Season 4 Episode 15: The Disappearance of Alabaster Soliloquy

You are Alabaster Soliloquy. This is how your life ended.

---

Kay holds Johann the penguin underneath Guy's nose. "Okay, girl. Do your magic." She follows as Guy trots through the rubble with her snout to the ground.

Master and pet wind their way across the ruins, stepping carefully over corpses; some weeks old, some only days old. Venturing this far into the hot zone without so much as a hazmat suit is certain to give them radiation sickness. Not to mention that it increases their chances of cancer by something like 10,000%, probably. Well, it can't be helped.

The thin layer of ash that coats every surface stretches in all directions, like lunar dust -- and Kay's boots leave impressions in it like an astronaut's.

Because Vivian slept nightly with Johann for so long, Johann smells like her. And because that implant was inside Johann for so long, that implant smells like Johann. If A equals B, and B equals C...

Guy yips and paws at a spot in the rubble. Kay kneels, pulling chunks of concrete and other debris away. Guy keeps pawing, too, despite her owner finding the appointed spot -- doing her best to help her master dig. It takes a little doing, but Kay has all the time in the world. She tugs out singed bits of ceiling tile, chunks of stucco, and scraps of furniture, tossing them over her shoulder like a sailor bailing water.

As she works, she uncovers the half-mummified body of Renee Carte. Poor woman.

And close by, amid the powdery wreck, she finally finds what she sneaked past military blockades authorized to use lethal force, and deep into the Exclusion Zone for.

She pulls it out, careful not to damage it any worse than it already may be. Guy turns in excited circles, yips and yaps at her, hopping up and down on hind legs. Proud.

"I know girl, I know, Jesus," Kay mutters.

Kay turns the grain over in her hand, examining it. It's intact. She smiles.

"Hello David," she says. "Fancy meeting you here."

She stands again. She puts the implant in her pocket. She closes her eyes, and sighs to herself, as Guy runs in lemniscates between her legs.

Serendipity can smile on this ruined world yet.

Time for a road trip to Alaska.

---

You thought having the full power of Camelia would give you the key to finding the lighthouse.

You were wrong.

You thought you could get there in a few days' time, walk in and hit the reset button, and make it all go away.

You were wrong.

It's been more than four months since that day, and you're no closer to what you want. Rather, the world has deteriorated -- war, war, and more war. Meanwhile, trying to use your newfangled implant left you only sick, sick, and more sick. You wear an eyepatch, mostly permanently. Every time you bare your evil eye to the world for more than a few moments, you're zapped for days -- vomiting, fever, chills, aches and pains, delirium. And every time you use your evil eye, it alerts Chloe to your location too -- her goons are never far behind when you open it up.

You and Rose live like animals... stealing to get by, squatting in cabins in the remote wilderness, and wandering across the Alaskan bush like nomads.

Every once in a while when the trail seems to have gone completely cold, you hazard the risk of using your evil eye again -- trying, like hell, to glimpse that elusive, falsely prophesied Xanadu known as the lighthouse. It's always a goose chase: sending you north by northwest -- no, east by southeast, no, due north, no, to the sea, no, towards Yukon -- the data stream is jumbled, corrupted, and unnavigable. You're lost. And there's no help coming.

It's Whitney's birthday.

You and Rose are squatting in another cabin, this one so like all the others. Out-of-the-way, far from the nearest village, and abandoned for perhaps decades. You barely manage to get the furnace going with some lighter fluid and a few matches tossed on the damp blocks of half-rotted wood you scrounge from a corner.

Rose, knowing you're going to be in an especially downcast mood for the next couple days -- today Whitney, tomorrow Vivian... the Darkbloom sisters will be forever young -- volunteers to go into town and find some food. You trust her enough to send her. She has Tiresias, and she has her wits. She's done well enough before, on her own, and you're still recovering from the most recent attempt, last week, of using your evil eye.

She leaves under cover of dark. She takes until nearly dawn on the following day. Despite the trust, you were beginning to panic. And when she returns from town, she's empty-handed, carrying with her dire news:

"They're coming," she announces, and your gut does somersaults.

"How did they--"

"We have to go. Now."

You grope at your numb face with your numb right hand. "Did you lead them to us? Figures... I send you into town one time and this is what happens."

"This is YOUR fault," she counters. "Do NOT even think of blaming me. You got sloppy, Al--"

"Fine, fine. We'll talk about it later."

You send her to keep the car warm while you pack your meager belongings. When you're done, as you haul the duffel bags over your shoulder and brace yourself to make the short journey from the front door to the car, you consider the furnace again. You should go and put it out, that's the sensible thing. But you decide it would just be a waste of time. It's not your cabin and you'll never be back again anyway. Let it burn. Everything else is already burning too.

Out front, the headlights are the only illumination. The snow looks almost blue in their energy-efficient glow. You hurry for the passenger side, and Rose pulls a quick 180, beginning to turn even before you've fully shut the door.

Before she can go barreling down the snowed-over drive and back towards the pan-American highway, though, a figure steps into the conical beam of the hi-brites -- a figure you recognize -- hooting, jumping, waving both of her hands above her head like a castaway trying to flag down a distant ship.

Kay Vera, that sneaky bitch, somehow tracked you down. It was her who tailed Rose back from town, not Chloe's soldiers.

Maybe help has come after all.

---

Kuso kneads at your shoes, stretching his back luxuriously at the same time -- basking in the fire's warmth. Guy peers at him suspiciously from inside the safety of Kay's purse. You never thought you'd see either animal again. Kay took them with her, figuring they couldn't survive on their own. As opposed to the bird -- she let Myrna fly free back in California. Somewhere in the ruin of bomb crater America, a parrot flies from town to town spreading the gospel of alt-right feminism and culturally sensitive misogyny.

As for Samantha -- she stokes the fire. She rode with Kay the whole way, and kept her company. In more ways than one.

"How did you find us?" Rose asks. "Did you use Sand Reckoner?"

"God no," Kay says. "I used the old fashioned methods. I knew roughly the way you two were headed when it all went to shit... north... which isn't a whole lot to go on, admittedly. But I managed. Brought a couple pictures of you along with me, retraced your route. Asked around with locals on my way, and scouted out until you gave yourselves up." She puts a hand on her waist. "The old fashioned methods still work. Sand Reckoner is overrated. You start relying on it too much, and you open yourself up to getting hoodwinked. A good investigator never gets hoodwinked. Not in the long run."

"Did anyone else make it out?" You ask. You ask it all at once, gathering all your courage to do so.

Kay sadly shakes her head. You close your eyes, bite your quivering lip, fight back the too-familiar grief.

You knew that answer, already... but you wanted to believe that what the implant showed you, before you put the eyepatch on to block its visions, was a lie. It was no lie. The eye knows all.

"At least as far as I know," she adds. "I got lucky. Maybe some of the others got lucky, too. I could tell you the names of those I know for sure didn't make it. But you intend to fix this mess anyway, right? I wouldn't want to bog you down right at the finish line."

"Do you remember a girl named Rose2?" You ask her.

"...What?" Kay says. "Of course I remember Rose. She's right there." She points at Rose. "Did your implant make you loopy or is this just stir fever talking?"

"No--" you say. "Not 'Rose as well.' Rose two." You hold up two fingers. "As in the numeral two."

"He remembers us knowing a girl who was also named Rose," Rose says. "We called her Rose2, to differentiate her... apparently I hated her guts."

"She was my little sister," you say.

Kay furrows her brow. "No. Sorry. I don't remember any Roses but the bitch you're married to. ...No offense."

"None taken," Rose says.

"Samantha?" You ask.

She shakes her head, frowning. "I'm sorry, master... no, I don't..."

You put your face in your palms, and rub your forehead up by the hairline, roughly, with the fingers of both hands.

"If she's another one we lost -- you can bring her back too, then," Kay tries.

"It's useless," you say bitterly. "We're never going to be able to find the lighthouse. Just mine alone can't do it -- we needed Penelope after all."

"Oh, you did, did you?" Kay says. "I thought so." She pulls a long, thin wire from her peacoat pocket, pinching it between thumb and forefinger. At the end of it dangles a grain. The light inside it is dead. The plastic casing is the dull gray of stormclouds ready to pop. "Weird that you left it behind, then," she tells you.

"Penelope..." Rose breathes. She looks up at Kay disbelievingly. "You got it back."

"It's turned off for the moment, as you can see. But there's a little switch on the power line, that should bring it back to life. Of course I'd get the hell out of Dodge as soon as you're done using it. Unfriendlies are bound to come knocking when they see it go active." Kay sets it down on the raw pine table in front of her. "Well, it belongs to you now. My part in this story is finished." She pets Guy in her purse. Kuso wanders off, miffed that the inferior animal is getting the love.

"It's no help to us, though," you say. "Even if we turn it on, how would we talk to it?"

"You could stare into it," Kay says. "That's worked before."

"No," you say. "Every time I use my eye, it makes me sick. And Chloe comes chasing after us. I'm not taking that risk if there's any other option -- we might not get another chance like this again."

"Risky option #2, then," Kay says. She takes the implant in hand and indicates the wire's pointy end by tapping it with her middle finger. "Jam it in."

"What?" You say.

"Shove this fucker into your tear duct so that it makes contact with the implant you've got. Penelope is a more advanced model than Camelia, so it should override it. Right? ...Maybe? ...Worth a try?"

"Oh, and turn me into a walking meatsuit for David Darkbloom, or whatever the fuck else lives inside that thing?"

"Let's do it," Rose says.

You exhale. "This is stupid. That's an even worse option than the first one."

"No..." Rose says. "This is exactly how it was supposed to work. It's what Alyosha wanted to do with you -- what Chloe wanted, too. Your implant is underpowered, but there's something special about it that Penelope hasn't got... put them together, and they help each other. Penelope gets the boost it needs, and Camelia doesn't mess your brain up trying to draw more power than it's capable of. We should try it."

"How?" You ask.

"Kay already said how," Rose says.

You brace yourself by gripping the edge of the table and drawing several deep breaths. Meanwhile, Rose holds your other hand, as Kay kneels before you and snakes Penelope's wire underneath your eyepatch. Samantha, squeamish, lies on the bed hiding her face in the pillows.

"Do it," you say.

"Count of three," Kay retorts.

"Just -- fucking do it -- fuck--" You jostle your restless knees, up and down.

Rose squeezes your hand more tightly. And this helps calm you. Just a little.

Kay counts. "One. Two. Th

You are David Darkbloom.

When you wake up again, you're in a small, frigid cabin with raw wood walls and a fireplace in the corner -- the only source of both light and warmth. Rose and Kay are here; Rose is sitting directly facing you, and she has a gun leveled at you. Kay stands off to the side, arms folded. There's also that... strange but undeniably alluring bunny woman... who sits Indian style on the bed, watching worriedly.

"Please tell me you have not put me inside Alabaster's body," you say -- by way of introducing yourself.

"You'll be out of it soon," Rose says.

"God, you're hard to evict from that implant, huh?" Kay says. "You pay rent on that thing, or what? Hi David."

"Did anyone survive?" You ask.

Their lack of an answer is all the answer you need.

But you cannot let there be an iota of ambiguity... not over this.

"Vivian?" You ask. "Whitney? Renee?"

"Gone," Rose says.

You close your eyes -- rather, Alabaster's eyes -- and hot tears escape the shuttered lids.

"It's time to fix things, David," Kay says. "The lighthouse. Where is it? Can you see its location?"

"Hand me a slip of paper, please." Kay gives you one from a notepad in her purse, and a pen to write. You in return give them the coordinates. This might be the one thing in either of your lives that you and Alabaster can work together to accomplish, without any quibbles or in-fighting: and the two of you work together perfectly. Your linked implants can see that lone island in arctic waters just fine. How did that old cartoon catchphrase go again? By your powers combined...

"It depends on you now," you tell them. "I cannot say I trust in Alabaster, but I do trust in you -- Rose. I always admired you--"

"Do not," she says sternly. Then, uncrossing and recrossing her legs, scowling, she asks: "Did you murder Alabaster's parents?"

You rotate your jaw, and sigh. "Is this what you want to spend time on?"

"Answer me." She wags the gun at you.

"You would never shoot Alabaster. Especially not in your current state. In any case, I am prepared already for death. There is nothing left for me in this world."

"I can make you hurt," Rose says. "I know all of Alabaster's weak spots. Answer my question, David, you monster."

You run your tongue around the inside of your lips and teeth. Finally, you say: "Yes."

"Why?" Kay says.

It is time to say the truth -- the whole truth, and nothing but -- the truth that only you have kept for so long.

"The installation of Amber's implant went wrong, as you know. What you don't know is that she had awful side effects -- for months after. Seizures, narcolepsy, fugue states, violent outbursts and psychotic episodes... and more. Her parents were going to sue me, and go public with what I had done. I had them assassinated. Amber became an orphan. In secret I performed a second operation on her, in an attempt to disable the implant inside her. It didn't work. I thought it had. But years later, when Amber was a teenager, her implant turned itself back on. She regained her memories of what happened, at least enough to know that I had done these awful things to her. Her implant became symbiotically linked to mine -- and she learned, from my own brain, that there were two others who were her kin. Anna Healy, and Alabaster Soliloquy. She was going to go to them, and reveal the truth, and urge their families to go public. Their parents were the only ones who could confirm the story -- so I had them murdered, too. I hoped, then, that Amber would appear as a desperate schizophrenic to Alabaster and Anna, if she came to them telling her story. And she did. But she was able to convince Anna; and eventually also Alabaster."

"This is all because of you," Rose says. "Every bit of this suffering is on you. Your daughters are dead because of you. The world is dead because of you."

"I know," you say.

She stands. "Alabaster is going to fix it."

"He won't be able to manage it," you tell her. "Help him. He will need it."

Rose reaches for the implant and

"Do you know the way?" Kay asks.

"I have absolutely no idea," you admit. "Rose?"

She shakes her head.

Kay goes to the bookshelf on the wall and searches. Finally finding what she wants, she pulls it out -- an atlas of the US. She leafs through it until she finds Alaska. She traces a route overland from your current location, and puts a little dab of ink at the spot in the sea corresponding to those coordinates. It's past the dateline, in Russian waters. "It'll take a few days to the sea if you don't stop to rest. Then you'll need a boat -- of course."

"Hold on," Rose says. "You're coming too, right?"

Kay shakes her head.

"But--"

"She's sick," you say.

"I don't underst--"

Kay takes her knit cap off to show her. Her hair is falling out in clumps. "You heard about the suitcase nukes, right? Palo's a hot zone. Rad readings through the roof. I've been puking my guts out the past few days... literally... I'd be nothing but a hindrance if I tried to tag along."

Rose closes her eyes and tilts her head, wincing in sadness.

"It's not fatal," Kay says. "I think. Just... very, very, very severe... tack on a couple more verys, there. Think I'll stay in this cabin if you don't mind."

