•••

When faced with a bad thing, like being plopped in a theater with doors barred, and forced to choose which Transformers movie to watch, people's reactions tend to vary.

Some pick chaos. Screaming, they flock for the exit, despite having witnessed the usher deadbolt the door and toss the key into Row F. No one, alive or dead, would brave the sticky, saturated floors of a movie theater, no matter how desperate.

Others recline in their seats, hoist their feet onto the empty row below them, dig into their popcorn and wait for the explosions promised from any film found under the Michael Bay banner. And then there are those who can't choose, who don't want to choose because they might as well be picking between having their fingernails ripped off one at a time or their feet submerged in scalding hot water - both are tortures, no matter how you dress them up.

These people, realizing the choice presented to them isn't much of a choice at all, relegate themselves to the sticky theater floor where they pull their knees into their chest and sob through the previews.

Eventually, the usher will be summoned over to quiet these movie-goers as some people enjoy Transformers movies, in spite of their silliness, because of it, or because they extract genuine pleasure from a shiny, new blockbuster. Just like the peanut butter and sardine sandwich, everything has its share of fans.

Captain Ire Stormholden has been faced with an insurmountable volume of bad things. Considering the above metaphor, the poor captain has been subjected to a Transformers movie marathon, including the Bumblebee spin-off, has been given popcorn without movie-theater butter, one small, watered-down coke which still cost him $12.50, and a pack of Snow Caps, arguably the worst movie theater candy of all time.

He's been sat in the front row, neck craned at a ninety-degree angle which meant he only clearly saw seventy-five percent of the screen, while behind him, a busload of children, all under five, all wanting to see the new Spiderman movie, kick the back of his seat. The children have been forced to see this movie triathlon, because the parent-in-charge refused to wait in the lobby another forty-five minutes for the next Spiderman showing to begin. This questionable person-in-charge has slipped some rum into their overpriced Coke and refuses to rein in the children's behavior. Oh, and Stormholden's stepped in gum, twice. And the theater's AC has broken, and there are issues with the sound system.

That's the amount of bad he's suffered and under all that extra weight, it's no surprise his resolve's buckled. He looks up at the only portions of the movie he can see, having forgotten the bigger picture.

Gideon Darquish, however, raises a can of Dr. Pepper into the air and toasts the bad as its opening credits scroll across the screen. From the back row, he relishes in all that it has wrought and all it will bring.

In reality, the captain and the kid stand outside of Potter Oaks, Gideon's darkness blanketing the sky over its quaint, pitch-roofed outline. Stormholden watches on, indifferent. He can't be bribed with enough gold to drag an ounce of compassion to his surface. In his mind, nothing matters. It never had, and never will. He'll gladly resign himself to whatever movie is played before him. And if the forces-that-be determine he must take part in the film? He'll oblige them, maybe don a bit role, perhaps a three second walk-on as Townsperson A. Nothing as prominent as a secondary character or leading man. He'll stick to being small and inconsequential, like Potter Oaks.

Only, Potter Oaks won't be small and inconsequential once Gideon's powers pervert its purpose. Yes, the town that had to throw a tantrum to remind the world of its presence, who had to insist, despite overwhelming search engine results arguing otherwise, that it was, in fact, a place, that promoted itself with a sign which read "Potter Oaks: For the love of God, we exist," will finally be seen thanks to Gideon and his off-screen brand of bad.

The town, itself, will be seen and Gideon will finally be reunited with Peneloper Auttsley.

• Hang In Long Enough •

Who would have thought a dozen daiquiris and mindless dubstep, blasted at ear-bleeding decibels, couldn't salvage a party, not when Captain Buzzkill had exiled himself to the depths of an unused cabana?

Certainly not Gideon Darquish.

He'd tried not to let the captain's mood tarnish his triumph, tried not to let his misery-net cast shadows over the party, and scoop up his attendants' jovial moods. But after eight hours of the captain's self-imposed isloation, the belligerence had begun to eat at him. Gideon's hand begged him to bask in his glory instead and forget about the salty sea-miser. Enjoy. Raise a glass and toast the day.

He'd landed in Potter Oaks. He'd changed the town, made it better, bigger, visible from space. Now when searched for on Bing! electronic devices didn't explode from lack of results but because of an overwhelming influx of them. Potter Oaks, the world over, held everyone enraptured.

And it was all Gideon's doing.

His hand had been right. Gideon should celebrate and, for a time, he had, the shards of glass littering the ground around him, stained with the remains of strawberry puree and reeking of rum could attest to that. But as the party raged into the waning hours of the evening, his focus grew more singular, more obsessive.

