Chapter 33: Curtain Calls and Crosshairs
The limousine door opened to a wall of light.
Flashbulbs burst like artillery. Cameras clicked in rapid-fire bursts. Someone shouted my name. Someone else shouted it louder.
Red carpet stretched toward the theater entrance like a ceremonial runway for human vanity.
I stepped out into it anyway.
A battlefield where the weapons were smiles, microphones, and carefully worded lies.
Tonight’s event had three purposes, all equally exhausting.
First: the premiere of my newest film.
Second: a fundraiser for MetaWorks’ Hero Outreach programs—disaster response training, civilian evacuation planning, emergency shelters, that sort of thing. The unglamorous side of hero work. The side that actually saved lives. All subtly endorsed by yours truly.
Third: public relations theater.
Hollywood understood spectacle. MetaWorks needed it.
Unfortunately, that meant I had to attend personally.
Jason stepped out of the limo behind me.
He wore a tuxedo that cost more than the car he’d tried to steal when I first met him, and he looked like he’d rather fight Bane in an alley than stand on a red carpet.
His shoulders were tight. Eyes scanning everything. Cameras. Security. Escape routes.
Good instincts.
He leaned a little closer as the flashes intensified.
“Why are there so many cameras?”
“Because fame is the only predator that hunts in packs.” I waved politely toward a group of photographers before they started yelling louder.
Jason grimaced. “Do they ever stop?”
“No.”
Another burst of flashes exploded in our direction.
Jason visibly flinched.
I suppressed a smile.
I told him this was part of his field training.
The real reason was that Constantine had reached the end of his patience.
Apparently supervising both Jason and Ace at the same time had resulted in what he described as “a supernatural incident involving three haunted mirrors, a confiscated cigarette lighter, and a psychic sing-along.”
Which meant one of them had been a bad influence on the other.
I honestly had no idea which one.
Still, just because my reasons weren’t entirely selfless, that didn’t mean there were no lessons to be learned here.
We began walking down the carpet.
Reporters shouted questions.
Microphones appeared from every direction.
I answered just enough to keep the machine moving.
“Yes, the film was incredible to work on.”
“Yes, the stunt team was phenomenal.”
“Yes, proceeds from tonight’s event are going toward civilian disaster preparedness.”
Meanwhile Jason hovered half a step behind my right shoulder like a very tense bodyguard.
“Lesson one,” I murmured under my breath while smiling for the cameras. “Hero work isn’t just punching villains.”
Jason kept scanning the crowd. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“It’s optics. Crowd management. Narrative control.” I shook a producer’s hand while continuing the conversation out of the corner of my mouth. “You’re learning how to operate in public.”
Jason eyed the crowd of celebrities like they were a hostile alien species. Which, speaking as an alien species and a celebrity, I found very offensive.
“I hate this.”
“Of course you do.”
Which meant he needed the lesson even more.
A soft tone sounded in my earpiece.
Kara had joined the call.
I’d given her access to the broadcast feed before leaving MetaWorks. She’d insisted on watching.
Partly curiosity.
Partly because she thought human celebrity culture was deeply weird.
The comm crackled faintly.
“These humans appear to be performing a courtship ritual with cameras.”
I smiled at a photographer and angled slightly toward better lighting. “That’s… not entirely wrong.”
Jason blinked. “…who are you talking to?”
“Kara.”
He nodded slowly, like that explained everything.
Which, to be fair, it mostly did.
The cameras intensified as we reached the center of the carpet.
A host stepped forward with a microphone.
“Luke! Over here!”
I turned smoothly, posture relaxed, expression warm. Years of acting had trained my face to cooperate even when the rest of me would rather be anywhere else.
Behind the host, the crowd shimmered with wealth and influence. Actors. Directors. Investors. Politicians. Philanthropists.
All gathered under glittering lights for a cause they’d applaud for exactly one evening before returning to their regularly scheduled indifference.
Kara’s voice returned over the comm, quieter this time. “There are many of them.”
“That’s generally how galas work.”
“I meant the cameras.”
I followed her line of sight mentally and spotted the broadcast rigs, drones, elevated platforms, handheld units moving through the crowd.
A lot of eyes tonight.
Which was exactly why Kara wasn’t here.
Personally, I would have loved to show my girlfriend off.
