Season 3 Episode 4: Food Wars! Shokugeki no Mama (Part 2)

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, kabedon kommando and bodysnatcher-catcher.

"Alabaster. You are making such a mistake--"

"Don't wanna hear it." You finish tying the twine around Cerise's hands, securing them behind her back. Years of being under Rose's thumb taught you at least a few useful skills after all. Cerise sits against the foot of her bed, on the floor, bound hand and foot.

You circle back around and survey your handiwork, folding your arms.

"You will need my help," Darkbloom says. "Just as I need yours. Please. Please see reason."

"I know what you're doing, David. You think because you're in my sister's body, you can use that to make me feel more sympathetic towards you. Like a subconscious reaction. It won't work."

"This is absurd. Listen to yourself. Will you keep your sister tied up forever just because of this unfortunate circumstance?"

"You are not my sister," you say. "She would want me to do this."

"Would she?"

You pull up a chair and sit directly facing Cerise. You stare, arms still folded, silent. You crack your neck: first one direction, then the other.

"What's your next move, then?" Darkbloom demands. "Shall we stare longingly into each other's eyes all night? You did not think this through, did you. You never think, Alabaster, you never plan for contingencies. You never see beyond the very next move, the next, most immediate impulse. You could be so brilliant if only you could overcome your myopic--"

"And you had a plan, chessmaster? You knew what you were going to do when you wandered out of this bedroom in my sister's body? Or are you making it up on the fly, too. You are, aren't you. I can see it on Cerise's face. You have no idea what the fuck is happening anymore. And you're scared."

He doesn't dignify you with a response. But he doesn't need to. You know you're right.

"As for your question," you say. "My next move... I'm thinking about it."

You find yourself staring into your palm, head bowed -- doing that "thinking about it" step for a long time. How long, you're not sure. An hour? Two?

Darkbloom stops trying to make conversation, but eventually your directionless wondering is interrupted -- a soft rustle from over by Cerise's bed. You look up to see Darkbloom writhing around, squeezing Cerise's thighs together.

"What the hell are you doing," you demand flatly.

He swallows hard. "Alabaster -- I -- I need to -- urinate."

"Not a chance in hell."

"For god's sake."

"You don't get to see my sister's body naked. Or use it like that."

"Who knows how long I'll be conscious like this!" Darkbloom pleads. "Will you make me wet myself? Cause your sister the physical discomfort and humiliation and possible urinary tract infection stemming from sitting in her own--"

"Shut up. Just shut up."

"Blindfold me if you must. Just allow me to relieve myself. Must I debase myself and beg you?"

"How do I even know you're telling the truth? That you're not just trying to escape?"

Darkbloom throws Cerise's head back and lets a wordless whine escape. Then: "Please," he says, voice tiny, "I can't bear this pressure. Perhaps... perhaps this is normal for Cerise, and well within her tolerance... but I have never felt such a horrible urge to urinate in my entire life... the difference in qualia from one mind to the next --" He chuckles bitterly. "This is such a stupendous moment in human history... the first time a mind has experienced life in a different body... it is sheer agony... for the love of god, let me urinate, please!"

"No," you say simply.

The groan Darkbloom makes is long and pained and pitiful, and verges close to tears.

"There you are! -- Whoa. Shit."

"Whitney..." Darkbloom mutters.

"I didn't realize you guys were getting freaky," Whitney says. "Wow. That's hot."

"It's not what it looks like," you say.

"Suuuure." She winks at you. Then she strolls across the room, towards where Cerise is tied up. "I had no clue you were into getting hogtied, Cerise. I should have gotten in on this sooner..."

"This really isn't what you th--" you begin, but the look of sheer terror and confusion that Darkbloom is making, is worth letting this play out just a little longer.

Whitney lays a hand on Cerise and looks back at you. "Do you mind if I join in? I don't wanna get in the way of some good old-fashioned incest... if you and Cerise want some time alone, that's cool... but three is more fun..."

"I mind!" Darkbloom is shouting. "I certainly mind!"

"Maybe getting my tongue in your mouth will change your opinion," Whitney croons. She leans down, and forward, lips puckered. Darkbloom tries to scoot back. But he has nowhere to escape to.

Cerise's eyes are dinner plates. At the last possible moment, you relent, and stop Whitney from what she's about to do: "Hold on."

Darkbloom is frantic. "Whatever you have planned, Whitney, I do not consent! Please don't!"

Whitney chuckles. "You need to learn to make your noncon play more convincing, Cerise. Take some tips from Rose, maybe. Now there's a girl who knows how to get raped."

"It is not an act!" Darkbloom hollers. "I steadfastly refuse your advances! Now you listen to me, Whitney, I do not want to have sex with you!"

Whitney looks half dejected, half confused. She makes a pout that actually sounds a bit like "mou~"

"Sorry, Whitney," you say. "Cerise and I need some alone time. It's a brother-sister thing. You understand."

Whitney is still leaning before Cerise, hands on knees. "Guess I'm the third wheel. I'll leave you two to your fun."

Cerise's facial features soften. "It's all right... you can stay, if you're chaste about it. I-- it's nice to see you."

"You don't have to let me down easy," she says. She straightens her back. "I made it weird. My fault. You know how horny I get -- I'll fuck anything that moves!"

David is not having a good time listening to this.

"See you guys later. Try not to get pregnant with mutant flipper babies, okay?"

On her way out, Whitney tells you: "Oh -- I'm taking Vivian to Safeway at 6."

Darkbloom, in spite of everything, can't hide his curiosity. "You and Vivian are getting along, then?"

She points at Cerise with her thumb and nods at you. "Your hostage is getting a little talky. Maybe you should gag her next~" She turns to Cerise and answers the question: "Ehhh. Sorta. We've been hanging out a lot, which is progress."

Darkbloom considers this. He seems to have a realization, and backtracks: "Safeway... the grocery store? Why would the two of you go to a grocery store yourselves rather than have someone procure your groceries for you?"

"Pffthaha," Whitney laughs. "Guess having money already made you go all lifestyles of the rich and famous on me."

"Tell Cerise about Project Sperger," you prompt Whitney.

"Oh, yeah. Guess she doesn't know." Whitney makes air quotes as she explains: "Poor Viv's had people 'procuring' things for her all her life. That's a huge part of why she's Queen Ice Bitch of Autism Mountain. Bio-dad did a real number on her. He was so obsessed with making her smart that he totally forget to socialize her... so I'm trying to teach her how to behave around human beings. Trips to grocery stores, movie theaters, all that shit she never did when she was growing up. It's working... slowly... I think."

Darkbloom winces at the explanation.

"When you're done knocking up your sister," Whitney says, "you wanna tag along?"

"I'll let you know," you say.

"I do," Darkbloom says. "I want to go. I'd like to spend some time with you... and Vivian..."

You glower at him. He's figured out that you're not ready to tell Whitney the truth quite yet, so it would be suspicious to step in and refuse to let Cerise go along.

"We'll see," you say. "If Cerise isn't totally fucked-out and unconscious by the time you're ready to go..."

"Cool." She glances over at Cerise. "Just leave some cum for me, okay?"

She goes.

"You've turned my daughter into a degenerate," Darkbloom says, voice quavering. "You have completely warped her mind."

"I think you've got that exactly opposite," you say, swiveling in your chair to face him again. "Your daughter is a real freak. Always has been." After a pause, you add: "Both of them, actually. It's great."

Darkbloom snarls.

You'd rather not be tethered to Darkbloom all night -- and for who knows how much longer than that -- but you're not sure you feel safe leaving him on his own, no matter how securely tied down. It won't be long before you have to make a decision.

[ ] Make sure Darkbloom cannot escape, and leave him to go with Whitney and Vivian.

>[x] Tell Rose what's going on, and have her keep an eye on Darkbloom while you go with Whitney and Vivian.

[ ] Stay here.

"It's best if I show you," you say, as you open the door to Cerise's bedroom.

"Rose!" Darkbloom cries. "You have to help me! Alabaster has gone crazy -- he tied me up... started ranting about how he thinks I'm someone else--"

Rose stares down at Cerise. "Are you?" She says.

"Wh-what? I --"

"Your eyes are blue again..."

"Rose, listen to me! He's CRAZY. He thinks I'm David Darkbloom-- just because I disagreed with him about something! This crazy, chauvinist pig is abusing me-- he thinks a woman isn't ALLOWED have her own opin--"

"Are you David Darkbloom?" Rose says.

"For now," you answer. "It happened when Cerise first woke up, too. Somehow his consciousness--"

As you try to explain, Darkbloom shouts over you, vying for Rose's attention: "Don't listen to him! He's LYING. Rose -- Rose, please! He's hurting me! He's been hurting me for a long time now--"

Rose rolls her eyes, groans. "Shut the fuck up, David. Jesus."

David stares at the ceiling, and his fear as reflected on Cerise's face is real. David now understands that he won't find a dupe in Rose. He has returned once again to a state of powerlessness that must surely be quite alien to him.

You explain to Rose everything you know.

"What are we going to do about this?" She asks.

"I don't know. Any ideas?"

She shrugs.

"Perfect. Well, Whitney wants me to go to the store with her and I don't want to make her suspicious just yet. Can I trust you to keep an eye on this asshole?"

"Sure, I wasn't doing anything tonight," says Rose sarcastically. "Just how I wanted to spend my time. Babysitting a megalomaniac."

"Don't get bitchy with me. I'm inviting you into the circle of trust here. Cherish it."

She pantomimes jerking off in the air, and then asks: "Who else knows?"

"The circle of trust is... a little small right now."

"How small?"

You sigh. "You're -- the only one I've had a chance to tell."

Rose arches an eyebrow.

"You two will regret this," Darkbloom says, trying to adopt an intimidating tack. "I have destroyed people much greater than you."

