin, Ally--"
"Once removed," you say.
She slugs you in the shoulder. "Dick munch."
"I can't help it," you say. "I've never wanted anything more than I want to win this tournament. And she said she'd purposely lose if I didn't-- you know..."
"Then you're gonna win," Whitney says. She stands. "Masturbating before a competition clouds your brain and zaps your energy. Everyone knows that. You need to be focused for the matches ahead!" She pounds a fist into her palm for effect.
"So what are you telling me?" You say.
She smiles. "I'm gonna drill you all night long, Ally~"
---
You walk with Sable from the campus of Darkbloom Analytics, across the street to the multi-level garage where employees park.
Tonight is the night you promised to teach her how to ride a bike.
"Where do you want to practice?" You ask.
"We can do it back at my place," Sable says as you walk with her up a steeply inclined ramp.
Being alone with Sable back at her place. Sounds perfect. Maybe you'll find out whether or not she's got more than just a voyeuristic streak.
"Here we are," Sable says.
You're standing before a windowless white panel van. Parked beside it, not even chained up, is an obviously high-end bike with a carbon fiber frame.
"Some car for a billionaire," you say. "I was picturing a Ferrari or something."
"It's economical," is all Sable will say.
"You want some help loading the bike in?"
"Why?" Sable says. "This is it."
You look around the grimy parking garage, confused. And then it dawns on you.
"Don't tell me you live in this van."
Sable walks around the back and opens the doors. You peer inside. The two back rows of seats have been removed, replaced by a mattress, some curtains, a small closet, a PC, radio, lamp, mini fridge, hot plate... you notice now, extending from one side of the van's exterior, a single fat cable, connected to an outlet on a nearby concrete beam. This must be how she powers all of her appliances.
In this tiny space, Sable has all the trappings of a home.
"But why..." you breathe. "Why live like this when you're a billionaire?"
"Large spaces make me uncomfortable," Sable admits. (You have to say, her living space inside this van looks incredibly cozy). "Besides, I rarely need to go home except for sleep. Everything else I might need is on campus. It would be nothing but a waste of time to commute back and forth to a house somewhere else in town."
Her logic is absolutely insane, and you have no way to counter it. How do you reason with someone who thinks like that?
[ ] We can at least practice somewhere nicer.
>[X] If this is where she wants to do it, then fine.
Sable puts on a bike helmet, elbow- and kneepads that she retrieves from inside her van/home.
When she's done suiting up, she struggles to get her legs over the bike. You hold it steady for her and she braces herself with one hand against the side of the van as she clambers awkwardly and tries to seat herself. She's all limbs and wobbles.
"Is the seat adjustable?" She asks when she's finally sitting down straight. "This is uncomfortable."
You reach down and find a lever for the seat height that loosens easily. With Sable sitting on the seat, the mechanism immediately slides down to its lowest point with a loud whump that startles both of you.
When you get your bearings again, you realize that, with your hand still gripping the lever, your arm is now right between Sable's thin legs. Her crotch is just milimeters from the crook of your elbow - you can feel her body heat, even.
You quickly tighten the lever again and pull away. "How is that?" You ask.
"Much better."
You put one hand on her back and one on the center of the handlebars. She's very warm.
With you to help guide her, she uses her feet to walk the bike away from the van.
"You have two handbrakes," you explain. "This one controls the back tire, and this one controls the front. Try not to use the front brake on its own because you'll go flying over the handles."
"Oh -- oh," Sable says. She sounds a bit frightened. "Okay. Noted."
"The main thing is staying balanced. You'll get a feel for it."
"Please don't let go of me," she says. Her voice is small and uncertain.
Your heart skips a beat.
You guide her in lazy circles around the parking garage. She keeps using her feet to walk the bike around instead of trying to pedal. Eventually you decide to coax her to the next thing: "Try putting your feet up, huh? See how the pedals spin."
She tries once, then twice - but both times when she raises her feet off the ground, she tilts precariously to her left and nearly topples over. You catch her both times.
"Okay. Okay. Okay," she repeats, calming her frightened breathing. The prospect of falling clearly petrifies her.
"I've got you," you say. "Try again."
"I think this is fine," she says. "I can ride my bicycle like this."
"You're not Fred Flintstone," you chide her. "You've got to use the pedals. Here, I'll hold you from the side you keep tilting to."
You circle the bike - taking care to never remove your hands from her back - and hold her from the left side.
"A-again?" She says.
"Again."
She lifts her feet, tentatively, and sets them on the pedals - one after the other.
She's leaning hard against you, but at least her feet are off the ground.
"You're tilting way too much to this side," you tell her. "Try to shift your weight - not too much. You want to stay centered."
She pedals and you walk with her slowly as she tries to pull away from her lilt. But it takes more coordination than she's capable of at first. She frequently stops with no warning, making tiny frustrated "nnn--" noises as she tries to get comfortable and stable again.
Usually when someone is struggling with an easy task, you feel nothing but frustration. But you could do this with her all night long. It's... kind of fun.
As is usually the case with learning how to ride a bike, eventually there's a breakthrough moment. Soon enough you feel that she's pedaling herself without leaning against you at all. Even though you still walk alongside her, hover-handing her, she's doing it all on her own. You're not sure if she even realizes this.
You stop in place and let her pedal past you.
Her head swivels to look back at you, fear in her eyes. "Alabaster--!! I'm falling!"
"No you're not," you say.
She looks down, surprised at herself. She's still pedaling. You're nowhere near her, and nonetheless she's upright, keeping herself balanced and propelling the bike.
"How am I doing this?" She asks. "I'm not consciously... I'm not--"
"Don't worry about it. Your muscles are taking care of it for you."
She picks up speed and loops around the parking garage with apparent ease. Even a tight-ass like her can't help laughing. She even rings a tiny bell on one of the handlebars - the brrrrng, brrrrng of it echoes off the concrete walls.
"I'm doing it!" She cries.
You give her a thumbs up as she breezes past.
And then she eats shit.
You rush to her side and lean down to help her. She's a mess of tangled limbs. One of the bike's wheels spins impotently in the air.
She wiggles free and looks at her left hand: there's a nasty red abrasion from her wrist up to the meaty part of the palm where her thumb connects. She isn't bleeding, but it looks like it hurts pretty bad.
"Are you o--" you begin.
"You let go of me!" She shouts. "Look! Look what you did!" She holds up her palm for you to see. Her eyes are filling with tears.
You try to help her to her feet, but she swats you away. She stands unsteadily on her own and gives you a hard shove.
"Hey!" You say, indignant. "It's just a little scrape. That's all--"
"This is a waste of time!" She says. "Frivolous, dangerous, and now you've gotten me injured!" She takes off her helmet and chucks it at you. You narrowly dodge it. It clatters on the ground of the parking garage, somewhere behind you.
"Don't act like that," you say. "You're not hurt that badly. We can try again tomor--"
"No. Never again. You no-good, useless... why do you even work here?"
"I-- what?"
"The work you do could be done by a trained monkey. I can't believe I ever let someone like you... this is unbelievable, unbelievable..."
She tugs off her pads and lets them fall to the ground too. Putting her palm to her mouth and literally licking her wound, she storms off, towards her van. This is, from her point of view, the end of the conversation.
[ ] Let her go.
>[x] Stop her.
She opens her van and slips inside, sitting on her knees on the mattress there. You don't want to end things on this note, so you do the only thing you can think of: with catlike agility, you dive in after her before she can shut the doors again.
"Get out of my house!!" She shrieks.
"You don't have a house," you remind her. "Houses generally don't get registered at the DMV."
"Get out! Out! Out out out!!!"
You grab her by the shoulders and hold her firmly. "I'll leave," you say, "just as soon as I make sure that scrape isn't going to get infected."
Sable stares at you with raw hatred in her eyes - it's honestly scary - but you're going to hold your ground here.
"Do you have a first aid kit or something?" You ask. You close the doors of the van and click on the lamp. In the amber glow, you hold her wrist up and peer at the abrasion. It's covered with black grime from the parking garage's filthy ground.
"I can take care of myself," she says, voice low with loathing. "I don't need a moron like YOU to help me. Look at all the good your help already did."
"Don't be a baby," you say.
"Excuse me?"
"I said don't be such a fucking baby. Holy shit. Are you five?"
"How DARE you-- coming into my home, insulting me--"
"That's your fault. If you want to be pissy, I can be pissy too. Do you have a first aid kit or not?"
