You are Alabaster Soliloquy, billionaire by proxy and somehow still sort of a loser.
Somewhere in northern Alaska
April 21, 202x
It's not just cold. It's not just "freezing" or "bone-chilling" or any other hackneyed phrase people trot out when the temperature dips below 0. The cold inside this cabin is way more complex than that. It has high notes and undertones, motifs and little one-off flourishes; it does pirouettes through your body and touches every part a little differently. It makes your shin splints ring in agony, makes your chest all heavy like it will collapse under the labor of drawing breath, makes your hands feel like they've been turned into oversized foam. Worst of all it envelops your brain in an icy fog that prevents you from thinking clearly.
The little fire in the little furnace in the corner is hardly enough. Huddling close, you feel not even token warmth. It may as well not be lit at all. You shiver miserably and hug yourself.
The howl of wind through the opening front door and the unexpected blast of it against your back nearly knock you over. You reel around, frightened and angry. But it's just your wife, back from a trip into town, all insulated in layers of down puff-jackets and ski pants. She was supposed to be going for groceries but she enters the cabin empty-handed.
"Took you long enough," you grunt as she forces the door shut behind her. It took her three and a half hours, in fact -- you were keeping track. And you were beside yourself with worry, though you would never admit it. Falling into old habits even now.
She fixes you in her gaze. "They're coming," she announces, and your gut does somersaults.
"How did they--"
"We have to go. Now."
You grope at your numb face with your numb right hand. "Did you lead them to us? Figures... I send you into town one time and this is what happens."
"This is YOUR fault," she counters. "Do NOT even think of blaming me. You got sloppy, Al--"
"Fine, fine. We'll talk about it later." She's falling into old habits too, but this isn't the time to get into another of your arguments. She's right. You need to go.
You send her to keep the car warm while you pack your meager belongings. When you're done, as you haul the duffel bags over your shoulder and brace yourself to make the short journey from the front door to the car, you consider the furnace again. You should go and put it out, that's the sensible thing. But you decide it would just be a waste of time. It's not your cabin and you'll never be back again anyway. Let it burn. Everything else is already burning too.
You go out and join your wife, to start again into the unknown; to run.
---
Whitney reaches for the ornate jade bowl of Jelly Bellies on her desktop. "Watch this," she commands.
She takes one -- popcorn flavor, ugh -- and flicks it vertically into the air. Its arc is tight and steady. As it crests only inches from the high-hung ceiling, Whitney braces herself against the desk with both hands, tilts her head back and opens her jaw to a pythonesque circumference. She tries to position herself beneath the hurtling piece of candy by steering her wheeled chair around, using her grip on the desk for leverage. But her micro-adjustments aren't precise enough and the Jelly Belly strikes her in the left eye.
"MY EYE!" she shrieks as she doubles forward and clutches at it. "MY EYYYEEEE!"
"Are you okay?" You ask, shocked into an uncharacteristic show of concern.
"Get the first aid kit!" she says.
You leap to your feet, but then you realize something: "Wait -- where is the first aid kit?"
"I don't fucking know! That's not my job! Go get it!"
You look this way and that, feeling helpless, and finally turn for the door. But Whitney stops you from setting off by holding out a flattened palm. "Hold on. Hold on." She takes her other hand from her eye and straightens her posture. Her face is contorted into a caricature of a wink, her mouth curled up in a grimace, but with effort she forces the injured eye open. Tears stream down her face as she blinks her vision back to normal again. Finally: "I'm okay."
"Christ," you say.
She reaches for the bowl again. "This time for sure," she insists.
You put your hand over the top of it. "You're an idiot. We've got a lot to go over before the meeting on Monday, so how about we table your quest to go blind for now."
Whitney grumbles.
Rose2 pokes her head in. Her cotton-candy pink bangs sway with the momentum of it. "Ohayou!"
You shudder.
Whitney leans to one side so she can see around you. "Wisconsin," she says.
Rose2 dangles an arm into the room. She's holding a heavy-looking plastic bag with Kanji characters printed on it. Grease is pooling in the corners of it, visible through the thin material. "Got your lunch!" She says.
"Bring it here," Whitney says, sweeping her things to one side to make room. Rose2 goosesteps in and dutifully sets it down before her. She finishes with a salute.
You fish your order out of the bag and sit across from Whitney again, now joined (unfortunately) by Rose2. "Itadakimasu!" She says, clapping her hands together. By your count, 40% of her speech so far has been pidgin Japanese. Par for the course.
You were hungry, but you hardly have an appetite anymore as you watch Whitney shoveling down her food. She opts for the plastic fork, rather than the chopsticks. She hunches over the bowl and horks her lunch with all the grace and elegance of a pig at a trough.
"How are you not 300 pounds?" You say, genuinely marveling at her.
Whitney makes an "I 'unno" sound through a mouthful of rice. She finishes chewing and adds: "I can't get enough of this chicken and egg bowl. It's addictive as shit."
She's not lying. This is the fifth day running she's had lunch from this restaurant. She tried it at Rose2's suggestion and now it's practically all she wants to eat anymore.
"Rosie, do you know who the chef at this restaurant is?" Whitney asks.
