12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 5

 11:20 PM

Myron picks up what the Nthernaut has given him, and studies it for a time. Inside the glowing, blue cube is a face he hasn't seen since Costa Rica -- seeming a lifetime ago, now -- and one he never expected to see again.

"The Machinehead is very unstable at present," the Nthernaut goes on, his face unreadable: "He suffered severe data damage."

"How did that happen?" Myron asks, making sure no one else in the corner this copy of the Nthernaut strong-armed him towards can hear or see this.

(After what just happened with him and Skyspear he really doesn't need any more complications, tonight.)

"He made the mistake of trying to enter the city's mainframe and take it over without a guide," the Nthernaut smiles: "He might have been able to figure it out on his own, of course. But while we were circling each other, I increased the city's functions just enough to be somewhat taxing to myself. And when I left..."

The blue and black shadow of a man taps the blue cube.

"He looks like someone who's been at the rest home too long," Myron says, remembering unpleasant childhood visits to his great-grandmother's 'special hospital.'

"That's a fairly accurate assessment. His memories are there, but his personality has gone flat. It's almost like a lobotomy, only this could eventually be repaired."

"Or someone could repair him?" Myron asks, looking up from the cube: "Is that what you're asking?"

"I'm not asking," Nthernaut says, taking a step forward: "You need to do this."

"I do?"

"Yes. You broke him to start with. And while he can't quite articulate the cause of his anger and recklessness, I suspect it was trying to get back in the saddle after you sent him riding into a minefield-"

"You're mixing your metaphors," Myron says, handing the cube back: "And I'm done taking orders for a while, Thomas-" 

Nthernaut, the project insists, his voice changing as he does.

"Thomas," Myron repeats, taking a step closer and all but shoving the cube into the Nthernaut's hands: "That's your name, isn't it?"

It's... complicated, the Nthernaut says, looking down at the cube: "And I wish you would do this."

"So, are you asking, now?" Myron says: "Because I don't care who you are, or whose party this is. If you try to tell me what to do ever again I will totally punch your computer face inside out."

The projection raises an eyebrow, and there's something in its eyes that makes Myron wonder if he should have been a little more careful, just then.

"Will you please help me?" the Nthernaut finally asks: "We were friends, once. You talked to me in the treehouse, when no one else would. Other than my father."

"Yeah, I did," Myron says: "And do you know why I did that? Because I liked you, Thomas. Even with half of your parts missing you were more alive and together than most of the people I'd known. !@#$, you were more together than I was, then. I just didn't realize how badly !@#$ed up I was until..."

"Yes?" the Nthernaut asks as Myron stops talking.

"It's... complicated," Myron sighs. They both laugh at that, however uncomfortably.

"The point is, I knew you, then," Myron continues: "I liked you. I could trust you. Now? I don't know. But I look in your eyes and I don't see some good kid who got dealt a bad hand, anymore. I don't see the person I knew."

"What do you see?" the Nthernaut asks: "Please tell me the truth, Myron. Please."

"I see... nothing," Myron admits: "Just blackness. Emptiness."

The Nthernaut looks at him, and then nods: "I was afraid of that."

They just stand there, for a time.

"Look, if you want me to?" Myron says, holding out a hand: "I will fix the Machinehead. I can't promise he'll be a model cybercitizen, or anything. For all I know he'll be worse than before. But I can at least see if I can get him up and running, again. That's the least I can do."

"Don't do it because you're scared of me," the Nthernaut insists: "Do it because it means something. Because you want to."

"I'm going to do it because I need to," Myron admits, taking the cube as the Nthernaut hands it back over: "I need an project, after all."

And as he nods and turns to leave, he's not quite sure if the project is just fixing the Machinehead, anymore.

11:39 PM

"Well, that must have been some conversation," Straffer says, giving SPYGOD a kiss on the cheek as his lover returns.

"It was !@#$ing epic," SPYGOD says, watching the old, German man walk away, maybe headed for the bar for a drink: "The earth moved."

"I sure hope so. I was afraid I was going to have to come fish you out of the conversation." 

