Season 3 Episode 2: LA Blue Girl

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, corporate glad-hander and oblivious MC.

"Citizens of Earth, this is it!"

You're in Rose's bedroom, peering over her shoulder at the grainy LiveLeak video, the one you haven't seen since it was happening in real time -- the one you've been trying to forget for a year.

"Here is David Darkbloom! He's here to answer for his crimes!"

You close the laptop's lid before the carnage begins.

"That isn't Camelia," you say. And it's true. The girl in the video has blue-dyed hair, and her good eye is red. The exact opposite of the terrorist who put you through such hell last year.

"What do you mean it isn't Camelia?" Rose demands.

"What do you mean what do I mean? I mean it's not her. The girl in that video is someone else."

"It's definitely Camelia," Rose says. She swivels around in her chair. "I remember her quite well. Do I need to remind you that she almost choked me to death in her hallway? Which, thanks again for stepping up when I needed it, Alabaster. I can't even wear a necklace anymore without having flashbacks!"

"I did step up for you," you say. "And you're still alive. So, you're welcome."

"Oh, bravo, Alabaster, bravo." She claps mockingly. "Every girl should be lucky enough to have a man like you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Calling attention to Rose's slip-ups like this is always a good way to cow her into silence. "Point is, there's something weird going on. The girl in that video isn't the Camelia I remember. The Camelia I remember is going around pretending to be Other Rose's sister."

"Have you finally lost it for real?" Rose says. She stands, folds her arms. Even in shoes she barely comes up to your chin. "You mean Amber Catachresis? Fake-Rose's little sister?"

"That's the thing. Other Rose never had a sister! I know that for a fact!"

"Yes she does," Rose says. "I've personally known Amber since high school. She wanted to join the student council when she was a freshman, during my senior year. I said no."

"She is NOT--"

"You're scaring me," she interrupts. "Amber Catachresis is Fake-Rose's little sister. She's a junior at North High. Still living at Fake-Rose's home address, 124 Tom Knudsen Lane, with her parents, same as always. She's not a terrorist. Whatever you think you remember, you've got it wrong."

"I don't--" you begin. "Wait. How the fuck do you know Other Rose's home address off the top of your head?"

"That's not important right now!" Rose shouts, stomping.

"I'm not crazy," you say. "Are you -- are you trying to gaslight me?"

"I'm--"

"Gaslighter! You're a gaslighter! That's what you are. You're gaslighting me! Don't deny it."

"For fuck's sake, Alabaster. Get ahold of yourself."

You ball your fists and draw several deep breaths. Calming yourself down, you manage: "Rose. Trust me on this. I need you to trust me on this, we agreed to that, didn't we? To trust each other."

When you open your eyes again, Rose is staring intently into them.

"You're serious," she says.

"Of course I-- you know what? Forget it. I shouldn't have come to you of all people--"

She stops you turning away. "Think about what you're asking me to trust you on. This isn't a business decision. You want me to believe that -- what -- reality is warping around you?"

"I don't know," you admit. "Something is wrong. That's all I know." You pace around Rose's spacious room, but her hopelessly beige taste in decor leaves very little to settle your eyes upon, and your mind is filled with too much noise to let yourself be distracted for even a moment -- even if you want to be.

"I trust you," Rose says. Her voice is firm and oddly reassuring. "But why are you coming to me with this?"

"Who the fuck else can I tell about this?" You snap.

She shrugs.

"Right."

You sit on her queen-sized bed and cradle your head in your hands. Secretly, you were hoping she would find a way to talk you out of this notion that Camelia is posing as Ro2e's little sister. But it's no use. You know what you saw, and your memory of Camelia is crystal clear. You'll never forget that face as long as you live.

Rose sits down beside you.

"What should I do?" You're desperate enough to leave your pride behind and ask Rose for advice. That question was genuine.

Rose stares at the ground, eyes darting, thinking. And then, for a beat, she goes still. "I don't know," she finally says.

"Bullshit. You have an idea."

"No..." she drawls. "I'm coming up blank, sorry."

"Give me a break. I'm not in the mood for the song and dance. Just tell me your goddamn idea."

She gulps and exhales hard through her nose. She begins a halting explanation: "I was just thinking... that you could ask Fake-Rose out on a... on a date... and if you manage not to act like a pig for a couple hours... she would probably invite you back home... and you could meet Amber for yourself..."

"Oh my god," you mutter.

"You're right. Terrible idea. I don't know what came over me. We should try something more realistic--"

"No, that might work."

Rose looks ready to melt into a puddle of goo.

You stand and face her. "I guess you're still dependable for at least one good idea a year," you allow.

"Oh, FUCK you," she says, groaning. "I don't know why I even--"

Thwack comes a far-off, echoing sound from the other side of the house. You and Rose lock eyes, uneasy: that would most likely be Whitney, playing golf indoors again.

>[x] Investigate.

[ ] Stay with Rose.

"If she breaks anything, I'm not bringing contractors out here to fix it this time," Rose warns you. "You can deal with the mess for once."

She says that, but she's right on your heels as you walk out the door and to the banister overlooking the humongous, chandelier-lined living area. You no sooner peer over the side of the wrought iron railing than you see a dimpled golf ball sail past and collide with one of the chandelier's ornate hanging prisms, popping it in a burst of glass and sparks.

"Whitney!" You shout.

Far below, iron in hand, she visors her eyes with a flattened palm and cranes her neck to see you. "Whatsamatter?" She slurs. Drunk.

"What did I tell you about this?" You say. "If you want to golf, I'll take you to the links tomorrow."

You startle at another pop and burst of shattering glass. Turning, you see Alex on the other end of the living room, also holding an iron. "Sorry!" He squeaks.

Whitney cues another ball in front of her, ignoring you, squares up and hits it. Her swing is less forceful this time, and the ball lands softly in a laundry hamper in front of Alex, breaking nothing.

"Even sloshed I kick your butt," Whitney crows. "Heh heh."

You hurry downstairs and grab the iron from her before she can do any more damage. Alex saunters up, having produced a broom and dustpan from who knows where. "Sorry about the lights," he says, and begins to sweep up. "I'll pay for them."

"The fuck are you two doing? It's almost midnight."

Whitney spins on her heels, walks off and plops down on the leather sofa. She turns on the theater-sized flatscreen and doesn't respond.

"She called me," Alex offers. "Asked if I wanted to play beer golf."

"What is beer golf?" Rose asks, finally arriving in the living room herself.

"Beer pong but better," Whitney says. She flips the channels casually. The volume is way too loud and makes for a warbling echo in the tiled, cave-like space.

"I don't think things went very well with her sister," Alex says, leaning in and whispering.

That would explain it. Whitney's in one of her moods.

>[ ] How will you cheer her up?

You walk over and haul Whitney to her feet. She tries to be obstinate by making herself dead weight, but only for a moment; eventually she takes your hands and lets you slow walk her in lazy circles around the living room. David Darkbloom was a horrible man who did horrible things, but this is a move you copped straight from him without any shame. 

"Errgh," Rose groans. Alex is more positive; his enthusiasm is almost childlike as he breathes, "dancing?"

"You're a shitty dancer when you're drunk," you tell Whitney.

"I'm a shitty dancer period. Dancing's for fags." She glances over her shoulder. "No offense, Alex."

"Ah..." he stammers.

"How was the Grand Canyon?" You ask.

"Vivian's a cunt," Whitney says.

"Sure," you say. "That's part of why you like her."

"I hate her."

You kiss Whitney tenderly, in full view of Alex and Rose. It's a lingering and forceful kiss -- your tongues entwine wetly, and Whitney's cheeks, blushing already from drunkenness, blush deeper still.

This is all Rose cares to see. She starts to go.

"Hold on," you call after her.

"What?" She barks.

You whisper something to Whitney so only she can hear.

"Heeeeh," Whitney wheezes.

---

Whitney peers down her nose at Alex and Rose.

Alex is sitting on his knees willingly, but Rose has to be restrained -- you're on bended knee yourself, holding her arms behind her back as she struggles.

"You two are DEMENTED," Rose hollers.

"I told you that you'd regret spitting on me," you say with a sneer.

"She spit on you?" Whitney says, feigning outrage.

Before Rose can say anything to defend herself, Whitney doles out a revenge of her own: by spitting forcefully on Rose's face. Rose winces and recoils, but she doesn't have anywhere to go with you holding her. The spit runs in a sloppy, bubbly rivulet down her forehead.

Rose shakes her head violently, as if to get it off of her. Whitney shows a merciful side now: "Alex -- take care of that."

He crawls over on all fours and, eyes half-lidded, he licks Rose's face clean. Rose plays at being disgusted, but holding her, you feel her resistance beginning to weaken. And you can hear a barely audible murmur escape her lips, one that definitely isn't displeased with the attention. When Alex has done his duty, he sits back on his haunches and looks up at Whitney for approval. She rewards him with a smile.

"How does it feel?" Whitney demands of Rose. "Not so nice getting spit on, huh?"

Rose doesn't reply and refuses to meet Whitney's gaze. Whitney nudges her with a toe, between her legs, rubbing against her mound without anything even approaching consent. "What's the matter, cunt? Say something."

"She didn't like seeing us kiss," you say.

"Ohhhh," Whitney says, as if having an epiphany. "The stupid bitch is jealous. I get it."

She hooks her thumbs in the waistband of her pants and shimmies out of them. You shouldn't have been surprised: she's not wearing underwear, and her pussy is already puffy with arousal. She steps closer, reaches down, and grabs a tuft of Rose's hair. Rose's face is inches from Whitney's bare genitals now, she can surely smell its honey-sweet scent and see the little streams of wetness dripping down her toned thighs. The look on Rose's face is a strange mix of loathing and allurement -- she likes what she sees and simultaneously hates that she likes it.

"If you wanted a kiss, all you had to do was ask," Whitney says. "Go ahead -- kiss me."

"No," Rose says, defiant to the last.

She's gonna make you force her. That's fine too.

You give Whitney a helping hand. Together, you push Rose's face into Whitney's crotch. She tries to wrench herself free, but she has no leverage, it's 2-against-1 and no use fighting against the oncoming rape. You'll hold her there as long as you need to, until she passes out if need be -- until she does as ordered. And finally, after agonizing seconds of cutting off her air supply with Whitney's cunt, she complies. You hear the wet noise of Rose's lips pursing and kissing Whitney on her pussy. Whitney, hissing with an almost pained delight, throws her head back. "Therrrre you go," she says.

She steps off, giving Rose only a second or two of fresh air. Rose is flushed deep red and strands of her own hair are matted to her face -- a mess already. She gasps like a victim of drowning. And then it's right back to work: Whitney squats now, rests part of her weight on Rose's head and neck, forcing the poor girl to lap at her like a bitch. You let go so that Rose can brace herself with a hand against either of Whitney's legs.

Whitney rubs herself back and forth on Rose, wagging her hips in debauched pleasure. Several times you see Rose's cute button nose disappear into Whitney's twat. But mostly Whitney is enjoying the sharp pink little tongue that Rose has learned over time to put to such excellent use.

You no longer have to hold Rose down, so you stand and relieve the pressure in your jeans, unzipping your fly and letting your cock loose. Whitney snaps her fingers, directing Alex to the other side of her, and she doesn't even need to voice the command; Alex knows his job. He spreads Whitney's ass and starts rimming her out, without hesitation. You can see his cock straining against the material of his spats as he works.

"Fuck, this is nice," Whitney sighs, looking up at you. "Good little fuckpigs..."

