Summary: The teenage boy who used to rule the world and the school teacher who's spent years fighting to do the same finally meet for a business proposition. It is raining.

Characters: Gary, Denzel Crocker

Rating: K+

Prerequisites: "Solo", "Loyalty", "Opportunity", "Trying Too Hard"

Posted: December 8th, 2023

21. Grudge

Saturday July 13th, 2002

Year of Leaves; Summer of the Last Berry

5 minutes after signing the Learnatorium off to Ed Leadly…

Passing by Dimmsdale Elementary leaves him feeling… giddy. Gary clutches his backpack by the shoulder straps, taking in the sight of empty swings squeaking in the wind. They stand like giraffes drinking from the savannah watering hole near the lonely see-saws and jungle gym. It's empty here. Dreary and chilly in the wind, even for a summer evening. And, like… There is something wild, beautiful, and free in witnessing this little slip between horror and peace. It's like peeling back a corner of yellow wallpaper to reveal life and color on the other side..

These days, Gary rarely has a reason to walk by the school. His apartment's in the other direction, closer to the downtown area (Right next to Alden Bitterroot's well). But there was once a time he walked to school five days a week, and five days back the other direction (unless Mr. Sanderson in a rare show of mercy pinged them safely home).

Years ago, back when he was only ten, he used to play on this same old equipment. The school has upgraded to a new slide (with a playful rock wall), but everything still feels so familiar. He could probably run across the playground with his eyes squeezed shut and still manage to run up every step and dive down every slide. And, you know… he'd probably scrape himself up on the woodchips if he did that, but for just two or three fleeting seconds, it might be fun.

Mmm… No. He's having second thoughts about the woodchips. He'd rather have squishy rubber underfoot (or even just grass). Woodchips can pierce skin. They aren't safe. And they're not all that wheelchair-friendly either, which no one in this town seems to think about as much as he and Betty do. There's a reason he applied for a part-time job at the Learnatorium instead of volunteering at the school.

Well. A few reasons. But the illusion of choice lifts his spirits on some of his worse days.

Gary lingers at the edge of a crosswalk. It's gray, gray, gray this afternoon. Not rainy, but threateningly close. The clouds leer downward, erasing shadows from the sidewalk. Gary rocks from heels to toes and back again, waiting for the red hand firm and staring back from him to turn into a welcoming white Cross signal. Does the little glowing figure who lives inside the signal box ever feel like he's drifting through a void? Marching endlessly, stopping often, and never advancing where he'd like to go?

It's Saturday. 7 pm. There aren't many cars out on the weekend, especially since not a lot of people have a reason to stray near the elementary school in the summer. Including him, which is why he walked right past it. Sentimental he may be, but the man he's searching for only works at the school… He won't be there today.

Cars roll past, their tires slick and firm against the street. Gary presses the signal button twice (in case the first push doesn't take) and stares at his reflection in the mounted mirror on the crossing post. It's a big, round mirror, likely put there to help drivers see around the corners, so it's probably unsafe of him to stand directly in front of it, but… in that moment, Gary realizes he doesn't know how long it's been since he last looked himself over in a mirror. Properly, anyway. He doesn't need to very often. The short spikes in his hair don't require much attention (especially because he usually wears a hat). Thanks to his mild genie powers (probably? Maybe? Unclear), he's never had to deal with acne. Every now and then he adds a little eyeliner to his look, but it really depends on the day.

It's… it's been a few months since the last time he did. That stuff runs when you cry. It would give his thoughts away.

Still, Gary grimaces at the face staring back at him now. How long has he looked like a zombie in the mirror? Heavy circles cling beneath his eyes. Is that how Ed Leadly saw him when he came in today? No one he'd believe had authority; no one to take too seriously? (Actually, this adds up. Gary spent last night sleeping on the Learnatorium couch.)

The white walking figure on the crossroad sign blinks on.

