It is, naturally, all Peter’s fault.
“Come on, Cin,” he moans, falling backwards onto her couch. “The whole world is online! Imagine how many friends you could make!”
“I have friends,” she snaps, and ignores the disbelieving look he sends her. “And I use the internet. I publish all my articles online, Peter!”
“Please,” he says, shuffling across the floor on his knees with his hands clasped under his chin. “Cin, please, I’m begging you. At least make one for Silk.”
She hesitates, and he latches onto her moment of weakness like the asshole he is. “It’ll be good for your job! You can post pictures of yourself and your fights or whatever and Threats and Menaces has easy content to post with whatever Silk story they’re spinning that week. Ha, get it, spinning?”
“I don’t know, Peter,” Cindy says, and he rests his chin against her knee with wide puppy-eyes that would work if he wasn’t, y’know, twenty-eight. “I just don’t get all this social media stuff.”
He suddenly stands, smiling, and tosses her a phone. Her phone. The one she had left in the other room. “I downloaded Instagram and Twitter for you. In case you, like, decide to stop being a coward and start an account. Anyways, gotta run! See ya, Cin!”
Cindy’s sitting with conversational whiplash, holding her phone in one hand and staring at where Peter had just been before he jumped out her window. “How did you get my phone?” She says to the empty air, and then: “Wait, weren’t we gonna get dinner?”
Death by Snapchat
I’m waiting for traffic to slow to cross the street on a dingy New York corner. There aren’t many people waiting alongside me, but the steady stream of cars is keeping us trapped by the traffic light. A teenage girl steps off the sidewalk on the other side of the road, eyes focused not on the impending traffic but on the screen in her hand. A car whizzes by, startling her into backing away from the road. If she’d been a little faster, and just as distracted by her technology, she would have been hit dead-on.
Sadly, our obsession with social media has left many of us unaware of our surroundings. Instances like the one above are becoming more and more common, and much more dangerous. Texting while driving has led to over 1.6 million crashes a year, and being hyper-focused on Snapchat or Instagram can lead to being followed home by strangers–or worse…
[To read the rest, click here.]
Published June 17, 2013
“Analog!” JJJ yells, as he typically does. Cindy finally tears her eyes away from her phone, which has been sitting face-down at the edge of her desk all morning, and looks up at her boss. “When’s that article gonna get to my desk?”
“She’s been glued to her phone all day,” Matt, the coworker who tried to ask her out six times last year, explains. Cindy shoots him a betrayed look, but he raises his eyebrows innocently. Fucker.
JJJ frowns, but it’s his masking frown that means he’s confused but trying to hide it. “Thought you didn’t like phones, Analog.”
“I don’t,” Cindy agrees miserably, “That’s the problem.”
Jonah looks at her for a moment, baffled. Cindy’s briefly concerned about how easy it is to get along with and understand him, and then realizes she can gloat about JJJ’s favoritism to Peter, and decides it’s a good thing. “Get back to work,” he ends up snapping, storming back to his office. He slams the door, snaps the blinds closed to hide him from the journalist room, and creates a gap between two of the slats with his forefinger and thumb. His narrowed eyes peer through, shadowed in the dark room.
“... Is he just standing there in the dark?” Matt asks. Cindy shakes her head.
“Don’t question it.” She turns back to her computer and the blank document left open on it, sighs, and casts a forlorn glance back at her phone.
Matt raises his brows. “Wanna explain the phone thing, Cin?”
“One, don’t call me Cin. That’s for close family and exes alone. No, Matt, you don’t count as an ex,” she adds before he opens his mouth more than an inch. He glares at her. “Two, Peter came by last night and demanded I interact with people on the internet before exiting my apartment through the fire escape.”
“Peter’s an ex, right?” Matt asks, deciding to focus on the least important aspect of that sentence.
“He’s–” Cindy hesitates. An ex? A friend? Someone I was attracted to due to pheromones or something, I don’t know, I barely passed my high school science classes, and it wasn’t a thing either of us really wanted, you know? “He’s Peter,” She finishes lamely. Matt nods as though that explains everything.
“I think you should go for it,” he says, turning back to his computer. “God knows you need to figure out how to talk to people.”
“I talk to people!” She protests, nearly spilling her coffee in her haste to correct him.
Matt purses his lips, unimpressed. “Not well.” Cindy doesn’t really have a response to that.
@jayjayjayson1995’s Instagram stories on November 12th, 2014
[ Photo of JJJ’s eyes peeking out from his office with text pasted over it, reading:
“Boss being weird AF” ]
[ Photo of Cindy Moon sitting with her head on her desk. An animated sticker of Homer Simpson is in the corner. Text is pasted in the other corner, reading:
“Analog’s freaking abt phones” ]
[ A video of Cindy walking up to Jason.