Rose seems to try to protest this, but whatever stupid fucking thought she wanted to voice is lost as Whitney presses down even harder and smothers it.

"I'll let you decide," you tell Whitney, feeling gracious. "Which one do you want to see me cum inside tonight?"

She flashes a Cheshire grin and shrugs. "How about some incest, Ally? That really gets me off~"

You can't argue. You get down and press the small of your hand against Rose's tummy, forcing her to waddle backwards on her knees while she eats Whitney out. From this angle you can see that Rose's face is an even worse mess than before, her makeup smeared obscenely and her features covered in Whitney's cum. She looks hardly human.

Finally you have her pushed far enough back that you can get free access to her ass. Whitney watches, eyes filled with adoration, as you hike up your cousin's skirt and rip her satin panties to shreds. Rose's pussy is as soft and pliable as the rest of her, and she might fight you, but getting raped makes her wet. You shove two fingers into her without any foreplay and enjoy the way it makes her jolt. As deep as you can go, her insides are hot and tight and practically begging for dick. She can say no as many times as she wants; you know she wants you to fuck her.

"Is she wet?" Whitney asks.

"Of course she is," you grunt. "Fucking cunt." You spank her for impact, once, twice. She squeaks. Whitney coos.

Alex, not to be outdone, is licking Whitney's asshole so eagerly that the sound of it echoes off the walls. He evidently enjoys being Whitney's "fuckpig," unlike Rose, and moans to himself as he helps her ride out a series of miniature orgasms.

You grab your cock by the root and position yourself directly behind Rose now. "Get ready, slut," is the only warning you're generous enough to give her, immediately before shoving yourself as deep as you can inside her. Her elastic cunt is so tight that you can't get cleanly in to the hilt with one thrust. You have to pull back and try again, a short stabbing buck of the hips that breaks the last resistance of Rose's deepest parts and lets you settle balls-deep against the familiar walls of her womb.

"Ohhh," you can't help sighing. Rose might be obnoxious sometimes, but her hole is a wonderful cumdump.

Whitney has one hand on each of Rose's and Alex's heads, using them as living sex toys for her own amusement. You establish a steady pace of slow, short, deep strokes up Rose's cunt as you watch. Stirring her up inside, enjoying the way she begins to rotate her hips back against you despite herself. Alex, desperate for relief too, reaches down and starts tugging himself off.

"They're gonna-- make me-- cum--" Whitney chokes out. "Oh god... cum inside her! I want to cum with you, Ally!"

You grunt and pick up the pace, beating Rose's abused pussy to a pulp as you brutally slam-fuck her. You can practically feel the soft interior walls begin to bruise and tear. Her gasps -- of pain, pleasure, or probably both -- are almost impossible to hear over the squelching noise of Whitney's gushing cunt against her face. As you see Whitney begin to squirt, you go over the edge yourself, and blow a hot load of cum into Rose. No warning for that, no gentleness, just a loud bellow and your pulsating cockhead spewing its sperm as deep as you can get it.

You almost collapse with the exertion of it, but you know better, because what comes next is the best part. Stepping away, your cock slipping out with an audible plop and a little dribble of cum, you stand. Whitney lets go of Rose too. Without the support, Rose falls to her back, eyes glazed and distant, face coated in slime, choking on Whitney's girl-cum as she struggles to breathe again.

Whitney's turn to go to her knees: in front of Rose as Rose writhes, incoherent; to suck your jizz directly out of the dumb cow. Alex, leaning against the sofa, eyes as glazed as Rose's, face as wet and red and slimy too, finishes himself off. He sprays the tile floor in front of him as he watches the depraved scene, gasping in a girly staccato. He can appreciate watching a girl eat cunt as well as you can. It's a lovely sight.

---

You carry Rose to her bedroom. This is more trouble than it should be. Holding her under knees and back, you have to support her entire weight, all the way up the long stairs to the second floor. She's so dazed and cum-drunk and beaten that she's already fading in and out of consciousness. With Rose therefore nothing but so much dead weight, it's more like trying to lug a heavy, awkwardly shaped box than princess-carrying a girl blushing in the afterglow of lovemaking. You, who were never in great shape to begin with, groan under the exertion of it, and have to take it one difficult stair at a time, with several moments' pause between. You're not even sure why you bother -- you could easily have left her passed out on the cold tile floor of the living room. It's not as if you care either way.

Trying to get her cleaned up is out of the question in her state. She'll just have to sleep dirty: naked, sweat-slick, still leaking, and stinking of sex. Not that you're in any better shape yourself -- things got messy back there. With Whitney involved it can rarely end any other way.

Finally pushing past Rose's door with your shoulder, and settling her softly on top of her comforter, you take a moment to straighten your spine, adjust your posture, roll your neck -- generally enjoy the sensation of not toting around 100+ pounds of additional weight. You intend to hurry back downstairs and take a shower with Whitney and Alex -- maybe have some overtime with them, which is probably inevitable. But while you're standing here collecting yourself again, you notice Rose, curled up, quietly heaving and trembling.

She's crying.

What a pain. Even worse, she has the temerity to think she can hide it from you, because now she pulls her covers up around herself like a turtle retreating into its shell, and curls into an even tighter ball. That weird sixth sense she has about you must have told her that you were looking at her and noticed her crying, even though she's 90% of the way to passed-out, and not even facing you.

"Rose," you say.

There's a lengthy silence and then finally "go away," comes the muffled response.

Rose, of all fucking people, isn't about to order you around. You climb into her bed with her, forcing her to make room. You pull the covers away from her and get under them with her. Your combined body heat trapped by the thick Egyptian cotton makes it quickly too-warm and just this side of unpleasant.

You wrench her out of her fetal position now and wrap yourself around her so there can be no mistaking that you're in control here; your sticky body and her sticky body are glued together. Big spoon and little spoon. She wiggles a little, a token attempt to break free, but there's no force behind it and you don't let go.

She gamely keeps herself composed for all of about 30 or 40 seconds before you can feel her trembling against you and you can tell that she's crying again.

"Stop that," you say.

"Fuck you. Go away."

Instead of going away, you reach up and swipe a few errant strands of wet hair behind her ear and out of her face.

"You got what you want," she says. "I'm just a hole for you so what do you care anymore. Leave me alone... you'll just leave me anyway."

She gets weird like this, occasionally. You defuse in the only way you know how: "I'm definitely going to leave if you don't stop jamming your elbow into my ribs like that. Did you take elbow-sharpening classes or what?"

She's still crying but to her credit she does shift her weight around and pull her elbow forward to relieve the pressure against your ribs. The feeling of your flesh unsticking and resticking to hers is sort of strange, but nice.

"I fucking hate you," Rose says. "I hate everything about you."

You play idly with her hair some more. "Yeah," you say. "I know."

"So why don't you just go away?"

"This is your punishment."

"...What?"

Your idle playing in her hair has become more like petting, with intermittent scritches. "You want me to go away, so this is your punishment. You have to sleep with me tonight. So accept your punishment and be a good girl from now on."

There's a longer, more looming silence now as you continue to pet Rose, and her breathing comes back under control, her tears stop flowing. Softly then, she mutters: "I won't be good."

You nuzzle your face against the crown of her head and hold her a little tighter.

---

Whitney is up early, as good as new, and goes to the country club with Alex -- as well as a couple other members of the Darkbloom Analytics board -- for some real golfing with a couple generals. They're working out the details of the renewal of DA's contract with the US military. You should really be there too, but there's somewhere else you have to be.

And there's also Rose. She dozes until past noon. Since she pinned your right arm in her sleep, you're kind of trapped. You could push her off you and get up, which you'd like to since the body heat is starting to make you sweat, but... well, anyway, you let her rest. When she finally does stir, you have to help her into the shower as she stumbles and trips, still woozy from the hard use. She complains of being sore, so with no small amount of complaining on your own end, you soap her down and clean her too. And you're absolutely sure she isn't so sore that she actually can't manage the next part, but she nags you into it anyway: you brush her teeth for her. It's weird, with her sitting in your lap in front of the bathroom mirror, your hand swishing back and forth as the dainty toothbrush saws between her pointy little teeth. The look in her eyes in the mirror's reflection is hard to guage; she still seems a bit out of it.

As the two of you sit at a marble island in the kitchen and wake up over bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Rose is coming back from fucking-induced stupidity. She begins laying out the plan for -- as she calls it -- catfishing Rose2. Since Rose2 goes back home to her parents' house every weekend, you'll have plenty of opportunities to woo her on home turf, so to speak. And there's something back in your hometown that's just perfect for the occasion: a karaoke bar. How Rose knows these things off the top of her head is mystifying.

You finish the last of your cereal and dump the leftover milk down the drain of the kitchen sink. Behind you, Rose says: "Seriously?"

You grip the countertop in front of the sink and try not to explode. "Jesus Christ. What now?"

"You don't drink the milk?"

You turn. "You've bitched at me about a lot of stupid things, but this has got to be the stupidest. You're seriously going to come at me over the milk from my cereal?"

"There are starving people in the world, Alabaster--"

"Oh my God--"

"--And the milk is the best part! You can't have Cinnamon Toast Crunch and just dump the milk! Are you a moron?"

"I should have kept going until you were in a coma," you say. "Holy shit."

You rinse out the bowl now and set it in the dishwasher. Grabbing your keys from the peg on the wall, you say: "I'll be back later on. I have an errand to run."

Not even Rose knows about your continued visits with Galatea. At least not openly. You assume she probably stalked you back to Galatea's apartment at least a few times.

"Wait," Rose calls.

You sigh.

"There's something you should know about. I wasn't sure whether to tell you, but... here."

She hands you her phone, and on the screen is a scanned document, a coroner's report. The man in the report: Carl Price, 52. Cause of death: acute alcohol poisoning.

You hand her phone back to her. "I figured... how the fuck did you get that information? How did you even know to be looking for it?"

"I make it my business to know things," Rose says. "That's what I do for this company. Someone has to."

"You creep me out. No joke."

She ignores that. "Now the ball is in your court. You're the Whitney-whisperer, after all. I'll leave it up to you whether or not she needs to know."

[ ] You will tell Whitney at the right time.

[ ] You will keep it to yourself.

Galatea's apartment is a lot nicer than the one she used to have.

It's a third-floor loft, with a view of the bay -- or at least it would have such a view, if blackout curtains didn't perpetually obscure any trace of it. It's spacious, with a high ceiling and rustic raw brick walls, knotted oak flooring -- the kind of place hipsters go nuts for, with a monthly rent that only a person making well into six figures could even contemplate paying.

Galatea affords it quite well with the illicit revenue made from spear-phishing the elderly. What little you've been able to wheedle out of her is that she only robs the accounts she gains access to after the account owners die -- as if leaving the inheritors in the lurch is any nobler. But of course, Galatea is a piece of shit. You wouldn't expect anything better.

You enter using your spare key. She's at her computer -- where else? -- and as you step inside, she recoils like a Gollum from the intrusion of daylight. You close the door behind you, but she isn't any less unsettled.

She watches you with frightened eyes. These encounters are always wordless unless she has something to say, and she rarely ever does. You walk across the messy loft, deliberate and slow, your shadow deep in the pale blue light of Galatea's monitor, the only source of illumination in the room. You set your keys on the desk next to her. She jumps in her seat, just a little.

You kneel in front of her and put your hands on her knees. Tremblingly, she reaches up and takes off her glasses.

Your faces are level but slightly misaligned -- left eye to left eye. You're so close that the ridges of your brows are touching.

