Season 2 Episode 8: Even With Eighth Grader Syndrome, I Want to be the CEO!

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, yuri fan and hostage negotiator.

What no one told you beforehand is that Darkbloom's mansion is the site of a high-class soirée today. You wander, confused and feeling badly out-of-place, past the alabaster colonnade at the head of Darkbloom's multi-acre backyard. Waiters and waitresses with silver trays of champagne and hors d'ouerves bustle around crowds of dapper executives and their spouses. A banner reads "Welcome, PACG" in a Gothic cursive font, hung over a raised stage of beautiful white wood where an orchestra plays soothing baroque.

Two things you notice right away:

1. The waiters and waitresses are all dressed in bunny costumes.

2. The orchestra is clad in orange prison jumpsuits, their arms and legs shackled.

You catch snippets of conversation as you walk around the backyard.

"...so much NIMBYism in this town, it'll be hard to get the permitting squared away..."

"...thought I might send the factory overseas to China, but all the fuckers over there are unionizing too..."

"...blow over before too long. First it was MeToo, now this data privacy stuff, pretty soon - who knows? Common people are easily distracted, we shouldn't be..."

"Alabaster!"

A booming voice catches your attention. You turn. It's David Darkbloom. "I'm so glad you could make it. It's nice to see at least one friendly face at these get-togethers."

"What's going on? What's the occasion?" You ask.

"Ask my wife," he says. His tone is that ancient jokey resignation to the old ball-and-chain adopted by husbands since the invention of marriage. "She coordinates all of these club events."

Darkbloom grabs a flute of champagne from a passing bunnygirl and knocks it back in a single gulp. He sets it back on her platter and she hurries away without a word.

"What club?" You ask.

"The Palo Alto Club for Growth," Darkbloom replies. "It's a PR thing with local businessmen and city government types. Mara's always been much better with outreach than I."

"David, there you are, ya bastard!"

Your conversation gets cut off by the arrival of Steven Armstrong, Darkbloom's head of human resources. He throws an arm over Darkbloom's shoulder and shakes him, pointing at him with his free hand. "Never let this man buy you a yacht," Armstrong tells you, as if that's something you need to worry about. "Third time this year I've had to send it back to port for repairs! Some Christmas bonus, huh!"

Darkbloom roars with laughter. He pulls away from Steven's grip and extends a hand. Their handshake is like a battle both men refuse to concede. "That's no fault of mine," Darkbloom chides. "You know what they say the word 'boat' stands for."

"Another thousand?" shouts Armstrong, his knuckles turning white in Darkbloom's palm, "Try another million! Where'd you get that thing built? Somalia?"

"Close. The Seychelles."

Their handshake ends with no clear victor. Armstrong slaps Darkbloom's shoulder. "You motherfucker. Just tell me you're cutting my salary next time. I'll lose less money! -- Say, when are we gonna do that rowing thing you keep going on about?"

"June looks nice to me," Darkbloom says airly.

"Yeah, and in June you'll tell me August." Armstrong looks at you, winking. "He's afraid of me. Knows I'll beat him!"

"Is that so..." you mutter awkwardly. This conversation is moving way too fast for you.

"Of course! Played college ball, you know. I've still got it." He flexes a bicep to show you its impossible size.

"Excuse us," Darkbloom says, laying a hand on your shoulderblade and leading you away.

"That's... quite an orchestra," you say as David walks with you. "I've never seen anything like it."

David smiles. "Mara's idea. Turning around the lives of the wayward through the power of music. Soothes the savage breast, and so on. It's good for appearances. -- And for rubbing the past in my face, of course."

"So they're really prisoners?" You ask. A lithe man in bunny ears approaches you from the side, momentarily startling you. He offers you up a platter of fancy looking cheeses on toothpicks, which you decline.

"Indeed. On loan from downstate. They get a day in the sun and we get an evening of entertainment." He pauses, perking up his ears. "Shame their repertoire is so limited. Pachelbel's Canon - dreadfully cliche."

You look around, stunned at the number of obviously powerful people accumulated all in one place. "I feel under-dressed," you admit, glancing down at your plain shirt and blue jeans.

"It's no matter," Darkbloom says. "I'm sure Vivian will be elated to see you in any case."

"Where is she?"

"In her bedroom, getting ready. She takes an eternity to primp herself when we have these events. Doesn't want to be seen out-of-sorts."

That hardly makes you feel better about your current attire.

Walking with Darkbloom, you pass by a man who's impossible to miss: Tyrus Kang. He's decked out in a colorful suit, even more outlandish than the one he wore at the landfill. He's accompanied by another, smaller man dressed in an equally garish outfit. You've never seen that one before. They talk among themselves and eat crackers together. Tyrus makes eye contact with you but says nothing as you walk by.

>[x] "Who's that guy?" (Ask about Tyrus nonchalantly.)

[ ] Don't mention him.

Darkbloom chuckles. "He stands out like a sore thumb, doesn't he? That's Tyrus Kang. Ghetto trash from Baltimore who failed up and up and up, until suddenly he found himself on the board of directors at the Club for Growth."

Darkbloom clearly takes a dim opinion of the man.

"Do I need to be explaining this to you?" He asks. He doesn't give you a chance to answer before continuing. "Ever since Mara got a directorship at the club, I've seen far too much of him for my liking. I'd steer clear of him if I were you. And that goes double for his husband."

You sputter. "--Husband?"

"Mm. You know the type. Sweet and feminine and submissive, all flowers and sunshine, all the time. Until he thinks you're threatening his man. Then he'll bash your skull in with a baseball bat. ...Ah -- there it is."

You shudder at this last comment, and take a moment to realize that Darkbloom has stopped in front of a long buffet table. At the center of the table is a fountain of white chocolate fondue.

"You must try this," Darkbloom tells you. "My chef Maribelle made it this afternoon. It's the best dessert you'll ever have. I guarantee it!"

You ladle a warm helping of the fondue into a bowl, grab a plain digestive biscuit and dip it in. You nibble on it.

It's great.

But...

"To be honest with you, my mom's desserts were always better than this. I guess nothing else can really compare."

"Ah," Darkbloom says, sounding a bit deflated. He brought you here especially to show off his cook's exemplary skills, after all. But then: "Of course. A mother's cooking always holds a special place in the heart of her son... You and your sister lost your mother a few years ago, didn't you?"

You nod.

"My condolences. Late as they are. I must say: she raised two truly remarkable children. I'm sure she was a wonderful woman."

As gracious as Darkbloom's words are and as sincere as they sound, they ring somehow hollow.

You and Darkbloom sit side by side on a pair of white folding chairs, among a sparsely populated row of such folding chairs, to rest and admire the orchestra.

"What's up with the bunny costumes?" You ask. "Was that Mara's idea too?"

Darkbloom rolls his shoulders. "My own special stipulation," he admits. "It makes things more interesting. Bunnies always fascinated me..."

You catch the eye of one of the bunnygirls as she passes with a tray of sweets.

It's Noelle Keki.

When she sees you sitting next to Darkbloom, she blushes a shade of neon red and turns the other way, scurrying off. Her cottontail wags behind her as she disappears into the crowd.

[ ] Excuse yourself and track her down.

>[x] Continue talking with Darkbloom about...

[ ] Small talk. (Don't rock the boat.)

[ ] The hack, and Cerise's investigation.

