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 and all the song lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

CHAPTER 7
COSMIC RAYS

June 11, 1994

Saltoun Big Wood

East Lothian, Scotland
…

Hyde and Ro had come to the top of a muddy hill. Their flashlights revealed it was steep enough to slide down, and Ro clearly wanted to. She nudged Hyde's shoulder in the darkness and waved her flashlight over the hill in a zig-zag pattern. Their boots and pant legs were already filthy from the hike. Rain had drenched East Lothian the night before, and puddles the size of small ponds littered Saltoun Big Wood.

Ro nudged him again, and he crammed his flashlight into his small backpack. A little more mud wouldn't hurt, but this was their last night in Scotland. The sun had set an hour ago. The galaxy flickered at him from the sky. He wouldn't get a chance to see it like this again, not for a while. "Just want to check out the stars."

"You can do that down there—" Her palms slammed into his back, and he tumbled forward onto his elbows. He coasted down the slick hill, but she hooted behind him and skidded past him on her stomach. She must've taken a running start, and she landed at the bottom without pushing herself along.

"Crap," he said when he reached the foot of the hill. Mud had gotten into his mouth, and he spat it out. "Could've warned me."

"Where's the fun in that?" She got to her feet and offered him her hand. He grasped it and yanked her back to the moist ground. "Hey!"

He laughed at her surprise and wiped his muddy chin on his shoulder. A pond-sized puddle spread out beside him, but it was full of dirt. He wouldn't get clean from that water.

"Screw it." He lay back on the ground and stared at the sky. The woods were less dense here than at the top of the hill. Stars peeked through the Douglas firs and other conifers, and he gave into the peace of the moment.

Ro, though, was standing again. Her flashlight was out and shone on the main path. "Car park's less than a mile away."

"No one's around, Spark. We got privacy," just like the rest of their stay in East Lothian. The Scottish tabloids hadn't published pictures of him concealing her body. So far, the incident at Usher Hall remained between them and the Edinburgh crowd. "Get your ass over here."

"You're off your head."

"Nah."

The Big Dipper was hanging upside-down, as if someone had tossed the ladle after using it. His gaze followed the handle to Arcturus, a star he hadn't searched for in fifteen years. His star, but it led him to Virgo and its brightest star, Spica.

Jackie's star.

"Come here," he said, gesturing to Ro. "Found a few constellations."

Ro's boots sloshed in the mud toward him. Her weight landed on his stomach, and her hands landed on his chest. She was straddling him, obscuring his view of the sky, but he didn't mind. Her light made the stars dim in comparison.

"You really are off your head, love," she said, and he chuckled. A Scottish accent had overtaken her Minnesota one. Usually, it was imperceptible, but being in Scotland had brought it out. She sounded like her dad, a fact too risky to tease her about.

"You wouldn't be with me if I weren't a little nuts." He brushed his mud-caked fingers through her equally muddy hair. They'd both need a shower after tonight's hike. "You like it crazy."

"True enough." She lowered her head to his face and kissed him. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being someone I can wander with. Someone I can love."

The admission stalled his breath. She used the L-word less than he did, and he ran his thumb over her ring finger. She was wearing her engagement ring, a combination of a cladagh and Celtic knotwork. It was custom-made and reflected both her Scottish ancestry and his Irish roots. He didn't care much about his maternal heritage, but Ro dug their Celtic connection, so he went with it.

She pressed her lips into his neck, and her teeth nipped the skin by his pulse point. "I do love you, Steven," she whispered. "More than I have anyone else."

He cupped the back of her head and drew her into a kiss that coaxed his blood south. Her presence in his life had burned off the gloom, enough to see life as more than just a pointless errand. It was a tough lesson to learn, living for the now. Hard to believe how far he'd come—and how close he'd been to being unreachable.

September 3, 1990

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Riverside Theater
…

Hyde felt Ro's gaze on him all afternoon as he worked. She stood on the stage after load-in, watching him build the lighting truss with the other steel dogs. It had become her hobby the last few stops, watching them, but it was a waste of her time. She needed to prepare for tonight's gig.