As her pupil draws into your focus, and locks with yours, it dilates to a circumference that nearly blots out the iris completely. Her eyeball begins to vibrate, the roundness of it deforming as if it will burst; and this is really all you see before your eye begins to do the same. You feel a looseness all over, like being in freefall, and then all at once you splash down, and become suspended in an ocean of warmth. As if bodily transposed to a different realm, you feel the walls and floor of Galatea's loft melt to nothing around you, replaced by only this warm ocean below, and a swirling vortex above, a cyclone whose tail extends infinitely through time and space. You gain now, as always, a total awareness of all things -- Nirvana, if you had to name it -- as if you can simultaneously gauge the speed and position of every particle in every person on the planet. It's blissful, almost orgasmic, but every time you chase this dragon, there's one gaping void in your awareness, a place you cannot get to, a thing you cannot see.

As usual, it's Galatea who relents first, ripping away from you, plunging you back to reality. It's a rude awakening, like stepping into a cold shower. When you look, she's half seizing, and sweating, and even drooling a little. You can smell her arousal in the air too -- this experience has much the same effect on her as you. You wonder whether you're becoming addicted; you wonder whether she's becoming addicted. Not that it matters. You do this for a purpose, and it's not the high that comes with it.

She begins to gain her awareness back as well, smacking her lips and blinking dazedly as she turns her head this way and that.

"Did you see her?" You ask, breath still running ragged.

Galatea gulps and nods.

"Did she say anything?"

Galatea shakes her head.

"You're so fucking useless." You stand, head swimming. Why does Galatea get to see her every time, and you don't? And if she sees her, why can't she get her to say anything?

Galatea stares at the floor. You take her chin in hand. "Dr. Carte is going to wake her up on Monday," you tell her.

For the first time, her eyes have some kind of human glimmer to them.

"really?"

"That's right. And she needs you to help her."

"anything. i'll get on my webcam--"

"No. You need to be there. In person."

Galatea says nothing.

"You don't have a choice in this," you tell her. "You're going to be there, even if I have to carry you in myself. I don't give a shit if going outside makes you scared. Are you listening to me?"

You tap the desk. She flinches.

"Figure out a way to fool the system at that hospital into thinking you're an RN. That place is swarming with FBI agents. You need to look legit. If you can forge credentials, I'll get you some scrubs to wear."

She nods her understanding. "i'll do it. anything. anything... i'll do whatever she needs..."

You fold your arms. "That's good. And hey -- you'll get to see Cerise again. We both will."

Despite herself, Galatea smiles.

You lean in, put your cheek to hers. Breath hot against her ear, you whisper: "If you fuck this up... if you don't go, or if you hurt my sister again... I'll make sure you regret it."

Her reaction is muted, taciturn as always.

"I'll be here after work on Monday. Be ready for me."

"alabaster..."

"What?"

"will you please hurt me today"

You unbuckle your belt.

At work on Monday, the congressman whose district covers Darkbloom Analytics -- Devin Isstein, that little twerp who somehow clung to his reelection last year -- takes the generals on a tour of the DA campus. But the divide and conquer strategy works: Armstrong leads the generals away, being by far the best at dealing with these merit-badge-wearing machismo machines, while Whitney and Vivian hang out with the congressman in Whitney's office.

Whitney offers him a Jelly Belly, and he actually fucking takes it -- now here's a guy who's constitutionally incapable of refusing a handout.

"You gotta, like, pass a law that lets us sell Sand Reckoner to people other than the government," Whitney says. "We're bleeding money, big league."

"That's a non-starter," Congressman Isstein says. "No one would get within 100 miles of a bill like that. I'm sorry, but public opinion just isn't on your side here."

This goes over like a swastika at a Holocaust memorial. "What the fuck do I pay you for if it's not to pass the laws I want?" Whitney shouts.

Congressman Isstein is so taken aback that he actually, literally, takes a step back. "You-- Ms. Darkbloom, you make generous contributions to my campaign, and I appreciate that. But those are merely donations. They don't obligate me to pass laws that favor your business. In fact, doing such in exchange for your contributions would be... astonishingly illegal."

"Well if you're not obligated to do shit for me, I won't feel so obligated to keep giving you my money! Or my Jelly Bellies!"

Vivian finally steps in, thank god. "My sister and I appreciate your visit. We will continue to donate to your campaign because our political viewpoints are aligned. We trust you to legislate as a stalwart conservative who encourages innovation in the technology sector."

Whitney fumes. Vivian takes the congressman's hand and the world's most awkward handshake ensues. Both their grips are limp and listless and floppy. "I will see you out," she tells him.

"Thank you," he says. "And please teach your sister some damn tact."

"It is a work in progress."

"Waste of my fucking time," Whitney grumbles as she watches them depart. "I hate politicians."

"Whitney, you need to understand that you are a politician now."

"Fuck no I'm not," Whitney says. "Unless daddy Darkbloom said in his will that I also get to be President. Which I don't think he did, so."

"When you say things," you explain with a firm but patient tone, "the world pays attention. You need to convince them you're not a dumbass or a crazy person. Get it?"

She doesn't get it. She's busy unwrapping a Slim Jim, wherever the fuck she got that from.

Whitney is in the boardroom, staring at the portrait of David Darkbloom still hanging there. The word "ASSHOLE" is scrawled over his face with a black sharpie.

"Solutions Forum is coming up," you say.

"Joy."

"Hanging in there?" You ask. Sometimes she needs the pep talk. "We've still got time to get ready for it, so if you need anything--"

She's still focused on the painting. "He made me CEO for a reason. He wanted me to do something... something other than get on his cunt wife's nerves. I need to figure out what it is, so I can do the opposite."

"You two are a lot more alike than you think," you say.

She finally looks at you. "What? Fuck you. How?"

"He had the same habit of staring at paintings and making dramatic speeches."

"Well aren't you just the Darkbloom expert now. I hope you weren't fucking him, too."

"Of course not. I'm not g--" you begin, but you know exactly what Whitney will say about this, and you don't want to throw her a pitch right over the plate like that. You decide to change the subject.

"Whitney... I don't know if this is the right time, but I've got some bad news... err, some news..."

"I'm turning into fucking Garfield here. I hate Mondays."

"It's Carl. Over the weekend -- he had an accident--"

"I know," Whitney says, nonchalant as can be. "The police called me on Saturday."

You blink, surprised.

"Thanks for telling me, though," she says. "How did you even know?"

"I, uh... I make it my business to know things..."

"Dork."

You're not sure how to reply.

"You're the only person in the world I can trust," Whitney says. She hugs you, puts her head to your chest, and you hug her back. You stand there like that for a long time.

Back in the C-suite, in the hallway, you're startled by a low, resonant woof and you jump back as a Rottweiler lunges from the corner office.

"Lady!" Kay calls, unseen, from within. "Get back here!"

Lady, who's a boy, returns to his master, slinking through the open door and out of sight again.

You hardly regain your bearings before Armstrong, walking by, gets accosted by Lady in exactly the same way.

He jumps back in fright. "Jesus tittyfucking H. Christ!"

"Lady! Get back here!"

When he gets over that adrenaline rush, Armstrong marches to the door of Kay's office and calls in: "You get that mutt out of here or I will punt it to the fucking moon--"

Woof

"Fuck!" He backs off, straightening his lapels. He turns and puts his finger to your chest. "Alabaster. You see to it that she gets rid of the dog."

Mara comes by now, interrupting. "Alabaster," she says. "My office -- please..."

Woof

Mara falls the ground, shielding her face with one hand "Oh God--!"

"Lady! Get back here!"

As Mara stands again and brushes off her dress, you follow Lady and peek into Kay's office

"You're bringing your dog to work now?" You say.

"Hell yes I'm bringing my dog to work. I'm feeding him milkbones too." Kay does exactly that now, to demonstrate: pulls open a drawer, produces a plastic jug full of multicolored bone-shaped biscuits, and lets Lady eat one slobberingly from the palm of her hand. "Who's a good boy?" She croons. "You are! Yes you are."

"You're pissing everyone off even worse than usual. I can't keep them from evicting you if they ever realize that they're legally allowed to do that... honestly, I'm not sure why anyone is letting you live here. Do you even pay rent on this office?"

"Nope." Of course not. You don't know why you asked.

Mara enters now. Lady growls, but Kay keeps him at bay.

Kay reaches out for a handshake, and Mara returns the gesture. They shake for a moment. Mara's left eye twitches as she feels the warm wetness in Kay's hand and realizes what it is. She pulls away, lip curled in disgust, and wipes her hand on her dress.

"Ms. Vera," she says. "This is not an animal-friendly campus. Remove your dog at once."

"Lady is a service animal," Kay says. "See the vest?"

Indeed, Lady is wearing a vest that indicates he is a companion dog.

"Does that vest block needles?" Mara intones, summoning as much menace as she can.

As if he can comprehend human speech, Lady barks again. Mara jumps.

"Does that dress block fangs?" Kay asks.

Mara leaves. Thanks, Kay, for making her even angrier right before she wants to see you.

>[x] See Mara as requested.

[ ] Blow it off.

Mara's office has that same old Lovecraft quality of feeling somehow non-Euclidean -- as if it's bigger on the inside than the dimensions of the building would seem to allow.

You stand in front of her bare desk and she peers at you from behind tented fingers.

"Waking Cerise up today?" She asks.

You don't say anything to that.

"Spare me the coyness," Mara says. "I spoke with Renee about it. She seems somehow convinced that even if Cerise is awake, she can't take that device out of her skull without destroying it."

"It's unfortunate," you say. "Guess it'll be stuck inside of her forever."

Mara shakes her head. "I know you're trying to ratfuck me. You and Renee and her idiot daughter. But I'll get ahold of Sand Reckoner one way or another. Stall as much as you like. It makes no difference. In the long run, there's nothing you can do."

"Sounds good, Mara," you say. You always do your best to deny her the pleasure of getting under your skin.

"When I get it," she says, leaning forward, her pale hands gripping the edges of the white steel desk, "there will be no more reason for any of you to exist."

"Sure."

"I'll kill Whitney first. Rose, and Alex, and Renee -- and then Cerise. I'll make you watch. I'll torture you for a little while, too, until I get bored. And then, only then, I'll let you die."

In truth, Mara inspires a black terror within you that you have never felt about anything, ever. Somehow, though, you manage to appear unimpressed. You point at her. "You think you're going to kill me?"

Mara laughs cruelly.

"Wrong. You're already dead."

She isn't fazed. "Tell your sister hello for me. I hope to see her back at work quite soon."

Cerise returning to employment at Darkbloom Analytics... you haven't considered what comes next if she ever wakes up. You're not sure if it's better to have her close or keep her far away from this place. Assuming she wakes up... assuming that. Which you have to.

You leave with a persistent nausea gripping you.

You arrive at Galatea's apartment after work. She's curled up on her mattress, lost in whatever thoughts occupy her head.

"It's time to go." You hand her the scrubs that you got from Dr. Carte.

To her small credit, she doesn't try to bargain or delay. As far as you're aware, Galatea hasn't stepped foot outdoors since moving into this apartment well over a year ago, but she's willing to do it for the sake of Cerise.

Standing now, she does wait just a moment for you to give her some privacy, to leave or turn around, anything -- but when you don't budge, she drops her dignity and strips in front of you. Not that she was wearing much to begin with. Her tee, well-worn as it is (she had it on when you were here Saturday), comes up over her head, revealing that she isn't even wearing a bra. Or bottoms.

She changes into the scrubs. The frumpy, rumpled look somehow suits her.

"Did you do your part, then?" You ask.

"yes. i forged an employee badge that should work in their scanners..."