I've really grown up. Did I really use to cross this busy street without adult supervision when I was a kid?

Thunder sneers overhead, though the lightning's yet to show its face. Gary keeps his thumbs in the backpack straps. He didn't need to check the address in a phone book. Everyone knows where to find 4158 Woodnick Lane. It's outlived just about everyone in Dimmsdale. It maybe always will.

Gary's halfway there when raindrops start plinking down. They sizzle on his hands. He glances up. Then, yanking the backpack over his head, he breaks into a run. Burn the witch, he thinks snidely, and immediately feels a swell of guilt. Betty, before she lost her memories, always was good at brushing off his self-deprecating thoughts. He brings up the old mantras, playing them through his head as his shoes smack the sidewalk and cars chug, their windshield wipers flinging droplets his direction.

"If you wouldn't say it to a sad child's face, don't say it to yourself."

The rain leaves bubbly welts across his hands. Gary huffs, sprinting for all he's worth, and leaps on a big cement planter just to avoid the gutter spray splash from a car rolling by. His skin throbs, hands thrusting their weird mix of human and genie cells into repairing what damage the water did. Over and over, again and again… one scalding patch of skin at a time. And it looks good as new, until it touches water again.

It's a relief to hunker on the porch of scraggly little 4158. Which is probably not the reaction most have when they come to visit Denzel Crocker. His house smells stubbornly of stale pretzels and motor oil, even on the outside in the rain. What's that about? The world may never know. Gary gives himself a shake. Rain splatters the door and decorative pumpkins standing on the porch. One, despite its plastic coating, is carved with the stalking shape of a lithe black cat. Why are there pumpkins in the summer? You'd at least expect leftover snowman or Valentine's hearts.

Doesn't Crocker have a gray cat? The fur is very, very dark, but streaked with just enough silver to cancel out an easy Anti-Fairy summoning. That's what Sanderson said once, anyway, and Sanderson knows things.

Gary still has Sanderson's phone number on speed dial in his mind.

He knocks. Each rap tears open half-healed welts on his knuckles, so he gives up after three and stops to nurse them at his chest. Socked feet shuffle over creaking wood. Thunder growls again, still lacking lightning sparks, though the hairs bristle up Gary's arms like he's some distorted image on the TV, half a breath from melting into static snow. What a way to go.

The locks flip. Another with it. Too many locks. Gary shifts, wet and cold, and wipes his hands against his white capris. Luckily those aren't too damp… He doesn't need to be more self-conscious than he is. Gooey, mucus-coated saliva lurks on the end of his tongue. He debates spitting on the porch, then sort of clears his throat and tries to swallow instead, because now the door is open and a squinty eye (shielded by a thick lens) evaluates him like a long pink worm. Recognition sparks in that narrow gaze. Time is short and Gary knows that (as you do), so he doesn't waste it on introductions. He launches forward.

"Denzel Crocker, I have a proposal for you."

"It had better not be marriage," mutters the man tucked away behind the door. Gray, spidery fingers wrap around its edge. "If one of us is going to be wearing pink, I want it to be me."

"I have a proposition for you," Gary corrects, undeterred. "A business proposition."

"Yeah? Well, you can hit the road, kid. I'm not interested in any more Squirrely Scout cookies." He slams the door. Lightning stabs the sky, thunder only a few seconds behind. The rain picks up, wind blowing, and Gary shifts his feet behind the pumpkins so his ankles won't get burned. He knocks again.

"Hey, if you'd just-"

The door flies open, this time revealing Crocker's entire form. Now, that would be an appropriate time for lightning. Gary lurches back on instinct, but it never comes.

Very little about the man has changed since Gary attended Dimmsdale Elementary. He had the stooped back even then, and the glasses that look like they'd crack a diamond cutter. It may be a summer Saturday evening, but besides the missing shoes, he's dressed in a mostly-not-wrinkled white shirt and black slacks like he expects to sweep out the door to work at any moment. Maybe he just came back with groceries?