"Because it's almost Midnight?"

"Because I got asked to pass on about a thousand messages from people," Straffer winks: "And, yes, it's almost Midnight. And I've been planning what's happening then for too long to not see the look on your face when the ball drops."

"That !@#$ing good, huh?"

"You have no !@#$ idea."

"God I love you," SPYGOD says, and pulls his man in to kiss him with borrowed, electronic lips. They're so lip-locked that it seems the Earth moves, but then Straffer realizes that it has, actually.

And they have company.

"I hope I'm not intruding?" the woman in the crimson shroud asks, holding a cocktail up to her mouth as she stands there, where she wasn't standing just a second or two ago.

"If you're the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, you're a little late," Straffer says.

"I need to talk to the guest of honor," she replies, looking at SPYGOD.

"Well, he's busy-"

"He's all yours," SPYGOD says, patting his lover on the shoulder: "Hon, get us both a drink for midnight. It'll be okay."

Straffer just looks at him, clearly not happy to be sent off like this, but eventually complies.

"Well, I'm going to pay for that," SPYGOD says, watching his lover go: "So whatever you have to say better be !@#$ing important, friend."

"I'm not here as a friend."

"I sure hope you're not !@#$ing here as an enemy?"

"No, merely observing," she says, having a sip: "You know who I am, of course."

"Of course. Did the other two crash the !@#$ing party, too?"

"No, just me."

"Enjoying the gig?" SPYGOD asks, wondering what the deal is, here.

"I wanted to know what kind of man you were."

"Well, you're not seeing me at my best."

"No, but I'm not seeing you at your worst, either."

"That's !@#$ing true-"

"You haven't killed any innocent people since you've arrived."

He just looks at her, then. And then he scowls: "I've never !@#$ing plugged anyone that didn't deserve it."

"You haven't?" she asks, smiling a little: "Well, how about those children in the White Boxes?"

"They were lost the moment the Imago got their !@#$ing hands on them."

"Your Mr. Chaos seems to think otherwise."

"He got lucky. !@#$ lucky. There was no way we could have !@#$ing planned for that-"

"How about Palestine, then?" she interrupts: "Israel? Because you did plan for that."

                                                                                        * * *

The crowd is no longer leering, nor threatening. All the faces that were of one, menacing expression just a second ago -- as they surrounded SPYGOD where he stood -- are now sharing one of fear. All those hijacked bodies take a step back, and then another, holding their hands up to their faces.

All of those voices screaming "no" -- many mouths, one mind.

One soul that realizes it's about to meet its maker.

SPYGOD drops the small, metal canisters to the ground. As they ping and bounce on the concrete, he wonders: how much blood has been spilled over its ownership?

None more than today, he realizes, watching as his enemy starts to die

                                                                                         * * *

"I sure !@#$ing did," SPYGOD admits: "And if you'd get your head out of the prosecution's !@#$ for a couple seconds, you'd !@#$ing realize why I did it."

"Because it's easier to kill people than to save them?"

"Because they were already. !@#$ing. Dead."

"That seems to be a common refrain from you."

"It is if it's !@#$ing true."

"Was it? They looked rather alive to me."

"Yeah, provided you ignore the fact that Zalea Zathros brought them back to life to be her !@#$ing meat puppets. I wouldn't call that being alive, would you?"

"And what of the President's daughter?" she asks, her eyes flashing: "Was she already dead, too?"

                                                                                       * * *

She's floating above the ground, her mouth and eyes black, empty smudges in a face contorted in what is either anger or hunger -- maybe both.

The sound of a thousand wet, scrabbling insects fills the air as the foulness spills out of her. Black balls of darkness tumble out and roil around her. Are they eyes or mouths? Or both?

He's not certain. All he knows is that the longer he stands there, staring at the source of the evil he sensed -- the evil he was so !@#$ing blind to, and for so long -- the more of it is coming out.

It says something. He's not listening. He's raising the black revolver -- the one given to him by a newly-minted demon lord, so many years ago.

And he's firing it.