The "badge" is just a printed piece of paper, with her picture, a false name, and a barcode. But, slipping it into the laminated cover that used to house your Darkbloom Analytics employee ID, it looks official enough.

---

It would be too suspicious to go in with Galatea at your side, so you let her go on ahead, and watch from your car as she enters the hospital. She isn't used to being in the world at large, and she manages to look shady enough that the worst happens: a man who's surely a plainclothes fed stops her just past the sliding glass doors of the lobby, and enters into a conversation with her.

From this distance, there's no way you can hear the exchange, but you can clearly see the deer-in-headlights expression on Galatea's face. He says something, and is waiting for a response, but she isn't talking. She's just standing there, the stupid bitch, silent.

Your blood boils and your heart quickens. "Come on..." you mutter. "Jesus... say something."

After an agonizing period that feels like it stretches to infinity, Galatea finally manages to mumble a few words to the man, and show him her badge, and even force what looks like laughter. It placates him just enough. He leaves her alone. Galatea continues on, towards a hallway housing elevators, and out of sight. Only now can you breathe again.

After a few minutes, you get out of the car and follow.

You see a face you didn't expect in Cerise's room. Kay Vera.

"How the hell--" you begin.

"She might be a two-bit MSM whore," Dr. Carte says, covering Cerise's face with a tarp -- hole over the left eye that makes your stomach turn at the implication. "But she knows how to check for bugs. So she has a use."

Galatea is at the other side of the bed, gripping Cerise's arm as if she can't believe in Cerise's physical tangibility, caught between the fear of what comes next and the happiness of seeing her for the first time since that night.

"Are we good, then?" You ask Kay.

"Good as good. The room is clean. No one watching but us."

"Thanks," you say. "You can go now."

"Oh hell, no," Kay says. "I'm fine right here." She sits in a chair in the corner and folds her arms. "Proceed!"

"We have permission from Kay Vera now!" You say. "That's just great. Hear that, Dr. Carte? We can proceed."

"You're snippy when it comes to your sister," Kay says. "Anyone ever tell you that?"

Dr. Carte tries and fails to look Galatea in the eye. "You're certain you remember the procedure?"

Galatea nods.

"What we're doing here is just the same thing but in reverse. We'll pull Penelope out of her eye and destroy it. Understand?"

Galatea's nod is more halting this time.

Dr. Carte takes her hand. "You can do this," she says. "I have faith in you. You managed to successfully do the operation on your own, just from watching a video of it. With both of us working together, it's sure to go off without a hitch."

They scrub down and glove up. You sit beside Kay and watch, a helpless spectator. Your part in this is finished now; the rest is up to them.

Kay reaches into her handbag and produces a tiny, travel-size bottle of tequila. "For your nerves," she says, offering it to you.

You turn it down. Kay shrugs. "Don't say I was never nice to you," she replies.

It's an actual scoop -- like a melon baller, the thing Dr. Carte uses to pull Cerise's eye from its socket. You watch as long as you can bear, and turn away when the blue tarp runs red with her blood.

The wire wrapped around her ocular nerve is almost as horrible a sight as the blood. But now you can only hear the conversation, muffled by surgical masks, as dry and utilitarian as any surgeon performing any routine surgery -- Dr. Carte directing Galatea on what to do. "Make the incision here. Find where the terminal node connects to her frontal lobe -- here. Hold on -- and now, we switch it to low-power mode..."

Eyes wrenched shut, you jostle your leg madly up and down, until Kay rests a palm on your knee to still it. She doesn't say anything, and you're thankful for that.

"And now we pull it--"

You hear a squeal -- the sound of the hospital gurney's wheels trying to move but being halted by the brakes -- and the sudden metallic crash of Dr. Carte's tray of implements falling to the ground. You look up: Cerise is locked in a sort of muscle spasm, her back arched so severely that the crown of her head is flat against the bed. Galatea steps back, terrified, and Dr. Carte is the one to take action: she reaches down and grabs the loose wire hanging from Cerise's gaping eye socket, and reconnects it to whatever part of her brain it was wired to.

Cerise collapses supine again, spine no longer contorted, but the worst is hardly over. She makes the first sound you've heard her make in a year: a senseless wail of agony.

You're on your feet, but Dr. Carte waves you back. "She's okay! Let it pass!"

Cerise's head shakes side to side. She seems conscious, but not lucid. Her eyeball flops around on her cheek as she convulses, the tarp partially fallen away but still held in place by the fact that it's looped around her ocular nerve.

"Cerise!" You cry.

She turns her head in your direction, her other eye meeting yours. There is recognition there: she sees you. She knows who you are.

"Cerise--"

Her mouth gapes. Her lips purse and struggle to form words. Dryly, she croaks: "Alabaster-- he's"

"He's what?" You step forward, but that's all she says. The glimmer in her eye fades. She goes stone-still. That same old dead guppy catatonia she's had for so long now. There is only silence.

Dr. Carte bows her head. "Let's get her put back together," she says, unable to mask the despair.

"What happened?" You demand.

"I thought I figured out a way to --" she stammers. "It's a low-power mode -- nevermind. Stupid, stupid... I'm so sorry, Alabaster..."

She works quickly with Galatea to put Cerise's left eye back in its socket and get her cleaned up.

"We'll figure it out," Dr. Carte insists when it's all over. "There wasn't any damage -- if you're worried about that."

"Square one," you say. "After a year, it's square one. Isn't it?"

"No," she says. "It just means we need a new approach--"

"Whatever." You don't feel like debating semantics. "Gal, let's go."

Galatea is at Cerise's side, still watching her intently, like a worshiper meeting God. She doesn't respond.

"Gal."

"please can i stay with her a bit. it's been so long."

"And how the hell are you going to get home?"

"I'll take her," Kay says, still a little green from watching the awfulness earlier.

"And you're okay with that?" You ask Gal. "Riding in a car with a stranger?"

No response. She's just... staring, at Cerise. And she's equally as catatonic as Cerise is.

"Fuck all of you. Useless shits." You go for the door.

"Alabaster--" Dr. Carte says.

You ignore her. Anything you say right now is bound to be of the burning bridges variety. You leave on your own.

The week passes as a vague blur. You can't focus on anything -- not on meetings, not on meals, not on the people around you -- not even on the sex you have, as if by obligation, with Whitney. You're thinking only of Cerise the entire time.

At the wrap-up meeting Wednesday, Alex shows his face -- rare sight to these things, preferring most days instead to stay cooped up in his little dungeon like his predecessor did. And that's exactly why he's here now: to inquire about his predecessor.

"What's the status of looking for Sable Guiteau?" He asks.

"My guys are on it," Armstrong says, like brushing away a stray piece of lint, and tries to move on to the next thing. But Alex won't let him.

"What have they found?"

"Kid, if they find anything useful, you'll be the first to know."

"Nothing. After all this time, nothing." Alex isn't even pretending to be chipper and enthusiastic.

"He's got a point," Whitney says. "Weren't they supposed to be top guys?"

Armstrong scratches his ear, sighs. "I don't know what you want me to say. The woman is a ghost. She hasn't--"

"You need better people on this," Alex says. "And more people. And more resources."

Armstrong groans. This is a breaking point. He drops any hint of playing along and levels with Alex -- obviously relishing the chance to do it. "Sable Guiteau is dead," he says.

"No she isn't," Alex replies without hesitation.

"She's dead. If she was alive, there would have been some trace of her by now. She's dead somewhere in the desert, and if you want to know exactly where to go digging, then hell -- ask her, I guess." He nods at Mara. "We can't spend any more money on a manhunt for a woman not even the fucking FBI can find."

"If you were going to waste time like this, you should have told me," Alex says. You've never seen him this angry. It's actually a little scary.

"What? You want to waste your own money on it instead?"

"I will if I have to." He stands. "You're wrong about Sable. She's alive."

He storms out. When he's gone, Armstrong glances back at Mara. "You did kill her, right? I mean, I'm not wrong about that."

"I did no such thing," Mara says.

"Okay, sure, of course. But she's dead."

"The boy is perfectly correct," Mara says. "As far as I know, Sable is alive, and you should still be looking for her. You stupid sack of shit. Fuck you."

Armstrong stares at the ceiling and curses under his breath.

The Solutions Forum is that evening. It's as despicable a group of wannabe titans of industry as you've ever seen, a motley gathering of dweeby billionaires, all joined under the roof of a ritzy conference hall downtown to hear from Whitney, of all people, on how to save the world.

"Check it," Whitney says, nodding at the bald head of a man on the other side of the hall. He has his back to you. "Ten points if I can nail Lex Luthor over there."

"Do you know who that is?" You demand. "That's J--"

She's already got a straw in her mouth. And then the little spittle-coated wad of paper is flying across the room. She barely gets the incriminating straw behind her back before it hits him square in one of his revolting neck folds, and he clutches at it, and looks disgustedly down at his hand, and then back behind him to see where the fuck that spitball came from.

"Ten points," she whispers, triumphant.

You're a man of principle; you have to speak out. "It didn't hit his head. It hit his neck. That's five points, max."

He locks eyes with Whitney and you're briefly alarmed that maybe he knows she's the culprit after all, but instead his beady little eyes light up and he waves happily at her. You and Whitney walk over.

"How are you this evening?" He asks. "So looking forward to hearing the presentation. It's nice to get to the Valley sometimes."

"Yo," Whitney says. (The utter lact of tact to greet one of the richest men on Earth with "yo" is sort of admirable, in a perverse way.) "I heard that instead of putting air conditioning in your warehouses, you just hire ambulances to wait outside for whenever your workers get heat stroke. Is that true?"

His head glistens complexly in the overhead lighting as he shakes it. "That story was really overblown--"

"Oh my god, it's true," Whitney breathes. "You're one sick fuck, Jeffy. Wow."

He laughs cruelly. "Maybe you should be less concerned about my employees and more concerned about your boyfriend. I hear he gets around."

"What is it with these rich fuckers and their infidelity digs?" She asks you, frustrated. She looks back at Jeff. "We have an open relationship, dumbass. It's 2019. Maybe you should have tried it." She grabs a piece of cheese on a toothpick from a passing waiter and chomps down on it. Speaking through the food in her mouth she adds: "Maybe you wouldn't be losing half your shit then, huh?"

He sets his jaw -- coming up blank. Instead he simply turns and goes. You have to hand it to Whitney: she's basically undefeated in squaring off against these people.

After an interminable hour of milling around with Whitney and saying hello to the likes of Bill Gates, Larry Page, and Michael Dell ("Do the thing!" Whitney said to Dell. When he didn't understand what "the thing" was, Whitney did it for him, making finger guns and exclaiming "dude, you're gettin a Dell!") -- the conversation slows to a trickle as, at last, people begin to find their seats. Whitney takes the podium and scans her eyes around the room. While the conference hall is richly lit and lushly carpeted, it's cozy too, and she needs no microphone to be heard.

"We're missing someone," she says. "Who are we missing?"

"Elon is yet to arrive," Vivian says from the front row. She's a couple seats away from you, separated by Tyrus, Dalton, and Alex.

"Probably out on a vision quest smoking mescaline," someone says, to laughter.

"Please, let us begin," Vivian says. "We do not need to delay things for one participant."

"Right," Whitney says. She clears her throat and looks uncertainly back over her shoulder at the projector screen with the Powerpoint slide reading simply "Solutions Forum." She signals for Nelson to click the "next" button.

The intro slide has a lot of text on it, in an untidy bullet-pointed list, but Whitney isn't one to stick to the script. Instead of reading the summary of what Sand Reckoner is, and why it has the potential to destabilize the western world with a flood of false information indistinguishable from reality, she says simply: "Yeah, so. We fucked up."