"Cabrera," Crocker greets. That's fair, the family name. Gary thinks of Crocker by his surname too, though the name Cabrera brings up a lot of tangled memories and a wild family history best left where it's meant to stay: a cover story; under wraps. Crocker's eyes glint blue, and Gary fidgets with his backpack straps. The whole thing is dripping, but he's reluctant to set it down. It's very unlikely the school teacher has some trapdoor or spring-loaded launch pad hidden beneath his welcome mat, but the man is a witch and the house is loaded with generations of stinky magic. Gary barely got any education on the witch side of his biology, and even he can whiff it from here.

"It's raining," he says, pointlessly and mumbled. Then, with growing boldness: "Can I come in?" He moves one hand to the keys at his belt. They hang on an elastic. He is ready.

Crocker's eyes inspect him, nostrils flared like baby hummingbird wings. Then he slams the door again. This time, before it can connect, Gary whips one key forward and wedges the metal teeth between door and frame. Dangerous, a single slip-up away from a howl of pinched fingers, but it works.

"Denzel Crocker," he begs as the school teacher tried to push him off (voice swirling in the rain), "it's about- Um…" He almost chokes on the words. "It's about fairy godparents!"

They leave him in another roll of thunder. The scuffle at the door breaks off.

Then the door flies open again. Less dramatically this time, maybe halfway, and he is there. It's raining, Gary wants to say again, the key biting at his fingertips, and his hand is shaking like it's made of soap. Crocker stares back with his head tilted to an angle somewhere between quizzical and outright disbelieving.

"It's raining," he says after all. "I'm a… Can I come in?"

"You run the daycare center on Strawberry Street."

It's said with wonder instead of disgust. Admiration. Jealousy? Acknowledgement. Respect. All of these things, bundled into a single gift basket… Ooh, a nice compliment. Those are rare these days. Gary affirms it with an ironed-on smile, breathing whispers through his lips. He releases the key, which snaps back to his belt on its whipping elastic line.

"A few weeks ago, I ran the world."

He ran a city, but the literal planet mirrored his brand image. That's essentially the same thing. Anyway, who really pulled the puppet strings behind Flappy's big ideas? The Pixies lurked in the fringes. Gary and Betty walked the front lines. They put up the posters. They watched the children. They turned ten years of their life over to the Pixies to use however they wished. And who volunteered? Always Gary. Always obedient, smiling Gary and his tagalong clones.

Crocker's fingers fix his glasses. Calling out the fingers like they're some sort of separate entity feels appropriate somehow, like the man is made of maggots masquerading as a single worm. "Well… It's not nearly so impressive, but I'm Denzel Crocker: Fairy hunter and soon to be ruler of the universe."

Grandiose ambitions. Gary can't help but smile, even while his eyes stay half-lidded and he's still stung from thunder and rain. "I know who you are." Oh, it feels good… The weight of it melts like chocolate off his shoulders, dripping like that unpleasant mucus-filled saliva off his tongue. The Pixies were punished for their world takeover. Cruel, isn't it? To be punished for such success? Well, that's big business for you. Jealousy's the devil's favorite plague. He shifts his weight between his feet, shrugging off the backpack. "That's why I came-"

"Well, now that we've been properly introduced-" Crocker lunges like a snake. Fang-like fingers stab into Gary's shoulders, yanking forward and then slamming him back against the door frame. "Give me your FAIRIES!"

Wha-? Expected reaction- breathtaking nonetheless. The backpack absorbed most of that hit, though it's loose and slipping towards the floor. Gary blinks, reorienting himself and what he came here for. "I d-don't have fairies-"

"Aha! Come just to mock me, have you?"