                                                                                         * * *

"Worse than dead," he states, taking a step closer: "Possessed. By evil."

"Something you're quite intimate with."

"You know, you're really getting on my !@#$ing nerves. Just what the !@#$ is your problem?"

"You have so much blood on your hands," she says, sipping at her drink as she just looks at him: "And here you are, having a party."

"'Gather your roses while ye may,'" SPYGOD quotes (somewhat inaccurately).

"Yes. I wonder how many petals will be strewn before you as you leave the courtroom."

"Not nearly enough," he says, turning away: "Enjoy the party, Red. Don't do anything !@#$ing stupid."

And then there's a noise like the world breaking, and she's gone, again.

"What was all that about?" Straffer asks when he makes it back, a few seconds later -- a crazy cocktail in both hands.

"Not !@#$ing sure," SPYGOD admits, putting an arm around his lover: "But either we just got the mother of all driveby moonings, or the big !@#$ gauntlet just got tossed down"

"Think we need to step up the timetable?"

"Maybe," SPYGOD admits, having a sip of whatever outrageous brew Straffer brought him: "Or maybe not."

* * *

And then, at long last, it's almost time to count it all down.

People gather in knots and whorls. Sometimes the people they came with, sometimes new friends or lovers, sometimes complete strangers they just happen to be standing next to at the moment. They watch as one as the big clock gets closer and closer to zero, and as it gets down to the double digits they start shouting the numbers. 

Fifty: Yanabah's just about sober, now, especially after her and Josie had a long, much-needed discussion about certain things that happened, last Christmas. She thinks about getting a drink, just for the countdown, but realizes if she takes one drink she's not going to stop. And she needs to stop that, tonight. 

There's a lot of things she needs to stop, if she wants to start doing Wayfinder proud, again.

Forty: Skyspear's leaving, having called a cab. She thought about telling Mark, but decided not to. She's suddenly finding it's a lot easier to make decisions for herself, now. 

She wonders what else she might decide on the way back to the strange building she no longer wants to live in, anymore.

Thirty: Myron's in the middle of all the superheroes he's been avoiding, this party. Somehow he just fell in with them, and when New Man offered him a shoulder, he took it. Before long, he was talking and laughing, just like he'd always been a member of the costume circle, and not a reformed supervillain.

Just like he'd always wanted all along, as much as he hates to admit it.

Twenty: Mark Clutch finally catches sight of Martha, who's only just arrived. He smiles ear to ear, and is about to get up to go to her. But she sees Green Fury before she sees Mark, and as the two of them run up to each other and embrace -- as though these were the last moments in their world -- he realizes something horrible, but all too true. 

And then he sits down, feeling more alone than ever.

Ten: Antonia and Fred can barely hear the counting over the sounds of their kisses. They started necking about twenty minutes ago, and haven't cared to stop for anything. Not even the large Japanese Man nearby, who can't stop crying, no matter what the silver and red woman says (or maybe because of it).

And then's nine, eight, seven: SPYGOD and Straffer ascend to the platform they arrived on.

Six, five, four: they stand arm in arm, waving at one and all.

Three, two, one: they kiss like tomorrow's not coming on time, if at all.

And then it's New Years, 2013. Goodbye to all that old !@#$. Hello to whatever new !@#$ is lurking around the corner.

A screen pops up from nowhere, and on the screen are five men: a band of some kind. Older folks, maybe past their prime (and not entirely happy to be there) There's a moment of confusion, and then a Reaganesque voice announces:

"Ladies and Gentlemen. 

Let me present Frankie Goes to Hollywood. 

Possibly the most important thing this side of the world."

SPYGOD screams like he's twelve and seeing a ghost. Straffer laughs and kisses him, shouting "Merry Christmas!" Everyone laughs, and then the opening notes of Relax make everyone jump and cheer (or most everyone, anyway).

"How the !@#$?" Randolph asks, clearly taken aback.

"Straffer promised them each a million dollars, tax-free," Rakim shouts into his ear as he boogies down, Red Wrecker nearby: "It was the only way to get their lead singer to play."

