It was just a small piece on the animal conditions at a nearby shelter, one that had been inspired by her stopping at the glass window on her way home, unable to resist the call of the kittens, front and centre. After some time cuddling a very fluffy ginger cat, Betty had noticed the slight dinginess of the place. It hadn't been overt, but instead it was the small things that piqued her curiosity. It didn't smell quite as clean as she had anticipated it would, and there was mop residue around the edges of the room, dulling, grey, and streaky. And then the intermittent scratching of the small, furry patients caught her eye.

Fleas.

It wasn't uncommon, she was sure. That many animals in such a small space meant things must spread quickly. Like small children, daycare, and cold-sharing. It didn't seem to be from lack of care; there were employees clearly visible, actively caring for the animals and cleaning, so she doubted very much it had to do with the people working here.

So, when her mother's voice had cropped up in her head - "Leave it alone, Betty," - she'd immediately disregarded it and approached the closest worker.

For his part, he didn't really seem comfortable answering all her questions about his work place, but eventually she learned that their funding had been cut and that flea treatment hadn't been provided for a few weeks; they were scrambling to find a solution.

So Betty'd set to work.

"Oh, Betty, good," Veronica waltzes in through Betty's open door, hands clasped in front of her chest. "I wanted to let you know Daddy made a generous contribution to the shelter you mentioned in your video, and I made him promise he would mention it to his board as well."

Betty blinks.

"What?"

"The shelter? Don't tell me you've forgotten. Buzzfeed hasn't."

"...What?" she repeats, feeling confusion hinder her ability to put the puzzle pieces together.

"Oh my god, did you not see?" Veronica whips her phone out of her bag and steps closer to show her.

There's her face, in the thumbnail for one of her latest videos, embedded in a Buzzfeed article and suddenly things get extremely and uncomfortably unfocused. Blood is rushing in her veins and whooshing in her ears and her vision is black and spotty and -

"Hey, stay with me," Veronica's voice is detached from her body, her face, and Betty blinks blindly. "I'm so sorry, I thought you knew. I think it's fantastic, why didn't you say you were -"

Veronica continues buzzing away on the subject as Betty concentrates on breathing. Her face. Her video. Her story.

Massive platform.

Exposure.

What had she done?

"Daddy says they didn't know about it either, until he showed up to see the place himself and - well, anyway, he made a donation."

Betty doesn't know what to do, and so for the following week, she keeps her head down and doesn't make any more videos and watches her view count rise and rise and rise. Deciding she should probably go apologize to the shelter, Betty dresses and leaves the apartment.

"Hi," she starts awkwardly, "is there a manager or a supervisor around I could speak to?"

"One secon - oh! Oh my gosh!"

The girl is staring at her, eyes wide and bright.

"You're the girl who made the video!"

Betty grimaces.

"Yeah, look, I'm really sorry I didn't ask permission or -"

There's a lot of action and shuffling and suddenly her hand is being seized. An older man is shaking it enthusiastically, and he's positively beaming at her.

"CoopDeGrâce? You're really her?" he asks, hopeful.

"I - yes, that's me. Well, that's my channel name, really - I'm Betty Cooper."

And she spends the next hour being introduced to the employees and then the animals, all of which seem to be scratching at their collars much less than they had been the last time she was here. She stands for people, for pictures with her, has her hand shaken many times, has thanks pressed into her bewildered state.

She was expecting to have to apologize; she used clips from her phone in the video, none of which had been authorized by the establishment. She was expecting -

Not this.

"Our donations have gone up considerably in the last week, and it's undeniably because of you, Betty. Thank you; I don't know how we would have continued for any substantial amount of time if you hadn't taken it upon yourself -"

With their words echoing around inside her cranium, she manages to leave, to shake off their hands and their embraces and their close proximity, and she take a deep, deep breath when she steps out onto the street.

Well.

That was unexpected.

"People are tweeting you. Like, a lot."

Veronica appears in the kitchen on Sunday morning, and Betty jumps at the sound of her voice.

"Veronica - hi," she blurts.

The dark-haired woman is decked in silk pajama shorts, the royal shade of purple suiting her skin tone, and a breezy top Betty's sure is designed to withstand the summer heat of the city.

"Yes, hi," she continues, pouring herself some of the coffee Betty made less than an hour ago. "People are tweeting you."

"How? I don't have a Twitter." A Twitter. Betty rolls her eyes.

"I know, so I made you one," she chirrups.

"You what?" Betty's jaw drops open.

"People need to be able to interact with you, Betty," Veronica informs her, and Betty blinks, frozen.

"Why? Why would they ever want to do that?"

"Are you even aware of social media? I mean, I thought you were, because of the channel but, like, how up on modern technology are you?"

Betty's blank look must have told Veronica all she needed to know, because she launches into a speech about how she made Betty accounts on all the major social media platforms so that she could have the same handle across the board, before people started taking them in her place.

"It's good business, Betty. People want to talk to you about the content you've put out. Honestly, I had no idea you were into this reporting thing." Veronica takes another sip of coffee.

"I didn't either, really," Betty says. "My parents own a small town paper, but I've never seriously considered following in their footsteps…"

"Uh, I think this is setting a precedent, actually. Anyway, what's your email? I'll transfer them all to you. I haven't responded to anything on your behalf, of course, so you have some catch up to do."

Betty spends the afternoon lost in trying to figure out the difference between a retweet and a subtweet, and how exactly hashtags work. To her credit, she seems to catch on pretty quickly.

' CoopDeGrâce I adopted the orange tabby from your video!'

' CoopDeGrâce you are soooo pretty'

' CoopDeGrâce great little video! Pls make more'

' CoopDeGrâce how do u curl ur hair i need to know'

And on and on. Veronica was right. She's been mentioned a bunch of times, and responds to as many tweets as possible before eating becomes necessary. It's all a blur to her, and her phone will not shut up.

"Why don't you disable notifications?" Veronica asks casually, and Betty makes a mental note to look into it later when she can actually think again.

"Doesn't that sort of defeat the purpose, though?" she asks the other girl.

"No, you can always look through your mentions and stuff. Should we get pizza tonight? I think we should get pizza tonight."

A/N: Can't stop, won't stop.