"No, I really just-"

"Do you think I'm an idiot? You think that? Is that what's up!?" Crocker squeezes Gary's cheeks then, pressing in like they might pop and he wants to be the one to see it. Spittle flies like confetti from his lips. "You're a teenager! Practically an adult! How could you possibly know about FAIRIES if you don't have your own FAIRY GODPARENTS?!"

"Because I work for the freaking-deaking Pixies!"

Crocker cuts off with a huff. He blinks. Rain gurgles through the gutters overhead. It's clogged with last year's leaves, so slurping masses waterfall over the sides. His breathing hisses out again like he's holding a straw against his lips.

He withdraws. Gary fixes his backpack straps, now resolved to keeping it firmly on. He avoids eye contact. He touches first his cheek, wiping spittle away, then brushes his hand across his chest. Even through his undershirt and sweater vest, his fingertips pick up the tumble of his heart inside. He stands there as the rain pours down, flooding the garden… and waits to feel sick for betraying his secret for the first time in ten years. He waits for spray bottles or zippy ringtones or pixies ready to sweep him someplace and drop him down an elevator shaft, where he'll be broken bones at the bottom by the time he's seen again. How fitting, for a witch. Dimmsdale still celebrates Alden's fall.

He just feels like he's breathing.

"Pixies Incorporated, then," Crocker clarifies. It's a whisper. It is raining outside. Gary, through his shaky breaths, speaks again.

"You… You know about them?"

Crocker twitches like a cat, making a rolling motion with his hand. "Of course I know about those pointy-hatted posers… I even caught one once with a tree trunk of a forehead. Flew right into the bowl of animal crackers we had at the wacky school dance they made me chaperone. Oh, I netted him and dragged him into the teacher's lounge. He kept insisting that I let him out because he'd left some singing maniac in charge of his business, meaning universal chaos was going to break out if I didn't release him. Sadly for me, he was seriously lacking in magic and proved to be no use to me anyway! I could barely even pick up his powers with my radar."

Oh, H.P. would stand here staring and shaking if he heard that. "Wait," says Gary (when his groping mouth finds his voice at last). "You caught the Head Pixie… using animal crackers?"

"Is that his title?" Crocker bores his stare straight through Gary's skull. They're still breathing, awkwardly pinned together in the doorway. Crocker's much older, though the hunch makes him the shorter one here. Gary stands above him, but only when he's not slumped against the door frame. "Well, I certainly see why they call him 'the Head.' What else would they call him? The lord? The count?"

"You caught the Head Pixie with animal crackers," Gary repeats. His palms squeak together. Two fingers bounce against his lips.

It is still raining. What a silly summer Saturday to learn new information. How fun.

Crocker snorts."I think the real question is, what kind of lunatic provides animal crackers for snacks at a school dance. Why? Did you want some?"

"No. I just think that's super-duper interesting…"

Crocker jerks his head, motioning Gary to step inside. He does. His shoes, but even though it isn't much warmer inside the house than it was out there, the yellowish lights are homely and welcome him with outstretched arms. A beaten sofa sits in the corner. The gray cat lurks on the far end, washing its leg with long strokes of its tongue. Gary rubs his hands together, then brushes them down his pants. Crocker turns then, hand leaning on the door, and scoffs and barks and throws a question out all at the same time.

"What're you after, Cabrera? And why didn't you call ahead? Heck, if I'd known you were coming, I could've made lemonade!"

The thing about yellow lights is that they make even sprawling rooms feel scrunchy close. The lights are dim, flickering and fritzing, and Gary rubs his palms dry again before he even looks up. He is careful. He doesn't pry around Crocker's residence any further than he's been invited to, which he hasn't been, so he treats the whole place like it's a nude beach or a child's hand of cards in a game and simply doesn't look. "I… I need help for someone super-duper important to me. And maybe I can help you too."

"Too much red tape up top? Pixies got your hands tied? Yeah, I've been there before."

