[Morality 15 or higher] You sincerely care, actually.

You frown. "Plans?" It takes you a few seconds to understand what she's implying. "What? No! I just... I just want to help her. She's obviously in pain, and... well, we have to help her, right?"

Devi beams at you with something more earnest than arousal, and without warning she leans forward to kiss you again. Withdrawing, and leaving you slightly dumbfounded by how soft and sincere it felt, she whispers, "I knew you were good, Mr. Peck... this is why I love you."

Her tone is as loving as it is sultry, and it takes every strand of your willpower to not return it. You have to remind yourself, at almost every moment you share, that she's not really being herself, and her honeyed words are naught but cravings for another dose of your dick, another reminder of what you did to her. Her addiction has to wait: that poor woman upstairs needs your help.

You sober up enough with these thoughts that you manage to peel off Devi's embrace. "I... I'm in no mood, not while knowing she could be suffering more while we... enjoy ourselves. We should go upstairs right now."

Your words are all but a command, and so Devi's sultry expression melts away."Of course," she replies neutrally. For a moment, you see it: the Devi you grew up with, an impenetrable and quasi-stoic figure, recovered from the state you put her in. It affords you a brief hope... one crushed by her thin smile. "... and afterwards, we should discuss additional experiments."

A few moments later, you and Devi take to the spiral stairwell of your building; you don't dare the elevator just to go one story up, given its tendency for malfunctions and, at this hour, stranding unfortunate tenants. Devi leads you to the Cross' apartment, and you find that the spacing of the doors suggests that this one, too, is a nicer apartment than your own. You focus your jealousy on the knuckle-dragging gorilla of a man who lives here, that vaguely-Caucasian musclehead named Daniel Cross, instead of on the sobbing woman you came to investigate and help... and nothing more, despite Devi's overtones.

You knock once, and wait. You open your senses wide and detect the nearest women beyond Devi: birth control, birth control, menstruating, birth control... and then ovulating, mere paces from the door and now against it, no doubt to peer at you through her peephole. You look into the glass eye and speak just loud enough to be heard by her, and virtually anyone in the halls. "Mrs. Cross, are you alright?" You remain nervous; you can detect women from considerable distances, sure, but men could still sneak up on you. With any luck, Mr. Cross was out for the day.

"... Who are you? Are you friends with that... that terrible woman who-?" The voice was high and muffled through the door, but you can still tell she all but bit her tongue to keep from yelling her version of Devi's reported encounter. You'd never met her, of course, and you heard she was young, but you're still surprised to hear what sounds like a teenager from the depths of the man-ape's home. Her tone indicates she's still upset with Devi, making you second-guess your decision to bring her. You turn to your lover with a **** look on your face, not knowing what to answer, and so she grabs your arm and press her body against you.

"Derek here has shown me the wrong in my actions... and saved my soul."

You look at her in astonishment. As far as you remember, you never saw her deliver such an absolute lie while looking so sincere. Unless she actually convinced herself of what she just said, which would be worrying...

... but you're reassured by the silence that follows. You turn to the door and add, "I'm just a concerned neighbor... I'd say more, but talking through the door would be-" You hear the sound of a tiny chain- and of the locks being disengaged. The well-worn door, painted a loud green to cover the rot underneath, opens a crack, the brass glint of a doorchain hanging over you like a stretch of off-season mistletoe. "... im... polite..." A near-albino ginger greets you there in the doorway, her crystal blue eyes glittering with recent tears, red along their edges from the same. Her giant red mane of hair, a both wavy and curly mess, is too heavy to maintain volume properly and instead droops in chaotic, winding paths behind her. The slightest hint of freckles dots her neck and the uppermost parts of her chest, peeking out from an almost oversized tank top with a massive, stylized crucifix fading on it. It is "almost" because while she doesn't have her monstrous husband's monstrous torso, she makes up for it in cup: double-D, or G, or some other, insane imaginary letter that indicates a future of back problems for this woman. Each of her colossal tits is swollen, yet perkier than you'd expect (but not perky enough to be fake), and veiny in the hints of them that you catch out of the edges of the tank top. The top droops over her breasts like queen-sized sheets on a king-sized bed, and her midriff peeks out between this and a pair of jean hot pants. Though she has a rather plain face bereft of makeup, you still find yourself suddenly and uncomfortably aroused. Given your earnest intent before now, embarrassment with yourself crawls up your back... and the sudden squeeze on your arm indicates that the lesbian scientist might share each of those sentiments, save your shame.

Unfortunately, whole seconds pass while you both struggle to raise your eyes up from ogling her body. Disgusted, she tries to close the door. "W-wait, I-" You put your foot forward, causing the door to groan with the impact, and her eyes go wide. "I heard you crying." Her reaction only softens in that anger is replaced by embarrassment. "I just want to help... even if it's just lending you an ear."

She looks at you, silent except an audible sniffle, and only turns away when she hears the tiny, guiltless cry of her baby son. You turn instinctively towards it as well, and apparently look concerned enough to convince her of your sincerity. She nods at you, and quickly lets you in before running off into the bedroom to fetch her child. Even now, with honest concern in your chest and Devi on your arm, you can't not appreciate it: her massive thighs and ass, that toned but thick waist, her picturesque birthing hips. This woman was some kind of paragon of motherhood, save her distress and... Cross.

No, not her husband, Mr. Cross. Cross. A cross. Crosses. Crucifixes. Fucking. Everywhere. The nearest wall is dotted with three versions of the Christ in suffering, and portrait of the savior sits over an artificial fireplace in which some miserable male figure in robes, probably Judas, suffers. You turn from that to the living room sofa with a cross-bearing throw-cloth over it, the porcelain Mother Mary statues on the coffee table, the Bible quotes pinned to the wall in scrolls, (almost all of them, bizarrely, from Leviticus). A cross wind chime hangs by a window that you're honestly surprised isn't made of stained glass portrayals of the Second Coming. Another Bible quote, vaguely about a woman's duty, sits over both the kitchen entrance and the bedroom doorway into which she just vanished. Only one family portrait exists in plain view: the happy Mrs. Cross, with a newborn in her arms, the ever-angry Mr. Cross clutching her in his half-bear hug, and a tall, lanky Catholic priest behind them, dripping water on the baby's head. Even in this memorial baptism photo, the Father looks terrified of the father.

"We need her," Devi almost hisses into your ear, distracting you from your observation and slow build-up of discomfort. Noting your unsure glance, she adds, "Only you can get her out of here, Derek."

She shut her mouth as Mrs. Cross appears again... with her massive left tit, larger than a human head, bared. A massive, engorged nipple all but hangs from her ridiculous udder, and this stunning scene is only doused by the fact that her son's tiny head censors it with a hungry mouth. Guilt and arousal wrestle in you, not unlike when you enslaved the old friend who even now was quietly sighing her arousal.

"Sorry, he's got quite the appetite... I didn't... catch your name, Mister...?"

"Peck!" you eagerly offer. "Derek Peck."

She smiles as she takes a seat on the long couch, framed entirely by the will of her God. "I'm Ophelia Cross," she sighs.