Blue Lagoon:

(1 part) Blue Curacao

(1 part) Vodka

(4 parts) Lemon Juice

Here's the thing about villains. They all think they're clever. So very clever. More than anyone else, more than anything else, that has ever lived. And when you get clever, spoiler alert, you get fucking stupid. King knows better than to be clever. He knows better to be cocky. He learned that lesson the hard way and it echoes in every step, every brush of shoulder against shoulder, but still, he breathes. Still, he lives. Why? Because he isn't clever. Clever gets you killed. Instead, he lets his feet click against concrete. Tile halls turn to grey walls, fluorescent lights that hum and buzz into a flickering, dull glow of bulbs long dead to the world. His face is cold. So cold, yet there is heat. It comes with every breath. It warms his cheeks yet he doesn't dare stop to relieve it.

The jade is what's cold on his face. The jacket on his shoulders keeps him warm, flecks of purple nail polish still clinging to one sleeve. King has put his mask back on. He has once again blended in, eyes becoming blank, stare becoming hollow. The only energy in the air is his own and he thrives. In the beat of his heart, there are three steps. One, two, three, and just like his feet he counts them. One, two, three, and then a breath. One, two, three, and he finds himself deeper in a building that'll be looking for him any second. An imposter in the midst. A wolf in sheep's clothing, but under the mask his grin is hidden. His intentions are cloaked. And every second they waste looking for a freckled boy in a leather coat is a second he gains.

Gains, gains, and he's gaining. The hallway ends abruptly, like a builder set down his shovel and went on strike halfway through. Is it intentional? It doesn't matter. Patience is key. He breathes. The door should be locked. He reaches for the handle, gives it a tug. It sticks. Solid. In need of a key. A key. Somehow, he can choke down his laughter. Eyes flicker to the corners of the walls. If there are cameras, he doesn't see them. If someone is watching, they know he's made it this far. What makes them think he won't get farther?

Hands slide to the waist of his jeans. Wrap around metal, pull it out with a flourish. King's always hated guns. Nasty, dirty, noisy things that never do anything but put a metal grit in death's teeth and damn those who deserve to suffer to a quick and quiet end. Noisy and quiet. He could laugh. Instead, he aims. There's no tremble in his hands. Perhaps in another life, he could have been good at this. In the moment, there's a real sense of professionalism. As if he's a real hero. Off to save the day, the girl, the world, or whatever shit the scriptwriters come up with today. But instead, he fires, the lock shatters, and with his ears still ringing he pushes open the door with his good shoulder.

The room is more like a trophy case than a jail cell. King isn't surprised. He pulls the mask from his face, sucks in a well-deserved breath of cold air. Jade hits the floor. Fuck masks, can nobody make a single goddamn one that doesn't make you feel like suffocating? Lights illuminate the center of the room. And there she is. Somehow, she still looks regal, still proud even with her head bows. Two steps forward and he can already see the red lines the chains make in her skin. Another two steps and he can see that she's not fighting anymore. There's a twitch in his lips, thumbs slipping into pockets, and then a whistle. "So, you fucked up, did you?"

For a moment, she doesn't move. Then eyes flicker, her chin lifts, and her eyes meet his. There's the intensity he knows, the heat behind the calm, the stoic line of her lips that cracks into a laugh and he's stunned. She laughs, a bitter and breathless sound. "Of all people—" He arches an eyebrow, she doesn't continue. Maybe it's for the best, but he feels his own grin widen. Her head shakes, shoulders move with silent laughter.

"Let's get you out of that." He steps up beside her. The room is made for gloating. She can touch nothing, he can reach everything. The chains, the chair she sits in, and although the majority of the room is vacant it feels confined. Like cheese in a big mousetrap. King shrugs off the feeling, wraps his fingers around the chains and tugs. A gun slides back into a waistband, freeing both hands. Brows furrow, grip tightening and he moves around her in a circle. Her breath is easy, slow, his is not. His is watching the door between examining the chains. Sigils carved into it make his skin feel hot. Like hellfire seeping through his veins. But it's locked. In the back of the chair, a padlock keeps her in place. Immobile. But it's an easy break. Another bullet, perhaps, but with any luck, it's the last one he'll need to use.

