Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, the song "Interplanetary Dust" and the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

CHAPTER 4
YOU WERE GONE

May 30, 1994

United Airlines Flight 741

First Class
...

A half-hour remained in the flight to San Francisco, and Jackie pressed her palms to her wet eyes. The skin beneath her nose was raw, and her throat was sore. The funeral had depleted her defenses. That was the only explanation for her current state. She'd listened to all three Degenerate Matter albums, and she was a crying mess. Even after her father died, she hadn't cried this much.

But this music plugged into every feeling she'd lost access to. Sorrow and amusement, anger and exhilaration—they collided into one another other, releasing energy that came out as tears.

She'd covered herself with her father's coat during the worst of it. The coat was tailored to fit her properly, but it was thick enough to hide her from the outside world. She'd splurged for first class, and thank God for that. Having personal space was a necessity. As a bonus, no one was sitting in her row. That meant no well-meaning rubs to her back, no excessive calls to the flight attendants.

When people did ask if she was all right, though, she told them she'd just gone to a funeral. They offered condolences, but they couldn't possibly understand what she'd lost. That kind of comprehension was slippery and rare, but she'd found a stockpile of it in Degenerate Matter's lyrics.

Ro Skirving's voice was an incredible tool for conveying emotion, but the words were what bypassed Jackie's numbness. They'd burrowed deep into her body and embedded themselves in her organs.

With eyes as dry as she could manage, she pored over the albums' liner notes. They contained lyrics and song credits, eclectic artwork and a group photo of the band. Ro Skirving, Lee Turnbull, Sherry Chambers, and Nate Stack were standing in a field of tall grass, but one band member was missing: O. MacNeil.

He was credited with the lyrics that Jackie had been most affected by. They'd brought her through every pain she'd ever experienced. But, just as profoundly, they also expressed empathy for it. She often felt like a negligible part of the universe, but O MacNeil's words argued the opposite case. And part of her, a molecule, had been convinced.

Maybe all the work she'd done with therapists had gotten her to this point. Sarah, her current therapist, would likely say she was finally ready to change, even if only atom by atom.

Her new Discman sat on her lap. She put in Degenerate Matter's second album again, Ultrarelativistic, and skipped to the tenth song, "Interplanetary Dust". It was a mid-tempo rocker with an atmospheric sound. Occasionally, the guitars produced theremin-like tones, giving her the sense of floating in outer space.

"You gave me a home," Ro Skirving sang, "when all I had was dust. Your gravity grounded me when I was used to drifting."

Jackie's hands clenched shut, and she pushed her heels against the airplane floor. Her body wasn't used to processing emotion, not without sending her into panic. But she wouldn't run from it. She'd been starved of this kind of feeling long enough.

"I grew accustomed to your way," Ro sang, "fell into a smooth orbit, but what I carry at my core is explosive. It's explosive..."

Tears escaped from Jackie's closed eyes. Pressure was building in her chest, but she listened through the chorus and the next verse. She listened as the song reached its plaintive bridge: "Have no clue what to do. Have no clue. No one will show me. Have no clue what to do! Need someone to show me.

"If I gave you the truth,"

Ro sang without seeming to take a breath, "would I be giving you up? Because honesty could make you give up. Oh, please, let me be true. I want to be true … without losing you."The music reflected the plea. Guitars and bass and drums begged the listener not to leave, and they yanked Jackie from the plane. Instead of flying over Nevada, she plummeted through her memory and crash-landed in the Formans' basement, fifteen years in the past.

August 5, 1979

Point Place, Wisconsin

The Formans' Basement
...

The humidity outside permeated the Formans' basement. Jackie hadn't dressed properly for the weather. Her clothes clung to her, and the lumps of Eric's ratty sofa pushed into her body, as if she were one, big bruise. She and Steven were alone down here. He'd invited her to sit, but she needed to stand far, far away from him. From everybody, but she stayed on the sofa. He removed his sunglasses and held both her hands. His were so warm, but she couldn't stop shivering.

"Look, Jackie, I'm really sorry, okay?" he said. They hadn't seen each other since Chicago, since Michael had walked in on them. "I shouldn't have run out on ya—"

Her body stiffened, but that made her shake worse. He didn't seem to feel it. His thumbs grazed her knuckles, and she fought not to withdraw her hands. "The thing is," he said, "I needed time to clear my head. Didn't want to do anything rash … like before."

She nodded. It was the only reaction she could muster.

"I'm sick of all the back and forth we've been doin' all year. Being on-again, off-again like a damn soap-opera couple." He glanced away, depriving her of his eyes, and the absence froze her lungs. Every breath she took was cold, unbearably cold, but she had no right to tell him to look at her. Not after what she'd let happen.

