Chapter Summary: Things fall apart.
Notes:
- Or, the (slightly) less ominous summary: "The Longest, Most Difficult, Most Involved, Most Emotional Action Sequence I've Written in My Life, Oh My God." Thanks for waiting! =D
- CW: suicidal ideation.
- Between the first and second games, the Rapture novel and Burial at Sea, the timeline of significant events is kind of screwy. So, in an effort to unscrew things, in this timeline, Suchong was killed and Alexander took over the Protector Program before Ryan took over Fontaine Futuristics. Fontaine goes into hiding not long after the end of this chapter and Tenenbaum goes rogue after a few months of working for Ryan. (Seriously BaS, how on earth are there big daddies out and about and working on city repairs without walking off into the ocean before Suchong's death? Canonically, there shouldn't have been anything keeping them there.)
There was a restlessness building in the audience like the charge in the air before a lightning strike. Or, maybe more aptly, seeing as it had been years since Gilbert had been in proximity to any kind of weather, like that subtle wrongness in the air just before a person jolts a dead machine back to life with a blast of Electro Bolt. All around him was the creak of bodies shifting in their velvet lined seats. The murmur of conversation had nearly overtaken the annoyingly jaunty music the loudspeakers had been playing to go along with the criminal's impromptu act below.
He'd made an admirable effort, Gilbert had to admit. That criminal really was quite skilled with the plasmid. There were things he'd done with it that even he hadn't known were possible. He was a virtuoso in a field that - to his knowledge - had never before seen one.
But, as it turns out, even impossibly good ice tricks can only hold an audience for so long.
The restlessness had long ago infected Gilbert too. He fiddled with his armrest. He jimmied his leg. Dr. Tenenbaum turned her blank stare on him when he started doing the latter just a little too close to where her foot was and he stopped immediately, feeling, for some reason, like he was a child who'd just been caught doing something he oughtn't.
He put Tenenbaum out of his head and went back to silently agonizing that he was here, wasting his life away in this gilded prison of a theater, waiting - it seemed, at this point, eternally - to watch convicts smack each other over the head with glorified sticks, rather than doing something of real use in his lab. It felt as though there was a pallet of deadlines dangling by a fraying rope above his head. He didn't have time for this today. He barely had time for a coffee break on days when the boss didn't drag him into his business schemes that might very well have gone through without him cutting half an hour and counting out of his schedule to witness what was very much becoming a Grade A circus act.
The grapevine said that there'd been some kind of ADAM-fuelled altercation in the dressing room, just before the criminals involved were to go on. He didn't doubt it for a moment. Animals, every last one of them. They proved that point with every experiment he ran. At least, until they had enough Lethevec in them not to be much of anything anymore.
Someone was booing, loudly and obnoxiously, behind him. A balled up popcorn bag whizzed over his head and struck the industrial-grade glass dividing criminal and audience. The criminal either took no notice or was exceptionally good at keeping his composure. He smiled still, his teeth glinting like brilliant, too-white tombstones in the glow of the spotlight. A security guard stepped from his post against the wall and a moment later, the booing stopped, reducing the sound in the viewing gallery back to merely its previous levels of obnoxiousness.
For a moment, the thought of strolling up through the darkness and simply...not returning to his seat stole across Gilbert's mind.
He quashed it immediately. It'd be terribly bad form, abandoning Frank and the Poppadopolis executives without a word. He was in too deep to bail now. They'd had drinks in the boardroom before heading to the theater. They knew his name, face and which department he was head of. If their contract went through, the odds that he'd be working directly with them on some custom project that'd give them an edge over other police services were high. Better to not embarrass himself just yet.
If an hour passed and the show still hadn't started, then, well, he supposed all bets were off anyway.
He leaned forward and peered down the row. The entire front row had been reserved for the department heads, Frank and the Poppadopolis executives. There they were, in their expensive suits and slick haircuts, just on the other side of Tenenbaum and Frank - just a little too far to comfortably make conversation with him, though they'd made an effort to do so in the beginning. However, Frank, as usual, was in prime schmoozing position and deep in animated dialogue with them.
Gilbert squinted at Frank. It was difficult to tell in the low light of the aisles, but…
Oh yes. He'd definitely gone into a seething rage. It was the little tells that gave it away - the way he twisted and pulled at his monogrammed handkerchief as though to tear it to shreds and in the unnatural tightness of his smile. Had the house lights been on, in all likelihood he'd have been able to witness his bald head gradually taking on the color of a beet as the minutes ticked by. Now that was a fascinating process to watch, almost worthy of the wait, bad as he felt for anyone unwise enough to be caught in his path when the sheen of his head reached critical mass.
How convenient it would be, he thought idly, if everyone was able to reveal their emotional state via color so readily.
It would definitely make interactions with Dr. Tenenbaum less unnerving. He could never tell what was on her mind, despite how closely their respective departments were meant to work together. They communicated mostly in memos. Phone calls were rare and in-person discussions, barely existent. He often wondered if she resented him, for taking over the position of her fallen colleague and promptly shelving the research that had killed him. She'd worked with Dr. Suchong for much longer than she'd worked with him, after all. From what he knew from the lab techs who'd stayed on through the transition, in person meetings with Dr. Suchong were not quite the rarity that they were with him.
If it was so, it couldn't be helped, of course. But nothing she did or said told him one way or the other. They had been sitting next to each other for - he checked his watch - forty minutes now and she had yet to say more than an "mmm" or an "oh, ja?" to anything he said. He supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised. This was par for the course, after all.
At the start of what was supposed to have been the show, Frank's arm had been draped languidly around her shoulders. Almost imperceptibly, as time wore on, she had scooched farther and farther out from under it, until Frank, deep in conversation and plainly oblivious to what she'd been doing, had at last taken it away.
As Gilbert watched, he stretched and - not even looking at her as he did so - casually put it back. Tenenbaum just sat there, looking about as wretched as he'd ever seen her look. It wasn't quite the same, but he felt a sort of kinship in, of all things, their shared misery. If only that was something he could take back and use in their working lives.
The music got jauntier as the criminal lifted his leg and balancing on the tips of his toes, proceeded to juggle his icicles beneath it. One or two people applauded, more out of politeness than excitement. The person who'd been booing earlier did one more small, chastised boo without throwing anything this time. It was a trick the criminal had been through twice already. The first time had been impressive enough, but now, if Gilbert had had an ounce of belief in the concept of souls, he could have sworn he felt his leaving his body.