"Money," Randolph sighs, knowing that's showbiz. But by the time they get to Rage Hard, he's grooving right along with all the others -- not caring about the 'why' or the 'how,' but just living in the moment.

And maybe that's just how it should be.

* * *

And then, a few hours later, the party's finally over. 

The guests of honor have long since gone. The criers, the laughers, the lovers, and the crashers have all gone their separate ways. There's nothing left to do but clean up the mess.

Or at least document it, which is what Randolph is doing: taking pictures with very small camera of the devastation left behind.

"Man, aren't you going to give that journalist !@#$ a rest?" someone asks. He's only partially surprised to see it's Yanabah, who's succeeded in sneaking up on him.

"Naah," he says, turning and taking a quick snap of her: "There's always one !@#$hole who stays after the party's over."

"Usually it's me," she admits. 

"Well, this time I've got an excuse. What's yours?"

"I dunno," she says, taking a step closer and smiling: "Maybe just wanted to see what it looked like when no one was here."

"Well, hardly no one," Randolph says, gesturing to the clean-up crew -- already wishing they had called off, tonight.

She laughs at that, and then just looks at him: "So what next?"

"Next? Well, I think I go home, drink a !@#$ of a lot of water, have some aspirin, and toss my alarm clock into my sock drawer. Maybe sleep a day away. Maybe two."

"I meant with us, paleface," she snorts.

"You and me?"

"The world," she clarifies, holding up a finger.

"What do you mean?" he asks, taking another snap of her with her finger up.

"I mean this has been a really !@#$ty year, Reporter. The Imago. The Reclamation War. All this !@#$ that's come after."

"You forgot being taken over by the !@#$ing French."

"The Presidential assassination that wasn't."

"Costa Rica."

"All the friends we lost," she says, choking a little at the end. 

"Your grandfather," he says, looking at her.

"Your girlfriend," she replies, looking right back.

He blinks, and then he nods: "Yeah."

"So do you think we can have a better year?" she asks, taking a step closer to him: "You think there's a chance we can actually learn from all this !@#$ and do better? Be better?"

"I think so," he says, putting the camera away: "I think we've got a chance."

"How you figure that?"

"We're still alive, aren't we?" he says, taking a step closer to her: "I believe that we can grow the !@#$ up. Maybe not all at once, maybe not perfectly. But even if we're just making mistakes, at least they're mostly new ones."

"Except when they're not," she grins.

"There's that."

They just look at each other, then. And they laugh, and they hug. And then they leave the party together, as friends, before going their separate ways.

The Sun's just about up, now. The city's coming alive, again.

And all is right with this brave, new world -- at least for the moment.

(SPYGOD is listening to Disintegration (The Cure) and having an Infinium)

12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 2

7:59 PM

"Man, who was that drunk !@#$?' Fred asks, helping his companion -- a brown, somewhat-dopey cartoon dog in a tuxedo -- put his face back together after the fracas on the dance floor.

"I think her name's Yanabah," an upright, blue dog in a porkpie hat drawls, watching her as some of her friends try to get her to sit down, well away from the Toons: "Never met her before now, though."

"Yeah, well, she needs to get her act together," Fred sighs, still trying to get his friend's eye in the right location: "Talk about bumming the party."

"Are rhey rhowing her out?" the stricken brown dog asks.

"No," the blue dog replies: "Why the !@#$ would they? We're just Toons."

"I don't think that's what they're thinking, Huck," Fred sighs.

"I do," the blue dog insists, having another drink from the cocktail glass he's almost always got with him: "I bet they don't even send anyone over to apologize for her bad behavior."

"Ruck 'em," the brown dog curses, patting Fred's hands away and tending to the last stages of his first aid himself. Fred puts his hands up and lets him, shoving his hands in his jean pockets and just staring at the drunk !@#$ as she tries to get up, only to have a fairly large and powerful woman put her right back down in her chair.

(Curious looking woman. Buzzed, pink hair and tattoos running up her neck into her hairline. Uniform of some kind, but not a costume.)

