2019-07-31 - Rotgut Superpowers

Mistakes were made.

The sunlight tried its best to get through the curtains and stab at Alexander’s eyes with vicious intensity. He hastily twisted away from the line of it, burying his face in his pillow. What the fuck had he done?

He remembered the Archivist. The typing pool. Being pretty fucking angry at every single creature on the planet, including himself and whatever gods might exist. Walking down to the Two if By Sea to drink. To drink a lot.

Which explained why his mouth felt like whole civilizations had grown there, flourished, then fell to rot. And his head was approximately two sizes too big and he was pretty sure it was going to fall off if he moved too fast. Or split apart into a flower of blood and bone and brain, which might hurt less than the headache he currently had. Memory flickered – faces familiar and unfamiliar. He hastily lifted the sheets, checked the bed. He wasn’t covered in blood, and it didn’t look like he’d shared his bed with anyone. Even though he vaguely remembered obliquely propositioning a couple of strangers. And possibly Easton’s girlfriend, who--

Had he DANCED? He tentatively poked at the memory and came away with a resounding…maybe? He remembered touching. And talking. A lot. That was never good. And the Captain had been there. Oh please, if You have any mercy at all, he prayed for the first time in a decade, please don’t let me have danced with de la Vega.

Alexander staggered to his feet, his leg a dull throb. He swayed in place, then made his way towards the bathroom, stopping briefly to peer into the living room. Luigi’s morning greeting was shrill enough to make him wince. Isolde’s couch was empty and unslept in. Wasn’t she there, at the bar? He thought he remembered her. Unease slipped through him. He swiped at the light switch to check and make sure she wasn’t there, sitting somewhere in the dark for some reason. His hand fell way short, but something sparked within him, he felt the connection gap behind the switch, filled it by instinct with the power crackling through his nerves. The light came on, his fingers several inches from the switch. “What the fuck?”

His concentration wavered, and the light went out. Luigi twittered in confusion, hopping from perch to perch. “You and me both,” he muttered. Then reached out for the circuit he could feel in his mind, drew the electricity across the gap with a twitch of his fingers. The light came on again. Another twitch, and it went off. On. Off. On. Off. On. Luigi shrieked in irritation, and Alexander fought the urge to clap his hands over his ears. Instead, he let the connection fall apart one more time, and muttered, “Sorry,” as the lights went out again.

He staggered his way to the bathroom, turning on the light the usual way, and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked haggard, but uninjured, although he checked his head for bruises or cuts just to be sure. Then he lifted one hand, concentrated, and lightning boiled up out of his fingers, rising in short, seeking arcs to play over the walls and the mirrors with a harsh, blue-white light. The electricity reflected in his dark eyes like a distant storm, and Alexander licked his dry, cracked lips.

This was fine. Everything was fine.