You are Alabaster Soliloquy, human tank and quickshot.
"Thank you, Damon, for picking us up."
"Aye."
Vivian steps into the limo's spacious backseat, lifting her dress to give her feet clearance, and Cerise follows. Drawing the plexiglass privacy window shut, the curtains too, Vivian turns to Cerise and says: "I am giving you three hours. And not a single second longer."
"Sable Guiteau is alive. She is plotting against this company. And--"
"That hardly comes as a surprise. Next I suppose you will tell me that Alabaster Soliloquy is intimately involved."
"Yes. Vivian, I made such a terrible mistake of judgment with Alabaster. He is a madman. A reckless, sadistic pervert -- a myopic, unstable -- for heaven's sake, he's involved in an incestuous relationship with his own sister!"
Vivian frowns. She appears totally unmoved by such a sordid revelation.
David continues. "He cannot be relied upon. Nor Whitney, I'm sorry to report, until we can isolate her from his influence. If left unchecked, he will be the death knell of our family legacy."
"Why do you suppose that matters to me?" Vivian asks, cocking her head.
He stammers. "Because this company... because, for all these years..." But David trails off. He can't even bring himself to contemplate that Vivian wouldn't want to save the family business.
"Alabaster Soliloquy is a madman. Is he madder than someone who performs medical experiments on young children?"
David scowls. "Vivian. Be reasonable. I never--"
"Shall we alert our security detail to help us locate Sable Guiteau?" Vivian asks.
"No -- no! We must do this in secret. There is no telling who might be compromised. Between Sable, and Alabaster, and your mother -- we are hedged in by enemies on all sides. Vivian... you are the only person I can trust. I beg of you, please help me."
"Why do you trust me?" Vivian asks him.
"I -- I have to. I have to trust you. You're the only thing I have left in this godforsaken world. If I cannot even trust you..."
"Spare me the melodramatic self-pity," Vivian tells him. "What would you have me do? How shall we stain our hands with blood today, father?"
"What comes next will not be on your head. You need not do a thing. But as for me -- I must kill Sable Guiteau. And Mara. You understand, of course. They are not merely threats to our company, and our legacy, but also to this young man Alabaster who you are so suicidally attracted to."
"Killing people comes as naturally to you as breathing, it seems."
David has no response.
"Did you murder Alabaster Soliloquy's parents?" Vivian asks.
David has no response to this, either.
"Your silence speaks volumes," Vivian says.
"I regret my choices bitterly," David replies. "I was also myopic... I was also mad... I want to make things right."
"There can be no making it right," Vivian says.
"At least I can make you safe, then -- the man you love, too. And once it's over, I suppose you will want to get in touch again with Gustav, and have me removed from Cerise's head. My life will be in your hands at that point, Vivian."
"In other words, I would be free to do what Alabaster Soliloquy failed to, and destroy you."
"You could do that... I would not blame you." He pauses, and then: "But I should at least give you a full understanding of what it is, exactly, I've let loose upon the world."
"Sand Reckoner?"
"Have you ever heard the name Albert Stubblebine?" David asks.
---
You take the elevator down to Rose's office, hoping that you can intercept her before she has a chance to speak with Saul.
When you get there, Rose is at the window, staring out, her expression like that of a shell-shocked soldier just back from the trenches. She tenses when you come in, but doesn't acknowledge your presence -- just keeps watching the quad below.
She definitely knows already.
You wait awkwardly for a brief moment, trying to think of what to say. Your lips part and close several times but no words come out. Finally, you find the wherewithal to begin: "I didn't--"
Rose turns quickly, snapping to, standing straight. She cuts you off: "Fuck what Whitney says. We need to find Cerise."
You blink, and then nod. "Right," you agree. First things are first, of course. You can figure out the future of the Soliloquy family once every Soliloquy is safe again.
"Where would Darkbloom have gone?" Rose asks.
"If you're right, then he was awake at least as far back as yesterday afternoon. He would have heard us talking with Sable. So I guess he would want to find her. Either her or Mara. Or..." you gulp. "Or us."
Rose rubs her chin. "Sable first," she says. "She's the one who's the biggest direct threat to the things he values. If there's one fact I've learned about David Darkbloom, it's that he tackles things as efficiently and logically as possible..."
"How the hell are we going to find her? Or Cerise for that matter?"
"Alex would be our best lead. Err. Pardon the pun."
She's right. "I'll go talk to him," you say, and turn to hurry out. But Rose stops you.
"Alabaster--" she says anxiously. You glance back and lock eyes with her. She fiddles with the buttons of her blouse. "We... should talk later," she finishes.
You take your exit, and let that hang in the air.
Down in the R&D dungeon where you spent so long last year as an intern, the place is abuzz with activity. A veritable army of coders sit at their workstations, puzzling away, constructing by bits and pieces the codebase for what will become Diogenes. Alex, as manager, is far more exacting and organized than Sable ever was. Kanban boards and Gantt charts line the walls, littered with sticky notes, and the office space is divided into subsections with clear labels -- 'Data Stream Compression and Decompression' -- 'Video Analysis' -- 'Blockchain Fingerprinting' -- 'Sand Reckoner Reintegration' -- and others.
Alex, forced by the lack of real estate to overcome his superstition against claiming Sable's old, vacant office, is in there. The name plaque on the door no longer reads "S. Guiteau, R&D Lead" but "A. Best, R&D Lead."
You don't bother knocking when you enter.
Inside, you find Alex's desk empty, the room dark and quiet. You gently close the door behind you. "Alex?" You call out. It's rare that he isn't in his office.
"Back here," answers a voice -- Whitney's. She must have come down while you were speaking with Rose.
That's when you notice that the miniature gadget lab at the far end of the cramped office, somewhat hidden behind a mountain of PCs and spare parts, is lit by the overhead fluorescent bulbs back there.
And now also you hear a gentle, rhythmic squelching sound, like the last of water glugging down a sink drain.
As you round the corner, you see something half-expected, and half-surprising.
Whitney is busily raping Alex -- a cherished pastime of hers -- but she isn't the only one. Joining her today is Makoto.
Alex is sitting on his knees on the white tile floor. He's naked save for a pair of lace panties, the front bulging obscenely with his erection, and slimy with his precum. Whitney has his arms restrained behind his back, holding them in place. She is also naked, and wears a truly vicious-looking strap-on attached by a harness to her waist. Using her grip on his arms for leverage, she buggers him with fast, deep thrusts. Her small but supple tits jiggle with the effort.
Alex would surely be crying out in his feminine mixture of agony and pleasure, but his mouth is occupied. Makoto, in front of the pair, holds a second dildo. She uses it to violate Alex's little throat, pumping it in and out with merciless focus. Alex's head is all the way back, allowing the pink sex toy total access to his tight esophagus. That's where the low, guttural squelching comes from; it's the sound of this ersatz dick sliding in and out of his cock-dump of a mouth.
"I do not understand," Makoto says. She is the only one of the three wearing clothes, although she isn't exactly decent. Her free hand is snaked up under her miniskirt and she is obviously masturbating as she debauches the boy in front of her. "How does raping a boy pertain to the tastes of Whitney Darkbloom?"
Whitney laughs, even as she continues to hump Alex's tight bubble butt. "Alex is a sissy little gay boy. He's basically a girl. So raping him is just as fun as raping a girl... or maybe even more..."
Alex shivers, and closes his eyes. He loves it when people degrade him, especially Whitney.
Makoto makes a mental note of Whitney's explanation, nodding, and her fingers quicken against her cunt. For her, as always, learning is fun.
"Besides, he needs to be punished for his dishonesty," Whitney murmurs. "He's been a naughty little faggot lately... haven't you?" She punctuates this with a few especially hard strokes up his asshole that Alex clearly feels way up inside his guts. He begins to quake all over and his little cock squirts a few fat dollops of semen in his panties. Makoto licks her lips -- she enjoys seeing that reaction.
You know time is of the essence, but seeing this has flipped a switch in your head too. You can spare a couple minutes to use Alex as a cumdumpster -- it'll take the edge off, and maybe make him more pliant after the fact.
Whitney already can tell. "I think Ally's getting all hard~" She coos. She rests her chin on Alex's shoulder and asks him: "Should he blow a load in your ass or down your throat? What do you think, faggot?"
Makoto is quick on the uptake. She removes the dildo from Alex's throat just long enough for him to answer. She slides it out, eliciting a lewd, wet sucking noise. She keeps it clasped in the air right above his face, strands of spittle suspended between. Alex stares stupidly, vacantly up at the smooth pink plastic dick as he tries to conceive an answer. Unbelievably, the dildo Makoto was using on him is also a vibrator, and she had it set to max. You wonder what that felt like for poor Alex, a vibrating cock getting rammed all the way down his gullet. The thing buzzes loudly as Alex stares at it. Whitney is still railing him hard, getting her own cunt off with the force of her jackhammer thrusts. She cums, spraying the tile floor of the lab, but she doesn't relent. There are few things she gets more enjoyment out of than raping Alex.
