The Universe's Mixer

THE VIOLETTA MURDERS

That headline haunted Erik as he stepped out of his town car. He'd already read the newspaper article, heard the broadcasts on the television, investigated the site himself, as well as he could... The Violetta Murders -- unimaginative, childish, lacking in finesse. Although the City was abuzz with the bloody intrigue of piles of corpses left in the street last night, corpses dressed with perfect replicas of the outfit his Christine wore for La Traviata, Erik found himself infuriated rather than horrified.

No stranger to the mania that could surround a successful diva, and no stranger to the brutality of human depravity, Erik saw the crime for what it was. Clearly, his Christine was the ultimate target. The Violetta Murders themselves? A message, perhaps. A fantasy enacted on those fortunate enough to resemble his pupil. Practice. Whatever it was, he would not permit it to stand, would not permit it to continue, and would never allow Christine herself to be caught up in whatever puerile attempt this might be. While the City's law enforcement began its investigation, Erik had begun one of his own. He would find the truth.

Another safeguard for his Christine, and one that fit well into his existing plan, brought him to the jeweler's, where he now stood. The storefront was sleek, black, powerful - with understated, simple silver font proclaiming it to be "Babiole". He stepped to the window cases and with a critical eye examined the display pieces for the quality that the store felt worthy enough to display. Was it worthy enough for Christine?

There was something oddly appealing about putting on fancy clothes and going to large, decadent events, Errol thought. He would have thought that it was just the pleasure he got from breaking the taboos of his old life, but it seemed to be shared by enough of those that he'd met to decide that it was something commonly shared. He found that common bond of humanity pleasing.

But the events were also occasionally overwhelming, and he was glad to drop back into his ordinary routine and comfortable clothes, letting himself in to Bookmark Books with a bag of breakfast pastries. Back into Bookmark where things would not be quite the same--not since the opera. And accompanying Beauty to the wedding reception. Things were different now. Not bad, but--different. He'd given that a lot of thought, lately.

He made a point of setting the bag of pastries down noisily, announcing himself, a new habit. Near-silence had its time and place, but he felt guilty when he made Beauty jump in surprise.

Zoe had been hurt before. She'd been a gorram zombie and dead! But, nothing, nothing prepared her for this. This plague. She didn't care what the receptionist said, or the men in security, or even the doctor. This was the plague. She didn't wine, yet she knew something wasn't right.

The Amazon had left work earlier than normal and stocked up on things that everyone seemed to think was good. Sure, people got sick in her time, but it wasn't the same. She could easily fix things back home; they had a quick fix for so many things. And, she'd dealt with so much worse; she'd been in a war after all.

She'd tried to get into the Batsuit, but one sneeze in the damn helmet had her thinking otherwise about going out on patrol. So, she'd gone home. She'd let the steam gather in the shower. She'd used a small vaporizer. She'd started the tea, and the broth.

As if it might make her feel better, she pulled the scarf from the package it'd shown up in and wrapped it around her neck. She poured the tea and broth in small cups, and had every intention of drinking them. It didn't happen. As soon as she curled up on the couch, she drifted off to a rest; the scarf wrapped bout her, her robe tight about her too.