>[x] Sable, and the research she's working on.

[ ] Vivian, and her role in the company.

"I'm really curious," you say, "so maybe you can help me out. Talking to Sable is like talking to a wall sometimes... I've asked, but I can't get any real understanding of her work from her."

Darkbloom shakes his head. "You're not the only one to butt up against Sable's wall, Alabaster."

"Uh--"

"If you ever do get a good understanding, please make sure that I'm the first one you tell about it. It can get a bit annoying to spend billions on so many projects that I know hardly anything about."

You blink. "You're joking. You really don't know what she's doing?"

Darkbloom pats you on the back. "Alabaster, please! I thought I would be free from all this wearying shop-talk if I spent my time with you, of all the people here! Aren't you Generation Z children supposed to be concerned with work-life balance and so on?"

"I just thought I'd ask," you say lamely.

"Well, let me ask you something first. What do you know about Tyrus Kang?"

Is that an accusation? It wouldn't surprise you if he knew about your little adventure with him the other day. Actually, it would surprise you if he didn't.

Darkbloom continues: "You were eager to know his story. To know why such an eccentric individual ended up in my backyard. Well - what if you didn't have to ask?"

"I'm not following you," you say.

"Think about it. What if you never had to ask?"

"Ask what?"

"Anything at all."

"I really don't follow you now."

"Aha," Darkbloom says, holding up an index finger. "And there's the rub. I don't think many people do follow. Maybe only Sable follows. But that is what she's working on. May I show you something?"

You stand with Darkbloom in his vast dining hall - a high-vaulted, dimly lit and frankly kind of spooky open space of dark wood flooring and grey arched walls - staring at a picture hung in a central location above the oak dining table. You're the only two people here.

"It's called Expulsion from the Garden of Eden. My favorite piece of art. Masaccio - One of da Vinci's forerunners."

"Is that real?" You ask. You recognize the painting. It's a pretty famous piece - your years in quiz bowl taught you about it.

"No. I offered them as much as a billion dollars to cut the fresco off the wall of their little chapel, but in the end I had to settle for a high quality replica. It's one of the only times anyone has ever told me no."

He looks at you, eyes bright. "I think about this painting all the time. Knowledge wasn't Adam's curse. It was incomplete knowledge. We know only enough to know that we know nothing. Isn't it awful?"

You can only shrug. Darkbloom looks appreciatively back up at the painting, silent for several long moments.

"Sable will help us fix it all," Darkbloom says.

You begin to say something, but a voice interrupts you.

"Father... Alabaster Soliloquy."

You turn. Vivian is here.

Vivian wasn't kidding when she told you she was into Gothic Lolita fashion. She's wearing one of the most outrageous outfits you've ever seen on a human being: a black-and-white evil doppelganger of rococo's ostentation, all ornamented with a web of frills and lace and puffy bows, her hair braided loopily and also done up with bows. She looks like a guest at the world's most expensive funeral.

Darkbloom smiles warmly when he sees her. It might be the first genuine expression you've ever seen him make.

"I've got one for you," he tells his daughter. "He bugs Gore."

Vivian smirks. "George Bush. I thought you said you would make these more difficult."

Darkbloom sits in the chair at the head of the dining table. He scratches the back of his head in faux frustration. Finally, he says: "How about this one, then? Captain over Rome."

Vivian thinks for a brief moment, then her face lights up. "Emperor Octavian!" She says, unable to contain her own excitement. Her eyes are wide with childlike enthusiasm.

"You're too good for me," Darkbloom says. "I concede defeat... this time."

Vivian giggles haughtily, a hand to her lips.

"What are you guys talking about?" You say. You're utterly confused.

"It's a game that father and I play," Vivian explains. "He devises an anagram of a famous person's name, and I have to figure out what the name is."

"Here's a good one, Alabaster," Darkbloom says. "Let's see if you can do it too: I'll make a wise phrase."

You stammer and stutter impotently.

"William Shakespeare," Vivian says after seeing that you're obviously lost here.

"I knew that..." you say. It's a bit aggravating to get stood up by a pint sized loli.

"And here you told me that this Alabaster fellow was smarter than you!" Darkbloom laughs. "I almost believed you, too. I should have known that no one could ever match my daughter."

Vivian blushes deeply. "I-- I never said such a silly thing!"

"Do you know, Alabaster," Darkbloom says, "that Viv taped all of your performances at the national championship a few years ago? She used to watch them every day. Most little girls are obsessed with boy bands or movie stars - my girl was obsessed with a high school quiz champion."

"F-father!!" Vivian stammers. She's shaking with embarrassment. "Th-those are-- awful lies!"

>[x] Join the teasing.

[ ] "Stand up" for her.

"I don't blame her," you say. You put your hands on your hips. "I'm pretty much the greatest. Why wouldn't she be obsessed with me?"

"I am not obsessed with you!" Vivian says. She's completely losing her cool. This elegant little girl has a hair trigger when it comes to you.

"I don't know," you say, shrugging. "What else would you call a girl who watches me on videotape every day? That sounds pretty obsessive to me. Downright stalkerish."

"That's a fair point," Darkbloom cuts in. "She was utterly smitten."

"It was NOT every day," Vivian insists.

"Every other day?" You ask.

She locks her elbows and balls her fists. "This is absurd. To think I would invite you into my home only for you to, to-- to so PATHETICALLY make this play at getting under my skin--!! It won't work!"

"I think it already did," you muse.

"Father! Enough of this! Intercede already! See this unruly boy out!"

Darkbloom does anything but. "In 2014, she wanted a special dispensation to attend your high school," he tells you. "Just to get to know you in person. Isn't that right, Viv?" He pokes her.

She spins on her heels as if to walk away, but Darkbloom grabs her and plops her in his lap, laughing. She huffs in frustration, folding her arms and making a pouty face, looking away from both of you.

"Of course I had to say no," Darkbloom continues. "Her education must always take first priority, and with all due respect... the public school system was not the proper place for her. But now that you two are coworkers, I'm not going to let her pride get in the way of what she wants."

"I never knew I had a fan," you say. "I'm flattered - honestly! I can give you my autograph if you like."

Vivian hops up from Darkbloom's lap. It takes her obvious effort, and she makes a little "oof" when she lands on her platform shoes. (Even in those shoes, she's several inches shorter than you). "I will not be patronized," she says. "I have already proven my intellectual superiority. The idea that I would be infatuated with someone so obviously less intelligent is--"

"Oh, really?" You say. You sit down in a chair directly facing her. You're at eye level with her now. "Who invented quaternions?"

"William Rowan Hamilton!" Vivian says. "That's clear! Everyone knows that! What country is sixteenth smallest on Earth by land area?"

"Palau," you say, hardly pausing to count. You make a show of yawning. "Did you learn that today in kindergarten?"

Darkbloom laughs. "I should get out a notepad and keep score. Or maybe I'm becoming a third wheel here."

"No you aren't," Vivian says, not even glancing back at her father. "Stay and witness the crushing superiority of my mind!"

What follows is twenty grueling minutes of back-and-forth trivia sparring - a bout in which neither of you get an answer wrong. Darkbloom watches, interjecting with wry comments here and there, but otherwise he just enjoys the spectacle.