Fine, then. he decided, literally putting his foot down just a little too close to Tenenbaum's foot again. If his body was going to be stuck in this torment indefinitely, his nonexistent spirit, at least, could roam free in the lab. He let his thoughts drift back to work. On a normal day, he was fairly good at keeping work-thoughts contained to lab hours, but this was turning into a dire circumstance. Maybe he'd see something differently, if he went over what he knew in a place other than the one in which he set foot every day. Maybe he'd feel better if he pretended he was doing something rather nothing as the frayed rope creaked and groaned under its metaphorical load above him.
Subject Gamma had been the latest in a string of embarrassments even worse than walking out on a pair of bigwig police executives would have been. All that work - all that money - traipsing away across the ocean floor to wherever-on-earth the things all got it in their fool heads to go. It still made him wince to think about it. The one saving grace of the experiment was the fact that the creature would in all likelihood run out of oxygen before reaching shore or worse, hooking itself onto some passing ship's anchor. Probably. He was more optimistic about that part than the rest of it, at least.
It had been a unanimous decision to keep that and all the other previous failures from the press. A lot of paperwork had been destroyed. So many samples had ended their usefulness in the furnace. Employees who said too much at the water cooler were gone the next day. It was shady business, to be sure, but hardly a silhouette compared to half of the things that went on in this company.
But why had it walked out into its death the first chance it got? Why had every one of its elder siblings done the same?
At first, like his predecessor, he'd assumed they were too stupid to keep themselves alive and incapable of understanding that the only way of doing so meant staying within city limits. But that wasn't right. He'd seen proof of their intelligence. It was eerie sometimes, how well they understood instruction. And found small ways to subvert it. That was another problem he needed to work on, once he'd figured out the bigger one.
Subject Alpha had not been halted an inch by the progressively more painful shocks its suit was programmed to administer when it drew too close to the edge of the city. Subject Beta kept going, even as its suit announced that its life support systems were being turned off, one by one. With Subject Gamma, they'd decided to try swapping out the stick for the carrot. Its suit was programmed to administer a cocktail of pleasing stimulants whenever it was in proximity to a gatherer.
That had been as much of a rollicking success as every other scheme they'd come up with. It was as though, for all the progress they'd made with consciousness management and anamnesis reduction, there was still some part of their minds that he just couldn't smoothe over. They were as stubborn as they had been when they were men and he'd not yet found the formula for removing that obstacle.
So here he was, a week on, his project on the verge of failure and still at a loss for what to try next. Both the carrot and the stick? Subject Gamma had shown a mild interest in the gatherer paired with it. More so than the others. But only just, even when they'd upped its dosage. Maybe it was worth digging into.
As though he had any other ideas.
"Come on!" someone behind him shouted, temporarily startling him out of his thoughts.
Dr. Tenenbaum winced at the sound. Frank's arm remained affixed to her shoulder. The criminal had made an icicle two feet long and looked as though he were about to swallow it. It didn't have quite the same effect as swallowing a blade that wouldn't melt upon contact with the internal temperature of the human body.
Gilbert slunk back to his thoughts.
No, came the thought, unbidden. That isn't going to work, is it? And you know it. Suppose you were a shambling monster with no past, no future and nothing to live for. Would a high light enough to not interfere with your work be enough to make you care for a child you know nothing about with your life?
Care. What an odd way to put it. Oh, he was scraping the bottom of the barrel now. Those aides that named every specimen, gave every piece of equipment a silly moniker and who were most likely going to burn out within months of getting the job were getting in his head. He'd only recently discovered what it was that they'd nicknamed the Protectors.
"Big Daddies."
He'd laughed when he heard it. It was completely ludicrous, of course, to ascribe any bit of remaining humanity to those faceless hunk of steel, flesh and canvas. That was probably the entire point. The aides liked a good laugh as much as anyone.
But at the same time, something about the joke gripped him.
What is the chemical that makes parents throw themselves in front of a moving train for the sake of their child? What is the gene for devotion? From which brain structure can the feeling of love be stimulated? Can any of it be found, isolated...mimicked?
All very interesting questions, none of which he, thus far, had the foggiest idea of how to go about researching. Surely he couldn't bring actual parents in here to study their reactions to their actual children being put in mortal danger. Frank was capable of getting his hands on things he'd never dreamed possible anywhere else, but even he had to admit, that was a bit much.
Unattached criminals, in all their barbarism. That was what he had to work with. What did they know of love? It certainly wasn't a trait he'd noted at all in any of his test subjects.
Gilbert's thoughts were again derailed by a flurry of movement two seats down. He glanced over to see Sinclair, the human weasel, hastily whispering something into Frank's ear. Though he strained to hear, all he could make out were scattered, somewhat apologetic syllables. Frank's smile became a little less forced. His hand grew still, leaving what remained of the half-shredded handkerchief in his lap. He had visibly relaxed even more by the time Sinclair backed away, as though from a predator he was sure would pounce if he turned tail and ran. He backed all the way to the next row up, collapsed into a chair on the end and was fanning his brow with a crumpled program by the time Gilbert turned away.
Could it be true? Had the human weasel actually done something useful, free of charge? Was something actually going to happen before he himself went mad from the waiting?
Remarkable. He'd fully expected to see heads roll or, in the case of Frank, explode.
The music cut off mid-note.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" the loudspeaker boomed. "PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR SEATS AND PREPARE YOURSELVES"-
Dr. Tenenbaum made a face and stuck a finger in her ear. Frank dropped his arm down to the level of her waist and pulled her closer. At some point after he'd stopped paying attention, the criminal had gone back to juggling. For a moment, he looked lost in the midst of his whirling, unswallowed icicles, then, gracefully, he caught them one by one and took a deep bow.
The stage lights went up. Despite himself, Gilbert felt electrified by the excitement of the crowd. He supposed it was down to the sunk cost fallacy. If he'd waited this long for it, it had to be worth seeing. So said the monkey brain that even he possessed. A little more logically (or so he told himself), he decided that he might as well try to enjoy himself, scientific interest be damned.
*.*.*
-"FOR A VERY SPECIAL DINNER PARTY!"
Devon was blinded by the stage lights at first. He squinted, his eyes watering as he struggled to make out anything at all. When they finally adjusted, his first thought was to wonder if he was seeing this right.
