Prisoner's Dilemma: Separate The Men From The Boys free porn video

Note to readers: This is set in the same story universe as "Prisoner's Dilemma: Curiosity Killed the Cat," which contains some background information. Prisoner's Dilemma Separate the Men From the Boys The biotechnical research department at Lockman University had made its breakthrough invention in 2002. Its inventor, Professor Ripley, called it the biomorphic reorganizer. The university department literature called it the Biomass Redistribution Platform. The students simply called it the Oh Shit Machine. Ripley declared somewhat modestly that it would revolutionize medicine. That it certainly did -- or it would, once the machine had been put through its paces. Rebuilding an entire human body from scratch in fewer than five milliseconds had never been attempted before, by anyone. Its results were miraculous, unprecedented, and even frightening. The effects it might have on a human mind, to suddenly be rewired to wholly new flesh, were incalculable. How would the mind adapt? How would the body respond? Were the changes stable? Could they be reversed? What complications would arise? Most importantly, were human beings even prepared to accept the changes? The machine could not be duplicated, it could not be sold, it could not be authorized for use, until it had been tested. Thoroughly. In September of 2005, the Delta Eta Rho fraternity at Lockman was looking for ways to remodel their chapter house. Many other houses on Greek Row had been upgraded during the summer: new landscaping, new paint, newly tarred driveways. Compared to them, Delta Eta Row appeared to be housed in a dilapidated junkpile. Her siding didn't sparkle in the sun; her weathered roof was in need of replacing. The double-paned insulated windows on the upper stories had turned foggy. Even beyond the fa?ade, the interior of the chapter house was in sore need of reconditioning. Last year had seen many departing seniors, and there hadn't been enough manpower or money to make the necessary renovations to the old building. This had an inevitable effect: recruiting for the 2005-2006 school year was down. Next door, the fraternity at Phi Eta Omega pledged nine freshman during rush week. Beta Rho Alpha, on the other side, had signed up eleven. Both of their neighboring fraternities said it was a down year, and blamed the relatively poorer condition of Delta Eta Rho's antique building. Four of the Deltas were standing on the grass outside their chapter house, surveying the view of the house from the street. Three were officers of the fraternity, and one was a junior who would likely serve in that capacity next year. "It's got character," said chapter secretary Ryan Dewilde. "It's got mold," said chapter president Paul Hanna. "It's got to go." "We can't afford it," said chapter treasurer Jeremy Cranbrook flatly. "We can't just leave it," said Paul. "What can we do?" "Pressure washer," said Jeremy in a matter-of-fact voice, "a hundred bucks a day, plus gas. Exterior paint, forty bucks a gallon. We'll probably need thirty gallons, I looked it up, that's twelve hundred bucks. Plus painting the trim, another five gallons, that's two hundred bucks. We're going to want to tape up the windows and doors, and lay out plastic to keep paint off the lawn, call that another hundred bucks. Rollers and brushes--" "How much?" asked Ryan, interrupting. "You lost me at thirty gallons of paint." Ryan Dewilde hadn't come to Lockman University to participate in Ripley's experiments. It was just 2005 now, in September of Ryan's senior year; when he had applied in January of 2002, Ripley's remarkable device was still unknown to the world. Had Ryan's parents known about Ripley in advance, they probably would have forbidden him to come, which probably would have inspired him all the more to attend to spite them. Ryan's parents were both deeply entangled in get-rich-quick schemes, from multi-level marketing to time-share condos, and evangelized the virtues of their latest ventures to all that would sit still. They spent the balance of their time in more traditional evangelism, and often mingled their door-to-door salesmanship of soaps and household goods at inflated prices with tracts and pamphlets with titles like, Have You Seen This Messiah Recently? and The Path of the Unbeliever. Ryan Dewilde had fled his home at eighteen and chosen a college as far away his parents as he dared, and had chosen studies as disconnected from their reality as he could: photography, graphic design, and communications. Since leaving the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, Ryan had grown his black hair down past his collar, ceased shaving daily, switched his glasses to contacts, and had stopped wearing belts and ties unless under duress. "Altogether," Jeremy