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"I think maybe this tree is too big," Oscar said, staring at the tree, it's top bending slightly at Zoey's ceiling. He glanced to her, and noticed her frown. "For the space, I mean."
Zoey's bean-shaped couch had been moved aside, and the leftmost limbs of the tree spilled over the rightmost of her six television screens. The rightmost limbs pushed against the windows of the apartment, that allowed the apartment to look out over Silver Lake and the rest of Steel Canyon, blocking out the view.
Zoey shrugged. "I think it's fine. I mean. It'd be a pain to shorten it, at this point, right? I think I forgot the height of the ... thingie, at the bottom, with the water and sugar, when I gave the measurements." She paused to pull from her vape, then continued, "We can just trim off the branches at the sides."
Oscar was not entirely convinced. "It's twelve feet tall, and at least ten foot at the bottom. That's, like, what - 60 square feet of decorations? We'd each be decorating thirty square feet? Except, it's round. So, more than that. A lot more."
"Stop being a grinch," Zoey replied. "You said you've never had a Christmas tree. Now we have one." She picked up the large shears, and headed over to the television, floating up a few feet to better reach the branches.
"Your people got ... two thousand feet of lights. That feels like a bit much," Oscar said, shaking his head.
"Stop whining and start hanging lights," Zoey retorted. "There's a power adapter in the base."
"The base that's full of sugar water is also electric? Seems like a great plan," Oscar groused.
Zoey paused a moment, and watch him as he cracked the plastic wrap on the first string of lights. She licked her lips. "You never had a tree growing up?"
Oscar was quiet at first; quiet enough that Zoey wondered if he'd heard her, as he continued to wrestle with unpacking the lights, before he cleared his throat. "No, uhm. My, uh. My father didn't, uhm."
She hesitated, floating above Oscar. He'd said very little of his life before Octagon — of his life before they'd (re)met, really. "My father" had occasionally been mentioned. "My mother" ... almost never.
"He said it was fake. Commercial," Oscar nodded. "Another holiday for the suckers. Overpriced bullshit. I mean. He ... wasn't wrong," Oscar gave a spiteful laugh, gesturing to the several thousand silver and gold bulbs waiting to be unpacked, still sealed in plastic wrap.
As he'd spoke, Zoey had descended, and gently took his hand, interlacing their fingers. "Just because there's bullshit around it, doesn't mean it's not a thing. There's room for both."
Oscar paused in his uncoiling, and Zoey could hear him breathe. "Sorry. It's not ... bullshit. Like. The ... idea. A winter holiday, a day for, uh, celebrating. For ... people." He paused. "Sometimes, I just hear myself talk, and ..."
She let it hang in the air a moment, as Oscar intently studied a string of lights that did nothing to deserve it, before she bumped him with her hip. He met her gaze, and she smiled, and so did he. "Parents," she lamented, with a smirk. He smirked back, and chuckled, shaking his head.
"You've never had a Christmas tree?", Oscar asked, after a moment.
"Oh, we've had trees. I've never decorated a tree. Mother always hired designers to do it. There were four trees in the main house most years. Artificial, obviously. Real were too messy." As she paused, Oscar glanced under the tree, where a healthy bed of pine needles was accumulating. "Trees with precision beauty. Engineered Christmas trees." Zoey crinkled her nose, extending her tongue. She gestured, so the next roll of lights floated effortlessly over to Oscar. "I made trees for my dolls!", she added. "But like. They were, like, three feet tall. The trees, I mean."
Oscar paused, and looked at her. "So, we have ... a third of a mile in lights, and neither of us has ever hung them before?" Their hands still clasped, he turned his head, to look at the tree, slightly humbled.
"Pfft," answered Zoey. "Children do this. How hard can it be? I'm going to grab a drink. Juice?", she asked, starting across the room.
Oscar slowly exhaled, staring at the tree, processing the work involved. "... sure, yeah. Pineapple, please."
Zoey smirked lightly to herself as she poured. Oscar peered at the tree, his mouth silently moving, counting ... something. "Alright," he finally said. "If you can take this to the top, and come down, I'll be able to meet you, about half-way up, if I start at the bottom."