Rose turns, points at him. "I told you to shut the fuck up. Don't make me stick a pair of socks in your mouth."

"She'll do it," you warn him.

Rose faces you again. "Fine, Alabaster. I'll stay with her... him... err. I don't get the pronouns here, but I'll stay. What should I do if Cerise wakes up, though?"

>[x] Tell her.

[ ] Don't tell her.

"Tell her the truth. She should know... she has to anyway."

"Fair enough," Rose admits. She walks over to Cerise, kneels. "You're gonna regret taking up residence in my cousin's body," she says with a sneer.

"He's been whining about needing to pee," you tell her. "Don't let him go."

"I'm not stupid," Rose says, eyes still fixed on Cerise. She thinks for a moment. "There must be some sort of trigger... something that makes Cerise and Darkbloom switch off who's in the driver's seat."

"I'll be back in a couple hours. We can talk then."

"Of course. While you're gone... I'll see if there's any way I can trigger Darkbloom."

"Don't hurt him. That's my sister's body."

Rose slumps her shoulders, and finally looks back. "You must really believe I'm an idiot. Only one of us hurts women, Alabaster, and it isn't me. I'll keep your sister safe and sound."

You nod. You can trust what Rose says. After all this time, there's a begrudging mutual understanding between the two of you.

Downstairs, you wave Whitney off the couch where she's slouching with a family-sized bag of Doritos, slackjawed, watching an episode of Cops.

"Whoa," she says, trailing crumbs off her shirt as she stands. "Mr. Quickshot over here. That was, what, five minutes? I hope you're not on such a hair-trigger later on..."

She sucks the orange residue off her fingers, each in turn, twisting them around in her mouth with loud wet noises to make sure she gets it all. If she can stay that sexy, she's definitely not going to have any problems with premature ejaculation on your part...

"Are you ready?"

"Ready Freddy. Guess Cerise isn't coming?"

You shake your head.

"Let's go pick up the kid sister, then."

Whitney's emerald green Lambo is only a little less tacky than the construction orange one that Stackleford used to own. You do give Whitney some extra points since she opted for a manual transmission. But you're still of the opinion that any car with doors that open like a toll gate is a car for assholes.

Whitney is startlingly good at driving stick. She always double-clutches every gearshift and you never notice a change in the rate of acceleration between gears. "Gotta baby this thing," Whitney explained to you one day. "I'm not about tearing up the tranny on a car that costs more than most houses..."

At the Darkbloom manor, Vivian is waiting at the edge of the long white stone drive, outside the tall gates. As usual, she's all bedecked in a black satin gown complete with parasol. It does little to shield her from the heat of the low August sun, and you can see her milk-pale skin glistening with sweat.

There's only two bucket seats, so Vivian has to sit in your lap. The fabric of her dress is almost searing to the touch, the material having sucked up sunlight like a vacuum as she waited. The slightly sour smell of her sweat is only faintly detectable over her layers of perfume. It really turns you on.

"When do you close?" Whitney asks. "I'm sick of driving all the way over here for you."

"Next week," Vivian responds. She recently purchased a house for herself and will be moving away from her childhood home -- closer to Whitney's house. It's a big change.

You let your hands rest idly in Vivian's lap, hugging her midsection. She doesn't mind the closeness. Nor does she mind the tenting in your crotch, which she must surely feel.

"I've got a big list," Whitney says. "I split it in two, so can I trust you to get your half of it?"

"Absolutely," Vivian says. "I will procure the items with utmost haste."

"Remember to look for deals. If there's a generic version of something, get that. Unless the name brand is cheaper because of a sale or something. Oh -- there's some coupons in the dash, too."

"You seriously clipped coupons?" You say.

"Fuck yeah I did. There's one for buy-one-get-one-free Pillsbury cookie dough! How awesome is that?"

Vivian makes a face.

You look in the dash and find the coupons - a whole deluge of them fall out - along with the two lists Whitney wrote up. "Forget about that Pillsbury shit," you say, reading over her lists. "I'll get the ingredients for real cookies."

"Holy shit. You're gonna bake for me tonight?"

"I just feel like baking. It's not for your sake!"

(You do need to get some practice in, of course.)

"You're gonna be the best househusband ever."

Vivian is squirming a bit in your lap, her butt grinding against you. You're not sure why but you're not complaining either. "Is it just my imagination or is this car dreadfully warm?" She asks.

"It's cold as witch tits in here," Whitney says. "Your internal thermostat is busted."

You have a feeling why she's so warm. She gets like this from time to time.

Under the garishness of the grocery store's fluorescents, Vivian is an even stranger sight than usual -- like a Victorian ghost who accidentally haunted the wrong place. Her cart is a lot emptier than Whitney's, after 20 minutes of shopping; her intention of "procuring with haste" has butted up against the reality that she's totally unused to shopping. At one point she finds you and Whitney in the dairy aisle, with an apparently urgent question:

"Do we prefer ketchup or catsup?" She asks, holding two bottles aloft in either hand.

"Uh... they're the same thing, little sis."

"Preposterous. Why would they be labeled differently if they are, in fact, the same condiment? You clearly do not know what you are talking about." She turns to you and says, "Alabaster. Which do we prefer: ketchup or catsup?"

"They're the same thing," you confirm.

"Live in ignorance if you must," Vivian says. She puts the catsup in her cart and sets the ketchup back on a random shelf beside some almond milk.

Whitney chuckles, elbowing you, and says: "Watch this. Hey, Viv. Do you know what this is?" She takes a can of cream of chicken soup from the cart.

"It appears to be some sort of condensed... soup."

"You are seriously some kind of fucking robot. Yeah. It's soup. What do you think it costs?"

"I do not know," Vivian says.

"Guess."

"I dislike speculating."

"I swear to fuck, if you don't take a guess, I will toss this can at your face."

"$20?" Vivian says.

"Bwahaha. You kill me. For real. 69 cents."

"Less than a single dollar?" Vivian is dumbfounded. "The profit margin on that can of soup must be extremely small."

Whitney shrugs. "They sell like a bajillion of them every day so it doesn't matter."

You're legitimately impressed. Whitney, in the broadest of strokes, understands economies of scale. Maybe in another year she'll crack the riddle of supply and demand.

"Ally, go help Viv find the rest of the shit on her list. I don't wanna be stuck here until I'm 80."

Vivian wanders the aisles at a snail's pace, as if she needs to inspect every single item in turn, and compare it against the list in her hand to make sure she doesn't miss anything, before moving on to the next item and repeating this process.

"You suck at this," you tell her.

"It is a skill which needs time to develop," she admits. "I am learning."

"Hey! You guys need anything?" A stockboy asks, walking up.

Vivian jumps back, adopting a defensive stance. As if she's about to bust out some Taekwondo on this poor teenager. "Who are you?"

"Just an employee here -- can I help you find anything?"

"I do not know you. Please do not converse with me." She puts her hands back on the cart's handle and walks past. The boy watches in confusion as you follow.

"It's their job to ask that," you whisper. "Next time, just tell them no thank you."

"I do not like being accosted by strangers. Especially those of the lower class."

"He doesn't want to accost you either. It's literally his job--"

Vivian doesn't seem to grasp the concept, so you let this lesson stay on hold for now.

In the produce section, Vivian insists on squeezing every single avocado before making a selection. "How can we maximize the ripeness of our choice, if we do not consider all the options?" She demands when you grow impatient.

"It doesn't matter," you insist. "Just pick one. Anyway, sometimes it's better if it's a little under-ripe..."

"Nnn," she purrs, disagreeing, but too focused on her task to respond intelligently.

You watch her bent over the case for a minute or two, the way her hands slowly work, the little furrow of her brow and the way she seems to be chewing on the inner wall of her left cheek. Feeling a sudden impulse, you saunter up behind her and rub her back. She startles.

"You were getting a little antsy in the car back there," you say, leaning down to whisper in her ear. "What's up with that?"

"I..." She looks up from the display case, and all around the produce section, afraid someone will see or overhear. "I was merely overheated."

"Overheated, huh?"

She gulps.

"Turn around," you say. She complies.

"Alabaster, this is not the proper place for-- for such things."

"It's fine. No one's looking." You also glance around, to confirm this. "Lift up your dress a little, huh?"

Her face is bright red and she's sweating worse than she was outside. She makes a series of mumbling little noises, clearly uncertain, but feeling temptation's call. Finally she squats, thin fingers reaching all the way down to her ankles, and grips the hem of her dress. As she rises, the dress follows. You can see her spindle-thin legs, the knees wobbling, and her cute white cotton panties. A bow on the waistband. And a small stain where the fabric describes a wonderful looking cleft.

"That's what I thought. Overheated..."

She stands there like that, exposed, waiting for instruction.

>[x] Have fun with just her.

[ ] Get Whitney.

And:

>[x] Right here.

[ ] Back in the car.

But you don't give her any instructions. You just take a step forward, and reach down, and grab her. No request for permission, no asking if she minds doing it in public. You squeeze hard, enjoying the soft give of her little cunt in your hand, separated only by the sticky cotton.

"Allllabasterrrr..." She whines, trying to keep her voice down.

You run your thumb back and forth as you hold her pussy, teasing her. She shivers all over and stares at the ground. She is a girl easily overwhelmed by feelings of pleasure between her legs.

"A-anyone... anyone could s-see us..." She tries to protest, even though her rational mind is quickly evaporating.

"It's fun, isn't it?" You grunt. You draw your hand up just enough to shove it down her waistband. Vivian is a tiny little girl and there's hardly any room for your adult-sized hand in her child-sized panties. The material strains and bulges and pinches against her thighs with the pressure of it, giving even her scrawny legs a pleasant little skindentation.