"You believe me," Gary says. It's a question. It wasn't a question. So many people have written Crocker off as a nutjob - the local crackpot; super weird - that Gary's written off most of the rumors around him. But this man taught him once in elementary school. While the cheery twinkle in his eye is no longer there (More of a mad glint, really), he has not forgotten the simmering genius that lurks beneath.

"You believe me," Crocker points out, eyebrows raised. He's not quite smiling yet. Maybe halfway there, almost giddy in the way he holds his shoulders. He's forthcoming with half his cards while keeping the rest close against his vest. He knocks one knuckle to the side of his head. "It takes a lot of power to wipe this mind, Cabrera. I don't doubt I've lost the details, but I know the role you played. What I would've given to be there when it all went down. I've put in the documentation I remember. Strawberry Street's a name the cryptozoologist community will remember for a long, long time."

"What do you remember?" Gary asks. He blinks at Crocker, who blinks back without a care.

"You took over the world."

"You remember that much?"

"Don't you?"

"I'm…" Gary tilts his head, thumbs running up and down his backpack straps. Maybe he should play a little more cautiously. Especially with a man who hunts magical creatures for fun. Crocker, he's figured out through personal experience, isn't nearly as dangerous and deadly as Mary Alice Doombringer. And Crocker is a witch…

Does Crocker know he's a witch? He must, even though his powers are so watered down across generations, he's only got the dregs. Crocker can float when his emotions are high.

Gary checks again to confirm his hands are dry. The sight of his skin shifting as his human cells repair the welts on his genie-descended hands would be…

… Should I even be here right now?

"I'm under Pixies Inc. protection," is what he decides to say. He tucks his hands away, this time in his pockets. "Since I'm an employee, I carry a chip on me that renders me immune to fairies' mind wipes. The Pixies themselves would have to consent."

Can H.P. and Sanderson not hear him when it's raining? It's never stopped them from pinging down before (if they really, really feel like you've messed up and want to get involved), but Gary rubs behind his neck, checking out the narrow window beside the door anyway. Lightning flares across the sky. Thunder rumbles not long after.

They gave up listening to me a long time ago. They never micromanaged him as much as Betty and Flappy anyway. Not Gary. Gary, the witch with genie blood, needed room to express himself and focus on his powers and grow.

Facing Crocker again, he says, "Leadly told me you built a portal that will take you to Fairy World."

Thunder echoes overhead. Crocker blinks, slug-like, and inclines his head. "I might've got my fingers in that pie, yes. Have the big men cut off your bus pass?"

Gary winces. "They did, actually… I need to get there. Can I use it?" Quick now, babbling as Crocker's eyes light with interest- "I'm not a fairy godkid, and I'm not under the same restrictions they are. I know you want information, and learning is good, so I've always been learning, and I- I can tell you anything about the basics of Pixie World and Fairy World that you've ever wanted to know. You just have to ask! … Can I use it?"

Crocker's eyes flick from his face to his feet and up again. Gary squeezes the wrinkles in his capris, bunching the fabric. Are there welts down his exposed legs? It it that obvious he isn't fully human, no matter how many years he's fought so hard to be? "The portal's untested," Crocker warns.

"I'll test it for you."

The teacher's brows lift above his glasses rims. "Is there oxygen in Fairy World? All my research points to there being a massive source of magic above ground. I've found spots in Dimmsdale where the wall between our world and the next plane over is very, very thin. I can shove you through! I'd love that… But would I go to jail for child murder?"

"I'm an adult." Vague. Shifty eyes. Gary knows he's doing it, but flicks his focus back to Crocker a heartbeat later and hopes that Crocker won't notice too. Crocker's lips are grim, and Gary curls his fingers against his pants legs.

"Well, I see fun buzzwords like 'oxygen' and 'murder' didn't turn you off." Crocker sounds like he approves. "I remember when I had your spunk, kid…"

"I'm an adult," Gary says again, this time more firmly. The immediate thunder accents this with a crash, though it's unlikely that changed Crocker's mind in any way. He asks again, "Can I use your portal? … Please?"

