It's Always Time Act 02 Ch. 02

Fée Galatea bounced out of the car and burned some nanomek in an extended fingertip to lock the door. Mossy and forest green were the perfect camouflage colors for urban shadows on a moonless night. She rolled up the alley, her lower body a single mass of suggestive curves, not making a sound. Sneaking down a busy thoroughfare would be trickier, however. She opted to run in a long, winding rivulet up a drainpipe and along bundles of electric cabling strung between telephone poles down the street. The main street turned out to be not very busy after all. A brood of goths eyeballed a flock of art majors, debating whether etiquette permitted both groups to patronize the neighborhood head shop at the same time. Fée Galatea could only tell the difference between the rival gangs by the black duster coats on the former and the black mock turtlenecks on the latter. A couple of cars jammed full of frat brothers jounced past an idling, dusty blue van. Pretty quiet for a Thursday night this close to campus. She pooled into a darkened doorway across the street from Dee's destination, and started her stakeout.

Sample stencils and inks covered the storefront windows, forcing Fée Galatea to filter out visible light and focus on infrared and electromagnetic radiation. Dee's heat signature was unmistakable but he was standing in the middle of the shop rather than in one of the dentist's chairs like she thought he would be. A burly man even taller than Dee tried to hand over something. Dee stood stock still, flushing hotter than Galatea had ever seen him. What the fuck? She burned over thirty thousand nanomek to eavesdrop, focusing on the microvibrations in the storefront window caused by the noises inside.

"You take them," the big man rasped. "I certainly can't use them any more, and, honestly kid, I never want to see them again for the rest of my damn life."

"I'll pay for them," Dee said, voice hollow and monotone. Fée Galatea felt a stab of fear.

"No need," the man said. Dee took a step toward him and the man flinched. "Sorry, kid," the man said, palms raised, "but you scare me, and I don't scare easy. Do whatever you're going to do and go."

Dee said nothing and made for the door. "Hold up," the man said, shaking his head, "I thought you'd come in here for a laugh, to fuck with my head and stir some shit up, but you're just as scared as I am, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Let's make a deal, then, you and me," the man said. The object in his hand rustled. Fée Galatea guessed it was a cardboard box or maybe a plastic envelope. "I'll keep one. I've got a safe in the backroom. It has a false bottom, just in case some asshole ever manages to get past me trying to rob the place. I'm going to put this in there and forget about it. I've got a couple of grandkids. They're rugrats now and their ma doesn't speak to me, hasn't even called in years. But if she ever comes around and lets them visit, I'll take them back there, show them what's under the false bottom of that safe, and tell them the story. You keep the rest, 'cause the story will be cooler if I can tell them you only let me keep the one. That'll make us square. Deal?"

Dee smiled, but Fée Galatea could tell it was thin and forced. "It's a deal." He stuck out his hand. The man stared at it. "Shake my hand," Dee choked out. "It won't be right otherwise. I won't feel human otherwise."

The man stared a minute longer. "Damn, I can't end the story with, 'And I was too much of a chickenshit to shake his hand,' now can I?" They shook hands and Dee pocketed the container. "Done deal," the man sighed, relaxing. Fée Galatea did not realize how tense and terrified he had been beforehand. "You've got a Hell of grip, there, kid."

"My name's Dee—"

"Don't," the man interrupted. "Don't tell me. You never know when a secret identity might come in handy."

Dee nodded and moved for the door. Fée Galatea spooled up a rain gutter and threaded across the electric cables intersecting overhead before Dee stepped onto the sidewalk, keeping a few paces ahead of him, vision clusters scattered to provide a three hundred and sixty degree view of his amble back to the car. I've seen him scared, worried, angry, confused, and even weepy, she thought, but I've never seen Dee unhappy until now. What happened?

The goths and art students had made peace and crowded the head shop. The driver of the dusty blue van had made a poor effort at parallel parking before abandoning it. A sporty yellow SUV drove by but screeched to a sudden stop about half a block after it past Dee. What now? Fée Galatea protracted a thin pseudopod for a better look and listen. The SUV brimmed with a gaggle of girls in college skank-wear: tight black jeans, white v-necked, one-size-too-small men's tee-shirts, and gaudy gold necklaces.

They gabbed at each other: "Who is that? Who is that?" "Holy shit. Hole. Lee. Shit!" "I've found a piece a paper, anyone got a pen?" "I've got lipstick." "Okay, who's going to give it to him?" "Not me." "Me neither." "But we've got to. He's getting away!" "Let's go together." "Okay."