Your fingers find their target: Vivian's sticky, slimy little slit. This barely-there hole is wet for you even if its owner is scared. You hug Vivian to your body as you molest her. She balls up her fists, holding them to your torso to support herself. The dress falls back around her ankles, but with your forearm blocking it at the most crucial part, it's still obvious for anyone who might walk by, what you are doing to her. Leaning her head against you also, she closes her eyes and gives in to the sensation of your intruding digits.

"You need to work, too," you say.

She looks up at you, chin touching your chest, eyes big and round. "Work?"

"Play with my cock."

"Nnn~" There's that little moan of uncertainty again, but this time tinged by a shudder of lust. Haltingly, her hand unzips you and reaches in. Flattened palm of her hand inside your fly, she inexpertly rubs your cock, pressing it against your thigh for added pressure. It feels nice -- but you need to do something way naughtier, and riskier.

"Pull it out."

"Alabasterrr..."

"Do it."

She can't say no, especially when she's like this. When you get her cunt all hot, her prim and proper facade melts away. She's stupider for your dick than any girl you know.

You involuntarily hiss as your prick meets the air conditioning. Her little hand does not wrap fully around the shaft and only covers a small portion of its length. She stares down at it, at the angry red head with its big dollop of clear fluid already collecting on the tip. Her eyes are dewy with wonderment and lust as she slowly begins to jerk you off, getting your fuckmeat ready to ruin her. Still playing with her as well, you look up and survey your surroundings to make sure no one is looking. You're in the clear -- for now. But someone could still approach from any angle, and there would be no explaining this. To all the world it looks like you're violating a little girl right here in public, making her play with your leaky prick against her will.

You tilt her chin up and press your lips to hers. She gives in to the kiss, her breath hot and tasting of mint against your tongue. Her body thrums with pleasure and her cunt is making lewd noises against your digging, encircling fingers. As you pull away, a small bridge of saliva connects your lips, and her eyes are crossed, glazed over, distant. Like her sister, kissing riles her up.

You glance to the next display case over and get a wicked idea.

You haul Vivian over so you're between the two cases, practically pulling her by the pussy as if it's a handle. Unceremoniously now you tug her panties down, and she helpfully steps out of the legholes one at a time. You discard them, right there on the ground, not a care in the world.

"Hold your dress up again."

This time, her compliance is instant. She stands there with her hairless little cuntslit on view for the whole world, even going a little akimbo as if to maximize her exposure. At heart, Vivian is a pervert.

You grab a cucumber from the neighboring case and hold it up to her lips. "Suck on it," you instruct. Again, instant response: she wraps her lips around the cucumber without question and twirls her tongue around its circumference. You enjoy the sight of it and let her fellate it for a little while. You push it back and forth, past her lips and down deeper, to the back of her throat. It gags her. Even without your fingers on her genitals, this act of degradation keeps her exposed pussy dripping like a faucet, wet little trails running down the pale flesh of her legs, and plainly visible in the bright lights above. Her face is similarly wet as she coughs and sputters around the vegetable raping her throat. She stares into your eyes with utter adoration.

Satisfied that this is enough, you take the cucumber out of her mouth with a plop. She tries, just a bit, to follow it with her face, as if she doesn't want to stop blowing it. But she understands that you want to do something else now, and she won't contravene your will.

You push firmly on both her shoulders, lowering her so she's squatting. She keeps the hem of her dress in both hands, so her privates are still fully on view and accessible. Kneeling now yourself, you bring the cucumber up to her drenched pussy hole. This thing is about as big as your dick and the contrast to her little innie is hot. It looks like it would rip her apart if you tried to put it inside her. That thought makes your cock, still poking out freely, dribble. A thin strand of sticky precum drools from your rampant cock all the way down to the linoleum. Vivian can't help but coo at the sight.

You wiggle the cucumber a bit to find purchase against her cunthole. And then you shove it in -- all at once.

"Ghhh--!!" She gasps.

No mercy. You fuck her with it. Brutally and wantonly. You twist and corkscrew the cucumber inside her, make her feel every ridge and bump, bottoming it out time and time again at a frenzied pace. All she can do is squat there and try to endure the rough use. She lets her head droop and whinnies like a bitch in heat. Then soon enough she's cumming herself silly, her juices squirting all over the tile floor, making a puddle beneath her feet. Shamelessly, she reaches down and frigs her own clit to help her orgasm along, to rub even more cum out of her needy pussy. She's so greedy when you make her cum. She's a horny little slut for you.

Unable to take it anymore, you rip the cucumber from her and toss it aside. At the same time you push against her chest, knocking her to her back. Her face is caught between fear and thrill. You flip her over to her belly, hike her dress up so you can see her pussy from the rear, and the little pucker of her anus too. Right out in the open. The cold floor must be an awful shock on her skin because she gasps through gritted teeth. You don't care. You climb over top of her, lying on her -- mounting her. Her little butt rises a bit to meet you, but she can't manage much movement with your full weight oppressively bearing down on her. To add to the depravity you grab her about the neck, getting her in a headlock that gives you the leverage you need to really fucking pound her.

"Fuck... fuck..." you grunt, getting your cock in her. It's so fucking tight, and wet, and just as hot as the rest of her. That's Vivian: a tight little cunt.

Right there on the floor of the grocery store, you rape Vivian senseless, your bodies slapping loudly together.

Vivian, half choking, her face tomato red, manages in a pinched voiced: "rrr-- rrape mmmy wooombbb~~"

That's what you intend to do. You're going to rape her womb full of your dick milk and knock her up. The insane drive to mate with her, to fuck her pregnant, presses against your mind, and blots out all other thought. You need to seed her, to inseminate her. Right here, right now.

"Do you-- oh my god!"

An employee, some young teenager, probably a high schooler, walks around the display case and sees what's happening. She puts a hand to her mouth in shock. She stands frozen in place.

Grunting, you rise to your knees and pull Vivian with you so she's in the doggy position. Holding either of her wrists, you slam hard in and out of her vicelike pussy, making her flop like a ragdoll. Her face, a mask of sheer delirious pleasure -- eyes drooping, jaw drooping, entire face one big droop -- strands of spittle hanging between her teeth, tongue lolling out -- meets the eyes of this shocked employee, this member of the "lower class" she so derides.

"A-are you -- V-Vivian Darkbloom?" The girl asks.

"Nnmmmn..." she moans, a guttural, unintelligible noise from the back of her throat.

"She is," you say, clenching your jaw as you continue to rail her, approaching your climax. "And I'm about to blow my load up her."

The employee watches transfixed as you do exactly that. You let loose with a bellow, feel your nuts tighten, and spurt off inside of Vivian Darkbloom. Your cum marks her in her deepest recesses -- marks her as your property.

"Cummmmmm..." Vivian mumbles, fingers to her lips, still looking at the employee, too. "He's... he's... he's cummmminnnngggg..."

You finish squirting your sperm into her as the employee, stepping back, says: "I... I'll go get a mop..."

Vivian is always a little unfocused after getting fucked, but you have post-cum clarity and quickly do your best to make yourselves decent again. You shove your cock back in your pants and, with Vivian still lying on her belly on the floor, you put her panties back on for her. As you help her to her feet, her still unfocused eyes drift down and find the cucumber. She picks it up, stares at it, and then, with a shrug, she puts it back in the display case.

"Uh..."

"Thish item ish not on our lisht..." Vivian says, still slurring her speech a bit.

You find Whitney, quickly pass through checkout, and leave. The girl who saw you two must have been too shell-shocked to tattle. Or maybe she liked what she saw.

On the car ride back, Whitney can tell what happened. She's got the nose of a bloodhound, after all, and in any case, Vivian still has that dreamy, dopey, post-sex smile.

Vivian, in this state, is still pliant, and doesn't mind her sister's curious hands. "Can't believe you two horndogs," Whitney says in faux outrage. She hikes up Vivian's dress and mashes the cummy panties against her crotch, enjoying the wet and slimy feeling of it as your cum oozes from the pores of the cotton. "Right there in the store? Animals!"

Vivian nuzzles your neck as Whitney, cruising down the interstate, molests her little sister. Since Whitney's offering, you figure you may as well enjoy it too. You pull your hardening cock out, letting it jut between Vivian's thighs. Whitney, eyes only half on the road, pulls your cock so as to trap it between the ruined material of Vivian's panties and her messy hole. Then, hand on the outside, Whitney enjoys eliciting little pips and moans from the both of you as she presses her palm repeatedly against Vivian's crotch -- as she repeatedly presses your cock against Vivian's slick slit. Like this, she draws three or four little orgasms out of Vivian, her wetness making the entire car smell like sex, and permeating the bucket seat with her juices. And then soon enough, you're shooting off too, burying your nose in Vivian's hair, bucking your hips, as your pulsing cock blasts thick ropes of semen against Vivian's squelching cunt, and adds to the mess.

"You guys are crazy," Whitney laughs, pulling her hand away, licking it clean, and downshifting as she exits the interstate. "Do either of you ever get sick of cumming?"

"Never..." you grunt, still nuzzling the top of Vivian's head.

"Never..." Vivian agrees.

"Well -- me neither," says Whitney, with a sly wink.

At home, the first thing you do is check on Cerise.

She's free of her restraints: lying curled up in bed, seemingly asleep, with Rose -- who is also seemingly asleep.

The irrational part of your mind instantly goes to animal rage. With the thought that Darkbloom is still in Cerise's conscious mind, it's like seeing your girl in bed with another man. Not that, uh, Rose is your girl. Of course.

But when Cerise's eyes flutter open, they're their normal color. And rheumy.

She sits up. She rubs her elbow and averts her gaze. "Alabaster," she says. "I'm..."

She doesn't get any farther than that before you sit on the bed with her and hug her tight.

She cries on your shoulder, literally. "I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry..." she repeats between heaving cries. Why is she taking blame for this? You rock her back and forth.