She shrugs. "I think his name is Jorge or Jose or something. All the people in the kitchen at Meiji's look kinda Mexican, actually. I've never seen gaijin cook like this!"
"You do know you're a gaijin, right?" You say.
Rose2 titters as if you're joking.
Whitney points at her with her rice-flecked fork. "Tell Juan he's hired."
This must be International Horrible Mouth Sounds Through Food Day because now it's Rose2's turn: she squeaks and tries to manage "what?" despite the udon noodles hanging from her lips.
"Go back to Magi's--"
"Meiji's," Rose2 mumblingly corrects, cheeks still stuffed with noodles.
"--and tell the chef he's hired. I want him here in our kitchen."
Rose2 swallows. She puts a contemplative forefinger to her chin and stares at the ceiling. "I think the chef on day shift is actually the owner."
"It doesn't matter. I'll pay him whatever, he can name his price. Just go and hire him."
"Can we do that?" Rose2 asks. "Just... go buy someone? What if he wants, like, a million dollars?"
"That's fine."
Rose2 furrows her brow. This is taxing her meager computing power. Between Whitney and Rose2, the collective IQ might crack triple digits if you grade on a curve.
"It's noon," Whitney says. "Do you know how much money I've lost in the stock market today?"
She shakes her head. "Couple thousand?"
"Over a billion dollars."
Rose2 theatrically holds a hand to her lips with the fingers fanned out. "Oh my goodness! That's awful!"
"Literally doesn't matter. That's how rich I am." She reaches into a desk drawer and pulls out a checkbook. "Start him off with $100,000 and see what he says. If he wants more, don't fight him, just tell him he can have it." She fills out the check, rips it free and hands it over.
"I understand." Rose2 folds the check and puts it in her breast pocket, protected by her absurd scarf. She finishes eating with a few giant bites, gets up, and goes.
"She doesn't understand," Whitney says when she's out of earshot.
"Of course not," you say. "Look, I know I recommended her, but if you decide you want to fire her--"
"Don't get me wrong. I love Rosie. She's a laugh riot." You close your eyes and silently curse your decision to bring Rose2 aboard. "What was that she said before we ate? Eat a Christmas?"
"Itadakimasu," you say.
"What's the translation?"
"It means... let's not get into that. I'd rather know why you want to spend $100,000 on a chef whose food you can already eat whenever you want for... what's the cost of the lunch special, $8.50?"
"$13.50," Whitney says, "which is highway fuckin' robbery by the way. I want him working for me because then I know where he is. If I let him stay at Magical's, who knows, maybe he quits or gets deported or whatever."
"Rose2 just said he owns the restaurant. I'm at least 99% certain he's a citizen if that's the case. So no deportation."
"You trust what Rosie says?" Whitney breathes. "You're a laugh riot too. That bubblegum-smelling pussy make you go stupid or what?"
There's a mental image you'd rather move past as quickly as possible.
"Honestly, Ally." She leans way back in her chair, hands on head, somehow managing to look lithe and athletic even in executive business-wear. (Must be the tan.) "I don't know why you're so gaga for her. She's dumb as pigshit, for real. Not your type at all."
"Why I'm gaga for her?" You repeat. "When have I ever said anything nice about Rose fucking 2?"
"So floating her resume down to Spancer in HR was because..."
"Of pity. It was because of pity."
"Uh huh. Not because you wanted someone to talk about anime panties with."
"You're crazy. You're an actual crazy person if you think I have any sort of, of... kinship, with Rose2."
Whitney cackles. She wiggles her fingers in front of her. "Ohhh no. Senpai's mad!"
The worst part about having Rose2 in such close proximity is that her patois, such as it is, has a tendency to rub off on people.
"Any case," Whitney says, "Rosie is definitely gonna fuck it all up. You wanna go help her?"
[ ] Go with Rose2 to hire the chef from the restaurant.
>[x] Stay with Whitney; important work to be done today.
[ ] Go find something else to do.
"In case you forgot, we have to brief the investors on our funding situation on Monday. Then there's Solutions Forum... we have a lot of stuff to do before the weekend begins."
Whitney groans. "Ohhhh man. What a drag..."
"Being CEO is a drag." You've lost count of how many times you've had to explain this to her in the past year. "I have to keep an eye on you. I can't go around with your pet weeaboo, rounding up Mexicans for your kitchen."
"Whatever, dork. At least make sure Rosie's got supervision, then."
You've got just the person in mind for that.
Rose kept the office where she worked with Cerise last year, during the investigation into the 3-10 hack. Naturally she appropriated all the cubicle space from the H1-B workers who were part of the team too, although she hasn't put it to much worthwhile use. The 13th floor is mostly empty save for a couple smaller offices where her parents, now legal advisers for the company, occasionally work.
She's on the phone when you enter. "Yes. Yes of course. Yes. Uh huh..." she's in that mode of trying to yes-yes someone off the line who doesn't want to go. She locks eyes with you and pantomimes blowing out her brains. "Thanks again, George. Yes. I'll see you in Davos. Yes. Goodbye!"
She slams the receiver back on the cradle and gives a disgusted purr that sounds sort of like "eughhh."