Zoey nodded, but said, "Oooor, I'll start the strand at the top," and paused, to sip her scotch. She made a that's pleasing, noise, then continued. "...aaaaand, when I get low enough, you connect another strand, and take over, and I start polishing these balls."
Oscar snorted, but nodded. "So for the first bit I just watch?"
"No, you've got to feed me lights! Make sure the strands stay straight. And pass me my drink sometimes," Zoey said, handing him both the whisky and pineapple juice, then ascending into the air as if climbing an unseen set of stairs — though she kicked her heels halfway across the room, onto the couch. She reached a hand out behind herself. "Here, pass me the strand. And no looking up my skirt!", she smirked.
"I mean. I'm gonna look," Oscar answered, with a smile of his own, as he deliberately flopped the end of the strand of lights suggestively in the air.
"Don't you find it terribly cold in here?", asked Evangeline, into the darkened room. A Christmas tree, professionally designed and purchased whole, stood in the corner of the room, unlit. The dhampir sat in the dark. Brooding on Christmas Eve.
"Hm? Oh," Svetlana responded, taking a moment to think. "Cold. Yeah. Probably." She looked for a moment at the empty fireplace. Evangeline tilted her head, in slight disappointment.
"Enough brooding. Your mother will be here in just over an hour, and I need help with dinner," Evangeline pronounced, before turning on her heel, heading back to the kitchen.
She heard Svetlana pull herself to standing, and follow. "We could have just gotten it catered," she grumbled. "Mother is going to say something cruel about it, either way."
"Well, let her," Evangeline sighed. "But you should stop huffing about it. You're ruining your own Christmas."
Svetlana leaned over the island in the kitchen. She didn't have the heart to tell Evangeline that it was the delicious smells of the ovens baking and roasting that had driven her from east wing of the manor originally; her keen senses, as a dhampir, actually led to her preferring mild fare; Evangeline had accused her of having an "immature" palette more than once. To Bloodborn, any food was a rush of sensations, her senses acute, her psychometry telling her secrets about the meal's cook, in detail.
Evangeline was one of about three people who's food Svetlana was willing to tolerate.
"How can I help?", Svetlana sighed.
"All those yams need slicing," Evangeline gestured. Her dress — purple, Victorian, proper, and beautiful, swirled, as she indicated with her knife. "Peeled first, of course, please. The next batch of sugar cookies come out in … oo, four minutes; they'll need to cool, in the chiller. I'd be delighted if to help decorate them."
"Are you feeding an army?", Svetlana grumbled, as she proceeded over to the yams.
"Well, tomorrow is my friends-mas, with all of Nexxtgen. Warlock, Gaian, Electrokitty, Puck, Hem - Bloom, rather. Celestian is coming, even! Most of this is heading over there."
"You're reheating?", Svetlana asked, including mocking surprise in her tone.
"... you don't think they'll mind?", Evangeline asked, her concern genuine. "I did consider, but it just seemed more practical to do the two turkeys at the same time. Plus, for Gaian, I had to look at vegan options, and that already adds some prep time tomorrow."
Svetlana deliberately paced herself as she began to peel. She could use her vampiric speed, and be done already — but her purpose here was not to peel yams; it was to participate, with Evangeline. "That's very kind," Svetlana said.
"Well, it is Christmas. It certainly wouldn't suit to have him go hungry. Plus, he's not one of those pushy vegans. It's a very reasonable accommodation."
"Except how he continually mentions that he can hear animals talk and he's connected to their life-force," Svetlana mentioned.
"Well. Yes," Evangeline conceded, with a slight snort, and a smirk. "But, I mean. They do, to -"
There came a distant pounding, at the front door of the manor; someone with significant strength, wishing themselves to be heard clearly. Evangeline glanced to Svetlana, whose brow furrowed. The dhampir, obviously, could likely discern by hearing and scent who was at the door, but as Evangeline went to ask, Svetlana's nose twitched, and she chose silence, instead.