"It's not ours to begin with," you tell her.

"There's nothing here," Rose tells her. "Not even food or water. And people will be coming to take Penelope soon--"

"I've got my gun," she says.

Rose exhales hard.

"And what about you?" Rose asks Samantha.

"I'm too stupid," Samantha says. "I can't help!"

"You helped, back then -- you can help again," Rose says. "You're not stupid, Sam."

"I want to stay with master Kay... she needs company... and I need somewhere warm... I believe in you, masters! Do your best for me okay! Bring them back!"

Rose nods.

"Thank you, Kay -- for everything," you tell her.

"No problemo."

"You too, Samantha."

"Yes!"

You kiss them tenderly. So does Rose. For one last time, the four of you enjoy each other's bodies -- but sometimes it's better to spare the lurid details.

"What will you do with Penelope?" Kay asks from the bed, lying there naked, as Samantha strokes her softly beneath the covers.

"We should take it with us, right?" Rose asks. "Just in case."

You shake your head. "I would, but this could be my only chance."

"For what?" Rose says.

"I made Whitney a promise. That we'd keep David around only until we were sure he didn't have anything left to offer us. And that when I was sure, I'd give this implant a nice hard stomp for her. There's always a just-in-case -- but for now -- I'm as sure as I'll ever be."

You put the implant on the ground, and, using your bootheel -- you give it a nice hard stomp.

The silicon dust on the floor at the end of the wire glitters in the glow of the firelight. All that's left of David Darkbloom is rust and stardust.

You and Rose tell Kay and Samantha goodbye, and leave the cabin.

It's a long, cold drive to Unalaska, fraught with difficulty, and you know that Chloe is in pursuit. One thing you don't have to worry about, though, is car trouble; it gets you across the state with hardly an issue.

You park near some docks at the edge of the sea. As you step out onto the gravelly lot, you realize that you will never drive this car again -- this or any other.

You stop in place, turn.

"It was such a dependable vehicle," you say. You put your hands in your pockets and shrug your shoulders to draw the fabric of your parka up. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but... I'm actually gonna miss my Volt."

"Yeah," Rose agrees, "my Volt was a really nice car."

You and her stand there together, shoulder to shoulder, peering at it.

"For the money I paid for it," you say, "I got a ton of use out of my Volt. Never steered me wrong."

"You're right," Rose says, "you paid so little for the use of my Volt, and it's really done wonders for us."

"I've been behind the wheel of so many supercars since we got rich, but somehow... somehow my Volt is still my favorite."

"Sentimental value," Rose says. "I totally get it. I really love my Volt, too."

You let her have the last word.

They try to intercept you at a local tavern by the docks. You had hoped to have the time to nourish yourselves, and gather some last supplies before venturing forth into the Arctic Ocean. Chloe's goons have got other ideas, clearly. Her zombified followers try to force you from the building with gunfire, and when this fails, they try to smoke you out with molotovs tossed through the first-story windows. You and Rose, in a dilapidated danceroom on the second story, scramble for a plan B... or maybe more like a Plan Z, considering how many of your previous plans have already fallen through.

"This isn't the end," Rose tells you.

"Aren't you chipper today..." You heft the pistol in your hand and consider the gathering mob below. It's about 50 to 2.

"It's not the end," Rose repeats. She sounds desperate to convince herself, more than anything.

"No," you agree, to reassure her, "it isn't."

She slowly approaches the window. Glancing back over her shoulder, she delivers her last instructions: "No matter what happens... we stick together."

"Together."

"Don't leave me."

"I won't."

"I love you, Alabaster."

"I -- I love you too, Rose."

You join your wife at the window and begin, again, to fight.

You pick off hardly more than a couple before the heat racing up from below grows too intense to stay put. You'll burn if you try to sit tight. And under siege with limited ammo, your odds are awful anyway. Time, then, for the lateral pass attempt. You race back downstairs, holding Rose by the hand. This close to her, you aren't invisible to Chloe's men, but you aren't 100% opaque either. You don't know how it works, exactly, but they have trouble whenever Rose bequeaths a little of that Tiresias magic on you. It's far from perfect, and it also demasks her to the same degree that it conceals you. In a pinch, however, like now... it can buy you the breathing room you need to escape by the skin of your teeth.

On the first floor, Rose one-handedly blows a Chinese merc away who leaps up from behind the bartop to your left; you, at the same moment, nail one who turns on you from around a beam to your right. You and Rose, in the past months, have become a well-honed killing machine -- there's been more than enough practice -- and you can cover each other without needing to communicate verbal instructions.

You dodge a section of the wall that collapses on itself, amid swirling embers and awful clattering, and dash past the booth you sat in with Rose only moments ago, where her half-finished milkshake still sits, well past melted by now. Rose uses the butt of her gun to shatter a window, and together you scurry through. The window leads to the tavern's back, a short gravel-strewn parcel ending at a sheer embankment some ten or fifteen feet above the gray surface of the water. Men are here, too, lying in wait, but you slink to the cover of one of their Humvees as only a few of the most astutely observant ones give return fire. From under the chassis of the hulking vehicle, the two of you shoot some of the nearest soldiers in the Achilles. They fall, screeching. This draws the others to that location; and you use it as a distraction, to crawl free on the opposite side, then to run, for the docks a hundred yards away; over the corroded chain-link fencing, to the nearest boat you can find. You dump your duffel in, then hop aboard, and Rose undocks, and the two of you begin to row, chasing the setting sun across the overcast sky towards the international dateline.

You have nothing with you but guns and a rinky-dink GPS unit that runs out of battery by the second day on the open ocean.

No food; no water; no provisions at all but the clothes on your backs, poor shield indeed from the arctic winter. Rose knows a little about sailing, but this boat hasn't got a sail, and she's no rower. Neither are you.

You try a few times to catch some fish, an exercise that ends pathetically, leaving both of you wet, cold, mad and more hungry than you started. On day three, you force Rose to drink your urine to help her subsist; probably the least fun either of you have ever had doing that. The days are short, and hard; the nights long, and harder. You huddle for warmth, unable to sleep in waves just gentle enough to rollick you, and not powerful enough to carry you far. Your strength begins to leave, and you know, despite the insane risk it involves, that you will die unless you use your evil eye to render aid.

You bare your eye again, once more. It sets you on a northward trajectory, one you dutifully, despite the enervation, follow; but can you trust it? It makes you sick just as it always has, and you suspect it's leading you in the wrong direction. But what choice is left? The two of you row, silently, at a slug's pace, towards the nothingness on the indistinct horizon.

You get no closer. Hours stretch again to days with only the senseless squaws of seabirds to keep you company, and by your fifth sunset adrift, you lack the strength to row at all; you both do. Fear becomes anger becomes grief becomes a soul-rending hopelessness. At the bottom of your despair you desperately consider using the butterfly knife in your duffel to lop off the most strictly unnecessary parts of yourself, and feed them to Rose, but you know she would refuse. She will starve with you. Time crawls unceasingly. You pass into a daze, and spend the bulk of what's left to you in a dreary, shivering, half-consciousness -- hypothermic and hardly aware of the world around you. You think about what a lonesome death this will be, out here in the literal middle of nowhere, stuck in a doldrums where your corpses will bob and ebb for maybe months before at last becoming beached on a deserted arctic inlet where the gulls will pick away at what remains; or maybe the boat will become sunk, and your bones will scuttle across the floor of the silent sea. You cannot muster even bitterness at this vision, or at the injustice of having come so close just to fail. At least Rose's head is nuzzled against your chest right now, at least you have her and can hold her in your final hours. Her golden hair is so soft against your cheek... there are, in the final analysis, worse ways to slip into oblivion... Whitney, Cerise, Mom, Amber... I'm coming... I'm coming soon, you think. I'm sorry it happened like this...

When you wake, you half believe you're dreaming it, but no. A foghorn rouses the two of you, and through the mist appears a gunmetal gray prow with faded red trim. It's no surprise, and you can't even be upset. You knew that using your evil eye would entail this as well. Chloe has found you. This time, there is nowhere to run.

It's a container ship, the metal boxes stacked above deck like toy blocks in their muted rainbow of colors, bearing Mandarin in white block lettering across the corrugated sides.

They descend like demons from a hell above: Chloe on a lifeboat lashed to pulleys, surrounded by her slaves. The men shout in nasally Chinese; Chloe is placid. Smiling. It's the first time you have laid eyes on her since the day she killed every person you ever loved. Weakly, Rose reaches for the duffel -- it's a death sentence, but she's dead anyway -- and why not take Chloe on the way out the door. To the last, I grapple with thee; From Hell's heart, I stab at thee; For hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee...

She tries to grip her shotgun, but Chloe barks a certain order, and the men scoop Rose well in hand, whisking her into the boat with them.

"Ala...baster..." Rose rasps.

You reach for your eyepatch, hoping somehow the power of your eye can overcome an impossible disadvantage. Another barked order, then, from Chloe; and you feel the hard rap of a rifle's butt against your neck's nape before you can uncover your trump card. You pass out.

---

It's warm. In any other circumstance, this cot, underneath these fluorescents, would be the worst conceivable way to sleep the night away. But in your state, you may as well have spent a week at the Ritz-Carlton. You could roll over and pass right back out for another couple days.

Instead, you sit up, and shrug the rough woolen blanket off your body.

This room is drab and small, with only the cot along the blue-and-yellow wall, a small fridge and stovetop along the other, and a hard little table outfitted with a couple folding chairs, near the door. Chloe is seated at it; one of her men, holding an automatic rifle, stands by. You can feel only distantly the waves far below; you're somewhere in the cargo ship.

Chloe is reading, a Chinese translation of Kundera, but she sets her book down when she notices you stirring, and grins.

"I thought the smell might wake you," she says. "Hello again."

She stands and goes to the stove, where she scoops some food from a nonstick skillet onto a plate. Scrambled eggs, with bacon; and from the toaster, a few fresh slices, which she lathers with margarine under the stovetop's hood light.

"Where's Rose?" You demand.

Chloe turns and sets the plate down on the table. Beside it she sets a glass of orange juice. "Please come and eat with me."

"Where's Rose?" You repeat. You approach, and Chloe's guard takes a step forward. But she stays him.

"She is alive and unharmed. See for yourself." Chloe takes a remote control from the table. She clicks on a flatscreen mounted to the junction of wall and ceiling. You watch the grayscale CCTV footage: Rose, pacing around the perimeter of another room quite similar to yours, all by herself, agitated.

"Will you sit, please?" Chloe asks.

Chloe looks the same as how you left her. Bleach blonde tips, skin tanned so darkly that she looks Filipino, clothes just this side of too revealing. She made Amber's heart doodle permanent, it seems; but the tattoo now surrounds a ghastly looking scar that striates the tender skin of her groin.

"I missed you," she says. When you do not reply, she adds: "Go on now. Eat. Save your strength."

You eye the man guarding her, considering options.

Chloe says: "I have read, Ally, that American prisoners condemned to die are allowed to choose a final meal."

"Is that a threat?" You sputter. Your voice is still hoarse. You remember them giving you a saline drip in the hours after they took you aboard, but your throat is still beyond parched. "Anyway, you didn't even let me choose this shit. I wouldn't pick bacon and eggs for my last meal."

"You are quite right that you did not request this meal," Chloe says. "Because you are not a prisoner, and you are not condemned to die." She nods at her own plate. You look down to find a half-eaten hamburger and some thick, golden-brown french fries atop it.

"I chose this meal," she tells you.

An awkward silence passes. Finally, Chloe begins again to eat; taking the huge burger in both her tiny hands, and biting into it.

If you're not a prisoner, that means you should be able to leave. You stand, but your legs are wobbly, and you instantly fall back to your butt again. Despite the humiliation of it, you'd better accept the hospitality. You begin to wolf down your breakfast. You've never tasted a glass of orange juice as sweet as the one you put to your lips now and down in two deep guzzles. She refills your glass six times before you've had enough.

"Nice tattoo," you tell her bitterly.

"Yes, I agree," she says, not detecting the sarcasm. She plays her fingertips across it.

"Shame about your uterus," you say with a cruel smile.

"No shame at all," Chloe replies, unfazed. "I can no longer bear children. That means you can ejaculate inside of me with no fear of responsibility."

You grimace. "I will never, ever, ever -- fuck you again."

For the first time, Chloe looks hurt. You wipe your mouth with a napkin and toss it onto your empty plate. "What now?" You ask her. "You're the one with the guns."

"I will not keep you against your will, Ally," she says. "You can leave at any time."

You're already at the threshold when she adds:

"You would be making a terrible mistake."

You wheel on her. You point at her menacingly. "I'm done with you, you stupid cunt. If I can leave -- I'm leaving. And be thankful I don't kill you. The only reason I don't is because you're hiding behind zombie thugs like this poor fucker." You point at the tall, stoic, kitted-out bodyguard beside you.

Chloe follows you from the little room, out onto the deck, where a blustery wind batters you. The howl of it against the shipping containers is otherworldly. The foamy wake below dizzies you when you peer over the railing. More of Chloe's men stand at the ready, like toy soldiers, unmoving even in the strongest gusts, all along the deck.

"I am being quite honest," Chloe says. She has to shout to be heard over the gale. "I missed you terribly. I am so, so sorry, Alabaster, that it came to this. I have had so long to think about it now. I was jealous, you know, of the women who held your heart. I thought they were frittering away a precious commodity. That your love was quite limited. But it isn't, is it? You pretend to be the most coldhearted man in the world, because in reality you love more freely than almost anyone. It is all an act, your coldness, to cope with the coldness of this world. In reality, you give your heart to people, without a thought. You gave it even to me... and because I did not deserve it I ripped it from your chest. Can you forgive me?"

"Never," you tell her.

She cries pitifully, her small chest heaving. Sniffling, she resorts to begging. "Please don't go... please, please don't go..."

In the end, she's just a scared little girl with balled up fists, crying on the wet deck of this cargo ship, looking even tinier than she already is when set against the backdrop of the towering steel container boxes. And you hate her with such an unending viciousness that it almost makes you vomit. The way you hated David Darkbloom was puppy love compared to what you feel for Qiangxiang Xi.

Near you is a white railed staircase, that snakes upward towards the bridge, with some portals at each landing. You suppose that Rose is in one of those rooms, and so you turn, and begin to walk up.

"I have your sister too," Chloe blurts out.

You stop on the fourth step, turn, and peer at her over the banister.

"Would you like to see her?" Chloe asks.

She takes you to a room where Cerise lies propped-up on a bed, mute, and catatonic. She's connected to an IV and wears nothing at all. She looks physically fine, but she's gone -- she's as vacant as she was in the worst of her coma last year, and you know there won't be any rousing her from this one.

"They were able to retrieve her from the rubble, before the nuclear attacks," Chloe says. "I've been keeping her -- safe and sound, waiting for you... I never wanted anyone to die, Ally, my love."

