V.

Abby has been meaning to recant. Really, she has. Especially since witnessing the poor spectacle Erin has made of herself this last week. How she would manufacture excuses to visit the second floor lab: My computer's doing the pinwheel of death again, think Holtzmann can fix it? I heard scurrying; I think Casper's in the wall, better go check the cage. Everyone needs a drink of something sometime, Abby. She didn't know what their interactions were like, but, each time, Erin would slink back downstairs, dejected, and slip quietly behind her desk.

But, they had been so busy with preparations and Holtzmann had been all but camping in her lab, blasting Patti Smith's Horses on repeat. Abby simply didn't see a fitting opportunity to talk to either of them. Maybe it had a little to do with her pride. Maybe.

A shadow looms over her desk. "Yo, ground control to Yates," says Patty, waving her hand.

"What? Sorry. What's up?"

"Man, did ya'll mix Percocet with your Cheerios this morning?"

Abby hears Erin snicker from her corner.

"I said," Patty drawls exasperatingly, "I got an email back from Miss Stick-Up-Her-Butt about a meeting with the Mayor. Says he has time tomorrow for lunch."

"Don't you think it's a little premature?" asks Erin. She twirls a marker around and fumbles; it clatters onto her desk.

"We gotta appease Daddy Warbucks," explains Patty, "I dunno if you Major Toms have noticed, but our cash flow is tricklin'."

"Should we brief him on the Plan?" wonders Abby. It was definitely a plan with a capital 'P'.

"I don't think we have all the requisite data, yet," says Erin, "I'd rather approach him when we have all our ducks in a row."

"He's not gonna care if x=y, guys," says Patty, "all he needs are a few props to back up our budget."

Abby considers this. "I wonder where Holtz is with the cyclotron."

Erin shoots up from her chair, "I'll go ask her."

"No, I'll ask her," says Abby, daring Erin to object.

"But-"

Abby silences her with a look. It needs to be addressed. Patty was right: all is not well in Buster Paradise.

"Go, Rimbaud, go go go!" sings Holtzmann, banging what sounds like a wrench on the metal panel of the cyclotron.

"Holtz!" shouts Abby, trying to maneuver around a hulking machine that encompasses the entire workbench. It looks like half a junkyard had been welded onto the original prototype Holtz had brought to Higgins some four years ago. She can see a puff of blonde hair bobbing atop the machine. "Holtzmann!"

No dice. Abby instead elects to unplug the stereo.

Holtzmann's head appears. "Not cool, man." The rest of her body materializes around the cyclotron.

"Much as I love Patti Smith, Holtz, I need a progress report," says Abby.

"On this beauty?" she asks, patting the cyclotron like a beloved old dog. "Man, if the jokers at MIT could see me now. It's almost done. I sent Casper through the portal and he came back one head, one tail, everything intact. He was covered in ectoplasm. Kept licking it off, though. His tiny rat farts are now all Class I apparitions." She smiles fondly in the direction of Casper's cage. "All we need is a human trial."

Abby touches her nose with a finger, "Nose goes."

Holtzmann frowns, "Like I would send any of you precious people. I was thinking Kevin-"

"Holtzmann!"

She cackles a bit maniacally, "Kidding. Kidding."

"In any case, how willing are you to demonstrate Ghost Mitosis to the Mayor tomorrow afternoon?"

"Whhaaattt?"

"Patty seems to think we need to brief him."

"Nope. Not talking to that guy. Waste of my time. Plus, I need to closely monitor Casper for any spectral 'projections'," she finishes with air quotes.

"How many times are you going to use that rat as an excuse?"

"What can I say? Never had a pet growing up. Light of my life, that little guy."

"Okay, we can see if the Mayor will trek up here if he requires a demonstration."

Holtzmann nods emphatically. "You and Patty and Gilbert can handle all the schmoozing."

Abby clears her throat; Holtz had handed her as good a segue as she'd ever get: "We need to talk."

"Isn't that… what we're doing?" She punctuates by tapping the wrench lightly on Abby's shoulder.

"No, I mean about Erin."

Holtzmann stiffens and pushes her goggles down. "Like I said, Casper needs-"

"Jillian," Abby intones.

"Ah, I hate that," she says, "Miss Abbott at the Center always said my name like that."

Abby softens. It is rare when Holtzmann ever brings up her time in foster care. It isn't a secret that the engineer is a product of the system, but the memories are difficult and unpleasant and Abby hasn't wanted to press her on the subject. "Sorry," she says instead, "But, something needs saying. Things have gotten a little… weird around here."

"I did what you asked, Abby." The words are muted and sincere.

Abby melts, feeling at once sympathetic and guilty for causing such colossal tension between her two friends. "I know, Holtz, you've been downright honorable about the whole situation. But, I just wanted to say… well, ahem… I'm sorry."

Holtzmann quirks an eyebrow and pushes her goggles up once more. "Sorry? No way. I'm the one who should be sorry. I'm wound like a steel spool. I flirt to release energy and disguise how awkward and crazy I must appear to people. I didn't mean to-"

"Holtz-"

"-hurt her, Abby. She's so smart, and such a good friend and so supportive and so- so- fucking adorkable in her matching tweeds-"

"Holtzmann!" Abby grabs the engineer's shoulders and shakes her a bit.

"What?!"

"I was wrong."

"Huh?"

"I was wrong about you and her. Patty made me see it. I didn't think you were serious about Erin. You are serious about her, aren't you?"

Holtzmann's eyes go wide. "I… uh… I don't know?"