"Answer me," Whitney growls between climaxes.
"My..." he gasps, hardly able to speak from all the abuse. "My... ass..."
"Ungrateful little slut," Whitney snaps. She grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head way back. She hocks up a wad of spit, right in his face. "If you want him to fuck your ass, say please."
Alex's jaw parts slightly and he stares up at Whitney's evil eyes as the spit runs in a little rivulet down his girly face. He seems caught between despair and ecstasy. He wells up with tears. And then his voice comes, small, hoarse, and stuttery. "P... please... p-please use my ass..."
Whitney lets go of Alex's arms and pushes him off her pistoning cock. Like a heap of garbage, she tosses him to the ground, where he falls on his stomach. Weakened and defeated, he can't rise, and just lies there prone and trembling. Makoto sits on her butt right in front of him, gets her legs spread wide, hikes up her plaid skirt, and masturbates her naked cunt with abandon. She repeats her vocab words to him: "Slut. Whore. Faggot." -- and her own cruel obscenity brings her to ever higher plateaus of pleasure as she plays with herself.
"Go ahead," Whitney tells you. "I warmed him up for you."
You quickly discard your clothes and, fully naked, you mount Alex. Since he's totally sapped and cannot even summon the strength to rise to a doggy position, you have to lie atop him. You get your cock lined up with the stretched pucker of his pale asshole, and plunge inside. He seethes in renewed pain, your cock being both longer and thicker than the one Whitney was using on him. Settling down, your belly to his back, you get your arms looped under his armpits. Your weight is fully pressing down on him and your cock is all the way up him. Like this, you begin to hump him with a one-track mind. Your goal is to cum as quickly and as hard as possible inside him. He's nothing but a cum-rag right now.
Unprompted, Alex reaches out and begins to kiss Makoto's bare feet. Whitney, circling them, watches from over Makoto's shoulder with a smile. "He's a submissive little cunt, isn't he?" Whitney says.
"Mm," Makoto agrees. She wiggles her toes and enjoys the way Alex plants a trail of kisses up and down her soles. Taking advantage of the opportunity to learn new angles to her sadism, she begins to press both her feet firmly against his face. It practically crushes his nose, and distorts his features. She rubs her feet back and forth, treading on Alex's face, a pantomime of walking on him.
By way of rewarding her star pupil, Whitney throws her arms over Makoto's shoulders, and kisses her. The two women make out lewdly, like a couple of horny teenagers, and Makoto continues to rub her dainty feet all over Alex's face. Whitney, in a giving mood it seems, reaches further down and replaces Makoto's hand against her cunt. She gets her fingers inside Makoto and pleasures the tiny idol singer with expert ministrations.
"Seeing-- two men mate like dogs -- is so -- fun--" Makoto breathes. But she's staring less at the sight of you ramming into Alex's deliciously slippery boypussy, and more into the depths of Whitney's eyes.
Whitney kisses Makoto again, and then slyly, she intones: "Making him lick your feet is cool, but his mouth can do so much more..."
You can barely pay attention as you hammer in and out of Alex's anus and feel your nut coming on fast. Alex tries so hard to be a big man these days, but there's no doubt about it, he's got the soul of a girl, one who was made to get fucked hard. Alex lives for servicing cock. The wet, clamping glove of his ass is just as good as any woman's cunt.
"That's it... see?" Whitney purrs. Looking up, you catch sight of Alex's lips latching onto Makoto's neatly trimmed pussy. He envelops her labia with his mouth and suckles on the girl's genitals like a nursing infant. Makoto writhes in delight, staring down at him. To add to her cum, Whitney uses the digits of a flattened palm to roughly strum Makoto's clit. The small, soft bed of pubic hair above Makoto's pussy becomes creamy with her own cum as Whitney jills her off and Alex sucks on her.
"Kiss me, again..." Makoto breathes. And Whitney can never resist an invitation to lez out with a pretty girl, so she does. This whole thing might be just a little gay.
Never mind. You don't care; all you want to do right now is blast Alex's insides with a thick load of jizz. Up and down you hump, pounding Alex directly into the cold tile floor. He can't complain, not with his mouth full of a pop star's juicing pussy, so you have free rein to use him as hard as you want -- as hard as this boy-whore deserves.
"This is what you get," you snarl in his ear. "This is what you get for lying to me..."
"Nnn--" he mumbles, muffled by Makoto's vulva. She bucks her hips against his face, an eager participant in Alex's punishment, even if she doesn't know the reasons why. Makoto doesn't need a reason to rape someone. She just enjoys doing it. Her tongue probes Whitney's mouth as she rides out her orgasm. Alex's face becomes wet and slimy with her fragrant cum.
"I'm gonna cum in you," you tell him, "I'm gonna blow my fucking load in you. Thank me."
"Thnnnk nnuuu," Alex tries gamely. Makoto isn't willing to give him the air to do it properly, too intently focused on her own enjoyment of Alex's body. Her slender frame trembles all over and she redoubles the efforts of her curious tongue in Whitney's mouth. Whitney seems a bit taken aback by just how ravenous and rapacious Makoto is, and clearly isn't running the show anymore in their makeout session. But that's fine, too. Her eyes are smiling; she likes the monster she's brought out in the prim and proper Makoto.
Alex's ass begins to spasm around your cock, hugging and kissing it from the inside. As your horny dick saws in and out, your balls slap against his, and you feel them become sticky. Alex, his cock pinned against the hard tile, his ass and mouth getting raped at the same time, is cumming. You thrust especially deep now, making sure the mushroom tip of your dick rubs his prostate, knowing he's particularly sensitive and vulnerable now. And that, plus the sensual grip of his cunt, makes you cum. You squirt your steamy load all the way inside him, making sure that he really feels it. And despite being half-suffocated by Makoto's pussy, he cries out. His voice is shrill and lilting. The vibration of it makes Makoto cum, too, extra hard this time. She clamps her lithe thighs around Alex's ears and rides his face without reservations. At the same time, she runs her hands through Whitney's short-cropped hair and practically fucks her mouth with her tongue. Man, does she get violent when she's cumming. When she's done, and she pulls off the ruined little boy, she mirrors her teacher and spits on Alex, too. This just makes him mewl and squirt one last trickle of cum from his still erect cock.
Whitney and Makoto get themselves presentable again. On her way out, Whitney winks, and whispers to you: "That was fun. I figure you'll probably want to go looking for Cerise, huh? Maybe he'll be more willing to help you, now..."
She's smarter than she seems sometimes.
She kisses you. You're a bit upset at her right now for how cavalier she's been about Cerise's disappearance, but the softness of her lips is difficult to resist.
She steps back. "I have a meeting to get to," she says. "You can sit in if you want, of course. That cunt Mara's gonna be there... could get ugly."
Whitney goes. Alone with Alex again, he's still a bit worse for the wear. You're fine with that -- and you're especially fine watching him, still naked, your seed still leaking out of him, as he licks up the mess you all made on the tile floor. So submissive when you apply a little force. And Whitney is right: this is the perfect time to broach the topic.
You get him upright, on weak and wobbly legs, and sit him down in a wheeled office chair. He's flushed and swooning.
"I need to speak with Sable," you tell him. "Where is she?"
"...Sable...?" He murmurs. "Why?"
"What the hell do you mean, 'why'? I have about a billion questions for her, that's why. Your girl Friday hasn't been exactly forthcoming, has she. I need some answers if I'm going to take part in -- whatever the hell it is she's cooking up."
"I don't know where she is..." he says, back of his palm to his forehead. He's still basking in the afterglow. But you need his head in the game here.
"Liar," you accuse.
"I'm not lying, Ally!" He's suddenly much more lucid, and his eyes are full of recrimination. "I -- never mind. If you want to arrange a meeting..." he leans forward, gropes for his crumpled jeans where they lie on the floor. "I can text her. Usually she can make it within an hour or two of contact."
He begins to type up a text to Sable.
[ ] Demand that you'll see Sable alone.
>[x] Let Alex play it his way.
After a few moments, Alex glances up from the screen. "She'll be at the Rutabaga Cafe on Middlefield... 8 PM."
You nod. You consider telling him that there might be an unwanted guest, or two, but you decide against it.
Unexpectedly, Dr. Carte rounds the corner and enters the small lab. She quickly appraises the scene -- the wet mess on the floor, you and Alex both still naked.
"I always miss all the fun," she grouses.
You begin to get dressed again. You're still angry at her -- especially as she lights up a cigarette in your vicinity. It stinks.
"What are you doing here?" You demand.
"I'm a faithful employee," Dr. Carte avers. "Attached to the Diogenes project."
"I need Ms. Carte's input on how to make her implant design more easily mass-produced," Alex explains. "She's critical to our success..."