Before him was a long wooden table, laid out as though for an elegant soiree. There was gleaming cutlery, porcelain plates of great delicacy, napkins folded into swans, immaculately polished water pitchers in which he saw his distorted face looking back at him. Down the table runner were a row of towering vases filled with exotic blooms and prettily wrapped little boxes with bows on top. It was one question answered and about a thousand more asked.
But, there, just beyond the table and coming closer...
He could see the juggler more clearly now. For a split second, their eyes met and - his back to the dark window beyond which the audience must have been - a look of sheer terror flashed across Alves' eyes. They were the only part of his face capable of expressing emotion. His lips were stuck in some surgeon's approximation of a bland smile. His eyebrows didn't move with the rest of his face. His skin was so smooth and tight that it looked as though it had been sculpted of plastic. One of the icicles he'd just been juggling slipped out of his hand and smashed on the floor.
Devon smiled sweetly back at him as he felt the sudden, driving need to crack his knuckles.
Alves glared at him, as much he was able and hurried away to his side of the stage.
They had a single advantage; Alves was still afraid of him. It was more than he'd dared hope for.
Gently, he hustled Delgado over to the pair of taped X's on the floor. He was moving as stiffly as a robot in a science fiction movie.
"When the fight starts," he whispered in his ear, mid-hustle. "We"-
"ON THE LEEEEFT, GIVE A COOL ROUND OF APPLAUSE FOR THE ICE KINGS!" the announcer boomed, making the contents of the water glasses on the table vibrate slightly
Alves and a crony he'd seen before but whose name he'd never bothered to learn were in position on the opposite side of the stage, flexing in the most obnoxious way possible at the faint sound of applause that made it through the glass. Devon rolled his eyes and then tore them away.
"We run for the table." he finished. "We'll knock it over and use it for cover. You on the left, me on the right. Can you do that?"
Delgado looked at him, the tiniest glint of hope in his forlorn expression and answered with an equally robotic nod.
"AAAAAND ON THE RIGHT" the announcer continued. "PLEASE GIVE AN ELECTRIFYING WELCOME TO...THE ELECTRO-BOLTERS!"
Devon raised an eyebrow and found the look mirrored on Delgado's face. Of course it would have been far too easy if they'd named them after Delgado's plasmid.
There was a moment of silence. With a start, it occurred to Devon that they were supposed to do something.
He turned to face the audience and did the most pathetic Queen of England wave he'd ever done in his life. Delgado's wasn't much better. He swore he could hear the uber stagehand groaning from here.
"ER…" the announcer said disheartedly. At least he wasn't berating him about the jacket. "THE TABLE IS SET, THE GUESTS HAVE ARRIVED, NOW…"
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. In the space between words, Alves and Devon locked eyes.
"BON APPETIT!"
Devon shot forward at a dead run. For that instant, the only real thing in the world was the edge of the table. He slammed into it, slid his hands beneath the tablecloth, glanced over to see Delgado grab his side a fraction of a second later and together, they sent it crashing to the ground. A cacophony of smashing porcelain and glass filled the air.
"WHOA!" the announcer said, with a laugh in his voice. "NOW THAT'S HOW YOU RUIN A DINNER PARTY, FOLKS."
Delgado, panting and red-faced, dropped to his knees, gripping a ridge on the underside of the table for balance.
"Now what?" he asked breathlessly, turning to Devon with a look of absolute trust.
"Uh." Devon said, feeling a sinking sensation in his stomach against the backdrop of his own racing heart. That was as far as the plan had gone.
"BUT THE ICE KINGS"- the announcer interrupted in a tone that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Before he could figure anything out, there was a heavy THUNK right next to his ear and from the corner of his eye, something plunged straight through their barricade. They both screamed and fell away from the spot it had struck. It took Devon a second to realize it was a butter knife. A butter knife that someone had chucked through what was at the very least two solid inches of wood.
-"JUST SO HAPPEN TO BE EXCELLENT ETIQUETTE INSTRUCTORS. REMEMBER - ALWAYS BREAK YOUR BREAD BEFORE BUTTERING IT!"
"Non-lethal, my ass!" Delgado hissed as he heaved himself back up to sitting position.
Devon was frozen, caught between the need to see what was going on out there and the equally great desire to keep his head on his shoulders. Every fiber of his body screamed at him to stay put. His brain provided vivid images of what would happen if he didn't. But he couldn't just sit here until they winged something worse than a butter knife at them.
"C'MON, BOYS!" the announcer chided. "DON'T BE WALLFLOWERS. WE'RE ALL FRIENDLY PEOPLE HERE."
Gritting his teeth, he climbed to his knees and peered above the fallen table. A projectile went whizzing over his head. He felt the breeze it created part his hair. In the instant before another was launched, he saw him - the unnamed crony, with a fistful of silverware and a smug look about him. He waved his hand and - as though it were attached to strings on the ends of his fingers - a piece of cutlery floated up from the bunch. He mimed the throwing of a paper plane and -
Devon hurled himself to the ground. A projectile moving too fast to see went whizzing through the air where his head had been a moment ago.
"AND THE ICE KINGS ARE SUCH WONDERFUL CONVERSATIONALISTS."
"Telekinesis." he mouthed at Delgado.
Delgado cringed. Something else went THUNK on the other side of the table, though whatever it was, this time it didn't plunge all the way through.
But he knew one thing now - that there was a lag of precious seconds between the launch of one projectile and the prepping of another. If he moved fast, without thinking, without breathing, then maybe-
The crony screamed as the ball of electricity struck him dead in the middle of the chest. Devon ducked back down as quick as he'd popped up, the thunderous clatter of many pieces of silverware hitting the stage filling his ears.
"AHA!" the announcer said, with more than a little glee. "FIRST HIT GOES TO THE ELECTRO-BOLTERS! SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU PUT YOURSELF OUT THERE? GIVE 'EM A HAND FOR A FINE DEBUT."
Devon could barely hear the distant sound of applause over the blood pounding in his ears. He was going to faint, he knew it. Or vomit. At this point it was hard to say which. The trembling still hadn't ceased after he'd drawn in a deep, shaky breath. He'd hit a person with what? Fifty volts, at minimum? It was less than he was capable of. He'd seen people survive worse but then again, he'd also seen them end up worse from less. It was a terrible amount of power for a person to have at their fingertips.