Degenerate Matter's show in Milwaukee would have twenty-five hundred in attendance. The Riverside Theater was an upscale venue, a concert hall, and a perfect place for the band to experience a bigger crowd. The audience couldn't get too rowdy here, which would allow the band to focus on the music.

But, for the moment, Ro seemed entirely focused on him.

He didn't climb down the truss tower until the roof was hoisted up and stabilized. Ro grasped his wrist at the bottom, as if they were old friends, but her face indicated no recognition. "Is that thing safe enough for me to climb?" she said, nodding at the tower.

"With a climbing belt, safe enough."

"No, like you. Without a climbing belt." She was eyeing the truss roof, and her chest rose and fell quickly. She hadn't been lusting after him but the lighting rig.

"You're gonna do it no matter what I tell you," he said.

She grinned. "Spot me."

He dragged his fingers across his cheek as Pete, the band's tour manager, walked up to them. "What are you doing?" Pete said to him. The road crew wasn't supposed to talk to the band, and Pete's pale face reddened when Hyde didn't scurry away. "Get back to—"

"Back off," Ro said. "Him and me are having a private conversation."

Pete left without a word. Like Ro, he didn't recognize Hyde. If he had, he would've disappeared a lot sooner.

Ro pointed to the truss roof. "Take me up there with you."

Hyde inhaled a breath through his nose, and his nails dug into the side of his neck. "If you fuckin' drop—"

"I'll become a messy pile on the stage. Want me to sign something to free you from liability? You that worried about your job? Your money? 'Cause if you are, I'll fire your ass if you don't take me up there."

He gestured to the truss tower. Better she get some practice in before the show, with him critiquing her technique, than her making a deadly mistake.

She began to climb, ascending the outer side of the tower like a pro. Hyde followed, watching her steps, but she was a damn acrobat. A hundred feet up, she crossed to the other side of the tower. This allowed her to face him, with the diagonal wire webbing between them.

"What's your name?" she said as shouts came from below. Pete and the rest of the road crew—the steel dogs and riggers—had noticed her stunt. They were yelling for her to get down. "Good thing most of them don't stay during the gig. They'd shit their pants if they knew what I was planning."

Hyde didn't like the sound of that, and he signaled for her to climb down. She did, following him on his side of the tower. But as soon as his feet hit the stage, Pete got in his face.

"You!" Pete shouted, and spittle flew from his mouth. "You're done! Get your ass out of here and find your own way home." His dense, frizzy hair bounced with each word, giving him the appearance of a furious Art Garfunkel impersonator.

"He's not fired," Ro said. She wedged herself in front of Hyde, forcing Pete back."But you will be if you don't leave him the fuck alone. He did what I asked him to."

Pete stammered, like she'd spoken an alien language. "I-I don't—I don't understand."

She patted his shoulder. "You don't have to, Pete. Just accept it."

Later that night, Hyde sat sidestage during the show. It was the designated VIP section, and his dad, W.B., was with him. Dad had never seen Degenerate Matter in action before. He seemed excited, but anxiety fueled Hyde's pulse, especially because of Ro's promise of further acrobatics.

Hyde rubbed sweaty palms on his slacks as the band went onstage. He'd dumped his roadie guise for business casual, swapping out his Zeppelin tee for a button-down shirt. His long hair was hidden in a fedora, and shades concealed his eyes. Pete had recognized him earlier as the president of Burnout Records, but he hadn't connected this Hyde to roadie Hyde.

Deep into the concert, Ro kept her promise. The band jammed during the middle of "Because I'm a Girl," and she climbed the lighting truss tower. The crowd cheered when she reached the roof, but she didn't stop moving. Her hands held onto the lower beam, and she whipped her body around like a damn tornado.

Hyde grew dizzy as her legs became a blur, but she eventually climbed across the roof like it was a set of monkey bars. She descended the opposite tower to the stage, and a thousand curses shot through his brain. She'd dangled over a hundred feet in the air without a safety harness. Even the truss monkeys didn't do that.

"I see why you signed them," Dad told him after the main set. "Why you tour with them."

Warmth spread through Hyde's body at the acknowledgment, but he had a job to do. He abandoned the VIP section for the bathroom and changed back into his roadie get-up. His fedora, shades, and business clothes went into a dark plastic bag. He felt like Spider-Man, but he was no superhero. Just a guy trying not to think too much.

