Turn 17

A sleek sports-coupe glides to a halt and disgorges the driver, its sole occupant. He is dapperly dressed in black formal wear, and his face lies partially concealed beneath a mask -- not the heavy gas-filtering cowl by which his night-clad alter-ego is so well known to the world, but a simple domino mask of black silk.

Pausing by the door of his luxury automobile, Mason gazes up momentarily at the grand edifice in front of which he has parked...

Covington House.

The oldest of the few grand mansions on Mars, the manor was constructed within two years of the red planet's opening to general colonization. Built in a neo-classical style using a combination of locally quarried Martian stone with woods reclaimed from decaying plantation houses on Earth, its construction was commissioned by inventor Alexander Covington upon his arrival in New Philadelphia almost fifty years ago.

Having made his considerable wealth during World War II, owning a patent on a new type of plastic he invented for use in America's aviation industry, Covington had been considered "nouveau riche" on Earth -- disdained as an upstart by "old money." However, as one of the first materially successful Earthlings to transfer his entire fortune to Mars, helping to advance the fledgling colony's economic development, the dynamic entrepreneur quickly became one of the red planet's most prominent citizens. The Covington name is now among the most respected of the "old lines" of Martian families, though, sadly, his heirs lack the dynamism and vital energies of their patriarch. The current "master of the house," Alexander the Third, is but a pale shadow of his grand namesake -- the rich and spoiled wastrel that Mason only pretends to be.

Handing his keys to a valet, Mason ascends the many steps leading to the manor's tall double-doors and proceeds within.

The house is filled with men and women of every shape, color, and vintage. They are all clad in elegant and ludicrously expensive evening wear, the men almost universally attired in black tie (though there are some few exceptions clad more colorfully, especially among the younger generation) and the women in one-of-a-kind designer evening gowns in every imaginable color, cut, and fabric. Most of the women and many of the men are also festooned with glittering jewels, their cumulative expense more than most middle-class families will earn in a lifetime. All of the Guests, male and female, are masked. Some, like Mason, wear simple domino masks. Others wear elaborate pieces, many adorned with precious stones, in a fantastic variety of shapes -- women coyly hide their features behind butterfly-shaped eye-masks festooned with pearl and peacock feathers, and mingle with dog or bear or demon-faced men.

These are the elite of the red planet, at least in terms of monetary success. They are the scions of Mars' first families; they are the industrialist, the business leaders, the financial leaders; they are the new rich -- the rock stars, the actors, the talk-show hosts.

Mason knows them all by sight, masks be damned. Some are personal acquaintances, the inevitable result of his own distinct pedigree. Most he has never met; they are simply names, faces, and biographies he has committed to memory in the chance that it might someday be useful in his "extra-curricular" activities. To Mason, these men and women of wealth and power are a cumulative bore. Some he respects, others he despises, but, in either event, he has nothing in common with any of them. Not in any of the ways that matter.

Suppressing an urge to dash madly for the exit, Mason generates the vacant and vaguely bored smile that will, more than the black silk on his face, serve as his mask for the evening. Mixing into the mass of his fellow masquerade attendees, amid but never truly "with" any of them, Mason glides from room to room. He has never been to Covington House, but nonetheless navigates the magnificent mansion with unerring precision -- given his obsessive attention to detail, he had memorized the house's structural blueprints prior to arrival.

Mason makes his way to the heart of the house, the grand ballroom that would serve as the primary locus for the evening's festivities. The room is vast, capable of comfortably accomodating a legion of guests. Circular dining tables have been arranged along the east and west walls, while a feast has been arrayed on several buffet tables along the south wall, sharing the area with an immense wet bar. The north section of the room is occupied by a small orchestra, currently playing a selection of Mozart rather passibly. The notes would be lost in the cavernous room but for the gilded domes set into the ceiling at intervals, which improve the acoustics considerably. Immense crystal chandeliers are set between each dome, looming over the guests below.