“Hey, Matt.”
“What?”
“Look.” He points his phone at her fisted hand and she opens it to reveal a cockroach. He screams and the camera shakes.]
[A picture of Jason’s pale, shocked face. He’s clearly seen things. Text is pasted on top, reading:
“Cindy says we have a cockroach infestation just kill me now thanks.” ]
“What,” Cindy says. Peter glances up at her, panting from the fight he’s just finished and she’s just walked in on.
“I’m not talking to you until you get some socials,” he declares, walking away. Cindy takes out her phone, swipes to the left to open the camera app (a neat trick Albert taught her the other day), and follows him.
“What are you wearing?” She asks, keeping up with him. His suit looks practically the same, although there’s some new additions sewn onto the spandex.
“Silk, you need to get socials or we’ll never speak again.”
“Why do you have a million logos on your suit?” He throws his hands up, still refusing to look at her. The patches sewn onto his costume range from the Nike swoosh to Wendy’s pigtails, all about the size of a small avocado. Or perhaps an abnormally large walnut.
“I’m poor, Silk! You might have a hoity-toity day job that pays enough to get a two-bedroom in Manhattan, but some of us are sleeping with the cockroaches.”
Cindy stops, staring at him. “What are you saying, Spider-Man?”
Peter whirls around, mask-eyes narrowed. “I’m saying I’m being sponsored–why do you have your phone out?”
She looks at him with wide, innocent eyes. “You told me to get involved with social media, didn’t you?”
He stares at her. She smiles back, and he knows she’s smiling because he’s not stupid. Peter’s clearly having a crisis about whether he should be proud she’s using his suggestion to troll him or pissed she’s using his suggestion to troll him. “I’m never talking to you again,” he decides, turning back around and swinging away, the logos with reflective tape flashing as they catch the light. His mickey-mouse ears, clearly a sponsorship with Disney, get knocked off and fall to the street sadly.
“You’re already not talking to me, Spidey!” She shouts, and his middle finger thrown in her direction makes her laugh.
Peter (derogatory)
your not actually gonna postit, right?
Cin City
I don’t even have socials right now.
Peter (derogatory)
i knew i could count on you
Cin City
:)
It goes viral in just a few hours–mostly because Cindy casually mentions her brother seeing the video on his Instagram feed during the morning meeting. Everyone stops, asks her for the handle, and they immediately pull out their phones.
Because she’d made the post this morning, the video had barely a few views. After a major staff freak-out that led to a hastily written article detailing the new accounts, it numbered in the thousands. Then the hundreds of thousands. Cindy then turned off the ability to see how many people liked her posts because it freaked her out.
“Seriously?” Peter demands, crawling through her window like all spiders are wont to do. “You had to post it?”
“I’m more offended by the handle name,” Al scoffs as he kicks the front door closed, juggling fabric swatches and mockups and ten thousand sketchbooks. “Who’s gonna think, ‘hey, remember Silk? I wonder if she’s on social media. I bet her handle’s @511k, that makes sense.’”
“It’s my name in numbers!” Cindy cries as Peter says, “Don’t you have finals to worry about?”
“Fuck off,” Albert says, dumping the project worth 90% of his grade all over the floor. “Cindy, we need to figure out your public image.”
She frowns. “I thought my image was already public.”
“I hate you,” Al moans, but sits next to her on the couch. “Annoying ex, pick up my final’s project. Cin, we have to talk about what you’re gonna post next.”
“No one ever appreciates me,” Peter mutters, bending over and gathering the papers that cover the floor.
“What do you mean? I just thought, like, a few selfies would be fine. Maybe a fight or two.”
“No, no, no,” Albert shakes his head, almost desperately. “Listen to me very carefully, my beloved sister. You are going to kickstart my design career.”
“What?” Cindy’s completely lost.
“Ah, shoot,” Peter says, papers slipping from his grasp as soon as he picks up new ones. “Uh, don’t worry, I got it.”
“You can make any kind of clothing with your webs, right?” He demands, and she nods with great apprehension. “So, I design your outfits, you do your creepy weaving thing and post them on your Instagram, and we say some stupid bullshit excuse like we met at Asian summer camp or something. I get a high-profile model, and you get some killer photos.”
“Sounds kinda dangerous, Al,” Cindy replies, “What if someone figures out we’re siblings and targets you?”