"Stay here," Svetlana said, wiping her hands and heading for the door. "Don't forget the cookies."
The knocking — banging — resumed as Svetlana approached the door. She reached out her hand, and her psychically bound silver sword flowed cleanly, handle up, point down, in one full turn around her, before settling into floating a few feet away, out of immediate line of sight.
She paused at the door, and inhaled, then exhaled. The smell of alcohol, and marijuana, and tobacco, and wolfsbane.
As she opened the door, she said, "Hello, Logan."
Logan leaned on the doorframe, and she'd been ready to catch Bloodborn's eyes as the door was pulled ajar. Her red hair fell straight; she wore her leather jacket closed, atop black, ripped blue jeans, and heavy-looking boots. To Bloodborn's surprise, her eyes looked clear.
"Hey, dead girl," Logan answered, trying a faint smile, as she glanced around Bloodborn at the door. "Is, uh ..."
"Cooking," Svetlana answered. "What can I help you with?"
"I mean ... it's Christmas, right, so -- I figured, the kid, always liked to do the Holiday thing. Thought maybe you'd have some guests, but, place seems pretty quiet."
"The guests aren't here yet," Svetlana intoned, evenly, keeping her body in the door.
"Who's coming?", Logan asked, craning her neck to see into the manor's foyer.
"Not you."
The two froze for a moment. Logan's brilliant green eyes looked directly into Bloodborn's cold steel.
"I'm getting better," Logan said. Her voice was clear, and had a ... warble, that Bloodborn was unfamiliar with. "I've been ... I've been working. There's an — an app, on your phone, for, uhm. Anger ... management. And I, I take runs, at night, to burn off some steam. I — look, it's ...", her voice cracked, and she dropped her eyes from Svetlana's; something she'd never done before. "... it's Christmas? She's, my ... she's all I got left for ... for family," Logan croaked.
Svetlana hesitated.
"Logan!", she heard behind her. Svetlana tried not to grind her teeth. "Oh, it's so delightful to see you!" She took the door from Svetlana's hand, and swung it wide, practically jumping into her adopted mother's embrace. Logan casually held the young woman aloft, in a giant bear-hug. Svetlana noticed that Logan held her.
She didn't grasp at her, like she used to. Like Evangeline was a rope, and Logan was drowning.
Logan carefully set Evangeline down inside the doorway — and was equally careful not to step inside herself. "I can't stay," she said. "I was just dropping by, just, just to say hey, and, uh, merry -"
"Nonsense," Evangeline interrupted. "You will do no such thing. We've plenty of food, and it's frightfully cold. If you tried to make it all the way back to King's Row, you'd catch your death."
Logan hesitated, glancing at Svetlana, then shaking her head. "Naw, you guys probably have -"
Evangeline held a finger aloft. "I am not saying all is forgiven. And I cannot speak for Svetlana; you and she will need to make your own peace. I am saying that, on Christmas Eve, with the snow so lovely and fresh cookies from the oven ... it would feel more complete to have you with me." She dropped her hand. "I have missed you, Logan." She pressed Svetlana's shoulder; not enough to move the dhampir, but enough to communicate that the dhampir was going to move. As Svetlana complied, Evangeline gave a light, squeeing giggle, and two claps of her hands, as Logan stepped over the threshold. "Absolutely delightful. Family for Christmas, how wonderful! Get your shoes off, and consider a shower; you've a change of clothes in the spare bedroom closet. I'll be in the kitchen, when you're ready!"
"It's a bit weird," Scarlet said, again. "I'm sorry. I never should have — this is a terrible mistake in the making." She shook her head. "We should -"
"Sierra," Tish said, firmly. "He is your partner."
"Former partner. Now, we're just team-mates," Sierra stressed.
"Team-mates, in a team of two," Tish countered. "You and he … fight … crime," she motioned vaguely, "together, every day. It's Christmas. This isn't weird unless you make it weird. And right now? You're making it weird." She leaned forward to the TaxiBot driver. "Thanks so much, I appreciate it," she said, as the TaxiBot nodded, it's face blinking to a Christmas display, and playing a deliberately retro-sounding Christmas tune. "You carry that turkey. Do not drop it."
