Mickie

So Mickie. Jeez, this could fill a book. But let’s not worry about the all and everything and just get to the important points, the salient details, as it were.

Mickie was a girl I knew in high school. We fell in love and were part of the same girl gang for awhile. The Wrecking Crew, is what they called us. For a very short time, like a week—but bear in mind it felt like a year, seriously—we were going to get married and have babies and stuff. You could say thank goddess we didn’t and all that, and I know I have many times, but I dunno. When you are in those moments in life, they are real. And they stick around in your head and in your heart.

We did, by the by, go on to have to babies. Two, like we planned. Just not with each other.

There was a time where her memory was like a searing poker in my mind’s eye. And longer still that I thought I would one day find a way to be with her again. Or at least see her again and gain some kind of psychological closure.

The list, you say gently. Reminding me why we’re actually here and what we’re going to do.

“Right,” I say. “The list. Of questions. About Wendy.”

I exhale and put my head between my legs. “Let’s work on it once we land.”

The Red Jungle Planet—neighbor to the Green Jungle Planet, Meezed-Zedbee II—is a swirling mass of blood-filled trees and oppressive tyrants, twisted oligarchs and land barons who continue to squeeze the world for all they can, murder and put down anyone who is viewed as remotely different. Behind the doors, of course, they’re the worst of the fucking lot, and they know it. This planet is where Mickie now resides.

Mickie Janely was the love of my life. You know, when I met her. I thought she was perfect. And I hated her cos she was very mean, like, to everyone, but often me directly. And though I usually stood up for myself to others, I couldn’t do it with Mick. She was too much for me.

I’m saying all this as I’m trying not to hyperventilate in the car.

You can help calm me, if you want, in which case, I will thank you sincerely.

“The bitch of it is,” I say, “I’m not really anything to her.”

You ask me if I’m sure of that.

I breathe. “I’m not. But what does it matter anyway? That’s not why we’re here. We’re here to find out who killed Wendy. Wendy, who Mickie fucking hated.”

You say you know it’s hard for me to contemplate, but is it possible Mickie killed Wendy?

“It’s not hard for me to contemplate,” I say. “But despite all of Mickie’s tough talk and posturing and occasionally beating the shit out of people, I never saw her kill anyone. I don’t think she has it in her.”

You look at me.

“Okay, so everyone has it in them, but. I would be surprised, is all I meant.”

You wonder if I’m too close to this.

“Of course I am,” I say. “But I’m the only one doing this. No one else gives a shit. She’s been dead thirty years. No one cares who did it. No one but me.”

And maybe you, you know, if you do.

I take another breath and adjust my chemical harness setting so that I should receive some low-level sedation periodically—not enough to dull my senses, babe. Don’t fret over that. This is weapons-grade, Ministry-dispensed shit, right here, not hospital cack. It’s high-performance, ultra-targeted brain juice medicine. It will do its fucking job so I can do mine.

I blow the hatch, and we disembark.

It is hot. Uncomfortably hot. Immediately. And humid. If you’ve been traveling with me on the Jung, then you are not terribly impacted by this; you simply notice it. But if this is your first exposure to one of the Jungles, then you are at disadvantage on any activity outside.

“And the world could die in pain, and I wouldn’t feel no shame,” I sing softly as we walk away from the parking dock and toward the ornate city of Saltley Handaxe.

You double-check that you heard that correctly.

I nod. “This is not a culture of subtlety.”

As we wind through the over-gardened streets, I ramble on about Mickie.

“We met at a club, at a show. I was singing with the band, then. With Grim Ossuary. This was after my elaborate Machiavellian coup to supplant the Reptile.”

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I reach into my satchel and pull out a copy of The Grand Story of Not, hand it to you.

“It’s this whole thing. Would be faster to just read it than have me recount it orally.” I smile at you. “Although oral is fun.”

I giggle, then my mind snaps back, and I say, “There’s a version of our meeting in there, too. Mickie, I mean. It’s a little different than in Everything Fails. And the timeline is messy because I kind of move around when things happen for the convenience of the chapters rather than for the overall continuity? But you’ve heard me complain at this before. Like, fuck continuity. Anyway, it’s in there.”

You ask me what really happened.

“Well, after I fucked over the Reptile and became the bandleader, we played some shows. Not too many. And we kept changing the name. So while it was Grim Ossuary through most of its existence, I think we performed as The Fucked that night? It was this shithole club on the Jung. You know, the Green Jung, not this magnificent hellhole,” I say and gesture around.

