The Ad Hoc is deadly calm, switched down to conversation. The Cold Man remembers them as harsh and robotically terse, but this one’s voice is like butterscotch.
“Your attributes are both unique and essential to the operation,” it purrs, “and it’s known that your fidelity has an excellent return on investment.”
“Th-think ab-abou-ab-at-about i-it?” He manages. “G-gotta pi-p-p-piss.”
It nods like a drinking bird.
In the bathroom, thinking fast, the Cold Man drops his gaze from the wall to the urinal. The bulbous head of its pipe-cap doubles his reflection, makes it reversible: one trunk, two heads, like a playing card.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Despite her sharpness, scorn and blatant psychosis, Darlene is growing on Rob. There’s a pride and a spark in her that he can respect, if not exactly like.
He doubts there’s anything of the sort in Salem, though.
The man has distinct, nearly visible rings of smell, like Saturn, each level adding a complex new flavor to the horror: fish, wet dog, urine, ancient sweat and, innermost, breath. Right now, Rob thinks he can actually smell the decay of the man’s teeth.
“What’s the matter, little snack?” Salem leers, thrusting the stick at him. “We got a soft spot for froggies?”
“Mountains,” Dell tells himself one morning, and goes dumpster-diving for hours. When he came back he takes hammer and chisel and knocks the corners off all his finds, then builds Teresopolis out of their angles: porcelain, steel, pasteboard and chrome. He’s careless at some point, and tears his hand on an edge. Sharp as a memory. Dell licks the wound clean.
He found something of his own, today: a broken tape deck, ancient consignment to Goodwill, with his name in Sharpie inside the battery case. It gives him faith. Everything comes back to you, he’s certain, if you look long enough.
Kinder knows perfectly well that the letter isn’t something she can lose; it’s stored well and safely in her inbox, and on whatever remote server collects all her email. But she printed it out to carry it in a pocket, and its sudden tangibility has made it fragile and rare to her.
It’s 2:43 am as she slumps home, an ache of exhaustion in her wrists, in her hips and lower back. Kinder’s alone in the crystal-cold air of something that’s not yet morning, but a touch of the letter in her pocket warms her. It’s a whisper; she’s a coal.
The sound, it turns out, is Garvey hitting a bus with another bus. There are people in the buses. Some are screaming. Others are dead.
Garvey’s not really all that huge, and Lissa forces herself to think about how massive he must be, to hold the bus by one end. It’s going to matter.
She reaches him, kicks the board away and grabs, swinging around his neck like a toy. Then she swaps their gravities. It’s impossible. It hurts. Her muscles nearly collapse, and the air is driven from her lungs within a second.
But a second is all she needs.
Annette wanted to ask somebody at the grocery which of the apples would be easiest to hold in her mouth all day, but she couldn’t think of a good follow-up and didn’t really want to divulge the rest. They ended up settling on a carrot–less sweet, less sexy, but hopefully the platter and rope will make up for that.
She wiggles around on the table, trying not to upset anything, trying to see the clock. How many hours now? It’s all very nice, and sure, the sex is worth it, but right now she really wants to scratch her nose.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
“Hey,” says Tam, frowning. “You notice this? Fourth Form Stone and Seventh Form Metal match each other.”
“Like a dance?” says Winter.
“Or a scripted fight.”
“It makes sense. Kata must start somewhere.”
“Then why don’t they tell us that?” says Tam. “Why aren’t we ever supposed to mix styles?”
“Maybe you’re wrong.” Winter grins, then bounces up. “Wanna find out?”
Tam laughs, stands, bows and takes Metal Stance. They begin to spar, and it’s fun, and it matches perfectly. They’re enjoying it, almost at the finish–
Until Winter blocks a strike, and bang, flash, sparks skid from their astonished hands.
The little red Aspire in which Calbert drives himself and Dorcas everywhere is long past dead, is in fact undead, something Calbert refuses to acknowledge. He loves the Aspire, even though it makes tortured shrieks when starting, stopping, reversing or driving a 2% grade. Even though its left rear brake light is smashed, covered with duct tape. (At least, Calbert says, it’s red duct tape.)
The truth is that Calbert sees himself as the Aspire: small, battered, and determined. Deep down, Calbert knows that his little car can fly.
He’s wrong, but only because Dorcas keeps putting PCP in the soup.
“The fuck!” explodes Toe.
“Can’t believe a girl beat you to it?” Dylan says, airy.
“It has nothing to–” starts Tyler.
“Faust deserved to die.” She stares them down, willing herself to be hard. “For Alex.”
“Was it hard?” asks Phillip quietly.
So fast, he’s so fast, blade flickering out from his sleeve. But she’s fast too, heel of her hand snaps out to break it with a cheap-toy spang but the short edge is still coming, one chance, one weapon, the broken blade flipping away. She’s fast, has to be, has to catch it–
She shrugs. “He was candy.”
“I’d name my son Ezekiel,” announces Duke.
“Ezekiel?” says Rudy.
“E-za-kayl,” he repeats with relish. “Ezekayl Dianté Quinnon.”
“I know you didn’t just put my son’s name in yours!” objects Rudy. “I told you I’m a name my son Kwinnay.”
“How y’all gonna argue over names now?” grumbles Monica, but secretly she’s thinking the same things. She wants daughters, herself, and they’ll have new and beautiful names, original poetry just for them. No more Monicas, no more Dukes. Their children will all be called by music, names you could dance to, names you could step to: Dionna, B’Lynn, Alonsé Kitala Quinnon.