New Olympus Saga (Book 3): Apocalypse Dance (32 page)

Chicago, Illinois, December 16, 2013

Mr. Night was having a hard time getting in the holiday spirit.

He should have been celebrating the last Christmas this world would ever see. The holidays were usually a great time for someone who enjoyed human suffering the way he did. The oppressive fear everyone felt this season should only have added a little extra flavor to it all. The Genocide was coming, and everybody knew it.

Most human emotions were beyond Mr. Night’s purview. Schadenfreude was not one of them, and under the circumstances he should be savoring it. Instead, he felt frustration and his own version of growing dread.

The final battle was at hand, but victory no longer seemed inevitable.

There had been too many setbacks, too many disasters. One by one, all the carefully-constructed plots he had nurtured had come crashing down, achieving nothing. He’d almost been captured or killed, thanks to the treachery of Lady Shi – she must be made to pay for that – and that had only been the latest mishap. For the first time in ages, Mr. Night had felt overwhelming fear. Terror had gripped him when Christine Dark wrestled him for control of his current vessel. For several seconds, her faceless minion had taken over and managed to rescue the girl from meeting Mr. Night’s masters, a meeting that should have dealt with her once and for all. In the end, he’d managed to regain control and consign the faceless man back to Hell, but the struggle had left him too weak to face the girl, and he’d had to flee yet again.

On their next meeting, there would be no option to escape. One of them would die. Unfortunately, there was a chance that Mr. Night would be the one to meet an untimely end, which would leave him to the tender mercies of his masters, who did not take well to failure of any kind. Death offered no escape from the Survivors.

Reestablishing control over his current body had been an ordeal in itself. He hadn’t been able to properly punish the faceless vigilante for daring to defy him. Even now that he was fully recovered, Mr. Night felt some reluctance to enter the mental construct where he had consigned his many victims. To do so would risk another challenge from Face-Off. He found himself loath to take that risk, however slight it might be. Better to let things continue their unnatural course. His version of Hell largely ran itself. The entities that lived to torment those who dwelled there were figments of the inmates’ own fears and nightmares; as it turned out, the human mind could come up with some terrific ways to inflict suffering on themselves. For now, he would let things be.

He decided to be more careful in the material realm as well. His sabotage attempts had borne little fruit and had almost led to his capture or death. It wasn’t worth it, not when the Genocide would bring the power of an entire Source Seed to bear. The best efforts of the inhabitants of this world would never be enough to stop him.

Unless the girl fulfilled her destiny. On the other hand, the most likely outcome if she did so would be the birth of another Genocide, which wouldn’t be such a terrible thing.

Still, it would be best not to take any chances. There was one more thing he could do, one that would ensure this world would be extinguished and removed from the board. He’d concentrate all of his efforts there.

Freedom Island, Caribbean Sea, December 24, 2013

Merry Effing Christmas to me
.

Christine didn’t want to be at the big holiday party, a massive shindig with over a hundred super-peeps who’d been lucky enough not to draw an active duty slot on Christmas Eve, along with their plus-ones, and a bunch of uber-wealthy or otherwise-renowned human guests and their plus-ones. Christine was sure she’d spotted a couple of Kardashians in there, rubbing shoulders with assorted caped crusaders.

She’d much rather stay home, doing the painful mental exercises that were slowly – so very slowly – but surely rebuilding her special sensory powers, or reading a book, or playing
World of Warcraft
. Big parties had never been her scene, and given the mood she was in, the evening was turning into a mild torture session. Having to smile and make conversation had become excruciating in short order.

It was part of the job, though. The Legion needed to appear full of holiday cheer, for the benefit of the paparazzo and cameramen immortalizing the event from a discreet gallery overlooking the big ballroom in Freedom Hall. The idea was to help improve the morale of the billions of people who’d watch the pictures and video, either live or the next day. Seeing the world’s heroes act as if everything was all right might fool some people into thinking everything was all right, and keep them from rioting or killing themselves or whatnot.