A pedestrian looks at me like I’m from another planet. And I am, so I just smile, and we keep going.

“She was there with somebody else. I can’t remember what I call ‘em in the book1. But that person. Who was, you know, chill. I never had any issue with them. So it felt kina grimy getting with her while they were together, but. I was a grimy broad back then.”

I look both ways before crossing the street.

“Anyway, we did the show. That’s in the first book. I think it’s still in there2. I saw her and immediately fell in love with her. That’s only happened to me, like, twice. For real, I mean. I make believe it happens more in the books, but. That was the first time. I knew we were going to be together. And by that I mean forever. Like, this was the woman who would be mine and I would be hers and we would be together forever and ever.”

If that sounds naive to you …

“It was. Profoundly naive. And kina cringe now? But it wasn’t then. Not at all. It was all that mattered.”

There are many people here, and you can see we are in a more active part of the city.

“I’m going to ghost through all this shit,” I say.

If you have unlocked the secret of ghosting—or if you are Tauran like I am—then you can ghost on your own. If not, then you’ll need to stay very close to me.

We easily glide through the throngs of Saltley Handaxians and make our way through the busy commercial promenade.

“We went back to Penguin’s place in the book. And Penguin was fucking pissed, man. He wanted Mickie bad. But I was literally willing to cut that guy. In his own house. That’s what kina bitch I was back then. I’d say it was lucky for me that she didn’t want him, but she did end up fucking him later. Like, I dunno, a year or so? Something like that. When I was in a period of hermitage. This happened two or three times. We would get together, then have some horrible fight and break up. I would go into seclusion. She’d fuck somebody else, sometimes a friend of mine, like Penguin.”

You ask if it still bothers me.

“Yeah. Penguin, especially. I don’t know why. I’m Eskimo sibs with a lot of folks at this point, and it’s en bee dee. But that one sticks in my craw.”

If you know about Penguin, then you might know why. If not, then you probably don’t, not beyond some inference about a coincidentally aligned common experience of jealousy.

“Penguin was that slimeball that shows up in a Behind the Music documentary. You know, the one who gets everyone hooked on drugs? That was Penguin. And it all kina came apart after that. With me and the band, I mean.” I take a breath. “That makes it sound like it was all his fault. It wasn’t. I was a manipulative person back then, bae. I did whatever to get what I wanted. It’s not pretty.”

You ask if I’m being hard on myself. Or maybe you think I’m not being hard enough.

“I dunno,” I say. “I just know I regret a lot of it and have tried to do better, to mixed results. But I genuinely detest manipulation, and do my very best not to manipulate others purposefully. That part is, like, laser-cut in my brain because of all this nonsense. Cos if anyone was better at it than I was, it was Mickie.”

You might wonder if Wendy were better at it.

“In the books, she probably is. But in truth, Mickie was better at it. Both of them pissed off a lot of people. But for narrative reasons, I consolidated most of those traits in Wendy and focused on Mickie being more physically dangerous, which wasn’t really true.”

You say I just said she beat people up.

“No, not really,” I said. “That’s just in the book. And I said I’d literally cut Penguin, but that’s probably not true either. I mean, I felt like it. But I doubt it would have happened. I would probably have just sulked and listened to music that made me sad.”

You wonder if I do that a lot, change things for the book.

“Of course,” I say. “All the time. It’s fiction, babe. And entertainment. Well, it’s supposed to be entertainment. I don’t know how entertaining folks actually find it, but. That’s the idea. Complex puzzle games for the cryptic ay eff set, yo.”

If you are a member of that set, then you know what I mean. If not, then you know whatever you know.

I stop by a lamppost and pull out a pack of Yellow Kids, pop a smoke, and light up. “I gotta take a break, baby. This is a bit harder than a thought. Let’s just have a minute here, okay?”

You wonder if this might be a good time to make that list of questions.

I exhale a cloud of smoke. “Imma just wing it.”

This may concern you.

Sensing this, I say, “What? I’ve conducted thousands of interviews.”

Yeah, but how many with Mickie? you wonder.

I look at you. “Maybe you could write them?”

You ask if I have a pen.

I stick the smoke between my teeth, bite down, dig through my satchel.

“God-dammit,” I say. “A writer without a pen. It’s so embarrassing.”

You ask about my phone.

“Oh. Yeah. Okay,” I say. I unlock my phone and hand it to you.