Rose, waking up now herself, sits and watches. She shares a somber look with you as Cerise buries her face against you and weeps, inconsolable.

"How did it happen?" You ask.

Rose shakes her head. "It just happened. No reason. About an hour ago."

If this can truly happen for no reason, the situation is worse than you thought.

"Who should we tell?" Rose asks. "Or should we? We'll need to take shifts keeping watch over her."

[ ] No one.

>[x] Someone. (Name all that apply.) [Dr. Carte]

"We could tell Dr. Carte," you offer. "If that makes sense to you too, Cerise--"

She nods and sniffles. "She can help, can't she?"

"It's worth a try," Rose says. "She's bound to know more than we do."

"Three people makes keeping eyes on you a lot more manageable, too," you tell Cerise. You pause, then: "Anyone else? ...Whitney?"

"Oh my god," Rose says. "Do you really think that's -- advisable?"

"Rose has a point," Cerise says. She blinks, and then shudders at what she just said. "Ugh."

"Get used to it," Rose says. "We're in this mess together now."

"Okay," you say, "we'll figure that one out later. What about Alex? He worked on Sand Reckoner. Maybe he could help."

Rose shakes her head. "I don't trust her."

"Him. For the last fucking time, Rose. Him."

"Well the answer is still no."

"I trust Alex," Cerise says. "We could tell him if you think it'll help. And Gal--"

"No fucking way," you and Rose say at the same time.

Cerise winces.

"Not until we know better what's going on," Rose adds.

"For now, just Dr. Carte," you confirm. "We'll expand the circle of trust on a need to know basis."

You all agree to that.

You bake a batch of white chocolate macadamia cookies, wearing an apron that says "Kiss Me I'm a Billionaire" -- as tacky as Whitney's Lambo in your opinion, but she loves it. And the kiss she gives you as soon as she loops the apron over your neck is nice enough that you won't complain too hard.

Over the tray of piping hot cookies -- Whitney was too impatient to wait for them to cool, even though she singes her fingers and shouts "FUCK!" with every one of them she takes -- sitting at the long dining room table, she's a chatterbox. And Vivian is loose enough from her marathon session of cumming that she's willing to make conversation for once. Neither of them seem to notice that you, Rose, and Cerise are a lot more glum.

"So I was like, what the fuck! Yeeple is totally gonna take off. For sure. I mean. Isn't it good to know if, like, the guy next door is a creep? Rating people like you'd rate a restaurant, that just makes sense."

"I wholeheartedly agree. It's a wonderful idea. Much more than this screen-printing business..."

"The Tshirt thing is great too," Whitney insists. "You'll see." She takes a nibble of a cookie, shouts "FUCK! OW! Hothothot--" then continues, "but yeah, Yeeple is cool. Just needs a new name. Do you have a better name for it?"

"Mother suggested SoCred--"

"Yuck."

"You just dislike anything mother suggests."

"Correct."

"I was considering PeopleBase. As in -- people plus database."

"Horrible. Get out of the naming business. You suck."

"Regardless..."

"We'll think of something. For sure. I -- FUCK! HOT! -- it really is an awesome idea. You'd always know who to stay away from."

"Indeed. You would never find yourself mixed up with unscrupulous elements... criminals and other shady people would naturally have lower ratings."

"Yeah, like your mom."

Vivian frowns. "Hmm. Or that red-headed harlot who killed my father."

Whitney quickly moves the conversation on to another topic, trying to avoid the awkwardness of that last remark.

Your eyes shoot up, look across the table at Vivian, who's busy discussing the details of other potential business moves with Whitney.

No one else caught that. That remark -- "red-headed harlot." Vivian remembers Camelia has red hair.

She remembers who Camelia is.

You're not sure what to do with that information.

At work the next day, Whitney plops a box on her desk. "The shirts are here! This is great... here -- put it on, put it on!"

"I don't... shirts?" You say.

"Duhhh, Ally. The first batch of shirts from PrintSmart. You're the one who told me to buy this piece of shit business, don't tell me you forgot."

You only vaguely remember the details. Something about a company that pulls data from your social media footprint to make custom slogans for T-shirts. In other words, micro-targeting individuals with a product that is personal to only them. The company wants to enter into a data-sharing arrangement with Darkbloom Analytics' social media platforms, get access to non-public info and, well, analytics... to make the shirts' slogans more precise, and therefore more attractive to potential customers.

Whitney pulls a shirt out of the box, inspects its front, and does that wheezing "heeeeh" thing. "This one's mine!" She pulls it on, tugging it over her head and wearing it over top of her dress suit. Now you can finally read the text:

>I'm sassy, un-classy, and a bit smart-assy

>I'm a billionaire tomboy of sub-average intelligence who plays soccer and likes to get dirty

>I was born in April and I'm a proud California girl

>(If you're annoying me, don't worry, I'll tell you)

>I eat like a fucking horse and ANY HOLE'S A GOAL

>Got a problem with it? Tough!

"This shit is amaaaaazinnnng!" Whitney says, voice going sing-songy. "It's like, what! How did it know! These things are gonna sell like moon pies at NASA."

She digs through the box, pulling out a couple more shirts, before she finds the one apparently meant for you. She turns it, holding it between thumb and forefinger by either shoulder, so you can read:

>I'm a trivia-obsessed know-it-all weeaboo

>I'm sarcastic, mean-spirited, and generally kind of a dick

>But if you look under the surface, at what lies in my heart...

>I'm an even bigger dick!

>I think I'm God's gift to women but cartoon girls are more my speed

>YES I'm a lolicon and YES I like traps and YES I was born in November

>Don't bother me about it, I don't care what you think

>And don't call the FBI, because I'm in enough trouble with them as it is

>Fuck you!

"I'm not wearing that," you tell her.

Whitney points at the bottom line, the one that says "Fuck you!"

"I'm serious," you say.

She taps her finger against the fabric of the shirt, indicating the "Fuck you!" again.

You sigh. It's no use. She's gonna make you wear it.

Rose2 pokes her head in. "Coffee, anyone?"

"Gimme," Whitney says. "I'll trade ya."

She hands a shirt to Rose2, who puts it on without even thinking about it.

>I'm a frumpy white girl who likes to pretend she's Japanese

>If I'm not reading yaoi manga, I'm writing fanfiction about yaoi manga

>So what if I like to watch two cute boys going at it? Got a problem!?

>The only cultural achievement I care about outside the shores of Japan is Killing Stalking

>I like pink, I was born in July, and I wish my eyes were more slanty

>If I fall in love with you, watch out because I'm CRAZY if PROVOKED

>But stay on my good side and I'm the sweetest girl you'd ever want to meet!

She looks down at the shirt, and is apparently satisfied with what it says.

"Is your cousin around?" She asks, looking up at you.

"Once removed. She stayed home sick today."

"Bummer! I made her some buddy cookies."

"...Buddy cookies?"

Rose2 holds up a tied-off handkerchief whose bottom is sagging with cookies. "Well, mom helped of course. But I added the finishing touches! These are to show your once-removed cousin that we can still be buddies."

You take them from her. "Mind if I try one?" You ask -- this is your opening, unexpected though it may be.

"Err... those are for--"

You put the handkerchief on the desk, untie it, and take one of the cookies. They're soft and gooey, chocolate chip. Pretty good. They have a weirdly tangy aftertaste, but still -- pretty good.

"Your mom made these?" You ask, through a full mouth.

"Uh. Mostly."

"Tell her they're... not that good." You swallow. "Yeah. Frankly, not that good."

She puts a hand to her lips. "Wh-what?"

"I have pretty high standards, is all. I was making cookies just last night, and these things simply aren't up to snuff. I could make a better cookie in my sleep."

"Hahaha!" Whitney laughs. "I gotta try one for myself." She takes one.

"Err--" Rose2 says again. "Those are really meant only for--"

"Ally's right. These are okay... I guess. But his are better. Like way better."

Rose2 frowns.

"You pass that on, okay?" You say. "Tell her I offer lessons if she wants to become a better chef..."

On your way to the basement where you've set up a meeting with Dr. Carte, you run into a photo shoot.

Right there in the grand lobby of Darkbloom Analytics, Makoto fucking Kikuchi is surrounded by a horde of Japanese press, and camera crews from the movie she's supposed to be shooting soon.

"Did you authorize this?" You ask Whitney, looking down on the scene.

"Yeah," she says. "They want me to be a part of it, too..." She makes a face and puts her hands on the back of her head. "Some BS about doing a documentary or some kind of making-of about this movie. Kind of a drag, but Kimochi got snippy when I tried to tell her no, so here we are."

She points at Makoto now. "Hey, look! She's wearing one of the shirts too."

Whatever algorithm designed these shirts must not be so great with Japanese, or maybe Makoto's real social media fingerprint just isn't large enough to identify much in the way of specifics, because her shirt says simply:

>WANT to FUCK

>~Born in August~

Below the T-shirt, all she's got on are a pair of spats and some running shoes. Assuming the role of Whitney for the time being, it seems.

"Wanna be on Japanese TV?" Whitney asks.

[ ] No thanks. (Continue to Dr. Carte)

>[x] Sure.

"Whitney! Whitney Darkbloom!" A man, a reporter, apparently, is shouting. Of course through his thick accent it comes out sounding more like "Hoitonni Dakuburumu," and Whitney, who is hopeless about Japanese accents, doesn't understand at first that he's trying to get her attention. She turns in a semi circle and waves at the assembled Japanese press corps, ignoring the man.

"This one would like to ask you something," Makoto whispers, pointing at him.

"Oh! Shit. What is it?"

"Is this your boyfriend?"

"What's a boy ferendo?"

"Boyfriend," Makoto says. Her accent is just this side of intelligible for Whitney, so she serves as a decent translator.