"I can carry, like — this whole car," Sierra countered, nodding back to the TaxiBot. The suspension on the van relaxed as Sierra stepped out, and stretched, trying to relieve the kink from bending her neck for the drive, and perhaps showing off her muscles a bit for Tish, who tended to appreciate such displays. "I think can carry this turkey."
"I didn't spend all day — thank you so much! — making the taxi," Tish retorted, but was smiling. She reached up considerably, to set her hand on Sierra's shoulder, about six feet from the ground, and patted. "Come on."
Moments later, with Sierra's hands full, it was Tish who knocked on the apartment door. She looked back to Sierra. "Nice enough place," she said, with a shrug, and a smile.
"Top floor is important, when you're a flyer," Sierra answered, rocking lightly on her heels. She felt lightly flush, and was trying not to chew her cheek. Even though they were expected, even though they'd knocked, the door opening was a surprise.
Excelsior — Eric, actually, as he was out of costume — opened the door. He was still one of very few people to make Sierra feel less than huge. He was a half-foot over her, and probably nearly half again her weight, all of it muscle.
He was smiling brightly. "Sierra! Glad you made it. And Tish! Long time no see!", he said, beaming, before stepping out of the door. "Come in, come in," he said, gesturing. Sierra allowed Tish to go first, and then followed.
Eric had obviously dedicated considerable time to cleaning his apartment from the usual. His large semi-circle couch was still in front of his excessively large television screen, and the foosball table still dominated the back half of the living room, but the kitchen, and it's spacious countertops, had been cleared of it's usual general buildup of questionable kitchen gadgets, takeout containers, and unwashed cookware, and instead were covered in the triage of a Christmas dinner — minus the turkey itself, which Sierra carried. The whole place smelled of a day spent baking, and indeed, several trays of artfully decorated cookies waited to be plucked from the kitchen island.
And standing beside them, Sierra saw a young brunette woman, her hair in braids, with dark hazel eyes, and a nervous smile. She wore snug jeans, and a blue t-shirt, both of which showed the results of months, if not years, of hard work at the gym; with a thin layer of softness over her build, she was nonetheless obviously rippling with muscles beneath.
"Hi, Sierra," said Juliette, nervously, giving a small wave.
Sierra stood, stupefied. If she'd made a list of people she's expected to see here ten times, Juliette wouldn't have been on any of them.
Sierra's silence went on several beats too long. "Hi, sorry, I'm Tish," Tish interjected, into the awkward silence.
Tish, of course, wouldn't realize; wouldn't know that the death of Juliette — Glitter — at the hands of an evil version of Doctor Singh had caused The Dazzlers, Sierra's first superhero team, to crash and burn. She'd have no context for the fact that, the day Juliette died, Sierra — Scarlet — had saved the Freedom Phalanx and Halcyon City from The Reichman, by exploding the extra dimensional tyrant's head in a single punch. Tish had no way to know that, despite being the first time Scarlet used her powers to kill, it wasn't enough, and when The Reichman's home universe collapsed, Juliette disappeared with it; dead and gone forever.
Until Baxter had brought her back.
There was some complicated science behind it; Sierra didn't claim to understand. But months later, her dead friend was back, but the Dazzlers were long gone.
And they were still gone, years later.
Excelsior — Blue — Eric — leaned in. "I'm sorry, I know, I — she wasn't supposed to be here, and I was going to tell you, but, the opportunity came up, she got off early, and …"
Sierra stared at him blankly for a moment. His eyes were wide, sheepish; he was smiling his, I fucked up by being a good guy grin, that used to get him out of everything. She stared at him. She could hear herself breathing. Was that normal?
She considered running to the balcony, jumping off, and flying home, and just forgetting this day had ever happened. Flying straight home. Though buildings if necessary. No. She was more manoeuvrable than Blue — Excelsior — Eric. Dive first. Dodge through traffic. Not that there'd be much on Christmas Eve. She could still hear herself breathing. That didn't seem normal.