Kara was easily hotter, funnier, and more terrifyingly competent than half the people currently on this carpet combined. Watching Hollywood try to process a Kryptonian bombshell with zero patience for social etiquette would have been spectacular.
But for tonight, espionage rules applied.
And it’s pretty hard to blend in when your companion looked like a blonde supernova. Especially when said supernova occasionally solved problems with orbital velocity.
So Kara watched remotely.
Safer that way.
Jason leaned slightly closer as we resumed walking toward the theater entrance. “You do this a lot?”
“More than I’d like.”
He eyed a passing celebrity with open suspicion. “They all look fake.”
“That’s because they’re acting.”
“Oh.” Jason frowned. “Is it because they’re actors.”
“Partially.”
“Ugh.” He rolled his eyes. “I hate actors.”
“Jason.” I sighed. “I’m an actor.”
“Yeah, but at least you just act like a superhero. Which you are anyways.”
Fair point.
We reached the top of the carpet where the press crowd thinned and security thickened.
Jason relaxed about three percent.
Progress.
Inside the lobby, the noise softened into a controlled murmur of wealth and conversation. Crystal lights glowed overhead. Servers drifted through the crowd carrying trays of champagne.
Jason took it all in like he’d accidentally stepped into another dimension. “This place is ridiculous.”
“Welcome to philanthropy.”
He eyed a passing billionaire like he expected the man to transform into a villain at any second.
“Lesson two,” I continued quietly. “Situational awareness.”
Jason snorted. “I’m aware of the situation.”
“Are you?” I nodded subtly toward the room. “Count the exits.”
He blinked.
Then his eyes started moving.
Doors.
Hallways.
Service corridors.
Windows.
The way security stood near structural choke points.
Good.
Very good.
Jason’s brain was wired for this kind of thinking.
“You’re not just here for a movie,” he realized.
“No one’s ever just here for a movie.”
The crowd shifted slightly as another wave of guests arrived.
Jason leaned closer again. “So what are we actually looking for?”
“Trouble.”
“And if there isn’t any?”
“Then we enjoy the evening.”
He stared at me like I’d just suggested we adopt a tiger.
Kara’s voice returned over the comm. “This environment appears inefficient for combat.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Jason exhaled slowly as a waiter passed with a tray. “You really think something’s going to happen?”
I accepted a champagne glass without looking and handed it to him. “Probably not.”
He stared at the glass. “…why do I have this?”
“Tactical hydration.”
“I’m underage.”
“So?” I shrugged. “Don’t they give wine to kids at Church?”
“I… don’t know?” He looked back at the glass, unsure. “I don’t go to Church.”
“Oh. Well, maybe you should. Free booze.”
Jason looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him here.
Across the lobby, a stage technician adjusted something near the event’s presentation platform. A man in an oversized hat stepped briefly into view before disappearing behind the curtain.
My attention lingered on that hat a moment longer than it probably should have. Something about it seemed… familiar.
Jason noticed. “You see something?”
“Not sure yet…”
The orchestra music swelled as guests began moving toward the ballroom.
Lights dimmed slightly.
The evening’s entertainment segment was about to begin.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet little instinct started tapping on the glass.
Trouble.
Right on schedule.
…
The ballroom looked like someone had poured a billion dollars into a chandelier and shaken it.
Jason had never seen this many rich people in one room before. It felt… wrong somehow. Like predators gathering around a watering hole. Except the predators were wearing tuxedos and arguing about streaming rights.
Music drifted through the room from a live orchestra tucked along the far wall. Servers moved like ghosts through the crowd carrying trays of champagne and tiny foods that looked too fragile to survive actual eating.
Jason stuck close behind Luke.
Partly because that was the plan.
Mostly because if he drifted too far, someone would probably try to talk to him.
Luke didn’t walk through the crowd so much as flow through it. People approached him constantly—investors, producers, politicians, reporters—and somehow he handled all of them without ever slowing down.
It was like watching a martial art.
Except instead of punches and kicks, it was handshakes and polite smiles.
“Watch their shoulders,” Luke murmured quietly without looking back. His voice barely carried over the music. “People telegraph discomfort before they say anything.”
Jason scanned the room automatically.
Sure enough—there it was. A nervous laugh here. A stiff posture there. A waiter gripping his tray a little too tightly.