You cannot read anything on it, nor does it look like any phone display you’ve ever seen.

“Shit,” I say and frantically wave for you to hand it back. I take a pull on the cig as I reconfigure it for the 21st Century.

“Here, now try it,” I say and hand it back to you.

It looks like an ordinary smartphone screen, and you are easily able to open an app and type into it.

I smoke while you’re doing that.

“Oooooo, ah got hea-evvv in-siiiide offf meee,” I sing softly as we near the entrance to the light and skin shoppe.

What’s light and skin? you wonder.

“It’s like tattoos? But they are very easy to remove without scarring. And they don’t hurt or anything.”

I take one more deep breath, then pull open the door, and go in.

And there she is, working on a design.

Telepathically, I say to you, I built it up too much, didn’t I?

You think whatever you think.

“Hey,” Mickie says, “Welcome to Honeyburn. Do you have something in mind or want to look at some of our latest designs?”

I take a breath. “Hey, Mick.”

She looks at me for a second with the look I’ve been dreading. Not one of anger or hatred. One of blankness. No recollection.

It passes quickly, though, and she gets up and walks over to us, hugs me.

She’s a head taller than I am, and so I lay my head on her chest as we hug, her necklace stabbing into my cheek a bit, and can hear her heartbeat, briefly. I can smell her. It isn’t the smell I remember, but it is definitely her scent.

We stop hugging, and she looks me up and down. “Wow, Teresa,” she says. “How the hell have you been? Where the hell have you been?”

“Oh, fine, I guess,” I say. “I’ve, uh, I’ve been on the Homeworld.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. My family’s from there, remember?”

She nods but doesn’t say one way or the other.

What’s the point of this? I ask you mentally. She doesn’t remember shit. Never has.

“You, uh,” I say, “you were, uh, you were born on the Homeworld, right? In an infantry field hospital, as I recall3.”

Mickie half-smiles at me and returns to her workspace, starts tidying up. “How’d you end up here? We’re pretty far from the Galactic Homeworld out here.”

“Huh? Oh, right. Yes, I, uh, I’m conducting an investigation.”

Mickie’s smile grew, and she said, “That’s right! You’re a secretist now. Big woman under the shield.”

I nod, quickly, awkwardly. “Yes—privatized, but. Yes. We are still under Ministry aegis, yes.”

“How you like bein’ a pig?” she asks.

“Um … what?”

Mickie laughs. “I’m kidding! That’s great, Tee. You wanted to be one, and look! Now you are one.”

I look at myself, and my overdressed expensive red dress that I bought just for this occasion with a too huge and rustic satchel. “I’m not dressed for it,” I muse.

“I wouldn’t have known the difference,” Mickie says as she’s putting some pens away.

I nearly break into a description of all the different accoutrements of the profession—the chemical harness, the black suiting, the coat, the hat—but I think better of it. Mickie always hated details like that.

“I guess … well, there’s no easy way to say it, Mick, so here it is … I’m here to interview you about what happened to Wendy.”

Mickie stops cleaning up for a second, and her eyes narrow. “Who?”

I fucking told you this would happen, I think.

“Wendy,” I say. “Wendy Glass?”

“Was that that dumb bitch that thought she was queen of the fucking universe?”

I nod.

“Someone killed her, huh?” Mickie says and picks up the designs, walks with them over to a wall of hanging designs.

“I didn’t say that, but yeah. How’d you know?”

“Was gonna happen,” Mickie said. “She was way out of her depth. It was a matter of time.” She pins the new designs up with the others.

“So you don’t know anything about it, then?” I ask.

“I didn’t remember who she was till you asked me,” Mickie says. “I don’t think about those days, Tee. I have two kids, two real bad exes, this place. I’m busy.”

“Yeah, I get it,” I say.

She looks at me. “How about you?”

I hold up two fingers. “Two. Like you.” Like we said it would be, I think but do not say.

“With the same person?” Mickie asks.

I nod.

“Not me,” she says. “I have another one out there, somewhere. Fucking pigs took her from me. No offense.”

“Huh? Oh, none taken. Not a cop.”

Mickie looks at me with a snide smile, then says, “You married?”

“Technically,” I say.

“Trouble in paradise?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, “I’m afraid so.”

“That’s always the way, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.”

“Let’s get a drink,” she says.

“Um … are you closing?”

Mickie gestures around. “At five. But look around, Tee. It’s not exactly bustling. You’re the only one who’s come in here since lunch.”

