Page 12 of Tapeworld Induction

He grabbed the roll of tape from his jacket pocket. It was his last spare one. He’d only brought it with him in case of emergency.

Well, impressing this girl was an emergency.

Leave her empty-handed and he’d always just be some nobody who couldn’t dance, forgotten in a fortnight. Give her the keys to the Tapeworld and… To be honest, he didn’t plan that far ahead.

“Here. So you’ll think of me.” He encased the roll in her hands. Black-polished fingernails, eyes confused.

It was only later, when he was walking home, the fog of drink having lifted a little, that he realised the full implications of what he’d done.

Fuck.

5

Old Polaroid

Dylan

Dylan turned in bed, the sun blinding her even through the pink curtains. There was noise coming from the kitchen. What the hell is that racket? Is someone in my apartment? Pots clanging, low voices. Her heart quickened. Still in evening dress, she fumbled for her phone.

It was then that she heard a familiar voice.

“Honey, you better come and eat! Early bird catches the tofu block…”

The voice of a middle-aged man dealing with his hungover, nearly thirty-year-old daughter. Of course. Her dad had stayed the night, because he had a meeting on her side of town.

She got up grudgingly, sitting upright on her bed and sticking her feet into a soft pair of slippers. That groggy feeling dominated her mind and body.

The bedroom walls screamed pink, pastel colours peculiarly vibrant in the morning sunlight. Her window was ajar, cool breeze seeping in, gently moving the rose-gold wiring decor hanging beside it.

Her snakeskin coat was still on the floor. Her desk was a burial site of synthpaper sticky notes, assorted drawing pens, half-finished sketches, and other remnants of productivity. Next to the black wardrobe was her collection of shoes – the latest addition her black Dr. Martens, a recent acquisition to celebrate her equally recent job.

Through the fog, her mind stuck on the boy she’d met last night. Isaak. No last name, or at least he hadn’t given her one. He really seemed to be trying to maintain an air of mystery about him. Tall and fit, just any old jock you could have a conversation with over a drink. Of course, she knew exactly who he was. Isaak Powers, retired captain of the London Lazarus. She’d even gone to watch their home games in Greenwich Stadium back in the day.

A sudden realisation.

Oh my goddess, Dylan, did you try to kiss him? The Isaak Powers? She berated herself, though she couldn’t decide what left her more frustrated: having tried to kiss this boy…

…or having failed.

Hadn’t he given her something?

She sat at her desk chair and picked up her coat, rifling through the pockets until she found his bizarre gift: a roll of shiny, golden duct tape. She frowned, unable to think of any reason you’d give someone you just met in a club a roll of duct tape. Dylan imagined him as a professional present wrapper in his early retirement, quick with the fold and sharp with the scissors – and don’t even ask about his decorative string skills.

Hmm. Maybe not.

Why carry it around and give it to me?

She pored over the golden roll, inspecting it. And then she noticed something. There were faces printed on the cardboard lining of the duct tape, blue-lined sketches of an androgynous person, a blank expression as if on a particularly boring commute.

As her eyes followed the series of front and profile portraits, a sort of odd comic strip unfolded. The blank face tore a piece of duct tape from a roll like this one, and then stuck it on the side of their head.

What the fuck?

Her mind filled with questions, a pang of mild anxiety hitting her chest.

What the fuck is this? Some kind of drug? An LSD derivative? Alt-ketamine? Why would this dude, even if sweet and charming, give this to her?

No. Chill, girl. Surely this couldn’t be that.