Albert grabs her hands and looks her in the eye. “Cin, I don’t say this lightly, but: if it gets my work on the cover of Vogue, I literally don’t care.”
They have a little stare-off, but as always Cindy backs down first. Al smirks; she’s such a pushover. “Fine, but we need to be careful!”
“I love you so much right now,” he says, and she smiles softly.
“Shit!” Peter says, and it’s followed immediately by the sound of a million papers flopping to the floor and flying everywhere. “I’m not gonna get these papers up, guys.”
“Keep trying,” the Moon siblings say, otherwise ignoring him. They’re having a bonding moment, okay?
[Image Description: Silk is posed in baggy black cargo pants cinched at the waist with a grommet belt. She’s wearing a mesh bodysuit underneath a red sweater-sleeve pullover. Her mask is the same red, and her glossy black combat boots are laced up with white laces. Her hair’s loose with a few braids keeping most of it from falling in her face. She’s mid-step, walking on the ledge of a skyscraper.]
@511k Hey wow thanks for the love!! Spider-Man lectured me about posting the video so there’s more embarrassing pictures of him posted to this account. Please feel free to make internet jokes with them.
Outfit designed by @albertmooon ! You really didn’t have to offer it in exchange for me, like, saving you and your sister, but I appreciate it regardless! It’s snazzy :)
Comments:
@albertmooon it was my pleasure! Loved being able to work with you :)
[see 50 replies]
@thespeidey silk why do you hate me. what did i ever do to you.
@511k @thespeidey you love me, and we all hate u for it
[see 154 replies]
@sayaishii love the look.
[see 27 replies]
The funny thing about Peter pressuring her to join social media to make friends is that, well, she doesn’t make friends.
Not new ones, at least. There are several thousand people following Silk’s Instagram and Twitter, and she’s not entirely sure how she’s supposed to have an actual conversation with someone, let alone meet in person.
The comments are bursting to the point of concern, and Cindy can barely read one before the page updates and another hundred comments flood in. She’ll tap on the Twitter replies and retweets, and her phone freaks out and exits the app before she can look at them. Her direct messages are marking everything as spam and deleting all the potential conversations, and the people that do get through seem to be middle aged white men who want to get their filthy fingers up her suit.
“How do you make friends online?” She asks, turning to look at Matt. He’s ignoring the three articles he’s working on (one’s being researched, another written, and the last edited) in favor of goofing off in the office. His chair is tilted back as far as it can go, legs crossed casually with his muddy sneakers pressed up against his very expensive Fujinet laptop. One of their interns, Brock, is hovering nervously with a pile of wooden blocks in his arms.
Matt’s head is thrown back, a stack of Jenga blocks balanced on his forehead, and he calls out, “Intern, another!” Brock jumps, and races forward. He carefully adds another Jenga block onto the stack, waits to see if it’ll fall, and then scampers away.
“Matt,” Cindy says.
“My name’s Jason,” he replies, gesturing for another Jenga.
“Whatever,” she says, waving it away. “How do you make friends? Online?”
He twists his eyeballs enough to see her from the corner of his vision. “I dunno. You kinda just have to text people a lot.”
Cindy huffs. “But I hate texting! How do I make friends online that I can meet in person, and never text?”
“Wait, you want to meet in person?” Matt yelps, automatically making a move to sit up. Before the Jenga tower falls, he settles down and the blocks gentle from an earthquake into a small tremble. “That’s a terrible idea, Cindy.”
“What? How are you friends, then?”
“You just talk a lot,” he says. “Like, texting and stuff. Sometimes you send memes.”
Cindy stares at him. He stares, cross-eyed, at the Jenga. “That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”
Matt shrugs. “It’s actually kinda nice.”
“No, it’s not!” She cries. “I hate texting! It took me twenty minutes yesterday to tell my brother I wanted eggs from the store, and by the time I had it typed up he was already home!”
Brock’s looking a little anxious, but he always looks that way whenever Cindy sees him. His voice’s got a little shake in it, too. Poor guy.
“Whatever,” Matt says. “If you don’t want to play nice online, then sucks to be you.”
“Maybe you could make friends with people you already know?” Brock pipes up in his shaky little voice, a dejected but somewhat hopeful look flitting across his face. “Like, you don’t have to be close. But you know them, and they know you, and it’ll make it easier to talk?”
Cindy considers this. There aren’t a lot of people she knows who live in her area, but her contacts list is pretty long with the amount of heroes she’s met at one apocalypse or another. Actually, there are quite a few people who use social media for their alter-ego, and some more that don’t have a secret ID to begin with. She could talk to them, and they’d already know about the whole ‘ten years in a bunker’ thing, and so she wouldn’t have to text people at all!