"Of course, the job comes with its perks, too," Dr. Carte says. She pokes Alex in his side, and he jolts.
"H-hey," he whines. "Don't just poke me without any--"
"Shut it!" Dr. Carte booms.
Alex shuts it. As always, he's easily bossed around by an even halfway dominant woman.
Dr. Carte lays a hand on your shoulder and leans in close. "I'm..." she murmurs, "I'm so sorry about what happened."
"Forget it," you say gruffly.
"Any leads?" She asks hopefully.
>[x] Invite her along to the meeting with Sable.
[ ] Don't tell her.
"I'm meeting Sable Guiteau at 8 PM tonight," you tell her.
"Ally--" Alex begins, upset, but you shush him.
"You said Dr. Carte is critical to this project, right? Well then, she deserves to be in the loop as much as anyone."
Alex shakes his head. He might be kinky in the bedroom, but he doesn't like not being in control where it counts.
"I'll be there," Dr. Carte tells you.
You whisper: "Darkbloom might be there too. And Vivian."
Dr. Carte's eyes shimmer. "Then I'll definitely be there," she says.
The executive board meeting doesn't actually start for another 20 minutes -- so even if you're going to go, you've got some time to do something else. You need to speak with Saul.
It being not long after lunch, you know precisely where to find him: the employee gym. You scope it out from the safety of the employee cafeteria, first -- watching in through the tall glass walls that separate the eaters from the exercisers. Yep, Saul is there all right -- in a plain white tee and nylon shorts, working out, his usual routine. He's at an exercise machine doing bench presses. You read off where he has the pin in the weight stack: 250 lbs. You're not sure, but that's probably impressive. He does work out religiously.
However, between sets, wiping his forehead with a small towel, he takes notice of a woman doing some sort of cardiovascular balance exercises on a giant, striated, inflatable grey ball.
Saul stands now, goes over, and strikes up a conversation. The woman smiles brightly and allows Saul to touch her -- one hand on her shoulder, another on her taut butt accentuated by form-fitting yoga pants. He's helping her with her form, of course. Nothing lurid or sexual about that... yeah, right.
Saul has a type, it seems. And you respect the hell out of his taste. The woman whose form he's helping on her balance ball is a MILFy little piece with nice thick thighs and an hourglass shape, not fat, but definitely no question about her ability to bear a child...
You shudder. If you had seen this a few weeks ago, you would have simply assumed that Saul is being his usual solicitous, gregarious, type-A self and just helping out another gym rat. After your encounter with Charlotte, of course, you know the truth. She wasn't lying; she's not the only one to stray from the vows of marriage. You can swear you see Saul's hand give that woman's ass a little squeeze.
When Saul moves on to the treadmills for a little wind-down, you decide to go in too. You feel awkward in gym clothes, but you're trying to play it nonchalant -- just a fellow exerciser happening to bump in to him during your routine.
Quickly, and feeling self-conscious, you walk up to the treadmill next to Saul's. You get on and fiddle with the front panel. You don't do this often -- as in ever -- and you realize right away that these machines are much more complicated than you guessed. Saul, maintaining a nice cruising pace of 8 MPH with his fists pumping in time to his jogging feet, glances over at you, wryly, but says nothing.
You startle when the treads come to life, and start jogging to keep up. But it's hopeless: you're quickly outpaced by the machine. You grab onto the side rails for dear life, still kicking your feet madly, but too late. You fall ass over elbow and get ejected off the treadmill in a moment of pure slapstick. You hope no one saw.
You hear Saul's machine slow to a stop and beep when it turns off. He steps down and helps you to your feet. You dust yourself off, ashamed, unable to meet his eyes.
"I see you heard the good news," he says.
You grumble.
"I've got one for you," he says. "You know, they say the shortest complete sentence in the English language is 'I am.' And you know what the longest sentence is? 'I do'! Haha. That's a joke. Learn to laugh a little."
You finally look up at him. "Are you really... okay with me marrying your daughter?"
"Oh my god. Oh Jesus, no. Hell, no." He puts his hands on his hips. "Beyond the fact that you're cousins--"
"Once--"
"I will punch you in the jaw. You will be eating liquid food through a straw for the next three months. I swear to all that's holy, Alabaster."
You shut up.
"Beyond the fact that you're cousins... I don't approve of you anyway. If you want to know the honest truth, you've been a horrible influence on my girl and led her down a path of violence, greed, and perversion. Taking you into my home was the worst mistake of my life."
That sounds more like the Saul you know. You nod. "So why are you doing this?"
"A, because there's no other way. B, because despite how I feel about you, Rose loves you. You're the one and only thing I've never been able to convince her about. So, congratulations. She's her mother's daughter after all."
"She's not going to agree -- I don't want to get -- Jesus fuck, Saul. You could have asked first."
He chuckles. "Yeah, sure. You and Rose, oil and water, definitely nothing there. It's a marriage purely for show, of course..." He tilts his head. "Shouldn't you be discussing this with her, though?"
He nods towards the windows that look in on the cafeteria. You feel a jolt of panic, turn, and glance over. A flash of yellow hair disappearing around a corner and out the doors is all you glimpse. Rose was spying, of course... so naturally that means she saw your little incident on the treadmill. Great.
You grab a slice of pizza from the canteen on your way back down to the lockers to get dressed in your work clothes again. Naturally, Rose intercepts you in the stairwell. How does she always find you? You don't even have your phone on you right now.
"Do you ever get tired of stalking me?" You ask.
"No. How did it go with Alex?"
"It went. I'm meeting Sable at 8. Rutabaga Cafe. If Darkbloom somehow manages to find her, I'll be with her from that point forward."
"Naturally, I'll come too."
"Naturally. I guess you won't wait for me to invite you --"
"No. Is that barbecue chicken?" She reaches out and grabs your pizza from you before you have a chance to stop her. She takes a couple bites. Then she hands it back as if she's doing you a favor.
"Don't start taking liberties, Rose. Nothing's changed."
She swallows. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Uh huh." You eat your pizza sullenly.
"Whitney's meeting with the board. So here's something I actually will defer to you on. Are you going too, or should one of us go to the Rutabaga Cafe?"
[ ] Go to the board meeting together.
>[x] Send Rose to the meeting, head directly to the cafe.
[ ] Go to the meeting, send Rose to the cafe.
The trappings of this cutesy little cafe are anything but nostalgic. Just the unique aroma of their specialty coffee being brewed is enough to make you queasy with the memory of how it all began -- a meeting with Camelia that marked the beginning of your life's rapid descent into mayhem.
You check the time: you're a couple hours early. But it's best to catch Sable early than to get here too late. She's going to be here for sure, so maybe she'll arrive sooner than scheduled, too; and if Darkbloom is going after her, it's best to maximize your odds of intercepting him.
You're so mad at Vivian that you can hardly put it into words. The more you think about it, the worse the betrayal stings. You know you'll never trust her again.
The steel of one of Rose's pistols is cool against your skin, tucked into your waistband and concealed by your shirt. Hopefully you don't need to use it.
You jostle your legs and down cup after cup of coffee, anxious. They were right: the waiting is the hardest part. Patrons come and go, the sun begins to droop in the sky, and still you wait. After a while you begin to worry that you made a mistake not being present at the board meeting. The silence from both Whitney and Rose is deafening. You could easily picture Mara staging something terrible in a moment of retributive rage.
"Early..."
You look up. Wearing a hood and big square sunglasses, but unmistakable anyway, is Sable.
She sits across from you.
"I'll cut to the chase," you say. "You're in danger. Someone wants to kill you."
"Many people want to kill me, Alabaster. At this point, I'm accustomed to it."
"Well, one of them might be closer to it than the others. David Darkbloom is after you."
"David Darkbloom is dead."
You rest your cheek on your fist. "No, he isn't. But that doesn't surprise you, does it?"
Sable is inscrutable behind her ridiculous domestic-terrorist cosplay.
"Partly thanks to your work," you explain, "David Darkbloom lives on inside my sister."
"It isn't David Darkbloom," Sable says. "It's some reconstruction of his consciousness... an echo... like the ripples in a pond after you drop a rock in. David Darkbloom is dead."
"Well whatever it is, it sure as hell acts a lot like him. And so it considers you enemy #1. He heard you talking to us yesterday -- and I'm sure he's not happy."
"Just don't go taking after his strange ideas," Sable says.
"His strange ideas? You're one to talk."
"What I mean to say is -- the map is not the territory. Sand Reckoner can change, but it can also simulate. Don't conflate the two. The thing in your sister's brain is a simulation. Just like that silly VR game. That's all."
"I honestly don't care. I want it out of Cerise. Can you help me with that?"
"Unfortunately not. Ask your friend Renee Carte."
"She'll be here, too. Congratulations, Sable. The whole band's getting together, and you're the conductor. Care to clue me in on what we're actually doing now?"