"Kelso used to screw with you that way," he said after a moment. "Your skull and heart, but I'm not gonna do that anymore. I've been a dick to you the last six months."

Her hands flinched in his grip. "You haven't."

"Yeah, man, I have." His gaze returned to her, and the warmth in them seared her throat. She swallowed as her body became a shell. If only she could shed it and become new. "You were right," he said, and his palm glided up her arm. "Been freaking out about growing up. You got caught in the crossfire."

He clasped her shoulder affectionately, as he often did, but her body received it as an oppressive weight. She shrugged his hand off her and scooted to the opposite end of the sofa.

He scratched his cheek. The skin turned pink beneath his fingers, and he slid his nails to his neck. "You're pissed."

"I'm not," she said. "I'm just—I hate this heat." She fanned herself to emphasize the point, but he blew out a breath.

"No, I get it. I fucked up. Before you left for Chicago, I fucked up. But I've got one hell of an apology for you..."

He pushed the wooden spool table a few feet from the sofa and knelt in front of her. He reached into his jeans pocket, and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. This wasn't happening. This wouldn't happen.

"Drove around after Chicago," he said," he said. "Roads were dark, didn't really know where I was goin'." A black ring box lay on his palm. He began to open it. "That's my life without you, Grasshopper. Finally sank into my skull, and if you wanna gloat, gloat. I earned it."

A diamond ring shone inside the box. Its round center diamond was surrounded by smaller diamonds. He must have spent over four-hundred dollars on it, and she pushed her knuckles against her teeth.

"There's no other chick for me." He brought the ring up a little higher. "I want to be with you, and if that means getting hitched—fuck it, let's get hitched."

He pulled her hand from her mouth, but she curled her fingers around his thumb. He couldn't put that ring on her finger. He couldn't, and she shut her eyes.

"What's goin' on?" he said gently but sounded worried. "Yeah, I'm not proposin' on a mountainside with a harpist serenading you, but I'm on my freakin' knees."

"Steven..." She opened her eyes halfway, but her wet lashes were like prison bars. They kept him at a distance. Not a safe one, but it was all she was going to get. "You can't ask me to marry you, not without knowing..."

He freed his thumb from her fingers and got off his knees. He stood before her, tall, looming, and his fist closed around the engagement ring. "Did you nail Kelso before I got to Chicago?"

"No."

"After I left?"

She lowered her head and tucked her chin against her chest. She'd prayed he wouldn't ask her that.

"Jackie, did you nail him after I left?" Disbelief cut through his tone. Anger couldn't be far behind, and she braced herself for it. Her shoulders hiked forward, as if they could protect her face, but only pain surfaced in his voice. "Why?"

"You won't believe me."

"Try me."

She coughed to clear her throat. It was coated with mucous. Her nose was the same, and she must've seemed like some kind of teary, snotty beast. It was fitting. It reflected her insides.

"Michael was there," she said wetly, "had come back to the room You were gone—forever." Air sped into her lungs. She was losing control of her breathing. "I didn't know you'd come back for me. Again. Today. How could I know you'd come back?"

"So you fucked Kelso?" The engagement ring was still clenched in his fist, but he stepped away from her. The back of his legs hit the table, hard enough to jostle the candle and TV remote on top of it.

"Michael said you drove away in the Camino, that he'd watched you. I didn't know you'd come back." Her voice was rising in pitch. She'd be yelling soon, maybe even shrieking, but if she stopped talking, she'd never speak again. "You were gone, and I collapsed onto the motel bed. I couldn't stop crying. You were gone, and he—" crushed the breath from her. Yanked off her underwear, opened her legs wide, and pushed himself inside her while she stared up at the cracked ceiling.

"I didn't want him to! But I didn't say no. In my head, I begged him to stop, but I never said it."

Steven's temple pulsed. "Did you say yes?"

"No!" Her hands twisted in the material of her blouse. "God, you have to believe me: I didn't want him, but it was already happening. You were gone, and he was..." She tried to put a name to it, but nothing came. "It wasn't sex to me, Steven. You have to understand that. It was—I don't know! My body was there, but I wasn't. I just kept praying for you to come back."

"Okay." His response brought her to her feet. He said nothing more but turned toward the spool table. A plink followed, and he headed for the basement door.

"Steven, wait!" She chased after him, but he was too fast. He barreled up the stone staircase outside, taking two steps at a time. When she reached the top herself, the engine of this car had already started, and he drove off.

She stared at the empty stretch of street, for how long she didn't know. But she eventually returned to the basement and approached the spool table. Her engagement ring was beside the candle, on top of a comic book. She picked up the ring and ran her finger over the center diamond. It was cold, but he'd left it for her. The ring was hers, and she put it in her jeans pocket.