And he couldn't stop there.
He glanced at Delgado - squeezing his green ball for dear life, his teeth gritted, his eyes wild with fear - gave him a sad smile that he didn't turn in time to see, launched himself over the table and took off like a shot. Behind him, he heard Delgado shout.
The crony, still twitching on the floor, was dead ahead. He was going to kick him. It wasn't the most elegant of plans, no, but if he kicked him hard enough to take the fight out of him, well, that didn't really matter did it?
He'd almost made it when he fell on his face and went full-body skidding across the floor.
"OOOOOOH." the announcer said, sucking his breath in through his teeth. "A PITY OUR DEBUTANTE'S GOT TWO LEFT FEET. AVOID A TRAGEDY LIKE THIS OF YOUR OWN BY ENLISTING IN FONTAINE FUTURISTICS' SCHOOL OF DANCE, OPENING…NOW."
Ice. The floorboards were swathed in it. He could see the flowers that had been in the vases floating within it, as though caught in time. When the waltz came on over the loudspeakers, for a moment, he was certain he'd hit his head going down.
His senses came back just in time to see Alves wrench an icicle from the palm of his hand and hurl it at him with the practiced hand of a stage magician. With a cry, he slid out of the way the instant before it would have impaled him. There was a THUNK on the floor beside him. He had felt something razor sharp and icy cold graze his ribs. The thought that it was bleeding and that whatever Alves' icicles were made of had mingled with his blood flashed across his mind but there was no time for that - he was pinned to the stage by the loose fabric of his ridiculously fitted shirt and Alves was readying another icicle.
The momentary look of triumph in Alves' eyes, in his frozen, smiling face, was immediately quashed when Devon loosed a crackling bolt of electricity at him.
"OHO!" the announcer said, with palpable glee.
Alves dodged it clumsily, his coattails flying as he skidded on his own ice.
"SEE HOW THE STUDENT LEARNS THE STEPS WITH OUR EXCELLENT ONE-TWO PUNCH PROGRAM."
Devon used the moment to rip himself free and scramble to his feet. He touched his side and looked at his hand. It was sweat. Only sweat. His entire shirt was drenched with it.
"BUY FONTAINE FUTURISTICS PLASMIDS AND YOU'LL BE DANCING THE WALTZ IN NO TIME TOO."
Just beyond Alves, the crony had stopped twitching and begun to stir.
For an instant that lasted forever, the two of them stood there regarding each other, Devon's fist sparking with electricity, the light of the sparks reflected back at him in Alves' terrified eyes. One blast and he'd fall, twitching like his friend had, defenseless against a kick in the head - and he knew it. Could he throw an icicle faster than Devon could launch a ball of energy? Well, there was only one way to find out.
The music of the waltz was going through a tense, shrill violin section. How they'd managed to time that was anyone's guess.
Alves backed away, looking this way and that, scanning for any sort of out. The power to stop him pooled in Devon's hand.
And then Alves' eyes shifted to somewhere behind him. He raised the icicle as though to throw it, but not at him.
"DEL"- Devon shrieked, whirling around and loosing the blast at the flying icicle instead. It exploded midair, mere feet in front of Delgado's gaping face. He took his ball and ducked back down behind the table.
And then it was as though he'd plunged beneath the surface of a frozen lake.
His breath turned to mist when he exhaled. He could feel his heart struggling to complete each excruciating beat. He fell to his knees, shivering, his teeth chattering, his tears freezing to his eyelashes. Alves looked down at him, open-mouthed, the corners of his mouth still twisted into that unnatural smile, his dead man's hand frozen in the motion he'd just completed.
And then, he laughed.
"MM-MM-MM!" the announcer said with an echoing chuckle. "SEMIFREDDO, ANYONE? WHO DOESN'T LOVE A GOOD ICEBOX DESSERT? BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME!"
He hated that guy. He really did.
Just beyond Alves, the crony staggered to his feet. His hair was sticking straight up, his clothes were rumpled and oddly patterned singe marks dotted the white of his shirt. He planted his heels firmly against the stage floor and grimacing with effort, motioned as though he were pulling a great weight towards him on an invisible chain. There was a sound like furniture being dragged across an apartment floor. Delgado cried out in alarm.
"LOOKS LIKE OUR TELEKINETIC FRIEND'S BACK IN ACTION AND INVITING THE SHY ONE IN! AW, WHAT A NICE GENT."
It was as though the chill had stopped all the blood in Devon's veins. The crackling power he'd felt flowing through them upon getting the dose of EVE felt dull and far away. He tried to raise his hand and could barely muster a single spark. But there, in his other arm, burning hot as the sun beneath his skin, was a power that yearned to melt every last thing that held him back.
He forced the thought back down.
"N-No," he said through chattering teeth, struggling to drag himself across the icy floor. "P-Please."
"What's that, now?" Alves said, in a singsong voice, as he theatrically pulled another icicle from the palm of his hand and flipped it in the air before catching it again. "Can't quite heeeear you. Hmm."
He closed one eye and moved the icicle around as though choosing what part of his body to throw it at.
Devon's eyes darted to Alves' feet. He was treading on the edge of the long, fallen, not-entirely frozen table runner and appeared not to have noticed.
The wood of the table groaned under the force of the invisible chain.
"C'MON, PAL!" the announcer chided. "JOIN THE PARTY! I PROMISE, WE DON'T BITE!"
"GODDAMMIT!" Delgado shouted.
For a fraction of a second, Alves' eyes drifted in the direction of the shout. It was enough. With a quiet gasp of exertion, Devon slipped his hand under the runner and yanked it out from under his feet. The icicle fell from his hand and smashed into tiny pieces as he crashed to the ground.
At that same moment a mighty CRASH shook the stage. Devon scooched around just quick enough to see the table pull itself from Delgado's hands and fall flat on its face. Delgado stood there, out in the open, looking for all the world like someone had walked in on him while he was taking a shower. Then he took off running, one gleaming projectile after another whizzing after him.
"HOSPITALITY IN ACTION, FOLKS! WHY, I'LL BET HE'S THRILLED HE CAME IN AFTER ALL."
They were applauding back there. The faintest whoop made its way through the glass.
Alves was laughing again. A chill that had nothing to do with his ice powers ran down Devon's spine.
"Where's your part-ner?" Alves taunted in a sing-song voice, his fixed lips twisting into an even crueler smile. He pulled himself to his feet and dusted himself off. "Why, oh why...isn't he covering you?"