Great.
Now he couldn’t unsee it.
“How do you even notice that stuff?” Jason muttered.
“Practice.” Luke accepted a handshake from a silver-haired studio executive without breaking stride. “Also paranoia.”
That at least made sense.
They paused briefly while a group of reporters surrounded Luke near one of the sponsor banners. Microphones appeared like sharks circling prey.
Jason folded his arms and did his best impression of someone who belonged here.
It probably would’ve worked better if he didn’t feel like a raccoon that had wandered into a royal wedding.
A reporter leaned forward eagerly.
“Luke, your films always portray superhero combat with surprising realism. How do you research those sequences?”
Jason bit the inside of his cheek.
Probably from personal experience.
Which, honestly, sounded a lot more fun than whatever this James Bond social espionage nonsense was supposed to be.
Luke smiled easily.
“Well, a lot of credit goes to the stunt coordinators. Those teams are incredible. And of course we work closely with safety consultants to make sure the action feels believable without anyone getting hurt.”
Jason blinked.
That… wasn’t an answer.
The reporter seemed satisfied anyway.
The microphones shifted toward the next question.
Luke kept smiling.
Jason leaned slightly closer once the crowd drifted away.
“You didn’t answer that.”
“Correct.” Luke accepted another champagne glass from a passing tray and handed it to a passing donor with the effortless timing of someone redirecting traffic.
“So that was a dodge.” Jason frowned.
“Technically it was a redirection.”
“Isn’t that just another word for dodge?”
“Yes.” Over the comms, Kara’s voice slipped in like she’d been waiting for the opening. “Your species excels at strategic dishonesty.”
Luke sighed.
“It’s not dishonesty. It’s narrative management.”
“Yeah.” Jason snorted quietly. “Pretty sure calling it something else that means the same thing doesn’t really make it different.”
They moved deeper into the ballroom as the crowd shifted toward the central stage area. Jason kept scanning the room like Luke had told him to.
Exits.
Security positions.
Service doors.
Catering stations.
He started noticing patterns.
Clusters of donors near the bar. Media crews along the walls. Security hovering near the staircases.
Luke drifted between conversations with irritating ease.
Jason didn’t know how he did it.
One moment he was discussing charity funding with a tech billionaire. The next he was joking with a pair of actors about stunt injuries. Somehow he managed to be charming without sounding fake.
Jason tried to imagine Bruce Wayne doing this.
Actually, yeah.
That tracked.
Luke’s voice returned quietly while he shook another hand. “Lesson two, Jason. Use that situational awareness, and watch the staff.”
Jason shifted his attention.
The catering crew moved through the crowd in black uniforms, trays balanced carefully as they navigated the sea of tuxedos and designer gowns.
Most of them blended into the background.
One of them didn’t.
Two guys near the back service corridor were pushing metal crates onto a rolling cart. Heavy crates. Not food containers.
Jason slowed slightly.
The men weren’t talking to anyone.
They weren’t interacting with the other staff.
And they definitely weren’t heading toward the kitchen.
Jason leaned closer.
“Hey.”
Luke continued smiling at the producer he was speaking with. “Hmm?”
“Back corridor. Two guys with crates.”
Luke nodded politely as the producer finished talking. “Interesting.”
“That’s it?” Jason scowled.
Luke thanked the producer and turned smoothly toward the buffet tables.
Jason followed. “You saw them, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re just ignoring it?”
“For the moment.”
Jason glanced back toward the corridor.
The men were still there.
Still moving equipment.
Still trying not to draw attention.
Every instinct Jason had screamed that something was wrong.
He lowered his voice.
“Those guys aren’t catering.”
Luke finally glanced at him.
A small, approving smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Congratulations.”
Jason blinked.
“For what?”
“You passed the first test.”
Jason stared at him.
“You’re kidding.”
Luke picked up a canapé from a passing tray and studied it thoughtfully before setting it back down untouched.
“Nope.”
Jason resisted the urge to strangle him.
“You knew.”
“Guilty.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“I’m not the one who needs field training.”
Jason glanced back toward the corridor again.
The crates were almost inside the ballroom now.
That quiet instinct in his gut had started buzzing louder.
“So what now?” he asked.
Luke adjusted his cufflinks calmly. “Now we wait.”