“You’re a genius, Brock,” she breathes, standing swiftly and shoving her stuff into her bag. “I owe you one, seriously.”
“Oh!” He squeaks. “Uh, thanks? Maybe–maybe we could hang–”
“Where are you going, Cin?” Matt asks as she impatiently shuts down her computer. “We’ve been here for, like, three hours.”
“Play your Jenga and stop bothering me,” she replies, and turns to Brock. “Hey, intern. Do you know how to send good texts to people?”
He looks like he doesn’t know how to answer that. “...Sure?”
“Perfect.” Cindy grabs his arm and flicks off the top Jenga block from Matt’s forehead. The rest of the tower barely moves. “We’re getting coffee. Matt, tell the intern what you want.”
“Gimme coffee as black as my soul,” he says gravely. She flicks another Jenga off his head, and the block hits a passing intern so hard she falls over.
“Emo-ass fucker,” Cindy says affectionately, turning to the door with Brock. “You know the coffee ‘round here?”
“Uh,” he says, face red.
“It’s fine, we’ll just go to the communist one down the street. Hey, what’re your economic policies?” She stares at him for a few long moments before he manages a strangled reply.
“I’m… An intern?” He tries. Cindy just nods.
“Socialist, then. Makes sense. Unpaid interns are the least-paid workers in the world. Except for slaves. Or human experiments. God, I wish I would stop buying chocolate ‘cause those giant corporations are using child labor to pick their stupid chocolate beans. But like, I’m not very rich right now and every few weeks I get my period and need some. They do that with coffee too, y’know? Those poor kids, picking beans until they die. It’s probably worse than getting locked in a bunker for a decade.”
“Oh, God,” Brock says, trying to figure out what to say.
“Yeah, right? It’s awful. The child labor is, too. Awful. It’s also awful. That’s why we’re going to the communist coffee shop, ‘cause they source from not-child-labor coffee farms. I wonder what it’s like.”
“To… work as a child laborer?”
Cindy laughs. “No, to work on a farm.”
Brock looks sorta like he’s gonna explode from confusion, so Cindy kindly opens the door they’ve been standing in front of for the last half-minute. “We’re here,” she tells him, because he still isn’t moving.
He scrambles through the door, wringing his hands. Cin follows, closing her eyes breathing in the scent of the shop. Her advanced sense of smell tells her the coffee’s fresh, the toilet’s clogged, the barista’s using a millionaire’s custom-made perfume, the windows were just wiped down–
Wait. Coffee, toilet, windows, perfume. “Brock,” she says, eyes still firmly shut. “Could you describe the girl behind the counter for me?”
He startles under her hand, taking a jittery breath. Dude needs some Xanax or something. “Uh, she’s got black hair, with a white streak bleached in the front? And she’s well dressed. She’s Asian–not that that’s important, I’m just–she’s a very pretty Asian. Oh, God, wait, no. I mean, she’s pretty for an Asian. No! No, sorry, uh. She’s Asian, and she’s pretty, but she’s not only pretty because she’s–”
Cindy opens her eyes and stalks over to Saya Ishii, who’s innocently wiping down a shot glass. “What are you doing here?”
The woman looks over at her with a disappointed eyebrow raise. “I work here.”
“Why do you work here?” She demands, leaning in with narrowed eyes.
“I have to pay the bills, darling,” Saya says, smiling, swirling her rag around the shot glass over and over.
“Don’t fuck with me, Ishii,” Cindy growls, “You’ll regret it.”
Saya’s eyebrows creep up her forehead in amusement, and wow, her forehead is so smooth. Like, her brows are near her hairline but there isn’t a single wrinkle. Does she moisturize? Did she make a deal with the cat-demon and now has perfect, non-wrinkle skin? “Are you trying to be threatening?”
Cindy blinks, suddenly aware that she’s in the middle of a conversation that doesn’t involve Saya Ishii’s smooth forehead. “What?”
The woman purses her lips to hide her smirk, leans against the counter and tosses the perfectly clean and fluffy towel over her shoulder. “It’s a nice try. Might even work, if you weren’t seven inches tall. Really, it’s just cute.”
“I’m not cute!” Cindy bristles. “And I’m five foot three!”
“One of those is true, at least,” Saya shrugs. “Are you gonna order coffee, or not?”
“Uh, coffee with cream,” Brock says, shaking in confusion, “And a–”
“You’re spying on me, aren’t you?” Cindy interrupts, stepping closer to the counter. Saya’s looming over her, which is just so unfair. The girl’s already 5’8”, why is she wearing heels too?