"Oh! Shit. Hell yeah he's my boy ferendo." She throws an arm over your shoulder. "Total dick munch, but I love him."

"Dick munch?" Another reporter asks.

Makoto provides some sort of Japanese translation that you're worried might be literal. Then comes a volley of questions in her mother tongue now, which she answers with cool ease. From her lips you hear "Dakuburumu" several times, and again worryingly, "Arabasuta Soiruoki."

"You're not badmouthing me, are you?" You ask.

"I am confirming suspicions that you munch dicks." She winks at you.

"Alabaster! Alabaster!" A woman is yelling at you, shoving a microphone in your face. "What is the real Whitney Darkbloom like?"

"A real rug muncher," you offer.

"Rug... muncher?"

Makoto, ever the helpful one, translates this as well.

"Is she always so filled with energy?" Someone asks.

"Annoyingly so."

"Does Ms. Kikuchi remind you of her? Do you think she fits the role?"

You scrutinize Makoto. "Frankly? I think she could do with being a little higher-energy. But it's a pretty high bar, to get to Whitney's level. Whitney's probably the highest energy individual I know."

Makoto's stage smile dissolves. "I disagree!" She says in English, then comes a stream of Japanese. She finishes back in English: "Alabaster is blinded by love for his lover. But I am working tireless to match Whitney in all ways. Correct? Whitney?"

"Most ways," Whitney says. "Not ALL ways..."

Makoto's cool is really being tested here. She didn't expect to be criticized in front of the cameras like this. She's practically seething as she says: "I will do my best!" She claps her hands together. "Thank you! Thank you for coming out! I must work and rehearse!"

She pushes through the crowd, who continue to hail her with questions, but she's ignoring them completely as she stomps away.

"Well that's one thing she gets right," Whitney says, getting the cameras back on her. "She knows how to be pissy!"

"Pissy?" A reporter asks.

"Angry," she says. "Write that one down. She gets mad as fuck when you shit-talk her. Super cute."

You and Whitney find Makoto in the cafeteria, stewing over a cup of tea at a table by herself.

Whitney, who's probably the most approachable CEO on the planet, gets quickly pulled away by an employee who has a problem with something or another. She immediately says, "we'll get that fixed," before even knowing what the employee's problem actually is. Only then does she add: "Uh, what is it?"

She walks off with him, to find out.

You sit across from Makoto. She kicks you in the shin.

"What the hell!" You shout. You kick her back. What follows is a brief below-the-table tussle that neither of you seem to get the better of.

"You said cruel things about me," Makoto grouses.

"Yeah, and you said I munch dicks."

"You do munch dicks! I have seen you hanging off the shoulder of Mr. Alex Best!"

"THAT is private information," you say. "You can't go around telling everyone in Japan my personal business."

"And you cannot say that I am a poor actress! That is cruel! You are a cruel spirit, Alabaster!"

"It's not my fault that you can't match Whitney's energy. If you don't want me to say so, try harder."

"And how am I supposed to do that?" Her eyes glimmer with anger. "I am trying and trying!"

"You need to get in her head more, spend more time with her, I don't know. Hell. I'm not an actor."

She laces the fingers of both hands around her cup and sips.

"Where does Whitney's energy come from?" She says.

"If we knew the answer to that, the world's energy crisis would be solved."

"I will endeavor to find out."

"You do that."

She kicks you.

"Seriously. If you kick me again, I'll punch you in the face."

She kicks you again. Calling your bluff was a pretty good move. You're not going to punch a Japanese teenager in the face in public. When you fail to live up to the threat, she sticks her tongue out at you.

On your way out of the cafeteria, you see Whitney with the employee from before, puzzling over a Keurig on one of the countertops.

"CC Load Espresso?" Whitney mumbles, mystified. "The fuck does that mean?"

"See? It's busted," the employee says.

Armstrong enters now, and walks up. "What are you calling me down here for?" He demands. "I've got shit to do."

"Look at this," Whitney says, pointing at the Keurig.

"I"m not your fucking coffee boy," he growls. "Get someone else to make you a cup."

"That's not it, dumbass. It's broken. Look."

He gets closer, reads the error message. "CC Load Espresso... what?" He steps back. "What am I supposed to do about that?"

"Fix it."

He can only laugh. "Good fucking lord, woman. We have 500 employees here. Do I look like the Keurig-fixer to you?"

"Yes you do." She puts a finger to his chest. "You're always using the Keurig upstairs in the C Suite, right? You're the only fucking reason we've got one up there. So I know you know how to fix it. So fix it."

She walks away.

"Motherf--" He starts, but then just shakes his head, sighing. He goes up to the machine and starts playing with the display menus.

In Dr. Carte's office -- a sub-sub-sub basement right next to the server-room, as tiny and cramped and out-of-the-way and un-glamorous as Mara could make it -- Dr. Carte is already waiting, and she already knows.

"Rose told me over the phone," she says, beckoning you to sit at her desk. She closes the door behind you.

"What do you think?"

"What do I think. That the worst monster who ever lived is now living inside your sister's head... that this could very well be the worst of all possible, imaginable situations... that I am... just... so sorry, Alabaster."

"Don't be sorry. Help us fix it."

"The intermittent nature of it makes me think it might be a simple fix," she says. "But... we'd need to pull your sister's eye out -- again -- to do it."

You massage the bridge of your nose.

"David lives whatever fucking half-life he has left, inside that implant. At least that's my best hypothesis. The barrier I tried to put between the implant and her brain, that resistor I told you about? Maybe we just need to make it a little stronger. Maybe the current one is failing."

"Failing. Failing is bad -- failing becomes flat-out failed. And then Darkbloom is just there, forever."

"You're right. So time is of the essence." She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one up.

"You can't do that here," you tell her.

"Get bent. I need this."

You won't fight her over it. "Can't we pull the implant out of her?"

"You saw what happened the last time we tried." She takes a long, ruminating drag.

You prop your elbows on the desk and rub your forehead with the heels of both palms.

The door opens. Alex is poking his head in. "Uh, Ally? Whitney said I'd find you down here." He coughs, waving his hand in front of his nose to dissipate the smoke. He starts to say something to Dr. Carte, but she gives him the stinkeye, and he doesn't.

"What's up?" You ask.

"There's someone upstairs in the lobby who wants to see you."

At the security checkpoint, exchanging heated words with Noelle, is the woman you recognize as your own mother. The one who's currently claiming to be Rose2's mom instead.

"I don't care if I'm not on the list! I'm coming through!"

"Ma'am, what part of FBI do you not understand? This is a secure area. If you're not on the list of employees or don't have prior authorization, you don't. Get. Through. Period."

"I have business here and I am coming through! I have rights! Read the constitution, hussy!"

"Do not make me detain you. Please. I don't want to deal with the paperwork."

Standing there gawking from the other side of the cordon, your presence finally draws her attention. "There you are!" She says. She points menacingly. "There's the intolerably RUDE young man who came to my HOME, did indecent things with my daughter, FORCED me to cook for him, and then LEFT and took my daughter with him after I had already WASTED all my ingredients! And now he's telling her that my cooking isn't good enough for him!"

"Hi," you say.

"Get over here!" She yells. "I'm gonna kick your butt!"

"Uh..."

She doesn't take your hesitation well. She starts to climb over the cordon. Noelle is already drawing her pistol. "Stay back! Stay back!"

But Ms. Catachresis is not to be deterred, despite the threats, and despite getting one leg tangled in the black retractable belt of the cordon, pulling down a couple of the plastic barriers with her.

"You're under arrest!" Noelle shouts as agents in blue jackets start pouring out of the little windowed structure beside the cordon. "You're under arrest!"

You shout: "Hold on! Jesus fucking Christ. Let her through, Noelle, fuck."

Noelle grimaces. "She needs authorization."

"I'll get the fucking authorization. It's not like I'm the CEO's boyfriend or anything! Dumb bitch. All I have to do is ask Whitney and she'll let her in. So let her in."

You step forward, to offer your mom a hand.

"Oh?" She says, still tangled in the belt. "You've decided to approach me now?"

"I can't help you off your ass if I don't."

She snarls.

"Just where do you get off?" Mom says, as she gets untangled and steps past the cordon, with your assistance. "How dare you treat me with such disrespect!"

"What? I literally just helped you to your feet--"

"Don't back-talk me."

Noelle is on her walkie-talkie, paging for someone, and soon a retinue of agents are marching upstairs, presumably to fetch Whitney.

"It's not about disrespect," you insist. And even as you raise your voice, it still feels way too bizarre to be carrying on with her like this. You can hardly believe you're having a conversation with mom again, after all this time. And that the conversation is, like always, an argument... "It's like I told Rose2. Your cookies are okay. They're just not as good as mine. I'm sorry if you're offended."

"Not as good!" She repeats. "Not as good? You have some nerve. You're nothing but an ungrateful little punk, that's what you are!"

Whitney is in the lobby now. "What's the matter?"

"This -- woman, wants authorization to enter the premises," Noelle says.

Mom, hearing this, shouts at Noelle. "I told you, skank -- I have constitutional rights! I can go where I please."

"Ha! I like you," Whitney says.

"Mo-- Ms. Catachresis, calm down," you say.

"...Mom?" Rose2 is fast on Whitney's heels, descending the stairs from the lobby's mezzanine. "What are you doing here?"

Whitney laughs: "So that's what this is about. You're Rosie's mom? You came all this way just to bitch Ally out for talking shit about your baking?" She points at Mom, and says to Noelle: "She can come in. I wanna see how this plays out. Pull that stick out of your ass, huh, Noelle?"

"Need I remind you that this is a secure area?" Noelle says. "The lax security protocols here were part of the reason the 3/10 hack happened to begin with. It's my job to prevent your company from screwing up again, because you obviously can't manage it yourself -- and to find out what else you've been letting happen under your watch..."