“Oh, I dunno, Mick. I mean, I’m kina here on business. Really should ask some more questions.”

Mickie laughs.

“What?”

“Right, Tee. You came all the fuck’n way out here to ask me about some dead bitch from thirty years ago in that dress.”

I flush, which I assure you does not happen often or easily.

Mickie smiles. “So buy me a drink. We can talk about whatever you want. You can pick my brain.”

You may or may not know by now—but likely do—that I don’t drink anymore. But this is Mickie, so.

“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Whatever. Let’s get a drink.”

“Cool,” Mickie says. “There’s a place down the street. You’ll like it. It’s quiet.”

That makes me smile. It’s nice that she remembered something about me, anyway.

We exit, and she locks up.

She turns to you then, and says, “I’m Mickie.” She extends her hand. If you shake it, she has a very strong grip and sharp nails.

You can introduce yourself, if you like, or say hello, or remain quiet.

We go down the street threaded with people walking, looking at their phones.

At the corner, is a diner. Mickie opens the door, and we go inside.

This song is playing:

“Booth in the back, right?” she asks, smiling over her shoulder at me.

“That’s right,” I say.

The person behind the counter says: “Hey, Mick.”

“Hey, Coke,” she says. “How’s tricks?”

“Same old same, Mick.”

“I hear that,” she says, leads us to the back of the dining area.

She climbs in and sits with her back to the door, so you and I can have the side with our backs to the wall.

Mickie pulls out a pack of smokes. “You care?”

“Not at all,” I say, and pull out mine.

We light up.

“So you’re a bull,” she says. “On the Ministry Homeworld.”

I nod and exhale. “A secretist, yeah. For about twenty years now.”

Her eyebrows raise as she takes a drag.

“But, uh. That sounds like a long time, but.”

“That’s a fuck’n long time, Teresa,” Mickie says.

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

“When did you leave the Jungle?” she asks.

“Oh, let’s see … maybe, like, a year after you did? Or two. But I came back a couple years after that.”

“Gawd, why?” she asks. “Place is a shithole.”

“Terry died,” I say.

Mickie’s eyes go blank, and her brow furrows. “Who?”

It hurts my heart all over again.

“Terry,” I say. “You know. You guys were friends for awhile, when we were … you know …”

“Danielle’s girlfriend?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah, at that time, yes.”

“Whoa. That’s kina trippy. She’s dead, huh?”

“Yes. They died, and I went back for their funeral.”

“D’you see any old homies?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Cut to Danielle frozen in a block of ice.

You look at me incredulously, and I wave it away.

Mickie ashes in the ashtray. “You were too smart for all of them,” she says. “Big nerd. Big nerd-o girl.”

I blush and look at my nails, use one thumb to pick at the other. “I guess so, yeah.”

The song changes:

Mickie’s eyes roll back in her head and a grin slowly spreads across her wide mouth. “Oh hell yeah, man. I love this song.”

I lean over and whisper to you, “We used to make out to this song.”

Mickie blows smoke rings and sings some of the words: “So if you love me, say you love me … but if don’t, just leh-et me go …”

She smiles and nods. “Goddam, that’s sexy.”

Something about the way she says it razzes me. “I don’t recall you being the biggest fan of this song, Mick.”

“Maybe I just wasn’t with you.”

I cock my head.

She laughs. “I’m kidding, Teresa.”

I nod.

“I do like it. It’s sexy,” she says, tracing the table pattern with the tip of her sharp index finger nail. “I liked it then, too.” She looks up at me without lifting her head. “With you.”

The chems are wearing off, and my nerves are starting to shit out on me.

Are you all right? you ask mentally.

I dunno. I might panic, I think.

You can coach me through it, if you want to and know how.

“Hey, it was a long time ago,” Mickie says. “We were kids, you know.”

I actually don’t know what the hell she’s talking about. “No, I don’t. What do you mean?”

“I mean, you got a little weird toward the end there.

“Oh?” I ask.

“Yeah. Like into some kinky shit,” Mickie says. “It kina freaked me out.”

Oh. That, I think. “Oh,” I say. “That.”

“I’ve done wilder shit since then, I swear. Like a lot.”

That’s not very comforting, I think, but refrain from echoing it.

No, you didn’t, you say to me.

“Did I say that out loud?” I ask.

Mickie laughs and puts out her cigarette. “Same old Teresa. Uptight. Talkin’ to herself. You’re a mess, girl.”