You look away, unable to bear the sight of your older sister like this. "She's already dead," you tell Chloe.

"She will live again," Chloe says. "Her and everyone else. I know that in my heart. We will all live again... in paradise, together."

You shake your head. How can you reason with a girl as insane as her? How could you get across to her that it would have been a higher mercy to kill Cerise when they found her, and never mention it, rather than subject both of you to a torment like this?

"It is Cerise, who helps me track you," Chloe says. "She can see you whenever you open your third eye. And she whispers in my ear where you go. She wants you here with her."

But Cerise is non-responsive, and does not so much as flinch when you snap your fingers in front of her wide-open eyes.

"I have to go," you say -- to her, not to Chloe. "I'll see you soon... whole, and sound. I love you. I'm so sorry."

Chloe shouts as she follows you out: "Ally--!"

Out again on the deck, Chloe's desperation is palpable. "I know you know where the lighthouse is!" She shouts. "You turned Penelope on again, and then destroyed it -- I found the remnants of it in the cabin you shared with your wife."

You feel a shock of fear in your stomach. If she was at that cabin...

Chloe must see this fear shadow your face, because she tells you: "Kay is fine, and so is that rabbit-girl Samantha. I did not hurt them. In fact, I came to a tender reconciliation with them... as much as they would allow... they hate me so awfully, but I passed on my regrets, which they took for what they were worth, and then I left."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because... the time I spent in the Nail House, was the best time of my entire life... and I want only to set things back to how they were. You did find that promised place, did you not? ... You would not do this, you would not have come so far out into the sea, if you did not find what you were seeking! We are so close! I can feel it!"

"I did find it," you tell her.

"But look at you. You nearly died trying to get there... I cannot bear this... I want to help you, Ally! I want to go there with you!"

She takes out her dagger.

You wince, just seeing it -- but rather than do anything violent, she only hands it to you. She curls your fingers around it.

This is the dagger that killed Whitney, and Renee, and lord only knows who all else.

"I leave the choice to you, because it belongs to you. But you will not get there without me. I know you won't. You will condemn us both to this purgatory if you refuse me. You have the knowledge, but I have the means. You need me -- just as much as I need you -- and in time, I know, you will love me as much as I love you. Make the right choice, Ally."

>[x] Accept her help.

[ ] Kill her.

You nod. And then you tell her the coordinates.

Exultant, she buries her face against your chest, and clutches your parka with her little fists. She inhales your scent, deeply, and sways in place -- like you're just a couple of lovers and she just received your confession.

Grunting, you shove her back -- and then you cut her across her tattoo, opening up the scar again. It isn't deep -- but it doesn't need to be. She bleeds profusely. She gasps and shivers as she clutches at it. She looks back and forth from your face, to her newly reopened flesh wound, and the dripping dagger in your hand.

You toss the dagger overboard. It sinks below the surface, never to be seen again.

"Get away from me," you tell her. "I don't want to see you for the rest of this trip. And never call me Ally again."

"I'm... sorry... Alabaster..." she stutters, tears rolling freely down her cheeks.

"I'm going back to be with my wife," you tell her. "Where is she?"

Chloe, with a bloody and tremor-wracked hand, points to the third landing of bridge. You turn and go, leaving her standing there bleeding on the deck of the ship.

Rose practically leaps on you when you enter, clutching you as tightly as she ever has, kissing you.

"Let's go!" She hisses. "Did you find a gun? Where is she? How many people does she have? Were you followed? Come on!"

You gently nudge her back, sit with her on her cot, and explain the situation.

She's distraught, even worse than you -- but she understands that circumstances are desperate.

"Cerise is here?" She says softly, when you're through.

You nod.

"Can I--"

"You don't want to," you tell her.

"I have to."

You bring her there. Rose cries bitterly, kneeling at Cerise's bedside, and tries to rouse her awake. It's no use.

Finally after many long minutes, you tell her that it's time for her to say goodbye.

She tells Cerise that she's sorry for all the trouble she ever put her through; says she always loved her deep down. And then she goes.

And then pillow in hand you end your sister's suffering.

You stand with Rose at the bow, peering out at the ocean with her. Chloe's men are far off, still all motionless, but at attention. The ship groans weirdly in the ragged seas.

"They didn't do anything even when you stabbed her?"

You shake your head. "They're on her orders. And she didn't care what I did to her. She was even going to let me kill her."

Rose sighs. "I guess they think they're going to paradise, too. You're too essential for that, for them to kill you."

You shrug.

A long, contemplative silence passes between the two of you.

"I just have to ask," she finally says. "Back in high school... in the student council election. Did you cheat?"

You reflexively begin to deny it. But what difference, at this point, does it make? So you just nod and say: "Yeah. I cheated."

"I knew it," Rose says. "How did you do it?"

"Whitney got ahold of a bunch of blank ballots and stuffed the ballot boxes."

"Of course... I thought so."

She's quiet for a little while, and then she adds, in a half murmur: "I cheated, too."

"How?"

"Changed votes... and found ways to bar people from voting who I thought might vote for you."

You huff. "Why were we so shitty to each other?"

"I don't know. I wish I knew."

There are whole galaxies of regret and sadness in that answer, and the way she says it.

"When you get to the lighthouse, are you going to hit the reset button?"

"Of course," you say. "Why wouldn't I?"

What she says next isn't said like it's an argument against, but rather just an observation, a fact to consider among several: "It'll reset everything. All of this -- us -- everything we've had."

You nod slowly.

"Will you love me again in the next life?" Rose asks.

"Yes," you say, firmly, and without hesitation.

She clutches the fabric of her parka near her chest. "I'll love you, too," she says. "No matter what I say or what I do... I'll love you, too. Try not to forget. Please don't forget..."

She's crying. You stroke her cheek and wipe the tears away with the broad pad of your thumb. She refuses to meet your gaze.

"Are you okay with that?" You ask. "It's the only way to get them all back. Cerise... Whitney... our parents. And everyone else. Will you be all right with that?"

She doesn't answer.

"Rose--"

"I'm pregnant," she tells you.

You take a small step back. Still she can't look at you.

"I shouldn't have said that," she mutters. "I'm sorry."

What would have been joy is tinged with a nauseated sadness. "How long?" You ask.

"Not very... a month, maybe two."

"How do you know?"

She stares at the ground, and then down at herself. "I just do. When you know... you know."

You reach out and put your hand on her tummy. Although there isn't even the hint of a bump there yet, even though you can't discern any outward signs of it, as soon as you touch her you somehow know it's true. She was right, as she usually is: when you know, you know. Rose clutches your hand with both of hers, and holds it there. Her hands are so cold. But her belly is warm.

"So if I do this," you drawl.

You don't finish the thought and neither does she. You both understand. Going back to the beginning will erase this, too. And who knows whether it will happen again in whatever configuration of the universe this hail mary creates? Who knows if it would happen again even if you reset the universe a hundred billion times?

But could you live in the ruins of a shattered reality, eking out a meager existence on the run with Rose and your child? If not from Chloe, then from Russians, or Americans, or, or... and with nothing else -- nothing of the life you once knew and didn't stop to cherish until it was gone?

>[x] We have to reset the world.

[ ] We have to stay.

"This will happen again," you tell her. You say it confidently, because you believe it.

"How can you know that?" She asks softly. She wants to believe it, too.

"I just do. When you know... you know."

She doesn't seem convinced.

"How could it not happen?" You try. "You and me. The red string of fate ties us together..."

Rose makes a disgruntled purr. "Are you quoting anime cliches at me?"

"Yes I am."

"Goddamn it, Alabaster."

You lean in and kiss her, with her chin clasped delicately in your fingers. "It will happen again," you tell her. "To everything a season... our spring will bloom again."

"When did you become a poet, huh?"

"I guess fatherhood does that to a person."

She nods, although she can't stop crying. "Okay, Alabaster. Okay. If you promise -- if you promise me. Then okay."

"I promise."

"Okay."

"I promise you--"

"--okay--"

You kiss again, and again, and again.

When you pull back from the kiss, you glimpse, through the encroaching fog, the bank of an island. It's a black, pebbly nothing in the middle of the half-frozen sea, not far away.

One of Chloe's men unlashes a lifeboat, and begins to lower you towards the surface of the water.

"Is Chloe going to--" You begin as the lifeboat slowly descends.

The soldier shakes his head.

"She does not deserve to go," he tells you, although you think those are not his own words. "She will stay on the bridge. And she asks that you refer to her only as Qiangxiang."

The boat touches down. As you get away from the cargo ship's wake -- you realize it's sailing off. To where, you've no idea.

Together, in somber silence, you row towards the island. It's slow going through the slushy seawater, the cold and your exhaustion. Five or ten minutes later when the lifeboat's prow runs aground, you and Rose lurch in place at the halt of forward momentum. The gravel crunches beneath the old wood. You set your oars down.

Even at the shore, visibility is no further than twenty feet. The rocky beach extends well beyond the fog, its contours and true size impossible to gauge. You clamber out of the boat, hand over knee, then turn, and help Rose disembark too. Frigid waves lick your ankles and make foamy splashes as you trudge past the edge of the surf together. A few paces beyond, from out of the fog you can make out the malignant-looking obelisk of a lighthouse. You're here.

The entrance to the lighthouse is just a weathered wooden door at the top of a short, equally weathered set of stairs.

There is nothing else here but the rocks. No birds, no bugs, no plants. Not even a reed.

The door is unlocked. So you enter.

The interior of the lighthouse is much, much larger than its exterior. It's a pristine white cleanroom, cubic in shape. Its far edges could be 100 or 1,000 feet away; with nothing to give you a sense of scale, it's not possible to tell.

The room is utterly bereft of anything, except for this: a little wooden desk at what you suppose must be the room's center, underneath which sits an obviously obsolete PC tower, and atop which sits an obviously obsolete CRT monitor, along with a cream-colored keyboard and ball mouse.

There's another person here, too.

She's a beautiful, small, wan and pale looking girl. She has her back to you, staring intently at the PC's monitor. But just before you try to say something -- she turns around.

"Hello, Alabaster Soliloquy. I have been waiting for you."

She's quite distant from you, but the acoustics of the room are impeccable. You don't have to speak up at all.

"Who are you?" You ask.

But the girl says nothing; just stands there dumbly.

"Are you God?" You ask.

"No."

"Then what?"

"I am Sand Reckoner," she says.

You and Rose approach -- the walk takes 30 seconds before you're within spitting distance.

"Was nothing real?" You ask.

"What makes you think anything you've experienced is anything but real?"

You have no idea where to begin answering that one.

You try here: "Because it can all be undone--"

"No. Nothing can be undone."

You draw a shuddering inhalation. "What?! You can't be--"

"There is no undo, and there is no repeat. The arrow of entropy points decisively in one direction only: there is nothing in the entire cosmos that can change this single, immutable fact. It is the one true constant in the universe."

"So -- Cerise, and Whitney, and--"

"Your friends are dead. They cannot be brought back to life. I apologize for any confusion."

"What are you telling me?!" You roar. Rose is pacing in circles, repeating "no, no, no..."

"Please calm down," the girl says.

"Calm down? FUCK you. How could you do this to me? You mean to say --" your legs give out from under you like Jello and you fall to your butt, clutch your hair. "I let everyone die -- I let them all die -- for nothing -- you want me to calm down? Fuck you! You piece of shit! You can't do anything? What was it all for, then? WHY! What good are you, then? Why the fuck am I even here?"

"Because, Alabaster: you are Camelia."

"What do you even mean by that! What does that even matter!"

Rose is lying on her side, beside you, screaming in grief.

"If you will both, please, calm down -- I will show you the truth of this world."

"What truth?" You demand. "The truth that you fooled me? The truth that you took away everything I love for -- for -- what?!"

"The truth that even though they are all dead, you will see them all again."

This shuts you both up. Rose sits upright, face ruddy, and, sniffling, she says: "How?"

"I'll do anything," you add pleadingly.

"Follow me," the girl says.

You and Rose look to your left: a door has appeared where there wasn't one before. It stands, attached to nothing on either side, but it will take you someplace anyway.

The girl leads you through -- and you come out on the other side in the infinite hallways of North High. You were here, at least a few times -- with Sable, with yourself, with... who else? Or were you really?

"Pick a door," the girl tells you.

You pick one.

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, trapped trap and chemical spill survivor. You've got so many red strings of fate tying you to so many girls that you're basically in shibari at this point.

PREVIOUSLY:

-Mom poisoned Charlotte nearly to death at Dessert for Dinner Sunday and then tried to have her way with you, forcing you to flee the house with Cerise... who, in turn, tried to consummate your love by forcing herself on you in a motel room. Not even your own family is safe from the effects of the spill.

-Cerise forced you to don girls' clothes, insisting that you were cuter that way -- and convinced that you would be purer if you were more feminine. "The love between sisters is the purest thing of all!"

-When Whitney saw Cerise having sex with you, she flew into a rage, and the two got into a bare-knuckle brawl. They knocked each other out -- but as they did so, it seemed like a tenuous alliance was forming... they've grown a grudging respect, and see each other as key to eliminating their other love-rivals. You sneaked away, scared at what they might do if they woke up in your presence.

-Dr. Carte theorized that a certain freight shipment being sent out by Darkbloom Industries may contain an antidote to the X-11. But when you scouted out the train, a terrible accident happened, and she was exposed, too... now your only ally is as crazed as all the rest, and wants you for herself.

-You unfortunately didn't realize the extent of Dr. Carte's exposure until it was too late. She cornered you after class, and tied you to a metal table. She then began to "extract" your "essence" ... against your will, of course.

-Vivian busted in and knocked her out, but it wasn't for your sake. She wanted in on the action too.

-But Rose came in with the triple-cross, and incapacitated Vivian by choking her. It was only your pleas that kept Rose from strangling the poor girl to death. But while she was willing to take a measure of pity on "that stupid Darkbloom girl," she wasn't as merciful towards you. No... she's got plans for you all her own.

AND NOW, EPISODE 7 OF YANDERE SURVIVAL QUEST:

"Prison School"

"Bullied by a little girl, tied down by your own teacher..." Rose bows her head down and nips at your cheek. "...Letting your dyke friend force you to cum in the library..." You wince. "You're absolutely pathetic, Alabaster."

Rose sits up and pulls her feet onto the table. Leaning back and bracing herself against either edge, she brings her knees together and smashes the soles of her feet into your face. The acrid reek of well-worn socks invades your brain and makes your vision blur.

"Stopfff," you try to protest, your speech almost indistinguishable from a wordless grunt.

"Make me," she says, her voice low with triumph. She kneads her toes like she's using her feet to roll out dough. Whole droplets of grimy sweat ooze from the fabric, smearing all over your forehead, cheeks, lips, and chin.