Eventually, Vivian is almost breathless with the mental exertion and excitement of competing with you. You realize that this is a sort of unrealized dream of hers, finally coming true: if she wanted to attend high school with you all those years ago, it means she probably wanted to be on the quiz team with you too. She never had the opportunity to show off in front of you -- until now.

"This has been great fun, you two," Darkbloom says. "But I must go see to my guests." He stands. "Will you join me outside?"

[ ] Vivian, let's go back to the party.

>[X] Vivian, show me around your house

"I'm not a very social person, to be honest," you say. "And I definitely wasn't prepared to find myself in the middle of a party..."

Darkbloom frowns. "I see," he says. "I'm not surprised. Viv is also a bit of an introvert, after all. As am I. So I certainly understand not wanting to go out there unless you must."

"Vivian," you say, "if that's the case, why don't you show me around your house? That is -- if your father doesn't mind, of course."

"I don't mind if Vivian doesn't," Darkbloom says.

"That will be fine," Vivian says. She flicks her hair and glances away. She tries to conceal excitement beneath aloofness, it seems.

Before Darkbloom departs again, he grabs you by the arm, tugs you towards him and leans in close, whispering. He does an excellent job of making this look like a fatherly handshake, but it definitely isn't. "Viv is still a child," he says. "And not a wanton harlot like some of the other girls in your life. Do nothing untoward. I am always watching."

He lets you go, steps back. Locks eyes with you.

You nod. He nods.

And then he goes.

When Darkbloom is gone, Vivian twirls to face you.

"I will begin by showing you my bedroom," she announces.

"Ah--" you begin. "Maybe we should--"

"No," Vivian interjects. "I insist. Let us go at once."

Vivian's bedroom is as depressingly ornate as her outfit. The walls are papered in a black and purple fleur de lis pattern, and her four post bed is veiled with black gossamer. While she has a few teddy bears sitting on her bed - a stuffed penguin, too - all of them come in dark colors, naturally. The furniture is antique: an ancient armoire that looks like it was reconstructed from the remains of a sunken boat, a Victorian vanity with an obnoxiously tall mirror at the center, a bedside table carved from a single piece of marble. And more chhuni clutter on top of all that.

You sit uncertainly on her bed, feeling as if a landmine is about to explode. You don't want to make yourself too at home. You can almost feel Darkbloom's omnipresent eyes on you.

"Will you admit now, and truthfully," Vivian says, trying to loom over you, "that you are nothing compared to me?"

"I'm sorry. What?"

"You were unable to best me today, even though you thought you could, and even though you tried your hardest. You were unable to keep up with my father's anagram game. You are not as rich, and certainly you are not as refined as me. You must face reality, Alabaster Soliloquy. I am, in every way, your better."

"Is this how you flirt?" You say. "Get real. I would never lose to a pipsqueak like you."

"P-pipsqueak," she says. Her lips tremble with the indignation of your name calling. "Very well-! You need to be shown more thoroughly. Several days ago, you implied that I wasn't elegant enough to wear Lolita fashion. I will demonstrate the error of your ways."

"You already showed me..." you grumble. "Isn't that what you're wearing now?"

"Ufufu~" she laughs. You're not sure if it's annoying or endearing. "You have not yet seen my full power. Please wait warmly!"

She disappears into a walk-in closet, shutting the door behind her.

When she comes out, she's wearing a dress that makes her look like the bride at a wedding in hell. Although the palette is predominantly white, there is no mistaking its Gothic appeal. The satin crosses and long buckled boots and gaudy jewelry only accentuate the look. It's outright eerie.

"What do you say to this!" She demands.

"I say you look like a weirdo. Is this how you spend your free time?"

Her eyes narrow as she stares hard at you, as if assessing the value of your very soul. "I do not believe you," she finally replies. "You are lying. In actuality, you are bowled over by the tragic grandeur of my elan. Your heart mourns for my beauty!"

You roll your eyes. "Who told you that talking like an anime supervillain is scary? Because it's the opposite of scary."

Vivian turns and retreats to her closet again.

The knowledge that Vivian is stripping naked inside that closet, puts images in your head that definitely shouldn't be there. For all of Vivian's attempts at cutting a fearsome figure, her father is right: she's a child. And moreover, her tiny, pale, frail frame is exactly the kind of body that turns you on.

You're a hopeless pervert, after all.

Vivian returns a few minutes later, this time dressed like a maid.

"I am given to understand that middle-class men such as yourself will often fantasize about the prospect of hired help, because you do not actually have the benefit of real hired help at your disposal."

"Are you telling me you're going to be my maid today?" You say.

"N--" she begins, choking on her own words. "Don't be ridiculous. This is merely to show you that I am alluring and elegant beyond all of your wildest imaginings. I would never stoop to being an actual servant."

"You really are a weirdo," you say. "Hey, do you still have those tapes of my quiz bowl matches? Maybe we should review them. Then you'll be reminded of why you said I'm smarter than you."

"Do not change the subject. Admit that I am elegant. Admit that I am the best Lolita you have ever laid eyes upon. Admit -- that I am cute!"

"I guess some people find annoying little girls cute," you say, playing disinterested. "I never saw the appeal."

Your eyes fall upon the box in her hands. It looks like it's more than a prop: it looks like a gift. It's wrapped in a bow and seems to have real heft to it -- judging by the way she shifts on her feet uncomfortably and lets her arms droop while holding it.

"Are you sure you're really not here to serve me?" You say. "What's in the box?"

"Nothing," she says. "Nothing for you, in any case."

"Now my feelings are hurt," you say. "You treat me like this special guest and then you go around with presents for someone else. That's no way to treat a person. Whatever happened to elegance and class?"

Vivian closes her eyes and sighs deeply. "If I give this gift to you, Alabaster Soliloquy, will you finally admit the truth you know in your heart?"

"Absolutely," you say.

She hands it to you. You unwrap the bow and look inside. It's a boxed lunch - prepared with loving attention to detail, as authentic and as appetizing as something you would find in Japan.

"I understand these are called bento," Vivian says. "They appear not infrequently in the childish cartoons you enjoy. I prepared one for you, to demonstrate that I can outclass you even at your own most cherished hobby. Now: admit the truth! Admit I am the best!"

"Wow..." you say, peering at the rice and sashimi and tempura chicken and thinly sliced ginger with wasabi, and the expertly decorated cupcake set aside for dessert. "You are... cute."

"What?"

You look up at her. "That's what you said you wanted to hear, right? You're cute."

She turns red. "I never asked to be called cute. You have a defect of hearing."

"Vivian Darkbloom is cute. Cute!"

Vivian seethes.

"Should I eat this now or save it for later?"

"Do as you wish," Vivian says. "I am through with you. A hopeless person such as yourself isn't worthy of my time or attention."

You shrug, pull out the chopsticks and start eating - right there on Vivian's bed.

"What are you doing?" She demands.

"As I wish," you reply. You chew a morsel and swallow. "This is pretty good. Did you make it yourself?"

"Of course I made it mys-- do not avoid my questions. What possesses you to think it is acceptable to eat inside my bedroom?"

"Lighten up. I'm not a messy eater. I won't get any on your stuffies."

You grab the stuffed penguin by its scruff and hold it up. "Right, Mr. Penguin?" You say. Then, changing your voice to a falsetto, you fill in the penguin's response: "That's right, Alabaster! You're a valued guest! Eat as much as you'd like!"