Mason mingles for a few brief moments, then situates himself near the bar. It is an ideal vantage point from which to observe the many guests scurrying about the room -- and observation is, of course, what Mason's life is all about. One of the first things Mason observes, however, is a portly, middle-aged man hastily making his way over to Mason's position. Despite the Maori hunting mask covering his face (a distinct improvement, in Mason's opinion), Mason instantly recognizes the man by his distinctive waddle.

"Hello, cousin Philby," Mason drawls, in a deliberate effort to sound bored beyond measure. Sipping his glass of ginger-ale-cum-faux-champagne, he disdainfully asks, "I do hope you're not here to discuss those tedious stock matters again?"

The portly man is clearly flustered by Mason's abrupt manner, though one would think he would have grown used to it after having encountered it so many times before. Nonetheless, he blusters ahead. "As a matter of fact, Mason, I've come to ask you about lending me your voting proxy for the Marineris development deal with HyperCo. Have you considered the possiblities of trans-diversified..."

Mason mentally tunes his cousin out, certain that he has a long night ahead of him...

TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER...

"...so you see, it really is in the family's best interests..."

"I'm sorry, cousin Philby," Mason interrupts, "but I just remembered I have to be..." Mason pauses to consider "...anywhere else." Handing his glass to his cousin and pinching him on the cheek, leaving him flustered and confused, Mason hastily glides away.

After his "ordeal," he considers getting a real drink but quickly discards the idea; in light of what he has planned for later in the evening, he needs to keep his wits about him. Seating himself at a table near the orchestra, he picks at a plate of pasta for cover and returns to his surveillance.

His eyes focus on a woman just entering the ballroom, a woman he does not recognize...

Entering the ballroom she was struck by the number of people milling around apparently aimlessly. She glanced quickly at the various groups checking for Mason's presence. Grateful that she was able to slip in unannounced she walked slowly into the main group, snagging a glass of fruit punch as she did so. Sensing that Mason was in the room she considered going straight over but given the morning's events decided to make mental contact first. *I'm here, come and find me...*

He can hear the hint of challenge in her voice, almost a dare.

Mason is mildly surprised by the words that suddenly appear in his mind. Eleanor is here somewhere, apparently, but where? He had accounted for the identities of all the Guests in the ballroom... All except for the mystery woman who just entered, of course.

Scrutinizing her again, he recognizes the woman's shape this time, followed by a familiar gait when she begins to cross the floor a few moments later. He wonders how he could have failed to recognize her at first glimpse. Perhaps his fabled observation skills are not all they are reputed to be? Or perhaps that is only true in regards to Eleanor? Had he been so caught up in admiring the shapely form of "the mystery woman" that he'd simply failed to connect the dots? The notion is disquieting. That he'd allowed himself to lose his objectivity for even a moment is disturbing enough, that he'd regarded Eleanor in a romantic or sexual light, failing to recognize her or no, is strangely unnerving.

Time to reel her in...

Enjoying the anonimty provided by the throng Eleanor mingles with the younger group. Laughing at the outrageous jokes being bandied around. She could feel Mason homing in on her and several times she accepted an invitation to dance, being whisked out of reach just as he reached her position.

Finally deciding that he'd suffered enough she waited until he was close enough to smell her tell tale perfume before removing the feathered mask and presenting herself for his scrutiny. At a glance Mason took in the deep bronze brocade dress with its daring neckline. It most definately was not the dress ghe'd given her but what struck him most of all was her shy smile as she murmered, "I hope you approve of _my_ choice....."

Mason returns Eleanor's smile, surveying the woman before him with new eyes. Why had she acted so coyly on the dance floor? Why did she speak to him so demurely now? Could she have feelings for him that he hadn't suspected? Or was she merely enjoying a little harmless flirtation with a friend? Why can't he get a better read on her? His sensei had been correct: Mason knows absolutely nothing about the hearts of women.

"You look exquisite." Mason is surprised and embarrassed at the frank sincerity of his reply. She *does* look beautiful, and his reply had come automatically; he'd been powerless to stop the words from escaping, and powerlessness is a feeling he is unused to and does not enjoy. Reassuming the mask of bored playboy wastrel in an effort to reassume control of the encounter and of himself, he airily comments, "Allow me to compliment your expert gamesmanship on the dance floor. Few women could have manipulated my movements so adroitly. May I entreat you to a dance, or do you wish to toy with me more first?"