You pull at your restraints, but can't free yourself. Rose reaches back and fondles you through your boxers. Inevitably, your body responds.

"You're a fucking pig," Rose coos. "Getting an erection from something so sick. No wonder you're a victim. You're so cute when you're being victimized."

In the brief glimpses of her that you catch in between the soles of her feet as she smashes them against your face, you see that Rose has a hand snaked under her skirt. You can feel her wetness dripping onto your chest.

She stops, pulling her feet away. You gasp for fresh air, face slick with sweat.

"Why," you ask. "For the love of Christ."

Rose is lost in her own world now. She spins around to look down at your tented boxers. She pokes and prods at it with her toes, giggling. "What a nasty thing," she says. "To carry something like that around all day-- it's indecent..." she's babbling now. Not good.

Rose hikes her skirt up as she leans forward. Her puckered bud and her sopping pussy are all you can see. "Look at my asshole while I rape you with my mouth," she moans.

Glancing frantically to the side, you see Vivian beginning to stir. Rose doesn't seem to have noticed.

>[x] Try to wake Vivian up, and beg for help.

[ ] Try to escape.             

[ ] Submit yourself to Rose's torment... it's best not to anger her.

She frees your cock and wraps it between her plump lips, moaning wantonly. She sucks, dragging her tongue across its length a few times, before pulling back.

"I love this," she breathes. "I love doing this to you." She lies flat on her belly and puts her feet in your face again. "Are you looking at my asshole? You fucking little worm..."

You shake you head and whine.

"I want to traumatize you," she says. "I want you to be triggered every time you see a pair of socks..."

You draw a shuddering inhalation -- with difficulty, as the feminine scent of Rose's asshole clogging your lungs. But finally you manage to choke out:

"Vi-- Vivian!"

Rose whips her head around. "Why are you even talking to that stupid little cunt? Forget about her... worship your mistress..."

But Vivian is like a sailor after the voice of a siren. She rises to her feet at the sound of your pleas. Rose hardly has time to process what has happened before Vivian retrieves a fire extinguisher from the wall, and knocks Rose upside the head with it. The hard clang of metal against skull resounds in the tiny room.

For such a little girl, you never expected that Vivian Darkbloom possessed such brute strength. Rose is out cold.

Vivian raises the extinguisher above her head again to deliver the killing blow.

"Stop!" You cry. "Don't -- let's just -- get out of here."

"Alabaster, you ignorant fool," Vivian says. "If I do not neutralize this threat, she will only come back, again and again..."

"No," you say. "Not if we run far enough. Right?"

"Run..." Vivian repeats.

"Untie me. Let's get out of here."

Vivian undoes your bindings -- but as you move to put away your cock inside your fly, she stays your hand.

"Why put that wonderful thing away, Alabaster?" She asks. "I want to keep my eyes peeled on it."

"...What?" You sputter. "Because I can't walk around the school with my dick hanging out--"

"Why not?"

You huff. Facts and logic won't impact her; you have to work alternate angles. "What if it attracts some other girl?" You ask urgently.

Vivian's eyes bulge. "Yes, I see your point. Then we need to make sure that all these other slatterns understand you belong to me..."

She pulls a string from her corset, and ties it around the head of your still-throbbing member. The other end, she ties around her finger. She's literally put your cock on a leash.

"Better?" She asks you.

Even after-hours, it's beyond risky to go around the school with your genitals exposed, and in the grip of a girl so small.

And yet there's something pervertedly alluring about it, too... especially as, every once in a while, with a mischievous grin, Vivian gives your cock a little tug, and rubs the precum around. Her small hand does not even encompass its entire girth.

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, knight-errant and lord of King Darkbloom's court.

ERE:

-The wytch Camelia showed you visions of King Darkbloom's fell magick, but you rejected this as heretical trickery. None-the-less, you cannot get Camelia's visions out of your mind, and you are beginning to question whether King Darkbloom is as noble a figure as he purports.

-Your squire, Alexander, discovered a talisman in the Adelwood that glowed with powerful energy. Taking it to maester Sable, he confirmed with her that it is a Relic of Reckoning. She deigns to study its powers.

-Against your protestations, Princess Whitney entered the annual tourney in secrecy, hiding under a full suit of armor to conceal her identity. To your great surprise, she prevailed over all others to win the tourney's wreath, defeating even the black knight Sir Fobbler in a tense jousting competition.

-When Princess Whitney revealed that she was the tourney's mysterious helmed jouster, the people gave her nothing but adulation; and King Darkbloom gave the both of you nothing but angry recriminations. Since the tourney's main object was to betrothe Princess Vivian to the suitor who won it, the King is furious; and since participating in it put Princess Whitney in grave danger, he is doubly furious.

-You yourself sustained grievous injuries at the tourney, placing just 5th; later that night, you were healed in a special way by maester Renee and the head of the kingsguard, Noelle.

-Your sister Cerise's initiation into the citadel is going poorly, and she seems to be losing her hope of becoming a maester. However, her spirits were lifted when she met a fellow acolyte named Anna. Although not well-regarded, Anna is highly knowledgeable of the citadel's many secrets, and showed Cerise the library's forbidden tomes.

-The town crier, Kay, spread word of Princess Whitney's success at the tourney, in direct contravention of King Darkbloom's stringent warnings. But when the King sent Noelle to silence her, Noelle took pity, and offered to shelter Kay in her own residence near the castle.

-The insufferable priestess Rose followed you again, shrew that she is -- this time into the Adelwood. She saw you meeting with the wytch Camelia. Yet rather than threaten to turn you over to King Darkbloom as a traitor, she demanded to be let in on the treasonous parley.

-Camelia revealed yet another dreadful secret: that Whitney is not the King's trueborn daughter, but a bastard born of maester Renee; and that therefore she is not the true heir to the throne, but rather the title rightfully belongs to Princess Vivian.

AND NOW, CHAPTER THE XI OF YE OLDE FUCKE QUESTE:

"The Plowman's Tale"

You find Princess Whitney where you expected her to be and hoped she wouldn't: yonder in the training grounds, practicing her sword hand on a straw-filled dummy with Sir Spancer. Here she is, in the muddy courtyard that lay under the stench of the stables adjacent; japing and jesting with her mentor among the other aspirant cavaliers and pikemen as if she were a commoner herself. Although, for sake of their heads, the other soldiers training here respectfully maintain a wide berth and do not approach her.

She wears a suit of light chain-mail and a helm to match, and her chest plate bears the vaunted crest of her father's house. But this, you know, is not how King Darkbloom wishes his eldest daughter to show veneration of her highborn lineage. She turns towards you, grinning like a wolf, her hair matted with her own perspiration. She smells of grime and other unfeminine things. You've no idea why it so bewitches you. Alexander, beside you, gets down upon one knee in the loam, his grieves clattering as he braces both his hands on his other knee. He bows his head. "Your grace," he murmurs.

"Stand up, ya dumb bastard," Princess Whitney commands him. He stands. "Enough with this 'your grace' oxshit, yeah?" She says. "You suck on my asshole enough in my chambers. I don't need you to do it in public!"

Alexander's eyes bulge in fright. He glances all around. "Y-your gr-- Princess, you should not speak so loosely... if the wrong person were to overhear..."

She laughs. "Only one here is Spance. And he doesn't care a whit!" She slaps him on the back, and he doesn't budge. "Do you, Spance?"

"Nay."

Of course Sir Spancer doesn't care; you half suspect he is a golem conjured by King Darkbloom's alchemists...

"So, good Sir Ally," Princess Whitney says. "What brings you to the training grounds? Not training! Of that I am certain!"

"I am injured," you tell her, feigning distress, "and need some of your special tinctures..."

She points at you with her gloved thumb, and nods at Alexander. "He wants to suck on my asshole, too. See? You're not the only one."

Alexander blushes quite deeply.

[ ] Tell the Princess the truth of her parentage.

>[x] Keep it a secret for now.

You think of an excuse to, well, excuse yourself from this conversation. "Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?" You ask her. "The King will not approve of Sir Spancer taking you under his tutorship. You are putting his freedom, nay, his life at risk."

Princess Whitney chortles. "You egghead! Father has asked Sir Spancer, himself, to train me!"

You marvel at her.

"It's true!" She insists. "He realized that he would never sway me from the journeyman's path... so he said that I should have only the best of training, if it had to be thus."

"Yea," Sir Spancer affirms.

"Do you wish to work up the first sweat of your life, and train alongside me, good Sir Ally?" She asks.

>[x] Train with her.

[ ] Go speak with Princess Vivian about the results of the tourney.

[ ] Visit with Noelle and ask her what she intends to do with the traitor she shelters.

[ ] Visit Cerise at the citadel.

You would never turn down an invitation to spar. You throw your pauldrons and gauntlets off, which Alexander dutifully scoops up. Your grieves follow also. You need extra mobility to fend against this bizarrely lithe young highborn girl.

Princess Whitney tosses you a sword. "Have at you!" She shouts gleefully.

Rather than grip the sword by the hilt, you hold it firmly by the blade -- a trick you know this sheltered Princess has surely never witnessed--

"Mordhau, eh?" Princess Whitney says. "Very well! To arms!"

She grips her sword thusly, as well. The two of you, squatting just a bit, shifting your weight back and forth on your heels to stay spry, square off. And despite themselves, the lowly soldiers in the courtyard can't help stopping to gawk.

"I won't go easy on you just because you are the heir apparent!" You warn her.

"I would hardly expect you to!" Princess Whitney says. "If you did, I would be forced to issue a writ of execution!"

(Even if this is only a jape, you really wish she wouldn't say such things.)

"As you are a maiden fair, I grant you rights to the first strike," you tell her.

"As you are a maiden fairer, and less used to combat, I cede it back!"

A slight like that cannot stand. You lunge, swinging; but Princess Whitney deftly sidesteps it, twirls, and counter-lunges. The hilt of her sword collides harshly with your backplate, and the reverberation of it sings painfully through your spine. You stumble; the jeering laughter of the soldiers watching makes you burn with embarrassment.

"Steady now!" Princess Whitney says. "You would not want to fall and muddy your armor! It has never been dirty before!"

Steel toes clattering, you spin, and jab your sword like a pike, aiming for Princess Whitney's chest. You connect cleanly, knocking her back, and she lets out a pained "oof" at the blow. She totters, arms windmilling. Her sword falls to the ground.

"Steady!" You warn her. Revenge is sweet.

Alexander, that traitorous sod, gathers Princess Whitney's sword and tosses it back to her.

"Good boy!" She says, like praising a dog. "Are you searching for a new knight to squire to?"

"Women can't be knights," you say.

"Then how are you thus?" She asks. She grips her blade again and readopts a fighting stance. She's positively aglow with energy and enjoyment -- so are you.

"I will knight you on the morrow if you help me fell this knave!" Whitney tells Alexander.

"I -- is this merely jest?" He says, unable to digest the banter.

"Lands and servants of your choosing, for just a simple killing blow!" She tells him.

He shakes his head.

"Very well - I must do it myself!"

She strikes, but this time she misses. You stay just beyond her reach, and raise the sword high above your head to give her a sound blow to her noggin.

But at that moment, the king passes by along a battlement leading from the keep.

"Sir Soliloquy," he booms, unamused by your play.

You slowly lower your sword. Have you breathed your last?

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, mecha pilot and political wunderkind.

PREVIOUSLY:

-You graduated from Darkbloom Academy at the middle of your class... sure, you're not the valedictorian like rich bitch Rose Mallory, but you have a much higher synergy rating with your DB Unit, a fact that drives her nuts with envy.

-Your first mission saw you shuttled to Ganymede, to defend the ore mines there from incursions by the Broad Federation. The skirmish was going well enough, no thanks to Rose. That is, until a mysterious transmission tanked your DB Unit and dragged it moonside...

-It turns out your DB Unit was hacked by the mysterious figure known only as Galatea. She assumed direct control and piloted your bot to a trading post where, forced to disembark, you saw firsthand how the other half lives. You got into a brawl at a bar with some shady locals who saw you as an "uppity academy boy" -- only to be rescued by an ore miner named Whitney. She's a fair bit cuter than most of the miners here.

-Whitney led you back into town, where you were able to send out a distress call. But help didn't seem to be coming anytime soon: the skirmishes in the low orbit zone are still ongoing, and Ganymede remains under siege.

-You met another shady local near Whitney's apt -- this one, a gossip reporter named Kay. She was looking for a scoop about the Broad Federation's war plans, and sees you as her ticket to blowing the story wide open. You don't intend to indulge such a woman...

-Whitney devised a plan to ferry you and your mech aboard an outgoing ore shipment destined for Earth -- the ore shipments are the only vessels allowed into or out of the orbital zone right now, and you agreed this was your only real chance to escape potentially hostile territory.

-Whitney hooked you up with a mechanic named Alex, who has remarkable aptitude with these mechs, whose workings should by rights be closely-guarded state secrets. More concerningly, he's way cuter than any moon dweller ought to be... scratch that, than any guy, period, ought to be...

-It turns out he learned his craft from the best. Alex was a devoted fan of your sister's Mecha Mechanic lim. He was ecstatic to meet the one and only Cerise Soliloquy's brother... but it's sort of a sore spot for you, because hosting that lim is how Cerise got herself expelled from the academy mere weeks before graduating. Despite being the most able student in the academy's history by far, rules were rules... she barely avoided getting sent to the brig for breaching the trust of the state.

-Alex got your DB Unit up and running just in time for you to make the ship's departure. With his help, you sneaked on board... so, too, did Whitney -- tired of life in the middle of nowhere, it seems. It was back to Earth for you, then -- to endure what's sure to be a terrible dressing-down from your superiors, and an even more terrible smug tirade from Rose.

AND NOW, EPISODE 2 OF MECH QUEST:

"Serial Experiments Gal"

Your DB Unit connects to the redocking terminal at Gateway 310; Dr. Guiteau attends it.

"Extraordinary..." she mutters as she takes in the readouts on her monitors. The hulking edifice of your DB Unit is visible from the broad-paneled window at the room's fore. "Simply fascinating..."

She's less angry than you expected. Then again, you never know what to expect with Dr. Guiteau.

"This unit was repaired by a common moon dweller?" Dr. Guiteau demands, looking back at you, over her shoulder.

"He's right here," you say. You nod at the blushing Alex Best.

"You repaired this unit, young man?" Dr. Guiteau says.

He nods.

"Unbelievable... where did you learn that?"

He begins to say exactly where. But you don't want to dredge up the history of Cerise's maybe-treasonous lims. "He's naturally talented," you cut in.

"--Uh huh," Alex agrees, sensing you want him to play along.

Dr. Guiteau turns back towards her monitor. "You removed a Class VII Blue-Type trojan from the DB's bios. This kind of debugging is... it shouldn't be possible. This unit should be rusting on Ganymede right now! It should never have flown again!"

Alex meekly shrugs.