Devon struggled to stand up. He wasn't quite as cold as he'd been at first. He could feel life coming back into his limbs. If he could just-
The air was knocked out of him by a flying kick to the ribs. He gasped for breath as his face met floorboard. Alves looked down at him disdainfully.
"Is he...saving it for a surprise?"
Before he could think to make an answer, he kicked him again. Devon cried out despite himself. He'd bitten his tongue. Somehow that hurt worse than the kick itself. His mouth was filled with the taste of his blood.
"No, I don't think so." Alves went on, as he thoughtfully observed another icicle sprouting from his palm like some kind of strange, fast-growing plant. "Perhaps…"
"GETTING INTO THE PARTY FAVORS A LITTLE EARLY, AREN'T WE? AH, BUT WE ALL HAVE OUR INDULGENCES…" the announcer said, his voice sounding to Devon's ears as though it were coming from the end of a long, dark tunnel.
Devon reached for his ankle while he was thinking. He paced just out of range of his fingers, unnoticing.
"Perhaps...it's just stage fright." he wondered aloud, rolling the icicle between his fingers. "Or…oh no."
He stopped. His lips curled back to reveal asbestos-white teeth of unsettlingly perfect symmetry.
Devon felt something shift inside him under the force of the next kick. A cry escaped through his gritted teeth. He scrunched himself into the fetal position, as though that would stop another blow.
"Could it be?" Alves sang, in that infuriating voice.
Alves flipped him over with the toe of his shoe. A hiss of pain escaped from between Devon's teeth.
"Could it possibly be…"
Alves straddled him, grinning as he poised the icicle over the soft flesh of his abdomen. His smile was so wide that he could see the bases of the screws driven into his red, swollen gums.
"A mista-AAAAAAAAARGH!"
Devon screamed just as loud as he came crashing down on top of him, convulsing. The ankle he'd managed to grab and send a burst of electricity through while he was monologing was jerked out of his hand. The icicle was lost somewhere in the chaos. Still screaming, he shoved Alves off of him and scooted away.
"WHOA, WHOA, WHOA!" the announcer said with genuine shock. "HOLD ON TO YOUR HATS, LADIES AND GENTS AND DIRECT YOUR ATTENTION TO STAGE RIGHT. THE ICEMAN FALLETH!"
Devon lay there, panting and trembling, tears pouring down his face, every breath a knife in his side. He had to get up. The blast had been weaker one than the one he'd used on the crony. There wasn't much time. He had to move, he had to-
He didn't want to kill him - not really. Even...if Alves had meant to kill him. But how the hell was he going to keep him down?
A big jolt to the heart, said a more pragmatic part of his mind.
No, no, of course not, said another. Pick up that piece of broken glass.
What is wrong with you? another one sputtered incredulously. Tie him up with the table runner.
There. That one.
He clenched his jaw, groaned as he heaved himself into sitting position and tugged at the runner.
He couldn't do it.
It was pinned beneath the full weight of the fallen table.
While he was trying to rip it free, there was a rush of wind, a sound like a gong and all of a sudden he was on the floor, gasping for breath again. A water pitcher had struck him with terrible force in the side that Alves hadn't kicked. It rolled back and forth, water dripping from its spout, his reflection even more warped than before in its dented surface.
"OH, NO!" the announcer said, still speaking from the end of that tunnel. "LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE'S HAD TOO MUCH TO DRINK."
He was still trying to get his bearings when someone grabbed him under the armpits and sharply dragged him away. He shrieked bloody murder and thrashed with all he had as he tried to break free.
"Stop it goddamn you, it's me!" Delgado shouted in his ear.
A knife went flying through the air and embedded itself in the patch of floor between Devon's flailing legs. He wisely decided to go limp.
Delgado made that high pitched sound in his throat and picked up speed. They were showered with broken plates and bits of debris as he moved, the red-faced crony hurling everything within arm's reach at them.
"OH, BUT WHAT'S THIS?" the announcer said, with what had to have been a beaming smile on his face. "A SUDDEN"-
His voice turned tinny and impossible to make out all of a sudden. It was the biggest relief he'd felt all day.
Somewhat humorously, in the midst of the onslaught, a napkin came falling down from the sky and landed daintily in his lap.
Delgado had hauled him almost offstage. They were up against the curtain that had fallen behind them when they'd first stepped out. Delgado propped him up against a pillar, plunged his hand into the curtain and found his fingers halted by some kind of hard barrier. He groaned, but expressed no surprise.
For the moment, though the crony drew ever closer, the flying debris was falling short of them.
"Whath are we..." Devon asked, the words distorted by his swollen tongue. "Going to"-
He finished the sentence with a scream. Delgado had whipped a syringe out of his inner pocket and jammed it into the fleshiest part of his thigh with much more than necessary force. He pushed the plunger and its faintly glowing contents were emptied into his leg.
"Medkitinthepartyfavors." Delgado explained, with a wince of guilt, the words coming out so fast that they all flowed together. "Sorry."
But Devon's vision had cleared almost instantly. He could breathe without grimacing every single time. The pain of his injuries was still there but it was dulled, as though muffled with a layer of wool.
And everything was clear.
"Delgatho, thuh ballth…" he said, sitting up too quickly. The action immediately earned him the reward of a sharp pain that stole his breath away as quickly as he'd gotten it back.
"Devon!" Delgado cried, his hands hovering over him, wanting desperately to help but having no more means to do so.
"Thuh…ballth" Devon choked out again, clutching his ribs as though he could squeeze them back into place. He was spitting blood down his chin as he talked. "W-When you threw ith ath me I…c-couldn'th sthop laugh...ing 'til you sthopped. Ith's mind conthrol. Ith's fucking mind conthrol."
Delgado's eyes widened.
"Wha.."
"End thith." Devon wheezed, his eyes brimming with tears. "You can"-
The conversation would never be finished. It was cut off by the flying pitcher that hit Delgado square in the jaw. He was out cold before he hit the floor.
"No" Devon whispered, grabbing at his wrist to check for a pulse. "No, no, no…"
He was alive - unless what he was feeling was the pulsing of his own pounding heart. But no - his chest was moving. It was true.
Devon looked out across the stage to see the crony glaring back at him, his pockets stuffed with renewed stores of silverware. Alves rose to his feet, his hair standing on end, his smiling mask of a face betrayed only by the rage in his eyes.