Whitney is animated: "Fuck off already! This investigation has been going on for over a year and you haven't found anything. It's a total wit--"

"What do you mean we haven't found anything? We've arrested over a dozen Russian nationals with clear links to Mara Darkbloom--"

Whitney is flapping one of her hands as if it's a mouth: "blah blah blah. No one curr."

"--Not to mention the unusual twitter bot activity which recently exploded, thousands of astroturf accounts singing the praises of your company--"

"Do you really care about Twitter bots, Noelle?" You ask. "Give me a break."

"Not particularly," she admits. "I sent that one on to Bob, he can deal with it. But there's a clear pattern of corruption here."

"Some company you work for," Mom says to Rose2. "Run by idiots and under investigation by the FBI. You're going to end up in prison if you keep dating this boy!"

"I'm okay with that..." Rose2 says, seemingly genuinely, and even you do a double take at that one.

You pull mom aside and let Whitney and Noelle go at it. Rose2 joins you.

"For the last time," you say, purposely needling her: "There's nothing wrong with your cookies, Ms. Catachresis. They're fine. They're just not as good as mine. If you want take some tips from me, I'd be happy to give you some."

"What do you see in this insufferable boy?" Mom asks Rose2.

"Err... geez louise. Hmm."

"I'll tell you what, Ms. Catachresis. I'll prove to you that I'm a better baker. And I'll make it up to you for leaving early last Sunday, too."

She folds her arms, sneering. "Yeah? And just how are you going to do that?"

"I'll come over to your house and bake you whatever you want. I'll bring my own ingredients, too. You won't have to pay for anything."

Rose2 claps. "Oooh! Goodie! I like that idea!"

"Don't encourage him," Mom says. "Besides, I refuse to let you turn my home into a brothel, young lady. I know why YOU want him to come over."

Rose2 makes an exaggerated pouty face, although she doesn't dispute what mom says.

"It's a standing offer," you say. "And I'm for real. I feel bad about running off right as you were about to cook for me -- honest. So let me make it up to you with a batch of my clearly superior cooking."

Her right eye twitches. You're going to give her a heart attack if you keep going. "It is NOT going to work like that! You'll come over to my house and eat MY food, and you're going to like it, mister! And you'll see for yourself that it's better!"

"Ooh!" Rose2 says. "I know! How about -- a competition~?"

"That might be your first good idea ever," you say. "Yeah. A competition."

You poke Mom in the belly. She grits her teeth, jumps back, and actually growls at you. "That is..." you say, "if you're not scared... Ms. Catachresis."

"I'll mop the floor with you and wring you out in the sink when I'm done," she says. "Name the time and place!"

"Your house. Tonight."

Rose2 is clapping again.

"We need an unbiased judge," Mom tells you. "Someone who won't be blinded by their own stupidity, unlike you."

"How about Rose2? She loves us both equally."

Mom narrows her eyes at Rose2 as if waiting for her to say otherwise, but Rose2 just looks away. "Honestly, Rose. I don't know why you care so much about a boy who calls you Rose2. You're not even his number one Rose!"

She shrugs.

"I think Amber would be a better judge," mom says. "She's a good, honest, hardworking girl. And she has taste!"

"You're trying to rig the game from the start!" You protest. "No way. That girl hates me. If you get Amber as a judge, I get to bring my own judge too. Then it can be a panel of three."

"It'll be like a Japanese game show!" Rose2 says.

"Or... just a normal game show," you say. "Why would it be specifically a Jap--" Rose2 is giving you that blank smile that means she's not following, so you drop the thought.

"Who's your judge gonna be?" Rose2 asks.

[ ] Cerise

[ ] Whitney

>[x] Rose

>[x] Vivian

[ ] Dr. Carte

"I'll bring Vivian," you say. "She's basically a computer in the body of a human, so she'll be impartial."

"So cool!" Rose2 says. "Vivian is kawaii as heck. She can give me fashion tips while we wait for dessert!"

The real reason you want to bring Vivian along runs a a lot deeper than getting some goth loli fashion tips for this bubblegum crisis of a human being. You need to confirm that Vivian's memories of reality align with your own. So far, she seems to be the only person whose memory does.

"I expect you at my home no later than 6 PM!" Mom says. "I know you wealthy bohemians like to keep bizarre hours, but I run a wholesome family and we eat at wholesome times."

Wholesome? Does she not understand that her two putative children are a weeaboo degenerate and -- even if she's not literally Camelia -- a girl who's clearly a terrorist-in-training?

"I look forward to it," you say, putting a hand on her shoulder and leading her towards the exits. "I apologize in advance for humbling you in front of your children."

"Why you awful little-- tch!"

"See you later, Ms. Catachresis."

She's so mad that all she can do is ball her fists, pull a face, and stomp off.

---

"I understand."

In Vivian's office, the news that you're worried about Camelia's possible reappearance is received with surprising placidity. You weren't sure about telling her, but she's your only lead on trying to find out what the fuck is going on.

"And that's how you remember her too, right?" You ask. "Red hair, blue eyes?"

"It is. You mean to imply that everyone else has a -- false memory?"

You don't want to actually show her the video of her father's death again. So you only describe what you saw a few days ago.

"It is true that we never recovered Camelia's body," Vivian says. She considers the facts dispassionately, and says: "Perhaps she survived after all... and found some way to wield Sand Reckoner such that it can subvert human memory. Memory is a fragile thing, after all."

"Can you handle seeing her in person -- if that's who she is?"

Vivian nods.

"There'll be food," you offer. You describe the parameters of the competition.

Vivian stares at the corner, where the moulding meets the ceiling. You think she's somber, more than usual, but she then she says: "I do not think I can be an unbiased officiant. I vastly prefer your cooking over most people's." She looks at you. "Yes, Alabaster, I can handle seeing Camelia again. I know why she did what she did. Why you helped her. I have made peace with it. In the spirit of reconciliation, there is nothing better than breaking bread with those who were once your enemies."

---

"No!"

"No? Fuck you, no! Stay with Cerise!"

"I'm coming. I'm definitely coming. I'm not going to let that crazy cyber-terrorist reality-bender be alone with you! You're too stupid to handle her by yourself!"

You peek your head around the corner of the dining room, where Dr. Carte and Cerise are deep in conversation about the unwelcome guest in Cerise's skull.

"If you don't take me, I'll just follow you," Rose says, drawing your attention back.

"Not if I tie you down," you say.

"I'll escape."

"Not if I beat you unconscious."

"I'll beat you unconscious first. Then you don't get to do this dumb cook-off at all."

"You really chafe my fucking asshole, Rose. You know that?"

"I do my best." She smiles smugly up at you. After a pause, she asks: "Why is this so important to you, anyway? What is cooking with this woman going to do?"

"I want to..." you trail off and sigh. It feels kind of awkward to say this out loud, equal parts desperate and embarrassing, but you press forward: "I want to jog her memory. If she really is my mom. When I was growing up-- when my mom would bake, I helped her. Uhh. Not because I wanted to or anything. I just... I just didn't want her to burn our house down, that's all."

Rose's quirked eyebrow is boring a hole into your soul. You look away.

"And so -- I ended up learning a lot about baking, you know, by osmosis. All that time cooking with her, that's about the closest mom and I ever came to getting along. So if I cook with her again like that... maybe she'll remember."

Rose laughs. "Oh my goodness, Alabaster."

"Don't."

"You're a mama's boy."

"I told you--"

"That is precious. I can't believe it."

"I swear to god, Rose--"

"I'm not making fun of you! It's precious. Sincerely. I mean -- all right, it's funny too, but--"

"Do I need to remind you of the pistol in your gun safe that says Daddy's Girl on it?"

She bites her tongue.

"That's what I thought. Be ready to leave at 5. If she's still anything like my mom, she'll break out the whips if we're even a minute late. You don't want to deal with that. I'm serious."

On the way to Rose2's house, while you drive, Rose has one of those "buddy cookies" for herself. She nibbles at it, scrunches up her face, and smacks her lips as if trying to get rid of the taste.

"These things taste like shit."

"You're exaggerating because you don't like Other Rose. They're not that bad."

"No, I'm being honest. They taste like... they taste weird. Metallic. Like... copper?"

You glance over, meet her eyes. The realization there is wordless, too awful to say aloud. Rose folds the cookie back into the handkerchief and drops it out of the open window.

---

"Tadaiiiiiimaaaa~" Rose2 says when she answers the door for you.

"That's what the person arriving is supposed to say," you tell her, frowning. "Your line is okaeri."

"Oh, yeah! A-durr."

"Actually, I take that back. No one is supposed to say either of those things unless they're in Japan."

"Silly," Rose2 says, swatting your shoulder, but you fail to see what's so silly about that. "Where's Viv-tan? Is she--"

Rose2 trails off as she sees Rose approaching up the drive.

"You said you were bringing Vivian," Rose2 says, her voice suddenly low and flat.

"She's coming too. She texted me that she'll be here soon."

You show her your phone's screen to confirm. 

"I understand some of those words," Rose2 says, lost.

"That's great. Lead the way, huh?"

Rose2 shares an evil look with Rose before allowing you to pass into the Catachresis household.

As you step into the kitchen, mom appears -- as if from nowhere -- and in her hand is a blow torch. She clacks it on, and its angry blue flame shocks you backwards several paces. You hold your arms up, shielding your face, terrified. This was a trap. This was a terrible trap you walked into, orchestrated by Camelia, and now you're going to die--

"Sissy," Mom says, lowering the nozzle, letting the flame dissipate. "I'm not anywhere close to you. Haven't you ever seen one of these things before?"

"What the hell are you holding a blow torch for!" You demand. "Warn me next time!"

