Chapter 1.1.37 — Alias, Pythia

A city is nothing without its foundation.

Beneath the bustle and gleam of Belport’s skyline lies a framework of concrete, steel, piping, and wires, subways, electricity, and plumbing.

So much unseen. So much taken for granted.

And beneath even the skeleton and nerves of Belport, beneath the urban sprawl, lies the ruins of all that came before: Demolished brick from the industrial era, wattle and daub from the colonial era, tanned skins and bones from primitive nomads long forgotten.

The modern world was built atop the ruins of old, and not just physically, but in ideas and institutions as well. Heroic myths gave way to masks, capes, and villains. Windows to the outside traded for televisions and illusion. The bricks of providence laid by the hands of the poor upon their own backs—all at the direction of their lords.

What was a president or a CEO or a cape, but a lord by some other title?

Pythia walked the downtown streets of Belport, philosophizing silently to themself. The collar of their long coat was turned up and their pace was quick.

In a twisted mirror of the city, Pythia too was a product of those that came before. Poetry, philosophy, public school teachers, long dead professors, dusty books, bright screens…

And like all those that came before, Pythia wasn’t afraid of asking questions. They weren’t afraid of change. They weren’t afraid of a reckoning.

The question was: Are the supers the skyline, or are they the foundation?

Like all great minds that came before, Pythia formulated a hypothesis and resolved to test it.

~

Pythia followed Burton Street through the bustle of downtown to the Tempest Solutions building and passed through the revolving glass doors.

The lobby was impressive by normal standards. The whole of it was clad in stone and metal, like an ancient palace. Pythia’s heels clicked on the granite tiles and sunlight glinted off the enormous metal Tempest Solutions logo that covered the back wall. They walked past security and the dozen front desk clerks to the lobby elevators.

Pythia boarded the nearest elevator along with two businesswomen. None of them spoke—preferring to ride upward in anonymity.

Tempest Solutions wasn’t Pythia’s destination. Nor were the 45th or 46th floors that they pressed, nor the 26th or 67th that the other passengers selected.

Pythia was going to a space between.

The elevator rose, and shortly after, the first passenger stepped out on the 26th floor. But as the elevator neared the 40th floor, the compartment began to shimmer.

A moment later, Pythia appeared to get out on the 45th floor—

Pythia actually disembarked on a demiplane between floors 45 and 46.

This building’s iteration of the Donjon Club.

The elevator doors opened to a sprawling nightclub bathed in futuristic opulence. Neon lasers flickered in time with thumping bass. An illusion of the aurora borealis dominated the upper walls and the ceiling. Streams of mist fell in columns and pooled across the floor. Directly ahead, a dance floor filled with people and flanked by booths and lounges where the other attendees mingled, most holding drinks that glowed like miniature stars. On the outermost walls, more booths rose up like the side of ancient step pyramids.

The attendees of the club were simultaneously the strangest and most mundane of all. Everyone in attendance wore business or casual clothes, no different from anywhere else in Belport. And they were all supers.

Supers playing pretend.

A lithe woman with bright pink hair and pantsuit greeted Pythia as they entered. Pythia turned and lowered the coat over their shoulders expectantly. The hostess took their coat, revealing long white gloves and a sleeveless purple evening gown that shimmered in the lights.

“Welcome to the Donjon Club. Please mind the rules and enjoy your stay.”

Pythia glanced up at the top of the archway in front of her, reading the engraved reminder and creed of the Donjon Clubs:

No names. No powers.

The only names allowed here were single use, disposable monikers.

“Doff thy name,” Pythia muttered.

Today they would be Juliet.

Then Juliet tried her best to relax and look natural in a wholly unnatural place. She sauntered past the dance floor and the surrounding booths, deciding to find a spot in one of the lounge areas perched on the upper wall. Juliet climbed the stone stairs, scanning the crowd as she went.

There were two parts to their plan, and Pythia had just completed arguably the most difficult part:

Getting into the Donjon Club without raising any alarms.

~

There were dozens of Donjon establishments all throughout the world, all run by a shadowy cabal of sorcerers, illusionists, and reality warpers as old as myth. Each club was a fortified demiplane, completely separate from reality, and only accessible by privileged parties—in modern day, this meant supers.

But Pythia—Juliet—wasn’t interested in who ran the place. They were only interested in who was there.

Hopefully, the intel was good…

Even more than that, Juliet hoped no one talked to her. Any other night, they might have enjoyed the opulence and anonymity of this place. But tonight, Juliet needed to concentrate.

She tugged idly at her long white gloves, trying not to think about their silk-like material or the poison hidden just beneath the skin of her fingers.