"So? How'd it go?"
She makes a face that plainly indicates her loathing and general psychic malaise over the conversation, then fakes a smile, one that she obviously wants you to know is fake. "Swimmingly," she says.
"But really."
"He's going to float us $2 billion in capital interest-free, as long as we pay it back within five years."
You're suspicious. "What's the catch?"
She tightens her jaw. "No catch... small catch. He just wants us to increase the number of impressions for liberal candidates on Facebook by... a substantial amount."
You take a step closer. "What does substantial mean, Rose?"
"35... thousand percent."
"Oh my god. People are going to notice that. 35 THOUSAND percent? That's 350 times!"
"I know. I passed all my math classes in college on my first try, unlike you. I talked him down from the ledge! He wanted 100,000% at first!"
"100,000-- we were supposed to talk about every major decision FIRST, Rose. That's the deal."
"Do you want me to turn down $2 billion when someone offers it so I can think about it with my b-- with my first cousin once removed? But don't thank me or anything, Alabaster! Just doing my part to keep the company alive so your defective brain doesn't shut down! I don't know why I bother!"
You get close and stand over her. "You need to consult me before making decisions like this. I do the same for you. Don't step out of line."
"What are you gonna do? Hit me?"
You peer down your nose at her. A tense moment passes. "No. You'd like that too much."
She lets out a frustrated sigh.
"Whitney wants you to go supervise the other Rose," you tell her. "She sent her to the Japanese place on University -- Meiji's. Wants her to hire some Mexican chef."
"That's just what we need. An undocumented worker scandal."
"How do you know he's undocumented?" You chide. "Tsk tsk. Anyway, it's cultural outreach. You should be happy."
"I'm NOT going anywhere with that disgusting, culturally-appopriating--"
You grab her by the collar and haul her to her feet. "Yes you are. I already decided. See what it's like to have decisions made without your input?"
She spits in your face.
"You're going to regret that," you warn her.
She wrenches herself free. Hands no longer occupied, you wipe her drool off your face and sneer at her.
"Be right back," she chirps, grinning smugly.
With that small fire extinguished, it's time to go fetch Vivian so you can prep Whitney for the coming week. Work, for you, never ends.
Vivian's office looks more like a funeral parlor, and Vivian is about pale enough to be the body there for the wake. The gothic knick-knacks and antique furniture started piling up, seemingly on their own, from the time of David Darkbloom's death, and the tide hasn't stemmed at all.
Her black-and-maroon velvet dress, black platform shoes and, most bizarre of all, black lace apron, only accentuate her whole "dead body" chic. She's at the black-trimmed window when you enter.
"Hey," you try.
"Good afternoon," she says, and fails to make eye contact. You've tried, but haven't gotten through to her on the importance of this.
"What are you up to? Got a few minutes?"
"Yes, I have time. I was merely contemplating the Nietzschean concept of the eternal recurrence. I've been reading--"
"That's just great," you say, short on time yourself, and not wanting to let Vivian launch into one of her soliloquys. "Whitney's waiting."
"But of course. We must all abide by her schedule. Lead the way, Alabaster Soliloquy."
---
"I've got one for you," Whitney says. This ought to be entertaining. Whitney subscribes to a number of 'daily trivia' email lists now, and likes to quiz Vivian at random. So far, Vivian hasn't missed a single question.
Vivian waits passively for the prompt.
"Who is buried in Grant's tomb?"
"No one is buried in Grant's tomb. It is a mausoleum. Above ground. Similar to the edifice readied for my father, should we ever recover his corpse."
"Whoa, okay," Whitney says. "Let's not talk about dad's corpse. Anyway, you're close -- but no cigar! Grant's tomb is actually a museum."
"The question never required that I specify--" Vivian begins, then stopping herself, she says: "Excuse me? A museum?"
Whitney swivels her monitor around so Vivian can read. "See?"
Vivian bows just a bit to bring her face level to the screen. "Whitney, that word says mausoleum. Not museum."
Whitney yanks the monitor in the other direction and peers at it, squinting. "Hmm... shit. Okay. You got me." She glances up at you. "This little brat's too good for me."
"Shall we begin?" Vivian says. She sits. "I received late word from Rose Mallory that the funding situation has improved. We may not need to ask the SEC for permission to mass liquidate family financial instruments and put them back into the company. Is that so?"
Whitney shrugs. She wouldn't know.
"Right. And yet we still have yet to devise our pivot. We are bleeding cash, in the words of Mr. Armstrong, like a stuck pig. The investors are not going to be pleased unless we can come to them with a new model that gives them confidence."
"Isn't that what the Solutions Forum is for?" Whitney says. "Geez. I mean, we'll think of something."
Vivian isn't buying it.
"Okay, fine," Whitney tries. "We'll do a lightning round again at the wrap-up meeting."
"I think it's time to use what little capital we have to go out on the market and buy a startup rather than try to conceive our own. We have been at a standstill for almost a year now."
Whitney begs this off. "Just give me some numbers to memorize. We'll talk about the rest later on."