Sable points at a small cabinet mounted above her closet. You root through it - there are more pill bottles here than one healthy person could possibly need - and find a little white metal case with a red cross on it. You pull it down and clack the lid open - it's got the usual stuff, bandages and hydrogen peroxide and antiseptic wipes. Just what you need.
You take one of the wipes and rip open its protective packaging. "Here," you say, holding out your hand. Sable winces back, holding her injured wrist protectively to her chest.
So it's gonna be like that. You crawl forward and grab her arm, pulling it taut so you can get to her scrape.
"Stop--" Sable says. "You idiot! You stupid ass!"
"This might sting a little," you tell her calmly. You put the wipe against her abrasion and rub it gently.
"hhhhhh----" she hisses sharply through gritted teeth. You're coming to realize that this fiery-tempered woman is a complete wuss. "Ow!" She cries. "You're hurting me! Ow!"
You finish her off with a capful of hydrogen peroxide that brings renewed hisses and "ow ow ow"'s. She calls you every synonym for "stupid" you've ever heard, and some you haven't.
You rub some neosporin on the wound, then cover it up with some bandages. Why a woman like Sable stocks her first aid kit with Hello Kitty bandaids, you don't quite understand - but they're cute, at least.
When you're done, Sable jerks her hand away and peers at you, still angry.
"You should thank me," you tell her.
"It hurts!" She says. "You hurt me! Why would I thank you?"
You crawl over to her, hands and knees - get very close. She tries to pull back, but she's already up against the opposite wall, and there's nowhere for her to go in these close quarters.
You take her hand again, and kiss it softly.
"W-what is that?" She stammers.
"I'm kissing your booboo all better. Since you still want to be such a baby about it. I thought it might--"
Sable hauls off and slaps you in the face. Hard. And with no warning.
You reel back onto your knees, shocked. Then it's Sable on all fours, closing the distance to you - she tenderly grabs your face and kisses your cheek where she slapped you.
"What the fuck, Sable?"
She slaps you again. You grab both of her wrists and pin her to the wall, grimacing. "I am not afraid to fight a woman," you growl at her. "So you'd better think very carefully before you go and hit me again."
Sable giggles like you told her a joke. "I don't know if I love you or hate you..." she says.
It's not the voice of someone who's got a great hold on reality.
[ ] Be rough.
>[x] Be gentle.
You lean in and kiss Sable on the lips. She writhes under your grip, and moans against your mouth. But she doesn't fight you. She opens her lips to you and lets your tongue snake inside.
You kiss her deeply like that for moments stretching into minutes, tasting the sweetness of her mouth, the wetness of it. She breathes hard against you - you can feel the bursts of her exhalations against your face. She isn't an experienced kisser, either -- her teeth knock against yours a few times, and you have to guide her in this as well. She's a hopeless woman.
You're still holding her wrists against the wall, too - for safety's sake. You don't want anymore outbursts to ruin the mood.
When you pull back, she has a dreamy look on her face. "What do you think now?" You ask.
"I hate you," she says. "Kiss me again..."
Queen of mixed messages, this one. You kiss her again. She moans, a deep and guttural sound that comes from somewhere in her lower diaphragm. Against better judgment, you let go of her wrists now and hold her about the face, to pull her closer, possess her more completely - she wraps her hands around your back and lets it happen.
"I thought you were a homosexual," she says, pulling away.
"Alex is a special case..." you sigh. "Forget about it. I wanna fuck you... I really wanna fuck you..."
Sable's eyes go wide. "Nnn--" she moans. "I'm not--"
"I'll be gentle," you tell her, your voice catching with desire.
Sable pushes you back, gently, so you lie supine on the mattress. She crawls on top of you. She grabs your head, running her hands through your hair, and kisses you some more. Between these needful, searching kisses, she says: "I wanted to try something..."
"What's that?" You ask.
"I'm... I just..."
"Out with it," you grunt.
She grabs you by the collar and peers deep into your eyes. "I can only orgasm with anal stimulation," she says. "It's been that way since I was a child."
You reach out and tug at her pants. She helps you, kicking them off, tossing them aside. Sable is older than you, but she's got the body of an undeveloped teenager - her ass is nice and soft, but not very big, and the neatly trimmed strip of hair above her cunt is as fine as down. You reach around and part her ass cheeks with one hand as she leans back in to kiss you again.
Your index finger finds what it's looking for: the tight ring of her anus. She gasps into your mouth, then moans sweetly. Her tongue laps against yours in appreciation.
You pull your hand back and hold your index finger to her mouth: she gets the message. She sucks it down and swirls her tongue wetly against it, getting it ready - and then your finger is back at the entrance to her asshole, slipping inside.
"Oh-- ohhhhh," she coos, throwing her head back. She looks back down, fixing you with a simmering gaze. "That's so nice.
"I'm gonna fuck you here," you tell her. "I'll make you cum with your ass if that's how you want it."
She's suddenly uncertain. "I-- I've never had anything as big as... as big as you... in there..."
"I said I'll be gentle," you insist.
Sable falls back and spreads her legs. She holds them open for you with one arm looped under each of her knees. It's as inviting a sight as you've ever seen. The ring of her anus is dark brown and pulsing, but somehow also cute. There's a little freckle just on the outside of it. You could melt.
"Fuck me, you stupid prick!" she shouts.
You'll never understand her. But if she wants it that bad...
You unzip your pants and pull your cock free. You spit on your hand and get the shaft of it slick for her. She stares at it with unconcealed lust in her eyes, her lips slightly parted. Her little rosebud clenches and unclenches, winking at you - in anticipation or fear, or maybe both.
You push the tip of your cock against her ass. You take it nice and slow and enjoy the taut sensation of its resistance against you. She lets her head fall back, baring her pale neck, and pants like a bitch. "Do it, do it, do it..." she says.
And then you're inside her. The snug confines of her ass are unbelievably tight and hot. It's better than any fuck you've ever had up till now. She's got an ass made to pleasure cocks.
"Oh god..." you groan. "You're so fucking--"
She slaps you again.
"Shut up! Fuck me, you bastard! Just fuck me!"
Time to hold her down again. You're sick of being hit like that. But she whines with need when you hold her wrists and says: "No... no, let go... I need to play with myself, too..."
"Are you gonna slap me again?"
She shakes her head violently no. As you establish a steady pace inside her clenching ass, you slowly loosen your grip on her right and and finally let it go. Her fingers immediately find her clit.
"That's it," she pants. "I'm going to cum on you. Keep fucking me... I'm going to cum on you!"
You don't care. With every forward thrust, you seat yourself just a little bit deeper into her greedy insides, until you can hear your heavy balls slapping against her. You fall forward and kiss her again, pumping her in and out - fast, deep strokes that nonetheless have a sort of weirdly gentle rhythm to them. Her masturbating fingers between the two of you are rubbing her fat clit so quickly that you can hear the slick friction of it. And then you feel a wet explosion against your crotch as she cums herself silly.
Pulling your lips away, you watch as her eyes roll to the back of her skull and her mouth hangs open in a silent scream. She's still rubbing herself as you fuck her, in and out. You never break the pace, enjoying the messy wetness and heat of your mating. Her face is flushed and she squirts all over you.
"Ahhhn~~ Ahhhnnn~" she gasps again and again.
You don't warn her that you're about to cum. You just let it go. As you squirt your seed into her, her ass sucks you deep, clamps down and refuses to loosen - she's making sure you can't pull out until you're empty. You seal the lewd act it with a final, glorious kiss while you fill her perverted Christmas Cake asshole with what feels like gallons of sperm. She isn't even masturbating anymore, but this alone - the sensation of you cumming inside her ass - is enough to make her cum a final time, too.
Sable falls asleep almost as soon as you dismount, slumping against the wall of her van, your cum still leaking from her. She must have been so overcome with pleasure that she passed out. You clean her up as best you can, tuck her in and kiss her goodnight.
"Ala..." she mutters in her sleep. "Ala... Ally..."
Strange woman.
You clean yourself up in the sauna at DA, and drive over to Whitney's. She's been sending you worried texts nonstop since she found out about Camelia a few days back, and you need to keep her placated by showing her you're still alive. Plus, it's not like you hate being with her...