"Tch-- you might be the most trying person I have ever met. Presumptuous, arrogant, and rude." She snatches the penguin from you. "Unhand Johann at once."

"Johann" You say. "You named a stuffed penguin Johann?" Before Vivian can insult you again, you offer an olive branch: "Forget about showing me your house. Why don't we watch something together with Johann while I eat? It can be -- a spontaneous lunch date."

Vivian's hard expression softens. "A... spontaneous lunch date," she says. Her hands fiddle in Johann's fur.

"If you're willing to do that with a terrible person like me," you say. "I appreciate all the effort you went through for my sake... I want to call a truce. You're too cu-- too elegant and refined for me to let you stay mad."

She pouts. But she doesn't say no.

Instead, she takes a remote from her bedside table and clicks a button on it. A mechanism in her ceiling opens and giant flat-panel screen descends from the ceiling.

You expected, if she said yes, that you would watch a movie with her on the PC in the corner of the room. Not on this cinema-sized screen directly in front of her bed.

She climbs onto the bed with you, sitting beside you.

As with when she sits at most chairs, her feet do not touch the ground here, either. She keeps Johann in her lap.

"I will not show you your own quiz bowl tapes. I no longer have those in my possession." (Somehow, you don't believe her.) "With that in mind, what would you like to watch?"

[ ] Something cute.

>[x] Something scary.

[ ] Something funny.

[ ] A mature anime series.

"Since you're so enamored with morbid things," you explain.

Vivian smirks. "I will show you the real meaning of terror. You will tremble with fear at the gory spectacle on the screen."

She uses the remote to navigate folders on her PC - this flatscreen display must be connected to it. You briefly see, before she pulls up a folder labeled "movies" that she also has one labeled "Alabaster Soliloquy."

She's definitely obsessed.

The movie Vivian selects is called "Oculus." It's about an evil mirror that warps your perception of reality whenever you're near it.

It's actually a pretty creepy movie, by the standards of western horror -- some of the scenes do genuinely impart a feeling of disquiet. You aren't "trembling with fear," but all in all, it is kind of spooky. It's the kind of fucked-up weirdness that you enjoy.

Vivian, on the other hand, isn't having a very good time. By the point one of the characters in the movie accidentally bites into a lightbulb, she has her face firmly buried in Johann's fur, her hands clenching him so tight that her tiny forearms are shaking.

"Are you okay?" You ask, setting aside your mostly-finished bento. (There was a lot of food there. You ate as much as you could.)

Vivian doesn't respond. You nudge her shoulder.

"I am asleep," she announces, her voice muffled by Johann.

"If you're asleep, how are you telling me you're asleep?"

There's a long pause. Then she replies, "I have the power of speaking in my sleep. It is the characteristic of the highly gifted."

You gently pull Johann back. But she blanches and panics and reaches out for him. She grabs hold of him again and buries her face in his fur once more. When you try to take the penguin a second time, she jerks away from you, turning in the opposite direction.

"I'll turn the movie off," you tell her. You find the remote and kill the power. The room is awash in silence.

Vivian doesn't budge.

"Still asleep?" You ask.

She nods, her face ruffling back and forth on top of her stuffed animal.

"All right then. Since you're asleep, I'll go back to the party."

You stand.

"Wait," she says.

"Hmm?"

"Please do not depart." Her voice is still muffled.

[ ] Tease.

>[x] Soothe.

You sweep your arms underneath Vivian and in one fluid motion haul her up. Even though you're no strong-man, Vivian is so tiny and light that she's easy to tote around.

"Alabast-- What are you doing!" Vivian's voice is a mixture of righteous anger and surprise. She peers up at you over Johann's head, the rest of her face still obscured.

"I'm putting you to bed," you say.

"Let go of me at once," she demands. "I am not a child."

"Of course not. I'm not saying you are. You're an elegant and refined lady. But since you're asleep, you should be comfortable too, right?"

Vivian makes a cute little murmur of indecision.

"I cannot sleep in this outfit," she says. "Please, let me change into my nightclothes first."

You take Vivian to her closet and set her down on her feet in there - man, this place is bigger than your bedroom in the Mallory house, and jam-packed with racks full of expensive designer clothing. You turn to leave so she can undress in privacy.

"Alabaster..." She gazes at the floor, rubbing her elbow.

"What?"

"Please do not leave me alone."

"...Even while you change?"

Her lack of reply is reply enough of its own.

This is ringing as many alarm bells in your mind as possible. Doing this is most definitely a BAD IDEA. A very bad, horrible, no good, terrible idea that is likely to get you killed.

"I think I should step out," you say weakly.

"No... no." Vivian's insistence is equally weak, but so pitiable that your heart breaks in two just to hear it.

"Well, ah-- I'll turn around, at least," you say.

"That is acceptable," she says.

(Darkbloom can't fault you for this, can he?)

You turn and face the door. But you have a sinking realization: the door is mirrored. And so are the walls.

Vivian is already pulling off her dress. You can see the reflection of her doing it.

You have two options here. Stare at the ceiling, or close your eyes.

...So why aren't you doing either one?

The pace of your heart is quickening, your mouth is going dry. Your temples throb. It's as if there's something coursing through your veins commanding you not to rip your eyes away from the sight you're seeing, even if every rational part of you says you must.

Underneath Vivian's dress is a pair of conservative, but lacy, panties - black of course - and a matching bra that she absolutely doesn't need. You pray that she doesn't remove these as well, because you definitely don't have the strength to look away now. She might be the smallest and most pale girl you've ever seen, so small that she looks like she might break in two if you're not careful. (Careful with what?) And she's half naked right in front of you, her black underwear a wonderful contrast against her almost anemic skin.

Her toes curl and uncurl in the lush carpet of her closet. She catches your gaze in the mirror.

"I see that turning around did not defeat your baser instincts," she says.

"Sorry..." you reply. You look up at the ceiling, embarrassed - caught.

"You do not need to look away. Actually, I prefer that you don't."

BAD. BAD IDEA.

You turn around.

"I have to admit that the film was scarier than I anticipated... and although it is irrational... I am a bit afraid of mirrors right now. I would prefer if you kept a watchful eye on me..."

"I... listen, I feel kind of funny," you say. It's like all the blood pressure in your body is distributed between your throbbing temples and your crotch.

"That would be the effect of the aphrodisiacs," Vivian says.

"The what?" You breathe.

"I hope I did not go too far," she continues. "I did not intend to find myself in a vulnerable position like this where you might ravish me. I expected to leave you in a state of longing, is all."

You rub your face in disbelief.

"But now I need the stabilizing influence of your presence. And that being the case... I should show you what your body is telling you it wants."

She unclasps the hook on the back of her bra and peels it away. Her board-flat, pale body is adorned by two tiny pink nipples, the only raised surfaces on her chest. She's so thin that the barest hint of her ribs is even visible.

"This is-- really bad," you manage. "Your father--"

"He does not like the idea of this," Vivian says, "yes. But that is how fathers are. I am a young girl in my rebellious phase, so this is to be expected."

With that, she hooks her hands in the waistaband of her panties and pulls them down.

Her cuntlet is hardly more than an indentation in the puffy mons of her hairless pubic area. Impossibly small and pristine - and almost demanding violation. You can see the hint of wetness glistening on the outside.