"I brought a visual aid," she says. "Do you mind if I go get it?"
"From your van? Oh no you don't. I'm not letting you run away. We go together."
"I would never dream of running. Not from such an important meeting. But be my guest. The van is more private anyway."
Sable's van is the same as ever. Same mattress in the back, same miniature appliances, same cozy furnishings and amber-colored lighting. She chooses to live like this, and you guess you can see the appeal if you squint, but you'd take Whitney's mansion any day.
Sitting cross-legged opposite Sable on her bed, you watch as she places a strange contraption between the two of you. It's a thin rectangular device made of balsa wood, maybe 12 inches tall, with glass windows on either side to peer at its inner workings. A series of tiny, identical ball bearings lie in a line at the very top, and beneath this is a series of ridges slanting in alternating directions for them to roll down. The device is filled with liquid, which is separated top to bottom in clearly demarcated, colored layers -- a rainbow -- from red to violet. Sable pulls a little lever on the side and the bearings slowly sink down, rolling from layer to layer. Occasionally one of the bearings falls out of the procession, though -- instead of dropping to the next ridge down, it stays suspended on the current layer of liquid, neutrally buoyant. And like this, the bearings, which looked identical, are shown not to be -- they are sorted by density from lightest to heaviest.
"Cute," you muse.
"The bearings began together, and then got sorted."
"I understand high school physics. Give me a little credit here. Did you make this thing yourself? You look super proud of it."
Sable points at the window, to where the bearings float in suspension. "Sand Reckoner is the fluid. Diogenes is the framework. You need both to sort people into their ideal state. Without Diogenes, we become muddled and mixed up, conflicting realities battle with each other for dominance and the world becomes crazy. That's our world currently, by the way. And without Sand Reckoner, of course, Diogenes is pointless. All the people stay together in one reality. Which is ideal for some, but not for all. That was our world before Sand Reckoner."
You begin to grasp the contours of what she's trying to tell you. "That sounds basically identical to what Darkbloom wanted, though -- isn't it?"
"No! No, absolutely not!" (Christ, she gets shrill when she's mad.) "David Darkbloom was a moron. He thought he could half-ass it and just give the people a nice simulation. Stupid, stupid, stupid. My vision takes it one step further. We can all be sorted properly, and enjoy our most ideal world -- and it will all be real."
You pick up Sable's device and examine it. "How do you get the bearings back up to the top?" You ask.
"You don't. It's an irreversible process."
"Uh huh. Or you could just break the window open--"
Sable grabs it back from you. "Some people would want to do that. But that doesn't apply to the analogy." She scowls at you. "You've had sex recently."
"Uh. What."
"You come into my abode stinking of sex and misunderstanding simple analogies. It's absurd. Did you fuck Alex? I can smell his cologne on you. He told me that the two of you were through. Was that a lie?"
"Are you jealous?"
"Why would I be jealous. Alex is a colleague. Sure, we've fooled around, but..."
"You are jealous."
Sable slaps you.
"Oh, fuck you. You crazy bitch."
She slaps you again.
You grab her by the wrists and pin her hands to the mattress. "You play nice, now," you say. "I don't want to rough you up like Alex did."
She spits at you. And then, as you groan in disgust and anger, she lurches forward and kisses you. Unstable Sable at her finest.
You force her backwards, getting her up against the wall of her van, and kiss her forecfully back. Despite her aggression, she's shaking. Your kiss only makes it worse.
"I missed that," Sable says, an insane lilt to her voice. "You kiss much better than Alex does."
"Has he been fucking you?"
"Who's jealous now?" Sable says. "Are you angry, Alabaster? Upset your two playmates played without you?"
"Just curious," you claim. "You honestly mean nothing to me."
"Liar," Sable says.
You kiss her again, and this time, you grip her face with both hands. You hold her roughly, almost violently. And Sable, her wrists no longer pinned, beats against your shoulders. This feels something like an oncoming rape. But when you pull away, Sable is all of a sudden docile. She looks up at you with big doe eyes and says: "Will you... play with me, Alabaster?"
You sneer at her. "Play with you how?"
"Play with... my genitals..."
That oddly anatomical request is also somehow oddly lewd. You can't but comply. You grab the waistband of Sable's pants and tug them down. As you do so, you find a gun, which falls to the mattress with a soft 'pwah'.
"Jesus," you exclaim. "Fucking warn me-- I could have shot one of us."
But as you sweep the gun aside, Sable is tugging at your belt, and now she discovers the gun that you yourself brought along. Your heart seizes in raw panic as she curls her slender fingers around the grip. You jolt and steal the gun back from her.
"Hypocrite," she laughs huskily.
"I brought it for your own good," you tell her. "To protect both of us."
"It's dangerous these days, isn't it? Isn't that fun?"
"You're fucking nuts. God."
Sable rises to her knees. Her pantied crotch, with the cleft of her pussy plainly visible through the thin white cotton, is directly in your face. She tenderly grasps your shoulders and then squats a little lower, towards your hand, where you hold your pistol. Unbelievably, she rubs her cunt against it. She rubs herself on your gun.
"What the FUCK, Sable--"
"It's so dangerous -- and so, so fun..."
Even with proper trigger discipline as inculcated by Rose, you're terrified that you're going to make a fatal mistake as Sable uses your weapon for a sex toy. But then, you suppose, that's what gets her off. The risk, the insane, needless risk. Her crotch gets wetter and wetter as she rises languidly up and down the steel barrel of the semi-automatic pistol. Her panties become transluscent and you can clearly see her cunt lips, the dark vulva, the bald mound. Despite being mentally unbalanced and living on the run, she still keeps her pussy shaven clean. You dutifully hold the gun for her, unable to do much else but gawk.
She clasps a hand around your wrist and uses it to direct your hand back and forth, digging the gun's muzzle right into her clit. Then she rises a little higher and gets the gun partially wedged up the canal of her pussy. The barrier of her sodden panties is the only thing preventing the barrel from slipping in completely. She fucks herself up and down on it.
"You can shoot me if the mood strikes," Sable tells you.
"Fuck," you sputter.
"Or that. I'm fine with either. It's about time I got a real dick in me."
You lock eyes with her. "You are the craziest person I've ever met."
She laughs and laughs -- and humps your gun. There's something weirdly erotic about it, and despite yourself, your cock is getting hard. Sable's insanity might be contagious. Regardless, you know you want to get off.
"Lie down," you tell her.
She obeys. She dismounts your pistol, a little ooze of her pussy cream dripping from her panties, and sinks to her butt. She lies back with her neck propped up against the wall and spreads her legs wide. "Fuck me raw," she says. "Cum inside me."
You put your pistol back in your waistband for safekeeping. You unzip your fly. Your turgid dick springs out practically on its own, a little streamer of precum suspended from the tip and glinting in the ambient light. Sable eyes it hungrily. "It's a fucking monster," she gulps. "God, I missed it..."
"You like it up your ass, don't you?" You say.
She gulps. Her voice is shaky. "Yeah... up my ass..."
"That's too bad. I like it better up your cunt."
Her eyes bulge. You reach down and tear her panties off, ripping them, and force her legs even wider apart. She tries to get up, but you're already bearing down on her, and she can't get away. With a sigh of sheer satisfaction, you get your prick shoved into the hot wet confines of Sable's pussy.
"Fuck you! Fuck you!" Sable shrieks. "You fucking asshole!"
"Shut the fuck up," you tell her. "You love it."
And she does. Despite berating you, she humps back against you, and her little cunt sucks your prick-leak out of you like a mouth. She shudders with every thrust. But she's still ranting and raving, calling you names, and it's getting annoying.
"Cocksucker! Faggot! You dumb piece of--"
With a grunt, you slap her -- at the same time as you get your cock as deep as it can go. She draws a sharp breath. Then she begins to cry.
Crying is better than yelling at you, at least. Actually, fucking a crying girl feels pretty good. You let her cry for a few moments as you fuck her silly. Even as she sobs, her pussy cums and gets the denim crotch of your jeans wet with her fluids.
It's getting a little pitiful, though, so you decide to give in to her desires. You reach between the union of your bodies and find the dark pucker of Sable's anus. It takes no more lubrication than her own juices running down her thigh to get a couple fingers wedged inside. Sable closes her eyes and sighs a sigh of deep, contented pleasure. She really is obsessed with anal.
"That feels so good, Alabaster," she coos, her voice dreamy. "I could fuck with you like this forever..."
"Uh huh. Is that your ideal universe?"
"Hmm... maybe~ or maybe I'd like a third... now THAT would be ideal..."
You pump in and out of her without responding. The silky smooth sensation of Sable's wet cunt is bringing you some much needed pleasure. The heat of it against your straining prick is such a nice relief. You could honestly fuck her forever like this, too. You play with her rubbbery, pliant asshole while you screw her. Pretty soon you'll be cumming in her just like she asked. You're not going to warn her. A woman like her doesn't deserve it, and wouldn't want it.