"What're you after?"

"My friend had her memories wiped." He's not admitted that out loud yet (Mostly). Gary stands firm, his back straight, and clears his throat before he speaks again. "When memories are taken, they don't cease to exist. They're kept in the Fairy World Archives. I just want to fish them out and then I'll tell you anything."

"… Lovell?"

Crocker taught her too, alongside Gary himself. Gary exhales. The name stings, but he can't deny the truth in it. So he nods.

"Betty." Gary's eyes flick behind Crocker then, searching the kitchen for movement or footsteps.

"Mother's shopping. We're alone." Crocker finally shoves away from the door. He paces the living room just a bit, scratching dandruff from the back of his hair, and Gary follows in silence just because he can. The warm lights flicker again, like they're whispering secrets to one another in the night. "Mm, yes… I suppose you can use the portal. Why'd they take your friend's memories?"

"Does that matter?" Crocker can hold him down and slap him if he wants to, but Gary has no reason to admit "She wanted to quit, so they let her go." That was heat-of-the-moment Betty: a Betty he's borne witness to a hundred times before. Fleeing alligators through the Florida swamp, still disoriented and fighting against the ropes that bound them all the while, was enough to shake both of them. Gary isn't proud of all the things he yelled at her, which equally isn't information Crocker needs to have. He's here for the portal. He'll pop through, figure out where it lets out, and loop home again to sleep before he makes a plan.

This is going to work. It's set up too perfectly, all the puzzle pieces clicking into place, for it not to work. Rosencrantz told him in the laundromat two weeks ago (though it feels like years ago by now) exactly where the Fairy Council stores their stolen memories, like trophies they can mount up on the wall. Smoof and brownie spit, had been Rosie's sighing commentary. That place is so heavily guarded that you'd need some kind of way to teleport in there without using magic. Those were his exact words.

"Betty had a good life with me. We're best friends; she'd want me to do this for her. Once she's got her memories back… then she can make a real choice about what she wants to do next. The Pixies took that right to choose from her- They made her forget everything we've been through together…"

"Sounds harsh," Crocker says, words mild and tone everything that isn't sympathetic. He may as well have shoved her down the stairs himself. Gary's breath hitches up, but when Crocker motions for him to follow down the hall, Gary doesn't hesitate. Their feet shuffle, half drowning the next growl of thunder, and Crocker leads Gary to a little staircase stuffed all the way in the back of the house. Crocker takes the stairs two at a time, so Gary keeps close on his heels. The basement walls are unfinished, leaving exposed beams and wires visible. At the bottom, Crocker flicks on the lights. They're much whiter than the ones upstairs: obviously installed much later on. Now several things are visible down there, like a lumpy sofa, washer, dryer, and tiny TV. An ironing board lies on the ground, tilted against the wall with its legs folded in. Nothing too out of the ordinary.

Then he turns the corner.

"Welcome to the Crocker Cave!"

Oh…

It's blue down here. That's the first word for it. It's blue and metallic and full of whirring fans. There don't seem to be separate rooms down here in the basement (like spare bedrooms or closets), though there's a furnace tucked away near the stairs. It's big and spacious despite the cluttered corners. A massive computer screen sprawls above the far wall. Desks full of blueprints, pens, and papers are all crammed on that side of the room, along with filing cabinets and boxes that tower towards the ceiling. Gary takes it all in, breathing softly, as Crocker strikes a dramatic pose and stares at him like a puppy waiting for a treat.

"That's a lot of research," he says, smiling because it's the only thing to come to mind. He adjusts his weight, tugging his backpack straps, and glances left and right a couple times. "… Where's the portal?" Shouldn't that be the centerpiece? Is it not on display? To be fair, Crocker did warn it's still untested, so maybe it's locked up until better safety protocols can be enacted. It's good to be safe.