And then she throws on a nightgown that covers it up.

You huff in frustration, your cock straining in your jeans. "Is that-- is that--" you stammer.

"All?" She says.

You close your eyes and shake your head violently. It SHOULD be all. Anything more is bound to have awful consequences.

"Do you need me to take care of you?" She says.

"Yes," you reply immediately. Damn the consequences.

"Take me to bed," she coos. You scoop her up again, princess carrying her -- and notice as you take her back to her bedroom that she isn't only holding her favorite stuffed animal, but also the panties that she just stepped out of.

As you lay her down in the soft and satiny bed, she snuggles up with the penguin and gazes at you with glimmering eyes.

"I have never..." she begins.

That's obvious. She hadn't even held hands before a couple days ago. What you're about to do is wrong on so many levels.

You unzip your fly. Standing over her bed, freeing your cock, you feel hopelessly and deliciously depraved. But, you reason, the last traces of your resistance disappearing: this situation is her fault. She spiked your food with aphrodisiacs. She should have expected this.

"Oh my..." she breathes. She hides from the sight of your veiny, pulsating cock in much the same way she hid from the movie a few minutes ago. But curiosity gets the better of her and she peeks up at it after a moment.

"It is nothing like what I expected," she says. "Please... do not rape me... I would never be able to take it..."

You have at least enough sense to agree to that. You climb up onto the bed, on your knees, and straddle her. You hover over her face, your cock wagging back and forth. Her eyes follow it as if hypnotized.

"You are a perverted man," she says, even as her tongue hangs partially out of her mouth.

"Touch it," you tell her.

She reaches up and lays a smooth hand against the shaft. You shiver with electric jolts of pleasure.

And then you realize what the panties were for. She grabs them, and using both hands, wraps the silky fabric around your leaking dick. Your precum quickly makes a dark stain in the crotch of the material.

"Do you enjoy that?" Vivian asks. "I believe this is called a pantyjob."

This perverted little girl with her panties wrapped around your cock, lying in her bed surrounded by a collection of stuffed animals, is about to make you cum. And she's barely touched you at all.

"Jerk me off," you growl.

"Like-- like this?" She asks uncertainly. She uses both hands now, neither of them able to fully encircle you, and tugs gently back and forth.

You help her along, bucking your hips in her grasp and not being afraid to rub your leaky cock against her unblemished cheeks, too. You can hear her inhaling deeply, basking in your scent as she stares transfixed at the obscene sight inches from her face.

The head of your cock pokes through one of the leg holes in the panties now, and a giant dollop of slimy precum oozes in an elongating strand before landing right on forehead. She never stops jerking you off, the wonderfully smooth fabric milking even more precum out of you. It drips messily all over her nose, lips and chin, too.

Vivian's eyes are glazed over and you can feel her weight shifting beneath you. Looking back, you see the cause: she's got the hem of her nighthown hiked up and she's rubbing her thighs together, trying to masturbate without the aid of her hands.

A new sensation turns your focus back to her face. She's licking the tip of your dick as she pumps it. Her dainty, bright pink tongue is lapping your dick-leak directly from the source, and she swallows it greedily.

"I'm gonna cum," you say. "I'm gonna fucking cum."

Vivian nods silently, granting you permission to blow your load as you wish. She increases her pace and you thrust your hips in ecstasy. Back and forth through the warm silk of her panties, your aching dick finds relief. She licks up and down the shaft now in sync to her pumping - a quick learner, able to pick up such a great technique so quickly - and her wet, searching tongue is quick to bring you off to an explosive orgasm. As the first surge of semen races up the shaft of your penis, she quickly envelops the expanding mushroom head with her panties. You groan, and fire spurt after spurt directly into them. She massages it all out with circular twisting motions, squeezing and tugging at the same time, to make sure you're dry.

When you're spent, she pulls the ruined panties away and gazes at the white, creamy stains on the inside. She sniffs at it, appreciatively, savoring the aroma of your seed. It makes her eyes droop, half-lidded, and a stupid smile spread across her flushing face, the face that's still wet with precum.

Then comes something you really didn't expect. She lifts her butt up off the bed and puts the filthy garment back on.

You stumble off of her, stand, and gaze at the lewd sight.

"It's so warm..." she purrs dreamily. "I'll be warm all night..."

She mashes a palm against the crotch of her panties, smearing your cum all over her pussy.

"Nnnn-- ohhhh--" she murmurs, her voice distant and breathy. She gets herself off - a little shuddering orgasm that makes her purr and shiver with delight. The already darkly stained and dirty underwear becomes inundated with wetness as she loses control of herself and cums in her panties too, her fluids joining yours. "Alabaster--" she pants, over and over again, in heat. "Alabaster-- Alabaster-- you're so warm against me-- you're so-- so--"

She's quickly drifting out of consciousness, falling asleep for real as she continues to lazily masturbate your cum against her dripping genitals.

Since Vivian is drifting off, you figure you should let her rest - and face up to what may be your quickly impending doom.

"Please don't go..." she murmurs, turning to her side. She grabs Johann tight and snuggles him again. "I do not want to be alone."

"What do you want?" You ask.

She points - as if holding her hand aloft requires a lot of effort right now - and indicates a bookshelf against the wall. You walk over to it.

"The one about the prince," she says.

You sweep your eyes across the spines. Machiavelli's The Prince is here, but somehow you don't think that's what she meant. You keep searching, eyeing tomes of high modernist literature and a complete set of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. But soon enough, you find it: a little hardcover boardbook, its thin spine bearing the title: "The Little Princess."

You take it out and hold it up. "This one?"

She nods yes.

You go back to the bed, pulling with you the stool from in front of her vanity. It's small beneath you, a little wobbly and awkward to sit on, but it'll do. You crack the book open and begin.

"Once upon a time, in a kingdom far away, there was a little princess who was very lonely..."

Vivian smiles to herself and pulls her blankets up, getting comfy. Her eyes are already drifting closed again.

When Vivian is well and truly asleep, you leave.

On your way downstairs, you run into Darkbloom. You can't help wilting a bit under his gaze.

"There you are. I was looking for you. Were you in my daughter's bedroom?"

"Y-- yeah."

"I trust you were chaste and wholesome," he says.

You cough. "Of course. We watched a movie... I read her a story. She's asleep now."

(Eliding over some minor details, there.)

"The one with the prince?" He asks.

You nod.

He laughs. "That's her favorite. I'm surprised she let you read to her like that - usually she's a bit too proud for it these days. You're a nice boy, Alabaster."

He leads you the rest of the way downstairs, towards the backyard where the party is ongoing.

"But," he says as you near the sliding glass doors, "As much as I appreciate your presence in my home today, I did ask a favor of you. And you haven't delivered."

"I'm sorry?"

"You've been meeting with Camelia, and you haven't killed her yet."

"Do you see that man, Alabaster?" Darkbloom points out a tall, grey-haired man in a navy blue suit, who's busy playing grab-ass with one of the bunnygirl waitresses. The waitress is obviously distressed, but also too timid to resist. You pass the two of them by as Darkbloom leads you back towards the orchestra. "That's the chief of the police department. I personally cut him a check for $100,000 to call off the BOLO for you and your girlfriend."

"Because of the cafe," you say.