And the Legionnaires deserved a break, even if this particular break was carefully staged and managed. They’d all been working like crazy, Christine included. Once her flying had improved enough, she’d joined the orbital launch crowd, carrying cargo into space four to eight hours a day, every day, in between training sessions (both physical and mental) and going forth and stopping the occasional Neo crime or human riot, both of which were still happening with depressing frequency.

Being too busy to think had been a blessing of sorts. For one, it had kept her away from John. For another, it’d kept her from thinking about Mark, or John, or Mark and John. During the quiet times, the mandatory rest periods, or this little celebration, she got to thinking, and nothing good ever came from it.

John… One of the worst little ironies of her situation was that her empathy had come back just in time to sense how much she’d hurt him. She’d never gotten the chance to bask in the glow of his love for her. That love was now marred by pain and sorrow; basking in it would be like trying to get a suntan inside the Chernobyl reactor when it went bad. On top of that, she could now pick up how battered John’s psyche still was. As it turned out, Daedalus’ plot hadn’t been the only thing wrong with him, and he was beginning to suffer the same old symptoms from before: irritability, bouts of melancholy and anger, and cold detachment when he tried to compensate for those by refusing to feel anything at all. The only thing missing were the fugue states, which she guessed had been Daedalus’ doing.

John needed help. She could help heal him, if she chose to stay with him. John still hoped she would choose him after Mark’s situation was resolved, one way or another. If she did, Christine knew she could make him happy, could make him whole again.

She wasn’t sure if he could do the same for her, though. But she’d been such a selfish d-bag so far, maybe she needed to stop thinking about what would make her happy (especially since nothing appeared to do the trick, what with her constant second-guessing herself) and start worrying about doing the right thing, happiness be damned.

Merry Effing Christmas to me
.

Her plan was to make an appearance at the stupid party, chat about inconsequential crap for a bit, and get the eff out. As usual, things didn’t go the way she’d planned.

At first, it wasn’t too bad. She walked down the red carpet amidst endless camera flashes, stopping here and there to smile and wave, just like the Legion’s publicists had trained her to do. At least everyone was in costume, except for the one-percenters who’d also been invited to the shindig, so nobody asked her who she was wearing.

Once she was at the party proper, she was able to relax a little bit. She grabbed a glass of champers and took small sips from it, although she could have chugged the whole glass and not gotten even a mild buzz; if she wanted even a mild buzz, she would to have to hit the hard stuff, and hit it hard and fast. She didn’t. Getting drunk in her current mood wouldn’t be a good idea at all.

Christine looked around, searching for a good place to mingle. She’d hoped to run into Janus at the party; she hadn’t had a chance to talk to him for more than a few minutes at a time, and she had a feeling he was avoiding her for some reason, which worried her. He’d been on the receiving end of Mr. Night’s Wild Ride, like she almost had. What if he’d come back with a little extra something, something extra bad? Probably not, everybody was getting checked regularly for signs of Outsider taint, but she wanted to look for herself.

Unfortunately, Janus was nowhere to be seen. She gave up on finding him, and concentrated on socializing.

The whole thing felt like a weird combination of ComicCon and the Oscars. You had the Legion’s finest, wearing their super-latex outfits, mingling with the rich and famous in tuxedos and gorgeous gowns. She spotted the cast of
Legion
, the official TV show; the actors were hanging out with their real-life counterparts, except for the guy who played Ultimate, some d-bag whose name escaped her and whose only virtue was that he kinda sorta looked like John. The d-bag was drunk as a skunk and playing grab-ass with one of the waitresses. Before Christine could do something about it, she saw Swift walk up to the d-bag and whisper something in his ear; whatever it was convinced the dude to sit down and shut up. Good.

“Actors,” Olivia commented; she’d walked up to Christine while she watched the scene. “Oh, most of them aren’t terrible people, but there’s always a few who let the fame get to their overinflated heads.”

“Yeah, I figure being surrounded by people telling them how wonderful they are must get to them,” Christine said. “At least us supers get yelled at for screwing up all the time.”

“Well, most actors get yelled at plenty often, early in their careers, but when they become stars, everybody treats them with kid gloves.”