“For what?”
Luke’s gaze drifted briefly toward the stage at the far end of the ballroom.
“The part where they make their entrance.”
…
The orchestra finished its current piece to polite applause.
Crystal glasses clinked. Conversations rose and fell in waves across the ballroom. The room had reached that strange equilibrium wealthy events always drifted toward—everyone comfortably full of champagne and self-importance.
Perfect conditions for a villain entrance.
The lights dimmed slightly as the stage at the far end of the ballroom brightened.
A host stepped forward to the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, before tonight’s premiere, we have a very special entertainment segment arranged for our guests…”
Jason drifted a little closer to my shoulder as the crowd turned toward the stage. Good instinct. He was starting to move like someone who expected trouble even when everything looked normal.
“…please welcome a visionary in theatrical technology and immersive performance…”
The stage curtains parted.
A man stepped into the spotlight.
Short.
Neatly dressed.
Oversized hat.
Jason leaned slightly toward me. “You know that guy?”
My attention wasn’t on the man.
It was on the hat.
Tall. Dark felt. Wide brim.
And a very particular metallic seam running along the band.
“…yeah. Pretty sure I do.”
Onstage, the man gave a theatrical bow, one hand sweeping outward as if welcoming us into a stage play only he understood.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” His voice carried through the ballroom speakers with dramatic enthusiasm. “Welcome to the most delightful tea party in Los Angeles!”
He tipped his hat.
“Allow me to introduce myself.”
The grin that spread across his face had all the warmth of a broken thermostat.
“Jervis Tetch. Though tonight… you may call me the Mad Hatter.”
Around us, polite laughter rippled through the audience.
They thought it was part of the show.
Of course they did.
Idiots.
How many times does a supervillain have to hijack a public event for you to take this seriously?!
Tetch paced slowly across the stage like a professor about to begin a lecture. “You see, I have long believed that modern society suffers from a terrible affliction.”
He raised one finger.
“Disobedience.”
Another.
“Chaos.”
Another.
“Improper tea etiquette.”
Jason muttered under his breath. “Oh great. One of those.”
Tetch’s grin widened.
“But fear not! Tonight, we shall restore order.” His hand tapped the side of his hat. “That’s why everyone here has been so graciously invited to wear… proper attire.”
The signal went out.
I felt it before I saw it.
A faint electromagnetic pulse rippled through the room like a whisper through glass.
All around the ballroom—
Hats activated.
Fascinators worn by socialites.
Decorative headpieces.
Tuxedo hats.
Staff uniforms.
Tiny embedded micro-devices hidden along hatbands and seams flared to life simultaneously.
For one heartbeat—
everyone froze.
Then Wonderland began.
A billionaire near the buffet suddenly slammed both hands onto the table.
“What time is it?” he shouted. “What time is it?! Time for tea! Time for tea! Always time for tea!”
Across the room a security guard ripped off his jacket and began hopping wildly in place.
“I’m late!” he yelled. “Late, late, late! The March Hare is never late!”
A woman in a diamond necklace pointed dramatically at a confused waiter.
“Off with his head!”
Jason blinked slowly.
“…what.”
Then the hedge fund manager next to him swung a champagne bottle like a club.
Jason leaned back just in time for it to whistle past his face. “Okay,” he said, dodging a second swing. “Now can I punch them?”
“No.”
Jason looked offended. “But—”
“Lesson three.” I sidestepped the bottle as it smashed into a decorative column behind me. “Civilians are not villains.”
Another guest lunged at me with surprising enthusiasm for someone worth eight figures.
I caught his wrist, redirected the momentum, and gently lowered him into a chair. “They’re just really bad at getting the hell out of the way.”
“What about self defense?” Jason ducked as someone else tried to tackle him. “This feels like a really justified time to hit someone.”
“You can teleport, Jason.” I sighed, scolding him like the child he was. “Use your tech, not your fists.”
Onstage, Tetch spread his arms with theatrical delight as the ballroom descended into elegant madness. “Yes! Yes! Marvelous!” he shouted. “Now we can begin the proper tea party!”
Small mechanical compartments opened along the stage platform.
A cluster of hovering drones lifted into the air, each one shaped like a metallic playing card with spinning rotors.
Enforcers.
Jason spotted them immediately.