---
A little bit later, you're sitting in Alex's living room with Whitney while Alex showers and recuperates from another round of hard use. It couldn't be helped. Whitney smelled sex on you right away, and demanded that you repeat what you did to Sable, only on Alex this time.
(Alex seemed a little bit forlorn that he wasn't there too, but he didn't say anything. You're not sure if it's because of his feelings for you, or for Sable.)
Lounging on the couch, you frankly need a little recuperation too. Twice in less than two hours is a little tiring.
"So is that wannabe pirate still stalking you?" Whitney asks, handing you a bottle of coconut water. You guess that it's Alex who keeps the fridge stocked with these $5/serving drinks, not Whitney.
"It's worse than you think," you say between sips. "Look, it's better if you stay out of it. I don't need you making a bigger mess than the one I'm already in."
"You know I'm not gonna do that," Whitney chides. "I won't let some crazy bitch push you around. That's my job!"
You shake your head. "Camelia is more than just crazy. She's an actual terrorist."
"What, like ISIS?"
"Well, first of all - congratulations on knowing something. But no, not quite like ISIS. I'm pretty sure she's domestic."
Whitney stares at you blankly for several long moments. "Like a cat?" She says.
"No, not--" you begin, sigh, and start over. "I mean she grew up in the US and isn't working for some foreign entity. Think along the lines of the Unabomber."
Whitney shakes her head.
"Timothy McVeigh? ... Nation of Islam? ... Antifa? ... Ku Klux Klan?"
"Ohhhh," Whitney says. "She's racist. Gotcha."
You drop it there. You don't have the time or the energy for this conversation.
As Alex comes out of the bathroom, dressed again but still sopping his wet hair with a towel, Whitney grins.
"By the way, Ally," she says. "Alex had something he wanted to tell you."
Alex is visibly shocked by this. Still holding the towel, staring at you like a frightened deer, he's unable to form any words.
"Go on," Whitney says. She stands, runs around him and holds his shoulders. She takes his towel away and steers him to you.
"I... I don't..." he begins, but he can't say it.
Whitney sighs. "Fine. I'll tell him for you." She pokes his cheek for effect as she says: "Alex is sad because you keep fucking him and you don't even have the common courtesy to kiss him too."
You sputter on your drink.
"Isn't that right, Alex?"
He pokes his index fingers together. "I... I mean-- it's not l-like-- I don't w-want to f-force--"
[ ] This is too much. Make your excuses and leave.
>[x] All right. It can't be helped.
You're not comfortable with this, but you need to keep the restless natives happy.
You stand, close the short distance between you and Alex. You take his chin in your hand, turn his head upwards, lean down and kiss him.
It's a short kiss, and you try to prevent yourself from getting too into it. You're not gay, after all.
Alex warms to it, and when you pull back he's blushing deeply.
"That was nice," he says. "You taste like wintergreen."
"Uh... yeah," is the only coherent thing you can manage.
"You were my first kiss, Ally. I hope I wasn't too clumsy..."
This kid is going to be the death of you.
"It was-- well, I should be going," you say.
Alex is still smiling stupidly. Whitney laughs. "See ya, Ally," she says.
April 20th, 2015
You're drilling with Whitney for the upcoming final rounds of the tournament tomorrow, when a frantic Mr. Langley calls you.
"Slow down..." you say, unable to decipher the crazed pace of his shouting. "Relax. What is it? ... He -- what? Oh Jesus."
---
Half an hour later you're at a bedside in the ICU of St. Luke's medical center in downtown Boise, staring at Hank, your fellow teammate.
He got hit by a car.
Now he lies in a full body cast, hooked up to a series of beeping monitors, his arms and legs suspended from straps at odd angles. Weakly, he gives you and the rest of your team a thumbs up. That's Hank for you.
"What are we gonna do now?" you say. Hank's parents weep. You and your teammates share uneasy looks.
"Hank taking part in the finals is out of the question," Mr. Langley says. His panic has given way to resignation: "We don't have any backups... I'm afraid this is it for us, guys."
"No..." you say. "No, goddamn it. It can't end here. Not like this."
The crying of Hank's parents is really getting on your nerves. You need some peace and quiet to think this through...
"Hank was never that important as a player," Rose says. "I can't remember the last time he answered a question. I'm sure we could get him out of here long enough for him to sit at a buzzer and fill the open slot on our team."
"Rose..." Mr. Langley says. "Be reasonable here."
"I'm being reasonable!" She cries, stomping her foot. "He'd only be gone for three, maybe four hours. It would hardly even impact his odds of surviving!"
"Rose is right," you say (in times of desperation, you have to swallow your pride). "We could try it."
"Mmmmf mmff mffff," Hank says through his cast. Whatever it was, it seems to signal his consent.
"Hank needs to recover," Mr. Langley says firmly. "That's more important than quiz bowl. Besides, there's no way we can take him out of the hospital. Guys... I'm sorry. It's over."
"Maybe not," comes a voice from the back of the room. Whitney steps forward. "I'm a student at North High too. That's all I need to play on the team, right? I could fill in for Hank."
Mr. Langley frowns. You and the team look around, unsure what to say.
In times of desperation...
---
To keep Sable and the rest of your team in the good graces of management, you've been attending the daily stand-up scrum meeting in her stead. This morning at the scrum, Rose sidles up to you. She whispers from the corner of her mouth: "Don't slouch, Alabaster. Didn't that asshole from Youtube teach you anything?"
"That's really gross," you whisper back, your eyes fixed forward. "Someone should have taught you how to check your ableism. For all you know, I've got a chronic back condition that makes me stand like this. I can link you a few Tumblrs on body privilege if you'd like to educate yourself."
"Oh, I already know you've got a back condition," Rose says. "You were born with no spine."
The thing about trading barbs with Rose is that occasionally she gets the better of you. The risk is part of what makes it fun, if you're being honest.
"I've been informed that we need to work together to create the upcoming sensitivity training," Rose says. "I'm going to go ahead and assume you haven't done any work on it."
"Of fucking course not," you say.
"Of fucking course not," Rose repeats. "Like usual, I have to do everything. I have a conference room reserved on the third floor. You can come review the material with me after scrum."
"I'd rather gouge my own eyes out," you spit.
"That's fine too," Rose says. "And you can tell Steven Armstrong that you decided not to do what he asked of you."
>[x] Go with Rose.
[ ] Forget it.
You stand next to Rose in a quiet, out-of-the-way conference room as she pulls up a video on her laptop. She clicks play.
The video opens with a fast-paced montage of a toned blond guy on a windsurfing board, complete with non-offensive instrumental rock music straight from the 1990s. In various shots from various angles, he vaults into the air, twisting and doing flips, while uninteresting guitar riffs swell to a bland crescendo.
Soon the montage smash-cuts to the same man, standing in front of a featureless white background, now wearing a tight polo shirt and dockers. He speaks with a thick Australian accent: "Oi! I'm champion windsurfer Ty Fobbler, here to tell you that being sensitive - is cool."
"Turn this off," you say. "For the love of god."
"Shh," Rose hisses.
"When I'm not out on the ocean doing sick stunts with my longboard... I'm respecting women and minorities."
Ty rambles for a little bit while you let this statement kick around in your head. Finally, you say: "wait, hold on -- does that mean he doesn't respect women and minorities while he's windsurfing?"
"Shut the fuck up, Alabaster."
"...that I like to remember with a simple acronym: SURF. Safety, Unity, Respect and Friendship."
"I'm actually going to die if this goes on any longer," you say. "Turn it off."
"Alabaster--"
You reach over and close the laptop's lid. Blessed silence.
"You are unbelievable," Rose says. "This video has plenty of good material for the training."
"I'M unbelievable? What's unbelievable is someone paid actual, real-life money to make this video. It's the most embarrassing thing I've ever seen. Where did you find this stupid shit?"
"It was on the website for the National Australian Minority Business Leadership Association. They have an entire off-the-shelf sensitivity training module that they offer for free."
"We're not using it," you say. "We'll make our own material."
"No way," Rose says. "We don't have the time. On top of that, using an external vendor absolves us of legal responsibilities--"
"I don't think I'm getting through to you. Whatever we do for this stupid training session, we are not going to use THAT. That's final." You fold your arms. "Have a little fucking dignity for once in your life."
Rose is saying something else, but you're hardly paying attention. Instead, you do a quick google on your phone. You cut Rose's ranting off and read aloud for her edification: “'outrage as notorious womanizer and #MeToo target Ty Fobbler tries to rehabilitate public image with sensitivity training webinar.' How's that? Like the idea of using a sexual predator to preach good manners?”