said, "we're talking about two thousand dollars to paint the outside. That's just paint, mind you. And we'd have to do all of the labor ourselves." Jeremy Cranbrook was just a junior this September, from Arkansas. He had been going bald since he was eighteen, and had begun to shave his head his freshman year at Lockman. Jeremy was short, wiry, and had a nose like a hatchet with a mind to match. His father, laid off with a lower back injury and trending toward sedentary obesity, had wanted him to go into the Air Force. Jeremy had intended to fulfill his father's intended destiny. The stress of living his father's vicarious dream had given him an ulcer which, ironically, had given the Air Force cause to reject his application. However, as he had been raised to be an achiever, Jeremy turned his incisive determination upon his college studies with a vengeance. He wasn't clever, but he studied harder than anyone else, and that gave him his edge. Either that, or it was his supply of crisply ironed, starched white shirts. "Sounds like a job for our pledges," Paul gloated. "A perfect opportunity for them to show their worth to the frat." Ryan shook his head. "This is killing us. We signed up four pledges during rush week. Four. If we don't get this thing done, I mean get it done, we're not going to sign up any next year. Do we want to leave something this important in the hands of the pledges? We're all going to have to pitch in." "I don't like painting," Paul groused. "I worked for my dad one summer, painting and putting up vinyl siding. I hate ladders, I hate getting paint in my hair." The Delta chapter president from California was a tall, easy-going, charismatic young man of Danish descent with a charming smile and sparkling blue eyes. He had won the fraternity election not in support of any particular proposals or ideas he had for the betterment of the fraternity's goals, because when it came to goals, Paul had none, but by virtue of being the most affable and unobjectionable candidate during the power vacuum created when last year's seniors departed. Paul's idea of being fraternity president involved deciding what other people had to do; as far as he was concerned, his job was to sell the ideas that somebody else would have to come up with. To be fair, he was quite good at convincing others to chip in their share, and even better at making people fail to notice he hadn't chipped in his. He dressed well, held his liquor, schmoozed with ?lan, and hated to have anything to do with sweat unless girls were involved. "Wear a hat," said Ryan unsympathetically. "If we want this thing done, it's going to take all of us. I know I've never painted a house before. Somebody here has to tell the guys how it's supposed to be done." "I'm not an expert. I never said I was an expert. I worked on it for one summer." "Too bad," Ryan told his chapter president. "We need an expert and you're it. Back me up on this, Jeremy." The treasurer nodded curtly, shifting the spot of sunlight on his bald pate. "I agree that we should all pitch in on this. We'll all have to put in our time. We'll take shifts, in between study group, so nobody has to do the whole thing himself. We'll weight the painting schedule toward the freshmen and sophomores, because the juniors and seniors are going to have the hardest classes." "I like the sound of that," Paul said with a grin. "You're not off the hook." "I know." The four young men, three of them officers and one of them silent, stood on the lawn and looked up at the battered old building. Hot summers and cool winters had done significant damage to the once-graceful structure. "The only thing is," Jeremy continued thoughtfully, "we still have to figure out where we're getting that money from. Two thousand dollars will cover the exterior paint job, but we're going to need a lot more than that. The front door needs to be sanded and varnished. We'll need new linoleum in the kitchen. The hardwood flooring in the living room looks like shit. And this lawn," he said, kicking at the grass. "It's looking pretty ragged." "It's not that bad," Paul protested. "There's regulations about keeping up the exterior. It's not like it's a condemned building or anything." "It's bad enough," Ryan said. "You just wait, Phi and Beta are going to complain about our chapter house. They're going to write to the system and complain how we're driving down pledges by the poor appearance of our building." "But it's the same building as it was last year." "Doesn't matter. They remodeled, we didn't. Makes us look bad." "Two thousand dollars," Jeremy cut in again. "I hate to sound like a broken record, but that's what we're going to need just to start." One Delta had remained silent during this discussion, and had stood thoughtfully by with his hands in his pockets. He was