Swift – Larry, his name is Larry, use it – joined them. “Okay, Dean should behave himself the rest of the night,” he said with a smile. Christine hadn’t really warmed up to Larry Graham – he wasn’t mean or anything, just a little too full of himself, in her opinion – but this time she smiled back at him.

“What did you say to him?”

“Just told him to keep it down to a dull roar, or he’d be replaced next season. Dean’s not the sharpest crayon on the box, but he knows the people at Buck Multimedia listens very carefully to us.”

“I think Ultimate’s part should be recast anyway,” Olivia said. “There’s been other incidents, and the show is supposed to uphold our image, not tarnish it.”

“Well, sweetheart, you’re on the PR department. Make some calls. There’s a new kid they’ve been looking at, Tom something or other, who’d be perfect for the role.”

Look at them, making plans for the next TV season, when there’s a good chance none of us is going to be alive come March Sweeps
.

Christine dismissed the thought with a slight shake of her head and a big sip of champers. Everybody must be thinking the same gloomy thoughts, but they were trying to keep up a brave front. Running around sobbing was only going to upset people, so they all might as well smile and act as if everything was fine.

Olivia and Larry sensed her mood, and tried their best to cheer her up. Larry regaled her with some funny stories about life in the Legion back in the early days, with Olivia providing editorial commentary. They got her to chuckle and even snort a couple of times – the one about Vice-President Nixon’s visit to Freedom Island was actually pretty hilarious, especially if you weren’t a Nixon fan – and for a little while things weren’t so glum.

Of course, just around the time she’d managed to stop thinking about all the bad stuff, John showed up.

She looked up when he gently cleared his throat behind her and saw him, all tall and manly, about three times better-looking than that Dean d-bag, and with ten times the charisma. He was a bit embarrassed about approaching her, but also determined, and his love for her burned bright, despite being a bit tattered and worn out in places.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” she said, looking him in the eye. He missed her, and she missed him. He needed her. She wanted him. It was Christmas, damn it. They had agreed not to exchange presents, but they could try to enjoy each other’s company.

“Would you care to dance?”

The band was playing something slow and sweet and old-fashioned, which made sense, given that the average age of the attendants was like fifty-two or thereabouts, and the trend-setters were pushing seventy or eighty. Golden Oldies for the Golden Agers. She took his hand and let him lead her to the dance floor, and dance they did, his hand on her waist, his solid presence making her feel warm and secure, which she’d missed since she’d decided that to see him would be cheating on Mark. And thinking of Mark, who would be celebrating Christmas in Hell, drove a spike of agony into her chest.

John noticed her tears. He stopped dancing and held her. She hugged him tightly and sobbed against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” she heard him say.

“I’m sorry too,” she said. But John wasn’t the only one who deserved an apology.

she called out with her mind. She hadn’t been able to reach him since the horrible encounter with Mr. Night. For all she knew, he was dead. Still, she called out to him, not really expecting an answer.

She should have known better.

< Christine?>

The connection was weak and full of the psychic equivalent of static – random thoughts that belonged to neither of them, phantom memories flittering about like moths around a flame – but she could hear him, feel him. He was alive, if not quite well; he was tired and tense and angry, and she sensed that it’d been a bad day for him.

John felt her draw away from him and let her go. She stood alone on the dance floor, unmoving, eyes closed, concentrating on keeping open her mental channel between Mark and her. She could sense how upset John was, but she had her hands full staying in touch with her other love of her life.

she asked him.

She felt a shrug coming off him.

Mark said, and he didn’t sound angry, but he was sad.

She wanted to curl up somewhere, but she wasn’t going to collapse on the dance floor, so she forced herself to remain standing, to ignore the new tears forming behind her closed eyes, and said what she had to.

That’s all he said, at first.

What else could she say? More sorries and explanations? He’d always known about her crush on John. She’d done exactly what he’d expected she would do.

he said again.

Actually, he waited almost too long
, she didn’t say.

She could feel just how much she’d hurt him; he was trying to hide it from her, just like she’d tried to hide her guilt, but the pain was still there, still apparent behind his empathy blocks.

she said.