Rose sputters. “I-it’s about the message -- not the person--“
“Like I said. I’m making an executive decision. We’ll do our own training.”
“Who on Earth died and made you king? Tell me. You come waltzing in here like you own the place just because Armstrong said you could help out. But I don’t seem to recall anyone saying you were in charge here.”
“Of course I'm in charge. Only one of us has ever lost an election to the other one. That means my decisions automatically supersede yours.”
“FUCK you. You absolute pig—“
"I love that. I'll never get sick of it."
"FUCK YOU!" She stands up, almost tripping in her haste and anger. "I need to take a powder break. I can't deal with you right now, Alabaster."
"That's President Soliloquy to you."
Rose balls her fists up and lets out a savage, incoherent grunt. Arguing with you and not being able to get physical always does a real number on her.
She spins on her heels and goes stomping away. "Three terms!" She cries on her way out. She points at herself - "three terms!" - then points at you - "to one! Three terms to one! You fucking prick! That means I win!"
She slams the door of the conference room on the way out. You can only laugh. Rose leaves her cell phone behind when she goes to the bathroom. All the talk about bugged phones recently must have her spooked about taking it along.
Regardless, now is the perfect time.
You take her phone and unlock it (Rose uses the same PIN for everything - dumb bitch). You make a download that replaces a common, everyday app on the phone's home menu. The replacement app is identical to the old one in every way, except for a critical difference: it surreptitiously reports the phone's coordinates back to you at all times.
This way, you can keep an eye on her. In case she does something stupid. And you know she will.
You set the phone back down exactly as you found it, feeling momentarily satisfied with yourself. But then comes an awful epiphany.
Over the past few years, you've had a lot of time to come to terms with the fact that for all of your surface-level differences, you and Rose think eerily alike. In fact, this trick with the hidden GPS tracker was initially her attempt at stalking you, back during the days of StuCo campaigning and quiz bowl in-fighting.
She agreed to give it up as part of your rules of engagement. But... if you think it's necessary to track her... she must have that idea's corollary in her head too.
You check your phone. The fake version of the app has a small error on one of its screens that's almost impossible to detect unless you know what you're looking for -- which you do. If you've got the tracking app on your phone, you'll be able to find an icon in one of the sub-menus that's misplaced by just a couple pixels.
And so it is.
At some point, Rose bugged you. She has a 24/7 bead on your location whenever you have your phone with you.
[ ] Remove it.
>[x] Let it stay.
There's something else about Rose: she can put a bullet through a quarter at 20 paces. You've seen her do it.
Maybe it isn't the worst thing to have someone like that with her eye on you.
Not that you need her help. Of course you don't.
Plus, knowing that she has a tracker on you - you can plague her with self-doubt and self-loathing. Every time you go to visit Whitney - or anyone else for that matter - she'll see. And you can just picture her curled up on the couch in Cerise's apartment staring at the little pin indicator, the one that puts you square in Whitney's apartment. All the things she'll be imagining, while she fixes her tear-filled eyes on that screen. It'll drive her bonkers.
Really - by letting it stay, you're letting her torture herself way more than you ever could.
When Rose returns, she's calmer.
"What do you suggest?" She says. "I'm open to ideas."
"Let's just cut out the unnecessary extra stuff," you say. You hold your hands in front of you, palms out, thumb to thumb. "I picture a simple, three page powerpoint. Slide 1: 'fuck white people.' Slide 2: 'especially the men.' Slide 3: 'especially the straight ones.'" You lean back in your chair. "That's what you really want, right?"
"Yeah?" Rose says. "And would all three of those slides apply to you?"
You grimace.
For the next few hours, you hammer out a presentation you can both live with. It basically boils down to: don't call anyone a cunt or a nigger.
Stackleford's gonna be devastated.
When you get back to your workstation, you see a meeting invitation on your Outlook calendar. It's from Vivian.
The title of the meeting is "Spontaneous Lunch Date (S.L.D.)"
The attached email says:
>I have scheduled a spontaneous lunch date with you, Alabaster Soliloquy, to take place at 1:15 PM today. I hope you will accept. In the interests of increased spontaneity, feel free to push the start time of this meeting either forwards or backwards by a maximum of five minutes."
>[x] Accept.
[ ] Decline
At 1:10 PM, you arrive in a place you've never seen before. The upper-level executives at DA have a private dining room on the 19th floor where they can eat in style, away from the hoi polloi. At this time of day, most of them have cleared out, but there are a couple faces here.
Among them is Cerise. She's eating with Nelson Berenstoin, going over some details of the investigation. From what you've heard, it's making real progress - thanks in no small part to the efforts of Fazil.
Cerise catches your eye, then quickly looks away. She hasn't said a word to you since your escapade with her friend, Galatea. Every night since then she's gone straight from work to her bedroom, carrying a fresh 12-pack of beer along with her every time. Occasionally from her bedroom you hear crying; and that's the only trace of her voice you've heard in days.
"Thank you for coming," Vivian says as you sit down at a small round table in the corner covered with a long satin tablecloth. Vivian has a garden salad and lemon water in front of her. A waiter swoops by to drop off a fancy paper menu for you.
"Thanks for inviting me," you say. "Very spontaneous."
She blushes. "Ahem. I -- want to be forthright. This is more than merely a social call."
"If it was merely a social call, I'd think someone replaced you with a doppelganger," you say. You look up at the waiter. "I'll take the chicken cordon bleu. And uh, some coke."
"As you wish, sir..." He strides away.
"There is going to be a board meeting on Friday and I'd like you to be present in your capacity as proxy. Things may become... fractious."
"You want me to screw your mother again," you say, tenting your fingers on the table.
Vivian blinks rapidly.
"Go ahead," you say. "Tell me what it is."
"I'm not certain..." Vivian says, regaining her composure. "Mother and uncle Vasily have been deep in discussions--"
"Uncle Vasily?" You say.
"Yes," Vivian says.
When you meet this with a confused stare, she explains further. "Mother's maiden name is Kerimov. Uncle Vasily is her brother. Were you not aware of this?"
The intrigue grows deeper.
"Forget about it," you say. "I'll be another Sable for you. Vote however you say. And hey, as a bonus, I'll drag the real Sable along too. Two votes for the price of one."
"Mmm," Vivian mutters. "Of course, I am not legally allowed to tell you how to vote--"
You kick her foot playfully under the table. She startles. "Of course not," you say. "But I'll take your advice into careful consideration."
Vivian nibbles on her salad.
"You said you were into Lolita fashion?" You ask after your food arrives.
"Mmm."
"That's pretty interesting. I have to be honest, it's hard for me to imagine you in an outrageous Lolita outfit like the ones you see online."
"Are you saying you can't imagine me wearing something so elegant and stately?" She says. She sounds offended.
"I mean... look, I'm just saying that I have this image of you in my mind as this high-powered executive type. Not a fashionista. It's just different, that's all."
"You have me exactly wrong," Vivian says. "I'll prove to you just how wrong you are."
You've never seen her so animated.
"So, what then--" You ask. "You're going to model for me or something?"
"Come to my house this weekend. I will show you the very image of class and grace!"
You narrow your eyes at her.
"This one is more than social too, isn't it," you say.
Vivian smirks. Now that's eerie.
[ ] I'll go.
[ ] I have other plans.
>[X] I'll go... but first, tell me why my quiz bowl performance fascinated you so much.
Now it's your turn to smirk. She blushes and recoils and averts her gaze.
"W-who told you about that--"
"It's all right," you say. "No need to be embarrassed - I'm just curious. Okay, a little weirded out. But mostly just curious."
She dabs her lips with her napkin and then folds it neatly, setting it down on the table.
"You had a command over your own mind that I found appealing," she finally says. She still won't look at you. "I can tell that you have great intelligence. And yet you go in your own direction with it. I like to imagine..."
She trails off.
"That's it?" You say. "You just happened to see me on TV and thought I was cool?"
Finally, she looks at you. "There is much you do not understand," she says. "But -- never mind. If you still want to visit my home, I will have our chauffeur pick you up on Saturday at 4:00 PM."
Somehow, you're more confused than you were before you asked.
"All right," you say. "Wear your most extravagant dress. I only settle for the very best."