“Those don’t look friendly.”
“No,” I agreed. “They rarely do.”
Over the comms, Constantine’s voice crackled in. “…mind control tech. Bloody hell. Tetch again.”
Another voice cut in immediately afterward.
Small.
Excited.
“I can help.”
Ace.
That was either going to solve the problem or escalate it dramatically.
Possibly both.
Across the ballroom, the drones began descending toward the crowd, their emitters glowing faintly as they prepared to reinforce the mind-control signal.
Jason shifted his stance.
“So what’s the plan?”
Before I could answer—the building sound system exploded to life.
A thunderous drumbeat filled the ballroom.
Then synthesizers.
Then a very enthusiastic 80s pop chorus.
The drones paused mid-air.
Their targeting systems flickered.
Ace’s voice arrived over the comms, very pleased with herself. “I hacked them!” Since when does she know how to hack? Did she mindread Cyborg to figure that out? She can Neo, now? What did she even do?
The drones began dancing.
Not drifting.
Not malfunctioning.
Dancing.
Perfectly synchronized, they spun and bobbed in the air to the beat of the music like a fleet of extremely confused backup dancers.
Jason stared.
“…what.”
One drone did a midair pirouette.
Another attempted what looked suspiciously like the robot.
I paused halfway through disarming a mind-controlled venture capitalist. “…I’m almost impressed.”
Jason watched the aerial choreography for another second. “Is this helping?”
Ace answered immediately.
“Yes.”
She was lying.
…
The ballroom turned into a circus in under ten seconds.
Jason had seen fights before. Street fights. Training fights. The occasional superpowered disaster Luke dragged him into.
None of those had involved this many tuxedos.
A champagne glass shattered near his head as a mind-controlled investment banker tried to throw a serving tray like a discus. Across the room, three drones spun through the air to the beat of Ace’s aggressively cheerful 80s soundtrack while guests in designer suits attempted to tackle anyone standing upright.
Jason teleported two steps to the left in a flicker of red light as a socialite lunged for him with surprising enthusiasm.
He grabbed the tiny device hidden along her hatband, popped it loose with practiced fingers, and caught her before she hit the floor.
She blinked groggily.
“…why am I on the ground?”
“Long story.” Jason guided her toward the nearest exit doors where a handful of confused guests were already staggering outside. “Probably best if you head that way.”
Another drone zoomed past doing what looked suspiciously like the moonwalk.
Jason stared at it.
“…Ace, I still don’t see how this helps.”
Over comms, the girl sounded deeply satisfied with herself. “It is distracting the hostile robotics.”
Fair.
Across the ballroom, Luke moved through the chaos like he was still hosting the event.
People lunged at him. Champagne bottles swung. Someone tried to tackle him from behind.
None of it stuck.
He redirected a charging tech investor into an empty chair, gently twisted the mind-control device off a woman’s fascinator, and nudged a stumbling actor toward the exit without spilling a single drink.
Jason teleported again, catching a waiter before he crashed into a table. “How are you so calm about this?”
“Experience. Mostly.” Luke stepped sideways as a hedge fund manager attempted a flying tackle and continued steering guests toward the doors. “Okay, now it’s time I gave you the rules.”
“Rules?” Jason blinked. “Punching isn’t always the answer, use situational awareness, and we can’t attack civilians… even if they’re trying to attack us.”
Jason didn’t say he agreed with the rules.
“What? Oh. No, those were lessons.”
Jason shoved another mind-controlled guest gently aside and disabled the man’s hat with the compact Red X tool clipped to his belt. “What’s the difference?”
“Lessons are meant to teach you.” Luke ducked a wildly thrown champagne flute and redirected its owner neatly toward an exit. “They’re for your own benefit. So, if you fail a lesson, you’re not punished.”
Jason teleported behind a charging donor and lifted the man’s hat device clean off. “And if I break the ’rules?’”
Luke glanced over calmly. “If you break those, you’re grounded.”
Jason stared at him. “… No way that’s in our actual contracts.”
“Parenting rules apply.”
Jason opened his mouth to argue, but a drone zipped between them doing an enthusiastic spin.
He sighed.
“Fine. What are the rules?”
Luke pointed subtly toward the ballroom exits while casually guiding three confused guests in that direction. “Rule one. Guide civilians to exits.”