Bobbing a mock curtsey and stepping ino the curve of his arm, she accepts the invitation willingly, "but of course...." Her enigmatic answer leaving him unsure of her intentions. Leaning into him as they traverse the floor she breathes deeply , appreciating the ease with which he guides her amongst the other couples.

Pleased by his open admiration she teases gently, "You've brushed up quite well yourself." Her smile conveying her own appreciation. "I was worried before that you were disappointed in me," a twinkle in her eyes daring him to agree.

Mason quirks his brow. "I've been told that I don't understand women," he replies, his tone playful. "It must extend both ways, if you could think that. I find you anything but disappointing." Mason blinks, surprised by his admission, but his smile remains affixed. A familiar chord rising from the orchestra section signals the beginning of a new selection, rescuing Mason from unfamiliar awkwardness. "Minuet?"

As the dance continues the sadness that had weighed her down begins to lift and she laughs aloud, subconciously extending her sense of freedom outwards beyond her own emotional boundaries, touching Mason's.

She didn't know where or how the evening would end but for now she was happy to leave it to fate, the anticipation itself adding to the exhuberance.

"Thank you for inviting me Mason. It is very beautiful here."

"No, merely architectually pleasing. *You're* beautiful." Stunned, Mason allows his smile to falter for the first time all evening. He can scarcely credit his actions. Flirting with Eleanor! He'd lost his sense of restraint somehow, and, what's more, he's not entirely sure he cares. Could she be doing it somehow? With her powers? No, he wouldn't think that of her... "There's a lovely verandah outside. Perhaps we can should get some air?"

Before Eleanor has a chance to respond, N. Delano Hall, shipping magnate and amateur astronomer, who was dancing nearby with his wife Selina asks, "Mind if I cut in?" Eleanor recognizes him immediately from a recent article in a related scientific journal. Mason, on the other hand, recognizes him for the cutthroat competition he is in the financial sector.

The bubble burst, she looks from one to the other hesitantly. Each man demanding her attention. It'd be rude to decline and perhaps a few moments away from Mason would be a good idea, but the thought of sharing his attention cut like a knife. With her mental and emotional barriers swiftly re-erected she acquiesces, "It'd be a pleasure."

"I suppose it was too much to hope that I should have you all to myself," Mason sighs playfully to Eleanor, grateful for the interruption and the opportunity to slip back into the facade of boorish playboy. "Do take good care of her, Nigel old man, won't you?" Offering his arm to the man's wife, he adds, "Would you care for a drink, Mrs. Hall? I'm simply parched!"

"I hate it when he does that. Nigel is such a boorish name. I sometimes think my parents had it out for me. "Let's pick a name that will guarantee our boy is mocked on the schoolyard." He laughs mildly and rolls his eyes comically. It's actually endearing to meet someone of such status that is anyway genuinely self-effacing.

And your name...?" He asks as deftly manuevers the tiles.

"I'm Eleanor, a friend of Mason's, Mr. Hall," she replies deliberately keeping it formal. "Perhaps your parents were kinder than you give them credit for as your name means "champion". It derives from the Gaelic name Niall, which was the name of a semi-legendary 4th-century Irish king." Glancing across at her erstwhile companion she adds, "Besides, he does it deliberately," her answer making it clear that she knew Mason sufficiently well to pass comment on his character.

"Intriguing. I've been told Delano means "of the night" or some such. If this were some piece of action cinema, I'm afraid I'd be cast as some grim vigilante or a villain."

Delano smiles at Eleanor. He's an attractive man, his hair is widow's peaked and jet black with a streak of silver. A gallant silver-screen Hollywood mustache is the first feature many notice on his perfectly chiseled face. His eyes are deep grey pooks. All of these details are made all the more noticable since he's not wearing a mask.

Eleanor also notes he seems to match Mason's height and build. He seems to fill the void where Mason once was quite well. As if he was born to do so.