His gaze strayed more and more toward the cabana on the fringes of the rooftop, where the captain had begun his life as a wizen hermit in a place with an atmosphere more oppressive and morbid than a funeral home, where even dirges sought out death and corpses mourned. How could Gideon possibly expect to enjoy his surroundings when the captain had gone out of his way to stain his accomplishment? To mire everything in a pall as thick and suffocating as tar?

Condensation from the boy's half-drunk daiquiri, rolled down his fingers as its contents melted under the array of house lights and dancing lasers. Scantily clad bodies pushed into him as they gyrated to the music, their movements more frantic and urgent as the song swelled. Looking at his guests, Gideon found he could smile.

They got him. They understood. Fueled by his intoxicating excitement and compelled by his magic, they would celebrate Gideon until their muscles turned to jelly, until the last breath of air was squeezed from their lungs, until they collapsed, overheated and exhausted.

And if they expired shortly thereafter? Gideon would simply reanimate them. After all, he held no prejudice towards the dead, least of all when they offered up the praise he so rightfully deserved.

So it was Gudeon could conquer death, refusing to let its appearance bog down his party or sour his mood, but a petulant, brooding captain? That was another story entirely.

Tightening his hold on his drink, Gideon's gaze drifted back to the cabana where Stormholden's aura stood out against the silhouette of night. No longer its pale, icy blue, it now was a solid, unchanging mass of beige. Bland and boring. Like oatmeal, it lacked any nutritional value or visual interest.

He gulped the rest of his daiquiri and discarded the glass by hurtling it toward the ground, where it shattered and joined the other disposed-of thirteen, his soles buried among the shards. Applause and cheers rose around him, followed by a round of clapping so fierce it overcame the music. His guests screamed his name in enthusiastic reverie: Gideon! Gideon! He's the best! Three cheers for Gideon!

"Take heed to enjoy what you have," his hand said, punctuating the glee with a more pointed, serious tone. "And not that which you crave."

Gideon's eyes drifted back to the cabana, to the dark spot marring his neon dream-come-true. He clenched his gloved hand, silencing the wisdom it sought to impart. "It's in my very nature to desire what I cannot have," he replied. "To possess, devour, change." His shroud, barely visible against the outline of a darkening sky as it abandoned the warmth of evening to the bruised purple of night, rippled in agreement.

"You," his hand's voice was clipped, clenched. Tight. "Will never be satisfied."

Gideon smiled as he started through the crowd, his doe-eyed party-goers quick to rush out of his way. Some smiled as he passed, others whooped and pumped fists into the air. A few even toasted him with the dregs of their drained libations.

"Then that's a failing you and I share." He squeezed his hand, dug his fingers into his palm where two flaps of flesh flailed like dying fish. "For what else can be said about a king who desires to conquer a kingdom that had him disposed of decades ago? That no longer wishes to see him ascend to a position of power?"

His hand tensed. "Interesting," Gideon purred. "My words giving the King of Crows pause? How deeply humbling." He slapped his other hand into his chest in mock respect.

"Don't you dare, child. I have lent you but a drop of my power and look how unstable you've become. You can barely control that which I've deemed you worthy of possessing. Do you honestly think you could ever best me?" The hand twitched, its lips parting, curling into a snarl. "Treat me like I'm just a toy and you will regret--"

Gideon pressed his hand into his jeans, smothering its diatribe. "Yes, yes. I'll rue it. Rue and lament it as you laser my head off or do whatever it is you do." The fingers of his gloved hand twitched as they tried to claw their way to freedom. In response, Gideon balled the hand into a fist and punched his thigh. It went limp. "God, you are boring." He frowned. "This final-boss-ultimate-evil style rhetoric does us, antagonists, more harm than good. Where's your originality? Your appeal? Your je ne sais quoi? If you're hellbent on resurrecting dead cliches," he opened his hand, flexed his fingers. Nothing but the sound of moving leather filled his ears, "do it in your own body. For now, I think silence is best."

With that, he returned his attention to the captain, choosing a casual gait for the rest of the trek over to the cabana. The party's din grew hushed until mere whispers alluded to the festivities.

In the quieted atmosphere, Gideon heard the steady breaths of the captain, the rustle of cloth, and scrape of bootheels on concrete. His bird skull necklace bounced off his chest as he approached, his footfalls announcing his presence with all the menacing fanfare a man of his standing deserved.

"You really plan on holing it up in there all night?" Gideon crossed his arms and leaned against a curtained pillar, a tiki torch lying askew to his left. "You're going to be all dour and gloomy until what?" He sighed. "You can't kill me, Cap. You've tried and failed and now, you desire death. I didn't think you had it in you to be more boring but you've really outdone yourself."

From within the darkness, another rustle of fabric. "You said you would kill me, so let me die." Stormholden's voice had grown gruff and gritty over the hours. He should have taken the daiquiri Gideon had offered earlier.

