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"<span class="mu-i">Crystal?</span>" you say. "Really? Don't waste this shit on paint! Geez, I-I didn't mean for you to..."
"No, no. Everything comes to waste in the end— waste and excess, pointless circles. Better for this to have a use than not. And why not paint?" Garvin swipes the toothbrush through the crystal paste. "Shall we see how it does?"
"...Yeah..." (It's not like you don't want the stains out. It's just that that stuff— if it's the <span class="mu-i">good</span> kind, the kind you're thinking of— is worth its weight in goddamn gold.)
Garvin bobs his head, finds a nasty red stain on Madrigal's arm, and begins to scrub in circles; as the paste works in, the stain rises, peels, and flakes off, with the flakes dwindling into nothing before they hit the cot. When Garvin finishes, the sleeve is pristine, though the toothbrush head is dyed pale pink. He flourishes.
"That's good stuff," you say, still a little wary. "Um, you think i-it'd dissolve me if I rubbed it on?"
"You? Goo is semi-real, if I'm not terribly mistaken, so you'd live. Would you like to try it? For the sake of inquiry, of course."
He has you there. "Kind of...?"
Garvin proffers the jar, which you take and swoosh around to watch the sparkle. Powdered crystal is one thing— the stuff's everywhere, just look at chit— but the high-qual stuff is quantifiably different, and it shows in the price tag. You don't want to think about how much that crown Lottie had was worth. (Shit. Where did she even get that thing? What happened to the guy who took off with it? It made you <span class="mu-i">talk.</span>) This jar alone is— well, it's worth its weight in gold, like you said, but it's probably also worth your entire cut from a year of jacking. It wasn't a big cut, but still.
Given the kind of shit Garvin has in the AUX space, though, he probably has a whole pyramid of these jars. You envy his hustle, you really do— being trapped for a couple lame months was enough to royally fuck you in the head, so the equivalent of 50-ish years would render you catatonic. Or, like, a wild animal. But he's thriving, seemingly, not to mention <span class="mu-i">loaded,</span> and maybe you could learn a thing or two? Maybe? You still need to figure out why he likes you.
You stick your finger inside the jar— not touching the paste, even, just hovering. At first there's nothing, which is good. (You could've gone the way of the paint.) After a beat, though, your finger starts moving— not you moving it, you mean more like it's quivering, or the flesh of it is twisting around, or writhing— and you snatch it out and hold the jar at arm's length. "That's... that's good stuff..."
"I'd hope so! Shall we apply it to the remainder of the easel attack? Or..." Garvin frowns. "I should've brought two brushes. Here, here, you take this—" He tugs his gloves back off. "—and I'll run and get spares. For efficiency's sake. Just a little dab will do, apply lightly—"
(3/4 jk)