Jason teleported across the room, grabbed the hat off a security guard loudly declaring himself the March Hare, and pointed the man toward the open doors.
“Okay.”
He blinked back to Luke’s side just as a champagne bottle whistled past his head.
“Rule two?”
Luke caught the wrist of a charging studio executive, twisted gently, and removed the control device from the man’s tuxedo hat. “Disable tech. Not people.”
The executive collapsed into a chair, unconscious but unharmed.
“Rule three?” Jason asked.
Luke’s eyes flicked briefly toward the balcony overlooking the ballroom. “Contain the villain.”
Jason followed his gaze.
There.
Upper balcony.
Jervis Tetch stood behind a portable control rig, gleefully twisting knobs while the madness below played out exactly how he wanted.
Jason’s muscles tensed automatically.
Straight line.
One teleport.
Done.
Except between him and the balcony stood about fifteen mind-controlled guests.
Punching through them would be easy.
Fast.
Efficient.
Across the room, Luke was dealing with his own crowd.
Three wealthy donors had converged on him at once, swinging wildly with the kind of uncoordinated aggression that came from people who had never actually fought anyone before.
Luke slipped between them like water.
“Sorry about this.” He ducked beneath a clumsy right hook.
One precise movement redirected the man into a nearby sofa.
“Your insurance should cover the concussion.” Luke stepped aside as a second attacker lunged forward and gently tripped him into a stack of chairs.
A third donor tried to grab him from behind.
Luke shifted his weight, guided the momentum forward, and lowered the man neatly onto the floor.
“Please don’t sue the charity.”
Jason watched that for half a second while teleporting two confused guests out of each other’s way.
That… was actually impressive.
Also deeply annoying.
Luke glanced his way once.
Just once.
No instructions.
No interference.
Just watching.
Which meant the decision was Jason’s.
Jason exhaled slowly.
Fine.
He teleported.
Red light flickered as he blinked across the ballroom, reappearing behind the first cluster of mind-controlled guests.
Step one.
He grabbed a hat device off a man trying to shout riddles about clocks.
Step two.
Teleport.
Two more guests shifted harmlessly out of the path between Jason and the balcony as he repositioned them near the exit.
Step three.
Disable another fascinator.
A woman blinked in confusion and immediately began apologizing to a waiter she’d apparently been threatening to behead.
Jason kept moving.
Teleport.
Disable.
Redirect.
Teleport.
Each jump cleared another piece of the path without anyone getting hurt.
It took longer than the punch-first plan.
A lot longer.
But eventually—
Jason blinked onto the balcony.
Jervis Tetch turned just in time to see a red flash appear directly in front of him.
“Oh dear.”
Jason tackled him.
The control rig crashed against the railing as Jason ripped the transmitter unit free and crushed the signal emitter with one quick squeeze.
Down below—
the ballroom went still.
Guests collapsed into chairs or onto the floor as the mind-control signal vanished.
The drones lost synchronization mid-dance and gently drifted to the ground as Ace’s music cut out.
Silence rolled through the room like someone had muted the world.
Jason pushed himself up, breathing hard.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
Luke stepped onto the balcony and surveyed the aftermath below.
Then he clapped once.
“Excellent crowd control.”
Jason wiped sweat from his forehead and glared at him.
“Would it have killed you to lend a hand?”
Luke rested his arms on the balcony railing, looking down at the slowly recovering crowd.“If I did,” he said calmly, “how would you ever learn to do it yourself?”
Was strangling him still an option?
…
The first sound that returned to the ballroom was confusion.
Low murmurs rolled through the crowd as people slowly sat up, looked around, and tried to piece together why they were on the floor of a charity gala with half the furniture overturned and an unconscious man in a novelty top hat zip-tied to a balcony railing.
From the balcony above, the scene looked like the aftermath of a very polite hurricane.
Jason leaned against the railing beside me, still catching his breath while paramedics and security began filtering through the doors below.
“Well,” he muttered, watching a hedge fund manager try to understand why he was sitting in a potted plant, “that’s gonna be awkward to explain.”
“Not really.”
Jason glanced at me.
I straightened my jacket, adjusted my cufflinks, and headed for the stairs.
Damage control was just another kind of performance.