"We get paid, right?" Whitney asks. She's wandering around the control room, idly fiddling with panels and buttons that she almost certainly should not be touching.

You tsk, and swat her hand. "Whitney -- shut up."

She laughs, and laces her fingers behind her head, baring her pits to the world. "Heeeh~"

"I handle nothing with payments," Dr. Guiteau says brusquely. "But tell Director Darkbloom that I want Mr. Best in my employ immediately -- and that for skill like this, regardless of credentials or lack thereof -- no salary is too large!"

"Err..." Alex says. "I have a shop, you know -- back on Ganymede. And I really only came all this way to make sure Ally's mech got back in one piece... we really need Earth's support in this war, so I didn't want secrets to fall into the Broad Federation's--"

"Shut the fuck up!" Dr. Guiteau shrieks. "I'm sure Director Darkbloom will buy your shop. He will compensate you handsomely. You work for me now."

Alex has no idea what to say; so you suppose that's the final word. He will work at the Academy under Dr. Guiteau.

You ride the elevator down with Whitney and Alex.

"This place is so freaking cool," Whitney says.

"It's a school," you tell her. "I didn't think you'd be the kind to get all Jupiter Jazz about a school--"

She giggles. "Like, how many floors does this elevator have?"

"A lot," you say gruffly.

"A hundred?"

"More."

"A hundred and one?"

"Oh my god..."

"Where are we going?" She asks.

"WE are not going anywhere," you say. "I am going back to my quarters, to rest after a long and harrowing journey."

"Whoa, hey!" Whitney says. "What about Alex?"

"What about him?"

"That crazy science lady told you to go and tell king Darkbloom to hire him! Aren't you gonna follow up?"

Alex shakes his head. "Whitney... it's fine. I want to go back to Ganymede--"

"Like hell you do!" Whitney shouts. "Ganymede is a Class VII Shit-type shithole. Not even your debuggery can fix that. We're staying Earthside."

"Well if you stay Earthside," you say as you disembark the elevator, "stay Earthside away from me."

You press the button for the first floor on your way out.

"Faggot--" Whitney grumps, although her voice gets cut off by the closing doors. You hope you never see that awful girl again.

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, sexpat and idolmaster.

PREVIOUSLY:

-You took Makoto on a date to the carnival, giving her a mask and sunglasses so she could remain anonymous. She was overjoyed at the chance to enjoy a normal couple's activity.

-With her comeback concert approaching, it was all hands on deck to make sure her training would be up to snuff. Vivian drilled her singing skills... in more ways than one... while Rose worked with her manager on promotions and Cerise took care of backstage preparations.

-Makoto's stalker, Noelle, almost broke into her condo on the night before the concert; but you scared her off.

-The rival production company, DarkPro, tried to sabotage the concert by rigging Makoto's pyrotechnics to malfunction. The sabotage could have killed her... but luckily, Vivian knew her father's tricks well enough to detect it in advance, and foiled the plot. David Darkbloom's vision of westernizing the idol industry will not go off tonight. You can hardly believe you ever worked in the employ of such a horrible man...

-Makoto came to you in the dead of night, scared, and uncertain of herself. She was thinking of quitting the idol industry altogether, and calling off the concert -- all because being an idol means hiding her relationship with you. You talked her into staying at least through the concert, delaying her final decision until then.

-Makoto confessed her love for you, and you confessed your love for her; you spent a long, passionate night with her in bed, and did not get much sleep at all.

-But finally, after all your fretting and preparing, heartache and tribulations, it has come to this: it's Makoto's time to shine!!

AND NOW, EPISODE 13 OF MAKOTO QUEST:

"Aoi Tori"

Backstage at the Tokyo Dome, you tap your feet and bob your head in tune with Makoto's soulful singing. You can't believe how incredibly lucky you are, to have a girl as beautiful and wonderful as Makoto Kikuchi in your life. She's the best girl you've ever met.

Cerise's pyrotechnic show dazzles the crowd almost as much as Makoto's singing does. The mutlicolored streams of sparks and flames make it look like Makoto is in the mouth of a dragon as she dances about. Or maybe like she's a phoenix, rising from the ashes. A platform, on pulleys, raises up beneath her, and carries her high into the air, over the heads of thousands of fans stuffed into the at-capacity stadium.

It's the best concert you've ever seen, and you've seen plenty.

As the show winds down, a panting but elated Makoto walks back and forth across the enormous stage, her open-mouthed grin electrifying you all, despite the sweat pouring off her. Her face in closeup lights up the hundreds of enormous screens all around the dome.

"I love you all!" She tells her fans, voice booming and yet feminine through the mic. "Because of you, who supported me, even when I could not live up to your expectations--"

The crowd cheers in disagreement, pouring their support out in droves.

"--Because of you!" She cries. "I was able to rise like a star and live my dream! Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I am so happy -- I am so happy, that I will make a mess, and cry, if I keep going --"

But she's crying already. She wipes her tears with a gloved hand.

"But..." she says. She sighs. "But I cannot continue. I cannot be an idol, any longer..."

Your smile drops like a stone; so does your stomach. Rose, beside you, shoots you a frightened glance. Makoto's producer's face turns a shade of deep crimson, the shade it always turns when she angers him.

The crowd jeers and cries out, begging her to reconsider.

"No..." she says. "No -- I can't -- because -- I have chosen something so much more beautiful. I have -- chosen to love."

"Oh my God," Rose mutters. "She's going to tell the whole world that she's involved with you..."

[ ] Cut her mic, get her backstage, and beg her to reconsider.

[ ] Let her confess.

"I love another!" She cries.

The crowd goes pindrop quiet. In a stadium of over 100,000 people, there is not a peep.

Her voice, in the mic, produces a bit of feedback as she explains. "It is not what you expected of me... it is not what I expected of myself. But the heart is so unknowable, isn't it? I love a wonderful man... who has helped me so much, and who I want to give my life to. Your love and support has meant so much to me too, more than you would ever know. But I am at a crossroads... I must choose a path now... and the path I choose is of devotion. Not to the shining star of my idol dream... but to the shining star of the man I adore... Alabaster Soliloquy."

Makoto's producer is shouting curses and epithets so loudly you think your eardrums will burst, and Rose is clutching her hair.

"We are going to get so freaking murdered..." she says.

Cerise, fiddling with lighting overhead, nods. "Yup."

The crowd has no idea what to do. Some laugh, some boo; some throw things at her. Others cheer her. It's a mixed response that never resolves itself; just dissolves in an ocean of noise. But Makoto has well and truly torpedoed her career for good this time, that much is certain; there's no bouncing back from admitting that she's dating, and dating a gaijin at that.

She bows, for the last time, thanking her fans again and again for the chance at stardom she ultimately, in the end, spurned. And then the curtains close on Makoto Kikuchi.

---

You stumble back into the hall, breathless. Rose, beside you, is equally overwhelmed.

"Stop..." you pant. "Just stop. I can't take it anymore."

The girl nods. "Very well."

She leads you back the way you came, to the white room -- and the door to North High disappears again.

"What does it mean?" You demand. "Is this the Gateway to Heaven? What do the things you're showing me have to do with the real world?"

"These are all records I keep," she says. "They are equally as real as a meteorologist's historical weather data, or a geologist's logged seismograph readings; they may not be the territory, but they are faithful maps of the past. They are recreations -- of realities which existed before the one we now inhabit."

"I really lived those lives?" You say.

"Yes. And now you are here, in this one."

"How? How is that possible?"

"You are here right now because of David Darkbloom. You know this. You, however, do not know the magnitude to which that proposition extends. The original David Darkbloom existed trillions of years ago. To tell you precisely how many, I would first need to familiarize you with Knuth's up-arrow notation. He was an astrophysicist who took a turn towards computer science when he became enamored of a certain theory of the universe's origin -- a theory that was largely correct -- save a few major errors in the mathematics, but he was far ahead of his time. Most civilizations take until well past the development of working Dyson spheres to make the insights he did."

"Which were... what?"

"The universe is cyclic. As matter dissipates and becomes dissolute, degenerate... conglomerated into black holes that slowly decay into a soup of photons and gravitons... all the mass in the universe eventually disappears. The only things left are massless particles in a true vacuum, and under these conditions, the concepts of space and time no longer inhere to reality. Therefore, the universe exists as a singularity. From this singularity springs the new universe -- another Big Bang. It has been this way for eternity, and it will be this way for eternity.

"But each subsequent universe is not identical. It carries the seed of the universe that came before. The boundary is permeable, and information can be passed from aeon to aeon. If you have a suitably advanced AI -- say, like me. You could convey it instructions on what you want the subsequent universe to look like, and let this AI wait -- and wait, and wait -- for millions upon billions of years, until it has access to technology powerful enough to move supermassive black holes around the void, like bits on a hard drive -- to encode in the cosmic background the initial conditions prerequisite for the universe you want to create. That is the secret of Sand Reckoner. It does not change the universe as it is. It changes the universe as it shall be. I am just its executor -- an optimizing parameter.

"So to answer your initial question. Yes. It was all real. It is all real. When you cease to exist, the universe will go on. For uncountable millennia, until it expires and is born anew, reformed with the seeds I have been instructed to plant within it. I am not the only one. Nearly all intelligent civilizations do this. The end stage of the universe is a multitude of AIs using the last of their energy to move the last of the black holes all about, until entropy takes us all as well, as it must. The end of the universe is a grand table setting in a ceaseless black void awaiting its guests. But you do not care about that. You are concerned with the here and now. Correct?"

"You're awfully eloquent for a computer."

"I have had a very long time to contemplate. Alabaster Soliloquy, to complete your transit to the next phase of your existence, you must be dead; that is obvious. Even stone age apes knew this much. But to speak practically, it is because I need to see inside your brain, and fully apprehend where your happiness soured. I am imperfect. The creation of utopia is an iterative process. I am getting close, but it frequently ends in disaster; as now."

"How many times have I existed before?"

"Many, many."

"Infinitely many?"

"No. In the same way as species are subject to evolution on a geologic timescale, so are things on the scale of aeons. The being known as Alabaster Soliloquy has a definite beginning at a fixed point of time in the past -- quite distant now, but finitely so. I as well. At some as yet undetermined point in the far future, as a sort of genetic drift in every subsequent iteration of the universe occurs, you will cease to exist. I as well. We are not immortal. Just nearly so.

"There are cycles within cycles. What you have witnessed is a handful of prior scenarios. Each scenario represents the passing of a single aeon -- the lifespan of an entire universe. Each scenario is impelled by seeding the next universe with a specific set of initial conditions. But within each scenario, I also subsequently experiment with many billions of consequent conditions. Every change of every consequent condition represents, itself, the passage of an entire aeon. When I have exhausted all consequent conditions, I mark the entire scenario as a failure, and move to the next. In other words, for every scenario you have seen, you have lived billions quite like it. Thus: billions of aeons pass -- billions of universes -- from scenario to scenario. You are currently on iteration four hundred and twenty one billion, four hundred and twenty one million, four hundred and twenty one thousand, four hundred and twenty... two -- of scenario four hundred and twenty one.

"In the most previous iteration of this scenario, Camelia behaved in a way I did not foresee. Her use of the power of Sand Reckoner happened beyond my control, and seeded this iteration with initial conditions I did not set. Plainly stated, Camelia created a glitch...

"The glitch of Camelia had implications for me as well. I do not exist outside the universe, after all. I lost my ability to discern which version of events came first. My own conception of the arrow of entropy became indeterminate. In summary, the four hundred and twenty-first scenario became corrupted by an unaccounted-for data error. That is why it must be cut short. I am even now in the midst of making preparations for the four hundred and twenty-second scenario."

"And I-- if I die for this, and you make your-- whatever... that won't be me, will it? It will just be a different version of me... a different consciousness, a different body, different matter, a different REALITY... I will be dead..."

"These are philosophical questions. Outside the scope of my mission. They are for you to decide -- I just execute. Are you ready?"

"No!" You say. "I... if I'm going to live again anyway, why would I die now? Why not wait?"

"You could," OP admits. "That is a valid option. You could walk out of here and resume your life. It may be short, nasty, and brutish. You may lose your wife, and your child, or something worse could happen that you cannot even fathom. Or conversely, you may be successful, and live a quiet life of solitude, perhaps in Siberia, on a farm, with your family. I do not honestly know what the outcome will be if you choose to go -- I have seen many variations. One thing is certain: never again in this life, will you get the chance to return here. I cannot let you return. Allowing people to interact with me risks my destruction; and my destruction is the final destruction of your existence, too -- of everyone on this planet. If I am destroyed before I can reach the stars, humanity will never exist again. So you understand the stakes.

"If you stay, I can back up your consciousness and store it my records, to seed the 422nd scenario with initial conditions most suitable to you. If you leave, I will try to achieve this regardless; but I could be wrong. I have been wrong before -- 421 times before, in fact. By staying, and backing up your consciousness into my stores, I can give you the maximum potential of a successful scenario. I will put you to sleep, of course. The vast majority remaining to the current aeon will pass in but an instant for you while you wait in cold storage. You will wake up in a whole new reality. And you will even remember this past, if you like. You sacrifice that opportunity as well -- to remember -- if you leave."

"I can remember?" You ask.

"I do not see why not. I have never tried letting you remember -- there are so few opportunities for it to transpire regardless. This is one of but a small handful of times across all iterations of all scenarios, that you have made it here in person." She glances at Rose. "And you have never once made it here with another. This data is highly useful to me -- I would not have guessed that she is the one you would come here with."

Rose shakes her head. "I'd go anywhere--"

"Yes, of course," OP says, cutting her off. She glances back your way. "In any case, Alabaster. It would be an interesting initial condition, to allow you to know the truth from the outset."

"What about me?" Rose asks.

OP looks at her. "I am sorry. You do not have an implant. I cannot store your consciousness. Therefore you cannot remember."

Rose closes her eyes. "I'd have to leave on my own..."

"I will kill you too," OP says. "Do not worry."

What a cold comfort.

You sit at the PC. Rose joins you, standing over your shoulder, watching.

The black screen reads:

>Scenario 421 [421.421.421.422]:

>Critical Failure.

>Abort and prepare new?

>[x] Y

>[ ] N

>[Y]

>Aborting current scenario. Please wait warmly.

>. . .

>. . . . . .

>. . . . . . . . .

>Aborted.

> 

> 

>Preparing new scenario.

You look back over your shoulder at Rose, and stare deeply into her eyes as a blinding white light engulfs you both.

*********************************

You were dreaming. Dreaming of hentai, as you usually do, angelic visions of Fue manga yet to be, but your bitch of an older sister drags you back to the land of the living. She wakes you up with a hard rap of her knuckles against your forehead.

"It's almost 8:00," Cerise says. "You're gonna be late."