They were moving in.
Devon pulled the syringe out of his thigh and staggered to his feet, grimacing with pain as things that weren't supposed to move shifted around inside of him. With a scream, he aimed a blast of energy at Alves.
A thick shield of spilled water filled with debris rose up from the floor. With a flick of his wrist, Alves turned it to ice. His lightning fizzled out to nothing as it hit it. It moved in perfect tandem with him. When he fired, the telekinetic crony shifted it to block his every blast with ease. The two of them had to have done this many, many times.
Alves advanced. He was unhurried, strolling as though he were making his way down a promenade on a sunlit afternoon. An icicle danced between his fingers, winking in the glow of the blueish spotlight that followed him. Devon's eyes flashed to the puddle that had spilled from the pitcher as it flew. It was a long, spreading arc of water and Alves was just about to step in the other end. He aimed a blast of electricity at the puddle and-
Alves turned it to ice with a snap of the fingers and strolled right over it.
Desperately, Devon hucked the syringe that was still in his hand at him. Alves peered out disappointedly from behind his shield as the last, ridiculous piece of hope he had shattered on it.
There was nothing else left.
Except fire.
Go on, the insidious little voice in his brain said. He's going to kill you anyway. Why not take him down with you? Melt him away. Make it count. Do something worthwhile with your miserable life.
He clenched his jaw, balled his fists and shook his head at no one.
Alves had stopped mere feet away. The light made him look strangely peaky. He mimed throwing the icicle. Unlike the others, it was streaked with pink. Devon didn't move. Alves burst into wild, knee-slapping laughter.
"Damn." he said, when he'd composed himself enough to speak. "You really don't give a shit, do you? Give this man a round of applause."
He was the only one clapping. Devon glared at him. Alves smiled back. The crony rolled his eyes behind his boss's back. Suddenly, though it was hard to tell with his face the way it was, Alves seemed almost wistful. He began to circle the pillar where it seemed their last stand was going to take place, the shield travelling with him in perfect tandem.
"But I should've known that already, shouldn't I?" he said softly. "You cared so little for your own life when last we danced. You were vicious. Feral. Diving into something with only your teeth and fists when you were clearly outmatched and winning by sheer animal brutality."
Alves was trembling. He took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders. Devon glowered at him, following him as he paced, blocking his line of sight to Delgado continuously.
"That's why you scared me." he went on. "I'm not too proud to admit it. Oh, no, I don't believe for a minute that you really give a damn about what happens to you. But…"
He stopped. Devon's ears pricked up when he heard the faintest of groans from the floor behind him. Alves made no sign of having noticed. Devon glowered harder, trying to make sure that he revealed nothing of what he'd just heard on his face.
Get up, Devon begged Delgado silently. Please get up. Please be okay.
"...there are worse things in this world, aren't there?" Alves continued. "You've lived them, haven't you? You have the vocabulary of a clam and the same propensity for gossip, but…"
He trailed off and glanced pensievely between Devon and Delgado.
Keep going, Devon silently willed him. Keep talking until he sits up and obliterates you. Run yourself into the ground with your own fool mouth.
"No." he finished curtly. "I don't think maiming you - much as I'd like to, believe me - would serve any purpose at all. I think…"
Alves cocked his head and his smile turned sickeningly sweet. He took a wary step closer. Devon realized that it wasn't just a trick of the light - his skin was deathly pale and shiny with sweat. Dark circles ringed his watery eyes.
"I think" he said again. "That you should live a long and healthy life. As circumstances permit. But him?"
He gestured at Delgado with the icicle. His hand was trembling.
"Well, he won't be."
It was as though Alves had stabbed him in the chest with the icicle. The sharp intake of breath Devon had taken when he'd spoken was the one thing he failed to disguise.
Delgado stirred behind him, a little louder than before. Alves still gave no indication that he'd heard.
"They can't hear us in here, you know." Alves said evenly. "The screams, you see...they disturbed the audience too much, in the beginning. So, I propose we make a deal, under the table. I'm a reasonable fellow, truly. Say...you…pretend to take a swipe at me. We'll put on a show and then I'll knock you to the side, no more harm done. Promise. And if one of us lets a projectile fly in the midst of that chaos...why, it'd only be a terrible accident."
He shrugged.
"Happens all the time. I've caused my fair share of accidents, you know. I'm quite skilled at it. Should be a no-brainer, right?"
"No." Devon said softly, his lip trembling.
Alves narrowed his red-rimmed eyes.
"No?" he repeated, his tone darker. "Really, now? Whyever not?"
"I can'th do thith again!" he blurted out, his voice breaking, his fist sparking with electricity.
Alves gave him a quizzical look.
It all happened in an instant.
He lurched forward, the last rush of power he had left surging in his veins. Alves made as though he were about to hurl his icicle at him but-
It was the shield that slammed into him instead, smashing into a million pieces as it made contact. He screamed, clawing at the icy bits of broken table settings in his eyes.
Blink.
Delgado struggling to sit up, holding his jaw with one hand.
Blink.
Alves drawing his arm back, the icicle wobbling unsteadily between his fingers.
Blink.
Alves crashing to the ground, his eyes wide and his smile wider as Devon hurls his body into him.
Blink.
The icicle shatters, its pastel pink shards skittering across the floorboards. Alves' nose smushes like putty under his fist. It stays that way when he draws his arm back.
Blink.
A knee to the rib - like a steak knife to the side. Alves slips out from under him as he gasps for air.
Blink.
His hand caught around Alves' fleeing ankle, a shock building in his fingers.
Blink.
Cold. Colder than the winter wind of a country that has gone without daylight for months. His breath is frost. His tears are ice. The sparks are dead.
Blink.
"JUST LET GO!" Alves screeches, his kicking growing increasingly desperate. "Let...g-go! It's so easy! I do it every goddamn day!"
A hideous chuckle trembles out from between the chatter of his teeth. How can he let go when Alves was the one who froze his fingers in place?
He doesn't care about the grinding of bones inside him as Alves drags him belly-down across the floor. Alves' foot against his face means less than nothing to him.
But still, his fingers loosen with every kick.
They were never quite the same after he broke them on Alves' face the first time.
Blink.