I stand up, like a reflex.

Micki grabs my wrist—not hard or anything—and says, “Hey, Tee, c’mon. I’m sorry, all right? It’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long, what, thirty years?”

It has for me, too. “It has for me, too, Mick.”

Her eyes are softer, and she says, “C’mon. Sit down, and we’ll get a drink, okay? I’ll be good. I promise.”

“I know you’re wrong, you’re not that strong—let me go-oh!” plays all around us.

I look at you for a cue. If you think we should go, then I will decline her offer, and we leave. If you want us to stay—or if you don’t give me a distinct indication—then we stay.

“Good,” Mickie says. “Good—I’m sorry, Tee. I get a little crazy sometimes. You know me, right?”

I did know her. Or I thought I did, anyhow.

“Yeah,” she says. “You know me. Same old Mickie.” She sticks her hand in the air. “Two margies, Coke. Make ‘em fatgirls, please.”

“You got it, Mick,” Coke replies.

The trip from the diner to her place is a bit of a blur. That doesn’t normally happen to me for a few reasons. I have a memory buffer, for one. I also have a fuckton of training in memory work. And I have an alcohol canceling serum in my harness. But, I’m out of practice, nervous, and had the buffer turned off. And I didn’t load the serum in the harness, for whatever reason. And it’s been a minute since I’ve had anything to drink, much less tequila, so here we are.

I’ll leave it up to you, babe, to fill me in on what happened. Or not. Your discresh.

My memory picks back up at Mickie’s place.

Mickie’s place is nice. Small, but nice. I feel like it’s particularly nice given that she’s gettin’ by on light & skin cash, which can’t be that much.

“Sugar daddies,” I say under my breath.

“Huh?” Mickie says.

“Nothin’. Say, whatever happened to Mikey?”

“Who?”

I tell her the story—the one from the end of Everything Fails, you know, the First Cut versh—about when she and this chick Mikey came by to borrow a film from me during a lightning storm.

“Oh yeah,” Mickie says. “You were a real cunt that night.”

I rub my eye and brace myself against the wall. “Yeah, I mean. Probably.”

Mickie tosses her bag down, then takes mine, sets it down next to hers. “I dunno. We got high, fucked, and watched the movie, I guess.”

“You didn’t watch the movie, though,” I say.

“Huh?”

“You didn’t watch it. When I got it back from you, you told me that. Or maybe you left a note.”

Mickie shrugs. “I dunno. Never saw her again.”

I stumble on tall heels over to my bag and pull out a copy of Everything Fails.

“You fucking wrote about this?” Mickie says.

I can’t tell if she’s flattered, angry, or both.

“Both,” she says.

“Did I say that out loud?” I ask.

Mickie laughs. “You say everything out loud, Teresa.”

“Oh. Yeah. So I do.”

I flip through the book. My eyesight is very blurred, so I switch on my fancy eyes—which I forget is a terrible thing to expose your mind to when you’re fucked up.

“Ow, shit!” I say and drop the book, putting both palms in my eyes.

I switch the eyes back to normal, and let them cry for a bit.

Mickie sits me down and takes my heels off.

I fantasize about her massaging my feet, but I am actually sitting there, crying my eyes out.

I turn to you and think, I swear I don’t actually have a foot thing.

“I know you don’t,” Mickie says. I hear her pick up the book. “What chapter is it?”

“It’s twenty-nine, I think? ‘Paenultimus.’”

“What the fuck kind of title is that?”

“It means next to last, Mick.”

“Oh.” She flips through the book to the chapter, pages making that unmistakable turning sound. “Found it. You want me to wait or read it now?”

“You can read it now.”

“Okay,” she says. She clears her throat, which I find adorable.

“But skip to the part where you show up, okay? We don’t need to hear the first part,” I say.

“Right,” she says, and is quiet for a second. I assume she is reading it to herself—probably moving her lips.

“Fuck you, Tee,” she says.

“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to say that,” I say.

“Okay, here it is. I think this is where you mean … ‘There had been storms like I had never seen. All the storms in the Jungle were intense, but this one really frightened me. I was alone at the house because my parents were away off’ … wait … ‘because my parents were away—off to congratulate some athletes for a successful game or some such shit that I couldn’t care less about.’ That’s a very hard sentence to read, Teresa.”

“I know, I know. I cut it, remember?”

“If you cut it, how am I reading it from a paperback?” Mickie asks.

I sigh. “Don’t … worry about it. Just keep reading, please.”

