Twelve -
The Invisibles, King Mob/Robin/Fanny
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"Mmmm," Robin murmured in assent, stretching lazily and feeling the last sparks of mercuric lightning arc from her spine to the damp bedclothes. They were ruined, and more than ruined, they'd have to be burnt to destroy the secrets writ on them in sweat and blood and come; fortunately they'd be leaving tonight and could light the place up on their way out. Jack would like that, she thought. Or maybe he wouldn't. It didn't matter. "What I don't understand," she went on, reaching up to hold the tiny wooden hand of one of the cherubs carved into the headboard, "is why I had to wear this," reaching down to run a finger of her other hand up along the heavy black shaft still jutting in two directions from her crotch, in and out, "when you've still got one that--mm--came with the package..."

"Because I'm not here, remember?" Fanny said ever so patiently. Her form wriggled and buzzed with static for a moment, as if reminded. "I'm in New York three years ago, stoned out of my mind on the powdered essence of 3:13 in the morning, and fulfilling the promise we'll make twenty-four years from now, so that when I'm born I'll be the proper sex."

"Time is a loop, then," said Robin.

"Time is an ocean without salt," said King Mob, and yawned. "Time is a child with blocks. Time is a paradox. ... did that rhyme?"

Something pinged over by the empty fireplace, glittering like gold. "Rhymed but didn't scan," said Robin, and then lifted her head from the destroyed pillow. "Fanny, if you're not here, how did you take my ribbon?"

"Magic, darling," said Fanny, and then she winked out, leaving a scorch mark the exact shape of her curled-up body splayed over the sheets and Robin's legs alike.