At Gideon's back, a cacophony of screams rose from his guests as the DJ, some buffoon hiding behind a gorilla mask and oversized shades, tossed a beach ball into the crowd. Their auras swelled with delight as they leaped into the air, one after another, elated and furious to keep the toy airborne.

How simple, trivial, and childish. How easy to please and win their favor. If only the captain could have been more like them.

Gideon returned his attention to the captain, his aura still as interesting as a pair of khaki slacks. "Oh, here we go again." He rolled his eyes, as one of the hotel's bartenders, a woman with mud-colored hair and an impassive gaze sauntered past him with a platter of champagne flutes and caviar.

Quick as lightning, which happened to streak across the sky in a blaze of purple at the same time, Gideon plucked a flute off her tray. She eyed him with disdain, momentarily, before recognition softened her features. Here was the hotel's premier client, who'd reserved the penthouse suite and all twenty floors below it with cash alone - albeit, a few crumpled receipts Gideon had retrieved from the trash and disguised as cash, but since her tiny mind hadn't perceived the difference, why split hairs? At the realization of her blunder, she gave him a stiff bow before disappearing into the crowd.

Bubbles tickled Gideon's nostrils as he brought the drink to his lips and threw his head back. "You're mad. Throwing a tantrum," he said after wiping his mouth. "And while it was amusing for a time, and added a certain edge to your otherwise cliche character, you should really be getting over yourself." He raised his flute and held it out, letting his fingers slip into the darkness.

A chill clawed up his spine as he felt, what could only be described as the precursor to a storm. He tamped down this inkling, filing it away as absurd and chalking up its existence to the fourteen daiquiris and half-drunk champagne flute swimming around in his stomach.

Nothing more. Nothing cautionary or foreshadowing. Nothing his gut was trying to warn him against. He was Gideon Darquish, allied with a king. He had nothing to fear. "Have a drink. Let loose. Enjoy the celebration." He wiggled the flute, hoping to entice. "We're  in Reason. I couldn't have done so without you, Cap. In a way, this celebration is as much for you as it is for me."

Gideon waited until his hand started to tremble before he retracted it, rescinding his proffered olive branch. With a snort, he brought the drink to his lips and crushed it in a single gulp. The cabana remained deadly silent, its sole occupant refusing to oblige him. Stormholden couldn't even reward Gideon's attempt at civility with the same. Not a breath, a sigh, a shuffle of boot leather or a swish of that stupid tunic told Gideon that he had been heard. That he had been seen.

This irony, of feeling diminished and invisible, in a town, that until recently, suffered in kind, was not lost on the boy. No, it was made maddeningly clear and Gideon could not have been more infuriated.

"Why not pervert him?" Gideon's hand whispered. "His purpose has been exhausted, why not have fun?"

He closed his hand. That won't do. The captain has to remain pure. I want Nep to see her creation in all its glory before I ruin it.

"It's unwise to refuse my hospitality, Cap," he said, glaring into the cabana's depths, his mouth tight, muscles strained, patience depleted. "I trust you remember what happens when I'm denied my due."

A beat of silence. Another. Gideon's darkness shuddered overhead as his hand continued to argue the pros of perverting the captain now. That instant gratification would outweigh any trouble to be had later.

Gideon slammed his flute onto the ground. His magic appeared before his mind's eye - pitch-black and viscous. Viciously undulating like eels in a tank. He smiled as he reached out. The magic oozed, gravitating toward him like lava flows. Tendrils solidified into spikes before latching on to his arms and digging into his flesh.

From the darkness, a hollow chuckle floated to Gideon's ears. His magic abated. "Do your worst, demon." Stormholden grunted. "You've destroyed my home, strangled me, stripped me of my purpose. Made me doubt everything I am, everything I've seen, every experience I've had. Do you think whatever ills you concoct now will damage me further?" He snorted. "You have broken me. Now return to your hedonistic indulgences and leave me to my own devices."

Gideon yanked a pillow off a nearby lounger and hurled it into the cabana. "I've tried," he growled. A bead of sweat dripped over his cheek. Perplexed, Gideon reached up, pressing his finger into the wetness. His eyes wide in disbelief. "Even after all this, after perverting this backwater, nothing of a town into this never-sleeping metropolis, dealing with you is what causes me to sweat." He wiped his cheek. "You bring out the worst in me."

"Sounds like you're in awe of my abilities, demon. For I imagine it takes a particularly heated hatred to get you to do anything against your will."

Gideon mashed his teeth together. He'd had enough. No more. No goddamned more. The captain wouldn't spoil what was left of the night, of his night, any longer.

"Whatever happens next, Ire," he whirled around, his bird necklace taking flight as the momentum propelled it upward, "You're to blame."