a tall fellow, with angular Slavic features, hair parted in the center, and a crooked who, me? smile. Breaking his deep, reflective look with an amused smile, he finally spoke up. "We have four new pledges, you say?" "Yeah, Jack," Paul said. "Four. Why? What's that got to do with anything?" Jack Munn grinned at his fraternity brothers. "I think I know a way you can pick up two thousand bucks, easy." The four pledges didn't take it well. Patrick Owen was the most upset at the prospect of submitting his body to Professor Ripley to be experimented upon. He folded his black arms defiantly, his whole stance radiating grievous injury. His brown eyes glowered. "You want me to go throw myself into some experimental lab? I've heard about this Doctor Ripley, there's no way I'm going to let him tinker with my body. And you want me to hand over all the money to you guys, to paint the house?" "There's no guarantee you'll end up a girl," Paul explained to the pledges. All the officers of the fraternity were seated on the furniture, and the four new pledges were arrayed before them in a line. A few of the other Deltas were in attendance, some openly grinning. Ripley's reputation was now well-known. Paul assured Delta's latest brothers, "If you split with the other person, one of you ends up a super-enhanced boy and the other ends up as a girl." "For eight years," said Dennis Usher nervously. "A week, sure, I could handle a week. But eight years?" "It doesn't have to be eight years," said Jack Munn patiently. He was one of the Deltas arranged behind the officers' couch. "If you both agree not to push the button, you each only get six months." He looked truly uncomfortable with the idea of being unmanned for the frat. He was pale, with dark eyebrows, and curly black hair that seemed piled up on his head. The kid had a prominent nose and a quick wit, but Jack had decided that Dennis couldn't be Jewish. At least, he hadn't seemed to react either way when Jack had suggested Alpha Epsilon Pi down the road. "But if I don't push the button," Dennis stammered, "and the other guy does . . ." "Too bad for you," Jack said with a nasty grin. One of the other freshmen brothers raised his hand to speak. All the new guys were wearing khaki slacks and pink polo shirts, as required by their fraternity brothers. This one stood out for his neatly shined shoes that matched his belt, and his matching pink socks. Jack made a mental note to keep an eye on him, a dangerous individualist who simply had to stand out from the crowd. He would require some additional discipline, Jack judged. "Yes -- Adrian Easley?" Paul said, recalling the name with some hesitation. "If this is really harmless," Adrian said in a firm voice, "and if the fraternity really needs the money, why are we the only ones doing it?" "Your fraternity brothers will contribute to the fund as well, in their own way," said Jeremy the treasurer, equally firmly. "They are not required to submit themselves for the experiment, but if they wish to do so, and make that their contribution, we won't stop them. It's five hundred dollars a head, or the equivalent number of labor hours, or the equivalent value in materials." "So if I had five hundred dollars to contribute," Adrian continued, unperturbed, "I would therefore be excused?" Jack nodded to himself. This Adrian was an individualist. An only child, he had said during Rush Week, and an A student. Everything about him said he was neat, organized, and thorough. His manner of speaking was patient, possibly arrogant, occasionally condescending. Not white; perhaps Hispanic, by the color of his skin. Round spectacles with silver frames. Auburn hair, blue eyes, and no expression to betray his feelings. The young man's face was a mask. Adrian would need to be broken, Jack thought to himself. "New pledges are required to volunteer for the research experiment," Paul reiterated, and he gave them the smooth smile that had won him the office of chapter president. "Any further contributions you wish to make, of course, would certainly count in your favor." The last of the four freshmen, Casey Wilcox, looked quietly at his own feet. This one, Jack decided, would be much easier to manage. He's half-broken already. Look at him now, the little blond kid with the green eyes. Barely five foot eight. Acts like he's been beat up all his life. Why did we admit this little one in the first place? Oh, yes, he recalled. These were the only four we got. "I don't think I want to be a girl," Casey mumbled. "Doesn't that kind of defeat the point of being in a fraternity?" "Don't worry," Ryan said, trying to sound nobly confident. "Your fraternity brothers will take care of you." Someone snickered. The following Monday, the four freshmen walked to the Biotechnical Research building like four criminals