The passenger doors of the SUV popped open and three girls dropped onto the pavement. They scampered after Dee. "Hey. Hey!" one shouted, but when Dee turned around she blanched. "Um. Uh. Um."

Her brunette companion pulled a piece notepaper scrawled with lipstick from her purse. "We're, uh, having a party at our sorority tomorrow. Epsilon Zeta. This is, uh," said, brandishing the paper at him, "this is the address. And my phone number." The blanching blonde had enough presence of mind to elbow her in the ribs. "Oof, uh, I mean our phone numbers."

"What?" said Dee. The girls startled at his voice. "Why?"

"To Hell with the party," mused the third. "How about tonight? How about right now? Our car's pretty full but we can make room."

"You can sit in the middle," said the brunette.

"I'll sit in your lap," gushed the blonde. Her face drained even paler. "Oh God," she whispered. "I'm an idiot."

Dee shook his head. "I don't—"

"Don't say another word. Just think about it," the brunette insisted, pushing the notepaper into Dee's hand. "And call. Or come by. Whatever. Whenever. Okay?" The blonde tugged at the brunette's shirt, dragging her back toward the car. "Okay. We got to go," she said and fled.

The three girls piled into the car, giggling and groaning in turn. "'I'll sit in your lap,'" Fée Galatea heard the brunette mock. "Fuck that. I'll sit on his fa—" The engine roared and the SUV lurched into gear.

The DDAA just doubled its membership. Through her panoramic view, Fée Galatea saw Dee blink at the notepaper and crumple it into a jacket pocket. She had to race ahead of Dee to sneak back into the car before he reached the mouth of the alley. She practiced an unworried smile in the rearview mirror. "Hi!" she said when Dee opened the driver side door. "Did you get it? Can I see?"

"No," Dee said, leaning in to turn the key in the ignition. The radio and cabin lights flickered on. "I mean, I didn't get it." He found the cigarette lighter and pushed it into its socket. "I couldn't get it."

Don't sound scared. That will only make him feel worse. Look confused. He loves that thing you do with your eyebrows when you get confused. "Why not?"

Dee stood just outside the open door. He reached in. Fée Galatea did her best not to shrink back. "What's that?" she said, staring at the rattling, grey cardboard box in his hand.

"See for yourself."

Fée Galatea peered into the box. A handful of long, hollow needles rolled around inside. She plucked one out. Its tip was bent flat. She picked out another. Its tip had broken off. "I don't understand," she said, pulling out a third. This needle's tip curled back around on itself in a snail shell spiral.

"I think you do," said Dee.

The tip of the fourth needle flared like an umbrella turned inside out by the wind. "Honest," Fée Galatea said as the cigarette lighter popped up from its socket. "I don't understand. I'm, I'm scared."

Dee pulled out the lighter, its coiled wire filaments glowing orange-hot. He pressed it against the lipstick covered notepaper. The paper smoked. "There's something I've got to do," he said, blowing on the paper to keep it burning, "and then you and I are going to talk. If you lie to me again, if you lie just one more time, we're through. Do you understand?"

No, no, God no. It's much too soon. "Yes."

Dee shut the door and crossed the alley to where someone had stood a steel metal drum on its end. Dee dropped the smoldering paper onto the lid of the drum, feeding the growing flames with discarded newspaper and old flyers advertising garage bands. After coaxing a modest but steady blaze out of the rubbish, he stepped back and produced the tin of SRU thickener from a jacket pocket.

"Don't get it wet, right, Tomoe?" he said, unscrewing the lid. "Let's see if the damned stuff will burn."

A strangled cry echoed down the alley. "No! Please no!"

A man in a black tee-shirt staggered out from shadow. The baleful light of the burning trash lent a demonic cast to his bulging eyes and unkempt tufts of red hair. "Please, no," he said again.

"Bernie?" Dee said, unbelieving. "Is that you?"

"Bee," the man said. He moved closer, one hand behind his back. "Everyone just calls me 'Bee.' Except you, Deiter."

"You look like you haven't slept in days."

Bee swiped a forearm across his brow. A tire iron dangled from his loose grip. "Snape killed Dumbledore, you know," he said.

"What the Hell is that supposed to mean?" Dee asked. "Are you talking about this?" He held up the tin of thickener. "I guess you must know about this. You're my downstairs neighbor, the guy who keeps banging away."

Bee laughed, nodding, stepping closer still, his grin maniacal.

"This isn't magic, Bernie," Dee told him. "It's not kid stuff, at least. It's dangerous, possibly deadly. I've got to get rid of it."