The only sound from the audience is an awkward cough. After a pause, Whitney adds: "By 'we', I mean my dad. I didn't fuck up. Just so everyone's clear. I'm here to fix the fuck-up. So yeah..."

She signals for Nelson to click "next."

The first topic is the Sand Reckoner platform's ability to generate convincing forged videos. For impact, the presentation includes a short clip of Whitney supposedly dunking on an NBA player, which of course never happened. "These are called deep fakes," she explains. "You can't tell them apart from real life, so that's pretty bad."

"We're already developing digital signatures at the source," someone in the audience says. "That's the future. Why do we need DA's help?"

Whitney stammers, and Nelson is the one to save her. He stands. "Implementing digital signatures with blockchain-assisted fingerprinting doesn't get us there. We could roll out the technology en masse but most devices today aren't capable... and those devices will exist in working condition for decades, no matter what new devices come out. Deep fakes will continue to circulate... and that's just one problem a malicious actor with Sand Reckoner could cause..."

Whitney is a master of delegation if nothing else. She beckons Nelson to the podium. "Tell them about the thing," she instructs him. She stands off to the side and lets him speak. He momentarily looks overcome by stage fright, having not prepared for presenting, but he shakes it off and continues.

"Enter Diogenes," he says. He clicks the clicker and the next slide comes into focus. "A countermeasure against forgery that attacks the problem at the source."

The doors of the hall burst open and in swaggers tonight's missing participant.

"Brilliant," Elon says, his voice dripping with unmasked frustration. He steps down the center aisle between chairs. "Burn the world down, then start selling fire extinguishers. I love it."

"Sit the fuck down, Iron Man," Whitney says. "If we want your opinion, we'll ask you."

"You want to charge rent on access to the Diogenes platform, don't you?" He demands, not sitting.

There's an awkward silence. Nelson finally fields the question: "Well -- we will work alongside your companies to develop applications for the platform that suit your needs... we're not looking to profit here, but it does take dedicated resources -- and we need to recoup costs --"

There's a general, uneasy murmur at this: these folks are now wise to the grift.

"These details are months away from consideration," Vivian says. She will brook no tangents here: "The purpose tonight is not to discuss financing. The purpose is to discuss how we prevent guillotines from coming back into style. Now if you have any questions, I ask that you please hold them for the end. Thank you."

You look to your side, where Alex is busy on his phone. He hasn't said word one all night, even though he's the lead developer on Diogenes. "Don't you have an opinion on this?" You whisper to him.

He doesn't say anything -- still staring at his phone like it's the most intensely interesting thing on the planet.

"Alex."

"I don't care about these people," he finally tells you. And you realize that he's right. You don't either. You'd rather be anywhere but here. Judging by Whitney's expression as she stands at the head of the room, she agrees too.

You want your old life back. The one in which you didn't have to deal with the demands of unruly billionaires and egotistical CEOs.

The Forum was a disaster. After that stupid Afrikaner asshole's little outburst, the assembled group of businessmen (business people-- mea culpa, Rose) became restless and started demanding to know why they should even consider any sort of partnership with Darkbloom Analytics. Instead of pledging to help develop Diogenes -- or even to make use of it when it's completed -- Whitney got the cold shoulder. Most of them stated an intention to develop their own versions of technology to defeat whatever nasty tricks Sand Reckoner could be capable of.

Another potential revenue stream up in smoke.

As you step into the balmy air outside the hotel, waiting for the valet to return your car to you, you catch Alex breezing past. "Are you going home?" You ask him.

"Work," he says. "It's more critical now than ever... if we'll have competition, to beat our competitors to market. No rest!"

He doesn't even give you the time to argue before he scurries away, hands his tag to the valet, and hops back into his car. He's about as rich as you and he still drives a dinky little hybrid from 2016 or so.

"Does Alex seem off to you?" You ask Whitney, watching him drive off.

"What, more than usual?"

You shake your head. "Never mind. Anything left on your agenda today?"

"Just babysitting kimochi."

She means Kikuchi -- as in Makoto Kikuchi, the Japanese singer and actress who's slated to play the role of Whitney in an upcoming Japanese biopic based on the Dakrbloom family. She flew to America recently to observe Whitney firsthand and get deeper into the role. No matter how many times you correct Whitney over the name, she keeps calling her Kimochi rather than Kikuchi.

You're not in such a great mood after everything with Cerise, and now this Forum -- and you're really not looking forward to the end of the week, when you're supposed to arrange a date with Rose2. You need something to get your mind off all your troubles.

>[x] Hang out with Whitney and Makoto.

[ ] Hang out with Alex and cash the rain check he made to do something fun with you.

[ ] Find something interesting to do with Vivian.

[ ] Visit Galatea.

[ ] Visit Kay.

Makoto is on her back, floating in the pool, when you and Whitney arrive home. Although the sun has long since set, she wears sunglasses. Strange girl.

You squat at the edge of the pool and wave to catch her attention.

With bizarre grace, she swings her body through a 90 degree arc so that she stands vertically in the shallow end. She flips up her glasses and says cordially, "Alabaster" -- although her almost impenetrable accent renders it as "Arabasta."

"Did I tell you that you could swim in my pool?" You ask her.

"It is not your pool," she reports. "It is belonging to Whitney."

She nearly topples over now as Whitney plunges in, yelling "cannonball!" and the wave Whitney makes engulfs her. The splash douses you, as well. You step back, looking down at your ruined clothes -- this suit cost a lot of money. Whitney's business clothes are ruined too, not that she has the capacity to care -- and before you can complain, it's Whitney who's complaining first:

"Jeee-sus it's cold in here!" Her teeth chatter as she surfaces and swipes her short bobbed hair back. She nudges Makoto's shoulder. "A-a-are you part reptile? How are you not freezing to death?"

"Acclimation," Makoto says sagely. At least you think that's what she means by "acru-imini-ashi-on."

"What?" Whitney says. She looks up at you. "Did she call me a criminal?"

"She means she got used to it be being in the pool for long enough. Look, if you're cold--"

You can't finish the thought. Whitney is at the pool's edge. She grabs your ankle and tugs, and then you're falling ass-over-teakettle into the frigid water. It's August -- why the hell is the pool so cold? You moan in shock as you claw your way up and get your head above water. "What the fuck? Warn me!"

You shake the water off your head and wipe it from your face and eyes. The wry smile on Makoto's lips is the closest you've ever seen her get to laughter.

"S-s-see how cold it is?" Whitney shivers.

You wade to the edge and haul yourself out -- with an embarrassing amount of effort. "Hang out in the hot tub if the pool is too cold for you. Idiot."

Makoto claps. "Oh yes! I agree with your boyfriend."

Whitney removes her dripping outer layers and unceremoniously discards them like wet towels at the side of the pool. Her plain white bra and panties aren't exactly a bikini, but she's too lazy -- or too cold -- to go change. She just hops into the jacuzzi. Makoto follows.

Figuring that you may as well follow Whitney's lead, you strip down to your boxers and join them. Opposite problem now: the water is almost too hot, and you have to ease your way in with halting, jerky motions. Whitney calls you a pussy.

"Pussy," Makoto parrots, although not to you. Rather, she seems to be reinforcing the word into her memory. "Pussy."

As you settle down, your boxers balloon out -- an air pocket is trapped in them. Whitney cackles. She pokes it with an index finger, and it deflates with a series of bubbles. Makoto demurely averts her gaze.

"So what did you want?" Whitney asks, leaning back and looping either arm over the marble rim of the hot tub. "Usually you're bugging me at work, not home..."

"Just to observer," Makoto says, in her typically ungrammatical way. "I want to know the Whitney of her home, too."

"I dunno, there's not much to observer," Whitney says -- mirroring Makoto's lack of basic English proficiency. "Mostly at home I'm just hanging out in my undies. Kind of like this, actually."

"Undies?" Makoto asks, enunciating each syllable, confused.

"Underwear," Whitney explains. "This." She tugs at the strap of her bra. "These." She points down, towards her crotch, although the raging bubble jets obscure any possible view.

"Ah," Makoto says. She tugs at the strap of her own bikini top. "Bra -- panties -- undies. Mostly you are a naked person, then?"

"Is that fair?" Whitney asks. "I'm not NAKED. Not any nakeder than you! Just being casual and shit."

"What do you do at home?" You ask Makoto, turning the question back on her.

"I practice -- for singing -- always. I enjoy to read, also."

You've learned in the past month or so of being acquainted with this girl that anime has lied to you. The life of an idol singer isn't full of cute hijinks, not in the slightest. You know that Makoto is telling the truth: you almost never see her without a songbook in her hand, in the times she isn't quizzing Whitney over the minutiae of her daily activities. It's almost inhuman, the drive she has. If she even has a concept of fun, she doesn't show it.

"Blah, I'm too lazy," Whitney says. She lets her head fall back and rest against the edge. Then she's staring at the stars. "Don't you ever get bored with practice?"

"It is enjoyable too," Makoto protests. "My passion is to sing."

"Okay, totally fair," Whitney says. "MY passion is to sleep and eat junk food." She suddenly brings her head level again: "Hey. Wanna order pizza?"

Makoto politely declines.

"I don't think she eats," you offer. "It's against her contract, probably."

"I am restricted to 1,000 kilocalories per day," she says.

You're almost afraid to ask whether that's a self-imposed restriction or actually a part of her contract.

"What's a kilocalorie?" Whitney asks. "Is that how Japanese people measure calories? Like feet and kilometers?"

Makoto smiles but doesn't seem sure how to answer. You let it pass. Whitney usually moves on if you ignore a dumb question.

And she does. "Anyway, the other thing I do for fun is drive around. Or sports -- playing or watching, whatever, you know... what else..."

"Sex," you joke.

"Tons of sex. Fuckin' up a storm."

Makoto is just mildly scandalized by this. She covers her mouth with a palm, to signal that this is too much information.

"Hey, you're the one who wants to do the methy acting," Whitney says. "You wanted to know about me. That's the truth."

You startle. Underneath the bubbles, Whitney's foot has snaked its way over. Now she's rubbing your crotch.

"Gotta fill the time with something, you know?" She continues. "It's like a hobby."

"Whitney..." you mutter. She winks at you, grins, but doesn't relent.

"Is it so frequent?" Makoto asks. "To make a hobby?"

"Sure. Well it's mostly because Ally is so horny that he can't keep it in his pants for ten minutes. So you can blame him. He's a real fuckin' pervert."

Here's some method acting now: with a smile of her own, Makoto glances at you. "Pervert," she chides.

Maybe they're right. Whitney's ministrations are having exactly the effect she intended, and you're more lost in the feeling of her surprisingly precise toes than anything the two girls are actually saying. You gulp, and nod, and hope Makoto doesn't notice you're being weird.

She notices. "You are being weird," she says.

"That's because we're having sex right now," Whitney says.

Makoto can only blink, confused. "You are --"

Whitney's efforts redouble, and she must have planned this: the dial for the bubbler jets is within her reach, and right at the critical moment, she sets it to zero. As she brings you over that delirious edge, the white wake of the bubbles dies, and Makoto's eyes are drawn instantly to the movement below the surface. You clutch the edge of the tub and something else white floats in fat pearls through the water.

"Fuck," you groan involuntarily, bowing your head. When you glance up again, Makoto is marveling.

"So that's what we do for fun," Whitney says.

"I see..." For the first time you see Makoto blushing. She isn't taking her eyes away.