"We're making baked Alaska tonight. I assume you've done a dish that simple. Right, Mr. master chef?"

You have -- with mom, of course. Her baked Alaska with homemade brownie ice cream and chocolate sponge was a legendary favorite at the Soliloquy household. It was good enough to make dad put his paper down at the dinner table whenever it came out. Of course, he would promptly bury his face in that mountain of meringue and ice cream, but you win some, you lose some.

More importantly, you wouldn't characterize the dish as "simple" -- it's anything but. Making a decent baked Alaska is one thing you never got a handle on.

"Why do you get to choose the dish?" You say. "That hardly seems fair."

She pounds a palm in her first. "Baked Alaska tests all your fundamentals! Your ability to make a good sponge, your ability to mix flavors, manage time, and perhaps most importantly -- your pipework!"

This is definitely mom. She always criticized your pipework.

"I think we should do something more elaborate," you try. "How about a multi-tier cake?"

"Absolutely not! This is my house, and I decide what we have for dinner!"

You sigh. If you have to pit your baked Alaska versus hers, it's going to be a historic rout -- you're the McGovern to her Nixon here.

>[x] Do your best. You can win!

[ ] Maybe we should work together.

You grab an apron off the hook by the entrance to the kitchen. It's one of hers, pink and frilled, but you're too hyped by the adrenaline of a challenge to care about that as you tie it off around your back.

"You're on," you say. "I'm gonna show you exactly what a true master's work looks like!"

The first step is making the ice cream, because it needs time to set. "You can use store-bought ice cream if you need to," mom says as she dices chocolate above a mixer. "I have some in the freezer. I know that preparing it homemade is quite a challenge..."

"You wish," you sneer as you dig through the fridge for what you need. And you find it: strawberries. You knew you'd find fresh strawberries, just like mom always kept at home. You quickly begin stemming them, rinsing them, and mashing them through a sieve to make the base of what will be strawberry-vanilla ice cream.

"Oh ho?" Says mom. "I knew you were a fruity person." She's already heating the cream and sugar mixture in a saucepan over the stove. Your decision to go with a fruit-based ice cream has set you back on time -- but you're confident you can make up for it.

"Keep talking," you say. "You'll shut up soon enough when you taste the finished product..."

As you measure out the sugar for yourself and add it to a saucepan of your own now, you start to whisk it all together. You turn your attention to the crushed strawberries, grabbing them, and add them in too. But with a sudden rush of panic, you realize that the heat was too high -- and leaving it unattended for even a few moments allowed the mixture to begin scorching. Surreptitiously, you turn the heat lower, and debate whether to suffer the embarrassment of getting a new saucepan to salvage the cream's flavor.

"Do you need a new saucepan?" Mom says.

Goddamn it...

"Why would I?" You say, all bravado.

She grins. "You scorched it. You definitely scorched it just now."

Fuck. She's way too good.

Cookware in the cabinets goes clattering as you angrily root around for another saucepan of suitable size. Mom watches, chuckling low and sly, as you finally find one, and pour the cream into it.

"Make sure to run that under the sink," she says, pointing at the pan you scorched. "I don't need an amateur like you ruining my pans with baked-on gunk."

You grumble.

The "Squeeeeee~~" You hear from the dining room can only mean one thing -- a more favored guest has arrived. And then, yep, confirmation: "You look just SO kawaii, Viv-tan!"

Whatever murmured response she gives is too low to be intelligible, but Rose2's confused "you're silly!" that follows it, means it probably wasn't as effusive.

The sponge cake is an even more terrible disaster than the ice cream. You wanted to do a relatively plain sponge, with just a hint of lemon. But when it's done baking, and you pull the sponge from the oven, you find all the zest has settled to the bottom -- leaving a totally white, anemic-looking top, and a somewhat burnt, sad-looking, crisp bottom dotted with lemon rind like acne scars.

Mom's sponge is pristine and delicious looking, chocolate-based, of course -- a nice, dark, even brown that makes your mouth water just looking at it. Are you buckling under the pressure?

"Ready to give in?" Mom asks, poking your sponge and seeing how it just stays depressed where she touched it rather than springing back. "Most sports have a mercy rule, don't they?"

"Never!" You say. "I'm not going to lose to you!"

"Poor thing," she says. "He doesn't know he already lost..."

The final stage, the meringue, is the worst of all.

You forget the tartar, and add the sugar too fast, and the result is a granulated, separated, runny meringue that barely even pipes, let alone seems fit to set. Worse: when you go to pull your ice cream from the freezer, you find it's still mostly liquid, with only the edges starting to freeze. Whereas mom's is of course already a nice, fluffy, solid-looking dish of ice cream ready to go onto her sponge.

You clench and unclench your fists in frustration; at this rate, despite all your rushing, your effort, zipping around the kitchen and jockeying with mom for room in the cramped quarters -- it will all amount to nothing. You won't even be able to serve, let alone win.

"You're hopeless," Mom says.

"I don't need to listen to you mock--"

"Here."

She takes the tin from the counter, the one full of your half-set ice cream, and places it back in the freezer. Then she dumps your meringue in the garbage -- and starts over again, for you. "Did you forget something?" She asks, handing you the cream of tartar. "1/8 of a teaspoon. You do know that, right?"

You set your jaw and nod. "I just forgot. That's all."

"Of course. You seem like a forgetful sort."

You add the required amount to the egg white mixture that mom is already preparing.

"You don't have to help me," you grouse.

"That's good, because I don't want to. I just can't stand winning against such an obvious incompetent. Here -- now whisk."

She hands you the whisk. You do as she instructs.

"No... no, not like that. All wrong." She takes the whisk back. "See how I angle it? You want to fluff the mixture, not beat it bloody. A gentle touch, Alabaster. Okay?"

"Yeah."

"Now you try."

She watches.

"That's almost good enough," she says. "I can live with that."

She slowly pours the sugar for you as you work. Winking, she says: "Of course, this means you forfeit."

"You're forcing your help on me," you say. "I never requested it. It's not my fault my opponent has no self-preservation instinct."

She tsks at you. "Don't be a sore loser."

"I haven't lost yet, so how can I be a sore loser?"

"Show me your pipework," she says. She lays some wax paper on the counter.

You gulp. This is a moment of truth. With trembling hands, you pour the meringue into a piping bag and cap it with the nozzle. You squeeze from the top and begin to draw lazy spirals on the wax paper. But she balks:

"All wrong, all wrong. Tch. I'm going to have to teach you everything, huh."

You bow your head in defeat. But somehow there's a smile on your lips that wants to spread.

Mom handles the final stage: torching the meringue as it sits domed atop the ice cream, applying just enough heat that it turns a nice crispy brown, without the ice cream inside beginning to melt. It's a practice maneuver that, of course, she pulls off with ease.

"After you," she says, holding her baked Alaska on a serving platter. You take yours on a platter as well, and then: to the judge's table. No turning back now.

"Where's Cam-- where's Amber?" You ask, glancing around as you set the platter down.

"Sleeping" Rose2 says. "She's such a lazy daisy."

Mom scrunches her lips all the way to one side of her face. Laziness really ticks her off.

"Laziness really ticks me off!" She says.

Yep.

"That Amber... it's 7 PM! Why is she asleep?" Mom grabs a broom and pounds on the ceiling. "Amber! You get your butt down here right now, missy! Wake up! You hear me? Wake up!"

You hear thudding above, and know she's coming down.

Amber arrives in the dining room -- wearing a tanktop and panties, nothing else. She looks around, from face to face, and then says: "Sweets. Sweet."

Vivian stares at her with apprising eyes. Then back to you. A single curt nod is all she needs to confirm.

It's her. Vivian recognizes her.

"This house is a regular billionaire hangout nowadays," Camelia says, sitting down and cutting into your baked Alaska with a serving spatula. "When do we start getting some kickbacks, huh? We'll launder your money for you if you give us 5%..."

"Amber!" Mom says. "You should wait to be served."

"Sorry ma. But -- too late!"

Rose2 claps her hands together. "Itadakimasu!" -- her customary tic again.

Vivian, sitting beside her, gently pushes her hands together in mimicry. "Ita... dakimasu."

Rose2 beams, swivels in her chair, reaches over, and embraces Vivian from the side in a bear hug.

"Why are you encouraging her?" You ask Vivian.

"Rose2 has decided to take me to a local collective of Lolitas," Vivian says, still trapped in her embrace, "and there to introduce me as the newest member. Therefore, I am trying to endear myself to her."

It's a little weird to explain it so starkly while the person you're trying to endear yourself to is right there, but then again, Rose2 would hardly understand, given how Vivian puts it.

"She'll knock their socks off!" Rose2 affirms.

"I'm impressed," you tell Vivian. "Doing social things on your own. You're growing up."

"If there is a group of girls in town who wear Lolita fashion, they must be brought to heel. They must be made to understand that I alone am the best. Thus, this is a journey I make out of necessity."

You purse your lips and nod.

Vivian eyes Camelia. "Do I know you?" Vivian says, prodding for an opening.

"Jeeeesus you rich fucks are forgetful," Camelia says. "I don't know how you'd know me. 'Cause I don't know you from dick. Sorry, babe."

Vivian seems willing to let it drop there -- for now.

By Camelia's fiat, your baked Alaska is first up for judgement. Everyone gets a plate full and digs in -- their polite murmurs and "it's very good"-s are all you need to hear. Your final product sucks. Even with mom's help in the ninth inning. Everyone is just being polite about it.

Mom nudges you. "Don't look sad. You're a better cook than most bachelors, I guess. That's almost something to be proud of!"

You're sad for a different reason than having already lost, though.

Through all of it -- all this time in the kitchen with her -- there wasn't a spark of recognition on mom's part whatsoever. You're still as good as a stranger to her.

