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?"

"I do not." Zjahn took the offered hand, performing the greeting ritual of 'shaking'. "Do you believe she will explode?"

"What? No." The man made an easy laugh as he continued to shake Zjahn's hand. "But she is fire when she wants to be. Especially in bed."

The man leaned forward, the muscles in his arm bulging as he made a conspiratorial whisper into Zjahn's ear. Zjahn looked down at their hands and wondered why the man expended so much energy tightening the grip as much as he had. Not wishing to appear strange, Zjahn reciprocated the grip, tightening his own fingers, only for the man to tighten his more. Now the man had a look of discomfort as Zjahn replied in kind, continuing the ritual. Wade bared his teeth in animalistic preening, sweat appearing on his brow. Zjahn would never understand some human customs.

"Wade! How utterly horrible to see you." The woman reappeared, gripping Zjahn's arm again and tugging the man's hand from Zjahn's. "I see you've met my date, Sean Smith? He's a trader. On the stock market. I think he may be quite rich. Have you two been getting along."

"Mr Tompkins informs me that you set fire to beds." Zjahn watched as Wade tried to hide the fact that he rubbed the hand he had used to shake Zjahn's. "I would think that an impractical method of staying warm. Have you considered an electric blanket instead?"

Both Betty and Wade stared at Zjahn for an uncomfortable amount of seconds before Betty began to laugh. In fact, she laughed so much her entire upper body convulsed, her shoulders shuddering, and Zjahn wondered whether she required medical attention. Wade simply frowned. Perhaps it was something only the females of the species considered humorous. Zjahn, of course, did not see the humour in what he had said. In the slightest.

"Yeah. Well. Word of advice, Sean." Wade stepped away, pointing toward Betty. "Watch yourself with her, or she'll make a story out of you whether there's a story to tell or not. Hell of a grip, Sean. Hell of a grip."

Wade spun on his heel and walked away, grabbing a glass from the tray of a passing waiter as he did so. He appeared nonchalant, but Zjahn read his thoughts as he left. They were not kind thoughts. Not those about him but especially not about Betty. For some reason, Zjahn took offence to those thoughts, but dismissed them as fast as they came to him. He would not allow humanity's proclivity for petty grievances corrupt him.

"Ignore him. He's an ass, and he needs to get over, well, everything, but he doesn't mean any harm. You know how jocks can be." Betty looked into Zjahn's eyes, rubbing the sleeve of his illusory jacket. "He can be quite decent when you get to know him."

"I do not believe so." Zjahn could still hear the telepathic echoes of Wade's thoughts. "Not in the slightest."

"Well, okay." Once again, Betty linked her fingers with his and tugged him along. "Our table is number forty-two. This way. Ooh! Is that champagne for me? I love champagne! And it's free!"

-+-

Later that evening ...

Another award passed between hands, smiles exchanged and thanks and commiserations relayed through the microphone to the poor quality speakers at the edge of the stage. Betty had not won the award she had wanted, but she had made enthusiastic cheers and whistles for the one that had succeeded where she had failed and, for the most part, Zjahn sensed that her joy for her competitors was, in fact, genuine.

That, he had not expected. He had thought all humans displayed varying degrees of envy, of pettiness at supposed slights. Even though he could not, frustratingly, read her mind, he had an innate sense that Betty Burns was, to his surprise, a decent human being. Of course, were he able to read her mind, she could well prove that hypothesis incorrect, but Zjahn chose to believe it so. That made what he needed to do next all the more poignant. He had no wish to ruin Betty's night any more than her lack of success already had. He had a plan to enact, however. The die was already cast.

This required all his concentration. Far more than anything he had attempted to perform in many years. Not only had he a need to cast the illusion of Phaross, giving the villain physical presence, but Zjahn had to maintain the illusion of his human form before everyone in attendance and, then, choose the right moment to strike back as his heroic self, Psycona. To become the hero everyone would whisper about for years to come.

It began. The sea of flames above the stained-glass dome, sending rippling shadows playing across the attendees of the event. Then, the spectacular entrance. The dome shattered, splinters and shards of glass cascading toward the floor of the room and the guests gathered around their tables. Zjahn scowled, his mind almost overcome by the required concentration.

There, two tables away, he saw that man. That oaf! The one that held disturbing thoughts within his twisted mind. Thoughts about hurting Betty. And, in this moment, that man chose to glare at Zjahn, instead of the impending shower of deadly glass shards. Zjahn had no time for the man. Right now, he needed Phaross to descend through the destruction, laughter cascading around them along with the glass that, even in this moment, Zjahn crushed to powder.

"Fools!" Flames roared out from the hands of Phaross, consuming flower displays at either side of the wide room. "You come here to praise one another. To confer awards upon those that ill-deserve praise at all, while I am in your presence! I am Phaross! And you shall tell the world that I come to claim what is mine. You will all kneel before me. Or die!"

More laughter, and Zjahn wondered whether it was a little too much. No matter. Now he had to sneak away, allow his human persona to fade away and become the hero, Psycona. As he arrived, he and Phaross would battle, Phaross leaving as they fought to a stalemate. Further battles would follow. Some Psycona would win, others Phaross, until it came time for Phaross' ultimate plan and Psycona's greatest victory. He need only slip away, except someone held his arm.

"Oh, my god!" The woman, clinging to him yet again. Zjahn began to wish he had never agreed to accompany her. "Wade!"

Why she would think of that fool at this time, Zjahn could not understand. She had a career as a reporter and the greatest story of her life hovered above, setting fire to more decorations. Zjahn had reduced the amount of laughter, but increased the intensity of the flames. Struggling to control so much, Zjahn tried to pull his arm from the woman. Only then, as he turned to prise her fingers from him, did he see what concerned her.

The man, the oaf, Wade Tompkins, lay upon the floor, a pool of blood surrounding him, a sliver of coloured glass protruding from his throat. Zjahn almost lost control, the flames above sputtering, Phaross rippling, but he maintained his concentration, and the illusion. This was not possible. Not possible at all. He had crushed all the glass to harmless dust. He had only meant to instil terror, not hurt anyone.

Odd that the only one hurt was the man Zjahn had felt such unexpected anger against.