Then she heard Tish laugh.
"Oh, that's definitely Sierra," Tish said, looking back, meeting Sierra's gaze. She nodded, reassuringly, and offered Sierra her extended hand. "Honestly, it's lovely to meet more of her coworkers!"
"Well," Juliette rolled her eyes, sheepishly. "Not so much coworkers, anymore. More like … we work in the same field." Tish laughed at that, too.
Not so much coworkers. No, not so much; not since Belligerent used her powered armor to beat Doctor Malady into unconsciousness in Perez Park. Not since Belligerent started breaking Hellion's arms and Skull's legs. Not since …
"Hey," Sierra heard, in her own voice. She was addressing Belligerent. No, Juliette. This was all fucked up. This was supposed to be Christmas.
Juliette met her gaze. She wasn't proud, or defiant, or angry — which she usually was, since coming back. Normally she glared, or looked menacing, or was sneering.
"Sierra, I -", she started.
"Uh, Merry Christmas," Sierra offered. She spread her arms, and Juliette practically leapt into her arms, and disappeared into Sierra's hug. Juliette squeezed, as if she was trying to burst the larger woman; Sierra squeezed back, albeit slightly less fiercely.
"I am so glad to see you," Juliette murmured into Sierra. "I -"
"I'm glad you're here," Sierra said, interrupting her. "I'm glad you're here."
When the hug released and Sierra and Juliette parted, Sierra moved her hand to Tish's back; Tish's eyes were lit, and strangely a little wet. Juliette moved back to the cookies, and to the waiting Eric, who set his broad hand at the small of her back. Sierra tried hard not to stare. Or glare. Or … something.
To break the awkward moment, Eric turned to Tish, and said, "Well, that turkey smells great."
With his restored dogboy companion Shep working at the station beside him, Baxter worked at reconfiguring his computer's system architecture; the fact that he'd be spending several hours away from his computer tomorrow gave him an excellent opportunity for the update to run in the background. December 25th was not a particularly special day for him — though obviously, he'd lived his whole life with the month of December consumed by the holiday. Indeed, his even parents — considerably more religiously adherent than he — had celebrated Christmas as a secular holiday since his childhood.
Now, while he had joined his parents at the start of the month for Gita Mahotsav, he had politely declined their invitation for December 24th— though he did not have the willpower, social grace, or physical stamina to resist his mother's invitation for December 25th. Not that he would, either; his mother's "flavoured turkey" was a delight, combining the north American delicacy with his mother's skill with her homeland's spices.
He was working on the final touches of his new setup, when a green Incoming Call notice popped up, displaying his mother's smiling face looking up at nearly a seventy degree angle to her camera, with his father's bemused expression in the background.
He shot a look at Shep, whose tail slipped back and forth, even as he gave only a sidelong look at the notification.
Baxter gestured for the computer to answer the call.
"Betu!", sounded his mother's voice. Shep's tail immediately responded. "I am wishing you a happy Christmas Eve!"
"Yes, Amma," Baxter responded; although he knew exactly where this joke would go, he had a responsibility to play along. His mother laughed. He heard his father chuckle, in the background.
"Oh, not you, my beta. My most loving grandson, my betu Shep! Can he hear me?', she asked, as she asked every time.
"I'm here, Mataji!", Shep answered. Despite his intelligent eyes, full hands, and bipedal stance, Shep's tail often, as now, betrayed his dignity. "I am very much looking forward to your flavoured turkey tomorrow!"
"Ooooh, delightful, Betu, I am looking forward to seeing you, too," Amma said; the smile was obvious in her voice. Baxter felt his own smile tease at the corner of his mouth. Despite Shep's intelligence, his mother insisted on speaking to him as though … well, as though he was a talking dog; in fairness, though, Shep seemed to very much appreciate it from her. "Is there anything else you would like?"
"No no, Mataji — whatever else you would like," Shep insisted, his tail continuing to wag.
"Well. Perhaps I will prepare some pumpkin laddoos, for a treat for my boys, yes?", Amma added, and Baxter rolled his eyes, as Shep rapidly stepped from foot to foot, with excitement.