This is where Vivian's real passion lies anyway: numbers. She briefs Whitney on the grim financial situation. Darkbloom Analytics survived its founder, but it isn't a healthy company. Scandal has weighed it down and is about to finally take it out for the count. Bad news for you.
"Hey, wait up--" Whitney says when Vivian stands to go after a marathon briefing that left even you struggling to keep focused.
"Is there anything else?" Vivian says. "Go ahead. I would be happy to elucidate any points you struggle to grasp."
"It's Friday, you know? Are you doing anything tonight?"
Vivian says nothing. That means no.
"I thought we could, you know... have some sisterly bonding. I got these tickets for a helicopter tour over the Grand Canyon..."
Whitney is relentless with offers like these, and Vivian usually turns them down. The attempt to get to know Vivian like a sister has been excruciatingly slow going.
Surprisingly, however, this time she says yes. "I have never been... it would be an interesting experience. When do we depart?"
"If we want to be there at sunset, we gotta skedaddle, like, right after the wrap-up. The pilot's gonna come here and land on the roof! Wild, huh?" Whitney is so happy she can hardly contain herself. She's grinning widely enough that you're worried the edges of her mouth are going to bleed.
"Quite wild indeed," Vivian agrees, as if she doesn't really agree at all. She adds: "I look forward to it."
This, at least, seems genuine.
You're happy for Whitney's sake, but you also know that Vivian has a tendency to go sullen and aloof in her presence -- more than usual -- which leaves Whitney depressed in turn. You mediate the tension between them whenever you can, especially on extracurricular activities like these. It keeps both girls' spirits up.
[ ] Offer to go along.
>[x] Don't be a third wheel; let them go alone and keep your Friday night open.
"Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! She said yes!" Whitney begins literally bouncing up and down the moment Vivian vacates the office. Her leather chair squeals beneath her.
She finally stops, and puts a hand to her chest as if to get her heart under control. "Are you gonna come too?" She asks.
"I think this is just for you two," you say. "Have fun, Whitney."
She makes that wheezy, laugh-grin "heeeh" thing she does when she's so excited that her brain goes empty.
An intercom on her desk buzzes. It startles her, and that lovely smile -- uh, that smile drops off her face. She clicks the talk button. "What?" She says. Smooth as ever.
"Front security. There's a man here who says he has an appointment?"
Whitney gives you an uncertain look. "I have no appointments," she says.
"All right, I'll-- ah--" there's a pause, and you can hear an indistinct voice on the other end talking to the guard. The guard reports: "He says he's your father."
Whitney's expression darkens.
It's been over five years since the last time you saw Mr. Price, and he's as pathetic as ever. Worse, even. He wears a threadbare, horizontally-striped turtleneck and rumpled khakis in his best impression of something even remotely presentable. He stinks like stale Bud Light and his five o'clock shadow is patchy, his face deeply lined with wrinkles.
"It's just, so great to see you so successful like this," he offers, wringing a rolled up magazine in his hands. "I saw you in the news the other day and--"
"You didn't know?" You cut in.
"Well, ah-- you know, I been traveling, you know, for work--"
Whitney chuckles, low and reproachful. "Liar."
He coughs. "I mean, wow. My little girl. A CEO! I never would have thought..."
He rambles, but Whitney isn't biting. She says nothing to him, and regards him like a person might regard an insect. Finally she cuts to the chase: "Why did you drive out here?"
"Huh? Oh, I mean-- no reason-- I just wanted to see my little girl. Right? It's been so long."
"The last time you said word one to me was when you told me that I might as well not bother leaving for Berkley because I was gonna fail out anyway. Then you fell asleep again."
He hangs his head.
"He's here for a favor," you say. "Obviously." Your opinion of him is even lower than Whitney's, if it's possible.
Whitney arches an eyebrow. "You want money? Is that it?"
"Whitney, I'm-- not doing so great, is the thing. That's all. And Mr. Darkbloom, he promised me and your mom a little money-- for when you're done with school, if we could keep the secret, you know, about not being your real parents and all... and, uh, you know, fair's fair..." He tries again with flattery: "Gee, wouldn't she be so proud, if she could see you now--"
"Shut the fuck up."
"Hey! That's no way to talk to me. I might not have been the best, but I tried! And I'm still your father--"
She takes out that checkbook again and fills one out for him. "I don't know what that dickhole offered you, but this is what you get from me. $1 million. Have fun with it, Carl."
She hands him the check. His eyes just about fall out of his skull. "Oh man, Whitney-- you're-- this is just great... really help me get back on my feet... and I'll call more, I promise!"
"Never talk to me again."
He winces, but he doesn't even try to argue the point. "Thanks again," he says, and goes, no longer needing to mask the reason for the visit.
The reek he leaves in his wake will take a while to dissipate. Whitney sprays some cinnamon-scented air freshener to no avail.
"He'll be dead inside a week, if I had to guess," you say.
"Whatever." Her mood is much darker now.
As if things could get any worse: in comes Chalmers.
"Well hey hey, campers!" he says. "Are you ready for some roleplay?"
Whitney looks at the clock on the wall. "Ugh. It's time already?"
"Let's turn that frown upside-down," he says, sitting down. "We'll do some mindfulness exercises first."