“I’m just working at your local coffee shop,” she snaps. “Not everything is about you, Cindy.”
“You own a multi-million dollar company, and you’re willingly working at a coffee shop called ‘U.S.S.Roast’,” she replies. “Sorry for being a skeptic.”
Saya stares at her for a moment. Cindy stares back. Finally, the woman tries: “I’m… considering converting to communism?”
“Oh, please,” Cindy smirks. “You benefit too much from capitalism to ever consider giving up your gluttonous bourgeoisie ways.”
She rolls her eyes. “What, did you only have Marx to read in your stupid little fallout shelter?”
“I didn’t have anything to read,” Cindy shoots back, as if that’s any better. “And it was a bunker!”
“Whatever,” Saya says. “Yes, I’m here because of you.”
“I knew it!” She exclaims. “What’s your plan, Saya? You gonna take me out?”
“If I have to,” she replies smoothly, pulling the ties of the apron apart. “It would be pretty counterproductive, though.”
“Then why are you here?” Saya’s folding the apron and setting it on the counter, finally revealing her extremely tasteful outfit: an uber-short black mini skirt paired with a matching turtleneck, with a lavender button-down tucked into her waistband and hanging loosely off her shoulders. She stalks around the counter and Cindy’s eyes are drawn to her smooth, perfect legs and the black sandals and purple mesh socks on her feet. Overall, the ensemble is trendy and unique. It’s no wonder she’s an influencer, when she’s so well dressed.
Cindy’s suddenly aware that she’s spent way too much time thinking about Saya’s outfit, and quickly grows horrified that Al’s lectures about fashion have actually gotten through. She glances down at her work outfit, skinny jeans and a button-down, and feels her face flush in embarrassment.
This is bad. She’s never been interested in clothing before, but Cindy’s desperate to wear something nice and trendy. Is she becoming the kind of mean high school girl she’s always hated?
“I want to collaborate,” Saya says, “Since you’re gaining such a following, I think a Fujinet sponsorship is in order, no?”
Cindy scowls. “You want me to work with you? After everything you’ve done?”
“Yes,” she says, as though the idea wasn’t ludicrous.
“Hell no!” Cindy hisses. “Not in a million years.”
Saya shrugs, their shoulders brushing as she passes her. Cindy gets a whiff of her expensive perfume, and it’s subtle and sweet: everything Saya isn’t. “Well, if you aren’t going to cooperate, I don’t see any reason why I should.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I know who you are, Cindy Moon,” Saya says, turning on her heel and crowding Cindy. She refuses to move, though, and looks up at the woman with angry eyes. There’s a nine inch height difference, with Saya’s shoes, so Cindy’s craning her neck back to glare at her.
“You’re threatening me?” Cindy demands, crossing her arms.
Saya’s mouth is in a practiced, neutral smile, but the corner of her perfect lips is twitching just a bit. She’s amused, Cindy realizes. Saya’s threatening her, and thinks it’s funny, and she’s so tall, and Cin’s pissed off.
“Fine,” Cindy spits. “I’ll do your stupid technology ad or whatever.” Saya’s mouth stretches a moment before she smooths her face back into a rather blank expression.
“Wonderful,” she says, “I’ll send the requirements to your phone number.” Because of course she has her cell, why would Cindy ever think she’d have some privacy?
Saya stalks towards the door, and Cindy blurts out, “Wait.”
The woman turns, brows raised. Cindy tries not to freak out, because she hadn’t planned what to say, but there has to be a way to get something out of this. “I’ll do it, but you have to get me on the cover of Vogue.”
“What?” For once, Saya seems off-balance. “You don’t care about that stuff.”
Cindy shrugs. “It’s not for me. My brother’s trying to get some industry ins, and having me for a model on a fashion magazine would be a great way to do that.”
Saya studies her, quiet. “Alright,” she decides, “But it’s gonna involve some acting. Maybe take an improv class, God knows you’ll need it.”
She bristles, opening her mouth to shoot back a retort, but Saya’s already through the door and disappearing down the street. Cindy lets out a frustrated scream-groan, kicking a chair and breaking one of its legs.
“Uh,” Brock says. “Are we–not getting coffee?”
Twitter DM from @brickbrockontheclok to @511k
[ MARKED AS SPAM ]
@brickbrockontheclok
heyy uh this might seem weird but are you actually my coworker cindy?
sorry nevermind. it was a stupid idea.
“You’ve broken me,” Cindy declares, throwing her messenger bag onto the coffee table and turning to where Albert’s sitting on the couch.