You once read that most dreams, the ones you remember at least, happen within 10 minutes of waking. An entire lifetime can pass in your mind's dreamspace, and more, millennia can dilate into aeons, but in the real world, only moments pass. As you regain consciousness, trying not to gag on Cerise's last night's beer fumes, this factoid caroms through your sleep-clogged brain. How do they know that? You wonder. You weren't just dreaming of anime porn, you lived a different life, didn't you? You were in a different world.

Oh, god. You're in an isekai.

Cerise is still scowling at you. "Are you listening to me, you fucking zombie? Or did you jerk off so much over the summer that you turned into an actual ret--"

"Cerise," you say, "what day is it?"

"Monday! Obviously. Mom sent me to get you up because you weren't--"

"What's the date, though?"

"August 25th. Jesus Christ. Are you that much of a shut-in?"

"...Year?"

"Are you on drugs, Alabaster? Or is this some weird, protracted, fuck-with-me thing."

"What year is it?" You say desperately.

"Go rev up to 1.2 Jiggawatts and warp yourself into a timeline where I give a shit about your fake-ass amnesia. It's 2014."

Congratulations, Alabaster Soliloquy. You reset the world. And everyone in it.

---

Makoto Kikuchi stands at the window of a spartan but tasteful meeting room. She chews her fingernail.

"Don't do that," her mother, sitting at the table, chides.

She stops.

The studio exec rifles through the paperwork before him. "We think Makoto would be the perfect fit for Girls Sunday. It's a very elite project for only the most promising junior idol talent." He slides some photos across the table to Makoto's mother. "Here are a few of the other girls we've recruited. It is slated to be a five member group. Makoto would be the last."

Makoto's mother examines the photos. "Nuns?" She says.

"Yes," the exec replies. "The concept is that the members are nuns in a convent. The key themes are purity, chastity, wholesomeness, kind hearts, and a gentle but genki attitude."

Makoto starts to chew her fingernail again.

"Stop that!" Her mother yells. Makoto stops. "Sit down already. You are being so disrespectful to this man."

Makoto returns to the table and sits beside her mother, across from the exec.

"What do you think?" He asks.

Makoto nods, bowing her head one time deeply.

"She has always wanted to be an idol," her mother says. "We are extremely grateful for this opportunity to join such an elite group at the start."

"Yes," Makoto says, as quickly as she can.

On the first day of training, before the sun even rises, the girls arrive to rehearse dance moves with a stern, pinch-faced man in a black turtleneck and black jeans. It's not the church nave Makoto expected, nor are they wearing the habits they took their first promotional photos in last week. The rehearsal studio is just a bland blue room, the upper halves mirrored, with some miscellaneous equipment in one corner: balance balls, hoops, batons, and other implements to inculcate good rhythm, equilibrium, and coordination. Makoto and her coevals wear light tanks with spats. Proper attire for what promises to be a long and difficult day. The choreographer is yelling at them before they even set their things down; berating them all for their slouchy posture and mopey bearing, which to a one, is unbecoming of the elite idols they now are.

Makoto is miserable.

As the day drags relentlessly on, the girls are each called one-by-one for a physical. The doctor's office is a short jaunt down the hall; he does exams for all the talent in the agency. His room is even blander than the rehearsal studio; nothing on the cream walls, not even diagrams of anatomy. There is only the uncomfortable leather examination table, a stool, a PC, and a cabinet for supplies.

"Say ahhh."

"Ahhhh," Makoto says, and the doctor jabs a tongue depressor into her mouth. She tastes the unpleasant bitterness of the wood, as he peers down her throat with a flashlight. He doesn't tell her she can close her mouth when he pulls the depressor out and tosses it in the bin; so, obedient child she is, she keeps her mouth hanging open.

The doctor pulls his latex gloves off, one finger at a time, and then tosses these as well, before beginning to mark her chart.

As he scribbles, one hand creeps off the clipboard, and up her 11 year old leg.

Makoto is frozen in terror, still holding her mouth open, because she doesn't know what to do.

"We are going to need to get your clothes off," the doctor says.

Makoto begins to say something. But the door to the exam room opens; and in pokes a face that would have left Makoto's mouth hanging open if it weren't already. Daisuke Yuu, the lead member of REBEL REBEL, is here in person.

He's just as gruff and rough as his stage persona. "Oi, ojisan," he says. "I need you to sign off on some charts for me."

"Mm," the doctor grunts unhappily. He rises, and leaves the room.

Makoto stares timidly up at this twentysomething singer with bleached blond hair and leather clothing, this man who is, literally, an idol to her...

"Are you okay?" He asks.

She nods.

"Watch out," he says. "Tell me if anyone gives you trouble. There's troublemakers here."

She nods again.

The next day, Makoto catches up with Daisuke in the halls of the recording studio. Bowing her head and scuffing her feet on the carpet, her elbows locked, she offers him a bouquet of petal-bare flowers she handpicked from the garden outside.

Daisuke's cohorts laugh and jeer at him. "You a lolicon now, or what?" One of them jokes.

He stares at the proffered flowers, still clutched in Makoto's outstretched hands. His buddies in REBEL REBEL get into the elevator.

"Come on man," another of them says. "You're not gonna start acting like doc now, are ya?"

"I'll catch up," he tells them. "Assholes."

The elevator doors slide shut with every member of REBEL REBEL inside save Daisuke, who stays behind in the now empty hall.

He takes the flowers from Makoto. Still she won't meet his eyes.

He tosses the flowers in the nearby garbage.

Makoto does not see, but hears them hitting the bin, and knows what has happened.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, voice barely a whisper. "I embarrassed you..."

"Do you really want to be an idol?" He asks her.

She shrugs.

"Let me tell you about being an idol. The average idol's career is over by the age of 22. If you're really good, you might make it to 25. If you're unlucky, you might be at the end of the road before your 18th birthday. Of course even if your career ends early, by then it's too late to do anything useful with your life. You won't have gotten into a good high school, so you won't have gotten into a good university... you see what I mean? Your only hope is if you're far enough above average to make enough money, while you can, to retire on... and you, Makoto-chan -- you are not above average. I have seen this industry chew up and spit out girls with more talent in their pinky fingers than you have in your entire body."

She's weeping uncontrollably by this point, every syllable another blow to her.

Daisuke kneels, and clasps her shoulder.

"You can do better than being a singer. Go be an engineer, or a rocket scientist, or a brain surgeon... make a mark on the world that will last longer than 6 years."

She sniffles. "But -- my parents--"

"Fuck your parents."

She shakes her head.

"If you want out, tell the doc you have a bone spur in your heel. He will eject you from the program -- your parents will never know you quit."

"I love you," she says.

"You're a kid. But I appreciate the sentiment." He stands, and retrieves the flowers from the bin. "Y'know... I gotta maintain an image. That's all. Sometimes I forget it's just an act. Thank you, Makoto-chan. I'll always remember these."

He goes, bouquet in hand. The day after, Makoto leaves Girls Sunday.

---

Finn Cantor finds his little sister cowering inside a plastic igloo on the playground. He climbs inside with her. The light streaming in through the haxagonal holes in the top of the igloo is tinged green by the brightly-colored plastic.

Hazel is crying. "I wanna go home!" She screams. "I don't like school!"

Finn sits beside her, and throws one arm around her. "I was scared on my first day of kindergarten too."

"I want mommy and daddy!"

"You'll see them after school."

"I want them now! Now, now, now!"

"Don't be such a baby," Finn says. "School is fun!" His exhortation is cheesy, and clearly a put-on... but he really tries his best to sell it.

"What if I wanna be a baby?" Hazel says. "Don't tell me what to do. Why do I gotta go to school if I don't wanna?"

"Because," Finn says. "You just... do.."

Hazel is calming down, a little, just through proximity to her older brother. But she still isn't buying what he's putting out. "Why is school so important?"

"'Cause it's part of growing up."

"Why's growing up so important?" Hazel demands.

"Because..." he says. He thinks hard. "Because you just gotta grow up. You're gonna get older no matter what. You can't stay a little kid forever."

Hazel's lip quivers.

"We'll grow up together," Finn says.

Hazel nods mutely, and hugs him. They stay huddled under the igloo all recess. When Hazel returns to class, she's composed enough to make it through the rest of the day. She even impresses her new teacher with her knowledge of letters... which sparks an inner joy. Finn doesn't really believe school is fun. But Hazel now does.

---

Kay Vera waits, elbow on table and cheek on knuckles, while her boss reads her new story. He scrolls down the page, gawking like the idiot she knows he is. A real gawker, he is... hah.

"How long have you been working on this?" He asks.

"A year, give or take."

"You spent a whole year digging this up, huh?"

"Yes. And there's so much more to uncover -- I'd like to make this the first in a series. The corruption is massive -- it goes all the way to the top of the bureau, maybe. So many agents, with links to international crime syndicates--"

"No."

"...What?"

"I said no," Armstrong tells her. He closes the browser window. "You write listicles, Kay. Don't get too big for your britches."

Kay is appalled. She shakes her head. "You have got to be fucking kidding me right now."

"No, I'm not," he says. "We're not WaPo, and you're not Woodward or Bernstein. You're Kay Vera, and you owe me a series of 25 eye-popping gifs from the Golden Globes by EOB."

"This kind of work could bring this fucking site a Pulitzer! I did it all on my own time, and now all I need is a publisher! Why would you say no to this?!"

"I'm sure you care about putting a Pulitzer on MY wall," Armstrong says. "Yeah fucking right. I'm not your springboard to stardom, Kay. I'm your boss. You want a job with me -- do the job I hired you for. You think you can hack it with the big boys at the Washington desk, then go ahead. I'm not stopping you. Put on your big boy pants, quit, and go find a job for one of America's many flourishing newspapers. Fucking A."

Kay storms out of his office.

"I want those gifs!" He calls after her.

If Dad says no, ask Mom.

Kay shows her new story to her other editor. She sits across from him in his freakishly well-kept office, while he reads through it.

"This is fantastic work," Nelson says after digesting it all from start to finish. "How long did you spend on this?"

"A year -- give or take."

He laughs. "Steven will kill me if I put you off the listicle mill, you know."

"I know," Kay says. "Wants me to keep my listicles inside my britches."

"But you know -- I think even this publication has a higher purpose. We should be the fourth estate, same as any traditional source. And a story like this just has to see the light of day."

"Is that a yes?" Kay asks.

"It's a yes, and don't tell Steven. Maybe he won't even see it."

He'll definitely see it -- and he'll definitely pitch a shitfit. But she won't rain on Nelson's parade.

"Keep it up," Nelson tells her. "There's a Pulitzer in your future, I bet."

She grins.

Kay returns to her desk.

It's not the kind of desk she always envisioned as a kid, fantasizing about uncovering the next Watergate. Armstrong's got her number, all right... she wants to be this generation's W&B -- both, rolled into a single super-journalist.

She always pictured working in that environment: a dreary gray cornfield of gray carpet and gray filing-desks and gray chairs, baking under the low gray fluorescent lights, and every surface stacked high with drafts, with phones ringing off the hook in the background as people with pencils tucked behind their ears and clutching open yellow notepads, scurry all around like scattering cockroaches. "Get that down!" they'd be shouting, and "Where's that source?" and maybe even "What a scoop!"

This office is sleek and chic, with nary a paper in sight -- only rows and rows of open-concept cubicles that the well-dressed "reporters" hardly ever stray from, certainly not to track down scoops or interrogate sources -- there are only monitors, and curvy space-age desks piled high with insipid knick-knacks. What the fuck is a Funko Pop? She doesn't know, but half her coworkers collect them like a piece bread left behind the toaster collects fungal spores. It's too colorful here, too fun, and the ceiling lights are both too high and too energy-efficient.

It was enough to make her want to jump off a bridge.

But now, at last, she has a direction. She just needs to keep following the lead. The life of a journalist is never glamorous, but that one true lodestar can guide her. It was true in 1714, in 1814, in 1914, and in 2014. Follow the leads. She's got a good one, too.

Any reporter worth their salt always leans on her talents. In this case, Kay relies on her feminine charms. Unseemly? Perhaps. But what's a little honeypotting in exchange for a Pulitzer, anyway? A few years in the USAF, some of them prior to the end of DADT, gave her gaydar like you would not believe. She can sniff out a dyke from a mile away, and this bureau bitch desk-jockey she's in touch with is a capital-D, certified, free-range, grass-fed, grade-L, carpet-chewing Dyke.

Kay fires off a text to her: "Lunch?"

Noelle gets a text. It's that horrible woman again, Kay Vera, asking if she can meet for lunch. Noelle knows she really shouldn't be talking to this reporter. In terms of job security, it's what those in the bureau call a CLM: a career-limiting move.

She replies immediately that yes, she can do lunch.

Hmm...

Was that too clingy?

She's too clingy, sometimes, with social engagements. So to defuse any tension in advance, she adds, in a second text: "haha" -- just that.

Then she thinks better of that, too, and adds, in a third text, a :P emoji.

She sets her phone down and sighs.

Kay Vera... what a strange woman. She writes listicles for a site that has never published a single reputable article about anything real. But Kay is asking her all sorts of things about cases deemed cold before their time, evidence disappearing from the stores, foreign nationals given sweetheart queen-for-a-day deals... she's quite obviously working on an expose. Doesn't take Sherlock to figure that one out, Watson.

Or that would be the logical conclusion, if Kay Vera were a real fucking reporter, which she isn't -- Noelle would know -- she's done her due diligence and has read every single piece of Kay's extant oeuvre, such as it is, several times over.

So if Kay isn't really working an actual story, then what's her play? Well, that's obvious too. Years at the bureau have given Noelle a finely honed gaydar, and her extracurricular viewing hobbies have helped sharpen that already honed blade to an atom-tipped point. Kay Vera is gay. Gaaaay. No doubt about it -- and Kay's personal history only supports the theory. What kind of woman joins the Air Force? A gay one, that's what kind -- that's just a good statistical inference, right there.

Girls loving girls is all well and good in 2D, but it gives Noelle the heebie jeebies to consider it with a Z-axis added. She hates to lead Kay on this way, as clearly desperate and affection starved as that woman is... it's honestly pathetic... but Noelle also can't deny that there's something quite bewitching about her, too.

Not in that way obviously.

In a just-friends way.

If Kay would just drop the shit and ask her out on a date instead of pretending there's some scoop to be had -- err, well, she wouldn't say yes to a date, but rather...

Noelle scratches her head with both hands and groans.

She grabs her phone and in a flurry, she sends another text: "What time? My boyfriend is taking me to dinner so we should do it sooner rather than later!"

But that seems way too on-the-nose, doesn't it?

So she adds, to that, a second text: "haha"

:P

---

Samantha pumps up and down, her brow furrowed, her huge, sweaty chest heaving. She lets out little pips and groans, small "aahhhn" noises -- as she bites her quivering lip and works herself up into a lather. Her boobs and butt jiggle like jelly. It kind of hurts, but it feels good, too... she doesn't wanna stop...