escorting themselves to the gallows. "I cannot believe we're doing this," said Patrick. Despite the warm September evening, he was bundled in a heavy coat -- to hide himself on the way out, he said ominously, from prying eyes. Patrick spit into the landscaped verge beside the sidewalk. "The whole thing's insane. That guy's going to screw with our bodies, bud! Why don't we just say no? No, we're not going to do this." Patrick looked at his companions for a moment in exasperation, expecting an answer, hoping to have flashed a spark of defiance among them. He was young and black and male, and attending college, and therefore already uncomfortably aware he was in the minority. All his life he had had to fight to defend his choice to pursue an education; most of his friends throughout lower levels of school had, one by one, dropped off the educational landscape. The pressure increased as he stayed the course through high school, and Patrick had taken on defensive characteristics: a masculine style of hair, buzzed short on the temples, with a slab of flat-top above; jewelry; tattoos. These decorations were less a declaration of his personality than a warning to others that he was capable of putting up a vicious fight. None of his boyhood friends had gone on to higher learning, at least any that were male. Although it meant that Patrick was something of an unusual figure on campus, a demographic outlier, it also gave him a certain celebrity among the female black students. Among the women, at least, education had not been denigrated. The others trudged on in silence. Patrick sighed heavily and fished a carton of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. "You guys are insane." "There's no need to panic. We stick to the plan," said Adrian calmly. "If we don't push that button, we won't get the maximum duration. We'll be women for only six months." "Only," scoffed Patrick. "Would you prefer the alternative?" Adrian asked calmly, his spectacles glinting in the sunset. "The alternative is not to do it," Patrick declared. "What's wrong with you guys?" "I have no problem with that alternative," Adrian explained in an infuriatingly reasonable way, "but then again, I don't live at the chapter house, whereas you, Patrick, do. So does Dennis, as I recall. If either of you arrive home and you haven't gone through the wringer, they're going to know. What do you think they'll do then?" "I've heard stories about hazing," said Casey Wilcox fervently. His green eyes were muddy with alarm, and he was beginning to stutter. "Duct-taping you to flagpoles and making you drink gallons of beer until you puke and stripping you naked and doing pushups." "All at the same time?" asked Dennis, with mild, amused surprise. "What?" "Never mind," said Dennis, disappointed. "Okay," Patrick said, "so we'll just say we went and got changed just a little bit. Not so you'd notice. What are they going to do, pull our pants down and check?" "Yes," Casey said immediately. "Yes," said Dennis. "Possibly," said Adrian after a pause. "Even supposing they didn't, you'd still be on the hook for five hundred dollars. Do you have that?" Patrick scowled again. It was an expressive look, designed to test the nerves of any who might challenge him. Half of his face twisted into a suspicious squint, and his lip curled. "What, you think I'm broke?" "I think," Adrian said, undisturbed, "that you haven't thought this through." The squint narrowed. "All right, fine. You're right. I don't have five hundred dollars just lying around." "So we go for the lightest sentence possible," Adrian concluded. "Six months." "That's if they're not talking bullshit," Patrick said. "This whole thing could be a trap." "It is a trap," agreed Adrian, "but they're not talking bullshit. I checked." "So did I," Dennis said dryly. "There's nothing like doing a little research to find out what you've been volunteered for. Six months to two years of menstruating and brassieres, sign me up." "Who'd you ask?" Patrick said suspiciously. "The guys in the frat?" "I called the damn office, genius," Dennis said. "Who d'you think I'd call, the Shell Answer Man?" "The who?" Casey asked. Dennis rolled his eyes. "And who'd you check with?" Patrick demanded of Adrian. The Biotech building was looming in the distance now, its glass fascia catching the dying rays of the sun. "I checked with Jack's girlfriend," Adrian said. "You've probably seen her around. Brandy Booth, from Delta Sigma Tau." "Big Brandy?" Patrick described a comically large bosom in the air before his own chest. "That Brandy? Yeah, I've seen her around." "She's Brandon, actually," Adrian said quietly. Patrick and Dennis stopped in their tracks. Adrian and Casey paused a few steps ahead of them and waited for them to catch up. "You're shitting me," Patrick said. "You are