---

Rose The First said the best way to avoid arousing Rose The Second's suspicions, as far as your true intentions with the date go, would be to make the proposition appear spontaneous. So you don't reach out until Saturday evening.

"Call or text?" Rose asks, sitting on the hood of your car, inside in the three-car garage at home. (She intercepted and sidelined you right after you returned with Whitney, like she usually does when you and Whitney get back from somewhere.)

"I'm not suffering any conversation with her I don't need to. Anyway, texting is more casual. Right?"

"I would call someone I wanted to set up a date with. That's only polite."

"That's because you're a psycho. Normal people text."

"Tch -- why am I even--"

"Forget it. I'm texting her."

It doesn't take any time. Her responses are almost instantaneous -- and horribly typical. Rose reads the exchange, and you can tell she's not having a good time at all. She fiddles with her skirt and her face twitches a little when Rose2 accepts the date offer.

"You know, I almost kind of pity her," she says, eyes fixed on the screen.

"I'm sure you do," you muse. "Somewhere beneath all the envy."

"Don't make me laugh--"

You smack your lips. "Is it just me, or is it getting salty in here all of a sudden?"

She shoves you: "prick!" You shove her back: "bitch!" It's gonna be one of those nights.

---

Rose talks you up in the car outside the restaurant. You wanted to tell her to fuck off and let you do this one your own, but you knew she was just going to tag along in secret if you did. At least this way you can get her input, for whatever very little it might be worth. She occasionally touches her face as she speaks, her right eye specifically -- the shiner there from last night now concealed by a thick layer of makeup.

"Okay, Alabaster, now remember: this date is about charm. You're trying to charm her."

"Yeah, yeah. Of course."

"You need to pretend you're interested in what she says - no matter how banal!"

"I have plenty of experience from hanging out with you."

"If that's what you call pretending," she says, "you need to do a much better job. And if you're lucky, when it's over, she'll invite you back into her house for a cup of tea, or... whatever it is people like her drink."

"I get the sense you're not a big fan of this Rose person," you say.

"Are you?"

You let that question hang in the air, much to Rose's obvious consternation.

"Just try to act like a real human being with real human emotional intelligence for once in your life," she finally says. "This is a first date. It's about conversation and chemistry. Not what you're usually thinking about."

"Which is what?"

"Trying to have sex -- don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you."

"That doesn't make any sense," you protest. "Why would you ever go on a date with someone if you're not trying to have sex?"

"You're a dog. You're worse than a dog--"

"I'm telling you, Other Rose wants to fuck. That's a fact. You can take that to the bank and cash it. If she invites me back inside, it'll be because she's ready to hop aboard the Alabaster Express."

"Don't make me puke," she cuts in. "Anyway, you CAN'T have sex with her."

"Who the fuck made you queen of my dick? Why can't I?"

"Other than gonorrhea--"

"Don't slut shame--"

She swats your shoulder. "--you're not doing this to get your dick wet, Alabaster! You're trying to meet Amber. It's Sunday, so she's likely to be in Fake-Rose's house if you get invited back inside. Be platonic. Good lord."

You get out of the car and head for whatever fate awaits.

Rose2 is already waiting in the little receiving area, her face cast in pale relief by the dim paper lanterns used for mood lighting. After showing you to your booth, the host asks if you'd like something to drink: you, who are old enough, get a shot of sake; and Rose2, who isn't, gets a Shirley Temple.

"Thanks so much for taking me out!" Rose2 says. She plays with her hair, twirling an index finger through it. "But I'm such an airhead... I let you take me to this nice restaurant even though I can't eat anything!"

You squint at her. "Why not?"

"I've gotta save room. I've got a big dinner later on. But! I can still have a couple drinks, anyway! And we can still do karaoke..."

As if on cue, a waiter returns with your drinks. You knock back the shot of sake with a single hard gulp, knowing you'll need it, and ask him to bring you another one immediately.

You try a sly tack, to see where it gets you: "I guess I should stick to drinks then, too. If you've got a big dinner later on, that means I've also got a big dinner later on."

"You too? Wowie zowie. What a coincidence."

This fucking girl is impossible. You watch as she takes her shitty paper straw out of its paper wrapper, jabs it into the cup, puts the cup to her lips, and then drinks directly from the rim instead of using the straw she just inserted. Literally like watching an alien pretend to be human, with Rose2, sometimes.

"What's the matter?" She asks, noticing how you're staring. Then: "Oh -- yeah. Straw. A-durr."

With way more effort than it should take, she crosses her eyes to look down the bridge of her nose and catches the straw in her lips -- only after pursing them several times around nothing at all as the straw rolls around the rim of the cup and away from her reach.

"Sometimes I think you pretend to be dumber than you really are," you say.

She sucks on her straw and gazes back with big, wide, innocent eyes. If what you just said spun any of the rusty cogs inside her skull, it doesn't show.

This is off to a truly horrible start, so you try to bring it back from disaster. What better thing to talk to a weeaboo about: "are you watching any good anime this season?"

Rose2 laughs. "What's the season got to do with it?" She asks.

"I mean--" you begin, but decide to forget elaborating. "Never mind. Are you watching any good anime?"

"Oh! Yes!" She sets her cup down, to talk excitedly with her hands. "I'm watching this show called Madoka Magica! Well, it's kinda the third or fourth time I've seen it. Have you ever heard of it?"

Classic Rose's words from earlier ring in your ears -- to pretend to be interested, no matter how banal this girl can be -- so you nod politely and ask: "what's it about?"

She leans halfway across the table, her button-down shirt straining against her tits. "Magical girls," she says. "But -- so much more! It's super dark and sad and stuff. You should watch it. You'd definitely be into it."

"Maybe you can show me an episode."

"Mmm hmm!" She hums. "But you can't just watch the first one! You need to give it at least THREE episodes!" She holds out three fingers, for effect. "The third episode is where it gets REALLY good. It's the best!"

You catch movement on the periphery. Glancing around the column on the right side of the little table's booth, you spy an unexpected patron: Dr. Carte. The host seats her nearby, but her back is to you, and she doesn't seem to notice that you're here as well.

[ ] Say hello.

>[x] Let her be; focus on Rose2.

Not that the conversation is exactly riveting. "I have it on Blu-Ray... I can lend it to you!" She says.

You glance back at her, taking your attention off Dr. Carte's booth. "Huh?"

"Madoka. I've got it on Blu-ray, so I'll bring it with me to work tomorrow."

This is your in. You scratch the back of your head and lie: "I don't like to borrow things... I'm always worried I'll break them, or lose them... maybe I could just come by and watch it at your place?"

"Oh!" She says, fluttering her eyelids. "That would be..."

You wait on tenterhooks for her to finish the thought.

"...totally sugoi!"

You give her your best impression of a charming smile.

She smiles back -- but then she puts a finger to her lips, thinking. She adds, after an exorbitantly long pause: "You need to be okay with Japanese, though, if you're watching it with me."

"I'm sorry?" You say.

"I only watch anime subbed. I can't STAND English voice acting! It's so bad!"

You're at a loss for words. Clear out of left field, Rose2 smacked you with a correct opinion.

"I agree," you manage, in total truth. "I totally agree. Wow."

Of course, then, she has to push her luck. When the waiter comes by again to ask if you've decided on your dinner orders, Rose2 tries -- and fails -- to explain to him in Japanese that you won't be having anything to eat.

You're pretty sure the waiter is Vietnamese, not Japanese, so you fumblingly speak over Rose2 -- in English this time -- to say simply: "thanks, but we're only having drinks."

He continues on to Dr. Carte's booth, bringing with him what is by your count the fifth shot of alcohol in as many minutes. And she hasn't even had any food yet. She told you she knew how to drink, but you never realized how much she meant it.

Rose2 puffs out her cheeks, then uses the excess air to motorboat her lips. You shudder.

"Wanna do karaoke?" She asks.

>[x] Let's do it.

[ ] Let's just go back to your place and watch that show.

"Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think soooo! Dun dun dun dun dun dun!"

Rose2 shimmies and sashays around the tiny karaoke booth, dancing totally out sync and singing totally out of tune with the music. Her pleated plaid skirt follows the momentum of her hips at a seeming lag, making you almost dizzy. You pour yourself another glass, and you're glad you opted for the largest bottle of sake they had.

"Come on, Ally! Dance!"

"That won't be happening," you say gruffly. 

"I got your picture! Of me and you! You wrote I love you -- I wrote me too!"

Like a screeching monkey, you think -- or maybe an industrial grinder set to high. She ducks and twirls on one foot, propelling herself across the room in some sort of mad caricature of a pirouette. It sends her sailing, and she lands on her back in your lap. She gazes into your eyes, holds the mic to her lips and croons: "I often kiss you when there's no one else around~"

You put your hand beneath her back and help her to an upright position. She scoots over on the couch, settling beside you. She grabs your shot glass from the small table.

"That's illegal," you warn her, not that you really care.

"Pfft. I drink all the time." She takes a swig, and the pucker she makes indicates that maybe she was fibbing about being a big drinker.

She is a trooper, though. She holds the shot glass out and motions for you to fill her up again. You comply.

Without the incoherent wailing that she thinks of as singing, you can hear another sound, from far away, penetrating the supposedly soundproof walls of the karaoke booth.

It's Dr. Carte. "FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE! EARTH BEEEEELOOOOWWWW USSSS -- DRIFTINNNNNG, FAAAAAALLING --"

It's somehow even worse than Rose2. Even muted and muffled by the walls, you have the urge to plug your ears against the aural assault.

Rose2 titters. "Is that Dr. Carte?"

"I think so," you say. "I saw her coming in a little earlier."

"Whoaaa... what are the odds, huh? Should we go say hi?"

The hook is baited; the fish is biting. Time to reel it in. "Nah. I'd rather just hang out with you."

Maybe the fishing analogy was wrong. She stares back at you like a timid fawn, petrified in place before the hunter's muzzle. You top her off again but she's so stunned that it takes her several long moments for her to realize it and draw the glass to her mouth.

"You don't mind, right?" You prompt. "Sticking to just the two of us."

"N-no -- of course not."

You take the glass from her and have another shot yourself. It only just now occurs to you that this is the classic indirect kiss scenario. But you're a westerner, and you prefer to be direct rather than indirect. You lean in, clasp Rose2's chin, and plant a kiss square on her lips.

"K... k..." she stutters.

"You okay?"

She nods.

"Dance some more."

On much shakier legs now, she dances and tries to sing along with a classic you can instantly identify despite her butchery: "Plastic Love." You pretend to be rapt, nodding along and tapping your feet to the smooth synthesizer. And then something weird happens: you actually begin to get into it. You sort of enjoy watching her clumsily attempt to sing this Jpop hit. You enjoy it because -- because, well, she's doing it to impress you. She's doing it for you, and only you, and because of that, it somehow elevates the performance.

The sake must be getting to you.

"Come here," you finally say during an extended musical bridge.

"Huhhh?"

The sake is definitely taking its effect -- not just on you, but her as well. Her cheeks are a fittingly rosy shade of pink. She's even slower on the uptake than usual.

You wave her over. It takes a little prodding, but she approaches, and when she's standing in front of you again, you grab her by her tummy, swing her around, and get her in your lap.

You rest your chin on her shoulder. "Keep singing," you instruct her. Her hair really does smell like bubblegum. She's incredibly warm.

"I-I'm just playing games--"  she drawls, trying to sing. "I kn-know it's plastic love--"

"You're pretty good at this," you lie. "Do you do karaoke a lot?"

"Uh-- a little..."