King never reaches for the gun. The doors open. He looks up, lips parted. And there they are. Jade masks, in a sea, weapons trained on the center of his chest. His head. Anywhere but the Empress. Anywhere to kill. But he doesn't bat an eye. Just waits. Just waits. His eyes flicker around the room. Looking for vents, breathing in and out and in and out and slowly he pulls his hands away from the chair. Not hiding them. Hiding nothing. King is an open book. And a face breaks through the crowd, unmasked and proud. "I would step away if I were you," he warns.

King scoffs. "No, I was thinking maybe I'd stand here. Maybe lean a little on the chair, yknow?" He can see the annoyance on his face. A flicker, but then it's glossy again. His stare pins King like a bug. Exposed. Open, just like the Empress. "If you're going to shoot me, do it. Otherwise—" Again, he reaches for the lock. Fingers barely brush metal before he hears the sound of bullets entering chambers. Ready to fire. Aimed at him. Then he stills. The man walks forward. King doesn't know his name. King doesn't care. There are others like him in the crowd. Others unmasked and watching. Silent. Quiet. They must have brought the whole damn defense squad.

"I've read about you." Those words make him still. Fix his gaze. The man is speaking, stepping closer. Watching. Ready. Toying like a cat with a canary in its paws. "In her Project Phoenix files. You take energies." More or less, he was right. King shifts, heel to toe, heel to toe, weight distributing between each leg. "What is your gift telling you now? About you? About us?"

For a moment, he thinks. He feels. The room floods with tension. Anticipation. Cleverness. God, he hates cleverness. "Quite frankly," eyes blink, smile widens almost comically, "I couldn't give a shit." King feels the Empress move. Still, she stays quiet. Either unable to speak or unwilling, it doesn't matter.

When King reaches for the gun, the tension spikes. It tastes like cranberries and fruit, bursting and sharp and gnawing away at his flesh hungrily. Out of habit, he feels the smoke. Thick and grey, pooling from his fingers. The man jolts forward, pulls his thoughts away. Patience is key. "She's killed people." He says it like an argument. Maybe it is. Maybe it's supposed to convince him. "More people than you'll ever know." King sees but doesn't see. Hears but doesn't hear. His eyes go to the Empress, feels the guilt that radiates from her body. But what he sees is a thousand dead-eyed stares, a thousand hearts full to the bust with adrenaline mixed into their cocktails. "They were innocent lives, all lost because of her."

"Oh honey," King laughs. Shakes the memory. Shakes the feeling. "If you're trying to play the morality card with me, it won't work."

Again, he tries to convince him to step down. "Did she tell you she was groomed for command?" That brings a hesitation to his smile. "This whole empire would have been hers. Does that mean nothing to you?" King thinks. For a solid moment, he sits back and considers. She was a part of this. This was her jewel, her kingdom. All the other heroes that died to get this far—Wonderbread and the others, they died because of her mistakes. And more would have. More always would have.

But that isn't what King sees. He sees the guilt that radiates from her bowed head. The brokenness in her slumped shoulders. How many people did I hurt? It's not a question he wants an answer to. The dead, the dying, and those like Kitty. Too strong to die. Not strong enough to survive. And the word that comes to mind is redemption. That is what he looked for. That is what he wanted. The smile returns. "Well shit, an Empress has to have an empire. Just like a King's gotta have a crown." What the fuck kind of hypocrite would I be if I couldn't let her go? "It's a damn shame she didn't like yours." Everything happens too fast. He aims for the lock. Fires, but there's more than one bullet he hears. The chains slip off. One by one, hitting the floor like bells striking the hour. Then she moves. For a moment, there is nothing. Just light, white and soft and all-consuming and he sucks in a breath only to find that the air is not there. But there's no fear. Just warmth surrounding him, shielding him. He bleeds freely from a gunshot he cannot feel. Next comes the heat. It destroys every molecule of oxygen that ever was and ever would be. King feels none of it. King sees all of it. He watches as their bodies turn to char. He watches as smoke pours from the windows. Everything burns. Everything burns. Like liquor and the sparks of a stray cigarette, it burns. And burns. And burns.

Pour vodka and blue curacao in a shaker with ice, shake well & strain into an ice filled highball glass, top with lemonade, garnish with orange slice and serve.