“You came that way, actually,” he replies, leaning against the back cushions.
“I’m unsatisfied with my wardrobe,” she says.
Al sits up, but doesn’t let his expression change. “How does that make you broken?”
“Because I hate clothing!” She cries, tearing at her hair. “I hate putting effort into my appearance!”
“This is a good thing,” Albert says. “Now you can, like, wear nice things. Figure out your style, and you can just web-weave or whatever.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No, this is your fault, so you’re figuring this out for me.”
“... What?”
“You’re gonna dress me in nice clothes, and you’re gonna like it.” She shoves a finger in his face. “Got it?”
“Cin, I don’t have time for that,” he says, moving to stand. Cindy’s faster, though, so she puts a hand on his shoulder. Albert tries to shrug her off, but she has enhanced strength, so he’s stuck there. “Cindy, c’mon, I need to study and shit.”
“You’re not getting up until you agree to help me,” she replies. He huffs and rolls his eyes.
“Just download Pinterest and gather some images. It’s not that hard.”
“You know I don’t know how to download apps,” Cindy says.
Al rolls his eyes again, sinking back into the cushions to get more comfortable. “I agreed to design a few outfits for your Instagram, but I’m not helping you with an entire wardrobe.”
She stares at him for a moment, and he scrolls through his phone. Cindy rips his phone out of his hands and tosses it across the room. It’s probably fine. Or cracked. Whatever, she’ll just get Saya to replace it for the stupid collaboration.
“Hey!” Albert yelps, and she pushes him face-down on the couch, sitting on his back so he can’t get up. “Cin! Cindy! Let me up!”
“Sorry, what was that?” She hums. “I can’t hear you. Maybe speak up?”
“You’re the worst,” he says, writhing and grumbling into the couch.
“Yep!” She says, cheerfully. “And you can either help me with this one teeny, tiny thing, or you can stay here for three hours.” He doesn’t reply, so she adds, “Hey, I heard they made Lord of the Rings into, like, six movies. This’d be a good time to watch all of them, don’t’cha think?”
“Fine,” he groans. Satisfied, Cindy hops off the couch. Al sits up and glares at her. “Get my laptop. We’re going online shopping.”
“You’re the best!” She says, and plants a sloppy, gross kiss on his cheek.
“I hate you,” he sighs, and she flounces off to grab his computer.
Albort
Cindy’s mad at me
Peter-Butter and Jelly
lol sucks to sick
*suck
Albort
You’re so cringe
that’s what happens when you’re 30 and never get a real job
Peter-Butter and Jelly
ouch.
what;s up with cindy
Albort
She’s suddenly obsessed with wearing clothing
Peter-Butter and Jelly
and we don’t like this why?
Albort
hey remember that finals project you set on fire
Peter-Butter and Jelly
THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT
i was trying to pick it up!! i swear!
Albort
Sure whatever
Andyways I need to redo it all but Cindy’s demanding I help her with clothes or whatever
Peter-Butter and Jelly
lol sucks to sock
*suck
Albort
Why do I text you
Peter-Butter and Jelly
idk guess you’re
caught
in my web
:)
You have blocked this number.
Saya blinks, hands halfway-tucked into her pockets. The door to the apartment is open, and Cindy leans against the frame, waiting. She just keeps standing there, her arms hovering awkwardly by her sides. “Are you gonna come in, or?”
“Right,” she says, rapidly blinking. Cindy moves aside, and she glides in.
“Coffee?” Cindy asks, following Saya to the kitchen.
“No tea?” She replies, settling down in a dining chair.
Cindy shakes her head. “That’s Al’s,” she explains. “I drink the tea and he kills me.”
“Coffee’s fine, then,” Saya says, and Cindy turns on the electric kettle. “What did you do to your hair?”
“Oh,” Cindy says, dragging her fingers through her hair. “Uh, they’re just clip-ons.”
Saya raises her brows, and Cindy tries not to flush. “And the outfit?”
“I–well,” she replies, feeling self-conscious. God, this was just like high school: the pretty, popular girl making backhanded comments about her appearance. No wonder she avoided caring about clothing–everyone just makes fun of you, no matter what you do.
“It looks good,” Saya says, turning her critical eye on the full outfit. A red turtleneck midi dress with a white, puff-sleeved top laced over it. Cindy shifts uneasily, hunching over herself. Stepping closer, she adds, “It’d look better if you didn’t look so anxious about it.”
“What?” Cindy asks.
“Having a nice outfit does not make you look fashionable,” Saya says, “You need to feel good in it, too. Here–” She moves around Cindy and presses right between her shoulder blades until she’s forced to stand straight.