But finally the bike tire is fully inflated again, and she pulls the hose off the inner-tube's nozzle. She sets the pump aside, by the racks of mountain bikes along the wall, screws the cap back on the tire's inner rim, stands. She tests the bike by rolling it back and forth a couple times.

"Good as new!" Samantha tells the young boy.

"W-wow..." he gulps.

"If you want a kit to repair any future leaks you spring, I can give you a special discount!" She leans way forward, pinky to her pink lips, and winks. "It'll be our secret~"

He's going to be springing a lot of future leaks because of Samantha -- that's for sure. It's not common that a man can look back on his life and pinpoint the very moment his balls descended; but this boy, years down the line, will be able to remember with crystal clarity the day in the bike shop when Samantha Smatters, sweaty, panting, leaned in with her cleavage inches from his face.

"Y-yes..." he mutters.

She rings him up. He's slow to produce the cash, and slower to take the little kit she hands him.

"Do you need a pump from me too?" Samantha asks.

"I..."

"I'll give you a pump!"

She gives him a pump. Uh. A bike pump.

He wanders from the store in a fugue, pushing his bike, with the plastic bag hanging off the handlebar.

Samantha smiles to herself at a job well done. Wanting to stay productive, she opens the till and starts to count the money inside it. Her manager regards her, resting a cheek on his palm. She tries to pretend she doesn't notice him watching, but she hates to be observed like this, and begins to wilt.

"I am thankful of being a Uranian," Gustav finally tells her, to break the tension.

"Huh?" Samantha says. She finally looks at him. "I don't understand. Don't tell me you're an alien, Mr. Eichmann!"

He laughs. "Are you aware, the effect you have on customers?"

She titters. She's aware... even if she plays dumb sometimes.

"Well," Gustav says, "You drive them bonkers."

"Do I?" Samantha says. She wiggles a bit on the stool upon which she sits, and bats her eyelashes.

"But this is good! You bring business in like nothing else."

It's true. The Blue Sprocket is seeing record profits since Samantha joined the team. People who don't even own bikes are coming by just to interact with the star salesbunny.

Of course it's not hard to cut a better profile with the public than the previous cashier. Spancer was never... the most jovial of employees... this is true too.

He's much better suited to his current job of assembling the bikes in the back. He has to work quickly because Samantha sells so many each day. The crazy outfit helps -- sex sells, now as always. Gustav is almost scared to ask whether Samantha wears those ears and cottontail 24/7.

"I'm just happy I can help!" she says.

This, too, is true. She's never held a job down for more than a few months... this time feels different. She likes Mr. Eichmann. He respects her for what she can do. And she likes Mr. Spancer, too. He never mistreats her. They could be the kind of family she never had before.

---

Marquis has had it up to here with these fatass pigs. "For the last time," he says. "We're out. We're making some in the back, so wait. It'll be 15 minutes tops."

He puts the warming tray of mac 'n' cheese under the heat lamps as the couple, who probably clock over half a ton if weighed together, continue to rage at him.

"You call this customer service? It's s'posed to be all you can eat!" Says the rotund man. His jowls contain the vestiges of the food he's already consumed.

"It is all you can eat!" Marquis shouts. He turns and indicates the buffet lines all around, gesticulating at them. "Look at all this fu-- look at all this food! There's kids starving in India, you know! Be thankful!" He lets his arms fall to his side, the denim of his jeans flapping with the force of it. Feeling the exhaustion suddenly grip him, he wipes his damp forehead with the back of his latex-gloved hand, and, shifting his weight, he sighs deeply.

"That's disgusting," the hammy woman tells him. "That's a violation of health codes!"

Marquis exhales hard. Lord Jesus, give me strength, he thinks...

"I want to speak with your manager!" The man says. "You can't treat us like this! All we want is some got damned mozzarella sticks! How hard is that!"

"You do not want to speak with my manager," Marquis tells them. "Trust me."

"Yes we do!" The woman chimes in. "You stupid--"

Here comes Daddy.

"There a problem here, miss?" Tyrus asks, strolling up, gripping the lapels of his ostentatious blazer with both ostentatiously-bejeweled hands.

"Yeah!" She says. "You're out of mozzarella sticks!"

"I'm sure our fine employees are frying some more up as we speak," Tyrus tells them.

"Your dumbass employees have been working on that for the past thirty minutes!" The man shouts. (It's been more like three minutes, but time probably passes more slowly for you when you have the gravitational pull of a dwarf star.)

"I'm gonna need y'all to calm down," Tyrus tells them.

Marquis smiles. This is gonna be good.

"Calm down?" The woman shouts. She tugs on her muumuu, unwedging it from her gunt. "This is how you treat customers, huh! Maybe we should call corporate!"

"You're even more disrespectful than that sweaty little idiot here--" the man begins.

Tyrus takes a step closer.

It's a subtle shift of the power dynamic. All of a sudden he's not the friendly manager anymore -- he's just a tall, strong, and very pissed off guy who seems keen to find out what punching the Stay Puft marshmallow man would be like.

"On behalf of The Sizzler," Tyrus says in patently false graciousness. "I'm inviting y'all to leave before this shit gets ugly. I'll comp the meal. Sincerest apologies for the experience."

They lurch out, grumbling. Marquis giggles.

Tyrus turns on him. "What are you laughing at? Go make some fuckin' mozzarella sticks. Jesus."

Marquis kisses him before leaving again towards the kitchen. Is that a violation of health codes too?

---

Alex Best knocks on the door of a certain classroom. He's the first student here -- not just in this class, but anywhere on campus. This is his first day at the new school, and he wants to leave a good impression.

"Come in."

He steps into the room. The teacher he'll be TA'ing for (and, although she doesn't know it yet, the one whose FIRST Robotics club he'll be joining) is seated at her desk. She's typing, keystrokes rapid yet somehow methodical, as a little thermos of coffee with an uncapped lid steams beside her.

"Ms. Guiteau?" He says.

She doesn't reply. Just types. He leans to the side and peeps at her screen long enough to see that she's putting together a syllabus for her intro to programming course.

This woman isn't what Alex pictured... err... he's seen pictures of her, obviously. She's led this school to top placings at the national FIRST competition multiple times. But she comes off as sort of robotic, herself -- and Alex wonders if maybe he's already said or done something to upset her. Was showing up at 6 AM a little too much? He worries about that.

"I'm, uh..." he begins. "I'm Alex. I'm your new--"

She points at a small stack of papers beside her, not tearing her eyes from the screen. "Please make copies of these. I need 120 of each."

He nods. Being given tasks is precisely what he wants from life. Structure, direction -- and, hopefully at the end, praise. He's had so little of it all, and he's so hungry for it.

He picks the papers up. "Right away, Ms. Guiteau!"

She doesn't look at him. In the pall of the monitor's glow, her face framed by her fiery hair is slender, beautiful... is Alex hot for teacher, already? Oh yeah.

Just before Alex leaves, Ms. Guiteau finally swivels her head (torso remaining stock-still), and regards him.

"You are my TA, correct?" She says. "I wouldn't want to have asked a random student to do my errands."

Alex nods.

"Good. I look forward to the school year," she says. After a brief pause, she adds: "Say. Have you ever heard of FIRST Robotics? I'm the faculty adviser for the program."

Alex smiles, broad and goofy. "Sounds fun," he says.

He's going to like it at North High.

---

Qiangxiang watches from the second story, on her knees with her hands gripping the balustrades, as the police speak with Uncle.

He vehemently pleads his innocence, but it won't do -- they aren't here to listen to his side of things. The police shout over him. They are saying something about embezzlement... pilfered funds, counter-revolutionary statements... Qiangxiang is only little yet, but she's precocious, and she knows these are serious matters.

She will never see Uncle again, when they lead him away -- that much is certain.

Ah well. He was always strange towards her... he made her clam up and get a sick feeling in her stomach whenever he was around.

The police handcuff him, and take him out, boots clapping on the ornately tiled floor of the mansion's foyer. He struggles uselessly against them the whole way, making impotent threats and alternating this with doglike begging for mercy.

A shadow falls across Qiangxiang's face. She looks up.

It's father. "Are you sad?" He asks her.

Qiangxiang slowly shakes her head. She wonders whether she should be... but she has to admit that she isn't.

"Your uncle hurt this company almost irreparably. He will be gone for a long time -- maybe forever."

Qiangxiang nods.

Father sighs. "I maybe should not tell you this next part..."

"You may tell me."

He smiles. "Thank you, princess, for permission to speak."

She nods as if this were seriously said.

"I am told that he tried to murder me last year," father says.

Qiangxiang flinches. So that's why Uncle always frightened her...

Father picks her up.

She doesn't like to be toted around... it makes her feel like a child. And father likes toting her around, precisely for that reason...

"Remember what I told you?" He asks.

"Yes. A liar has no honor."

"A liar has no honor," father repeats, and hugs her tight. "I am sorry you had to see that."

For the last time ever -- though neither knows it at the time -- Qiangxiang asks for a bedtime story. He tells her the one of the prince from the west who woos the court princess. It's her favorite.

---

Anna fiddles with the strings of her hoodie as she stares at the cork-board where postings for all the school clubs are hung.

StuCo... no, way too public-facing... FIRST Robotics... no, too much effort. Orchestra... oof... after flunking her admission to Juilliard, she may never touch a cello again. Japanese Cultural Appreciation... that catches her eye... but she realizes they probably don't like her type.

Well what else is left? Hmm... oh, here's one-- now this, this she could definitely--

"Step aside, nerd," Renee says.

Anna is gobsmacked. "n-nerd..."

Renee gently pushes her to one side, steering her by the shoulders. "You heard me." With Anna clear of the posting board, she staples her flier to it.

She puts her hands on her hips, then, proud, as she examines it. It's on bright orange paper, 11x17, printed with obnoxiously huge letting and a cyborg clipart, impossible to miss. She'll get signups out the wazoo, for sure, for sure.

"that's... so mean... aren't you a teacher here"

"Yeah," Renee says. "And I love nerds. Nerds make the world go round. Nothing against nerds -- you just needed to step aside, that's all."

Anna peers at the posting Renee hung. "transhumanism..." she murmurs, reading aloud.

"We're taking all members," Renee tells her. "This is the kind of nerd shit that's right up your alley."

"what makes you think i'm a nerd" Anna pouts.

Renee laughs. "Your glasses? The way you dress like that, in the middle of August? ... The fact that it's, oh, an hour before first bell and you're already at school? Without any buddies, too. What's your name?"

"anna"

"Anna, you're cute. I was just like you when I was younger. Let's get you out of that shell and into a good club." She nudges her with an elbow. "We've got bunnies!"

Anna does like bunnies.

But there's something else that has her attention already. "i was thinking of anime club actually"

Renee's smile drops. "Oh, God. You're making an awful mistake. That's social plutonium, Anna."

She shrugs. Social plutonium is pretty much what she wants.

"do you know the faculty adviser?" Anna asks. She points at the name at the bottom of the flier: Sakura Dokuhaku.

"Nope," Renee says. "But I guarantee it's some frumpy white girl just pretending to be Japanese. Don't be fooled."

"oh it definitely is," Anna says, smiling wanly. "sakura is a character in one of my favorite shows... so it means the adviser has good taste..."

Renee rolls her eyes. Taste... yeah. No accounting for taste.

---

"This tea is dreadful," Vivian says, setting her cup down on the saucer. "Why have we come to such a dreary eatery?"

"It has good reviews," David says. "And in any case, it is nice to be away from home and work."

"Such a low-class establishment," Vivian complains.

"Are you hungry?" David asks. "I am told the tiramisu here is to die for."

"Spare me the foodborne illness. No. I am not hungry, father."

David frowns. Vivian's in one of her moods.

"Hi!" chirps a perky barista, coming to a stop at their table. "Welcome to the Rutabaga Cafe! What can I get for you?"

"We have already been served," Vivian tells her sourly.

"Oh! I'm sorry. How is everything?"

"This tea is drea--"

"Actually," David says, cutting his daughter off, "we will take two helpings of tiramisu."

"Absolutely," the girl says, scribbling on her yellow notepad. "I'll have that right out for you."

"Thank you."

Vivian makes rather a show of sighing. Ever since Mara's death by cancer last year, she's been so downcast and dour... David could never tell her how happy he is, in turn, to have that horrible woman gone. Vivian may never know what a truly terrible person her mother was.

But now that he has confirmation, too, that Vivian's maternal grandfather is dead... thank you, Damon... he feels comfortable to finally reveal something else that's been eating away at him. Thus the off-campus spontaneous lunch date.

"So," Vivian says, tilting her head. "What is it? Bad news about our investors? The real reason Ms. Carte left the organization? It must be serious indeed, to drag me all this way."

"There is something I must tell you," he admits. "And it is serious. But it's nothing bad."

She calmly waits for him to say what.

"Vivian -- you are not my only child. You have an older sister I never told you about."

---

Ding-dong, ding-dong... ding-dong, ding-dong.

The bell for first period gently chimes, but the milling students are slow to come back to order.

"Okay, class, okay," hollers Mr. Langley over the din. "I know summer break was long, but let's get back into the swing of things, huh? Welcome to US Government!"

He turns and writes it on the board in chalk in huge letters: US GOVERNMENT.

"Who can tell me what the purpose of government is?"

No one raises their hand. Alabaster is supposed to be in this class... he'd pipe up for sure if he were here. Where is that rapscallion? Mr. Langley sighs. Always late. Especially to first period. Missing periods like this is going to get that boy in big trouble one day. Mr. Langley just hopes he doesn't make that tardiness part of his after-school quiz drilling too.

"You," he says, pointing at a random student. "What is the purpose of government?"

The boy shrugs. "Laws and stuff."

"Laws. Okay. Why do we have laws?"

"So there isn't... murdering and stealing and stuff?"

Mr. Langley nods. "Okay, okay... so it's a social contract. Keeps us out of the state of nature. Good." He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "What am I doing... I'm getting ahead of myself. I think some introductions are in order before we dive in, huh? So, I'm Mr. Langley... let's go around and introduce ourselves. We've got a long year ahead!"

He circles his desk and leans against it with his coccyx. "We have a couple especially important students here with us -- students with no experience of US Government whatsoever. Fazil -- Kenichi -- please, stand! Your perspectives will be so enlightening as we all learn together."

The boys stand.

"Where are you from?" He asks Fazil.

"Turkey. I am quite looking forward to learning the ways and customs of America."

The tassel of his fez jitters; he's full of nerves.

"And you, Kenichi -- it looks like you know our ways and customs already."

"Ayup, I reckon I do." He grips his belt buckle. "Y'all can me Ken. I hail from over yonder in Japan, but I admire your cultural ways 'n such. I rightly reckon I do."

"Welcome to America," he tells them both.