"I would do nothing less, Alabaster Soliloquy."
Just then, the waiter returns. He sets a shiny pewter dish before you, on top of which is a long line of fine white powder and a crisp $100 note on it.
"Your cocaine, sir."
You look up at him, slack-jawed, then over to Vivian, who seems to have no reaction - she must be used to this sort of thing in the executive dining room.
"Uh --" you say. "I meant Coca-Cola."
"Of course sir. Apologies." He takes the cocaine and scurries away.
"You aren't ready for this world yet, are you," Vivian says.
"Guess not."
"That's all right. I can help you." She stands, and before you can stop her, she leaves.
At home that night, Cerise's crying is especially loud.
"Has she talked to you at all?" You ask Rose. "She won't even look at me."
"Yeah, she talked to me the other day at work... once. To call me a two-timing cunt who ruined her life. Words to that effect."
You wince.
"What should we do?" You ask.
"She's your sister, not mine."
You stand, go to her door, and try it - locked, of course.
You knock. No answer.
"Cerise," you say, leaning your head against her door.
No answer.
You look back at Rose.
>[x] Rose, pick her lock for me.
[ ] Nevermind. Let her grieve on her own time.
Rose can't catch a break. Just like at Galatea's apartment, her lockpicking skills get interrupted by the target opening the door for her. And this time it smacks her in the nose. She stumbles back, smarting. "Goddamn it," she shouts.
"What do you want, you asshole?" Cerise says to you.
"Can I come in?"
She says nothing, but when she goes back into her room, she leaves the door open for you. You enter and shut it behind you - for now, it's just the two of you.
Cerise curls up at her desk chair, both legs looped over one arm, her back propped against the other. She stares at her computer screen.
You hear, tinnily and through a pair of headphones on the messy bedroom floor, the jingle of Skype's incoming call music.
The screen says:
>Incoming video chat from gman.
It rings for a few moments, then you hear the disconnected call sound.
>Missed video chat from gman. (420)
This girl has called Cerise 420 times since just a couple days ag--
The incoming call music starts playing again. Make that 421 times, then.
"If you're not going to answer, why not block her?" you suggest.
Cerise's lips tremble.
"I mean..." you begin. "Look, I'm sorry about how hard this is for you. But this isn't my fault. She's the one who betrayed--"
"I know!" Cerise shouts. "I know! I shouldn't be mad at you... I know..."
The call disconnects. Cerise covers her face with both hands.
"These past couple weeks," she says, her voice muffled, "I thought it was you who ruined my life. By bringing this Camelia woman into everything... but all along... it was me. The things I told Galatea... things I promised you I'd never tell anyone. It was all my fault. It was me... it was me. I ruined your life. Again."
You sit down on her bed. You can't say you disagree with her assessment. If not for her loose tongue, you wouldn't be in the mess you're in. And if not for what happened a few years ago--
You try to put that thought out of your mind.
The music is playing again. Galatea is calling.
"Block her already," you say.
Cerise shakes her head emphatically no.
"Why?" You demand.
She doesn't say anything.
>[x] Answer the call for Cerise.
[ ] Block her for Cerise.
You pick the headphones up off the ground and put them on. Then you lean across the keyboard, grab Cerise's mouse and answer the call.
Cerise doesn't realize what's happening until Galatea's face is already on the screen.
Standing in front of Cerise's webcam, you're eye-to-eye with the girl who ratfucked you.
"Hi," you say, voice dripping with anger.
Galatea's eyes go wide with shock, and then -- she's gone. She doesn't hang up, but she suddenly ducks down, out of frame of her webcam. All you can see, dimly, is the contours of a bedroom even messier than Cerise's, if such a thing is possible.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Cerise shouts. She grabs the cord of the headphones and yanks them from your head. "Gal has anxiety! She can't deal with strangers!"
"I'm sure that's what she told you," you say.
Cerise isn't paying attention, though. She sits up straight in her chair and puts on the headphones. "Are you still there, Gal?"
A pause. Then Cerise looks up at you. "She says she isn't going to come up if you're in the room."
"I am not leaving you alone with this lying bitch so she can smooth talk you again."
"Then why did you answer?" Cerise says.
"I wanted to talk to her myself, since you didn't seem to have an interest in it."
"Well now I do," she says. "We have things to discuss. Alone."
"For the love of god..." you mutter. "Listen to me, Cerise. You cannot trust this girl--"
"I know that, you shit. You think I don't know that? This is goodbye. I need closure. So let me have it."
You sigh. There's no winning here. So you step out of the room and let Cerise have her conversation.
You sit awkwardly in the living room across from Rose, each of you on your own couch, while you wait for word from Cerise.
After a few minutes of silence, Rose leans back in her seat and spreads her legs wide, giving you a free view up her skirt - no panties, of course.
"Not now, Rose."
Her face curls up in anger.
More than half an hour passes. Finally, Cerise comes out of her bedroom.
"I'm going to Galatea's," is her simple declaration.
"Excuse me?" You and Rose say in unison.
"Don't wait up. I'll be back in a little while."
You stand. "Hold on. Hold the fuck on-- what happened to 'this is goodbye', huh? Closure?"
"No no no no no," Rose says, shaking her head. She clutches at her hair. "You can't... Camelia... she's... no no no no..."
"Camelia gave her okay to it, apparently," Cerise says. "Alabaster, this is -- I've been trying to meet up with Gal -- I've been trying to meet up with Galatea for a really long time. With her anxiety and everything... I mean, we've only been on cam for a few months. So her inviting me to her apartment is a big deal. And I need to see her. At least once."
"Don't you get it?" You say. "She isn't who she says she is. How do you know her whole anxiety thing isn't just an act? She's working with Camelia, for fuck's sake."
"I know who she's working with!" Cerise shouts. "I know the risks. You're not going to stop me. You can come too, if you want. But you're not going to stop me."
>[x] Tag along. [optional: bring Rose]
[ ] Let her go on her own.
Rose actually falls to her knees and grabs one of your legs when you try to leave with Cerise.
"You can't!" She says. "You literally CAN'T--"
"Tchh-- Get off of me, you sow. God."
"Don't go! Don't go!"
"Camelia isn't going to hurt me. She still needs me for whatever she's up to. We'll be fine."
You kick free of Rose's grip and back away. "Of course," you say, "you have to wait here. I don't think Camelia likes you quite as much." (You know Rose definitely isn't going to listen to instructions, but that's okay. As long as she doesn't try to go in guns blazing.)
Rose is actually crying now. It's... a little endearing how concerned for you she turned out to be.
You kneel down so your face is level with hers, but she's alternately inconsolable and ashamed that she's inconsolable, so she won't meet your gaze.
"I'm not going to die," you tell her calmly, "before I make good on the promise."
"Promise...?" She says.
You take her face in your hand, squeezing her cheeks, and make her look at you. "It's going to happen, Rose. I already told you. When you least expect it."
She sniffles back her mucus. "Fuck you," she snarls.
You let her go. "There we go. That's more like it."
You stand. "Let's go, Cerise."
You walk up the stairs to Galatea's apartment with Cerise. When you get to the landing where her unit is, you see Camelia, standing outside Galatea's door. She's carrying on a conversation in fluent Russian with the whores who live across the way.
Camelia steps aside for Cerise and lets her into the apartment. They share a mutual look of hatred that could shatter glass.
You try to follow Cerise in, but Camelia stops you up by grabbing your arm. The whores, sensing that now isn't a good time, head back into their own apartment.
"Dirty people," Camelia says, nodding at the closed door across the way. "Shame Hitler cocked it all up with Soviet campaign."
"Don't change the subject," you say. "Am I not allowed to attend the 1st Annual Lesbo NEET Summit?"
"Do what you want. But you're not going to interfere with my plans," Camelia says. She narrows her eyes. "Your sister won't either."
You jerk your arm away from her. "Yeah? Or else what? I'm sick of your games."
"That depends," Camelia says. "What do you prefer? Shall I come to you with a rod of discipline, or shall I come in love and with a gentle spirit?"
"Cute," you say.
"I know that Cerise means a lot to you," Camelia says. "And you feel responsible for her. After all, her shitty life is all your fault. Isn't it?"
You glower.
"Well, Galatea is my Cerise," Camelia says. "I owe her the same debts of kinship. I'm keeping her safe."
"By involving her in multiple class A felonies?"