"That's right. Whitney packs one hell of a punch, too - based on what I've heard of her. It's a shame you don't want her working for me. I understand why, but I'd dearly love to get to know her better. She would have such a bright future with this company, under my wing, if her energies were diverted in a more productive direction..."

"I get what you're saying," you cut in. "You can fix things if I do what you want me to. But why should I?"

Darkbloom stops and faces you. But you're not going to back down here: you're sick of being a pawn.

You press him. "Camelia wants you gone, you want her gone. Why am I the middle-man? Do it yourselves."

Darkbloom's stony expression cracks into the faintest of grins. "I see your point perfectly well, Alabaster. What kind of man would commit murder with no motive other than the say-so of his boss? Only a moral coward. You must come to your own decision based on your own reckoning. It's unreasonable to expect anything less."

He puts a fatherly hand around your shoulder and turns you 180 degrees so that you face his mansion again. He sweeps his other arm wide to indicate its grandeur. "The spoils of war should always be the knight's secondary motivation, distantly below honor and so forth," he says. "But there are spoils here too. The king's own castle, complete with a sleeping princess atop the spiral staircase." He turns his face to leer at you, close enough that he could kiss you on the cheek if he wanted.

"So there's that," he says.

Mara approaches as David releases you from his grip. Even though she wears an ornamented brooch around her neck, you can see a hint of red at the apex of her throat. The vestige a bruise from when David choked her during the board meeting. In heels, she's taller than you, and she looks down her nose at you as if examining an insect that crawled onto her dinner plate.

"Did you enjoy my daughter's body?" She says cooly.

"Mara, don't be hard on the boy," Darkbloom says. He puts his hands on her shoulder and sways side to side with her, slow-dancing to the music. He tilts his head slightly to one side, gazing lovingly into her eyes. "Excellent choice of entertainment tonight, dear. I've simply never heard a bank robber hit such beautiful arpeggios."

"Would that I could say the same," she replies. "We must do something other than bunnygirls next time. It's so gauche, David."

He smiles and doesn't respond. Instead he leans in for a kiss -- one that Mara returns. Their moment of spousal intimacy lingers for just a bit longer than seems proper.

"Is that Isstein fellow here?" David asks, lacing his fingers through his wife's to dance more formally with her.

"He is."

They move in lazy circles around the lawn.

"He's got a rough campaign coming up," Darkbloom says. "How much does reelection cost these days?"

"He seems to think $1 million is a fair contribution on his behalf."

Darkbloom frowns. "Mara, you mustn't let these beltway types get too uppity. Is he still here? Let me speak to him."

Mara breaks their dancing to lead Darkbloom over to the congressman.

[ ] Accompany them.

[ ] Find Tyrus. [optional: ask about where Camelia is.]

>[x] Find Noelle.

You weave in and out of little pockets of partygoers, catching more snippets of conversation. It's the sort of conversation you never expected to hear in real life: plans for Senate campaigns, haggling between multibillion dollar tech CEOs, moaning about the recent admission of a Turkish man to the local country club. You hear one person wager a private island over the outcome of the Stanley Cup, so convinced he is that Las Vegas will win.

You're in the lap of high-powered degeneracy writ large.

Soon, you find Noelle sitting by herself at a folding chair underneath the shade of a small tree. Her serving platter is sitting on the grass beside her, full of empty champagne flutes. She's got her chin in her hands.

When she sees you, she blushes. But there's no hiding now. She doesn't try to leave.

"Hi," you say. You're not sure what else to say besides that. Start small, right?

"H-hi," she stammers, looking away.

"When did you become a waitress?" You ask. You pull up a chair and sit beside her.

She shrugs.

The sun is starting to set and her skin looks a bit pallid in the orange glow. She definitely isn't the kind of girl who decides to throw on a bunny costume and service billionaires on a whim. Her skin tone alone is evidence enough that her ideal weekend activity is being cooped up inside with her favorite TV shows, not mingling with the rich and famous.

"I do it every once in a while," Noelle says. "Mr. Darkbloom saw me in the server room when I started a few years ago and said I'd be perfect for these events..."

"Does it pay well?"

"I wouldn't be here if it didn't..." she says. "But it's so embarrassing to be seen by a coworker." She turns, looking you in the eyes, pleadingly. "Don't tell anyone about this, okay?"

You put one hand to your heart and raise the other one like you're taking an oath.

"I do solemnly swear," you say.

She smiles. Until:

"...On one condition."

She punches you in the shoulder. "You... you jerk. Blackmail? That's low!"

"It's in my nature," you say. "Sorry."

"Out with it, then. What is it?"

>[x] Touch fluffy tail.

[ ] How about grabbing a drink with me?

You slowly extend your hand towards her.

Her eyes widen. "Don't -- d-don't you dare!"

You reach for her.

"Alabaster! I know what you're about to do, and I'm telling you not to do it!"

Your hand is getting closer...

"Alabaster!!"

"I... I can't help it!" You shout, feigning psychic agony. You grab your wrist with your other hand as if trying and failing to hold yourself back. "I've been... possessed... I must... obey..."

"Th-that's not funny! Don't you d--"

You reach through the gap between the chairback and the seat and touch her fluffy cottontail. It's soft and warm. You ruffle it playfully.

She sits bolt upright as if given an electric shock. "Gghh--" she chokes.

You wipe your forehead with the back of your palm and slide down in your seat, as if exhausted. "Whew," you say. "I feel so much better."

"You're just as bad as all the other perverts here!" Noelle yells. She swats your shoulder.

"Hey," you say, "that's quid pro quo. Now your secret is safe with me."

"I was going to give you a link to the leaked premiere of Magical Witchy," Noelle says. She folds her arms and harumphs, blowing her hair out of her face. "But now you can go shove it up your ass."

"It leaked?" You say.

"Yeah. And only a select few people have seen it. Yours truly included! You could have had an early in, but now..."

You give an exaggerated shrug. "Well, someone will post it on a public torrent site eventually. No big deal."

She kicks your foot with hers, and you get into a little kicking match. It ends when she dissolves into peals of laughter.

"You're not a very good bunnygirl," you tell her. "Most bunnygirls don't kick people, you know."

"You're right," she says. "I'm not. And I've had about as much of these rich people as I can stand,. Do you want to get out of here?"

[ ] Let's go to your place.

>[x] Let's get dinner.

[ ] Sorry, I have other plans.

You duck away from the party and go around the side of the Darkbloom residence, towards the carport where all the guests are parked.

"Meet you there?" Noelle asks.

"Uh-- I should ride with you. I didn't come here in my own car."

"Oh," Noelle says. "O-Oh. Well... you see. You see, the thing is..."

The thing is that Noelle drives a rusted-to-shit 1998 Toyota Golf with the passenger side window missing - in its place, a black garbage bag secured by duct tape. The inside of her car is littered with junk - not garbage, but a bunch of useless stuff, piles of manga and DVDs, CDs, a couple cartons of bottled water, some dry cleaning bags with recently laundered outfits in them. That sort of thing.

"I'm so embarrassed," she says as you set aside a pile of cords and an old tablet from her passenger seat so you can sit.

"If it's any consolation, I've seen at least one or two cars in worse condition."

"If I knew I was going to have a passenger--"

"You definitely wouldn't have cleaned your car," you say.

"Yeah. You're right."

She looks at you. "Hey, get out for a sec. I need to change out of this ridiculous costume."