"Fuck... fuck... fuuuu-uuuck..." Sable pants. She might be one of the smartest people in history, true, but she goes stupid for your dick like all the rest. Her eyes are distant as she gazes up at you. "You're so nice to me... thank you... thank you for playing with me..."
"Shut up already."
She draws a shuddering breath. But she follows your orders.
The van falling silent again, you press harder down on her and just enjoy the raw sensation of fucking her. Soon, your nuts are tightening, getting ready to drop their load. Sable can sense you're about to cum, even if you don't let her know. She reaches down and fondles your balls. "There you go..." she mewls. "Shoot it all inside..."
"Oh, fuck," you can't help moaning.
Suddenly, she reaches behind you and grabs your gun.
"Sable--!!"
She laughs insanely. Time slows to a crawl as your worst nightmare comes to pass -- Sable is going to murder you right as you cum inside her.
But that's not what this is. With a crazy glint in her eyes, she takes the gun and puts it in her mouth instead. Both hands wrapped around the muzzle, she sucks it -- like a cock. She sucks on the business end of your pistol, grinning up at you, as you fuck her. And like this, you pop off. Your cum rockets out of your piss slit and paints Sable's insides as you watch her fellate your gun. She fucks herself back against your cock and your sodomizing fingers, and swirls her pink tongue around the gunmetal. You fire rope after sticky rope inside her. The heat and tightness is unbelievable, so too the volume of her own ejaculation. She cums all over you. And she never stops sucking. This horrible, crazy woman... all you can do is empty your balls inside her. It feels like you cum ten gallons. And her hungry pussy takes it all.
Back inside the cafe, at 8 PM, come Rose, Alex, and Dr. Carte on schedule.
Rose takes you aside. "We have a problem. Well, a couple problems. A couple catastrophes, is more like it..."
"Start from the top."
"China."
"A nation of 1.2 billion or so people, headed by President Xi Jinping -- or are you trying to do another NMNB run of Touhou 6?"
"A Chinese company bought Google today. $1 trillion. Just like that, out of the blue." She snaps her fingers. "Well, Mara is right about one thing. That company has the backing of the Chinese government. And they're not moving into the valley for fun. They want our tech."
"They can have it, honestly."
"Don't be flippant. This is end-of-the-world shit here, Alabaster."
"Tell Whitney to talk to the President. They're friends, right? I'm sure an executive order could stop the deal from going through..."
"You are unbelievable -- do you honestly think that some silly slip of paper signed by a doddering idiot can stop China from coming after us?"
You frown at her.
"Catastrophe two," Rose continues. "One of our server farms blew up."
You glance over Rose's shoulder, towards the table where Alex and Sable are conferring with Dr. Carte.
"Yep," Rose says.
"Alex--"
"He's got bombs, disguised as new server equipment, at every single server farm we own. Mara thinks the Chinese are behind this, thank goodness for good timing -- but the truth is, this was a botch job by the boy wonder over there."
"That lying little--"
"This is good news," Rose says. "If we can speed up getting that fucking implant out of your skull and Cerise's, we can destroy this entire company. Fuck Sand Reckoner, fuck Diogenes, fuck the Russians, fuck the Chinese, fuck the FBI. We can end this. You and me."
You regard her.
"Alabaster."
"I feel like I'm making a key decision here..."
She takes your hand. "You already made it, didn't you?"
You nod. "Let's do it."
Sable is busy explaining her density-sorting device to a wild-eyed Dr. Carte.
"You're... as interesting as I remember," Dr. Carte finally says.
"You understand, then, the need to make sure this reaches an acceptable end-point," Sable says. "If we don't complete Diogenes, the very fabric of reality itself could come undone. One Sand Reckoner is fine, but once someone else gets their hands on this tech... Russians, CIA, whoever... things will become untenable. We must act with haste."
"Of course," Dr. Carte says. She looks over at you, arching her eyebrows, as if to silently communicate: bitch be crazy.
You shrug.
"Ms. Carte and I are working on a new generation of 3D-printable implant, that could be easily disseminated to the public," Alex says. He's trying to put on his genki, all-smiles act, but he's shaken. The wages of death hang heavy on his shoulders. Because of his mistake with the server farm, more people have died -- and he's perfectly well aware of it. Could you ever forgive him for everything he's done?
"You have been such an inspiration to me," Sable tells Dr. Carte. "Your breakthroughs were the foundation of -- well, of everything."
"I'm going to try to be flattered by that."
"You should be. It's all thanks to you. You're a role model."
Dr. Carte closes her eyes and shakes her head. For her, you can tell it's like finding out Dahmer's a big fan.
The bell above the cafe's door chimes. You all look up: in comes walking Vivian and Cerise.
You stand, pushing your chair back from the table. The chair legs squeal against the slick concrete floor. Surreptitiously, you reach behind your back, for your gun -- but what an impotent threat that really would be anyway. You could never shoot Cerise, and despite everything she's done -- you could never shoot Vivian either. If they attack Sable, you can't stop them. And in all honesty... it might be for the best. The only thing you could possibly do is try to talk them down from the edge.
Rose is standing with you. Together, you flank Sable.
"It is done," Vivian announces.
"Done..." you repeat. "Done how?"
"Alabaster," Cerise says, her voice catching. She holds her arms wide. "It's me."
"I don't believe you. You're wearing contacts."
"No -- no, I swear... listen--"
You step forward, getting closer. You loom over her.
"Alabaster," she repeats. "Vivian got in touch with--"
You reach up and poke her eye.
"Ow! FUCK!" She jerks back, cupping a hand over her face. Then she slugs you in the shoulder. "ASSHOLE! Way to ruin a fucking moment! Jesus FUCK! Can't just let us explain something, huh?"
You look down at your forefinger. No contact lens there -- and your finger definitely found only the squishy membrane of Cerise's eyeball. Her eyes are the proper color, so...
Vivian gives you a wan smile. "Maybe we should have waited for Ms. Healy to catch up..."
Into the cafe now, peeking her head demurely in, comes a face you never expected -- Galatea. She's obviously terrified to be out in public, and trembles and startles as she slowly approaches. She casts her eyes uncertainly this way and that, as if being pursued or watched by the other patrons -- but it's all in her head, of course.
Dangling from Gal's clenched fist is a thin wire, a tiny white grain on the end of it. Cerise's implant has been removed.
You look at Cerise. She nods.
You feel a convulsion of grief, joy, and anger all at once -- the bottled-up emotions of these long weeks of terror finally bursting forth in one tangled confusion. You wrap your arms around her and hug her tighter than you've ever hugged her. "Cerise..." you say, voice muffled by her shoulder. She hugs you back. And when you pull away from that warm, seemingly never-ending embrace, you kiss her -- on the lips, with tongue, damn who sees it. You love your sister. You love her like a sister, and you also love her like that. Who cares, anyway? She loves you like that too. And now she's back, fully -- in her own body, under her own control, permanently.
"You should keep ahold of that implant," Sable tells you. "You never know when you might need it again."
"Fuck you," you tell her without looking back. You gaze into your sister's loving eyes. She smiles at you.
Sable slurps on a straw. "Well, I warned you."
"How did this happen?" you ask -- of Vivian, or Gal, or Cerise -- whoever cares to answer first.
It's Vivian, of course. "I put Ms. Healy in touch with our friend Gustav through the video conferencing application she suggested. Gustav walked us through a simple procedure based on the work Ms. Carte had already done."
"Us?" You repeat. "Us as in -- both of you?"
"I am a quick study," Vivian says. "Yes. I assisted."
But, of course, there's more to it than that. Vivian didn't naturally learn an advanced neurosurgical procedure by remote instruction. She's a genius but she isn't superhuman. She had the benefit of something else, you know: an implant of her own.
Cerise holds Gal close. Gal, though sitting in a separate chair, is wrapped around Cerise like a frightened kitten, practically curled up in Cerise's lap, her face to Cerise's bosom -- cowering away from all the conversation around her. Sable regards her strangely, and Gal clearly doesn't like it. You reach over and gently pry Cerise's old implant from Gal's palm, and examine it. A small bit of circuitry inside the grain still glows a steady white -- and you get the nauseous feeling that David Darkbloom is in there even now, looking back at you.
"You may do with that what you wish," Vivian tells you.
You glance up at her. "You mean--"
"It serves no more purpose," is her curt response.
"Can the procedure be repeated?" Dr. Carte asks. "For Alabaster -- for yourselves?"
"It should be easy to replicate," Vivian says. "Alabaster and Anna could have their implants out as early as this evening -- if they so desire."
"And you?" Dr. Carte presses.
"Yes, of course," Vivian says. "I would be happy to assist the operation once again."
"That isn't what I mean." Dr. Carte's face is grimly serious.
"Then I am not quite certain what you do mean," Vivian says.