She does, “‘I caught Mickie’s Bubble tee-em …’ Is that, like, a trademark?”

“Yes,” I say. “I mean, it’s more like a joke. But yes, it stands for trademark. I’m surprised you remembered that, Mick.”

I feel something shift in the energy between us, and she resumes reading: “‘I caught Mickie’s Bubble™: “Hey Mickie. What’s going on?’’’ … wait, I sent that to you? Why would I say that if I sent it to you?”

“No, no. It’s not well-written. I meant that you blew me a Bubble™, I caught it, then replied: ‘Hey Mickie. What’s going on?’”

“Oh,” she says. “I see why you cut this one.”

“Yeah.”

Mickie reads some more: “‘Do you still have that film? The really fucked up one that we used to watch together?

‘“Yeah,” I said.

‘I could hear people laughing in the background.

‘“Is everything okay?”

‘“Shut the fuck up!”’ … wait, that’s me saying that?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Jeez, Teresa. Confuse the fuck outta me, why don’t you.”

“I know, I know. But look, it’s not that long if you’ll just read the motherfucker and stop interrupting yourself.”

Mickie sighs. “‘“Sorry.”’ That’s you, I guess,” Mickie says.

I nod. My eyes are done crying, and I can open them again, so I do.

Mickie continues: “‘“No, not you,” she said to me. “I’m talking to these loud assholes.”

‘“Oh.”

‘“So do you have it?”

‘“Yes. I have it.”

‘“Can I borrow it?”

‘“I mean, I guess so.”

‘“Forget it.”

‘“Wait, why?”

‘“‘Cause if you’re gonna go all princess-y on me about this, then it’s just not worth the fucking drama.”’ … which is so true, Tee. You can be such a goddam princess about every little thing,” Mickie says.

I know. “I know,” I say.

Mickie resumes: “‘“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a princess about it. Of course you can borrow it.”

‘“Great. We’ll be there in five.”

‘“We?”

‘The Bubble popped. Thunder cracked and scared the hell from me.

‘It was more like ten, but still not long at all when Mickie arrived with someone that looked almost just like her.

‘“This is Mikey,” Mickie said.

‘They were both looking very attractive but also very chemicalized.’ We totally were,” Mickie says. “We were high as shit.”

“Yeah, I know, Mick,” I say.

She smiles about it for a minute, then reads more: “‘I felt a little dainty in their presence. They were all chipped nails, sweaty lips, and sticky hair, while I was in soft sleeping clothes with my hair freshly washed and tied back.

‘“Hi Mikey,” I said.

‘“Hi,” Mikey replied with a quick wave.

‘“So can we have it?” Mickie asked.

‘“Yeah.”

‘I walked down the steps to them and handed it to Mickie.

‘She snatched it and pulled it apart.

‘I contained my instinct to react and just breathed.

‘“How long is this?” she asked, searching for something that would tell her.

‘“It’s about two hours,” I said, waiting with itchy skin for her to close it back up.

‘She did, though with no care or regard whatsoever.

‘“Thanks,” she said. “See ya.”

‘Mickie turned away, Mikey too.

‘“Nice to meet you Mikey,” I said.

‘Mikey looked back and said, “Yeah. You too.”

‘And they were gone.

‘My father let me know a few days later that Mickie had returned the film. It was unscathed. In fact, had I not known someone had borrowed it, I don’t think I could tell at all.

‘I sat thinking, I guess she was right about me. I’m the dramatic one.’”

Mickie gently releases her grip on the book, letting the pages come back together. She sets it down with one hand, then cups my cheek with the other, looks into my eyes with hers, opening the galaxy between us.

“Mick,” I say. “I …”

She kisses me, and I kiss her back. I want to fall into that space between us, that galaxy that is all our own.

But I stop, put a finger on her chin.

Mickie kisses the tip of it, looks into my eyes again.

“I can’t offer you anything, Mickie,” I say. “Not really. I’m a wreck. I’m married.”

“So am I,” she says.

“Wait, what?” I ask.

“Well, you know, officially, or whatever,” she says, then kisses me again.

The smell of her comingled with the tequila and lime overtakes me, and I let her lay me down on the floor. I feel her hands moving up my thighs, across my breasts—her fingers between my lips.

I bite down on one of her fingers—not hard, but enough to get her to take it out of my mouth and kiss me again.

Our clothes come off—seems like on their own. And once more we are naked together.