Meanwhile, across the dance floor Selina sips from a glass of champagne Mason had just acquired for her. Her luminescent blond hair reminds Mason of Eleanor's oddly enough. The wave, the shape, the color, probably even the texture. Her eyes are a deep midnight blue and are covered by a grand mask featuring various moon shapes.

She smiles at Mason. "Your companion for the evening... who is she, Mason? I have to admit to some shock that you're not here with some jet-set supermodel sort."

"Oh, you have to try on new people every so often," Mason answers blithely, "variety being the spice of life and all. She's a journalist, or a novelist, some kind of a writer. Her name is Eleanor." Mason is careful to hide any hints of intimacy or fondness in his voice when he replies. Studying his companion for a second, he notes that her hair is not the only similarity between Eleanor and Mrs. Hall; she also has the kind of shapely physique that looks quite attractive when poured into spandex.

Mason smiles graciously and flirtatiously at Mrs. Hall. "But here I am talking about another woman when I am already in the company of such an exquisite lady as yourself. Tell me, what compelled you to attend this little soiree?"

"But dear Mason, I'm not even here. It's just a simple trick of the moonlight." She smiles in a most coy fashion. Light from the many chandeloirs playing off the gold and silver inlays in her mask.

Mason quirks an eyebrow. There is probably nothing to her comment, but the mention of a trick of moonlight, so soon after his recent escapades with that old trickster Mr. Moonlight, is an interesting coincidence. Grinning, Mason replies, "And what a lovely illusion you are, my dear."

Mason, cleverly positioned in place to eye the main doors to the great hall finally spies his prey for the evening. A very tall and powerfully built Englishman steps through the large double doors. Even from this distance Mason can make out the scarab tie clasp worn by the man.

"So many 'old friends' in attendance tonight," Mason comments casually. "I do so look forward to re-acquainting myself. Though I doubt I'll find it half so delightful as seeing you, Selina."

Determined to enjoy the evening and not broadcast her discomfort she begins to relax, adjusting her steps to synchronise with his. Moving in harmony with the music and the handsome man holding her she graces him with a stunning smile. Leaning forward she whispers in his ear, "You're very accomplished Mr. Hall, perhaps we could dance again later if your wife permits?"

"I will count the moments till then." He kisses her hand and bows deeply. He rises to applaud the band. Once downextends his arm to walk Eleanor over to Mason.

Seeing Eleanor and Nigel head his way, Mason finishes his drink in a single swallow and leaves his glass on the bar. "It appears your husband is through seducing my date, my dear. Perhaps you and I can enjoy a dance later?"

Mason smiles at Eleanor as she draws near. "Enjoyed yourself, I hope? Both feet still intact? Nigel, old man, how's your heart holding up?"

"Mason, Mason, Mason. I'd love to banter as we do, but Selina and I have important things to do, people to see. That sort of thing. I am certain you do as well." He smiles almost knowingly, almost victoriously.

"Don't be silly Nigel, you know I never have anything important to do," Mason replies, his own smile a carefully constructed facade of empty-headed vacuousness. "'Important things' require too much effort." Mason has a strange sense that there is more to this bantering than at first meets the eye. "In fact, the only item on my agenda at this moment of any importance whatsoever is to entreat this beautiful young woman to another dance. Shall we, Eleanor?" Mason extends his arm, though he is careful to keep Hall and his wife in his peripheral vision.

Mindful of the undertones that lay thick upon the conversation she was only too happy to comply. "But of course Mason, I'd be delighted to dance with you again." *After all, you are the reason I'm here,* she added to herself.

Mason guides Eleanor back to the dance floor, but his mind is elsewhere; the 'little man' inside him, his inner voice, is churning his guts, trying to figure out what the hell the encounter with Hall had *really* been all about. Taking Eleanor's hand in his own, Mason relinquishes control of his body to The Machine. Thanks primarily to his mother, Mason's education had included all the important skills for functioning among the upper crust and, under The Machine's leadership, he waltzes, twirls, and dips Eleanor across the dance floor with consumate technique and grace.