Alves screams as though he's wrenching off his own fingernail. The icicle that tears itself through his palm is pure scarlet. His sweat soaks through his collar and drenches the shoulders of his jacket. A capillary has burst in his right eye. His hand is shaking uncontrollably as he raises his bloody weapon for a strike.
Alves jabs it between ankle and hand like a wedge and begins to pry them apart.
His hand is coming away.
Blink.
The ball.
Sickly green and nauseating to look at, it oozes from the pores in Delgado's trembling hand, spinning into a sphere like a wretched globe of cotton candy.
End this, he thinks, with a tremulous smile on his lips, through a veil of tears hot enough to melt the rime on his face. You can end this.
*.*.*
All Devon saw was a flash of silver.
It was so small, barely a blip in the grand scheme of anything. A meteorite burning away in the atmosphere the moment it entered. A pale flame snuffed out by the faintest breeze.
But Delgado screamed as though he'd been struck by the asteroid that had killed the dinosaurs. His hand flew to his throat as he crashed to the floor.
And then he was still.
*.*.*
The earth did not open up. The walls did not shake themselves to bits. The stage did not run with rivers of blood and the building did not come crashing down beneath the weight of the ocean above.
The world went on, though there was no logical reason why it should have done so.
All it contained now was a nothingness vaster than the universe itself. A hollowness which sucks all else that exists into its orbit, never to be seen again.
But what is it that happens when the core of a star suffers gravitational collapse, in the moment before it becomes a black hole?
It explodes.
*.*.*
"Look, I know he's thinner, but I'm telling you, if you just look at the way"-
"You think if it was him, they wouldn't have put his name on the playbill? I'll bet you anything, if it'd sell more tickets, they would've done it already. That's how things work down here. And you know"-
"Hmph!"
"And you know what else happened down here? Your prince charming OD'd facedown in a gutter. He went and got washed up just like everybody else who strolls in here like they own the place. You ever gonna learn?"
"When you're not obviously wrong, obviously. Don't you think"-
"Oh! Well, obviously you're just delu"-
"That maybe it's at least a little suspicious they never released a picture of the body?"
"The hell you wanna see a body for anyway!"
"Well, you see"-
Gilbert squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed his temple and sank a little lower in his chair. That pair of women two rows behind him had been arguing with increasing volume over the identity of one of the criminals for literally the entire length of the show. He was on the verge of whirling around to hush them up himself, which was saying something, seeing as he was deathly allergic to the general idea of confrontation.
Not that the show had proven to be any more interesting than any of the others he'd seen. Slightly variable sticks. Minutely different animals. Very much not worth it in the end, though he supposed he was pleased to hear the occasional impressed sounds coming from the direction of the Poppadopolis executives.
"OH, NO!" the announcer boomed, with a mechanical-sounding laugh. "LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE'S HAD TOO MUCH TO DRINK!"
There was a scattering of laughter all about the room. Gilbert opened his eyes and saw that one of the criminals had just gotten beamed with a telekinetically thrown pitcher. Oh, he was down for sure now, after everything else he'd gone through in the minutes before. The other member of his team was still running around like a chicken with its head cut off. With some relief, he deduced that it would likely be over in five minutes.
Then a gasp rose up from the people around him. The arguing women even shut their traps for a moment. A row in the back cheered. With a sinking heart, Gilbert watched the headless chicken drag his underdressed partner to safety through a barrage of flying wreckage.
Fantastic, he thought. Add five more minutes to the estimated time of release, will you Gil?
"OH, BUT WHAT'S THIS?" the announcer said. "A SUDDEN TURNAROUND! GIVE OUR WALLFLOWER A - OH, DEARIE ME. STILL SHY, AREN'T WE?"
The two of them had gone nearly to the back of the stage and looked as though they were trying to dive behind the curtain. Gilbert groaned the quietest of groans.
There was a slight burst of hope when the headless chicken was knocked out cold by another well aimed pitcher (the things were like the cannon balls of dinner parties, plainly). After that it got incredibly boring.
The teams faced each other. One stood over the unconscious body of his partner with a grim look on his bloody face. The other - the juggler from before - appeared to be talking to him from behind his hovering shield of ice. The announcer tried to playfully goad them into action over and over but neither of them took the slightest notice. An intercom problem, most likely. He'd been having a lot of those lately. That electrical company Frank had contracted for the installation had come recommended for its cheapness rather than the skill of its employees. Served him right, really.
No, the still-conscious one clearly mouthed at the juggler, his fist sparking with electricity.
The juggler made an exasperated gesture.
The still-conscious one screamed something he couldn't lip read satisfactorily, his face contorted with emotion.
Gilbert jumped in his seat when they finally clashed. It was an odd fight. The juggler didn't seem to want to finish the one who was attacking him off. Rather, he was trying to move toward the criminal who was already down. The unconscious man's partner was doing everything in his power to stop that from happening.
He was...protecting him?
There had to be some unseen strategy at play here. For the first time that day, Gilbert found himself on the edge of his seat.
His excitement didn't last. Proceedings soon devolved into nothing more than one man trying and failing to pry another, in increasingly clumsy ways, off his person. The uninvolved criminal stood back, his arms crossed, looking just as bored as Gilbert felt. And then his head snapped toward the unconscious man.
With a start, Gilbert saw that he was no longer unconscious. He was sitting up, lifting his hand as though to throw something at the struggling juggler.
It happened so fast that his eyes barely followed. It was only through thinking through the clues that he figured out what had happened at all.
The one with telekinesis had thrown a piece of silverware with great force at the one who'd just been about to make some kind of sneak attack on his partner. Gilbert saw his mouth open in an unheard scream as he fell, clutching at his throat. Blood stained the white of his collar. The other two stopped what they were doing. A few empathetic murmurs circulated through the audience.
An anticlimactic ending, to say the least.
"OOOOH, TOUGH BREAK!" the announcer said, no less cheerful than he'd been throughout the entire show.
Indeed. Dr. Alexander sat up straight and patted his back pocket to be sure his wallet hadn't fallen out. He remembered a point in his life when he would have spent this time gathering up his jacket and hat, but who needs those anymore, in a perfectly climate controlled city?
"BUT NOT TO WORRY, OUR MEDICAL TEAM WILL BE OUT IN A JIFFY." the announcer went on.
Not exactly a lie. He supposed "pair of dropout med school students with a suitcase of medical-grade ADAM" was a bit of a mouthful. Assuming they could get on the scene in time. It didn't always happen so smoothly. Not that an audience had ever noticed.