"Ally," Whitney says, looking past Chalmers. "Punch Rose for me."
"Whoa!" Chalmers says. "No more of that!"
But you like the sound of it. This would be Nathan P. Chalmers, the expert in corporate sensitivity training who Rose decided to bring in special just for Whitney. You loathe the man, but he serves his purpose: a news story broke a few months ago about Whitney using the N word in high school, and Rose decided that going through the motions of sensitivity training -- with a licensed professional, this time -- would patch up the bad PR.
Whitney maintains innocence. "I never said it," she insisted at the time. "That was Stackleford! I was just quoting Stackleford's words back at him! To tell him not to say it! I'm actually a hero, if you think about it!"
Unfortunately, that argument didn't hold water with a general public already set against her by default.
Unwilling to put up with this man's presence yourself, however, you decide to leave Whitney to it.
>[x] Go visit with Alex.
[ ] Go visit with Kay.
[ ] Go visit with Rose2.
[ ] Go visit with Rose.
Alex is sequestered, but not very privately, in a glass-walled conference room on the floor just below, deep in discussions with Steven Armstrong, the HR chief, and Tyrus Kang, the security chief who makes you feel anything but secure. Still, you don't have any compunctions about walking in on the meeting; the last time Armstrong complained that you "go around like you own the place," Whitney rebuffed him with: "he definitely owns more of it than you."
Nowadays, Armstrong hardly balks at your presence. He glances you way as you enter, then returns to what he was saying: "money's tight, kid. You need fifty more people? How about 25? Can you make it work?"
"We'd have to vet the shit out of them," Tyrus adds. "If they're all gonna be working on Diogenes. Can't just let anyone off the fuckin' street come get their noses in business like that. Can't get 50 new hires ready to go on that project in a week. Goddamn."
"I'm sorry," Alex says, beaming, cocking his head to one side. "But I really need 50 people! And I need them pretty soon! Try to make it work!"
"You kill me, son. Do you realize this company is on its last legs?"
"Oh yes," Alex says, quite serious. "I understand perfectly well. I understand what Whitney will say if she finds out you told me no, too."
"Whitney can go fuck herself. Mara and Vivian will overrule here. Money's tight, and that's that. You need to agree to 25 -- max."
"I understand," Alex says. "I'll speak with Whitney."
Armstrong reaches out and grabs his shoulder. "Now, come on. Let's come to an understanding, okay? Can you make do with... 30?"
All the smile is gone from Alex's face. His voice is low and firm. "I need 50 people, Armstrong." He turns to Tyrus: "and I need them working on the project by 6 AM Monday after next. That's what I need to do my job. Now go do yours."
Armstrong regards him for any signs of bluffing, a crack in his resolve, anything -- but nothing.
"I'll see what I can do," he says, ego too big to outright admit defeat.
There's the same wounded ego in Tyrus's eyes too, but another layer to the way he looks at Alex that you don't like at all.
"Can I get a minute in private?" You ask Alex.
His smile is back like it was never gone. "Of course, Ally! What can I do for you?" He glances back at his fellow executives, two men who are both twice his size. "You're free to go!" He tells them.
You watch them gather their things and leave. As God is your witness, Alex just bossed them around.
"Doing anything tonight?" You ask him, leaning your tailbone against the long mahogany conference table.
"Working hard!" He says, laughing.
"Like last night, and the night before--"
"Gotta keep the midnight oil burning! I'm a night owl at heart, you know."
"Yeah, and you're going to burn yourself right out," you warn him. "Look, it's Friday, and I've got nothing going on, so I thought we might--"
"I'm so sorry! But I just can't!"
You frown. "It's polite to at least listen to what someone's about to invite you to before you turn down the offer."
A couple of Alex's direct reports walk past. Seeing Alex sitting inside the conference room, they bow their heads and scurry by as fast as they can, hoping he won't see them.
"I appreciate it, Ally, I do..." (this sounds sincere to you) "...but reimplementing Nelson's blockchain concept is taking me forever and I really need to make sure the project is ready for the next phase before all these new hires come in."
You ruffle your own hair in frustration. "This kind of stuff is hard for me. I hate being social almost as much as you do, apparently. But I just don't want to see you end up..."
End up like Sable, is what you're about to say, but think better of it.
"I'll tell you what, Ally. If you don't mind hanging out in the R&D dungeon like old times, I could really use a mind like yours to bounce ideas off of. Most of my employees are so USELESS--" (There it is, the ghost of Sable rearing its head in Alex again) "--I need someone with two brain cells to rub together! Of course, I know you want to do fun things on a Friday night too... so if you can accept a raincheck, I'll go out with you next Friday for sure!"
"Go out with me--" you sputter. Merely some unfortunate phrasing on Alex's part, you decide. "I'm just suggesting... okay. I'm dragging you out of that dungeon before next Friday, though. That's already decided. But..."
[ ] Hang out with Alex tonight and help him with his work.
>[x] Keep your night open for something else. He's just placating you anyway.
"I'll see you around," you say. "You know I'm as useless as anyone when it comes to programming. I wouldn't be any help to you at all."
