Magna

December 30, 2025

"Where's my party animaaal attt?" A sexy steel-grey eyed guy who may or may not be from my Greenpeace organization hands me a quirkily colored cocktail, its neon glow a testament to the artificial delights of this era.

I'm clubbing like this is my last night on Earth, but I think that's just the way my mind avoids thinking about the hangover to come. The bass thrums through the floorboards, vibrating up my legs and into my chest, moving me like I'm a puppet on strings, my head mashing so hard my brain is in shut down mode. There's so much sweat on my skin and, err... I am pretty sure not all of it's mine. The air, thick with the scent of cheap perfume, stale beer, and exertion, clings to me like a second skin.

The strobe lights, a relentless assault on the senses, mask so many of my movements, every clap of my hands like it's on pause at different moments.

Tomorrow there'll be hell to pay, but tonight the alcohol keeps on flowing in like it's on an IV drip, blurring the edges of reality into a shimmering, intoxicating haze.

I barely register my brain's warning, which whispers something along the lines: "Another one, Magna? Don't you remember what happened with Aurelius? This is no holo era, but the mobile phones and the Internet work equally well to transfer your shame to the whole wide world to know." The thought, fleeting and unwelcome, was quickly drowned out by the pulsating rhythm.

Leaning into... Georgios? Loukas? Some random Greek name, I down the unknown alcoholic bliss, the liquid fire burning a pleasant path down my throat.

I refuse to count all the shots I've taken. If I counted them, I would never be able to down another one with clear conscience. The blissful ignorance was a vital component of this fleeting freedom.

Just a stone's throw from Leicester Square and Addison's Antiques, "Zoo Bar" has been an excellent choice for my last-night-in-2025 night out! Its neon sign pulsed like a predatory eye, drawing in the eager masses.

Its name is an excellent echo of the atmosphere it can provide, all instinct, sweat, and animalistic grunts of the dancers unleashing their inner beasts. The primal energy was infectious: this raw, untamed joy.

No one can see the dance floor; it's wall-to-wall people dancing to the club music. There doesn't appear to be room for any more, but somehow when Greek guy and I hit it, the space magically shows to accommodate our feet, a testament to the collective will of the revelers.

The music is all nineteen nineties, but we're dancing like it's jive, twisting, turning, holding hands as we change sides. The retro beats, so familiar yet so distant, propel us through the crowd.

We're all grins; we look like idiots, and we don't care. Inside we're just happy, happy and more alive than ever. I feel the part of me that's really me come out to play, to feel the vibe of the music and let my body go free.

One frozen moment, one brilliant feeling of togetherness suspended in time.

Can I help it if my soul loves a kickin' beat?

Music feels both like my genesis and my forever destination. It is the translation of my soul, and no matter the time and place, from cavemen days till my times, and who knows, if beyond, it has also been the translation of the soul of humanity. The realization was profound, a universal truth whispered through the speakers.

This thrills me beyond anything I have ever experienced, the realization that our feelings and thoughts have been eternalized in the speed of sound.

"Wahoo!" I raise both my hands in the air, prancing through the labyrinth of themed rooms, the Sexy Greek Guy Without a Name in tow. He has seemingly decided to stick with me throughout the entire night, and I can't say I mind too much. His presence, a fleeting anchor in the chaos, was surprisingly welcome.

No amount of Alcosynth in the world can ever compare to this!

Being drunk really does switch off the best parts of your brain and leaves the fool to run your life, to run your mouth. But I don't friggin care! I'll soon be gone from here, so I sure as hell won't be held accountable for anything I may say or do, no matter who records it with what. The thought was liberating, a dangerous freedom.

Loud digital sirens screech, a jarring intrusion, silence hangs over the room for a good five seconds, and then a melody cascades from the speakers. Without warning, the bass resumes at a frantic, adrenaline-inducing speed. The crowd goes wild, and me with it. My heart pounds in a dizzying rush, and excitement threatens to swamp me, a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated euphoria.

I instinctively seek Edmund out in the flurry of faces that surround me. I'm pretty sure that my uptight gentleman will be helpful when it comes to limiting the quantity of ladies' drinks, so I need him to actually stop me before I do something too silly.