"Your implant. We should take it out, too."
"I have no implant."
Dr. Carte grimaces. "Vivian--"
"I do not know what you're talking about. Please, do not pester me about such silly things."
Oh man. This is a problem.
Something doesn't add up. For Vivian to break David Darkbloom free of his virtual imprisonment -- only to return to Gal's loft, and remove him from Cerise's head -- why?
You demand to know.
Vivian is surprisingly forthcoming about this, even if she wasn't about her implant:
"I gave father the tools of his escape several weeks ago -- it was a terrible moment of subterfuge, and an awful breach of trust, born of my own weakness. I suppose you already figured this out based on your reaction to our return."
"He didn't figure it out," Rose cuts in. "It was me. I figured it out."
"Congratulations. You are slightly less moronic than I had previously ascertained."
Rose makes a sour face.
"Father chose today to leave his confinement because he was frightened of Sable Guiteau, and mother -- and you, Alabaster. He felt things had come to a crisis point. So he sought to murder the former two, and isolate me from your influence."
"But... you refused?" Rose says.
"Not to begin with. I agreed to help him. It was only later in the evening when I realized something. Letting father follow through with this attempt on the lives of others endangered Cerise, too. And in the end -- I could not abide it -- it -- would have made me as low and selfish as father himself. If something happened to your sister, Alabaster, or his actions implicated her in a crime... I would not have been able to forgive myself of my own role in it."
A last moment change of heart. That's it. All this drama, all this heartache, stopped dead in its tracks by a young girl deciding to be a better person than her father was.
"Thank you for not murdering me," Sable says. She treats the fact of the plot against her life as dispassionately as she might treat discussion of a math problem. "But you all understand that Mara Darkbloom needs to die, correct?"
"Alabaster Soliloquy," Vivian says. "You can take or leave my advice as you see fit. I know I have not done much to earn your trust of late. Nonetheless I strongly advise you to keep your implant. And for the time being to keep my mother alive, also."
"Why?" You ask.
"Because -- should the world ever come to an end, you might need what's inside your head -- and you might need mother's help."
"That is absurd," Sable says. "When the new age dawns, people like Mara who stand in its way will need to be--"
"You," Vivian booms -- there's the spark of David Darkbloom within this soft-spoken little girl, after all -- "You stupid, haughty bitch. You know nothing of what you do and yet you press forward, for what? You have doomed the world. Do not speak to me."
Alex is equally vicious when he retorts: "Be careful what you say. You might regret it."
"And now your lickspittle too, to defend your insanity." Vivian fixes Alex with a hateful glare. She pinches her fingers together repeatedly: "Yip yip yip yip yip, goes the dog. Pathetic. I know it was you behind the recent wanton destruction -- no -- do not even waste breath on denying it. Blood drips from your hands even as we speak. You can go to hell with Sable Guiteau, where you belong, Alexander. But since you are so hopeless over a man who uses you for a walking semen receptacle, just keep your head down, and complete your work on Project Diogenes. And make sure the fruits of it go to Alabaster when you're through. If you have any brain cells left to rub together, you may be of use to the world yet still."
She clasps the handle of a cup of coffee that isn't even hers and takes a sip. And then, rising to her feet, she announces: "I will speak with you again in private, Alabaster. There is much to discuss. Cerise, I am sorry for all the trouble. Ms. Healy, thank you for your help today."
"y-you're welcome," Gal says, ironically the only person courageous enough to break the awkward silence.
Vivian turns and leaves the cafe. Between Alex and Sable, it's hard to tell whose gaze at Vivian's retreating backside is more recriminating. Dr. Carte shoots you a worried look; you nod, and she rises, to chase after Vivian, and leave with her.
"She knows nothing," Sable says. "Nothing... nothing. Useless."
Just when it seems the Gordian knot of your life was finally coming untangled without collateral damage, now comes this. Vivian won't remove her implant, or even admit she has it -- and for reasons she insists are very important, she wants you to keep yours, too -- wants you to allow your hated enemy to live -- wants to allow her own hated enemy to live. For what? She discussed something else with David Darkbloom before that surgery. Something that changed everything.
"What do you want to do, Ally?"
Alex is timid and uncertain.
"I don't know," you answer truthfully.
"I'll finish the project," he says. "Until you tell me otherwise--"
"I guess you have to now," you reply. "Do your best." Your voice is monotone, affectless. It's impossible to take everything in, and it's hard to even speak to Alex at the moment.
"With Ms. Guiteau to help me, it won't be long."
You stand -- Cerise, Gal, and Rose follow suit.
"Ally..." he says. "I... I love you. I'm sorry."
You leave Alex alone in the cafe with Sable, to hash out whatever details they need to -- whether they're going to be your death or your salvation, you have no idea.
You return to the Darkbloom Analytics campus, where Whitney has stayed late to deal with the recent crisis of the server farm explosion -- it's a PR nightmare for the scandal-plagued company. In her office, you fill her in on the recent events.
"Told ya," she says. "Viv is solid. Best kid sister in the world."
You put the implant on the desk between you and her. Whitney regards it severely. Then she picks up a paperweight and moves as if to smash it.
"Wait--" you say.
"Wait, my ass. That fucking prick is the reason for all of this. He deserves to be dead." She puts her face close to the desktop. "You in there, fucker? You listening to me? Fuck you."
"How would Vivian feel about that?" You ask.
Whitney shrugs. "All conflicted and shit, probably. What else is new? But she knows deep down that it has to be this way. That's why she got this thing out of Cerise's head in the first place. It's why she let you take it."
[ ] Let Whitney destroy it.
>[x] Keep possession of it for now.
[ ] Give it to Vivian.
You pick the implant up and put it in your pocket.
"I made the man a promise, is the thing," you tell her.
"What? Who gives a shit what you promised that--"
"I promised him that I'd keep him alive in a jar on my mantle, forever... to watch us live a happy life without him."
"I'm not gonna fuck you in front of my bio-dad."
You frown. "Well -- okay. I mean... I mean, it would be a pretty fitting--"
"No. You fucking freak."
"Oh, I'm a freak. Ms. Motherfucker thinks I'm a freak--" you sigh and trail off. "In any case, it's a useful tool to keep in our back pocket. Literally or figuratively. If things get any crazier, who knows... maybe David Darkbloom has something left to offer the world, too."
"I highly doubt that. But all right, Ally. I trust you."
"...Just like that?"
"Why wouldn't I? Just promise me... that when you're sure we don't need him anymore, you'll give that thing a nice hard stomp for me."
You nod. "I promise."
You lean back in your chair and stare at the ceiling, considering the day. You've had zero time to decompress. It's been one insane incident after another.
"So. When's the wedding?"
You let your chairback drift back to a position perpendicular with the ground again, and squint at her. "Wedding's canceled."
"Pfft. Says who? Says you?"
"I don't know. I'm not exactly looking forward to marrying Rose Mallory, of all people."
"Suuuuure. Okay. We're doing that thing again."
"What thing."
"The 'oh no, oh nooooo, I hate Rose, I haaaaate her' thing. That thing."
"I don't know what you're--"
"I gotcha. Don't worry."
"You're not trying to encourage me to do this, are you? You hate her too."
"Rose is fine. And she's a great fuck, too. But well, lemme ask you this. If you marry Rose, are you gonna all of a sudden start living a life of monotony?"
This is a rare case of one of Whitney eggcorns that retains its proper meaning despite the mistake. You shake your head. "No. I mean -- I doubt Rose would want to stop fucking you after we get married. She'd hardly have a leg to stand on if she said that I couldn't too."
Whitney laughs. "Oh, that's reassuring. Do you think double standards ever scared Rose Mallory before?"
"So what? I'll throw it right back at you. Do you think Rose Mallory ever scared Alabaster Soliloquy before?"
"Yes. Plenty of times. Like, even within the past 48 hours."
You roll your eyes. "Fact is, it's just a show-marriage. If it even happens. I'd still be with you, too -- just as much as with the putative Mrs. Soliloquy."
"Putative. I love it. I gotta start using that one. Rose really is one putative bitch, huh?"
"Are you gonna be okay with that, then?"
Whitney fiddles with a pen, staring at her desk in a moment of uncharacteristic dithering. But then she looks up, bright again: "I never figured on getting married, so it's fine. But... only if I get to throw your bachelor party."
Oh boy.
Down in the lobby, Whitney is preparing to leave, and Makoto is in tow. It's one of her sleepover nights at Whitney's house, which the two have every week or so -- for "intensive personal interviews." Recently those personal interviews have been very personal indeed.
"Coming too?" Whitney asks you.
"In a little bit. I think Saul and Charlotte are still upstairs... and Rose. I think I should talk to them."
"Gotcha. Say no more!" She gives you a tender kiss goodbye and then nods at Makoto. "C'mon. I wanna get your cunt in my mouth, so let's hurry it up."
