GraceFall [ONC 2024]

3

Saturday night ...

The Oakmont Hotel, not quite the most prestigious venue in Faraday City, stood at a confluence of several streets, close to the city centre. A place frequented by the not-quite-so-high-and-mighty, but with a certain cachet that lent itself to such things as conferences and conventions. It had a sizeable ballroom, perfect for Zjahn's purposes.

As well-dressed folks filed into the room, he looked up to the intricate, domed skylight above and tried to hide his satisfaction. He could not have asked for a better venue for the debut of his nemesis. Of course, it was a risk. The dome sat above the tables of the participants of these pointless 'awards', but he had power enough to keep them safe from the inevitable debris.

The only problem lay with the woman on his arm. Betty Burns clung to him like a limpet, eyes wide as she gazed around the assembled members of the press and other, minor celebrities and dignitaries. Zjahn knew none of them, of course, and their insipid smiles and fake laughs did nothing to make him wish to change that. Betty returned the greetings, shared the laughter, kissed cheeks and engaged in banal platitudes, all the while wishing that she could gaze down upon them from the stage with an award in her hand while they left with nothing.

He couldn't read her thoughts, though, he simply assumed her as shallow as every other human, revelling in the transient nature of fame and fortune. That bothered him. He disliked not reading the thoughts of others, but at least she could not see through the illusion of his human form to see the alien beneath. That, at least, she had no power against.

"It's lovely, isn't it? The chandeliers! The tables! The people! The flowers!" She linked their fingers, not knowing how different their hands truly looked from each other, then touched the corsage Zjahn had bought, upon her chest. "This is lovely, too. Big, but lovely."

"It is expected, is it not?" He had searched for the necessary rituals for such an occasion before choosing the arrangement. "Should I have chosen a different affectation?"

"No. No! It's fine. Big. Lovely and big." She lifted it and allowed it drop. The arrangement covered most of the left side if her expansive chest. "So very, very, big. Oh! Look! That's Mark Lee! He wrote the most wonderful piece on the decline of Hatchet Row in Bohemia City. Please excuse me, I simply must speak to him."

Zjahn inclined his head and extricated his arm from hers as she almost ran the entire width of the room to the man in question. The dress, far too long, required her to gather it up several inches to allow her to run. Impractical, but, from the looks of several other guests, attractive to humans. Zjahn made several calculations and came to the conclusion that the woman had a pleasing figure, according to human metrics. Particularly the buttocks, it seemed.

With little else to do, he wandered to the edge of the room where he continued to plan for his 'attack'. Or, rather, Phaross' attack. He could telekinetically break the stained glass of the dome and, at the same time, crush the shards into harmless dust as the illusion of Phaross descended to bring the news of his 'evil manifesto' to the ones that could spread the message better than anyone.

He could do little else but smile, the human features upon his illusion mirroring his true face beneath. Yes. Soon, his campaign to become the world's greatest hero would begin. A waiter passed by, tray laden with tall-stemmed glasses filled with the alcoholic beverage humans enjoyed at such events. A raised eyebrow asked whether Zjahn required one and, to fit in, he took one of the offered glasses. He wouldn't drink it, of course. Most of the things humans consumed was little more than vile muck.

"So, you're Betty's date, huh?" A man appeared before Zjahn, the black-tie suit almost bursting at the seams. "She's a firecracker, that one. Careful she doesn't eat you alive. Wade, by the way. Wade Tompkins. Me and Betty go way back. Way back, if you know what I mean?"