Sure enough, there he stands, all polite nods, and fancy clothing. He is an island of composure in this sea of frenetic movement.

I would have thought that Edmund would not have blended in so well with modern style, seeing how posh he looked on the first day I met him, all Regency era, all frivolity. Boy was I wrong!

He did have that from-the-first-time-I-saw-you-I-knew-I-was-going-to-have-real-or-imaginary-sex-with-you-kind-of-look, regardless of the non-flattering clothing he wore. In a way like Edward Rochester has always induced that "I don't care if he's a fictional character, I still want to marry him" crush.

This evening, Lord Worthington's sturdy-tie easily upstages his silk shirt—black, a logical choice for a dapper gentleman such as himself. Edmund gives away both the vibes of someone who is traditional, groomed, but can pull off a sporty elegance look with ease just as well. The subtle sheen of the silk, the crisp knot of his tie, spoke of an inherent refinement that transcended eras.

His gaze's trained on mine, as always. Something about Milord's omnipresence steadies and comforts me, a silent anchor in the swirling chaos.

He's not alone, of course. How could he be? Being the most handsome man in the room, and all that... A shoal of she-piranhas surround him, choreographing their belly dances in a feeding frenzy, preparing to sink their fangs into him. Those women look, errr... a bit scary even, with their dark-eyed stares and bloody gloss lips. They carry their makeup as war paint, ready to tear each other apart for Eddie's affection. It's not a pretty sight, a predatory ballet unfolding around him.

One of them, a petite blonde, ducks her head and laughs in reply to something he says, practically pushing her boobs into his face. The scene was almost comical in its blatantness.

Usually, this would have to be one of those "Tell your boobs to stop staring into my eyes" kind of situation.

Yet a very flushed Lord Worthington raises his glass at me, and me only. His eyes, though slightly dazed by the club's lights, held a clear, direct message meant only for me.

His teeth light up the scene as he approaches, making me blissfully forget about his creepy booby entourage.

His soft smile and the luminous look in his eyes make me feel giddy and strangely sorrowful. A bittersweet pang, a premonition of the impending farewell.

I wonder about how we'll get to say goodbye to each other. He will probably say something like: "Goodbye, farewell, go with blessings, I always wish good fortune upon you." Or some other 1840s wording.

I'm not sure what I might say, or do. I kind of got used to having him around.

A lot of time may pass before I ever see him again. The thought is a cold knot in my stomach.

"So how are you liking the party?" I yell into his ear, trying to outcry the music around us, my voice hoarse from shouting over the din.

Music fills the air without effort, like the waves filling holes in beach sand in my holo videos; the sound rushing in and around every person in the dance room. Some react to the beat, others continue in chatter, but always it speaks to them in some manner. A lively tempo can lift them, elevate the spirit, or move them to dance, whilst a slow one can relax the mood. Before the notes filled the air, every person was an island; with it, they all feel the same tidal flows and the beginnings of togetherness feels warm.

I am happy.

"A fine event indeed. In my era, balls are similar get-togethers of beautiful and fashionable people, where eligible ladies and gentlemen are especially sought after. There is quite a lot of matchmaking, I must say. Some of which I myself have fallen a prey multiple times, at that." Edmund clears his throat and swallows. "Yet it all moves a little... slower at the time. Women aren't quite so forward. At least not in the open, and their ploys, schemes, and machinations are well hidden from male eyes." He ducks behind a pillar as Boobie the Blonde passes by, a comical display of aristocratic evasion.

"No big-titted gals throwing themselves at you, I take it?" I cover my mouth with my hand to hide that I'm about to burst into a fit of giggles.

"Ah... Hmm. Indeed, Miss Reign. Us single gentlemen may have received a flirty card here or there, but nothing like... this. I take it you have seen what has just transpired, and I must say: that lady might have been a bit too forward. I glanced at her dress and saw feeble attempts of her left wing party to gain its freedom of expression. I found it fit to warn her. Think nothing of our encounter." His blush deepened, a charming contrast to his formal pronouncements.

"How amicable of you." I scoff as someone rakes me from behind, a hand lingering inappropriately on my lower back.

Hey! Touch my ass again without consent and you die!