Meanwhile, his conscious mind reviews everything he can recall about N. Delano Hall. Hall's, like himself, was from Martian "old money." The Hall's were heavily involved in the import/export business and made money hand over fist. Delano has only recently returned from several years back on the "old planet." When he did return, sometime last year, it was with his blushing bride, Selina. Tonight is the first time the two men have seen one another since Hall's return to Mars. Prior to that, Hall had always unnerved Mason due in no small part to the fact that he was everything The Machine wanted the Mason persona to be. Mason wouldn't be surprised if he owed a great deal of his playboy facade to Hall's behaviors.

They made the perfect couple moving flawlessly through the steps but Eleanor didn't need to employ her empathic talents to know that Mason had withdrawn from her once more, the realisation tinged with regret. "Mason, what's the matter?"

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" Mason blinks uncertainly, only just aware that Eleanor had spoken to him while he was still lost in thought.

She was beginning to recognise the changes in his mannerisms that signified the transition from Mason to Gaslight. However, she couldn't quite place the reason for it tonight. "I know something's bothering you, please don't try to hide it from me...."

"Just something about the Halls that is bothering my little man, the part of myself that gives voice to my unconscious instincts when I'm working a case," Mason replies, still a bit distracted. "I know there's something strange about them, but I can't quite place my finger on what it might be." He shrugs. "No matter. I'll have to give more thought to it later. For now..." Mason matches Eleanor's gaze for the first time in several minutes, his light smile belying his serious tone when he continues. "I hope that you have been enjoying yourself, but I'm afraid it's time to get down to the business of the evening. Is Psyche ready to do her part in bringing down an overzealous vigilante a peg or two?"

"You want me to do _what_?" her exclamation surprses even herself. "I just knew there was more to this so called date than you let on!" Eleanor's voice rises just enough to make the couple nearest to them turn their heads towards in surprise. Noticing the attention she is garnering she switches to a mental tirade. *Tell me why I shouldn't just go home now and leave you to get on with your little scheme on your own?* Mason can easily see the outrage in her expression, her feelings hurt once more by his insensitivity.

"There's nothing quite so dramatic going on this evening as you suppose," Mason whispers in reply, apparently unmoved by Eleanor's anger as she senses him slip into his Gaslight persona. "Social obligation brought me here tonight just as I told you, and I thought you would enjoy being my date for the ball. That Mason Roth's social obligation coincides with an item on Gaslight's agenda is fortuitous, but does not diminish the sincere affection with which his invitation was extended." Gaslight doesn't require his fabulous detective skills to sense that Eleanor remains unconvinced. "Despise me if you must," he continues, and Mason is surprised to realize how greatly it would disturb him if she did, "but the man of whom I spoke -- a so called 'hero' -- has committed a villainous act recently and must be... 'corrected.' I would like Psyche's help in dealing with the threat. Will you give it?"

"I don't despise you - far from it." And that, she realised, was the problem. "But it doesn't mean that you can take advantage of me like this." An astute observer might notice the glimmer of tears in her eyes as she considered his request. She agreed with his summation that if this man had behaved outside the law then he needed to be taken in hand, but wasn't that the jurisdiction of the authorities? Could their own recent actions be described as villainous? Sensing Gaslight's growing impatience she decided that these were topics of debate for another occasion. When it came down to it she and Mason were in a position to stop this man from sullying the reputation of true heroes like Terraform. "I'll do it, but not for you - for the innocents he may hurt if I don't."

"No 'innocents' have been harmed as yet," Mason replies, "but our man has nonetheless crossed a line that you and I have only ever skirted; he must be dragged back over to our side of that divide. That's him over there, by the way." Mason glances meaningfully in the direction of the athletic man who caught his attention moments earlier. "You may know him. He calls himself Star Pharoah."

Dragged literally kicking and screaming she was sure, but what would happen if he didn't comply? She had first hand experience of Gaslight's determination to succeed regardless of the cost. Would she back down again if it came to it? She didn't think so but...

"I could just do some 'tinkering' to make him stop, you know," disapproval still obvious in her voice.

"That's another line we don't cross, Eleanor." Mason smiles, "But, of course, you already know that."

She glances across at the person named but not able to recognise him. "But I expect you've got it all planned out already, haven't you?"