"If it is not too much trouble, Amma," Baxter interjected. "I was wondering if you had any words for your human son?", he chuckled.
"Oh, Beta, don't be jealous," Amma giggled. "Oh, I got those photos you sent! Ooooh, Shep looks so handsome in his little jacket! I had them printed."
"Amma, I -", Baxter sighed. "You have those photo frames I got you. You can just display them on there; you don't need to print them."
"She prints them all!", he heard his papa call, his town exasperated. "Every one! We have all these screens, and more photo albums now than when you were a baby!"
Baxter had seen the photo albums from his childhood. He doubted his papa's statement was even physically possible. There was a moment of quiet; Baxter could tell the phone was covered, and see Amma's firmly corrective stare perfectly, in his mind's eye. "I still have all your baby photos, you know," she said, when conversation resumed. "Oh, you were precious, my -"
"Amma," Baxter interrupted. "Surely you did not call just to see if Shep was excited for your turkey tomorrow? Shep is excited for your turkey every day of his life."
Unseen by Amma, Shep nodded in agreement.
"Oh! No. Sorry, yes, Beta. I was calling to see if I should prepare an extra space this year. It would be no trouble at all."
The statement hung in the air, as it did every year. Baxter had tried a frank conversation with his mother about the fact he was asexual and aromantic, and she'd been surprisingly receptive; though she did ask if this was anything like being 'gaysexual', which was a surprisingly difficult question for him to parse.
And, thereafter, had continued to ask if he'd met anyone, was seeing anyone, or if she could offer an extra seat at the monthly holiday.
"No no, Amma. Thank you. That's very kind," Baxter said, suppressing a sigh.
"Well, it doesn't have to be a date, Beta. Maybe a friend! Maybe one of your, uhm," she hesitated.
"They're superheroes, Amma!", Papa called.
"Yes. You know, your friends," Amma said.
Baxter rubbed his forehead. To his credit, Shep looked on sympathetically. "Amma, I — yes. I appreciate it. Thank you. That is … very kind."
"It's just that I worry, Beta," Amma said. "You and Shep, in the basement, nobody to check on you! And on Christmas Eve!"
Baxter inhaled, and held the breath for a moment. "Amma, you are Hindu," he tried to say calmly.
"Well. You aren't. So it's Christmas for you," Amma countered. Baxter had to admit, he did not have a readily available counter for that.
With a sigh, he answered, "I must go, Amma. Love for you and Papa; I am excited for turkey tomorrow."
After hanging up, a moment of silence hung between Baxter and Shep, with Shep watching his partner's face as Baxter typed, eyes wide and expressive, tail curled and drifting back and forth.
Shep broke the silence by saying, "She loves you."
Baxter deliberately relaxed his shoulders. "Yes. I … You are correct. I know it's … coming from love. … I know."
A silence hung briefly between them, before Baxter added, "And … there will be turkey," which caused Shep's tail to begin to wag again. Baxter smiled to himself, and quietly hummed a wordless Christmas melody as the two resumed work.
Silent and invisible, Shadow descended the metal cable, moving into place behind the rogue, as he awkwardly worked the jimmy in the snow-covered car window. Visage, Shadow's partner, was already in position, in the unlikely event both were needed.
The Vindicators — Shadow, Visage, Belligerent, and Barrage — were vigilantes that focused on King's Row and the nearby Perez Park. Between the Hellions, the Skulls, the Circle of Thorns, the Trolls, and the Outsiders, and some independent operators, the tensions in the two neighbourhoods were always on edge, at risk of boiling over. The working poor of Halcyon City, away from the high-rises of Steel Canyon or luxury of Founder's Fall or Astoria, struggled to make these neighbourhoods a home, and The Vindicators did their best to help. Having your car stolen on Christmas Eve would wreak a family down here. Belligerent had taken the night off, and Barrage was patrolling Hellion territory out by the old King Garment Works, so it was just Shadow and Visage down by the Gish tonight — like the old days.