I almost slap him then and there, but he grabs both of my hands before I can react. His grip was surprisingly firm, preventing my impulsive swing.

"Hey Mag-Mag! Ready to rock?" The Sexy Greek-Named Guy interrupts us quite rudely by pulling me in his arms, and towards the dance floor, fully ignoring Edmund. His breath, hot and reeking of cheap spirits, assaulted my senses.

Eddie does not let that go unpunished. His eyes, previously amused, hardened with a sudden, dangerous glint.

"I don't believe I have made your acquaintance, err..." Lord Worthington decides he is not to be ignored, and the sight just plain amuses me. His voice, though still polite, carried an underlying steel.

"Jason."

So that's what his name was!

They shake hands and stare each other down as if they're about to engage one of those old-fashioned duels. The tension between them is palpable, a silent challenge in the midst of the thumping music.

It's been too long since I've seen two guys ferociously compete for my attention, I have to admit. Doesn't feel half as bad, being the 'belle of the ball,' but I worry over what this competition might imply, aka, end of the party night for the whole Green Peace Entourage. That would turn it into the Green War, I guess.

"Edmund. Lovely to meet you, 'bro.'" Eddie's tone is a tad condescending, but a condescending Eddie is Eddie at his cutest.

The display of Lord Worthington's gentleman-like behavior and the way he tries so hard to use modern words crack me up.

Jason's paws re-landing on my ass—not so much. A wave of irritation, cold and sharp, cut through my drunken haze.

I try to push them away, but he hangs on so bloody tight. His fingers dug into my flesh, an unwelcome possessiveness.

I guess he hasn't heard of the saying: "The more you tighten your grip, the more the thing will slip through your fingers?" And this saying applies to me, that's for sure! Clingy guys are a nuisance.

"Let's ditch this loser," Jason whispers into my ear and tugs at me, his breath reeking of alcohol. The words were a grating insult, further fueling my annoyance.

The iconic melody that transcended all the ages goes through my mind:

Smelly cat

Smelly cat

What are they feeding you?

Smelly cat

Smelly cat

It's not your fault.

"You know what, Jason? I think I'm fine right here where I am." I tilt my head and do my best clueless smile, my voice, though sweet, held an edge of finality.

I really don't need another Aurelius scandal on my hands. I thought my overdrinking might cause it, but this here Jason is the more likely reason.

"Aww, come on, Magna. We've been coworkers for months. Saving trees and all that jazz. And don't forget: it's your good-bye party. So let's do a proper goodbye." Jason coos at me, his grip tightening.

This buddy is a leech. Sucking the life out of me, it's like I can't breathe. And he just doesn't seem to get it that he is being bothersome like hell. My patience, already thin, is rapidly evaporating.

"I do not recall the lady having accepted to go with you." Edmund bristles, towering over Jason, and just like that, his graceful elegance turns into menace. His voice, low and dangerous, cuts through the music like a knife.

All of a sudden I am struck with this image of the orange-gold of the tiger, with its black velvet artist stripes, was a proud sight amid the tall grasses and sunbathing rocks. This makes me giggle inwardly, since I hadn't been aware that Edmund has brought out the poetess in me over the time we've known each other.

I'm at the same time furious he has the macho need to defend me and strangely flattered. The conflicting emotions swirl within me, a confusing blend of irritation and a peculiar warmth.

"That's fine, Edmund." I place my hand onto his arm. "I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself." My touch was meant to soothe, but I felt the tautness of his muscles beneath my palm.

I feel the tension in his muscles. There's something dangerous and daring about this new Lord Worthington, and I'm actually enjoying it. A thrill, unexpected and potent, shot through me.

"Take a walk, bro. I was here first." Jason leers at Edmund and pushes him against the wall, a sneer twisting his features.

"A no from a lady, means a no, bro." Edmund straightens up his coat lapels, his eyes, cold and unwavering, fixed on Jason. "I am sorry it has had to come to this. I never came looking for a fight. I was a pacifist before the word was even invented. But I refuse to stand back and watch you defy Miss Reign's choice in such a crude, disrespectful way."

All chaos breaks loose as Edmund's fist connects to Jason's chin with a sickening thwack. 

The music seems to momentarily falter, replaced by the sharp crack of bone.