You grip her tighter, your arm around her midsection - it's got a nice give to it. "Geez, you're shaking a lot. You're like a little bird, you know that?"

"Ah-- s-sorry--"

"Why is that? Are you all right?"

"It's just..." she begins, but then she trails off, worrying her lip. The next music track begins, another soft 80s pop song of some kind. But no one's going to be providing the vocals this time. You take the mic from her and set it aside.

"It's just what?" You ask.

"It's just... oh, I can't say..."

She wriggles in your grasp, but you hold her fast, and try again. You whisper, pushing the hair away from her ear: "You can say. It's fine. We're all alone."

"A-Alabas-- Ally.... it's just... somehow or another, you make me feel kinda... kinda tingly..."

"Here?" You ask, pushing your forearm against her belly button. She nods uncertainly.

"Where else?" You ask, nuzzling her. You plant a tender kiss on her neck.

"L-lower--"

"Your feet?"

"Uh..."

"Show me, then."

She wraps her tiny fingers around your hand, and you let her pull your arm away from her torso. She guides your hand now, directing it downwards, across the soft fabric of her gaudy skirt -- finally allowing you to cup her crotch. She seems almost reluctant to let go of you, to allow you full control with your grip on her like this.

"Th-there," she says.

"I see," you whisper. "I make your cunt tingle."

She gasps through gritted teeth. You take the hem of the skirt and flip it up, bearing her pantied crotch, the striped white-and-strabwerry-pink fabric darkly stained already with a quickly growing wetness.

"It's all right," you say soothingly. "I'll fuck you, if you want."

"Alabasterrrr--" she whines, bucking her hips against the air. You rub her through her panties a little, just a little, to tease her.

"Nnn..." she coos.

You spin her around, get her on the couch, planting at the point where the seat meets the armrest. She doesn't fight you. In fact, she raises her butt a little as you slide her skirt down, to help you get it off. You toss it aside and it lands over the TV screen, where lyrics are still scrolling past unheeded.

"Can we do this here?" She asks, suddenly aware of being exposed, and growing doubtful.

"I can't wait. I wanna fuck you right here."

She draws her arms to her chest, her little hands balling up, and nods tremblingly.

You pull down her panties next. Now the first-ever look at her cunt, and it's prettier than you expected. Symmetrical, pale pink lips, just slightly turned-out and engorged, and a sweet little slit in between that looks really inviting. And somehow, like the hair on her head, her shaved little pussy is weirdly redolent of bubblegum. Maybe that's just your brain drawing an errant connection. But the scent of her cunt is sweeter than any girl you've ever been with.

You glance up. She's got her face covered with both hands -- embarrassed to be on display.

"Look at me."

You have to force her hands away. Then reaching down, you unbuckle your belt, unzip your jeans, step out of your pants. "Take it out," you tell her, nodding at the bulge in your boxers.

She reaches up and does it. The hesitation of her motions only makes your dick even harder. She's more than a little scared: of the potential to be caught, of her first time with you -- of your size, too.

But she knows what you want -- and she knows what SHE wants, too. She hooks her hands beneath her knees and spreads her legs for you. The lips of her pussy part, just barely. "Fuck me..." she says, her voice small and pinched.

You get directly over her and root around, finding her opening with the tip of your prick. She chews her lower lip again, a nervous tic, it seems, and you try to force yourself in. But there's a problem. Her pussy is so tight that you almost can't get into it. It might be -- no, it is -- the smallest hole you've ever fucked. You never would have expected it, but this girl has a cunt so little that it almost hurts you as it squeezes and clings against your invading shaft.

You grit your teeth and feel the sweat pearling on your forehead. Rose2 is in hardly any better shape. Though her juicing cunt is sucking and spasming around your cock, and obviously giving her the same electric jolts of pleasure that you feel, there's discomfort on her part as well. Tiny little pips and moans and gasps escape her lips, and her eyes are wide as she watches the spot where you're mated. You're barely halfway sunk into her before she's making so much noise that a distant, rational part of your mind sends out alarm bells. Thinking quick, you reach down and cover her mouth with the palm of your hand. She shivers at the somewhat humiliating gesture, but you don't care -- you need to get all the way inside her, and she's gonna be loud about it, so you need to shut her up while you do it.

Unable to get any purchase from this angle, you decide to call on gravity's assistance. You push her back, way back, so that her thighs are practically touching her cheeks. You crawl atop her, forcing your entire weight onto her defenseless body. She screams, muffled by your hand, and then the air is knocked out of her completely as you settle in with a satisfied grunt. Your raging dick plunges deeper than you thought possible. Like this, you have total access -- you can get into her completely, and enjoy the silky soft feeling of her pussy, the pressure of it, the hot wetness inside.

Since she's winded now, you can take your hand away, and hook your arms underneath hers to give you even better leverage. You fuck her like this, pressing and forcing her ever deeper into the plush couch cushions, bouncing her back and forth like a ragdoll -- using her. It's quick and brutal and her eyes begin to roll into the back of her skull. You don't know whether it's a put-on or a learned behavior or simply instinctual -- but her mouth droops open, her tongue lolls out, and she begins to drool stupidly. It's an expression you know quite well.

"D... d..." she gasps like a person drowned, hardly able to gather the air to vocalize anything at all. "D-dick... d-dick..."

For the purely perverted fun of it, you snake a hand around the opposite side of her face from below, so that you can fish-hook her. She doesn't try to stop you. Not that she could if she wanted to. Instead, her dreamy, unfocused eyes meet yours and she gazes lovingly back at you as you degrade her even further.

"I'm gonna cum in you," you tell her.

"N... nnnn..." she tries around your finger.

"Fuck... I'm gonna fucking cum in you--"

"N-not-- n-nnot insideee... not saaaafe... c-cum on my face-- pleasshe--!!"

"Too late!" You shout, and feel the lovely release of those valves deep inside your belly, the race of cum down your urethra and through your piss slit, the gooey blast of your sperm into her body. You hump her wildly, burying your face in her neck, pushing into her, pressing her even harder, mating her out.

Her tongue wags as you fill her and she nearly passes out. Her droopy face going even droopier as she accepts your seed. You've never seen an ahegao so perfect. She must have been practicing.

GIRLS FUCKED: 6/12

"I should get you home," you say. Rose2 is reclining on the couch, still naked from the waist down, the back of her palm over her forehead. The karaoke booth stinks of sex.

"I so can't drive..." she says, slurring.

You probably shouldn't drive either, now that you think about it. "I'll get an Uber--"

"Nooo-- hold on. I'll get us a ride." She stumbles over to the corner, reaches for her purse and pulls out her phone. She fires off a text. "Imouto to the rescue!"

Your heart skips a beat and you freeze with one leg inside your jeans. "You called your sister-- Amber?"

"Uh-huh. She wants to practice driving whenever possible, so..." She glances down, at where your genetic material is running out of her and pooling on the carpeted floor of the karaoke booth. "Aw man," she says. "That doesn't stain, does it?"

"I think it does."

"Hum. Oh well."

You don't pay attention to a word Rose2 chatters as you wait at the curb for the girl who is supposedly her sister. You give perfunctory nods and "wow"s and "tell me more"s and let her go on and on, but you're suddenly terrified of your imminent rendezvous with Camelia.

The Camry appears at the end of the road and slowly pulls up, like a shark coming closer to the beach. You gulp. No turning back.

And then she's upon you. Reaching across to the passenger side, opening the door, she barks: "hop in."

Rose2 takes shotgun. Seems like you're stuck riding bitch, then. With shaky hands, you open the back door and enter.

Camelia -- Amber -- gives her sister a suspicious look. She plugs her nose theatrically. "Jesus Christ," she moans. "You let him do you raw?"

"Amber!! Stop it!"

"Gross. So gross. Don't you dare leak on anything."

"Mind your business! Don't embarrass me, Amber!"

"You're embarrassing you," she says. She pulls away from the curb and begins to drive. "Getting drunk and fucked in public on the first date. Come on, Rose. Even you're better than that."

But Rose2 isn't paying attention. In fact, she's already beginning to doze off. Within a few minutes, she's leaned up against the side door, snoozing, her face lit by the setting sun.

You look at Amber in the rearview. "Uh -- thanks for picking us up," you say. How do you make conversation with a dead girl?

"Was that the easiest lay of your life or what?" She asks.

You shrug.

"You like music, Alabaster?"

"I guess so."

She presses her finger against a CD sticking halfway out of the player in the dash. It sinks into place and immediately you're blasted by waves of droning guitar. You wince. Rose2, plastered and fucked-out, doesn't stir.

"What IS this?" You demand. "Oh my god..."

"It's true black metal," Amber says. "Sick, huh?"

You notice then the CD jewel case sitting in the center console. You pick it up and inspect it. "Burzum?" You say. You have to shout to be heard over the sonic wail of the music.

"It's great!" Amber says. "Varg Vikernes is a visionary."

You reach for the volume knob. Amber slaps your hand away. "What the fuck?" She says. "Leave it. You gotta blast this shit. Trying to listen to true black metal at a reasonable volume, what is wrong with you?"

Curious, you pop open the hinged lid of the console and look inside. It's stuffed full of CDs. Most of them have the telltale faux-gothic fonts and complexly horrible cover art of black metal albums. You see a few vaguely fascist symbols in there.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that music is online now?" You say, closing the lid. "Why the CD collection?"

"I prefer physical media," Amber says. "I don't trust digital. People like you are watching."

This is definitely Camelia. Whether she'd admit it or not is a different question.

[ ] Press her directly.

>[X] Be circumspect.

"You look familiar," you try, still needing to shout over this stuff masquerading as music. "Did we meet before?"

"Oh yeah, for sure. We killed some people together!"

You gape at her.

"Pffft. Haha. No, Ash Blaster. I never met you. All I know is you ditched my sister at prom a couple years back and now you're making booty calls on her. Say, what's it like having billion-with-a-B dollars?"

"It's fun," you say, trying to gain back the initiative. If there's one thing you've learned about dealing with Camelia, it's that you need to know when to follow her jukes and when to make a few of your own. "I'd show you my mansion sometime, but... I guess you don't like me."

"What makes you say that, Anapaster?"

"Nothing. It just seems like you're mad that I'm having sex with your sister."

"Okay, whoa, hold your fuckin' horses. I think it's gross that you're having sex with her. Because A, she's my sister, and B, you're a gross looking guy. No offense. That doesn't mean I don't like you. Although I don't. I mean, you're a billionaire so I don't like you by default. But that isn't your fault. Hey, are you following me here? Should I slow it down?"

"You're sure we haven't met?"

"Sure as can be. I have a pretty good memory. Aren't you supposed to have a good memory, too?"

You frown. "And why do you think I should have such a good memory?"

"Haha! You're the fucking quizmaster. National Champions, 2015. God. What a pitiful fucking varsity program North High has got -- that it has to make a big fuss about the quiz team winning a championship. People are still talking about that shit. It drives me up a wall, seriously. It's like wow, you know what Gondwanaland was. You definitely deserve a medal for that."

Your answer about Gondwanaland at the national championship won a clutch victory in the pools stage that kept you from an early elimination. As far as you know, that match wasn't televised. Rose2 wasn't in attendance either. You lock eyes with Amber in the mirror, but she's got the poker face of a pro.

"What do you want from me, Abadabster? That I should be ecstatic you're schtupping Rose? That I should be all, come over to my house and sleep with my sister! Get real. I'm sure you're nice enough. But come on."

"What's North High like these days?" You ask, trying to pivot.

"Same as ever. They rebuilt it basically the same after you burned it down."

"Excuse me?"