"You don't know what you're talking about," Camelia says.
"So that means you two are sisters, then?"
"All women are my sisters and all men are my brothers. And anyone who loves God must also love their brother and sister."
"I never took you for a Christian fundamentalist," you say.
"I told you. You don't know what you're talking about."
"Am I free to go?"
She steps back and lets you inside. She doesn't follow.
Galatea's room is at the back. You head inside.
Cerise is there. But she's the only one who is.
Your blood runs cold. This was a trap after all. Camelia set you up. She--
Cerise gets down on the floor, lying on her side, and lifts up the bedskirt. "There you are. Motherfucker. Get out here."
From under the bed, almost inaudibly, you hear: "no"
"Don't make me drag you out by your ankles, Gal. I swear to God."
"i won't come out"
"That does it," Cerise says. She reaches under the bed and does exactly what she threatened: she drags Galatea out by the ankles. Galatea does her best to stay under the bed, clawing at the carpet, but it's no use.
Now out in the open, she sees you standing there too. She hides her face by going prone and burying it in the floor.
Cerise grabs her shoulder and flips her onto her back. Galatea keeps her face covered up with both hands. She's practically hyperventilating.
"You can have this back," Cerise says. She pulls a locket from her jeans and drops it on the carpet beside Galatea's head.
"i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry"
"This too," Cerise says. She pulls out a folded bunch of papers with frilly handwriting on it - way prettier than Cerise's is. It must be a letter from Galatea. This joins the locket on the floor.
"i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry"
"You did the worst thing possible. All this time you pretended to be my friend and then you turned around and sold me out to the fucking devil."
"i never wanted it to be like this"
"Yeah? Me either." She stands up. "You're pathetic. You know, I thought maybe I could... I don't know. Say goodbye in a nice way, at least. Talk with you for a little while. But seeing Camelia out there... you really are working with her, huh?"
Galatea nods.
"By choice?"
Galatea nods.
"It's over," Cerise says. "I... forget it. It's just over."
"i still love you"
Cerise is at a loss for words here. She turns and walks out without replying.
Galatea is crying.
[ ] Leave.
>[x] Talk to her.
You sit cross-legged beside her.
"I'm, uh, the little brother," you say. "What Cerise said was pretty harsh, but if makes you feel any better -- you probably deserved a lot worse than that."
"you're right. please go."
"I need to know that Camelia is the only one you told all of Cerise's secrets too. There are things that could get us in a lot of trouble."
"i only told camelia"
"Is she your sister?"
Galatea doesn't respond. She's shutting down. She gets on her belly and crawls under the bed again.
You follow Cerise's lead, lying on your side and lifting the bedskirt. Galatea is curled up in the fetal position, her back to you.
"Why did you do it?"
"it doesn't matter"
"It sure as shit matters. You ruined a perfectly good relationship. And you made my sister really sad, which frankly, kind of pisses me off. Uh... don't tell her I said that."
"i did it because it was fun"
You can't believe this girl. "Fun?" You sputter. "You fucked with our lives for fun?"
"no. no. hacking was fun... i didn't mean to hurt anyone. i didn't mean to hurt cerise."
"Well, you did. What are you going to do about it?"
She doesn't say anything to that.
You stand and are about to leave when she pokes her head out from under the bed. She looks at you with frightened eyes. You're starting to believe the anxiety thing isn't really an act after all.
"please take those things back to cerise. i want her to have them."
She points at the locket and the letter. You scoop them up. Might as well.
"tell her i'm sorry"
"You said that more than enough already. It won't make any difference coming from me."
Her eyes fill with tears again. "when i met cerise..." She trails off and falls silent.
"Out with it. I don't have all day."
"she told me that i saved her life... if that's true... i can be happy with that"
"Great. Is that all?"
"tell her she saved my life too"
You think about that for a long time as you walk down the stairs and back to the car where Cerise is waiting.
April 20, 2015
"One more time," Whitney says.
You're sloppy drunk off of the three beers that Whitney practically forced down your throat, and dressed only in boxers. You have to be up in 7 hours for the first match of the finals. But Whitney won't let you sleep - she's making you practice questions over and over, reading from the trivia books that you toted along to Boise with you.
"I -- hic -- I can't do this anymore," you slur.
"Come on, you pussy! You quitter! That's loser talk!"
You grudgingly get dressed again, donning five uncomfortable layers of shirts, pants and socks. You would dearly like to sleep, but Whitney is too obnoxious and persistent - she isn't going to leave you alone. And plus, she guilted you into drinking and doing this practice session with her. It's her birthday, after all, and you didn't get her anything. In fact, Rose and Cerise were the only two people to give her any actual presents: from Rose, a gift card to Taco Bell (which, weirdly enough, Whitney said was perfect) - from Cerise, a Furby modified to say "fuck you" (which Whitney squealed over).
The rules of Whitney's quiz bowl drilling are simple enough: every time you answer incorrectly, you lose an article of clothing.
"What year did Gen-gahis Ka-han die?"
"Genghis Khan," you say. You hiccup again. "It's pronounced Genghis Khan."
"Don't be such a fucking dork. What year did he bite it?"
"1227."
Whitney lets out a "grrr." She's primarily in this to see you strip.
So of course, she does what she did last time. She flips to the section on sports trivia - your weakest topic by far. Who won the 1943 World Series? How many field goals did Wilt Chamberlin score in his record setting game? What was the score in the final match of the 1999 FIFA Women's World Cup? The answer to all of these, as far as you're concerned, is a disinterested shrug. And so you're quickly losing the shirts off your back. Among other things.
"What was the number on Dale Earnhardt's--"
"Wait a second..." you say, your vision focusing and unfocusing. You're down to your bottom layer of clothes. "Why am I the only one getting naked here?"
Whitney looks at you like a confused puppy. "You're the one drilling."
"You're on the team too," you say. "That means you need to practice too." You reach out and grab the trivia almanac from Whitney's grasp. She resists, but only weakly.
Looking down at the text on the page, the letters swimming for a moment before they resolve themselves, you read: "What was the number on Dale Earnhardt's NASCAR vehicle when he died?"
Whitney shrugs. "NASCAR is dumb as shit. Ask my dad, he knows."
"Your dad isn't on the team," you say. "Besides, you literally just read this question."
Whitney rolls her eyes. "You interrupted me before I could get to the answer, dickweed!"
Sometimes you wonder how Whitney manages to dress herself in the morning. "The answer is 3. Take your shirt off," you say.
Whitney actually blushes - it's rare to see her get flustered. She probably didn't expect you to be so aggressive about it. But she regains her composure quickly enough, her surprised look melting into a broad grin.
She slips her tanktop over her head, revealing that she isn't wearing a bra underneath. Somehow, her torso is just as tan as the rest of her. You can't help staring at her small but inviting breasts. She takes the opportunity to grab the trivia almanac back from you.
It's going to be a long night.
---
Driving home with Cerise, you watch the pin indicator on the tracking app that you bugged Rose's phone with. Sure enough, it's not sitting tight at Cerise's apartment. It's following behind you in traffic.
Rose, you sneaky bitch. As expected.
When you're back in town again and nearing the apartment, you watch Rose's location indicator suddenly swerve down a side street and race to beat you back home. By pulling what must double the speed limit or more, she makes it. When you walk through the front door, she's still out of breath.
"There you are," she says. "I've been going crazy waiting here for you two. I thought for sure Camelia was going to be coming here to murder me or something."
You sigh and shake your head.
Cerise, predictably, heads straight for her bedroom. You put your hand against the door and keep her from closing it on her way in.
"Leave me alone, Alabaster. I need to sleep."
"All you do is sleep," you tell her. "I live under the same roof with you and we hardly ever hang out."
"Why the fuck would I want to hang out with you?" She says, folding her arms. "At least sleeping doesn't constantly annoy me with its unsolicited opinions."
You frown. "Isn't that what dreaming is?"
"Alabaster, I swear to fucking god."
"Look, I just need to make sure you don't hang yourself or something. It's the least I can do as your sibling."
She pokes the inside of one cheek with her tongue, huffing in frustration. "So what do you suggest, oh loving brother of mine?"
"Let me in, first of all."
She steps aside.
"What now?" She says.
"We're gonna have a family movie night."
You sit at Cerise's computer desk. Cerise sits on her bed.
"You're making pretty good money now, right?" You say.
"Yeah. What about it?"