absolutely shitting me. That's a guy?" "No," Adrian said. The gritting of his mental teeth did not reflect in his patient tone of voice. "She's a woman. She went into the Biotech building last spring with Jack, as Brandon, and when they came out, she was Brandy. She's going to continue to be Brandy until . . . June of 2013, I think." Dennis let out a long whistle. Two girls by the entrance to the Biotechnical Research building glanced in their direction. "Well, fuck me," Dennis said wonderingly. "Yes," Adrian said with emphasis. "And she's going out with Jack?" Patrick said, his mouth agape. "Apparently, yes." "The man who betrayed her?" "They seem to be very much in love," Adrian said. "They sound it, too," Dennis quipped. "My bedroom is below Jack's." "She's really going out with him?" Patrick demanded again. "For real?" "I'm told," Adrian said, "that Jack broke up with his girlfriend to be with Brandy. At least, that's how some of the guys in the frat put it. Brandy was a bit vague about the whole thing." "Oh jeez," said Casey in a worried tone. "I got a bad feeling about this, guys." "You should," said Adrian. They were now close enough for the automatic doors to see their approach. The entrance slid open like a maw. "Just stick to the plan, and remember Brandy." "Because that is what will happen to us, if we don't stick to the plan?" asked Dennis. "No," said Adrian quite calmly. "Because Jack's already betrayed somebody once." There were several other students waiting in the third-floor commons, clustered around in nervous pairs or uneasy foursomes. Two young men near the glass window-wall on the north side had evidently had the same idea as Patrick, and had worn heavy overcoats. One female student stood at the top of the stairs, stamping impatiently at her friend who had descended to the second-floor landing, as if trying to will her friend with her eyes to rejoin her. "Amber," she pleaded in sing-song. "You said we would do this together." A girlfriend held her man's hands at arms' length, and beside her, another girl held her boyfriend's hands before her. They four looked for all the world as if the two young men were going off to war and leaving their wives behind. Perhaps they would be, at that -- or perhaps the girls would join them in the lab. Obviously they were drinking in the sight of each other before anything . . . happened. They picked up their applications at the information desk. The first few boxes were simple enough, and then came the important question. "Name of partner," Adrian read. "I hadn't considered that. Who's going to pair with whom?" "I dunno," Dennis quipped. "Who's planning to push the button? I don't wanna be his partner." "W-We're pushing the button?" Casey asked, taken aback. "Nobody is pushing the button," Adrian said firmly. "We stick to the plan and we'll all get out of this with only six months each." "I didn't say I was going to push the button," Dennis protested -- but at the same time, he smirked. "Who's going to be my partner?" None of them spoke for a moment, until Patrick said, "Buddy, who trusts you, after saying a thing like that? I don't wanna go in with you, you'll get all button-happy. Fuck that." "I agree," Adrian said. "Whoever is your partner, they'd be an idiot not to push the button now, if only in self-defense." "Fine," Dennis said, and affected an indifferent shrug. "I wasn't going to do it anyway, I was just making a joke." "How about we flip for it?" Patrick asked, digging in the pocket of his ski jacket. He produced a couple of quarters. "Heads, buttonhead here is partners with Adrian. Tails, then me and Casey flip for it." Adrian's eyes glittered as he registered the inequality of the odds against him, but he didn't object. "Fine." The first toss came up tails. Patrick grunted. "Okay. So now, heads means I'm his partner, tails means it's Casey." The second toss also came up tails, and this time Patrick let out a satisfied snort. "Okay. So it's me and you, bud," he said to Adrian. "Who goes first?" asked Casey, shyly. "I--I mean . . ." "William Ennis and Carl Nye," the receptionist called out across the commons. The two young men in trenchcoats shuffled off toward their fate. "I guess they call your name out when they're ready," Patrick guessed. "And not when we're ready," Dennis chuckled. Patrick's lip twisted. "Bud, I'll never be ready." Adrian was unperturbed. "Just stick to the plan." There was only one test being conducted, apparently, and only one set of isolation booths. Only one pair of names was called every ten minutes. The freshmen of Delta Eta Rho had been waiting forty minutes already for their turn. In twenty more, it would be all over. Patrick and Adrian were called first. Dennis and Casey, seated on an upholstered bench, watched them go in silence. They didn't have much to