"Do you know how Snape killed Dumbledore?" Bee cackled, pointing the tire iron like wizard about to duel with a wand.

"I don't have time for this," Dee said, turning his back to Bee, holding the tin over the greasy flames.

"Avada kedavra," intoned Bee, swinging the tire iron in a lethal, downward arc.

Fée Galatea threw herself against the shatterproofed window. Too far it's too far I'll never get— The heavy, socketed tire iron accelerated to almost thirty miles per hour before it connected with the base of Dee's skull with enough force to smash through bone and sever the spine in an internal decapitation.

"Ow," Dee said, "quit it."

Bee collapsed. The tire iron thunked on the pavement. "My wrist," he hissed, rocking, "I think you broke my fucking wrist."

Fée Galatea flattened her face against the window. What's going on? she thought. Dee stared down at Bee, then at something on the pavement. What the Hell's happening? Dee reached for the tire iron. Oh God. Oh no. He scrutinized the iron in the wavering firelight. The end of the iron bent sideways at a crazy angle. The cracks in the floor. He rubbed his unblemished neck, as if puzzling through a twisty riddle. The busted tattoo needles. After a moment's hesitation, Dee let go of the iron and dropped his hand into the fire. I get it now. Dee held up a handful of burning newspaper, flames licking about his unharmed fingers, until the paper curled and crumbled into soot. He's so solid.

This is way too dangerous, she thought, and way too soon. Fée Galatea peeled away from the window, trails of her gel sticking to the glass in strings and streamers. And turning me on way too much. What kind of sick fuck am I? Wait. What is he doing?

The tin of thickener was in Dee's hands again. "Do you really want this?" he asked, sounding dazed. "Do you really want it that much?"

Bee glared at him.

Dee secured the lid. "Take it," he said, and tossed the tin end over end. Bee's hands shot out to grab it. He yelped in pain but held on tight, faltered to his feet, and stumbled up the alley and out of sight.

Fee Galatea shrank back into the passenger seat. Oh, shit.

* * * *

"Cherry, cherry, cherry," Bee said, chucking tiny boxes into his shopping cart one at a time. "God damn it, is that all the cherry Jell-O you assholes have?!"

The husky stock boy down the aisle stared at him. "We close at nine, sir," he advised, "that's in fifteen minutes."

Bee struggled with his cart and winced at the flaring pain. He fumbled for the padded wrist splint he nabbed from the first aide aisle earlier. "I said, where's all the God damned cherry Jell-O!" He ripped the splint's plastic packaging apart with his teeth. Grunting and whimpering, Bee inexpertly bound his swollen wrist. Just a sprain, he thought. I would've broken his fucking neck, but that pussy Dee wasn't even man enough to break my wrist.

The stock boy sighed. "Try the restock carton at the back of the shelf," said he, keeper of secret grocer lore, "behind the pudding mixes."

Bee pushed past instant pudding. The soft splint made him clumsy but eased the pain. "Cherry," he muttered again, dropping another box into his cart. "Cherry—ow. Cherry, cherry—ow!. Fuck it," he said, rubbing his wrist.

"What're going to do with all that stuff?" said the clerk. "Make Jell-O shots?"

"Fuck it," muttered Bee again and emptied the contents of the restock carton into his cart.

"Host a Jell-O wrestling contest?" the clerk hazarded.

Bee fixed the clerk with his berserk grin, exposing every tooth. "Are you deaf? I told you, I'm going to fuck it. Now ring me up or I'm going to fuck you."

* * * *

The last of the green fairy's experiences integrated with Galatea's memory web: the terrible, silent drive back to the apartment followed by the strange mix of pity and envy she felt when facing a version of herself that knew nothing of SRU, how it felt to be horny yet happy, how it felt to no longer need Dee but to want him more than ever, and how close they were to losing everything.

Fingers slippery and unsteady, she traced the curves of the X sketched on the printer paper. "You wanted a tattoo," she whispered.

Dee fell into the couch next to her. "It felt weird," he said, "seeing that mark on you but not on me. I thought getting a tattoo of your cross over my heart would be a goofy, romantic trifle. I wanted your mark on me, not just the other way around. But you had marked me already, hadn't you?"

The tire iron clunked onto the table and Dee placed the box of needles next to it. "When the first tattoo needle bent against my skin, Jack—that's the name of the guy who owns the tattoo parlor—Jack didn't say anything," Dee said, opening the box. "When the next two needles broke, he just laughed, said something about getting a bad batch, and picked out a new needle kit. After the fourth blew out, he switched machines to something he called a 'Custom Iron.' It looked like a cross between an antique sowing machine and something out of a cyberpunk story. It scared the crap out of me."