"This must be pretty confusing for you, huh?" Abby didn't mean for her tone to sound condescending, but the engineer is acting like a teenager with her first crush and it is so painfully obvious that she hates herself all the more for assuming the role of righteous protector.

Holtzmann nods, a curl of blonde hair falling over her eye. "I've never felt like this before. When I see her… just like walk into a room, or tap a pencil, or do that weird little finger dance, or smile… It feels like I want to cry, dance, and throw up all at the same time."

Abby cannot help the bark of laughter.

The eccentric prodigy of the engineering world blushes, actually blushes. "I'm glad this is amusing to you."

"Oh, Holtz," croons Abby, drawing the woman to her bosom, "you're just in love. It's only love."

"Only love," mumbles Holtzmann, leaning into the embrace.

After a tight squeeze, Abby releases her.

"Do you think she likes me back?"

"I don't know, Holtz. Erin is really predictable sometimes, but other times, she comes out with some serious left-field shit."

"Serious Left-Field is where I live," says Holtzmann. She pulls her goggles off tucks them preciously into the pocket of her lab coat. Then, she licks the palm of her hand and runs it through her quaffed hair, making it stand at attention. Squaring her shoulders, Holtzmann gets into a running man pose and is ostensibly about to take off but, then she seems to hit the invisible brick wall. "Oh hell. What do I do?"

Abby smiles. "You could try talking to her."

"Right. What do I say?"

"I don't think you need my help in that department. Holtz, you're a veritable gay Don Juan."

"I'm not a woman of words. I'm a woman of action. Usually, I just kiss the girl and ask her if she wants to have sex."

"Yeah… maybe not the best approach with Erin. She's weirdly traditional. Erin once referred to a second date as a 'courtship'."

Holtzmann buries her face in her hands. "I'm so out of my depth, here."

Abby pats her shoulder, "Just tell her the truth, babe. Even if it's a confusing truth."

Holtzmann nods. "I need a cigarette."

"You smoke? Since when?"

"I just started last week. Then I quit. Now, I'm starting again."

Abby throws her hands up in the air. "Good Christ. Let me know when this cyclotron is ready for the big leagues."

"Will do, Coach!"

"She's not coming?" says Erin, once she, Abby and Patty had all filed into back of a cab that smelled like stewed cabbage and Axe body spray.

"Nah, you know how she is," says Abby, "not one for formalities."

"Yeah, I know. It's just… we're a team and… it's just weird that she isn't with us."

"Cheer up, boo," says Patty, from the front seat, "We'll pick her up some takeout and you can bring it up to her later."

"Don't know if that's the best idea," mumbles Erin.

Abby sighs, "Holtz is just wigging out about her new toy and Casper."

"Yeah, well I brought some fruit from my compost to give that stupid pet rat of hers and Holtz all but pretended I was invisible. She's been like that for two whole weeks! What's gotten into her? Does she act that way with you guys? She doesn't, does she. Did I do something? Does she hate me?"

"Woah, slow down, baby girl," says Patty, "we're all just under a lot of stress." She looks pointedly at Abby, "Ain't we, Abby?"

"Yep, super stressed." Abby isn't sure if she should tell Erin about all that transpired, about her initial anti-matchmaking havoc or yesterday's pep talk with Holtzmann. Patty thinks she should tell Erin; Abby thinks it would only add to the awkwardness. This is the last time Abby would interfere in the romantic lives of her friends. She's learned her lesson.

"She'll come around," Abby reassures. God, Holtzmann, I hope you grow a pair.

Erin's legs shake with each step. The plastic bag of Chinese takeout quivers in her hand. She can't take another episode of Holtzmann's bizarre brush-offs. This is it, Erin goads herself, if she ignores me one more time I'll just ask her what the fuck her problem is. She finds herself on the second-floor landing and no more the braver.

Bowie is playing on the stereo, the opening riffs of 'Moonage Daydream'. Erin finds the terrifying engineer sitting cross-legged on the floor, stripping wire, Casper perched on her shoulder.

"Hey," greets Erin, lamely. She thrusts the takeout forward.

Holtzmann merely stares at her, bug-eyed behind her yellow safety glasses.

"Beef lo mein; there's a fortune cookie too. I know you love those." She presses forward and sets the bag down at Holtzmann's knee. The engineer has yet to acknowledge that there is a human in front of her.

"Okay," says Erin, losing all of her earlier indignation, "you should really eat something, Holtz." She turns curtly, begging a swift exit.

"Keep your 'lectric eye on me, babe!" yells Holtzmann, atop Bowie's vocals.

Erin turns back around and finds Holtzmann on her feet, all baggy high-waisted pants and wrinkled 'Science is Cool!' t-shirt and two different colored Converse.

"Put your ray gun to my head," she sings into her wire-strippers, eyes laser-focused on Erin, "Press your space face close to mine, Love!"

Erin nearly cries.

"Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah!" They both croon. Holtzmann wheels toward Erin, grabbing Erin's hand and draping it over her shoulder. She dances close, rolling her hip out so it brushes against Erin's.

"Don't fake it baby," Holtzmann mouths, "lay the real thing on me…"

"Holtzmann," says Erin, but all words except her name seem meaningless now. The engineer has wrapped an arm around Erin's neck and is swaying them in time with the guitar swell. So, Erin merely surrenders, fitting her head neatly into the crook of her partner's shoulder. She smells like smoke and motor oil and something burnt and sweet and strange. 'Moonage Daydream' slides into 'Starman' and they might as well be in space for all the peripheral world matters.

R.I.P. Bowie.