"Pfft. Everyone knows you burned it down. Get over yourself, Ally. You're not the mastermind you think you are. Just some petty criminal who failed upwards... congratulations!"

She takes her hands off the wheel to clap for you, and the car veers dangerously close to the median, where oncoming traffic honks. "Camelia--!" You shout.

She swerves back at the last second. Rose2 jostles, mumbles, but doesn't wake.

"Call me Amber, please," Camelia says.

Her mouth is smiling but her eyes are telling you a different story.

At Rose2's house, you unbuckle her from the passenger side seat and princess carry her up the drive.

"Thanks for lugging her around," Amber says. "I'd never be able to lift her. That ass is too fat."

"No problem. It's the least I can do. Where am I taking her?"

"Upstairs. First door on the left. You got off once today, so I trust you to be a gentleman about it... no hentai shit, capiche?"

You nod.

Rose2's home is as typical as can be, a little suburban tract house in a cookie cutter neighborhood, and the interior is no different. It's got a lot of the same trappings your old home used to have. The dingy cream carpet from the 1980s, the sticky linoleum tile in the foyer, the pebble stucco ceiling. It's sort of nostalgic.

Groaning with the weight, you carry Rose2 upstairs and to the short hallway where the bedrooms are. Her room is about what you expected: everything pink and pastel, littered with plushies, walls decorated variously with anime posters and her own horrific attempts at drawing anime of her own.

A wallscroll over the bed is a giant picture of Mami Tomoe, from what is apparently Rose2's favorite show; and in a perverse but sort of cliche joke, the scroll is actually two -- a long bottom and short top, the point of separation being exactly where you'd expect.

You lay Rose2 down on her pillows, and she snuggles up as if by instinct. She stirs, but only briefly, and through heavily lidded eyes she looks at you.

"I love you..." she murmurs.

Thankfully she falls asleep again before you have to answer that.

Stepping out again, you look down the hall. Directly next to Rose2's room is a closed door with a number of bumper stickers on it. "Eat the Rich," "Posadas was Right" -- and so forth. You spy an anarchy symbol, a swastika, a hammer-and-sickle, a GOP elephant being gored by a -- walrus? What does a walrus symbolize? -- among others. You sort of feel like a crook being lured into a trap car, but you can't help being curious. Amber is downstairs -- do you dare?

>[x] Look in her room.

[ ] Go back downstairs.

You try the handle -- it's unlocked. When you step inside, the very first thing you see is a blur of yellow ducking behind the bed near the corner.

"Rose?"

She peeks her head up like a frightened prairie dog. "Shh!" She hisses.

"How the fuck did you get in here?" You hiss back.

"Climbed," she whispers.

Jesus Christ. You notice now the open window -- Rose has upgraded her stalker skills to being Spiderwoman, too. You don't even bother trying to respond to that. Instead, you take stock of the room.

It's surprisingly bare. The mattress has nothing but a comforter and a single pillow. The dresser is missing a couple drawers, the paint is chipped. There is no computer, but there is a desk, littered with papers and handwritten school notes; a bookshelf full of YA lit, nothing radical; a small CRT TV with a couple video game consoles hooked up. Amber is apparently a big fan of Wii Sports Resort. The walls are also barren, save for this: a small, framed picture of George W. Bush, the 43rd President. Hanging prominently above the TV. And surprisingly un-vandalized.

"I don't get it," you breathe.

Rose stands, walks across the room, and steps into the closet. She rifles through Amber's clothes, but doesn't seem to find anything of note either.

"So what do you think?" Rose asks.

"She's definitely Camelia. I'm sure of it. I don't know how, but I know she is."

Rose studies your face. She nods. "Okay. Okay... now what?"

You shrug as Rose pulls open a plastic bin on the floor of the closet and roots through it, but it only seems to be full of old shoes. "I can't believe you fucked Fake-Rose," she mutters.

"What?"

"Don't deny it. I know you fucked her. Sick, you're a sick person, Alabaster."

"It worked, didn't it?" You say. "Anyway, what business of it is yours--"

You stop, hearing footsteps approach. You spin on your heels, but it's too late, you're caught: Amber is standing at the threshold.

Rose goes as still as a statue. She knows Amber is here, but cannot see her; nor can Amber see her from her position at the door. You're the pivot point, the only thing preventing Amber from stepping in and learning that there's a second trespasser here.

"I thought for sure you were raping my sister. I'm almost a little disappointed that you're more of a garden-variety peeping tom. Trying to steal my underwear?"

"No-- uh-- I'm sorry... I was just curious when I saw all those bumper stickers and stuff on your door. It's kind of wild."

"What's wild about it?"

You're not sure how to put it.

"If you want a pair of my underwear, it's fine. I'll even get you one--" She tries to step into the bedroom, so you step forward. You can see, to the side, Rose's neck muscles twitch.

"I'm good, really," you say. "I'm not the pervert you think I am. I was really just curious about what was in your room. I shouldn't have come in. My bad."

"Uh huh. Wanna play Wii Sports?"

"No... uh, no, thank you--"

"You're such a dork. Wow. Don't even want to play Wii. Okay then -- are you hungry?"

You try not to appear desperate as you say: "Yeah -- are you offering?"

"Mom's cooking dinner. I told her you'd be sticking around, so you've already got an invitation."

"That sounds great, Amber -- really. Uh -- lead the way?"

She laughs. "'Lead the way'. Wow. Aren't you the gentleman. Okay. Right this way, sirrah."

She turns and goes down the hall.

You cast a quick glance to Rose. She nods. You follow Amber out and shut the door behind you.

In the dining room, Amber sets the table. There's four spots: four plates, four sets of forks, and four pointy knives.

Your phone dings, and you check the text notification: it's Rose.

>I got out. I found something... I'll show you back home.

You can breathe a little easier now.

"Making more booty calls?" Amber asks.

You quickly slip the phone back into your pocket. "No. Work stuff."

"Of course." She pulls a chair out and sits at the spot across from you. "What kind of dessert do you like?"

"Isn't it a little early to be talking about--" you begin, but you get cut off by a voice from the door to the kitchen, a woman stepping out.

"There you are! The boy who randomly decided to crash my family dinner at the last possible moment. Don't you know it's polite to give your host a little warning before you decide to come to dinner? What if I didn't make enough for you?"

Your jaw drops.

"Well?" She says.

"I... I..."

Amber pops open a can of Diet Coke and watches with amusement.

"Hmmph. Typical. I knew from the moment Rose told me about you what kind of boy you would be. You're lucky that there's enough to go around -- I wouldn't be feeding you otherwise!"

She goes back into the kitchen.

You step into the kitchen now yourself on slow, uncertain legs that seem to propel you of their own volition.

She's standing at the counter, hands upon a fat butcher knife, chopping baker's chocolate into cubes.

You stare for a few moments without her noticing you. Before you can stop yourself, you say: "M... mom...?"

She turns. She eyes you like you're an escapee from the asylum.

"Mom?" You repeat, half breathless.

"I'm not your mother," she sneers. "Are you on drugs, young man?"

You rub your face, still shellshocked, but find the presence of mind to backpedal. "It's just... you look a lot like my mom. It's -- it's uncanny. I was surprised, is all..."

She folds her arms. "If you want to continue dating my daughter, I'm going to need a urine test. I don't like the looks of you." She goes back to her work and mutters: "Tch... why does Rose have to always pick such weird guys..."

You want to leave the kitchen but you can't force yourself to turn around. Instead you watch her work, agog and motionless, acutely aware of how creepy you're being.

"Is there anything else?" She demands, not looking back.

"What are you making?"

"Some meringue pies. Banana cream and white chocolate." She picks the cubes of chocolate up with her bare hands and dumps them into a chrome mixing bowl. She puts the mixing bowl under an electric whisking machine and turns it on low. The whir of it fills the space between your ears like the insistent drone of TV static.

"No dinner?" You ask after a turn.

That cinches it. She stops again, turns off the machine, hollers: "Excuse me, is the menu not to your liking? Any requests you'd like to make? I'm your mother now, I guess, so I'd better get you exactly what you want!"

"I was just-- curious--" you stammer.

"It's a tradition in our family," she says. "On Sundays we just have dessert."

"I... see," you say. You gulp, but the swallow is dry; your whole mouth has gone dry.

A droopy sort of synthesizer beat plays, as if from nowhere:

"It's poetry in motion! She turned her tender eyes to me..."

"Your phone is ringing," the woman, who is definitely your mother, says.

You try to bring yourself back to your senses. She's right. It's the custom ringtone Whitney set on your phone for when Dr. Carte calls.

"She blinded me with science! And failed me in biology!

It's the first time Dr. Carte has ever actually called you. She said she would only do it in an emergency. Heart fluttering, still staring in disbelief at your mother, you pull the phone from your pocket and answer it.

"Alabaster! You have to come quick!"

"What is it," you say, voice flat.

"Your sister... she's -- she's waking up! I don't know how, but she's actually waking up! I just got word -- I'm on my way to the hospital right now--!!"

You nod, as if Dr. Carte can see.

"Alabaster?"

"I understand. I'll be right there."

You hang up.

"Leaving so soon?" The woman says. "I suppose you billionaire types don't know how to keep your manners. Tch. I let you into my home, cook for you on such short notice -- and this is the thanks I get."

"I wish I could stay," you say, your voice hoarse and hardly more than whisper, but robotic and affectless too. You haven't blinked in more than two minutes. Your whole body feels numb. "Something came up. I... have to go... thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Catachresis."

"Ms," she corrects. "My husband is dead."

"I'm sorry to hear that." You back away slowly. "I'll see you around."

"I certainly hope not."

You go.

MEANWHILE...

Alex steps into the Rutabaga Cafe, unsure of himself as always and far from convinced that this isn't some sort of trap, or cruel joke, or maybe a figment of his tortured imagination. He looks around, conspicuously, but sees nothing other than normal patrons, bland decor -- corrugated iron rafters strung with twee old-timey incandescents, framed sepia-tone pictures of the Bay Area from the early 20th century, a hand-painted logo on the wall glistening in the dim light. It doesn't feel like the place where you find closure for what's been eating away at you.

He goes to the appointed spot anyway, a table at the back, near a corner. He faces the east wall as instructed in the text messages he received the other day. He orders a coffee, black, although he doesn't drink coffee and he certainly doesn't take it black. He just couldn't think of anything else to say when the waitress came by.

Hardly five seconds pass from getting his order before he senses swift motion, a jacketed blur in his peripheral vision swooping in and sitting at a table directly behind him. Although she has a hood and sunglasses on, Unabomber style, he recognizes her immediately when he glances over his shoulder.

"Ms. Guiteau...!"

"Shh. Turn around."

He does, always obsequious, but he's trembling and on the verge of tears as he whispers: "Ms. Guiteau... it's been so long... I thought I might never..."

"We need to be quick." All business, same as always.

"Please let me see you. Please!" He begs her like a dog, still whispering.

"You're CTO now," Sable says.

Alex takes this as some kind of accusation, since after all he replaced her at Darkbloom Analytics. He apologizes for it.

She rebuffs the apology. "No, that's excellent. I'm glad."

"We've been looking for you..." Alex says. "If you came back... you could take the CTO position again... I even kept your office--"

"That's quite impossible," Sable says. "Mara has nothing good planned for me. Or the FBI. Or the public, for that matter. That's why I need your help."

"What do you want?" Alex says, "I'll do it. Anything."

"It's not what I want - it's what I need."

"What is it?"

"You're going to help me destroy Darkbloom Analytics."

END OF EPISODE 2.