"We need to deal with him in private," Mason says. "I'd like you to use your phantasmal gifts to draw him away to a private place I have in mind and also to protect our identities during our encounter. I have an illusion I think would be effective. Can you draw it from my mind, if I open myself to you?"

"You trust me enough to let me do that?" A faint hint of humour creeping into her voice as she realises the power she'd have over him at that moment. Mason had only ever let her do very basic surface scans before, and this would need to be much deeper to get that level of detail from his mind. "I promise not to peek anywhere else, Scout's Honour!"

Mason quirks a brow and smiles. "I don't recall seeing anything about the Girl Scouts in your file, but it shouldn't be necessary for you to do any peeking about anyway. I'll keep the imagery at the forefront of my thoughts."

"A girl's got to have _some_ secrets Mason," she responds half smiling. She continues to make light conversation, "So just what has the Star Pharoah been up to then?". All the while scanning him for the required information without giving him any visible indication that she is doing so.

"He imprisoned a captured super-villain in his lair, rather than turning him over to the proper authorities," Mason replies, simultaneously concentrating on the illusion he wants Eleanor to create. "That's another line we do not cross; we support the justice system, we do not act as judge and jury." Mason pauses to grin at El. "Nice attempt at distraction, by the way. Do you want to pretend you're not already doing your Svengali bit for a few more minutes, or do you have everything you need?"

* * *

Rex Carter languorously ambles through the milling crowd of dilettantes, captains of industry, and celebrities major and minor. They consider him their equal, a member of the very exclusive club to which only the rich and famous ever belong. He considers them stupid and pathetic. Equals? Hardly. They are sheep, while he is a lion -- a lion of the Celestial Heliopolis. He revels in the fullness of his strength and the knowledge that these men and women of power, were they to learn who and what he truly is, would tremble before him.

He smiles with self-importance, though the sheep stupidly take it for amiability. He pauses occasionally to listen to their bleating, replying with the kind of meaningless banter that the foolish flock expects to receive and then moving on. He prowls across the ballroom unhurriedly, enjoying his secret supremacy and seeking out a quiet oasis removed from the mediocrity of the other masquerade attendees -- though not so far removed that he cannot take pleasure in his innate superiority over them.

“Scotch, neat.” It is a terse demand, not a polite request.

“Yes, sir,” the barman replies, pouring the drink while secretly commanding Rex to go fuck himself.

Oblivious to the bartender’s mental instructions, Rex makes a quiet toast to himself and drinks heartily. He blanches after the first swallow, surprised to find the fine flavor of his single-malt scotch spoiled by a heavy alkaline tang. He whirls to confront the barman with his incompetence, but stops short when he nearly loses his balance and has to grab the edge of the bar to keep from falling over.

His sight is strangely blurred and gray spots invade the center of his vision. They spiral outward an instant later, obliterating all trace of color and leaving him trapped in a chiaroscuro world filled only with shades of black, white, and gray.

He is aware that the bartender is saying something to him, but the man's words are oddly slurred and incomprehensible -- like a tape recording played at reduced speed. Indeed, the barman appears to be moving in slow-motion, as do the bleating sheep. All carry on with the mundane business of the party and of their trivial lives, seemingly unaware that anything out of the ordinary is occurring.

The bartender's voice falls entirely mute a moment later, along with the bleating of the other sheep. Disquieting silence fills Rex's ears. The stillness is maddening, but does not last for long...

THOOM!

Thunder echoes through the ballroom.

THOOM!

The raucous cacophony repeats.

THOOM!

The din returns, clamoring in Rex's ears and shuddering the floorboards.

THOOM! THOOM! THOOM!

"The noises reverberate rhythmically and Rex finally recognize them for what they are -- the dull thuds of heavy boots falling upon the ballroom floor, amplified a thousand times."

THOOM! THOOM! THOOM!

The thunder draws closer, and a flicker of movement -- unslowed, "real time" movement -- draw's Rex attention to the center of the dance floor.