Crocker maintains most of his showgirl pose, though he makes one swinging motion with his arm for double emphasis. "You're looking at it!"

… "It" seems to refer to a rickety table in the center of the floor. A small loop of metal sits atop it, but it's barely wide enough to fit a hand. It looks like a tableside clock ripped open, and even if it is a portal, there's nothing pulsing or glowing or sparkly about it that would normally attract the eye.

"That's it?" Gary steps forward, then faster, then slower again. At the table's side, he just shuts up and stares. Is this a joke? This is the portal Leadly thought important enough to bring up in conversation? You can't get to Fairy World through this thing! His stomach lurches like he's just been tied atop a train and rolled right off the tracks. Gary wheels around- "I thought you said it was ready!"

"I said I had a portal," Crocker corrects. "I didn't say it worked yet."

"It doesn't even work?"

"It will," Crocker says, oozing confidence like a porcupine rolling through an anthill. He walks over, picking up one of the blueprints flopped across the table. He glances at it, then drops it and takes a black notebook instead, flipping through the smudge-filled pages. Every one's marked up with diagrams and shapes and numbers that leave Gary's head spinning on a spike. "I've got all the calculations down- it's basically already done! I just haven't got the materials to kick it into gear." And he laughs. "You think you can just buy this stuff on a teacher's salary? Or on this planet?"

"But you know what you need," Gary presses, gripping his backpack tighter. "Do you have contacts, then?" Aliens exist. He's met Mark Chang. Heck, the Learnatorium's the spot Mark landed when he first came down to Earth. Gary's nowhere qualified enough to be his legal guardian, but he's helped the guy out of a jam or two. Mark even painted one of their newer rooms. Guess that was a big waste in the end, seeing as we've sold the place…

A lump bulges in his throat. It clenches tight, crawling spider legs up and down, and jabs stinging prickles in his eyes. Gary stares at the metal circle on the table (and all its blueprints), breathing through his teeth, until his gag reflex starts to kick.

I agreed to sell the Learnatorium for this… I really thought…?

Of course the portal isn't done. Gary rocks back on his feet, biting his lip, and stares at the unfinished ceiling because it's the only thing in the room that doesn't make him want to scream. Crocker, however, doesn't get the memo. He pushes forward, bringing his face into view as he gets all up in Gary's grill.

"Ha! Making contact with aliens is actually among the last things on my list… Do you know many aliens, Cabrera? I'm not exactly tripping over them. But why bother with contact until I know the width and length of what I need? Not to mention the material…"

Right.

"Tell me what you need. I've got contacts. I'll get it for you."

"You've got contacts?" Crocker whips his head back around. "You've been holding out on me!" (Like they're old friends).

"What are the costs?" Gary asks. He drops his backpack by the table leg, walking around until he's facing the blueprints right-side-up. He sounds resigned. He is resigned. Look at him… Made his bed and now he can lie in it. There's not an ounce of happy peppy sentiment etched in the freckles on his face. He is just…

… so tired of being alone…

"Nothing you can afford," Crocker says, dismissing this with a hand flap and a snort.

"I said I was going to help you, didn't I? With anything you want or need?" Gary takes out his wallet. After thumbing past dirty sticky notes, his driver's license, and his Learnatorium ID card, he finds what he's looking for in the back. Gary withdraws the gray piece of plastic with shaking fingers. For three seconds, he stars at the looping 'P' symbol and the lone little dot above it like a lowercase 'i.' Then he flips it around. "Mr. Crocker, do you know what this is?"

After leaning forward and adjusting his thick glasses (Click, clack… so many noises in this room of rustling paper and whirring fans), the old man lets out a disgruntled, um… grunt. "I'm a fairy-catching expert, kid. Not a supercomputer."

Okay… So we're doing this. "This is a Pixie credit card. Or… technically a debit card?"