say to each other for the next ten minutes. There didn't seem to be much left to talk about. A few more students climbed the stairs to the commons, passing through to their laboratory science classes. A few lingered around in pairs. Dennis pointed them toward the information desk wordlessly. "I still don't see anybody coming out of there," Casey whispered to Dennis. "I know," Dennis said, without even glancing over. "Stop whispering." "Why do you suppose that is? You think everything is going okay in there?" "Hard to say. Maybe there's a back way out of there." "I bet there is," Casey said, with a look of dawning dread. "I bet that's because the change is so awful that they don't want any of us to get scared off." "Shut up," said Dennis, finally giving Casey an irritable look. "You're not making me feel any better about this who--" Casey saw the stare, and followed Dennis's gaze. "What? . . .Oh." Patrick and Adrian had ascended the stairs to the commons, side by side, and had paused to catch their breath. Patrick looked . . . different. Short hair, as before, buzz-cut on the sides and with a flat top. Defiant look, unchanged. The changes in the face were not bad: Patrick was neither identifiably female nor particularly male. In the shapeless bulges of the blue quilted ski jacket, it was impossible to discern the contours of Patrick's body. The frat-mandated khaki slacks seemed looser than usual, perhaps, and the shoes a little sloppy, but nothing leapt out. Adrian's changes were more obvious. Just slightly so, just enough to send a deep shiver down Casey's back. Adrian's face was slightly finer, as if it its rougher edges had been sanded down. The ethnic tone of his skin, which had before seemed like a mild tan, now seemed the elegant golden, silky-smooth shades of a Latina. His shoulders -- her shoulders -- swam in the too-large pink polo. Just there on the torso were two modest bumps, uncontained by any bra, slightly visible. The nexus between her thighs where the sleeves of her slacks joined was pleated with unusual wrinkles, as if the fit were just subtly wrong. And somehow, Casey noticed, Adrian's auburn hair seemed fuller. The same length, perhaps, and less coarse than before, but more filled-in. The two Delta girls came up before their brethren. Casey looked up at them in awe, and Dennis in horror. "Fuck me," Dennis croaked. He tried to follow that up with something witty, failed, and settled for "fuck me" again. "Yes, we're female," Adrian said, and added, "get over it." Her voice was changed, but it had retained that even tone, that well-tempered undercurrent of patience and intellect. "Oh, Jesus," Dennis said, and crossed his legs. He looked green. Patrick and Adrian exchanged a glance between them, and Patrick nodded. "Come on, bud," she said, sitting down beside Dennis and putting one of her arms around his shoulders. Her bulky ski jacket rustled a tune in the key of nylon. Patrick drew away. Adrian took Casey's hand gently and led him some distance away. "Casey," she said, looking into his eyes, "listen to me, okay?" "You're really a girl?" he blurted out. She smiled tightly. "Apparently. I haven't started to get used to it myself, so don't ask me any questions. You'll find out in a minute and we can compare notes. Listen first, okay?" Casey nodded dumbly, his eyes huge. "When Dennis gets in there, I think he's going to panic. One of the options you get in that booth, once you're inside, is to betray your partner." "I know," Casey said, and repeated the mantra. "Stick to the plan." "No," Adrian said, shaking her head. "I'm sure Dennis is going to betray you." "Why?" "Because it will be the only hope he has not to turn into a girl," Adrian explained patiently. "Professor Ripley will go over the whole thing when you get there, and obviously you need to make your own choice, but--" The newly adjusted woman sighed and turned to peer at Dennis and Patrick over her right shoulder. Dennis was wringing his hands together. Patrick was trying not to roll her eyes in exasperation. "--not the end of the world, bud, it's just--" she was saying. "Look at him," Adrian said with genuine sympathy. "He's scared out of his wits. He's going to hear that offer, that once chance to not be a girl, and he's going to take it. Once he pushes that button, you're definitely going to come out the other side as a girl. The only question is, do you want to stay that way for two years, or for eight years?" The four Delta freshmen walked back to the chapter house together. Adrian and Casey kept the other two company more out of solidarity, and to report to their fraternity brothers that they had kept faith with their promise to help the frat. After all, Adrian and Casey didn't live there with the rest of them. Casey's accommodations were in the private dorms, and Adrian