"Hey," someone says, walking up to the Toons. She's a squirrelly little thing, dressed in early 80's nerd, complete with a bad sweater and thick, black glasses: "Is he, um... okay?"

"Rhe's fine, thank you," the brown dog says, scowling.

"Sorry," she says, clearly embarrassed at the faux pas: "I don't talk to you. I mean, you folks. I don't talk to you folks that much. At all, really."

"Maybe you should start some other time?" the blue dog snorts.

"Sorry," Fred says, extending a hand to shake: "Do we know each other? I'm still getting used to what people look like out of costume."

"Yeah, and I'm still learning to talk to people," she says, shaking his hand" "I mean, outside of my costume. I'm still nervous. Really totally. Nervous."

"I know the feeling. I'm Fred."

"I'm Antonia Crisp," she says, not letting go of his hand: "I'm Gold Standard. Well, the new Gold Standard. I don't even think we've met in costume, yet, actually."

"Oh, okay!" he says, shaking her hand a little more enthusiastically: "Yeah, I guess the Reclamation War was kind of your debut, right?"

"Right, yeah," she says, glad she's being understood: "So I guess we haven't met, period?"

"No. I knew your father, though. Edward was quite the genius."

"That he was," she smiles, a little sadly: "Well, look, the others sent me over... well, no, I wanted to come over. And say sorry. I mean, that was totally... well, stupid. On her part."

"I can't tell you how warm and fuzzy that makes me feel," the blue dog says, turning his back, collecting the brown dog, and walking away.

"Sorry," Fred sighs, shaking his head: "He's gruff at the best of times, these days. This was not the best way to start the party."

"No," she agrees, releasing his hand and activating an e-cig: "I mean, what she did? No excuse. She's been !@#$ed up since what happened to her grandfather. So, this really should be no surprise."

"I see no one's escorting her out, though," Fred replies: "I think that's why my friend's really so angry."

"Oh!" she nods, getting it: "Well, something you have to understand? And this isn't an excuse or anything, but trying to push her out would just wind up with a lot of people busted up. Badly."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. I mean, her and I are about the same age, but my dad always told me to stay away from her. He said her grandfather, Wayfinder? He told him some things about her that'd just make your blood run cold. She's not nice. At all."

"She looks like she's broken," Fred observes, watching as she withers under whatever the large woman is saying to her.

"She is, yeah." Antonia says: "I mean, you heard what happened to her grandfather, right?"

"I know he was killed during the Reclamation War, but no one wants to say how."

"Oh," she says, turning visibly pale: "Well, he didn't die well. That's what people don't want to talk about. Someone murdered him. Badly. I mean they chopped him up and.... well."

She shakes her head, not relishing the memory. Fred nods and holds up a hand: "Say no more. I got you."

"So yeah," Antonia continues, taking another drag off her silver stick: "She wasn't firing on all cylinders before? She's trashing her engine, now. Big time. All out of oil, rods thrown, doing five hundred in a school zone full of potholes. I think they're going to sober her up and get her out as soon as they can, but..."

"I got it," Fred says, extending his hand again: "Thank you for coming over and talking to us. I, for one, appreciate it. And I understand the delicate situation. We've got some interesting folks in our camp, too."

"I know!" she says, gushing as she takes it and shakes it: "Listen, I know you all don't like being treated like lab animals. And I wouldn't! I mean, not like that. But I would love to come and visit, sometime. I do mechanical engineering, you know. Just like dad, but obviously not like dad. He was a genius."

"But you'd like to come and see how we do things out in the Toon Nation?" Fred asks, smiling.

"Yes! Oh gosh, yes. I would. If that's okay? I mean, I know you all don't like it when people like me come poking around, but-"

Fred holds up a hand: "Antonia, it would be my honor to escort you around. Anytime."

She smiles like a child, and yet not. He smiles a little wider to see it happen, wondering what it might mean.

8:19 PM

"Not quite the kind of party you're used to, Faraj?" the Major asks, wondering if his superior's going to nurse the same drink all night long.