"What-- right here?"

"I'm not going out to eat dressed like a Playboy Bunny!"

You step out of the car. Since Vivian, uh, "relieved" you a little bit ago, it's easier to be on your best behavior as Noelle makes herself more presentable.

Still, you can't help taking a peek. Unfortunately for you, the windows are tinted enough that you can only see the vague outline of Noelle's form as she finishes getting dressed again. No real detail.

She leans over the console and opens the passenger side door. "I saw you looking, freak. Where do you want go eat?"

"Do you like subs?"

"Hell yeah. Let's go."

Since Noelle's budget is limited and you don't believe in paying for a date's meal, your options are slim. You suggest Subway, which she shoots down on principle; so instead, it's Jimmy John's.

You like this place well enough, but you don't see what the fuss is about. At least with Subway, you get to choose what kind of bread you want.

You and Noelle sit down to eat at a corner booth, making small talk about anime. It's pretty amazing how closely your tastes align. Not perfectly, of course - but more closely than most people you know.

"Did you hear about Comiket?" She asks.

"Yeah, they're invading America."

"San Francisco, specifically! Lots of Dojin groups are coming overseas to be there! It'll be amazing!"

"If you're suggesting what I think you are," you say, "you can forget it. I'm not a convention type of guy. Sorry."

Noelle pouts. "You've never been to one before?"

"And I never will."

"You're such a bore. If you got over yourself for ten seconds, you'd realize that cons can be pretty fun."

"There's a lot of fun things in this world. We can't experience all of them."

She groans.

>[x] Fine. If it's with you, I can endure it.

[ ] I'm standing firm. I won't go.

Noelle groans again. "Quoting cookie-cutter doujin lines at me isn't helping your air of superiority," she says. "You'll fit right in with the other con-goers."

"I've never been more insulted in my entire life," you say. And it's true.

Noelle laughs. As she goes on about how great American Comiket is going to be, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You check the display. It's a notification from the tracking app you sneaked onto Rose's phone. It's alerting you that Rose is nearby. According to her location pin, she's across the street.

You look up, peering out the window. In the gloom of evening, it's impossible to see exactly where she might be camped out.

[ ] Engineer a way to bump into her and confront her.

>[x] Let her stay.

She can watch if she wants, you decide. The only one she's hurting is herself.

"Is your phone more interesting than me?" Noelle asks.

"Huh?" You glance up at her.

"Honestly, people who get all absorbed in their phones instead of talking to the person right in front of them... those kinds of people really piss me off."

You put your phone away. "I'm a busy guy," you say. "It can't be helped."

"Is Mr. Darkbloom sending you eeeevil plans?" She asks. She makes a wiggly motion with the fingers of both hands.

"Now, why would he do that?" You say.

"I saw you rubbing elbows with him. Hey, it's pretty cool. I know a guy who's friends with one of the richest people on the planet!"

"Yeah, and I know his pet bunny."

Noelle turns beet red. She takes a piece of ice from her cup and chucks it at you. It slides down the front of your shirt, making you dance frantically with the cold shock of it against your skin, until you manage to shake it out.

You sit again, composing yourself. "I can neither confirm nor deny my friendship with him," you say. "But if I leave to go work on a world domination scheme, I'm sure you'll understand."

"Of course. And I'm sure you'll understand my foot up your ass," she counters. She's a lot less stiff and timid when you get to know her.

Noelle's phone buzzes. She takes it from her pocket and checks it.

"Is your phone more interesting than m--" you begin.

"Mother shitter," Noelle says.

"Uh."

"I'm sorry. I just got some bad news." She puts the phone away.

"What is it?" You ask.

She sticks her tongue out. "My world domination scheme got foiled."

Your conversation continues for another hour or so. Your food is long since finished and your drinks are empty save for the meltwater from the ice. Your conversation flows so freely that you hardly notice the time passing.

You discuss work matters at length, specifically how strange Sable is. Then the topic of Ken comes up: Noelle wants to know what his deal is. You explain that he's some sort of westaboo, and the concept seems as bizarre to her as the concept of a round Earth was to ancient people. She can't wrap her mind around it.

"It's some prince and the pauper shit," she says. "He comes from the land of riches but he wants to slum it with American crap. What a nutjob."

"Not every American cartoon is terrible," you say.

"Really. Name a good one."

"The Simpsons."

She makes a face. "Six good seasons and seventy decades of the worst TV ever made. I swear that human beings haven't worked on it since at least the turn of the millennium. It's being perpetrated on us by a malevolent AI."

"Fair," you say. "But you still admit that it used to be good."

"Used to be."

"Well, that's what he likes."

She shakes her head, still not getting it.

And so it goes. Eventually it's another text to Noelle's phone that forces you to part ways.

"I'm sorry," she says. She stands. "I have to go deal with something. Can you get back home on your own?"

"I'll manage. Somehow."

"It's a really awful thing to do, I know. I'll make it up to you, okay?"

You lean back, lacing your fingers together. "Of course," you say. "You can make it up by wearing that bunny tail again on our next date."

Noelle walks over to the drink machine and dispenses a piece of ice specifically to throw it at you. This time you're prepared. You block it with your tray.

"See you later, freak," she says.

She leaves. Even if she says she's mad, she's smiling.

[ ] Hitch a ride with Rose.

>[x] Find your own way.

You slip out the exit and hurry down the road. It isn't too much of a walk back to the apartment.

Glancing at the display on your phone, you see Rose's tracking indicator pulling up practically right next to you - but looking around, you can't see any trace of her, or her car. It freaks you out.

She was like this back in high school, too. Fucking Solid Snake levels of stealth when she wants to flex her stalker muscles.

A few minutes on, you pass a brick building with neon green graffiti on it that makes you do a double take. You walk backwards, turn and look directly up at it.

It's a sign that says:

>HEY DICKFACE --->

In hastily painted letters about ten feet tall. The arrow is directing you to an alley. The paint is still wet and running.

You can guess it's for you. And you can guess who did it.

>[x] You told Darkbloom off. Time to tell her off too.

[ ] Leave.

You step into the alley.

It's empty, save for a couple dumpsters. Maybe the sign really wasn't for you?

But of course it was. Just before you leave, the lid of one of the dumpsters flies open and she pops up like a prairie dog. She's eating a loaf of bread.

"Jesus Christ," you say. "Should I start calling you Oscar?"

"Don't knock it till you try it," Camelia says. "Restaurants around here throw out perfectly good food all the time. It'd just go to waste otherwise!"

Her face is still badly bruised and her good eye sports a particularly nasty looking shiner. Whitney beat the living shit out of her.

"You know a lot about garbage, huh?" You say.

"Tyrus and his goons are morons," Camelia says. "Almost as bad as that dyke bitch who thinks she's your girlfriend. Sorry if they roughed you up."

"I don't care anymore," you say. "About him or about you, or about Darkbloom or anyone else. I'm neutral, you understand? Switzerland. I won't interfere with whatever it is going on between you and Darkbloom. I expect you not to interfere with me."

Camelia steps out of the dumpster. She squares up to you, but she's hardly threatening. "What if I told you that David Darkbloom is running the world's biggest child prostitution racket?" She says.

"He's..." you say. "No. He's really--"

"Nahhh," she says. "But that would be pretty bad, huh?"

You turn. "Goodbye, Camelia."