It’s been thirty years, but I feel none of it. I don’t know how that could be.

“Don’t think about it,” Mickie says. “Go with it. Just be, here. With me.”

She sits up, touches a screen on an end table and music starts playing.

You can play whatever songs you wish, but the ones that I hear include these:

We lie there, looking at each other, in her bed.

It’s a sweet moment, so naturally I have to ruin it.

“How could you fuck Ashe?” I ask.

“Who?” Mickie asks, her brow furrowing.

“Stickygum.”

“Oh.” She shrugs. “He was hot.”

It hurts me to hear it, but it is what it is.

“You aren’t exactly a nun, Teresa,” Mickie says. “I know you went to monk school or whatever, but you fucked a lot. Like a lot. Don’t pretend like you didn’t.”

I look away. “I know I did.”

I look at her again, “But Penguin? Fucking Penguin, man.”

“Who?” she says again.

“Penguin Docks.”

“Oh! Pen-guuinnn! Right, yeah. But wait. I didn’t fuck him.”

“Yes, you did, Mickie,” I say. “There’s no point in lying about it now.”

“I’m not lying, Teresa,” she says my name with some anger to it. “I jerked him off and gave him a little head, but I didn’t fuck him.”

Again, like before, it hurts to hear about it, but I’m glad we’re talking about it.

“He was, like, way too big,” she says.

“Oh my fucking god,” I say and roll over.

“What?” Mickie says. “He was. Dude was huge, like a third leg. No fuck’n way that was fittin’. I couldn’t even suck it, really. So I jerked him off.”

I tighten my body up—not into a proper ball, but halfway there.

“What is with you, Tee?” Mickie says. “You’re bein’ all princess-y again.”

She’s right, I think.

“I know I am,” she says.

I roll over, look at her again. “I’m sorry. I loved you so much. I couldn’t tell you how much. I couldn’t even admit it to myself.”

She smiles, but it’s got a sadness in it. “That’s why you’d never say it, huh?”

Yeah. “Yeah,” I say. “But I’m sayin’ it now.”

“You sayin’ you love me now or you loved me then?” she asks.

I can’t tell.

She smirks. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

I reach out to her, put my hand on her cheek.

Her expression softens, and she closes her eyes, kisses my hand.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess, Mickie. I don’t mean to be.”

She opens her eyes, looks at me. “Me neither. We’re a pair of messy bitches.”

“Kind of a stereotype, really,” I say.

“You maybe,” she says with a smile.

I smile, too. It sounds mean on paper, but she’s sweet how she says it.

“You make me out to be a total bitch in that book,” she says.

“You read it?” My heart races.

“I mean in the part I just read, like, before we fucked,” Mickie says.

“Oh. Yeah. I guess so. Sorry about that. I mean, I cut it.”

“You shouldn’t do that,” Mickie says.

“Do what?” I ask. “Cut it? I mean, I’m flattered you think it’s good, but it really isn’t up to my standard now …”

“No, write about people,” Mickie says.

I swallow. “Oh.”

“You’re a creative person,” she says. “You can make it all up. Don’t have to hurt people and steal from their lives.”

“Am I?” I ask, then add, “Stealing.”

“You stole that moment from me,” Mickie says. “And Mikey, too, but fuck her.”

“I thought you didn’t remember her?” I ask.

Mickie grins, then kisses me.

“It’s my way of dealing with things, Mickie. I don’t mean to take anything from you.”

“Not everybody is smart like you, Teresa. We aren’t all geniuses. We don’t have your talent, your gift or whatever. It’s not fair to write us without us in it.”

“I changed your name,” I say.

You might ask me, mentally, what her real name is, but I ignore it.

“Yeah,” she says. “You did.” She says it like it genuinely hadn’t occurred to her. “And I am pretty badass in some parts.”

My heart swells, and I smile. “You did read it, you bitch.”

She smiles back, and we kiss again.

“Are you gonna write about this?” she asks softly.

“Do you want me to?” I ask.

“I want you to keep kissin’ me,” she says. “And then fuck me. I don’t care what you do after that. Write whatever you want.”

The night passes, and we haven’t slept. Somehow I’m not sore. I don’t know how that’s possible at my age.

You remind me of the chems.

Maybe, I think, but those wore off hours ago.

Mickie is in the shower.

You ask if we should search the apartment.

“Dude,” I say quietly, just above a whisper. “We just fucked, like, all night. I can’t ransack her place. That’s so grimy.”

You say whatever you say.