Breaking down the lighting truss usually kept his mind occupied. It also tired him out, and tonight was no different. Exhaustion drained his body by the end of load-out. But as the last pieces of equipment were rolled from the venue and onto trucks, Ro approached him in the parking lot.

"You never told me your name," she said.

He rubbed a hand over his face. She was supposed to be at the hotel and sleeping, like the rest of the band. "Steven," he said, but the name didn't seem to prompt any recognition.

"Steven. No wonder you didn't tell me. That's a shitty name."

He kept silent. The more he spoke, the more he risked being identified. They'd had many conversations the last year, but he'd been in his business guise then. Bearded, suited, and stiff.

"Listen, Steve," she said, and he bristled. No one called him that. "I'm not the type to sit on my ass, doing nothing. Gotta leave my mark on the world before I go, even if it's a bloody splatter on a concert stage." Her finger twirled in the air. "World's already left its mark on me."

She walked backward and cocked a hip against the nearest lamppost. It cast a spotlight on her, illuminating the curves of her body. She was thin but not scrawny. Her coat sleeves hid the muscles of her arms, but he knew they were there.

Just like he knew the road crew was watching. He stepped closer to her to get some privacy, but Pete shouted an order that caused the crew to scatter. Pete went to the lamppost next. He edged himself in front of Hyde and spoke to Ro. "Look, whatever you've got going on here, do it at the hotel, okay? Don't screw him in the fucking parking lot."

Ro smirked. "How about I fuck him in the screwing parking lot?"

"We're not screwing or fucking," Hyde said to Pete. "You're dropping her off at the hotel."

Pete glared at him, a good sign. He still had no clue who Hyde was.

"Nope," she said and crossed her arms over her chest. "Pete's going to Kenosha. I'm staying here."

Pete grasped his sweaty but still frizzy hair. "For God's sake, Ro—"

"For Pete's sake, Pete," she said, "get the hell out of here. Steve is walking me."

"All right, all right." Pete shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "All right," he repeated before jabbing Hyde in the chest. "You, don't pull any shit."

"No plans," Hyde said.

Pete gave him one last glare and climbed into one of the sleeper buses. It drove off with a rumble that vibrated Hyde's skeleton, and the other bus wasn't far behind. Hyde was supposed to be on it, but thanks to Ro, the road crew would get to Kenosha before him.

Ro pushed herself from the lamppost as a wind blew through the parking lot. It was cold and gusty and whipped Hyde's hair over his eyes. His coat, smokes, and duffel bag were on one of the buses. All he had with him was his wallet, but he could always go to his apartment. It was only a twenty-minute walk from here.

The wind died down, and he pushed his hair from his face. "Time to go to the hotel," he said, but Ro had vanished. A wasteland of pavement stretched out before his searching eyes. She was messing with him, hiding behind one of the lampposts or parked cars.

He moved toward a black sedan, and a weight dropped onto his back. "You're a roadie," Ro's said by his ear. "Do your job and load-out the equipment."

His spine stiffened, more from her order than her sudden presence. This chick was certifiable, expecting him to give her a piggy-back ride. Her arms looped around his neck, and her legs locked around his waist. His impulse was to toss her off, but he carried her out of the parking lot. Arguing would only drag this night into day.

They hit a pedestrian bridge a few blocks east, crossed the Milwaukee River, and ended up on the Riverwalk. Rumors were the city planned to extend it past the Historic Third Ward, but for now it was nowhere he intended to loiter. Only three blocks lay between the Riverwalk and Ro's hotel, the Hyatt Regency. He intended to get her there, to get his own ass to bed, but she slipped off his back.

"You're a talkative one, ain't you, Steve?"

"Only talk when I've got something worth saying."

She leaned against the Riverwalk railing. Light from nearby lampposts and buildings reflected in the water, streaking it yellow and blue. "How about a smoke?" she said and removed a pair of cigarettes from her coat.

He accepted the offer. If she intended to keep him here, he needed a smoke.