Mom's baked Alaska is next. When everyone starts in on it, their reactions are much more animated:

"Oh-- ohhh-- oh my goodness-- I--" Rose mutters, gasping almost sexually between bites.

"This... this delectable flavor... this aroma... this texture..." Vivian says. "I am... this is... thish ish... unghh..." She dissolves into tremors.

Rose2's face is drooping. She says nothing -- cannot, so overwhelmed by pleasure.

Camelia isn't safe, either. She gobbles it down in nanoseconds and then tips the plate to her lips, throwing her head back, to drink up the residue of melted ice cream left over. She moans to herself, utterly wallowing in ecstasy, squeezing her thighs together.

Mom watches, palm to cheek, smiling.

Of course your reaction is just the same. You can't help shuddering as the first morsel touches your tongue. Five years without this -- five years you never want to relive. This is heaven.

"So?" Mom says. "Who wins?"

"You win, ma," Camelia says. "Of fucking course you do."

"Language."

"You blew this dork away. It was a slaughter. Fish in a barrel. Damn."

"I agree..." Rose2 says, diving for seconds. "Sorry, Ally, but-- ohhhh man... I'm getting dizzy..."

You lock eyes with Vivian, hoping she can at least throw you a pity vote now that it doesn't matter. But she's got that dreamy smile on her face as she horks down her second serving, and, mouth stuffed, points at mom with her fork. A 3-0 victory.

"Rose?" You ask, hoping at least SHE will lie to you, since she doesn't even get an official vote.

"Alabaster... Alabaster, please hire this woman..." She says, swooning. "I want to eat her cooking every day..." Her cheeks are deeply flushed and she's sweating despite the cold temperature of the dish. She sucks on her spoon.

"Well, Alabaster?" Mom says. "You're the only holdout. What do you think of my baked Alaska?"

[ ] It's terrible.

[ ] It's great.

>[x] You're great.

Swallowing your last bite, you say: "I admit it. You're great."

Mom's smile drops -- she cocks her head as she gazes back at you.

There's an awkward pause while your mind processes what you've just said. Finally catching yourself, you append: "I mean-- it's great. IT'S. The baked Alaska. Err-- not you-- I mean, not NOT you-- but-- the baked Alaska..."

She slowly shakes her head, blinking -- once, twice. The way she looks at you, now. Suddenly it's different.

She sees you with new eyes. That spark of recognition you were looking for: like a lightbulb coming on, there it is. And her voice is very small as she says: "Alabaster?"

With all your heart, you want to say: "Mom?" But fear and the memory of last time holds you back.

She pushes her chair away and stands.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I feel ill all of a sudden. I... I think I should go lie down. Thank you all, for coming... and for voting for me... I... hope to see all of you again soon... Alabaster."

You watch as she leaves the dining room and goes up the stairs.

You follow. Without thinking. But in the hallway at the top of the stairs, you see her slip into her bedroom, and the expression she makes when she glances over her shoulder -- so fearful, and sad, and full of trepidation -- you know she needs time to deal with this. Whatever is going through her brain right now, she understands as little as you do, and she needs the space to come to grips with it.

Turning, intending to go back downstairs to the dining room, you bump into Camelia.

"Give me back my property, please," she says.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're not as clever as you think. You or your cousin -- once removed."

You say nothing.

"It's fine. I'm not mad. I know Rose was in my bedroom, but that's to be expected. Right? That bitch loves to stick her nose in other people's business. It's, like, her thing. And she never liked me anyway. She said I couldn't be on the student council because my views were too radical. I said sugar, this is a high school extracurricular, not the federal government. The wheels of global commerce don't exactly hinge on our policy. Deflate that ego a bit. And anyway, just because I listen to Chapo Trap House doesn't mean I can't play nice with liberals. But she didn't want to hear it. Are you paying attention to me?"

"I'm trying. What I'm getting from you is that you don't care Rose broke into your room."

Speak of the devil: there she is. Rose, of course, wasn't about to leave you alone up here. She arrives at the top of the stairs as well, standing behind Camelia, watching silently.

"Emphatically not. I actually feel bad for her. Dumb cunt never got over being named hall monitor in kindergarten and she's been chasing that high ever since. So of course she's gotta get her narc on every once in a while. Hi, Rose."

You and Camelia stare each other down. You feel a little bit safer, with Rose on the other side: Camelia is sort of pinned.

"Where did you get that USB stick?" you demand.

"Found it. Last year during a field trip to Silicon Valley where we were supposed to hear from a bunch of Thought Leaders who wanted to lead our thoughts. We stopped at the Rutabaga Cafe for lunch. And there it was on the ground, underneath one of the benches."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want. But please, it's a very dear personal possession. I'd like it back."

"I know who you are," you say.

"And I know who you are," Camelia replies.

You don't respond.

"Fine. You want to keep it -- that's okay. Just don't say I didn't warn you."

She slips into the door at her left -- her bedroom.

As Vivian waits for her limo outside, Rose2 teaches her magical girl poses -- sure to impress at the Lolita meet, she insists.

Vivian, elegant though she may be, doesn't exactly take well to it. She's clumsy and almost falls on her butt multiple times as she tries to mimic the twirling, leg-kicking, arm-swinging maneuvers.

"We'll work on it!" Rose2 insists.

"Yes."

You see Vivian off when her chauffeur picks her up. Helping her into the limo, you whisper so only she can hear: "Camelia -- right?"

"Correct."

"Would you believe me if I told you that her mother is actually my dead mother come back to life?"

"At this point I would believe all. I will see you later, Alabaster."

She shuts the door and the limo pulls away.

You're on the couch with your three girls: Cerise, Whitney, and Rose, watching trashy TV together. A typical night spent home. You plan to tell Cerise about mom when you go to bed tonight.

You are home like this for no longer than about an hour, when that "see you later" from Vivian happens. Vivian comes to the front door, totally unannounced, and rings the doorbell. You and Whitney answer.

"Fuck me sideways," Whitney says. "What are you doing here?"

Hands demurely held down at her front, Vivian explains: "During a hypnagogic state while lying in bed, my dreams were perturbed by unpleasant visions. I hoped that I would get a substantially more restful slumber in friendlier environs."

"I... don't know what that means," Whitney says.

"She had a nightmare, so she wants to sleep with her big sister," you translate.

"Shit, Viv. That's all you had to say!"

"Mm."

Whitney steps aside, letting her in. Cerise, watching from the living room couch with Rose, waves hi. And Vivian, ever polite, waves hi back.

"Wanna watch Cops?" Whitney asks. "There's a marathon! Right now they're about to bust this male prostitute in Miami--"

"I would rather lie down. Would you... kindly accompany me?"

Whitney pokes her shoulder. "Accompany you. Hah. Fuck yeah, I'll accompany you."

You watch as they ascend the stairs.

"What were you dreaming about?" Whitney asks.

"Erm."

"C'mon. Don't make me spank you."

"Monsters."

"Scaaary~"

"More importantly... worse than these disturbing dreams, I have had such a terrific migraine recently... it comes and goes, and it is starting to come back again in force. I-- chhh--"

She stops at the first landing, dainty fingers pressed against her forehead, and hisses like television static with the pain.

"Viv?"

"It is -- all right --" she says, breathless, but gaining her faculties back a little. "Please -- let us continue --"

With difficulty, she and Whitney continue the rest of the way to the bedroom. Whitney, like you, is obviously concerned. Vivian will need to get her head checked. Migraines like that, for someone so young, are not natural.

You turn, heading for the living room again. What you see there is an unwelcome sight: Rose restraining Cerise, arms held fast, as Cerise struggles against the full-nelson.

Cerise scowls at you. Her eyes are blue again.

September 2, 2018

"Thank you, Stasi, for everything." Mara shakes her hand. "I trust you to deal with the rest?"

"Of course. We will cremate the body and dispose of it. And we will yet find the red-headed bitch who killed him, too."

Mara nods. "Hers won't be a corpse you're looking for. She's alive -- I'm sure of it."

"Regardless."

"Don't get me wrong. I trust you. I am quite impressed with how your men managed to find that warehouse before the feds did. Getting in and out... stupendous work."

Stasi lazily smokes her cigarette.

Mara presses on to the next topic: "Is Konstantin ready for the procedure?"

"Ready when you are," Stasi says. "Go get her."

---

Mara finds Vivian sitting in the Darkbloom manor's dining room, alone. She sits in a chair pulled away from the table and turned sideways, directly facing another chair just centimeters away. It's the spot where she and her father played that ridiculous anagramming game all the time, among other insipid conversations. Now she sits there wordlessly, no one to talk to the poor doll -- never learned how to get on with people besides her father.

Mara slinks over, stealthily, and reaches around the chairback, hugging Vivian from behind. Vivian winces and goes rigid at the contact.

"We will begin soon," Mara tells her.

Vivian nods. Mara runs her hands up and down Vivian's body in a way she assumes might be soothing, or motherly.

"I am -- having second thoughts --" Vivian mumbles.

"There is no time for that. This is your father's legacy -- this is precisely what he would want."

Vivian, taciturn, stares at that painting David also liked to stare at, the one of Adam and Eve being evicted from Eden.

"And --" Mara wheedles, "you will get to be close to him. Always. With his implant in your eye... he will be a part of you forever..."

Tears are rolling down Vivian's cheeks.

---

Vivian is sedated on the operating table.

Konstantin wastes no time and spares no moments for gentleness. He scoops her eyeball out of its socket like a fish monger gutting a fish, and gets to work threading David's old implant around the ocular nerve.

Mara watches Vivian's eyeball dangling on her cheek -- how it leaves a little streak of blood there in is wake. And Mara is smiling. Of course because of what the success of this procedure promises for the future. But also because...

Well, some things are their own reward. She likes what she sees.

END OF EPISODE 4.