Jackie's nose touched the plane's cool, plexiglass window. San Francisco's landscape had come into view. The skyscrapers resembled toys at first, but they grew larger and more detailed as the plane decreased its altitude. Degenerate Matter had done the same to her memory, brought the details back into focus. O. MacNeil's lyrics described her life, as if they'd been written about her. But that was what good music did, Steven used to tell her. It tapped into the universal through the specific.

Steven. She was through thinking about him. Her mind and body were spent.

A slight vibration and whine signaled that the landing gear was extending. That was good. She was ready to be home, but no one would be waiting for her at the airport. She'd have to pay a cab to drive her back to Foster City. Her friends couldn't be bothered, despite their word to the contrary. Promises from them were worth less than fool's gold.

May 31, 1994

Zurich, Switzerland

Swissotel
...

Hyde's exhaustion ran deeper than his body. His mind was full of ghosts, but his hotel room smelled of cigarettes and sex. The scent was comforting, a reminder of what existed in his present. He and Ro had fucked until two-thirty in the morning. Smoked and fucked some more.

The Swissotel's phone lines were probably jammed. Guests had to be complaining to the front desk. That was why his phone chord was no longer connected to the wall jack. He and Ro hadn't been quiet, but spending almost a week apart did that to them. Too much need had racked up, and neither of them screwed other people anymore. Getting engaged had put an end to that.

But as far as the public was concerned, he and Ro were free agents. They'd never kissed each other, let alone had sex. She'd sneaked into his room tonight wearing one of her disguises, an oversized hockey jersey and a monkey mask. They'd made sure no one had seen her enter. They'd make sure no one saw her leave.

The room was dark. They'd drawn the shades closed. The pillow under his head was just as he liked it, not too thick. Ro had fallen asleep flush against his body, allowing him to hold her. Her soft breathing lulled him to sleep, but her sharp voice forced him awake: "Hyde—Hyde!"

His eyes snapped open, and he covered his face with his arm. Being in a bed made no sense. The stench of rot infested his nostrils. The grimy touch of dead fingers clung to his ankles.

"Your grunting woke me," she said and patted his chest. "You have one of those dreams?"

"Yeah."

"Been a long time."

It had been years. He sat up in the bed, but that wasn't enough. He needed to move, to shake off his ghosts. His feet hit the floor, and he paced the dark room.

"What happened at the funeral?" she said. "Because that's the reason."

"Nope." In the darkness, the furniture was barely distinguishable from the air. His hip bumped into a sharp and hard object. Maybe a corner of the desk, and his skin throbbed with the impact.

"Has to be, love. Just because you can't see something doesn't mean it's not there."

She wasn't wrong, but he groped his way to the window and opened the shades. The city of Zurich spread before him in a smattering of artificial and natural light. His room was on the twenty-third floor. The view had enough sky and stars to prevent claustrophobia, but buildings surrounded the hotel like tombstones.

A half-empty ashtray sat on the sill, along with a pack of cigarettes and matches. He picked up the pack, but he couldn't smoke the truth away. "She was there."

The duvet swished behind him. Ro must've gotten off the bed, but she didn't approach him. He needed space, and she gave it to him.

"The nightmares I used to have, they came to life." He returned the pack of cigarettes to the sill. "She's breathing but dead."

A flicker of fire reflected in the window pane. Ro had lit up a smoke. "Then maybe you can finally let go of that shit," she said, and her cigarette appeared beside his mouth. An offering. "Another step in reigniting yourself."

He took a long drag on the cigarette and exhaled in laughter. Reignite himself … "That'd be killer."

Ro once described him as a white dwarf, a star without any more fuel to burn. It existed in space until its remaining energy dissipated, leaving the star cold and dark. She could say this because she'd been one herself. But she'd fought to reignite. She was shining again, fiery and full of life.

Not him. His core had gone dim years ago, and as a consequence the world around him no longer seemed as bright. But he still emitted some light, some warmth.

Jackie had gone completely dark. She was decay on-foot, as much of a corpse as Kelso's sister was in that coffin.

Ro opened the window for him, and he finished the cigarette in record time. She passed him another and said, "What's her name?"

He coughed out smoke. Her question was a kick to the throat. She knew about the nightmares, about the ex-girlfriend who died in his skull every night. But he'd never given Ro a name, and she'd never asked for one.

"You can tell me, Steven."

"Shit." He stuck the cigarette back into his mouth. Its end blazed in the darkness as his lungs filled with smoke. Steven. Calling him that was her sanction. It meant she was serious, that he finally had permission to share this part of his life with her.

"Jackie," he said, exhaling the poison from his lungs. "Her name was Jackie."