She grabs your arm, stopping you. "Let me try again. What if I told you that he knew about the world's biggest child prostitution racket, and did nothing to stop it? Plus the world's biggest gun running racket, and the world's biggest drug cartels, and the world's most wanted terrorists, and the world's worst serial killers?"

You shake your head.

"Gal has all the evidence. Criminals talk, you know, Alabaster. They talk on Facebook, they email, they text. Darkbloom's got us all inside his own personal panopticon but he isn't pulling the trigger on any of these sick fucks. Why? That's supposed to be the trade, right, privacy for security. But we get neither. Why?"

"I don't know," you say. "I don't want to."

"Of course you don't want to. But you will. You can't escape it. We're kin."

"The world's full of bad people," you say. "I'm just looking out for me and the people who I care about." You step back. "Darkbloom offered me a lot of money to murder you. In case you were wondering, I turned him down. You should thank me."

"As if you could get your nut up to kill someone. Let's not kid ourselves."

"Well, he's offering me a hell of a lot more than you are. I'm done doing errands for you."

"No, Alabaster, let's get this straight. I don't expect YOU to do anything for ME. I expect you to do it for you. For your lovers. For your future children. For the world? Justice? But least of all me, anyway. Has nothing I've said gotten through to you? Do you actually pay attention to anything in the world around you? What do YOU want?"

"I want you to leave me alone," you growl.

Her good eye sparkles. "No you don't. I make things too interesting. Try again, and honestly this time."

"I don't know." You look away.

"I'll fuck you, if you want. I've got nothing better to do today."

You massage the bridge of your nose. "There's no way you're a real human."

"Sure I am. Just a bit sideways, that's all. Ooh, sideways - there's an idea."

Your phone buzzes again.

"You better get that," Camelia says. "It's probably important."

She turns and goes back to the dumpster. She lifts the lid and then hops inside.

"Wait--" you say. "Tell me Whitney's safe."

"She's safe," Camelia says. "I like a girl who fights back."

She closes the lid.

You check the phone. It's a text from Kay Vera:

>Can you meet me at my apartment tonight?

>[x] I'm on my way.

[ ] Sorry, no.

Kay's apartment is pretty close, and it's on the way back home. You walk the rest of the way there.

Rose is still following you. It's starting to get a bit obnoxious, frankly.

Still... you sort of don't want her to stop.

Outside the gate, you ring the buzzer that corresponds to Kay's unit number. You don't get any vocal response, even though there's a speaker mounted above the buzzer - but a click lets you know that you've been invited up.

You walk a little ways down a winding concrete path lined with well-groomed grass and hedges, then up a set of stairs to apartment 221. (Somehow, that number feels wrong. Why?)

You knock, but there is no answer. You figure you might as well go for broke, and try the handle. It's unlocked.

You notice two things right away. First: Kay is lying on a mat on her living room floor, curled over herself like a scorpion, her feet dangling directly above her head. She's focused intently as she maintains her balance.

Second: the ceiling, walls, and floor are completely lined with foil. Copper garland is strung all over in a sort of grid-like pattern.

Lady, Kay's rottweiler, lies on a doggy bed, sniffing his crotch. At least he's not trying to maul you.

"Close the door," Kay says, her voice a bit strained - given that she's got most of her weight on her neck and chin. You do as requested.

"Oh my god..." you mutter. "You live inside an easy bake oven."

Lady gets up, walks over to you and sniffs you curiously. Finding nothing apparently objectionable, he walks over to Kay.

Imitating his master, he gets down on his chest, his front paws curled underneath him, his hind raising high into the air. This is his best attempt at this truly impressive scorpion pose Kay is holding.

"You look like something out of Oldboy," you tell her.

"Good taste," Kay says. "But I pull it off better."

"Seriously, what's up with all this foil?"

Kay unfurls her body and stands up, spritely and energetic. "It's a makeshift Faraday cage. No signals in, no signals out. Speaking of..."

She goes to her counter and pulls up a weird looking, homemade, boxy remote with an antenna on it. It has a single red button on it. She points it at you and clicks the button.

You hear an electric clkk-clkk and electricity arcs from the antenna.

"The hell was that?" You demand.

"EMP device. Your phone is dead."

"What the f--"

"Don't whine. It'll be fine in a few hours... probably."

Lady is weaving in and out of Kay's legs. She reaches down to ruffle his fur. "You came alone, right?"

"You're crazy," you say. "I know a lot of crazy people, too, but this takes the cake."

"It's not crazy," Kay says, "if they're really watching. And they are."

"And who do you think is listening?" You ask.

"NSA, CIA, DA -- take your pick. I'm the woman who knew too much."

"Sounds scary," you say. "What do you want?"

"Just you. You're a popular man, after all. The more I piece together, the more your name keeps coming up."

"Get to the point. Popularity is keeping me busy right about now. And if you really did kill my phone, you might get an unwelcome visitor pretty soon."

Kay sighs. "You're on a mission, right? To steal my shit? Smuggle my findings back to that terrorist?"

"No," you say, truthfully. "I'm done working with her."

"That's fine," Kay says. "But I'm not done with you. Maybe you'll want to see what I've got."

You eye her suspiciously.

"Come with me," she says.

She leads you back - towards her bedroom.

"Here you go," says Kay. "Take a look."

You step up to the whiteboard. Your jaw goes slack. Your extremities feel weak. It's too much to take in all at once like this - you become nauseated with the shock of it.

Mara Darkbloom and Camelia are both linked to the Russian mafia. Noelle is an FBI agent who intends to "interview" you and Cerise. Cerise is suspected of coordinating the 3-10 hack.

There is nothing intelligible you can say, except for this: "you've got to be fucking kidding me."

"It goes even deeper than this," Kay says. "I've only just begun to piece it together."

"How... just, how? Are you some kind of detective? FBI agent?"

"Quantico wanted me," she says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting up (why do all the girls in your life have to smoke?) "But after Afghanistan, I was sick of working for the government. That being said - if I could find this much, this quickly, working on my own... how far behind can the FBI be?"

"I'm going to be sick."

"It's a classic Gordian knot," Kay says. "The more I tug at it, the more complicated it becomes. More and more, I'm beginning to think the key to cutting through it all lies with one person in particular."

"Who?" You ask.

Kay points to a picture near the bottom of the board.

"Renee Carte..." you mutter. "Why do I recognize that name?"

"There is no 3-10 hack without Sable Guiteau," Kay says. "And there is no Sable Guiteau without Renee Carte."

That's right. Alex told you about this woman. She was Darkbloom's former R&D lead, forced from the company in disgrace.

Kay sighs. "I tried to talk to her yesterday, but she called me a two-bit MSM whore and suggested that I go fuck myself. Apparently she's the type who prefers alternative sources for her news."

"Renee Carte... Renee Carte..." you repeat. There's more to that name than the spark of recognition from what Alex told you. But what is it? You try to think, but come up short.

"She mentioned your name," Kay says. "Asked about you in particular."

"Me? Why me?" You say.

Kay shrugs. "Wouldn't say. If you want more than that - and I think you do... you should go talk to her yourself. She might be more receptive to you."

"Where is she?" You ask.

"Central California Women's Facility, maximum security wing. Serving a life sentence."

"For what?"

"She tried to murder Vivian Darkbloom."

END OF EPISODE 8.