I look around—literally, look from where I’m sitting in her bed.

“There isn’t that much here,” I whisper. “I guess I could, you know, just turn my eyes on and keep sitting here. If they see anything, that’s not to bad, right? Like, I was just sitting here, like I would have been anyway.”

The shower turns off.

I flip my eyes fancy, and the wall between me and the bathroom slowly grows transparent. I can see the outline of Mickie in there, drying off.

I turn my head to the left, and my eyes start taking inventory of everything in the room, tagging them, scanning metadata. I can’t keep up with it, since my memory buffer is off.

So turn it on, you might think.

“No,” I whisper. “We’ll go through it later.”

Mickie appears in the doorframe, tall, lean, naked, covered in art.

“I hate to kick you out, Tee, but I need to go pick up my kid from work.”

I look around. “He lives here?”

“No, he has his own place. He’s a plumber. His car is broken, and he can’t ride the bus.”

“Why not?” I ask without much thought.

“He has anxiety, Teresa,” she says to me like I’m a child.

I put both hands up. “Oh, okay. That’s cool. Me too. I get it.”

Mickie walks to the closet to my right, opens it, pulls on a t-shirt, then some jeans.

No underwear, I notice.

She looks at me, smiles.

“Did I say that?” I ask.

Neither of you answer me.

Mickie smiles and walks over to me, leans over, kisses me. Her breath smells very fresh, very clean and good. Mine smells like shit, probably.

“Good not great,” she says.

“Oh,” I say. “I’ll take it.”

“I’m off at five,” Mickie says. “If you wanna do this some more.”

I want to do this some more—like a lot more. Maybe forever. But.

She sighs. “Yeah. It was good catching up. Stay as long as you want. Lock up when you leave.”

Mickie grabs her bag from the floor and walks out.

“Why the fuck,” I ask you, “can I still not fucking talk to this woman?”

I smell her pillow, then get out of bed and take a shower.

You can search her place, if you want. I won’t stop you, but I’m not going to help either.

When we get back to Soma, back to the Brubaker, I take my glasses off, set the waystation coffee down, look around, like for an answer in the air.

I set my bag down in the chair.

For the life of me, I cannot seem to recall if I made it. Or not. I wrote it, so I’ve been there. I made it, happen even, even if I couldn’t dare, could not bear to see the truth.

I stand, pace.

There’s a feeling to it. In shades, yeah? I grew, to intuit … the truth of the situation, that no vacation—from probability—nor hasty trip or jet-dream possibility would encounter the pure tranquility that I’d dreamt for us.

I look at you.

“Which is to say,” I say, “That wasn’t Mickie. And it wasn’t me.”

I go on, “Yet on these pages I see, plain and simple, how I—how we—hopped in the car and flew there. How we traversed the stars and light years to that blood-treed place.”

Really?

I jump back, brace myself against the mantle.

I say, “I’m … down, in the Underground. Mah nerves’re failin’, babe. Memories flailin’, spinnin’ mah life, muh every turn. It burns.” I put my hands at my temples. “In mah head. Lika fever. Mah chest’s hot and cold, and I ain never been told, babe.”

You ask what I haven’t been told.

“How to deal,” I say.

If you recall how, you remind me, and I hug you for it.

If you don’t, I fall deeper down. Down, into the Underground.

Play procedures

• As stated above, if you are Jungle-seasoned, you are fine. If not, you are at disadvantage for all outdoor activities during the day, unless you have some other trait or training that would sensibly counteract this effect. Good news is that you can count this chapter twice toward the jungle hardening trait.
• You may add “Swimming with the Crocodiles” by The Veils, “One More Try” by George Michael, “Am I Inside” by Alice In Chains, “Callas Went Away” by Enigma, and “The Lady In Red” by Chris de Burgh to your song grimoire. If you can correctly identify the first two I was singing to myself, you may add those, as well.
• You can add The Grand Story of Not and Everything Fails (both the Final and First Cut) to your inventory.
• If you know the metaficitonal coding secret, then you know the true identity of both the city of Saltley Handaxe and the Red Jungle Planet. Write them in your journal.
• You may count this chapter toward unlocking the secret of ghosting.
• If you wrote the questions to ask Mickie about Wendy, you can share them with us here or in the chat. If you don’t wanna share, that’s fine. Just write them in your journal.

Story path

Wendy 1 < 2 < 3 < 4 < 5 < 6 < 7 < 8 < 9 < 10