"Not quite, no," the man says, looking over the dance floor and smiling a little.

"Too much dancing?"

"Too many clothes," Faraj answers, dropping his subordinate a wink. Harvey coughs at that, and Brightstarsurfergirl giggles.

Hanami just stands there, smiling -- her eyes distant, as if fixed on something in the distance only she can see.

The Space Service folks up on the platform look extra sharp, tonight. This is the first time any of them have had a chance to roll out their star-white dress uniform, and the gold brocade is still fresh, the black piping still distinct.  And while they've got hats, they're mostly for funerals and other, solemn occasions -- which this is mostly definitely not.

Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir turns suddenly, his long, silver, braided hair whipping around as he does. The object of his concern turns out to be a beefy Japanese man in dark sunglasses with buzzed salt-and-pepper hair. He's wrapped in a loud, Hawaiian shirt and dress slacks, and while he doesn't have a drink, he has clearly had a few.

"Ju-San," Faraj says, bowing respectfully: "I am pleased to see you again, my friend."

The man snorts and waves him aside, stumbling up the platform. He's only got eyes for Hanami, clearly.

"Friend, please," Faraj says, trying to put himself between them: "I know that Straffer promised you we would do what we could, but you know-"

"Shi ne!" Ju San hisses, waving him away. Before Faraj can say anything, the Major's taking him aside -- "I think we should be elsewhere, now" -- and Faraj is too stunned to say anything else.

And then it's just the wide-eyed girl, the drunk man, and Brightstarsurfergirl, who's either escaped the man's notice or is simply invisible to him -- ruby hair and all.

"(Hanami)," the man says in Japanese, reaching out to take her arm: "(Hanami, do you remember me?)"

"(I do, yes,)" the android says, turning to look at him and smiling: "(You are Mister Ten, leader of the Organization. You were my superior. I worked very closely with you for many years.)"

Her smile, her tone, and her eyes do not flicker as she says these things. She seems friendly and engaging, but anyone who knew her from before would know that something was missing. Something vital and warm.

Something real.

"(Was that all I was to you?)" he asks, almost on the verge of tears: "(Was I... not a friend? Someone you cared for?)"

"(Of course. I held you in very high regard. I still do, though I am now with the Space Service.)"

"(Would you ever want to see me?)" he asks: "(As something more than my former employee? As a friend?)"

"(I do not understand,)" she says, her eyes going a little vacant.

"(I love you, !@#$ it!)" he says, trying not to shout, but failing: "(I've always loved you! Always!)"

"(I know,)" the android says, her smile not wavering, her tone not changing.

"(You know? Is that... is that all you can say? Do you love me, too?)"

The android looks at him, cocks her head to the side and smiles: "(Of course I do, Mister Ten. I love you very much. You are a good friend. I have always valued your friendship.)"

"(But do you love me?)"

She looks at him, cocks her head to the other side, and smiles: "(Of course I do, Mister Ten. I love you very much. You are a good friend. I have always valued your friendship)"

"(Hanami... please... show me some emotion. Show me you care! Show me you're still in there, somewhere!)"

She looks at him, cocks her head to the other side again, and smiles -- shallow and automatic: "(Question not understood. Please rephrase?)"

The man looks at her eyes, and then closes his own. He drops to his knees and howls, holding her hand as though it's the only thing keeping him on the world, right now.

Hanami stands there, looking down at him, not realizing what's just happened. Brightstarsurfergirl walks up and puts a sympathetic hand on the man's shoulders, knowing that this couldn't have happened any other way.

And the party goes on around them, uncaring and loud. 

8:45 PM

"So how you been, Underman?" Blastman asks, grinning like a bastard to finally find someone to talk to.

"Myron," the poorly-dressed, unshaven man says, wishing to !@#$ he'd stuck it out at the now-crowded bar and gotten a !@#$ drink: "It's just Myron, now."

"Ah, that's nonsense," the older fellow says, clapping the younger man on the shoulder: "Once you're a Superhero, you're always a Superhero. You can't quit the life once you've gotten a taste for it."