Alex laughs, but doesn't dispute you.
You turn to go.
"Ally--"
You stop and glance back at him.
"We'll have fun next week," he says. "I'm looking forward to it."
There's a softness in his voice there that, for the first time in a long time, reminds you of the Alex you met a year ago.
>[x]Hug him before we go
Alex tenses up like a frightened animal in your embrace. But his small frame is warm against you.
"Wh-- what was that for?" He demands. This is unusual behavior from you and it seems to unsettle him more than anything.
"Blame Chalmers. I'm trying to be more mindful."
He regards you suspiciously. "Of what?"
You shrug, and then change the subject. "Are you going to actually get any sleep tonight?"
"I'll try, Ally."
"Don't fucking try. Go to bed before dawn for once. And don't sleep on campus either. I'll be back to check on you."
Alex shakes his head, but there's a smile on the corners of his lips that he can't seem to bid away. "See you," he says.
At the wrap-up meeting, Whitney is true to her word: she ends the session with a lightning round. This was her last-ditch attempt to lubricate the wheels of innovation from within Darkbloom Analytics rather than take the risk on buying another company. DA needs a new revenue stream, needs to pivot to some new service that will generate cash, fast. Problem is, no one has any ideas. So she started having executives put anything they could come up with on strips of paper, and into a fishbowl, anonymously, no harm no foul, to pitch them at random to the board.
She pulls a strip of paper from the fishbowl now and reads it: "Digimon Go."
"What, like a knockoff Pokemon?" Armstrong says, with a long "E" sound.
"Digimon was first, actually," Nelson Berenstoin, the CIO, says -- he's the kind of guy who cares about that.
Whitney tries again. "Lesbian Grindr. Scissr. Working title."
"Was that your idea?" Mara muses.
Whitney locks eyes with her. "I don't remember asking Queen Cuck for a goddamn thing."
Mara doesn't flinch at the insult. "How many other women did your boyfriend fuck today?"
"Less than me, maybe," she says, grinning.
"Fewer..." Nelson corrects, but no one pays him any mind.
"Facebook for old people," Whitney tries.
"Facebook IS for old people," Tyrus says.
"This is useless," Armstrong says. "We're not agile, Whitney, face it. It's time to go with Vivian's plan and just cast a net over the startups in the valley that have some actual fucking ideas other than 'popular service, but with a twist.'"
"No," Whitney says. She bangs a palm on the table. "We need some profit NOW. We can't keep borrowing money from old Jews. Old Jews have a bad habit of dying."
Nathan P. Chalmers, who's been sitting in on Whitney's meetings as an observer, starts to say something, but Whitney interjects: "Because they're old! It's not the Jewish thing! Old black people die, too!"
Nathan's eyes bulge but he fails to say anything.
"The internet but for pizza," Whitney says, taking another strip from the fishbowl and ignoring him. "...I don't know what that means." She discards that one takes out yet another slip: "Uh, this one just says cocaine. Not sure what that means either..."
Armstrong stands up, strides across the room, takes the fishbowl, and tosses it against the wall. It shatters into a hundred pieces. Paper flutters in the air like confetti.
"You're fired," Whitney says.
"You can't fire me. It's literally not legal."
"Big words for a guy who's fired."
"You can't--"
In the corner, Kay Vera is furiously scribbling. Armstrong notices her, and gets a look on his face like he's seen a bear who somehow sneaked in. "Who the fuck invited you? Jesus Christ."
"I will begin putting out the feelers, as it were," Vivian says. "Maybe we will find a startup that Whitney will assent to. You need not commit to anything else, Whitney, other than consideration, for the time being..."
"Coming here was the worst decision I ever made," Armstrong whines, mostly to himself. "I should have never left politics."
"I can't hear you over the sound of how fired you are," Whitney says. That does it. He storms out. But this is the 50th time or so that tensions have flared like this; Armstrong will be back at work on Monday like it never happened.
"Thanks, sis," Whitney says, moving on. "You go looking for buyout. We'll keep trying to think of our own ideas too."
Another week over, another disastrous weekly wrap-up meetings in the history books.
You see Whitney and Vivian off for their Grand Canyon excursion. On the rooftop, leaning through the open door of the helicopter, Whitney shouts over the whir of the rotors: "hey, check on that Juan thing for me!"
"What one thing?" You ask.
"The Juan thing! The Mexican chef! Make sure Rosie didn't fuck up like usual! Text me what you find out!" She pecks you on the lips. "Love ya, Ally!"
You're really not good at that kind of thing, so you nod in response.
Vivian kicks her feet and stares out the window in the seat opposite her sister. The earmuffs on her head look comically oversized for her. She watches the two of you with detached interest, and when it's over, she waves goodbye to you. You're still not sure what's going on inside her mind.
---
It's time to see Cerise.
In the main lobby on your way out, you bump into Rose2 on her way back in.
Original Formula Rose, who was supposed to keep an eye on her, is nowhere to be found. But no matter. Rose2 has a short, hirsute man in chef's whites following close behind. She must have succeeded at her task.
"This is Pablo!" Rose2 says.
"I thought his name was..." you begin, but you're not sure, actually. It was some sort of J name.