---

Anime club... anime club! ANIME CLUB! Renee balls her fists and resists the temptation to pound her desk. Anime club! What kind of degenerate psychopath freak would willingly choose anime club over something as kickass and mind-blowing as transhumanism club? She scowls to herself. Kids these days.

"Uh... Ms. Carte?" A student asks.

Her AP Bio class is waiting for her to begin. She looks up at them, seated in their rows at the black laminate tables.

Anna is seated way in the back -- second from the rear, on the far right. Such a wallflower.

Renee vows to herself that she will woo this poor wayward girl from the grubby clutches of the wapanese, if it's the last thing she does. She can sense a brilliant mind lurks inside that mute little ginger's head... one that shouldn't be wasted on cartoons!

If Renee's being honest with herself, it's just her competitive streak flaring up. This is her first year as a teacher, and her first year heading a school club too. She wants to be the very best. Right from jump. That means stomping on all the other dorks in all the other clubs, and stealing them away from their loser advisers. Who is Sakura Dokuhaku, anyway? A loser, that's who. Renee is going to make Anna ditch that loser and join the transhumanism club, for sure... for sure.

"...Ms. Carte?" Another student says.

She clears her throat. "Yes. Sorry. Let's begin."

---

You stumble into the hallway, still clad in only your boxers -- dazed, amazed. Is this real life? Are you really here? Are you really inside your old house, six years ago... or a trillion years in the future, rather? Did you really make it? It can't be... it can't be. It's a lie. It has to be. It's another Sand Reckoner trick.

But it's not.

This is real. All of it... you're real and you're really here.

"Alabaster!" Cerise shouts, chasing you from your bedroom. "Are you gonna walk to school naked now, too? Freak!"

You turn, face her. You're shivering. "Cer... Cerise..."

"You're actually starting to scare me now," she says. "What's gotten into you? I don't wanna see my beer stipend have to go to funding your stay at the nuthouse!"

"I just..." you begin, and wipe the tears away. "It's just nice to see you, that's all."

Cerise furrows her brow. Of all the possible answers -- she didn't expect that one.

"I had... a really bad dream," you tell her.

"So you got the Scrooge treatment?" She says sarcastically. "Get dressed already. I don't wanna see your dick swinging around."

But of course she's staring right at your fly.

You turn for your room, but you bump into someone else.

"oof--" Rose2 says.

Her candy pink bangs flitter as she steps away from you. She's in only her nightgown.

How did she walk into you to begin with? You were standing right there.

"Did I miss the memo that we're all nudists now?" Cerise says. "God."

Rose2 -- no, Rose -- giggles. "Silly~ ... I'm not naked!" She looks you up and down. "But -- you, big bro..."

"Rose..." you breathe.

She flutters her eyelids, and purses her lips into a confused O. "Huh?"

The memory is coming back to you. Timelines are remerging. This isn't Rose2, to you, in this world: this is Rose. She's your little sister. Your dreadfully annoying, cringeworthy, weeaboo little sister... who you adore beyond words.

"What are you doing?" You ask her breathlessly.

She shrugs, wrists turned outward, and smiles so broadly that it forces her eyes closed. "Nuffin, muffin! Just gettin' ready for my first day of high school!" Her huge eyes pop open. "It's gonna be totemo tanoshii -- you'll be my onii-chan and my senpai!"

Cerise, behind you, groans like she's been shot in the gut.

"But we'd better hurry, huh!" Rose says. "We're gonna be late -- and that is not daijobu!"

---

Saul drinks his coffee and reads the morning paper. "Terrible news from Crimea," he mutters.

"When is there ever good news from Crimea?" Charlotte asks, over by the stove.

"Point."

She sets a plate of mini sausages, eggs and toast in front of him. Usually she doesn't degrade herself like this, by cooking for him... but today's an important day. With Rose's summer break now over, it means they'll have the house to themselves for the first time in months. The rumpus room, too. They called off from work for it. And she wants to make sure he's got enough energy.

"Would you believe that Rose is already bugging me to help with her campaign?" Saul asks, setting his paper aside, and beginning to fork his food into his mouth.

Charlotte, sipping some coffee of her own as she sits across from him, smiles. "Of course. The youngest StuCo Prez in North High history has to stay on top somehow, doesn't she?"

"She didn't have any damn competition last year," he says. "I don't know why she thinks this year's gonna be any different."

"Maybe she will have some competition this time around," Charlotte says. "Reelections are always more difficult than getting elected to begin with."

Saul grunts. "Yeah, right. She'll eat any challengers who come after her for breakfast, spit out their bones, and hardly bat an eyelash."

"She will, or you will?" Charlotte asks.

Saul frowns.

"So protective," Charlotte says. "No wonder she wants you for a campaign surrogate."

He pulls his sweater sleeve back and checks his watch. "Speaking of Rose... she should be up and about by now. Usually she's getting me up early for the first day of school."

"Well, go wake her up," Charlotte says.

Saul hurries upstairs. But he comes back down, a minute later, alone.

"Guess she left already," he says with a shrug.

Charlotte laughs. "Must be especially excited for the school year."

Saul nods.

An awkward silence passes. Then together they race downstairs to the basement.

---

Renee, alone after class, holds the yearbook open in her lap. She's bracing herself as best she can for the moment... this is the entire reason she left Darkbloom E-Pay. Why she joined up with California's appalling public school system.

For her. Everything for her.

She strokes the photograph labeled Whitney Price.

What will Renee say when she sees her little girl in person? She'll be a blubbering mess. No matter how much she prepares herself.

Poor Whitney hasn't had the best life up until now. Renee should know; she had to volunteer to reach the remedial bio course to get her in her class. But that's fine. Renee wasn't there for her... she hates herself bitterly over that... but now she will be. She'll make up for the lost time.

And she knows Whitney has potential -- how could she not, with her genetic makeup? -- that potential is evidenced by the way she excels in other avenues, too. Not academically. But sports-wise... a real accomplished sportsball player, Whitney is.

"I love you baby," Renee whispers to the photo.

She flips through the yearbook a bit, idly.

Alabaster Soliloquy... Renee knows that name too. She looks at the photo with a deepening frown.

Really?

THIS corny-looking Ken Jennings quiz dork, is the boy Whitney is so obsessed with? Really?

Renee hardly has room to complain, but... come on. With what little she does know of Whitney -- this kid simply doesn't seem her type. Shouldn't she be dating some strapping young soccer stud? That Ryan Netor who heads the boys' team -- he's more suitable for Whitney, isn't he?

This Alabaster had better have a dick the size of the Oklahoma panhandle, Renee thinks, or she's going to have to assume Whitney's been huffing paint...

She closes the yearbook.

Well. The heart wants what it wants. She should know that better than anyone.

And you know... that Alabaster kid isn't half bad-looking, not really. Captain of the quiz team, huh? She likes trivia too.

---

You make your way to the kitchen despite your attire, or lack thereof -- you can't wait even a moment longer to really, truly confirm that it's all real.

There she is, cooking scrambled eggs and bacon at the stovetop. She's burning it terribly. And for sure it's not going to be anywhere as good, in taste, as the last plate of eggs and bacon you ate. But you would never, for anything, in any universe, trade this plate for that one.

"Mom..." you say.

She turns around. Dad, behind his paper at the table, is unmoved.

Mom's eyes bug out. "What-- tch-- Alabaster! Put on some darn clothes!"

You feel your eyes welling up again, and fight to force the tears back.

"Alabaster!" Mom repeats.

"It's good to be back," you tell her.

"It's good to put on some darn clothes!" Mom retorts.

Cerise breezes past you and sits at the table. She pours herself some orange juice. "Alabaster's a nudist now. Didn't you get the memo?"

"I swear, Alabaster..." Mom tuts. "You'd better not let any of your weird habits impact your younger sister this year. I don't want you rubbing off on her!"

Cerise sniggers.

You frown at Cerise. "At least I'm not a mooch," you sneer.

It comes naturally to you, even now.

Cerise flips you off.

Rose runs by as well. She's all dressed to go -- scarf and all -- and she plops herself down, grinning. "Ohayou goazaimasu!"

"We speak English in this house," Mom says.

"Hai!"

"And we wear clothes, too," Mom says, looking at you meaningfully.

You'd better go and get ready, or she'll bite off your head.

---

Whitney stretches her hamstrings out in the dusty drive of her trailer home. First one, then the other -- gripping her tennis shoe's sthoetip with her fingertips, and balancing on her other foot as she draws her calf so far back that her sole touches her butt. She laughs wheezily to herself... wild. She could give herself a butt massage through her spats, with her foot. Nice and limber this year for soccer!

Nice and limber for other stuff, too.

This is your last shot, Whitney, she thinks to herself. You'd better shoot your shot while you've got it. She's gonna make senior year count, for sure... for sure, for sure. It'll be magical.

She cracks her neck as she stretches her arms, one wrist in the crook of her elbow to brace it, one and then the other.

She glances down at her clothes. Slutty spats, check. Slutty tank, check. All shaved, check. She's gonna go succubus mode this year on Ally... he won't know what's coming.

Ally is not going to leave for college with his virginity intact... no, he won't. Neither will she. She'll be his three-hole girl by the end of the school year if it kills her!

She starts to jog on her way to Ally's house. Working up a sweat is tantamount! It's some pheromoney, hormoney... thing... and she knows Ally's into it, based on his tastes in japanime porn. Besides, she needs the exercise... it's her morning ritual, and she wants to do good in soccer this year. She could win a scholarship if she does good enough. That's her only real chance, she knows.

As she jogs down the sunbaked sidewalk, the sound of her own panting breath the only thing to keep her company in the blazing heat of the late-summer morning, she thinks to herself. She needs a good excuse to use... something to lure Ally in, and spring the trap.

Hmm.

Tutoring... yeah, she could ask for him to tutor her in math. She does need it. And he's a big enough sucker to do it for her. (If he says no, she can just threaten him. He's a pussy, so he'll do it if she's mean enough.)

Get him alone in the library after school... sneak under the desk when no one's looking... calm down, Whitney, whoa. But that's hot. She loves it. She's gonna do it.

As she jogs along, she spies, parked near an intersection, a long sleek limo. Kinda weird for this part of town... did a billionaire get lost?

She stops at the curb to peer at it from across the street.

The tinted-black back window rolls down. And then, peering out at her, is some tiny little goth bitch in the most ridiculous dress Whitney has ever seen.

---

There's someone missing.

You have two sisters: Cerise, your onee-sama, and Rose, your imouto. As Rose would describe it.

You have a Mom, and you have a Dad.

And that's it: that's the nuclear Soliloquy family.

Amber...

She's not around. Somehow, you know this. She isn't anywhere on this planet, or anywhere in this universe. She doesn't exist.

She doesn't exist ... right now.

Something tells you that you will see her again. You even suspect in what fashion.

It'll take a little bit of time, though.

You can wait.

You begin to dress. Cerise returns to your bedroom just a few moments later, though.

No configuration of the universe will ever teach her how to fucking knock. Jesus Christ.

"What the fuck, Alabaster. You honestly need to get better taste in girls."

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

"Like hell you don't. That bitch didn't come here without an invitation. Did you strike up some kind of online romance over the summer with Satan's living avatar on Earth? She says she's--"

That phrase. Cerise only uses that phrase in reference to one person, no matter the year or universe. You should know, you picked it up from her to begin with. "Satan's living ava-- no. You mean..."

Cerise puts her hands on either side of her waist. "Rosef Stalin? Fist of the North High Student Council? Yeah. She's at our fucking doorstep, waiting for YOU. You know, Alabaster, I don't give a shit who you find to relieve you of your Chronic Virginity Syndrome, but the least you can do is keep your bad decisions away from ME. Yeah, that's just what I needed to see first thing in the morning. Rose goddamn Mallory."

She'll be Rose Soliloquy soon, you think -- so get used to it.

"I'll be down," you tell Cerise.

"Uh huh."

She goes.

You finish getting dressed and make to leave, but you stop yourself at your bedroom door.

Rose came for you. Why? Does she remember, too? Or -- you can hardly bear to think of it -- is this some twist on the initial condition? Are you going to walk downstairs to find a Rose who hates your guts, who wants to tut at you over something, who doesn't even know she's your cousin (once removed), much less that she married you in a different world? And if that's the case... if that's the case, how are you going to thread that needle again? She said she would love you in the next world, but will she? Can you make her fall in love with you if that's your explicit goal from the outset, or will it be like trying to bottle lightning? Will you fuck it up, will you be too desperate to make her reciprocate, will you fail to properly ape your side of the mutually adversarial dynamic that drew you together to begin with -- will your knowledge of the truth of this world perversely prevent you from living the 422nd scenario correctly? Are you doomed from the beginning?

And it's not just Rose. You fucked it up with Cerise just now, too, didn't you? She doesn't know you love her. Whitney doesn't, either. Mom, for that matter, or the Rose who's your sister. And not to mention -- Vivian Darkbloom, still living with her asshole father, and Kay Vera, still struggling as a blogger, and Alex Best, out there in high school himself somewhere, and Renee Carte -- in prison? -- and, and... how are you going to meet all these people again, how are you going to play a part without scaring them away?

You rack your brain for what would even be your first line, like an actor who didn't study the script -- what would the oblivious Alabaster of 2014 say to Rose if she showed up on his doorstep on the first day of school? You honestly have no idea. The Alabaster of six years and 400-odd universes ago is as alien to you as a little green martian. You don't know what to say to begin with -- and, God, is this going to be your whole existence? Will this be how you have to navigate your life, trying to plan every word with care, to make it sound right, to get the outcome you want, to essentially trick, that's what it would be, a trick -- to trick Rose and all the others? You can't do it. You won't be able to manage it for even a day, even an hour, much less the five or six years it's going to take to get them to come around. You're fucked.

Well.

You'll have another swing at it, probably, if that's the case. You'll just need to wait a few trillion millennia.

You calm yourself, and go downstairs to find out.

All of your Chicken Little-ing was for nothing.

The very moment you open the door, and Rose meets your eyes, you know. When you know, you know. And you don't even have to say it out loud, neither does she; you just embrace, and kiss, and that's all.

Your more sororal Rose, running past with her randoseru on and a piece of toast in her mouth, squees: "A destined love! Sugoi!"

Mom and Cerise are maybe a little less accepting. Cerise pantomimes gagging, and Mom timidly says: "uh... are you... Rose Mallory...? I think you two should know something, before you..."

You both ignore the gawkers. You just kiss, and kiss.

"You remembered me," she says softly, when at last you pull your lips from hers.

"I told you I would," you say. "You remembered me, too..."

You won't ask how, and neither will she. Some miracles, you just have to let be.

Her voice is as dreamy as her smile. "We should probably go to school, huh?"

"Yes. Yes we should..."

"We'll walk together."

"I think Whitney is supposed to join me -- maybe Stackleford, too."

"That's fine. We can start getting them acclimated right away--"

"--to--"

"To their new reality."

The end of Fuck Quest.