"Invest in some Febreeze. Holy shit. Do you do absolutely nothing but drink beer and masturbate in here?"
"There isn't enough Febreeze in the world to spritz away the sin of incest happening in my fucking living room," Cerise shoots back. "If you and Rose were any thirstier, you'd be a pair of desiccated mummies."
"Whatever. Do you still watch anime?" You ask, dropping the back-and-forth of insults and hoping to turn the conversation at least somewhat civil.
There was a long time when Cerise pretended to hate your "Japanese cartoons," but after your parents died and you were marooned in the Mallory home, you learned the truth: Cerise was secretly a fan too. The long nights you spent together watching anime in your room kept you both sane.
(She never did develop an appreciation for the true classics, which she derided as "moeshit," but you could at least begrudgingly respect her taste. She's no Stackleford.)
"Sometimes," Cerise says in response.
"What are you watching this season?"
She shrugs.
"...Nothing?" You say.
"I'm catching up on my backlog, that's all."
"What shows?"
She shrugs.
She's more depressed than you thought.
"We'll start with the undisputed best anime of 2018," you announce. "Darling in the Franxx."
Cerise seems wholly unimpressed as the bright explosions and involved battle sequences flash on screen. Then again, she seems wholly unimpressed by pretty much everything.
"I knew you had shitty taste, Alabaster, but this is beyond the pale."
"Come on. You like Trigger."
"They should have stopped beating around the bush and just name this show 'Evangelion, Except The Robots are Powered by Fanservice'."
"Whatever. I'll turn it off, then."
"I didn't tell you to turn it off. Anime is a fucking wasteland these days. I'm sure there isn't much else to watch."
She's wrong about that. And you're going to prove it to her. Whether she likes it or not.
You binge watch deep into the night, Cerise making snide comments the entire time. At some point, you end up getting out her laptop to watch on that instead, so you can sit together on the bed, propped up against the wall.
And eventually she's nodding off against your shoulder.
"Stop drooling on me," you say.
"Mggh?" She groans. She wipes her mouth with the back of her palm and then smears it on her pantleg. Ever the lady.
"By the way..." you say. "Your gay friend asked me to pass on a message on for you. She says you saved her life too."
"Tell her to go fuck herself," Cerise says, dozing off again.
You're starting to doze off, too.
At around 3:00 AM, you're rudely awoken by the vibration of your phone in your pocket.
It's from Kay Vera.
"10 AM at the Rutabaga Cafe," she says. "I'll be waiting."
"It's 3 in the fucking morning," you grumble.
Beside you, Cerise snorts and tosses in her sleep.
"...is it that late? I must have lost track of the time. I've been working all night."
"Christ you're annoying. I have work tomorrow, you know. During normal human hours."
"What does tomorrow have to do with it? I want to meet at 10 AM today."
"Not TOMORROW," you say. "I mean-- you know what, nevermind. The point is, I have work. So it can't be at 10."
"I can push it to noon, but that's the best I can do. Find an excuse to be there or you won't get another chance. You're not my only lead."
>[x] I'll be there.
[ ] Forget it.
She hangs up just as soon as you say it.
"Fuck you too, Kay..."
You glance at Cerise as she softly snores and stirs restlessly in her sleep. You really are worried about her. Not that you'd ever say it out loud.
One of Camelia's conditions on the meeting with Kay was that she wanted to be in the cafe too, to visually verify it happened. You're not sure how to let her know, though. You have no contact number for her. Except--
>[x] Message Galatea
[ ] Go to Galatea's apartment in person.
[ ] Don't try to let Camelia know.
You slip into the master bathroom for a little privacy, using the mobile version of the Skype app. The call rings - and rings, and rings. No answer.
You try again. Same result. This is pointless... you should have known that she isn't going to pick up.
Is she asleep? No, you think - of course not - she's a piece of shit loser hikkikomori NEET. 3 AM is her primetime.
You send an IM.
>Tell your boss that the meeting is a go. Noon.
Surprisingly, you get an almost immediate call back from Galatea.
You answer it. But it isn't Galatea on the other end. It's Camelia.
"That's great news, Ally!" She says, smiling into the webcam.
"Don't call me that."
"You're a real workhorse. I knew I could count on you."
You hover over the disconnect button, but Camelia continues:
"Listen, I'm glad you reached out - but in the future, try to avoid calling Gal yourself. Let Cerise be the go-between."
"Why?" You demand.
Camelia picks up the webcam from where it's mounted on Galatea's monitor, and points it down, under the desk. Amidst a mess of used tissues, empty bottles, tangled cords and other trash, Galatea sits hunched and trembling. When she sees the camera focused on her, she lets out an "eep!" and hides her face.
Camelia points the webcam back at herself. "Getting calls from strange numbers sends Gal into conniptions. She doesn't deal well with that kind of thing."
"Your friend needs a shrink," you say.
"She's got what she needs right here," Camelia intones. "Don't go armchair psychologist on me, now."
You hear loud banging from Camelia's end, as of someone pounding on the front door.
"Motherfucker..." Camelia sighs. Then she shouts: "Wrong apartment, asshole! The whores are across the hall!"
You hear pounding again, but fainter - the john must have taken Camelia's advice.
"That happens way too much," Camelia says.
"Seems like a very healthy environment for Galatea," you say drily.
"What do you care?" Camelia says. She hangs up.
At lunchtime, you slip away from an increasingly flirtatious and touchy-feely Alex to go have lunch at the Rutabaga Cafe.
Camelia is there, of course - sitting by herself at a table on the opposite side of cafe from the one where Kay Vera sits.
As you approach Kay's table, you're startled by a rottweiler. It barks and snarls at you, foam dripping from its lips and pointy teeth. You fall to your ass, shielding your face uselessly with your forearm. It strains against its leash, trying to get to you, but the owner pulls it back.
"Down, Lady. Down!" Kay shouts.
The dog circles around and lies at Kay's feet, still staring evilly at you.
You stand, shaking with adrenaline. "What the fuck," you say. "Warn me next time."
"I'm sorry," Kay tells you. "Lady is very protective."
You look at the ground where Lady is now sniffing itself.
You sit. "I hate to be crass about this," you say. "But Lady's got a penis. Just so you're aware."
"So?" Kay says. "He looked like a Lady to me."
Weirdly enough... you can kind of see what Kay means.
"I got him a few years ago when I did this expose on a bar that violated health codes," Kay explains. "The owner was stalking me and sending me death threats and so on. Lady is peace of mind. He keeps me safe."
He perks up his ears and looks at you. His drawn out rrrrrrr suddenly turns into more barking.
"Shhh," Kay chides. Lady shuts up. Kay looks at you. "Lady's not being very gentlemanly today. He knows something's up."
"Forget about it," you say. "Let's talk."
"I'm all ears."
[ ] Tell her something true.
>[x] Tell her something true, but embellished.
[ ] Tell her something false.
"No one followed you, did they?" You ask, casting furtive glances this way and that, really hamming it up for her.
"Worry about yourself," Kay says. "I'll worry about me."
You sigh. And then, as if coming out with a big secret: "would you believe me if I told you that David and Mara Darkbloom have an abusive relationship?"
Kay is silent for a long moment. Then she scribbles something down on her notepad. "What have you seen?"
"I'm just an intern, but they've been using me--"
"I know. You're a proxy on the DA board," Kay says. How does she know that?
"Bizarre, I should think - to have an intern in his first couple weeks of work serving one of the highest functions in the company. How did that come about?"
You explain the mostly true version of events: being asked by a flighty manager (unnamed) to attend a meeting, going against Mara in David's absence, being appointed after one of the board members got nabbed by the FBI.
"I'm seeing a theme here," Kay says. "That other intern is also accruing a weird amount of power within the organization. Rose Manroy, is it?"
"Mallory," you say. "What about her?"
"She's being put in charge of some sort of company-wide training... high level stuff. I never knew you Gen Z types were such world-beaters, but you're taking over the company."
"I don't know who told you that stuff about Rose, but--"
"My source leveled some very serious allegations. Says the training is necessary because DA is dominated by a culture of misogyny and abuse. I could definitely work it into a fluff piece - this stuff about David and Mara, too. People eat that shit up."
"Rose told you that?" You stammer. "SHE'S the abusive one--"
"Interesting..." Kay says, writing on her notepad.
"Don't write that down."