"Well it's Pablo," Rose2 insists. "And he's super psyched to have some tanoshii as the newest employee at Darkbloom Analytics!"
"Ah..." Pablo begins. "I have not, what you could call, gotten citizenship. So... for the tax forms... ah..."
You stare at the ceiling and mutter curses. Of course. You look down again at Rose2. "I thought you said he was the owner."
"I am," Pablo affirms.
You huff. "Good lord. So you want to get paid under the table, then?"
Pablo nods.
"Whatever. Just... I've got a friend who might be able to make you look legit. There's a lot of FBI agents here, so..."
Pablo blanches.
"Hey Alabaster!" Rose2 says, ignoring the tension there. "I'm supposed to go home for the weekend but my car's broke down..." She purses her lips into a pout traces a forefinger down her cheek as if showing the path of a teardrop. "Could you help a kouhai out and give me a lift?" She grabs your arm. "I'll make it worth your while..."
"I've got somewhere to be," you tell her, backing off.
"That's fine," Rose2 says. "I'm gonna show Pablo the kitchen and then I've got emails and stuff... snore, am I right? But if you've got some time after 5 PM, you know, when you're done with whatever... like I said, I'll make it up to you!"
>[x] I'll give you a ride.
[ ] Sorry, no.
Rose2 squeals, takes your hands, and tries to twirl around with you. But you're not having any of that shit. You refuse to budge.
This rolls off of her like water and she laughs: "See you soon, Alabaster! Byeee~~"
As she walks off with the new chef, you watch her go. The way her plaid skirt ruffles with every step she takes almost hypnotizes you. There's one thing her weeabooism has actually given her the benefit of: the length of the skirt from above, and the length of her stockings from below, give her the Platonic ideal of an absolute zone. And her fleshy thighs are way easier on the eyes than you'd ever want to admit aloud.
You don't notice Noelle coming up alongside you. "If you fuck her, I'm arresting you."
You shake your head, snapping back from the reverie. "For what?"
"Crimes against humanity."
You turn to face her. "I'm ready to go."
"Right." She motions for you to lead the way back to her car. She will personally chaperone you to see Cerise.
The air in the nondescript black Sedan is sterile and somehow still makes you queasy. This car is too clean, too utilitarian... too FBI.
As usual, the ride passes in awkward silence. But this time, Noelle finally tries to punctuate it:
"Watching anything this season?"
You don't reply.
"I've been watching the new NeeKyu," she offers. "I can't believe they renewed it after all these years... of course, it's just the same old haremshit, so it's like, whatever. But this season sucks... nothing good at all."
"You've got to be kidding me," you finally say. You shoot her a sour look. "Do they give you cue cards to read off of, or what?"
She frowns.
"You almost had me," you say. "Once. A year ago. But give it up, Noelle. I'm not buying it now."
The silence that descends is much heavier than before.
"You like trivia, right?" Noelle says after a seeming eternity. "I've got one you might not know. Did you ever hear that the majority of climbers who die on Everest, die on their way back down?"
"No," you say, truthfully.
"It's true. They keep pushing for the summit despite inclement conditions, and they actually make it... they get to the top... but they run low on supplies doing it, and can't make it back."
"Right. How do I fit into this metaphor? How am I supposed to turn back?"
"The FBI has the world's best witness protection program. I'll make sure you're safe... you, and Cerise, and Whitney..."
"I'll take it into consideration," you say tersely, and this terminates the conversation for the rest of the trip.
The steady beep of monitors is the only sound in the room. Cerise is where you left her last time, and the time before that, and the time before that... in a hospital gurney, wearing a hospital gown, wired up like only a hospital can wire someone up. Her eyes are open, but no one is home: she stares straight ahead, lips slightly parted, as emotive as a guppy out of water.
You sit down next to her.
"Hey," you say. "Sorry I'm a bit late. You're looking better, though..."
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Now the old ritual. You relate the trials of the past week, and you have to assume she's listening, even if she can give no indication.
"And Mara... Mara's starting to really scare me. She keeps talking about what she'll do when she gets her hands on what's in your head... and I don't know what--" You sigh. "I just wish you'd wake up, Cerise. I mean really wake up. Could you try that, for me, to wake up? Cerise?"
You nudge her shoulder, and it jostles her, but there is no response. "Wake up," you insist, shaking her a bit harder now. Something like a mix of anger and desperation grip at you the more you try. "Cerise. Wake up. Are you listening to me? Goddamn it. Are you gonna wake up already? It's almost your birthday now. Are you gonna be here forever or what? Wake up! Cerise!" You're really shaking her now, the whole bed is swaying back and forth on its wheels. But she isn't responding at all.
"I need you! Is that what you wanted to hear? Then fine -- there it is! I need you, Cerise! So wake up!"
The force of your efforts shakes loose the covers around her, and her gown falls open to reveal the mess of wires adhered to her chest, the IV's in her arms. And all the while she stares catatonically ahead, as good as dead. You catch yourself on the brink, stop, step back, your breathing ragged. She's not ready yet to wake up.
You're washing your hands in the sink when she comes in. "Dr. Carte," you say, surprised.