“Uncross your arms,” she commands, and Cindy hesitates before doing so. Saya moves back to face Cindy, making minor adjustments to the lay of her clothes and correcting her posture. “Keep you back straight, always. Make sure your outfit is fitting correctly. And most importantly–”
She uses two fingers to tilt up Cindy’s chin, just a bit. Cindy doesn’t crane her neck, but she looks up at Saya regardless. “Always keep your head held high,” she finishes. “You’re more beautiful than anyone, so feel like it.”
This is the part where Cindy is supposed to make a sarcastic remark. Aw, you think I’m beautiful! or something. Smirk and needle at her enemy, figure out a plan to prevent her from whatever nefarious scheme she’s doubtlessly cooking up. But her mouth is dry, and Saya’s looking down at her with something sharp and tender. Cindy feels her wonky silk-sense kick in, but it’s not so much a warning about danger than a little, terrifying thrill that tingles up her spine.
“Do you feel it?” Saya asks.
“Yes,” Cindy breathes. Saya smiles and steps back, fingers falling away.
“I can get you on the cover of Vogue,” she says, “But we need to pretend to be dating.”
Cindy lurches. “Huh?” She says eloquently.
“We’re not going to get on the cover without something big happening,” Saya explains. “Silk dating a celebrity is big. We’d get a thousand interview offers. I bet we could get invited onto Jimmy Fallon.”
“Hang on,” Cindy says, “You want to fake date? Do people even do that?” Saya shrugs. “That would never work.”
“Why?” Saya asks, leaning against the kitchen table.
“Well, to start,” Cindy replies, “You’re not even gay.”
Saya just raises her brows, and it takes her a moment to catch on. “Oh,” she says.
“Yes, ‘oh,’” she replies, amused, before sobering. “Are you… are you not? We can figure out another way.”
“No,” Cindy says, “I mean, I don’t know. The only person I’ve ever dated was my high school boyfriend ten years ago.”
“Have you been attracted to women before?”
“Yes,” Cindy says, thinking of long white hair and a skintight black suit. “But that’d been a bad idea.”
Saya’s sorta just looking at her, so she adds, “I mean, she didn’t know who I was. And I betrayed her to a government organization. But we got stuck in an elevator shaft for four hours and, like, bonded.”
“Huh,” Saya says. “Okay. Well, we’ll fake a relationship. That’ll help us with the whole Vogue cover thing.”
Cindy nods, biting the inside of her lip and looking away. “Unless…” Saya continues, “You don’t want to?”
“I don’t mind dating you,” she says quickly, and is surprised to find it’s true.
“That’s not what I asked,” Saya says, “I asked if you didn’t want to fake date.”
Cindy frowns. What’s that supposed to mean? What other kind of dating would they do? Like, there’s fake dating and real dating, and if they’re not fake dating–
Oh. Huh. Saya Ishii’s gay for Silk. Who knew?
“You want to date me?” Cindy asks, instead of answering.
Saya shrugs, deliberately nonchalant. Her eyes flicker up and down, the only tell that she isn’t totally relaxed. “I’ve always been a fan of Silk, Cindy. I wouldn’t mind it.”
“Oh,” Cindy says faintly. She has no idea what she’s supposed to say to that.
“Whatever,” Saya says. “This was a mistake. Have a nice night, Cindy.”
She heads towards the door, and Cindy says, “Wait!”
Saya pauses, but doesn’t turn. “Call me Cin,” she adds. “My… That’s what my friends and family call me. And exes, on occasion.”
“Okay,” she says, throwing a smile over her shoulder. “Cin.”
Cindy feels her entire body catch on fire, heat crawling up her face. Saya’s eyes crinkle, and it’s the first real smile Cindy’s ever seen her give. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. I have some work to do.”
As soon as Saya’s out of the apartment, the kettle stops boiling. Cindy picks it up and pours it into a mug, ripping a packet of instant coffee open and dumping it in. All the spoons are dirty, so she carefully swirls it to mix the coffee into the water.
She somehow ends up on the couch, and she’s feeling stupidly confused. Saya’s a villain. She’s murdered people, in cold blood. She’s ruthless, and well dressed, and her eyeliner’s always perfectly drawn on. Her smile–the one that wasn’t forced, that is–was this strange combination of sharp and gentle. She’s so clever and pretty and she’s strong as hell.
“She kills people!” Cindy reminds herself, shaking her head and taking a sip of her coffee. It’s practically just hot water with powdered coffee floating on top, which is disgusting.