"Really?" Myron says, looking at the man: "Because I thought I did."

The old guy's about to make some snappy rejoinder, but the intense look in the young man's eyes turn it to dust in his mouth before he can get another word in. So he purses his lips, nods, and goes back to drinking his own. And Myron, for his part, scans the crowd.

"Sorry," Myron says, eventually: "Just... I've been dealing with a few things, lately."

"Say no more," Blastman says, patting him on the arm: "Last couple months haven't been all that great, really. Maybe I'm just trying to convince myself?"

"Maybe."

"Ah, what do I know?" Blastman sighs: "Here I am, working with one of my old enemies and a bunch of new kids, and half the darn time the French jump in and tell us to go soak our heads somewhere else."

"Sounds like you need a career change," Myron says, looking over the man's shoulder, and then elsewhere. 

"Maybe. You know anyone hiring fliers with a talent for smashing things with their head?"

"Some used car sales lot, somewhere," Myron replies, looking elsewhere: "All the other gimmicks are played out."

"Yeah. Who you looking for?"

"Oh, someone," Myron says, smiling a little: "I was hoping she'd be here, but..."

"But what?"

"But I keep forgetting, she's underage," Myron sighs: "Might not mean anything in this crowd."

"Probably not. Of course, there's some people who are old enough to drink that shouldn't be let near the darn bottle?"

"Oh?"

"Yeah, you remember Wayfinder's daughter, right?"

Myron's ears prick up at that: "Yanabah? She's here?"

"Oh is she ever! Poor gal got sloshed way early, got in a fight on the dance floor. I think Josie managed to calm her the heck down, but I bet she's up and at it again by now."

"Okay then," Myron says, looking for her in the crowd: "Sorry to dash, but I think I need to talk to her."

"Oh, okay," Blastman says, watching at Myron dashes off: "I'll just... stand here, then. Yeah."

He finishes his drink and wonders who else he can talk to, here. Across the room, he sees Brainman (now Rakim) over with some of the others, having what appears to be a lively and fun conversation.

And the old hero stays right where he is, grousing at the indignity of it all.

9:00 PM

Right at the stroke of the hour, the music abruptly stops.

Everyone dancing boogies one or more steps further, and then stops, looking around in curiosity. Someone starts laughing and it carries. The lights come on a bit, and everyone starts to boo and laugh, and then they go down a little darker than before.

Over by the far wall, a shimmering light appears. It resolves itself with a blue glow that takes the form of a young man in a dark blue, form-fitting uniform that gives off no shadows or reflection.

The Nthernaut smiles and waves, and the room applauds -- somewhat warily, though. It's as if, after what happened on Christmas, they don't quite trust what he'll do next.

As the applause dies down, he smiles again, and seems to step in two directions at once. When he does, there are suddenly two of him, which garners some more applause. Then one of the two does the same, forming a total of three figures, all moving in time with one another.

And then, after the applause from that "trick" dies down a bit, a further bit of legerdemain occurs: two of the figures blur and change, and suddenly SPYGOD and Straffer are standing there - dressed in identical white suits.

The crowd gasps, applauds, and goes wild. The two men step closer, hug, kiss, and wave to the crowd.

"And this, ladies and gentlemen, is how you show up to your party when you're under !@#$ing house arrest!" SPYGOD announces.  More applause and laughter, and suddenly there's a rush to get up and meet the hosts in their stolen, digital flesh.

"A nice trick," a suit-and-tie wearing Disparaître says to the shrouded person standing next to him as they observe from the back of the hall.

"Are you going to report it?" she asks, sipping at her cocktail.

"Of course not," he says, smiling a little.

"You are too soft on them," she snorts: "You could gain some major favors by being selfish, just this once."

"I do not care," he says: "Why would I risk promotion to anger a friend? I like where I am, now."

She smiles a little and goes back to her drink, wondering how to turn this to her advantage.

And the party goes on around them, unaware.

(SPYGOD is listening to Fascination Street (The Cure) and having a big bottle of Up Yours)