"Anyway, I never named my source," Kay says. "That would be unconscionable. But this unnamed source does also say that you're one of the worst offenders."
"I'll kill her..." you mutter.
"So it's true, then. Very interesting."
"What? -- Hey. Don't write that down! No, listen, stop, it's just - it's a thing we do, ok? We fight, that's all."
"Physically?"
You massage the bridge of your nose. "We're getting off track here. I'm just telling you, there's no abuse. Nothing -- non-consensual, all right?"
Kay smirks. "This is a really great story I'm getting here. Almost as good as the hacking scandal. Two interns who hold - considerable sway over the multi-billion dollar company they work for... signals extreme chaos in the organization. On top of that, using the company as a proxy in their microcosm of the culture war - and also in their sadomasochistic war for total sexual control over each other's bodies... and on top of all THAT, they're cousins."
"Once removed!" You shout, loud enough to draw stares from nearby tables. Lady perks his ears up and rises to his feet. You lower your voice. "Once removed. First cousins, once removed. It's not like we're just 'cousins,' for godsakes. We're not. We're removed. Once."
"Uh huh," Kay drawls. "And her mother also legally adopted you. So Rose isn't just your cousin, she's also your sister."
You bang a fist on the table. "Step sister! That doesn't count!" Others are staring again, Lady is barking, so you draw back to an insistent hiss. "Step sibling incest doesn't count, everyone knows that. It's not real incest. It's not even CLOSE-"
"It sounds like you have very strong opinions about this. Would you like to elaborate some more?"
"No," you say. "This conversation is over. I'm done, this is done. We're done."
"You haven't even told me about David and Mara yet."
"Goddamn it..."
"Maybe you'd like to try telling me the real reason you're here," Kay says. "That girl in the eyepatch put you up to it, didn't she?"
You instinctively try to look back, but Kay puts a hand on yours, stopping you: "Don't look at her. Look at me."
You look at Kay.
"You don't strike me as a terrorist," Kay says. "You're too inept for that. Is she forcing you to help her?"
[ ] Yes.
>[x] I don't know what you're talking about.
"I don't know any girls in eyepatches," you say. "And I'm certainly not working with any terrorists."
Kay fixes you with a serious look. "You're mixed up in some terrible shit, Alabaster. There are very few people out there who are actually on your side. Believe it or not, I'm one of them."
"I just inherently distrust reporters," you say.
"Be that as it may, you've got a job to do, don't you? You want my notes?"
"...What?" You say, playing dumb.
"You can have them. In fact, I'll show you everything I've got. That girl's on a warpath and I don't need her fucking with my life too. Based on what I've pieced together - she wants to know about Sand Reckoner."
"What the hell is Sand Reckoner?" You say.
"Nothing special. Just a plot to take over the world."
"I-- what?"
You can't even finish that thought before you hear a commotion from the front of the cafe. Whitney just walked in. She's shouting at Camelia.
April 21, 2015
You smash through the last few brackets of the tournament with ease. Whitney admirably serves her role as bench-warmer - so does the rest of the team - allowing you and Rose to cruise effortlessly to win after win.
"Who conceived Daylight Savings Time?" - George Hudson, of course. "Which foreign nation was the first to be visited by a sitting US President?" - Panama, answers Rose without batting an eye. "Who led the Taiping Rebellion?" - Hong Xiuquan. Who doesn't know that? "What is the integral of tan(x)/sin(x)?" Rose doesn't even need scratch paper to tell you that it's ln(tan(x)+sec(x))+C.
You rack up points like it's nothing. You demolish the rival schools without even trying.
And then - you hit the wall.
It's all or nothing, win or go home: the final match of the national quiz bowl championship. The Mindbreakers are up against their toughest challengers yet: The Marduk Institute Nerves.
This magnet school from Manhattan has dominated you up and down the scoreboard, nearly shutting you in the first half of the match.
You and Rose have managed to claw the team back to a competitive standing in the second half. But with time running out, it becomes apparent that your efforts won't be enough. You're going to lose. You've come this far, and you're going to lose.
There is only one question left, and the Nerves have enough of a lead that even if you get the correct answer, they'll still win. The only possible hope remaining--
"For 500 points," says the announcer, "what is the study of eggs commonly called?"
The Nerves' star player buzzes in, a Chinese boy named Ji Shin. That showboating bastard. Instead of playing it safe and letting the clock run out, he wants to twist the knife.
"Uvology," he says triumphantly.
"I'm... sorry, that isn't correct," the announcer says. "That's a penalty of 500 points. North High, you have the chance to steal."
The difference between the two teams is just 400 points now. Which means if you can get the right answer...!
But you don't know it.
You rack your brain, and you can't make the answer come. Think, Alabaster, think! You're fucking it all up at the most critical moment!
Someone buzzes in. You give a panicked glance to Rose, but her equally panicked glance back at you is a wordless confirmation that it wasn't her.
"Whitney Price," the announcer says. This is the only time Whitney has ever buzzed in.
"Fuck!" Whitney says.
"Excuse me?" The announcer says, shocked.
"I know this! ...Shit. Hold on. I totally know this!"
The announcer frowns. "I ask that you please refrain from using foul language."
"Fuck, sorry! But I really know this. Give me a second..."
"You have five seconds," the announcer says.
You close your eyes and lean against the podium, hands over your forehead. Right now, you hate everything about the world and everyone in it. The chance at a national championship, ripped away from you not once but twice in the span of just a few minutes... goddamn it, Whitney...
Then, just as time is running out:
"Wait!" Whitney cries. "Wh-what is - what is oology! What is oology!"
You look at Whitney. She's hopping up and down excitedly, pointing her finger at the announcer. "What is oology! That's the answer, that's totally the answer! What is oology!"
The announcer replies with a cold stare. But over the course of a few moments his steely expression breaks into a Cheshire grin.
"Congratulations!"
An uproar of adulation and applause from the crowd. Shellshocked looks on the faces of your opponents. An even more shellshocked look on Rose's face - on yours as well, probably.
And then there's Whitney, still hopping up and down, whooping and hollering like the world is ending.
Of course the Nerves challenge Whitney's answer, on the basis that it should have been just "oology" rather than "what is oology," but after a heart-stopping moment of conferring by the judges, they rule that answering in the form of a question is, while gauche, not a disqualifier. Ji Shin looks like he's about to cry, and runs away from the stage before anyone can stop him.
Karma is delicious.
You and the rest of the team pose with an oversized trophy for the cameras. ESPN and various news outlets surround you, their lights nearly blinding you as confetti rains down from the rafters. This is everything you wanted, and more. You and Rose hold the trophy from either side, hoisting it up together and smiling -- for once able to enjoy a nice moment of shared victory.
Whitney elbows her way to the front of the team and grabs the trophy from both of you. She holds it by the base, hands high above her head, baring her armpits and sideboob to the whole world.
"Smartest girl in the universe!!!" She yells. "WHOOOO! WOOOOOOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
"Do you have anything to say?" a reporter asks her.
"Two things!" Whitney shouts. "I just dunked on every single dork in Dork Bowl and -- last night I sucked Alabaster Soliloquy's dick! Eat shit, Rose!"
You do an honest to god double-take.
"You WHAT?" Rose sputters.
That's the moment the photographer from North High picks to immortalize forever on camera, the one that goes in your senior yearbook and gets hung on a giant poster in the school's foyer: your slack jaw, Whitney's ear-to-ear grin, Rose's lips just beginning to curl up in rage.
---
"Are you fucking with Ally?" Whitney shouts at Camelia.
You stand up, watching helplessly from across the cafe. It feels like watching Whitney dig her own grave.
"Are you sure you don't know any girls with eyepatches?" Kay asks from somewhere behind you. "Seems like your girlfriend does."
Camelia doesn't even bother to stand up as Whitney rants at her. She's saying something to Whitney now, but from this distance, you can't hear. Anyway, Camelia is anything but fazed by Whitney's anger.
"Fuck you!" Whitney shouts. You can hear that one.
Camelia is talking again. But she isn't talking for long.
Suddenly, Whitney is on top of her. She lunges over the table and tackles Camelia bodily to the floor. Camelia tries to fight back but it's no use. Whitney is a blur of punches and kicks.
Camelia quickly becomes a limp ragdoll beneath her, passed out, her face bloody. Shocked patrons are circling, some are calling 911. Lady is barking madly.
END OF EPISODE 6.