A tall figure glides across the room, untouched by whatever distortion of time and space is responsible for the gray world from which Rex finds himself unable to escape. The figure is a man, clad in a costume the color of night and enshrouded in a strange, cloying black mist. Is that a diver's helmet on his head...? No, it's a vintage, WWI-era gas mask -- one that triggers recognition. Rex has never met the man before, but knows who he is anyway and snarls his name as he draws near.

"Gaslight!" Rex is a surprised to hear his words echo in his ears, having been half-convinced that he would have no voice.

Before Rex can demand an explanation, Gaslight cuts him off with a gesture for silence. "Say nothing." Indicating the crowd of bystanders, he explains, "They can see everything you do and hear everything that escapes your lips, so I would proceed carefully if I were you, Rex. Or should I call you Star Pharoah?"

Though Gaslight's features are masked, Rex would swear that he can almost see a smile smugly creasing the vigilante's face. "What you're experiencing is the result of a little chemical concoction of my own design, one that you were obliging enough to swallow along with your drink. It affects certain areas of your brain involved in sensory perception, causing you to experience a pre-programmed hallucination. Don't worry, the effects are short-lasting."

"I wanted to have a private word with you," Phantasmal Gaslight explains, "vigilante to vigilante. You're holding Goblin King prisoner." A statement of fact, not a question. "I expect to hear an announcement tomorrow morning that you've surrendered him to the custody of the proper authorities."

"I also expect a few changes in your behavior," Phantasmal Gaslight continues. "Violence is an unfortunate but often necessary adjunct of our business. Brutality is different matter. Brutality is the first resort of the ignorant. Brutality is the weapon of the cowardly. Brutality turns a hero into a villain... and villains are my prey. Be a hero. Clean up your act, or I will take you down. Hard."

Star Pharoah sneers.

"Not convinced? Consider this: I know who you really are, where you live, and where you lair. I neutralized your vaunted strength and technological might with ease tonight. I could kill you now, and you wouldn't be able to do a single damned thing to stop me." The black fog begins to rise, filling the room and obscuring every detail except for Gaslight's tensed form and swirling opera cape. "I won't kill you, of course. I am, after all, a civilized man." Gaslight's voice is sepulchral, and he seems to loom ever larger in Star Pharoah's eyesight. "But cross the line again and I will tear your life apart! I'll start by revealing your identity to the world at large, and, before I am done, your name will be synonymous with ruin and you will be wearing prison orange." Gaslight's masked visage swells to grotesque proportions, merging with the black fog and filling every inch of Star Pharoah's vision. "Remember this: You, and every other so-called hero in this city, continue to operate ONLY at MY sufferance! Cross me at your peril. You have been warned."

The black fog breaks suddenly, as though dispersed by a violent wind. Rex finds himself returned to a world filled with vibrant colors and the dully roaring chatter of party conversation.

"I asked if you are all right? Are you okay, sir?"

"What?" Rex replies to the bartender distractedly.

"Are you all right? You looked a little sick for a minute there."

"Yes, I'm fine," Rex answers, his arrogant tone a bit deflated.

"Would you like another drink?"

Rex stares down at the half-empty glass in his hands, the memory of an alkaline tang rising unbidden. "No. No, I don't think so. I, ah... have some business to attend to. Thank you."

Nearby, Mason Roth spins his date across the dance floor and smiles a quiet little smile. He gazes admiringly at Eleanor, then bursts out, "Bravo! Well done!" and kisses her firmly on the lips. He draws back almost instantly, blinking in shock and surprise at what he has done and falling out of step with the orchestra for the first time tonight. He colors brightly, and his mouth works as though he is about to speak, but no sound issues forth...

Startled, Eleanor feels the blush of pink rising as she raises her hand to her face, touching her mouth where Mason's lips had been moments before. Confusion is obvious in her face as a myriad options race through her mind while Mason stands gaping like a stranded fish. What should she do? Slap him for his presumptive behaviour? For a millisecond she considered a theatrical faint to cover their embarrassment before discounting that and several other scenarios. After what seemed an eternity to them both, Mason hears her voice whisper in his mind, *No regrets...* as with the decision made and her heart pounding, she kisses him back.

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