Such a charmer. But Makoto is more than pleased to follow.
The only problem is Noelle. At the security cordon, she stops the pair.
"Ms. Kikuchi," Noelle says. "I'm going to need you to empty your pockets."
"--Pardon?" Makoto says.
"Lay off, bitch," Whitney tells Noelle. "Haven't you had enough of pushing us around?"
"Ms. Darkbloom," Makoto stammers, "please let's go."
"Your badge showed some suspicious swipes this afternoon," Noelle tells Makoto. "You were in the R&D labs."
"She was with me," Whitney snarls. "Personal business. You never get laid, do you?"
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," Noelle says. "Empty your pockets, Ms. Kikuchi."
Makoto steps back, glancing this way and that, frightened.
"Make her happy," Whitney says with a yawn. "Empty 'em and let's just get out of here. I'm too horny to fight her right now."
"I..." Makoto stammers.
Whitney suddenly becomes much more serious. She takes a step towards Makoto. "What's the matter? Just empty your pockets. It's fine."
"I..."
"Makoto." Whitney never calls her by her proper first name. She's more than serious now -- she's as grim as death.
Noelle also takes a step closer. Makoto now finds herself surrounded by a room full of unfriendly faces. Whitney, Noelle, you, and a few other FBI agents. There is no talking her way out of this and no getting out without showing whatever she has in her pockets.
"I am a patriot!" Makoto hollers.
"You're a--" Whitney starts.
"Hold her down!" Noelle shouts -- and there's a sudden commotion as blue-jacketed agents surround the girl, but they can't stop what happens. Makoto Kikuchi bites down, hard, and you hear a sickening crunch.
"Get it out of her mouth!" Noelle shrieks. An agent gets his hands around Makoto's face and pries her jaw open -- but too late.
"I am a patriot! I love my country!" Makoto yells. These are her last words.
She begins to convulse and foam at the mouth -- lets out a horrible, heart-rending death rattle as her poison pill takes effect. Whitney, hands cupped over her mouth, watches with wild eyes. Like you, she is beyond horrified, and has no words for what just happened.
Noelle is barking orders, calling for medics, demanding that Makoto's pockets be searched by a gloved agent. The agent produces a number of flash drives from her jean shorts. Another is performing CPR but Makoto is unresponsive, and already blue in the face. She's dead.
---
"Crisis point delta fuckin' zero!" Armstrong exclaims. "Jesus!"
"I don't know what that means," you tell him.
"I don't either. I don't know what the fuck anything means anymore. Fuck! This goddamn company is going to bring me to an early grave." He clutches his chest and grits his teeth. Then he takes out a pill bottle and pops a handful down.
You're in the board room with Armstrong, Whitney, Nelson -- and Mara.
Whitney stares sullenly at the long oak table. She's shell-shocked, traumatized -- and speechless.
"For once, the feds did something useful," Mara says. "No thanks to you, Whitney."
"Go to hell."
"Your caprice with that oriental whore almost brought the company to ruin -- but then, it's just another Thursday for you, isn't it?"
"We vetted her," Nelson says. "In and out -- she's just a... just a pop star, for heaven's sake."
"Was a pop star," Mara corrects.
"Who the fuck was she working for?" Armstrong demands. "The fucking Chinese?"
"Japanese, of course," Mara says. "Can't you tell your ching chongs apart, Steven?"
She's correct. Noelle briefly explained it to you. Makoto Kikuchi really was just a pop star... until you invited her stateside. Then she was secretly given a mission by Japanese intelligence to steal the secrets of Sand Reckoner.
"Japan understands that we're in the midst of an opening battle -- to the most important war ever waged," Mara says. "When will you realize that, Whitney?"
"Go to hell."
"Go to hell, go to hell," Mara repeats mockingly. "What a joke you are. I'll see you dead yet. You can enjoy some more time with that lesbian slut then."
She stands and goes.
"Alabaster," Armstrong says, "my life is public relations. I'm pretty fucking good at it. But I don't know how the fuck I spin Japan's favorite pop singer dying on company property."
"You won't have to," you tell him.
"It's a diplomatic incident," Whitney repeats -- by rote, from the explanation proffered to her by Noelle. "It's in everyone's best interest to just say that... she was an addict... who suffered an overdose at home in her apartment..."
"Uncle Sam doesn't want to go after the Japanese for this?" Nelson says. "Trying to steal military tech is an act of war, isn't it?"
"Exactly," you say.
He huffs. "Jesus."
"Don't you use his name in vain, you fuckin' Jew."
"Screw yourself, Steven."
"Yadda yadda," Armstrong says. "God I need a fucking drink. You're paying."
They leave together. You never quite understood their frenemy relationship.
"I did this," Whitney says, when you're alone again.
"What?"
"I did this. I'm the one who's responsible."
"You're not the one who's responsible for a Japanese spy--"
"No." She cuts you off with a bark. "It's my fault. I let her go downstairs... let her distract me with sex... let her steal from us. I almost let her walk out the door with our secrets. I let her walk in the door to begin with. It's my fault."
You rub her shoulder, but she isn't any happier for it.
"I read this book on leadership," Whitney begins after a long silence.
You squint at her.
"Okay, I skimmed a book on leadership--"
You frown.
"Okay, I watched a Youtube summary about a book on leadership--"
You purse your lips.
"I skipped around in the video a bit. All right? Fuck. But I got the point. The leader is responsible. No matter what, the leader is responsible. If something goes wrong... at the end, you as the leader should have done something to stop it..."
Whitney looks up at the tall portrait of David Darkbloom still hanging in the conference room with the word "ASSHOLE" scrawled across it. She stares at it for a long time.
"Mara Darkbloom is right," Whitney says grimly. "We're at war. We need to start acting like it."
You see Whitney out, again. Cerise offered to drive her home when you told her what happened, and comes back to work to pick her up now.
It's a good opportunity to let Cerise enjoy freedom, anyway -- the freedom to leave home on her own, the freedom to drive around town on her own. Even if it's for such a somber reason.
A janitor is mopping up the caked-on foam from the tile floor of the lobby where Makoto seized up and died. FBI agents observe, cracking snide remarks to one another, but there won't be an investigation of the scene of Makoto's death. The real, and deeper, investigation will focus on other things. The fact of Makoto having died here will be swept under the rug.
Out front, by the enormous fountain at the front gates, Cerise hugs Whitney tenderly. "Doing okay?" She asks.
"Fuck no." And she isn't. She's crying. The weight of this is beginning to really hit her.
"Let's go home and watch some trashy TV, huh?"
You walk with them towards the parking garage.
[ ] Talk with Cerise about the prospect of your marriage with Rose.
>[x] Don't discuss it with her until you decide.
Charlotte and Saul are with Rose in her office.
"Late night, huh," you say as you enter.
"Momentous things are happening, Alabaster," Saul tells you. "We need to make sure our defenses are airtight -- if you're ever brought in again for questioning on what happened in that club."
Charlotte, for her part, is more worried over the immediate concerns: "Is Whitney doing all right?"
"Heck no," is your sanitized version of Whitney's own response to that question.
"Poor thing," Charlotte says. "I'm sorry you two had to see that. Such ugly business."
"I'm just... surprised, is all," you say. "Still reeling. You know?"
Charlotte nods sympathetically.
"We can mourn our dearly departed double agents later," Saul says. "Time is of the essence here. I need a straight answer from you two. Insofar as -- legal strategy is concerned."
Rose, at her desk, can't hold eye contact with anyone. Especially not you. She's unusually demure and mute.
"I think the two of us need to talk first," you tell your adoptive parents.
"Of course," Charlotte says warmly. "Take all the time you need."
You and Rose walk together towards the elevators. Saul and Charlotte see you out.
"Call us, when you know what you want to do," Charlotte says.
"Yes," Rose replies.
"Don't take TOO long," Saul says.
"No," you reply.
The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. You step in with Rose. Turning with her, shoulder to shoulder, you watch Saul and Charlotte's faces disappear as the doors slide shut again.
The down arrow above the panel of buttons comes to life with a steady golden glow, and the elevator begins its smooth descent.
You stand there with Rose in silence, both of you staring straight ahead at nothing.
About halfway down to the lobby, without a word, Rose pounds a fist on the emergency stop. The elevator lurches to a standstill.
You wheel on each other. Instantly you're a whirlwind of legs and arms, pushes and shoves -- she slaps you -- you bite her on the shoulder. Punches get thrown and returned. There are headbutts and scratches. Your flesh becomes bruised and abraded. Then, even as you hurl physical aggression at each other, she's tugging at your shirt, and you're pawing at her miniskirt.
"Fuck you," Rose pants over and over, "fuck you."
"You stupid bitch," you growl. You get her skirt off, with her assistance, and you dutifully raise your arms above your head so she can pull off your shirt. You've got her pinned up against the corner, on her butt. Just perfect to take advantage of. But she rears back and kicks you hard, the flat of her shoe hitting you in your shin. You howl in shock.