Dee pulled out the needle with the spiral tip. "Anyway, Jack leaned close and swore he actually saw this thing curl up. And when I said, 'I thought the machine was breaking them; I haven't felt a thing,' he just swore and rolled away from me on his dental stool like I had the plague. I gather you know the rest." Galatea nodded.

"I think," Dee sighed, "I think I need to have a little scene now. I've been rehearsing it my head the whole trip back." Galatea nodded again. "Okay, here goes: I wanted your mark on me, but you had marked me already, hadn't you? You just didn't tell me."

"I—"

"That's right, you did tell me. 'Oh, you've eaten,' you said. 'I told you, I don't need it,' you said. And when you told me that I made you boil, you weren't exaggerating, were you? You actually boiled."

"Yes, but—"

"What were you thinking when you fed me nanomek? It was during the Fifteen Point Fleshlight Palm Technique, wasn't it? That's what I don't remember, you force feeding me the nanomek, and what happened to me after. What did you want the nanomek to do, give me a bigger dick, bigger sperm count, something like that?"

Jeez, Galatea thought, he says he wants to talk but doesn't let me get a word in edgewise. "Dee, you've got to understand that that was before—"

"I understand. I don't care, but I understand. It's who you doesn't understand. Tomoe told me the nanomek never does what it's expected to do. Ever. Not for her, not even for you. It's not just thickening my cum..." He must be really mad, Galatea thought as Dee snagged the tire iron, he said the word 'cum' without blushing or even blinking. "...it's thickening me," he said, and tied the groaning tire iron into a knot before snapping it in half with a quick twist of the wrist.

Galatea wanted to say, You're solidifying, you mean, but she let Dee scowl at her for a minute and instead said, "Are we finished talking now?"

"Sorry for the angst-ridden soliloquy," Dee said, standing up. "I've been rehearsing it for a while, like I said. Anyway, I'm going out."

"Aren't you even going to listen to what I have to say?" Galatea asked, frustration and ire rising.

"Yes," Dee said, "but when I get back."

Galatea felt a gush of relief. "You mean," she said, "you mean you aren't leaving me?"

"No," Dee said, "maybe. I don't know. You've done something to me. You're doing something to me. I guess I'm a control freak, because I'm really freaking out right now."

"Dee, I haven't done anything—"

"You're changing me, Galatea." Dee marched to the front door. "But it would be stupid to make any decisions about us right now. I've got to go out. Alone. I've got to get away, by myself, to be myself, for a while. I'll be back. If I can still move. If I'm still alive."

"But Dee," Galatea wailed, hating herself for sounding so desperate, "I'm not changing you. I can't tell you now...there's so much I still don't understand...but you aren't changing."

Dee slammed the front door behind him, cracking the frame and ruining the lock.

"You're just becoming more you," Galatea whispered.

* * * *

Don't believe in fear,

Don't believe in faith,

Don't believe in anything

That you can't break.

—Garbage, Stupid Girl

* * * *

Interlude: She'll Sho'nuff Show You

The bulky, express mail package waited outside Bee's front door. "Always thinking ahead," Bee muttered, fumbling his keys into the lock. Plastic grocery bags bulging with boxes of gelatin dangled from his left thumb. He pitched the bags through the door and made a grab for the package, but a sharp spark of pain from his wrist floored him. Too heavy. He kicked the box into his apartment, shuffled in on his knees, and bumped the door closed with his butt.

Bee found the box cutter in the kitchen. A green water stain spread over the ceiling but nothing leaked through like it did in the bedroom. Bee knelt over the package and carved it up with the box cutter, spilling Styrofoam peanuts across the floor. A stainless steel, sixteen gauge, sixty quart mixing bowl rolled out of the wreckage. "I'm such a badass eBay sniper," Bee said.

Bee piled the Jell-O boxes onto the kitchen table before pinning the cauldron between his forearms. "Brilliant, grasshopper," he said and brought the bowl crashing down onto the stove. "Okay, let's see. I've got about 30 packets. One packet needs, what," Bee pondered, squinting at the instructions on the back of a Jell-O box, "one cup of boiling water, then one cup of cold water. That's sixty cups...aw, fuck, only 15 quarts? I spent four hundred bucks on this damn thing!" He punched the mixing bowl and promptly passed out from the pain, whacking his face against the metal rim on the way down.