"That's enough," Shadow spoke, through the modulator, setting the end of his stun baton between the Skull's shoulder blades, an obvious threat. The attempted thief didn't respond with surprise, or anger, or fear. All of these were normal reactions to Shadow's unexpected presence. The Vindicators had taught the criminals that dared to hunt in King's Row to fear them.
But this one responded by slumping his shoulders, and sighing, and saying out loud - to nobody in particular — "Figures."
Visage silently dropped herself onto the far side of the Skull, a three point landing. Her white costume made an unintentional but entertaining contrast to Shadow's vantablack light-absorbent suit, but a match for the rapidly escalating storm. She rose, her head tilted.
"Yeah, yeah," the man sighed. "Look, don't — my left knee is already bum, could you ...", he said, holding his hands up, and slowly half-crouching.
Shadow looked past the man, to Visage's featureless mask. She shrugged, hands up and wide, her miming skills openly expressing her own surprise.
"... I hope you don't mind me saying, it doesn't normally go down this way," Shadow said, his voice rumbling, echoing from the modulator in his helmet. He flipped the baton in his hand, as he let his arm fall by his side.
"Yeah, well, happens this way to me. I just got — ah, fuck it, what do you care, I guess," he sighed. It was Visage's turn to look to Shadow for an explanation; he shrugged in response; less expressive than her early gesture, but just as communicative. "I just — it's my cousin's car, not that it matters. I was — ah, fuck it."
Shadow disengaged the voice modulator. "What's your name? And why are you stealing your cousin's car?"
The man — a dark beanie under his hoodie, thinning hair, a jacket too light for the weather; older than Shadow had expected — sighed. "Name's Andy. I'm not stealing it. I'm borrowing it. He's outta town, for Christmas. I just got — my old lady, things didn't end so good, she's got the kid, but — ah, it's a whole thing," he said, making a dismissive motion. "You don't wanna hear my troubles."
Shadow stared down at him. "My partner can't talk. I'm running around in black armor in a snowstorm on Christmas Eve. I ain't got time to hear you out?" For her part, Visage mimed leaning on a non-existent lamp-post, and nodded.
Andy sighed. "Alright. My old lady, she lives with my kid and her Mom, out Croatoa. She got out, and the kid's got a chance, so, I've left them alone. I send support when I can, but — it's hard, with a, you know, background. But she reached out to me, said I was - like, it's Christmas, and — my car's busted, some Hellion brawl last week, one of the tires burst. So I was taking my cousin's car, to — to get there." He sighed.
"What about the monorail?", Shadow asked, crossing his arms.
Andy answered by gesturing to the snowstorm, guffawing, and shoving his red hands in his pockets. "Monorail shut down about forty minutes ago. Listen, if — if you guys aren't going to make, like, a thing out of this, could ... can I just go home?"
Shadow glanced to Visage. She shrugged her shoulders, and then held her hand towards Shadow, her fingers toward him, palm up. Give.
Shadow re-engaged the voice modulator. "Come on," he said, brusquely, turning to go, as he operated the controls inside his suit. The man looked confused, as Visage stepped forward to stand beside him.
"Wh ... where we ...", he stammered, stumbling forward, Visage walking beside him.
"Well ... monorail's shut down. Your car's busted, and even if you got it open, your cousin's car is snowed in. There's only two ways I know to get from King's Row to Croatoa tonight; Santa's sleigh, and …" Shadow said, as the cloak dropped on black, flying craft, silent and motionless, about thirty feet in the air. Andy stared up, his jaw hanging open. Inside the mask, Shadow permitted himself a grin, and switched his voice controls to his radio. "Barrage — with the snowstorm, it's dead out here. We're packing it in."
Barrage's answer crackled back in his helmet, as Shadow secured Andy to a cable, to be pulled up to the Night-Wing. "About time. I'm already on my way home. I just picked up a King-sized from Super Gyros as they were closing, and I have Die Hard waiting for me. Have a great night; see you in a couple days."
Bartholomew watched Steel Canyon through the front window of Leede's Fine Books, as the gentle December 24th snow fell, making it's best efforts to blanket the world in a white carpet, just in time for Christmas.