"I've been watching you," she said and lit his cigarette first. He stood beside her, staring out over the river, and smoked while she spoke. "I'm fascinated by how you steel dogs work. Trust is a big part of it." She gestured with her cigarette. "You've got up-riggers who're hanging by a thread—or nothing—shouting at the ground guys. But my attention keeps coming back to you."

The end of her cigarette burned orange. She blew smoke over the water, but the wind blew it south, toward him. He gave his own lungs a break and caught her scent, a mix of sweat and deodorant. He probably stank worse. A couple of hours hauling steel did that to him.

"You're different than the rest of the crew," she said when they both had a second cigarette in their mouths. "Anger rises in them easily, but you seem so fucking cut off."

He pushed his knee into the Riverwalk railing. She wasn't wrong, but it was none of her business.

"Why is that, Steve? What cut you off?"

His teeth clamped on the cigarette, and his hands curled over the railing. It wasn't an answerable question.

"I don't want your life story," she said, "or any story. But something shut your valve. Can't live that way, Steve. Just letting you know."

He tossed his cigarette to the boardwalk and stomped on it. He didn't give a crap if this was an interrogation or an attempt to pick him up. "Quit calling me fuckin' Steve, all right?"

A smile glided over her lips. "There ya go. Let's hear it!"

"It's two in the morning. You've got a gig tomorrow—"

"Oh, Steve..." She tutted, and her cigarette bounced against her lips. "You're too young to be so damn old."

He fixed his gaze on the river. "Didn't sign up for this shit."

"That's a start," she said and tugged on his sleeve, hard enough to get his attention, "but I wanna hear you really curse me out. Come on, man." She raised her fist. "Give it to me."

He lowered his forehead to the railing. The metal froze his skin, but she had to know who he was. No other reason for her to be messing with him. "Yeah, whatever," he said and straightened up. "You figured out my 'disguise'. Burn's on me. Can we get goin' now?"

"What?" Her hand shot out and grasped his jaw. She turned his face to one side then the other, examining it in the lamppost light.. "Holy shit..." Smoke curled from her cigarette into his nostrils. "Beardface?"

His eyes squeezed shut. She hadn't known after all, and he'd just revealed himself.

"Steven Fucking Hyde?" she said, still holding his chin, and he gave her the barest of nods. "So that's what's been hiding under—well, everything." Her grip on him softened. "Why? Why are you..."

She let him go and bent over the railing. Her cigarette dropped into the river, and she coughed before speaking again. "Climbing up the truss tonight, swinging a hundred feet in the air, that was a rush. But this—this fucking scares me."

"Had to get away from the desk." He scratched the nape of his neck. "What band watches the damn road crew set up the stage every day?" His explanation should've been good enough, but she continued to lean over the railing. "You okay?" he said, staying close. If he didn't play this right, she was liable to jump into the river.

"Just trying to reconcile business-you with roadie-you. Don't know how you can be the same people." She laughed and finally stood up straight. "I mean, Beardface looks like a middle-aged man. You—this you—looks..." She flinched, as if his face was incomprehensible to her. "How the hell old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

"Fuck." She pulled another cigarette from her coat and lit it. "Thought you were my age at the oldest—this you. Business-you I'd guessed was mid-to-late forties."

She smoked a while, gaze on the river. Maybe she was doing the math. Instead of twenty years between them, they had less than five. Their dynamic would change from here on in, but that didn't mean he'd get more respect. He'd likely get less.

"Show me your left arm a sec," she said and moved away from the railing.

"What for?"

"Just do it."

He presented his left arm to her. She grasped it and ran her thumb along the veins of his wrist. "Never did that," he said and yanked back his arm. "Not suicidal."

"Slow suicide's still suicide. You're more than half-dead."

Chills arced from rib to rib. The cold air from the river had nothing to do with it. Ro was reading him, as fundamentally and accurately as Forman did. Like Jackie used to do.

"Sometimes the deepest of scars are invisible," Ro said and walked toward the hotel, "except to those who have similar ones."

The shadows of skyscrapers fell onto him as he followed her, and his right hand clamped around his left wrist. He'd never cut himself, but he was bleeding out all the same. Had been for years, but if Ro had a way to stop it, he'd do more than listen.

He'd owe her.