Cindy isn’t, like, in love with Saya. That’d be stupid. They’ve rarely spoken, and there’s always been some kind of threat mixed in. She can’t love Saya, either, because she’ll never trust her enough to do that. She should let this go and not get involved, keep them both from getting hurt.
@511k tweeted: im torn
@speederman replied: tmi
@511k replied: fuck off. im emotionally torn.
DM between @speederman and @511k
@speederman
u good?
@511k
this is all your fault
Yeah I’m fine, dont worry
I’m figuring it out
She texts Saya a few days later, tells her to come back to the apartment. It’s always better to break up with someone in person, or so she thinks.
“Why don’t you lock your door?” Saya asks, closing it and turning the lock. “That’s dangerous, you know.”
“I think I can handle it,” Cindy deadpans. She stands, brushing dust off her pants in order to wipe the sweat off her palms. “Listen, we need to talk.”
“Oh?” Saya says, walking closer.
“Yeah,” she says, stepping forward to meet her. “We shouldn’t date. It’d be a total disaster.”
“Probably,” Saya admits.
“And I’m not really someone who can fake having feelings for people,” Cindy adds. “I don’t think I want to pretend.”
“Okay,” Saya says.
“Great,” Cindy nods.
“Great,” Saya agrees. “Wonderful talk. Good luck with everything.”
She steps towards the door, and Cindy’s hand flashes out to grip her wrist. Before either of them can think about it, Cindy tugs her forward, rises to her toes, and kisses her.
Saya immediately kisses her back, enthusiastic. They break apart, and Cindy looks up at her. “This doesn’t change anything.”
“Sure,” Saya agrees, darting forward for another kiss. Cindy pulls away, though.
“I’m not gonna fall in love with you, or anything.” Saya bends to kiss her neck, which is very distracting.
“Wouldn’t expect you to.”
“This is a terrible idea. Maybe–”
“Cin,” Saya says, resting her mouth over her pulsepoint. “Stop talking.”
“Okay,” Cindy says, and kisses her again.
[ Image description: Vogue Magazine cover with Silk and Saya Ishii posing romantically. Saya wears a fluffy organza puff dress with a mini skirt, Silk a pair of sheer organza pants and a crop top. They’re sitting on a white background, legs tangles and eyes glaring at the camera. The article title on the side reads:
“A Super Romance! How Saya Ishii Fell for Silk” ]
Cindy ends up being right: they don’t fall in love. Albert and Peter shoot concerned glances at her often, and tell her to be careful.
“I’ve fallen for a villain before,” Peter had said, “I know what it’s like to think they can change. But they don’t, Cin. You need to look out for yourself.”
And she’d told him she’d be careful, but he didn’t seem convinced. She wasn’t convinced she’d be careful, either.
Being in love with a bad person isn’t what she needs to be concerned about. She makes the ‘join the good guys’ pitch every week, like clockwork, and Saya laughs it off.
“If you want a good person,” she had said, “Then you should break up with me.”
Cindy didn’t break up with her. It’s painful, because she doesn’t trust Saya, and knows whatever they have isn’t going to last very long. And she’s still staying, still kissing her, still going out on dinner dates.
She isn’t delusional. There’s nothing lasting here. But there’s something between them. She feels it when their hands graze, or Saya asks for her opinion about a photo she’s posting. There’s something there, and it goes deeper than good or bad, villain or hero.
They’ll never be honest with each other. They won’t grow old and have kids and be gentle. That isn’t who they are–not separately, and certainly not together.
“What are you thinking about?” Saya asks, poking her foot at Cindy from across the couch. She grabs the foot and pulls her closer, earning a surprised squeal as Saya slides across the cushions. Cindy climbs over her, brushing Saya’s hair away from her face. She’s got her head pressed against the seat of the couch, chin folding into the skin of her neck. Her makeup is freshly washed off, leaving her with dark circles and acne scars and the dark, fine hair growing back in under her nose.
Cindy's always had a pretty polarized view of the world. You were nice or you were mean. You were outcast or you were popular. You were too good for girly things or you were a vapid pretty girl.
Saya is vain. Careless. Cruel. She’s also dedicated and smart and can be so gentle.
“Nothing,” Cindy says, finally. “I’m just–happy, I guess.”
And Saya gives her that eye-crinkling smile.
Cindy’s list of shit she learned while on social media:
- Making friends online is hard and not worth the effort.
- Matt can balance eleven Jenga blocks on his forehead before Jonah comes in and knocks them over.
- Matt’s name apparently isn’t actually Matt. Needs further investigation.
- Saya Ishii can be gentle.
- People aren’t just what they present themselves to be.