Christmas. There might be very little that Bartholomew hated about the modern world of mortals quite so much as Christmas.
It wasn't December 25th's fault, exactly, though if consideration had been given for which particular festival day would upset him the most, this would have been one of his choices. Christmas had utterly supplanted Yule; it had turned an ancient celebration, the turning of the calendar, the darkest, coldest night, into a commercial celebration. Christmas was now "peak retail season". Coca-Cola ran Christmas ads, generated with Artificial Intelligence.
A poor excuse to pick a man's pocket, Bartholomew thought to himself, as he sneered.
On the small table set beside the window for this very purpose, his homunculus set down a sturdy mug, on a saucer. The smell was not tea; it was deep and rich, heady and spiced; chocolate.
He glared down at the toad-like creature, as it looked out the window beside him, staring with little more than base comprehension. Probably dreading the assignment of shovelling the walk.
"No work tomorrow," it croaked, to Bartholomew's surprise. Firstly, because the creature was thinking towards the future, and second, the meaning of its statement.
"Why should there not be?", Bartholomew retorted. The homunculus deserved no answer; it was more a thing than a person, a soulless construct; a physical manifestation of Bartholomew's will. Yet, they had been companions for decades, now; just as a human might gain a fondness for a desk lamp, or an eager if poorly behaved canine, Bartholomew found the homunculus had, through perseverance rather than character, wormed it's way into his thoughts.
"Why, it's Christmas Day," the homunculus burped. It cast its gaze, through eyes both bulbous and wet, up at its master, then back at the steadily worsening storm, outside the window.
"And that should matter to you? A carved ham, roasted potatoes? Gifts around the tree? Your stocking hung by the chimney?", Bartholomew said, without redirecting his gaze. "You're made of clay, ash, water and blood. You don't eat, and know no-one. You've no one to get presents for, and no money to buy them with. You've certainly no Christian fellowship. What use is Christmas to you?"
The homunculus pondered this question, silently, for a good long moment. Long enough that Bartholomew considered the matter closed, and moved back to glaring resentfully at the storm, in the hopes it could speed the arrival of the far preferable December 26th — even though it usually brought one misguided soul or another to his doorstep, looking for Boxing Day deals. Bartholomew's lip curled.
"Love for one's fellow man, then," the homunculus said, at length; time enough had passed that it took Bartholomew a moment to recall the nature of their conversation.
"You have no fellow man, for you are not, in point of fact, a man at all," Bartholomew countered. The homunculus remained silent. Needing to spare no glance to the table, Bartholomew picked up the now warm mug of chocolate; it was thick, and rich, and lightly spiced, and warmed him, a feast for the senses specifically crafted for a stormy day. The snow would be past most men's knees, now; halfway up the homunculus' thighs, and near the top of Bartholomew's calves. When the homunculus had no retort within what Bartholomew considered a reasonable window, he tutted, congratulating himself, perhaps too richly, for out-thinking his own magical construct, and sipped again from the hot chocolate. Victory in a debate; a raging storm slowly making his city inhospitable; and a fine cup of hot chocolate. As his December 24ths had gone — some well, most poorly — this was among the better.
Abruptly, Bartholomew paused, and licked his lips.
He'd neither asked his homunculus for hot chocolate, nor taught the thing this recipe. Indeed, between the spices, the depth of flavour, and the smooth thickness of the chocolate, Bartholomew was quite uncertain he could have made it himself, with a full day to practice. Unlike most of his creation's creations, it was not merely adequate. It was delicious.
A glance down at the small table revealed the saucer for the mug, yes, but beside it, three simple stones; of no monetary value, but semi polished, and glittering; bewitching to the eye, in their own way. Stones of the type that would be prized possessions, in the collection of a small child. Valueless. Yet irreplaceable.
Bartholomew glanced at the top of his servant's head, but the creature simply watched the storm, in silence. Bartholomew turned his gaze to do the same.
"Yes. Well. ... Back to work on the 26th," Bartholomew murmured, quietly.