The effect those words have is astronomical. Instantaneous. "Oh, now we're getting somewhere. A debit card means money!" Crocker tries to snatch it, only for Gary to duck away. "Come on, we'll go halfsies! What's the limit on that?"

"There isn't one. Well," he amends, dodging around the table as Crocker lunges for him again, "it's the pooled funds of Pixies Inc. gathered over about two hundred thousand years… You can scan this thing, and it… It just works? The Pixies are magical and masters of money" - he readies himself to dart away again, though Crocker is watching him now, both hands braced on the other end of the table, breathing huffy breaths - "a-and so it does all the currency exchanges instantaneously. And it totally works anywhere in the universe to let you buy anything. Anywhere they have a machine that can read a card or chip or badge, which means the whole cloudlands and any alien planet within this quadrant too."

"… Well. That does change things, doesn't it?"

"I can get you what you need," Gary says, looking him right in the eye. He's squeezing the card so tight, his thumb and forefinger are turning white. "I… I…"

"Colleagues, then."

"Look. No one can find out I'm involved in this." That sounds overwhelming and vague, so Gary corrects while Crocker works his knuckles into the table's edge. "I mean… The Fairies? The Pixies?" He shakes his head, fingers sliding to the collar of his shirt. "Ohh, goodness… Oh dear. Um… I need Betty's memories. I'm sort of… on call for the Pixies right now? I mean, I'm not totally involved in what they're doing, but they haven't cut me off and I've been told they, uhh… they won't if they don't see a reason to, and this card - this infinite money card - this is my reward for the last 10 years of my life." He lifts the silver card again, flapping it faintly, and it reflects the white lights across the room. Crocker doesn't make another dive for it, though his eyes are tense and teeth pressed so tight, Gary can hear saliva clicking.

"Partners," Crocker decides. He seems content with that, dragging himself upright like it half pains him to stand. "We're partners in this now… You get the materials. I'll build the portal."

"My spending's tracked. I… I don't know how thoroughly, but I think I need to take this slow. Maybe work my way up. Even buy what we need in cash, where we can afford it?"

"Fine; we play by your rules," says Crocker, shrugging now with folded arms. He sort of waves at the materials strewn across the center table. "I've got the science down to a, well… a science! The portal's untested, but I'm satisfied with a job well done. You feeling lucky, Cabrera?"

It's a big thing to put his faith in. Gary breathes, lips tight, fingering the silver card in his hand. He wishes, then… that maybe he had pixie blood running through his skin. Pixies have a way with binding deals, but just because he was legally adopted by Sanderson when he was 8, it doesn't mean he's got the guy's powers shimmering beneath his skin. Another tumble of thunder sounds outside, safely overhead, and Gary focuses his eyes on Crocker's again. Actually, was that thunder? It might've just been his heart.

"I'm an adult," he says next. "I want to be treated like an adult…"

"Equal partners, then. You've got the funds, Cabrera. If you get me what I need, I'll take care of the rest. We'll take Fairy World by storm. Those wand-wavers won't know what's coming for them."

"And you'll help me. You promise to help me?"

"You get me to Fairy World," Crocker says, never blinking. After half a heartbeat, he swings out his hand for Gary to shake. "I've got my honor. You tell me all I need to know about those little wand-wavers, and I'll help you get this girl's memories. It'll be a piece of cake. Which Mother, growing up, never let me have… or when she did, they were always sugar-free!"

"And you really mean that?"

"The cake? Oh, sure! I've no reason to lie!"

END ARC 2

Arc Closing Note - Special thanks to all who are enjoying the 130 Prompts even when progress is slow! Can you believe it was 6 years ago that Gary had that conversation with Rosencrantz about the Archives building?

The 130 Prompts will be set aside for a while as I try to get Origin of the Pixies and Frayed Knots closer to wrapping up… If you reread any 130 Prompts during this time and want to share your thoughts in a comment, I'd love to hear them, even for old pieces. Thanks for enjoying my work!