"I hate you," Rose spits, "go to hell."
You give her an open handed slap across the face. Her cheek glows red in the outline of your palm. As she composes herself from that sudden blow, her breaths come jagged in some mixture of rage, pain, and lust. Her fingers snake across the denim of your pants and curl around your belt buckle. She gets it undone with expert nimbleness.
"That's right," you say, "help me rape you--"
"GRAAHHH--" Rose bellows, and surges forward, tackling you. You bang your head against the opposite wall as you topple to your back. Already you can feel the welt it leaves behind. She's atop you now, pulling your waistband down with savage strength.
Suddenly, this feels more like she's the one raping you.
"No you don't," you say, sneering. You try to lift yourself up, but her soft palms are bearing down on your sweaty chest. You have a hard time getting upright again in this confined space, with Rose straddling you.
"I'm gonna fuck you up, Alabaster."
"Oh, you fucking wish. Get off me, you dumb--"
Rose cuts you off with a desperate, hungry kiss. At the same time, she reaches down, into the fly of your boxers, and finds your dick. It's hard, just like she knew it would be. Why does your body never cooperate with you? Your pants still hanging halfway off your butt and your dick poking out from your underwear, Rose gyrates against you, rubbing her pantied mound up and down your crotch. She's all wet and sticky for you. Of course she chose to wear underwear today, of all days... but even if she did, there's no denying that her little pussy is always messy, always leaking at the thought of getting fucked by you. The fabric of her panties is rough, though, and tickles your horny prick in a frustratingly pleasurable way. That's Rose, always such a fucking cocktease.
You tug her panties to one side to give you clearance. Rose goes rigid when you jab your prick into her without warning. So despite being trapped underneath her, you claim the initiative -- you hump up against her delicate, fleshy, grippy cunt. She sways and swoons and breathes hard through her gaping jaw while you fuck her. Her exhalations are hot on your face and you can smell her minty breath. Beads of sweat run down her matted hair and mingle with the ones pearling all over your torso. You hold her by hips, pound up and down. All the way into her, without any inhibitions. The channel of her vagina spreads open with every inward thrust, inviting you inside and hugging you, milking out your precum.
"Fuck me, you bastard! Fuck me!"
"You stupid little cunt! Guhh-- oh, fuck--" You gulp as Rose's soft interior swallows your hot prickmeat and conforms so deliciously to its shape. Rose takes the opportunity of this distraction to seize back control. She splays her palms against your chest again and hunches herself forward, oppressively putting all her weight on you solar plexus. It robs you of your air and makes you see stars. Rose, moaning like an animal, bounces up and down on your slippery cock and cums herself silly.
"Fuck me! Fuck me!" She wails, incoherent.
Her head is bowed low. She's sweating all over you. She does all the work and uses you for a living dildo. Rose, with her swampy cunt, and her brutal lust, drives you to the brink of insanity. These nearly-frictionless, rapid, lewd fucking motions are unbelievable. And the aroma of her sex tinges what little air you can swallow, invades your nostrils and your lungs. She's marking you -- inside and out -- primally claiming some kind of dominion over you.
You summon the last of your energy and pull yourself up. In an instant, a reversal -- Rose is on the floor of the tiny elevator, and you're flipping her over onto her stomach. She tries to crawl away, but where? There's nowhere to go.
Your discarded garments are the only thing for cushioning. She gets somewhat tangled in them as you corral her and force her to be still. Her face is half wrapped-up in your shirt, the armpit of it against her nose, although she doesn't seem to mind. You lie atop her back, curling up around her. Your frame is much larger than Rose's, and you totally envelop her soft body. You curl your lower half around her butt, raising your own butt high in the air, and fuck into her again. Viciously, deeply, you mate with her. You hold her about the head and neck, and bury your face in her golden curls. You blow air through your nose like a rutting bull, right against the crown of her head. You take your pleasure from her body as you may. Rose's tongue wags and lolls from her mouth and her expression is one of sheer, unparalleled ecstasy.
There are no sounds left in the elevator but you and Rose grunting and groaning, heaving and gasping -- accompanied also by the steady, moist slapping of you giving her the hardest fuck you ever have. Even still, there's communication, albeit a wordless form: Your "unnnghh--" warns her that you're about to blow your load in her pussy, and her "mmmmnnn-- mnnnn~~" tells you that inside her pussy is precisely where she wants it.
So that's where she gets it; you seat yourself inside her and let your cum surge directly into her womb. You feel warmth all over, so powerful you shiver. It's a pleasure you've rarely ever glimpsed. And you feel something else too, a... rightness, if you had to call it something, but you don't want to name what it really is. Right now, your orgasm is all that really matters anyway. You cum, and cum, and cum -- Rose cums against you, too. Her face goes all droopy and her mouth hangs open in an agonized, reveling scream. Her fists ball up and clench the fabric of your discarded shirt. You saw in and out, spreading your cum all over her insides, pushing it in. Marking her right back. And she lets you. She lets you inseminate her.
---
You sip a beer in the backyard, seated in the most luxurious patio chair you've ever laid eyes on, and watch the azure ripples of the lighted, heated pool. Whitney lies curled up in your lap, sharing that beer -- Cerise and Rose sit in chairs of their own on either side. Cerise also with a beer, but Rose, ever the contrarian, sipping wine.
"It's a sham marriage, of course," Rose says.
Cerise is unmoved. She scowls at you. "I go away for one day and you decide to marry satan's living avatar on Earth. Fucking stupendous."
Whitney takes the bottle from you and downs a few deep drinks. She's still shaken by witnessing Makoto's death, but she's trying to enjoy the moment, and the good news. She laughs. "Satan? That's no way to talk about your future sister-cousin-lover-once-removed-in-law, Cerise."
"Oh, I wanted to ask you--" you tell Cerise. You awkwardly clear your throat. "I wasn't sure when Darkbloom really first woke up, so, uh... that day on your circuit bending stream, with Alex... when we... was that...?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Cerise says, confused. She tilts her head to one side. "What circuit bending stream with Alex? I don't remember that."
You feel the blood drain from your face.
Cerise laughs. She tosses the cap of her beer bottle at you. "Oh man. I need to burn that one into my memory banks. No, Alabaster, don't worry. You didn't fuck David Darkbloom. It was me."
You feel your heartbeat return to normal. "Fuck you," you snarl.
"Hey, it's only fair," Cerise says with a shrug. "I need to give as good as I get, don't I?"
"Well anyway, Rose is right," you say. "This whole -- marriage -- if you even really can call it that, it's just a legal fiction. It really changes nothing..."
"Uh huh," Cerise says. "You know... growing up, I never figured that you would get married before me. Actually, scratch that. I never figured you would get married. Full stop."
Whitney reaches over and pokes Cerise's tit, apropos of nothing.
"Alabaster, put your lesbian on a leash already," Cerise says.
"Oooh," Whitney says. "Could be fun."
"Gag me."
"If you want~"
You watch the pale blue light reflected against Cerise's face, as she sips her drink and stares into the pool.
>[x] "If you're so concerned about being unmarried... why not marry Gal?"
[ ] Don't suggest this.
"Because I'm not gay," Cerise says flatly.
Your shock is genuine, and almost takes your breath away. "You're... joking," you breathe. "That's a joke? That's a joke. It has to be a joke."
"I'm not!" Cerise snaps, half-shouting. "How many times do I have to suck your dick to prove it?"
"Oh my..." Rose murmurs. She's getting a bit wine drunk.
"Gal's just a pal," Cerise says. "A gal pal. We're pals... who help each other out sometimes. That doesn't make us gay. We like penises, so. I mean. We can't be wives, for godsakes."
"What's Gal's real name again?" Whitney asks, peering up at you from where her head lies against your chest. "Anna, right?"
You nod.
"Ooh. Anna Soliloquy. That would be so cool." She holds her hands out like framing a picture. "Two times the sisters to fuck. I know how you think, Ally. I like it."
"Well, I'm not gonna tell you how to handle your, uh, gal pal situation," you say. "But it might give her something to live for. It's a thought, anyway."
"Oh, thank you so much, sir," Cerise says. "I'll be sure to consider it."
"Just trying to give you an out here," you say. "Geez. If you want to stay as a Christmas cake -- no skin off my back."
Cerise dithers. "Well -- just understand that even if I did do something so... so weird... that it would only be because of that."
"Right."
"I'm not gay."
"Of course not."
You sip your beer and stare at the pool for a little while.
"I'm not gay either," you tell her.
Whitney snickers and takes the beer back from you.
The four of you sit out there for a long time after that, drinking in silence, and then you go to bed together. And as if you didn't have enough on your platter like that, Whitney even retrieves Rose2 from where she sleeps in bed and brings her along for the ride, too.
END OF EPISODE 12.