By the time we reached the ballroom floor, the first wave of police officers had arrived. A few reporters who’d been outside were already pushing their way in, cameras raised like sharks scenting blood.
Or publicity.
Functionally the same thing.
A detective approached immediately, clearly preparing to ask several difficult questions about why a well-known actor’s charity event had briefly turned into a themed riot.
I smiled pleasantly.
“Good news,” I told him, gesturing lightly at the ballroom. “The charity event just doubled in publicity.”
The detective blinked.
Behind him, reporters were already circling.
Microphones appeared.
Camera lights flashed.
“What exactly happened here tonight?”
“Was this a planned stunt?”
“Mr. Grayson, are you confirming this was an attack?”
I clasped my hands behind my back and gave them the same calm smile I’d perfected during press tours.
“There was a malfunction with a piece of experimental entertainment technology. Security responded quickly, and everyone is safe. The individual responsible has been detained.”
One of the reporters leaned forward eagerly.
“So there was no supervillain involved?”
“Not one worth promoting,” I replied.
Technically accurate.
Behind the reporters, officers were already hauling Jervis Tetch toward the exits, still ranting indignantly about tea etiquette and narrative sabotage.
The cameras stayed on me.
“Will the premiere still happen tonight?”
“Of course,” I said smoothly. “Though we may skip the magician.”
A few nervous laughs rippled through the room.
Crisis defused.
Not because the situation was under control.
Because the story was.
Beside me, Jason watched the exchange like someone witnessing a magic trick that didn’t involve hats or drones.
He leaned closer.
“You’re just… talking your way out of it.”
“Public relations is ninety percent confidence.”
“And the other ten percent?”
“Timing.”
Across the ballroom, paramedics helped a few guests to their feet while police officers took statements. A billionaire was already explaining to a reporter that he’d bravely fought off an attacker with nothing but a canapé fork.
Jason shook his head slowly.
“I thought the hero part was the fight.”
“That’s the easy part.” I picked up an abandoned champagne glass from a nearby table and handed it to a passing waiter who looked grateful someone had resumed behaving normally. “Anyone can win a fight.”
Jason glanced around at the police, the reporters, the recovering guests.
The aftermath.
“…this part’s harder.”
“It’s also the part people remember.”
Across the room, one of the reporters started explaining to a cameraman how the entire incident might spin into a story about immersive promotional events.
Exactly as intended.
Jason exhaled slowly.
For once, he didn’t have a sarcastic comeback ready.
Which meant the lesson landed.
I’m a great mentor.
…
Somewhere across the city, in a quiet office that smelled faintly of chamomile tea and professional concern, Debbie Grayson wondered if she’d made a terrible decision.
The therapist’s office was aggressively calm.
Soft lighting. Neutral colors. A small decorative fountain bubbling gently in the corner like emotional support plumbing.
Debbie sat on one side of the couch with her arms crossed.
Nolan sat beside her with perfect posture, hands resting on his knees like someone attending a very serious lecture.
Across from them, the therapist slowly lowered the intake form she’d been reading.
“So,” the woman said carefully, adjusting her glasses. “Mr. Grayson, according to these notes… you concealed your alien origin, your planetary conquest mission, and your violent species ideology from your wife.”
Nolan nodded once.
“Correct.”
The therapist paused.
Her pen hovered over the paper as she tried to maintain professional composure.
“…and you now work with the government.”
“Yes.”
Debbie rubbed her temples.
The therapist flipped another page in the notes.
“And you’re both here today to… rebuild trust.”
“Yes,” Nolan said.
The therapist studied him for a long moment.
“How do you feel about rebuilding trust?”
Nolan considered the question with the seriousness of someone calculating orbital mechanics.
“I believe it will take… effort.”
Debbie let out a long breath. “That’s the first thing you’ve said all week that hasn’t made me want to throttle you.”
The therapist began writing very quickly.
Her pen scratched furiously across the page.
Debbie leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling for a moment.
A year ago her biggest marital problem had been Nolan working too much.
Now they were in couples therapy because he’d secretly been an alien conqueror.
Life was weird like that.
Across from her, the therapist finished a paragraph of notes and looked up again, determination settling onto her face like someone preparing for the most unusual challenge of her professional career.
“Well,” she said slowly, folding her hands. “Let’s start with communication.”