"Call me Renee."
You lean in and whisper, as if Cerise will overhear: "how's she doing?"
"I'm close," Renee says, and whether it's just for your sake or not, she's whispering too. "I do think it's reversible."
Close is good. Reversible is better.
"How much longer?"
"I'm talking days here, Alabaster. But I do need a little help... and the fucking feds have their eyes on this place... on me..."
You know what she's driving at. "Gal is smart. If you need her here, I'm sure she can find her way in. Technologically, I mean. The courage to leave her apartment, though..."
"I'm counting on you," Dr. Carte says. "So's your sister. Can you have her here on Monday?"
Short notice. But you need to try. If Cerise could wake up... you'd do anything for that.
---
Outside, Dr. Carte lights up a cigarette and shares a reproachful gaze with Noelle, who's waiting a short walk across the parking lot beside the car.
You're about to go, but something holds you back.
"Spare one?" You ask her.
"One what?" Dr. Carte replies.
"A cigarette."
"Cigarettes are bad for your health."
"Thanks, doctor. It doesn't seem to be stopping you."
"I'm an adult," she says.
"Yeah? So am I."
"I'm an older adult!" She insists.
But she relents at your unimpressed look. She hands you a cigarette and directs you to put it to your lips. Then something you didn't expect: she leans in, lighting yours with the glowing cherry of hers.
You begin to cough immediately.
"That's what I thought," she says.
"Don't bitch at me. I'm not interested."
You struggle through the cigarette, hacking and coughing the whole time. From the distance, Noelle watches with a bemused expression.
"Where's Whitney?" Dr. Carte asks after a few minutes.
"Grand Canyon."
"Could you, for once, not be a sarcastic little shit?"
You shake your head. "I'm for real. She went on a helicopter tour with Vivian."
"...Really?"
"Scout's honor."
"You're no scout." She throws her butt down, stomps on it. "Vivian went along willingly, then?"
You nod.
The smile on Dr. Carte's lips is warm and broad. "I'm glad to hear it. I want them to get along..."
You try to take an appreciative drag to that, but it just makes you double over and threaten to lose a lung. Dr. Carte saves you by snatching the cigarette from your fingers and finishing it for you.
"Call that a failed experiment," she says. "If I see you smoking again, I'll kick your ass."
"Whatever, mom."
"Such a rude little brat." She squeezes your shoulder. "Go talk with Gal. We're waking Cerise up on Monday."
Noelle drops you at the parking garage across from work. you pick up your car and swing it around to where Rose2 texted you she'd be waiting.
She's there, but she seems a little surprised to see you as you step out onto the curb.
"Are you ready or not?" You demand.
"Ready?"
"To go home. Fuck..."
"Oh gosh..." she mutters. "Yeah, you were gonna take me, huh?"
"Is this a joke?" You say. "You're joking, right?"
"I totally forgot!" She slaps her forehead with the heel of her palm. "A-durr! I'm such an airhead."
"Okay, so if you forgot I was taking you -- why were you waiting here?"
"I got my imouto to pick me up! She just got her license, so she's been super psyched to drive, you know? She drove all the way up to get me. Just like that!" She snaps her fingers.
"You never told me you had a little sister," you say.
"Uh, a-yes I have," she says. "Geez, Alabaster, you could at least pay attention when I tell you stuff. Come on!"
"Well anyway, thanks for wasting my time." You make for the door to your car, but stop when you see another car slowly pulling up.
"There she is now!" Rose2 says. "Amber! Over here!"
Your heart does backflips in your chest and you actually begin to shake. This can't be real. But it's real. Camelia is in the driver's seat of an old Toyota Camry.
She rolls down the window and sits her butt on the frame, waving to Rose2. "Toot toot, bitches! Hop the fuck in!"
Rose2 turns to you, but your sights are fixed on this fucking zombie sitting before you. Her hair is red. Her eyes are blue as lapis. She's not wearing an eyepatch.
"Thanks anyway, Alabaster," Rose2 is saying, but she may as well be droning like a desk fan because you're not paying attention.
"Who's the creep?" Camelia says.
"This is Alabaster! Alabaster, this is Amber!"
You can only gawp.
"This is the guy you're so crazy about?" Camelia says, snorting.
"Amber!!!" Rose2 squeaks, indignant and shocked. "What the heck!"
"Figures this is the kind of guy you're into. What a weirdo. Did he decide to pretend he's one of those deaf-mutes, or what?" She waves a flattened palm up and down like wiping off a windshield. "Hellloooo? Anyone home?"
You stammer, but nothing intelligible comes out.
"It's like he saw a ghost or something..." Camelia says.
Rose2 tugs on your arm. "I'm sorry about my beloved imouto. Don't take it personal. She's like this with everyone."
"Your sister..." is the only thing you finally manage.
"I'll see you Monday, Alabaster! Thanks again!"
She hugs you and gets in the car. Camelia slinks back into the driver's seat.
As Camelia pulls away, she flips you off, laughing.
Her tires screech on the asphalt, leaving behind burnt black rubber in their wake, and you blink in shock at the receding car.
END OF EPISODE 1.