rented an off-campus apartment in nearby Tilmont. Casey and Dennis had changed tremendously. In their mutually exchanged transformations they had reached the medium equilibrium: striking gender changes, obvious contours and curves, and for two years. Casey's unkempt plain blond hair was now a wild mane of back-length tresses; her skin was alabaster; her figure was maidenly, and seemed to move on its own. "I'm jiggling," Casey said in embarrassed wonder. "Is anybody else jiggling?" Dennis grunted an answer in feminine tones. Her own body had become feminine, betraying her previous sex with pronounced breasts and a perfect Greek face. She hated it, wanted to ignore it, and couldn't. Dennis's hair had not grown, as Casey's had, but had become shaped into a boyish bob cut, long on top, short in the back, just like her hair had been before -- only now it was stylishly windblown rather than simply a pile of curls. Greek Row slid past them, house after immaculate house, each adorned with its insignis. It was just past dark, and warm yellow light spilled from every window. Silhouettes passed by the blinds. The girls continued to walk. "I think my hips are different," Casey went on. "I know mine are," said Patrick. She had her hands stuffed into the pockets of her coat, not that she was cold. She just didn't want to look at her hands. Her gaze stayed resolutely forward. "Shut up," Dennis told them. "It's your own fault, Dennis," Adrian said reasonably. "We could all see that you were going to betray Casey. Casey just did the only thing he could do. If he hadn't, then he'd have gotten stuck for eight years, and you'd be off the hook." "This bitch," Dennis said, throwing a spiteful, hot look at Casey, "was supposed to stick to the plan." Her exquisite lips and teeth spit the words at him like seeds. "You were too, Denise," Patrick said. "So you got yours. You got no room to complain about nobody else but yourself." Denise, n?e Dennis, grumbled a non-answer. A cat sat on the hood of a Prius, licking its paw and brushing its face. It paused in its ablutions to watch them pass by. "Denise," Casey said, reveling in her betrayer's name. She essayed a timid little laugh. "Shut up." "Wonder when we get our checks," Patrick asked aloud. The mercury glow of the Delta house exterior lighting shone through the treetops ahead. Somewhere on Greek Row was the sound of a stereo belting out Buckcherry. "They're mailed out," Adrian said. "I'll get mine first. Campus mail can be pretty slow. Give it a couple of days." "Good," Patrick said, with feeling. Beneath her bulky jacket, she appeared to scratch at an itch. "I'll need that money to get a bra. I got sweat under my tits." "There's supposed to be a clothing exchange on campus," Adrian said. "I don't ask what kind of selection they have. I'm not much for used clothing." "I had a big brother growing up," Patrick said. "I still get his hand- me-downs somet--" She paused. "Well, probably not now." "Do you think we'll still have to all wear these pink shirts and brown pants?" Casey asked. They were climbing the porch steps to the front door. "Or is that part of the hazing over?" They pushed open the door and entered the fraternity chapter house of Delta Eta Row, and each of the girls took in the changes. The common room on the ground floor had been cleared, swept, and scrubbed clean. All of the best pieces of furniture -- the two matching red leather armchairs with the brass tack trim, the warm brown upholstered loveseat, the good end table, and the least-battered of the throw rugs, were arrayed against the wall with the best light. Around the room had been placed a tasteful assembly of lamps, plants, and impressive-looking books. The bookcase had been moved down to the common room from the end of the upstairs hall. The other end of the common room was filled with umbrella flashes. Light flooded the door and spilled out into the hall. The girls could see cameras and tripods. Before them in the hall was a box of assorted props. A opera mask, and a feather boa. A pair of black latex boots. A riding crop. A studded collar. Handcuffs. Out of the common room came a statuesque figure that they immediately recognized, particularly because a prominent part of her anatomy had entered the hall well ahead of the rest of her. Brandy Booth was wearing a deep-cleavage corset of iridescent blue, matching fishnet stockings, high heels, and about three pounds of makeup and hairspray. "Oh, good, you're here," Jack Munn's girlfriend gushed at them. "I've already done my shots, we just need to get you girls made up. I'll help with that, I've gotten pretty good at it. Who wants to go first? Maybe you could flip a coin or something -- oh! Isn't the best fundraiser idea ever?" "I think," Adrian said slowly, "that the hazing has only just started."