This audience seemed as uninvested in the safety of the fallen man as any other. When the house lights went up, it was revealed that they were doing much the same as he'd been - making sure their things were in order and preparing to leave. The murmur of conversation filled the viewing gallery once again.
Frank's head had not the faintest touch of red as he chatted away with the nodding executives, gesturing to one thing or another on the stage.
"AND THAT'S A WRAP, FOLKS!" the announcer went on cheerily. "THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATRONAGE AND COME BACK SOON!"
Dr. Tenenbaum stretched her legs and rolled her shoulders. At some point during the show Frank had let go of her again. Their eyes met for a second and just for that moment, it felt as though they'd been through something together and reached some sort of understanding that transcended office politics. Then she glanced away like he'd passed wind and she was trying to ignore it out of politeness.
Gilbert tried not to let it get him down. He figured he should stick around to say goodbye to the executives, if Frank wasn't going to be too much longer. He settled on fiddling with his watch to pass the time.
"DON'T FORGET TO PICK UP YOUR VERY OWN FONTAINE FUTURISTICS CATALOG ON THE WAY OUT" the announcer added. "WITH ITS VERY EXCITING REVEAL OF OUR BRAND NEW WINTER COLLECTION! AND REMEMBER, THE FUTURE IS - oh-hhhh."
Nothing could have sent his adrenal glands into overdrive faster than that staticy, small intake of breath. Except, perhaps, the strangled sound that came out of Frank's mouth and the scream of the woman who had still been arguing not five minutes before. Gilbert's head whipped back to the stage and-
The juggler was engulfed in flames.
He danced like a broken marionette, his limbs jerking wildly, his flesh melting off his body into a boiling puddle around his flailing feet. His partner raced around him, struggling to find some way to help, but unable to get much closer without putting himself in harm's way.
"E-EVERYONE, STAY CALM AND PLEASE FILE OUT IN AN ORDERLY"-
He could hear a mad rush of bodies stomping through the aisles, a series of panicked cries, the shout of a security guard.
"MERELY AN ACCIDENT"-
But Gilbert stayed where he was, his knuckles white as he clenched the armrests, his eyes fixed as firmly on the scene as though they'd been bolted into place inside his head. He couldn't look away, even if he had wanted to.
The juggler collapsed, his dance done at last, his body still smouldering as it hit the floor.
The one who had done it climbed to his feet.
Gilbert couldn't comprehend how he was still standing. The skin was peeling in strips from his scorched arm. Half the hair had been burned from his head. He was hunched over, holding his side with his uninjured arm as though he were in great pain.
Slowly, he walked.
The telekinetic criminal was still trying to revive his partner. He beat out the flames with his jacket. His mouth opened and closed in soundless screams, at the curtain in back, at the glass in front of him, at anyone.
He stopped when he saw the half-burned man approaching. His face went ashen white. He stumbled away, tripping over his partner's blackened leg.
Still, the burned man approached.
The telekinetic criminal was backed up against the far side of the stage. He smacked the curtain behind him, his mouth moving as he yelled to whoever was on the other side of it. When no answer came, he pulled a piece of silverware from his pants pocket, tossed it up in the air and sent it flying at his pursuer.
His aim was way off. It skittered harmlessly past its target's feet.
He mouthed the word fuck with great emotion and took off running.
He slipped on the ice. He stumbled through a maze of broken glass and struggled to his feet covered in blood. His fist left a bloody print on the window when he beat it, the glass muffling all but the faintest sounds of his distress.
Unerringly, the burned man followed.
He pulled a teaspoon from his pocket and launched it at him. A fork. A fish knife. A serving spoon. They all flew past the burned man, not a one hitting him at all.
One more try and-
It hit.
The burned man stopped, clutching at the spot on his abdomen where the handle of some utensil stood out of the flesh in which it was stuck. He stared at the one who had thrown it blankly, his face bare of all emotion, his eyes like a pair of black holes.
He took another step. And another.
The telekinetic criminal was crying. He threw piece after piece of silverware up into the air, but every last one of them came crashing down, useless at his feet. EVE. He was out of EVE. Gilbert's heart was caught in his throat.
He ran. He stumbled. He fell.
There was no helping him. Opening the bulkhead door behind the curtain was a death sentence for anyone else who would dare to enter.
After a time, he seemed to realize this.
He fell for the last time and did not get up.
He looked up from the floor as the burned, stabbed, dauntless man approached, raising his charred arm with inexorable effort, the flames that had scorched it reigniting in a blaze of blue fire.
He closed his eyes as it washed over him, his body as brilliant a bonfire as his partner's had been.
The last man standing collapsed in a smouldering heap.
Gilbert watched them burn for a time, filled with a wordless horror, a soundless elation, an unfathomable cascade of all the strange emotions as of yet undescribed by science.
Hardly conscious of what he was doing, Gilbert got up and walked toward the glass. He fancied he could feel the heat through it, though whether this was true or a product of his imagination, he could not discern.
How awful, he thought. How majestic. How terrifying.
Such care. Such destruction. Such a pity.
He had to have him.
Alive, preferably. But if there was only a corpse left for study, well, he'd make do.
Sinclair!
The thought sprung into his mind like the wail of a siren.
His senses coming back to him like the crashing of a wave, he whirled around, his eyes scanning frantically for the seat he saw him take earlier. Empty. Empty. Most of them empty and no human weasel in sight.
With a mumbled pardon, he brushed past Tenenbaum, still in her seat, the flames dancing in her staring eyes. He squeezed past the executives, past Frank, past their outraged horror and his wheedling, failing salesmanship. The contract is definitely off and he's being ruder than he's ever been in his life but he just couldn't find it in himself to care. He managed to make it up the stairs without barreling through the last few stragglers, all the while making sure to keep his pace even, his heartbeat steady, his dignity intact.
When he made it to the exit, he broke into a dead run.
Notes:
- Behind the Scenes: Thomas Bergerson's 'Avalanche' was the song I used to hype myself up for writing the fight scene.
- Behind the Scenes: It may amuse you to know that the earliest draft of the fight scene had the telekinetic guy dropping a grand piano on his own head.
- Behind the Scenes: Seriously, my previous record for action sequences was like...5 google doc pages. I have a strong personal philosophy of keeping fight scenes short and punchy. Not today!