It had been a gamble, one that ultimately Pythia—and their boss—agreed to.

Each Donjon plane and its cabal masters used magic to detect any uses of power by its attendees—no matter how strong or subtle. As such, Pythia couldn’t create their poison while they were in the club.

So Pythia made it hours ago, before they even crossed into downtown.

It sat now, just underneath the uppermost layer of the skin of their fingers and kept in place by Pythia’s focused will. It was a delicate exercise, like holding fresh, crumbly snow between the fingers. Hold too loosely and the poison would ooze through their pores. Hold too tightly and it might very well slip into their own bloodstream.

Pythia reminded themself to breathe as they ascended the top of the stairs and found an almost empty platform. Up here, an L-shaped leather couch and a small table overlooked the club.

Juliet sat on the edge of the couch, ignoring the couple on the other side. The two men leaned on each other, whispering flirtatiously and occasionally laughing to themselves.

Meanwhile, Juliet scanned the crowd until she found her target.

Thankfully, it didn’t take long.

Ricardo Olivera sat with a small group on a mid-tier platform across the club. Ricardo talked animatedly on the couch—clearly having a good time. Even from far away, Juliet could see the glint of his smile. He was dark and handsome.

Ricardo Olivera, alias Amarque. Member of the Summit of Heroes.

Pythia’s face felt flush, equal parts from finding their target and seeing the man.

It was another few minutes before Ricardo glanced in Juliet’s direction, and Juliet made a point to meet his eye. When he did a double take, Juliet was sure to smile, coyly.

Twice more, they connected across the club before Ricardo excused himself from his friends and went down to the bar. He ordered two drinks and brought them both up to Juliet’s platform.

Men were too easy.

As he approached, Juliet took in the rest of him. He wore a well-tailored suit, no tie, and he was broad shouldered, a stature expected from a physically minded super, not a reality warper.

Ricardo smiled when he reached Juliet’s couch. “You looked thirsty, but I wasn’t sure which you would prefer…” He indicated the drinks, one bright green, the other a deep red. “Melon prosecco or cranberry bourbon?

“I’ll have the prosecco and the company,” Juliet replied, not bothering to look at the other drink. It was important to maintain the illusion that Juliet was a bachelorette that knew what she wanted… which was intimately close to the truth.

Meanwhile, Pythia wondered why a man who could have anything would limit his choices.

Ricardo nodded to the couple on the other end of the L-shaped couch and sat an arm away from Juliet. He had a distinguished air about him—the kind of confidence born from true power. Even so, Ricardo seemed to take in the sight of Juliet carefully, even delicately.

Juliet sipped on her drink with muted enjoyment; it really was quite good. Though she could only enjoy it so much while concentrating on holding the poison in her skin. Ricardo seemed pleased at her reaction and tried his own drink.

“I wonder what you would say if I didn’t want either.”

Ricardo waved away her concern. “I would ask what you were in the mood for, and bring it to you, salvaging my dignity along the way.”

Juliet relaxed on the couch and into the act. “Surely a refusal wouldn’t harm your dignity.”

“Any man who says they don’t covet the smile of a beautiful stranger is a liar.”

“Something tells me smiles aren’t hard to come by.”

“No, I suppose not, but the intrigue of a stranger is.” Ricardo smirked and sipped his drink.

Juliet pressed her luck. “You must live quite the life if nothing surprises you.” It was taboo to pry into a super’s identities while in the Donjon Clubs, but Juliet was bold.

“That’s why I’m here,” Ricardo replied, toasting his glass to the club. “No names. No powers…”

“All surprises.”

“Exactly! What about you… Why are you here?” Ricardo leaned attentively toward her.

Juliet leaned forward to match him. “I’m looking for something different. Though a surprise would be nice too.”

“Why stop at one?”

As he spoke, Juliet flushed and took his hand, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles, then rubbing his wrist and just up his sleeve. Poison that she’d been holding onto seeped through the special material of her gloves and into Ricardo’s skin.

He wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

“I’m going to freshen up,” Juliet said, standing and leaning over closer to him. She ran her other hand behind Ricardo’s neck, releasing the rest of the poison before leaning over to whisper in his ear. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Beside them, the couple laughed, and Juliet winked at them before descending the stairs.

With any luck, Ricardo was watching her go, intent on waiting for her to return—for a promise unfulfilled.

She passed the bar and turned like she was going to the restrooms, but stopped at the front desk to ask for her coat. A moment later Pythia put it on, hiked the collar, and left Juliet and the bar behind.

Pythia walked quickly.

There would be a few minutes before Ricardo felt the effects of the poison. And a few minutes more before downtown Belport was destroyed.

~ ~ ~