Dec 21st, 2184
T-minus 1mP to Day 0, Punct 2184, in the Metric Calendar (approximately 9 hours shy of the northern winter solstice) marked the official start of the Zero Punct Celebration, set to culminate with the onset of the New Year.
The party room, always capacious enough to accommodate all the Immortals, showcased a new design each year. This year's space was expansive and circular, topped by an impressive transparent dome. The view was nothing short of spectacular: "The Farm," an immense sphere encased in a lattice of bioluminescent vines thriving in a vacuum, glowed majestically close to one edge, while the remainder of the panorama unfolded into an extravagant tableau set against the backdrop of a star-studded black sky, punctuated by the gleaming of distant asteroid mining operations. Far off, a significant red flare indicated that at least one Craterist was joining the festivities.
The decision to grant Janice complete control over the party's decorations proved to be a stroke of genius. The room became a living entity—dynamic and fluid, with blossoming shapes, shifting colors, and a blend of lighting that transitioned with elegance from intricate geometric patterns to organic biological motifs, from dense, verdant jungles to a pulsating dance floor. Instructed to govern her realm until the break of the New Year's day, Janice embraced the chance to flaunt her capabilities. What could have easily been an overwhelming, sensory-overloading display was, instead, masterfully executed, with the elements interplaying in harmony for virtually the entire event.
Further enriching this vibrant ambiance, each guest swayed and danced to their own playlist, with the music delivered through personal earpieces. This intimate auditory experience brought about a kaleidoscope of motion throughout the room, as individuals' movements uniquely complemented or stood in vivid contrast to the phantasmagoric spectacle Janice orchestrated.
Holes materialized within the walls of the round room, serving as portals through which guests emerged. As each Immortal stepped through, an elegant glass—either for wine or champagne—materialized in their hand. These vessels were engineered to perfection, immune to spills, and perpetually full. The alcohol, crafted from programmable matter, was as potent as its traditional counterpart, with the added advantage that it could be instantaneously converted into adrenaline for a swift return to sobriety if needed.
Dangling beneath the transparent dome was a floating chandelier, from which a holographic counter was suspended. Although a few Immortals arrived with colonists as guests or partners, it was the Immortals' entries that caused the counter to tick down. It had commenced at 211, and by tradition, the festivities would escalate as that number dwindled to zero. Punctuality was more than a courtesy; it was an unspoken rule, for it was considered poor etiquette to delay the eager anticipation of the assembled throng.
The ZPC called for attire that melded tradition with the quintessence of the colonies' technological advancements. Brenda appeared through a temporary portal, elegantly fashioned as a proper doorway, draped in a gown that defied expectations. The material, perhaps too advanced to be simply termed fabric, was a living canvas of programmable matter. With each step she took, the gown shimmered with landscapes of Earth's forgotten winters cascading down her silhouette—snowflakes gently alighting on pine forests, which then transitioned into scenes of the aurora borealis dancing across a twilight sky. Attentively, Janice adjusted her transformative décor to complement Brenda's ensemble, ensuring it never clashed.
Her eyes scanned the room for Richard, but too many shifting walls and partitions made it a visual maze—nearly impossible to navigate. Reflexively, she reached out for his beacon, only to remember that she didn't have her Halo. For this particular party, it was Janice's domain, and Halos had been intentionally left out of the equation. One had to commit to the circumstances set in motion before arrival.
Near the last, a couple arrived, and the motion and light caught Richard's attention. "Oh, Jesus Christ, always a grand entrance," he thought but did not look away.
Magnus and Helena made their appearance. Magnus was a vision of audacious grandeur, his attire pure flames, neck to floor. The fire seemed to blaze and flicker with every step. Richard was willing to bet it was real fire, with Janice working very hard to keep it from damaging anything or anyone. The fire licked and swirled around him, occasionally thinning just enough to reveal tantalizing glimpses of bare skin before the flames converged again, hiding him from view.
Beside him, Helena was the embodiment of ethereal frost, her gown an ever-shifting landscape of snow and ice. She looked like the embodiment of a harshly shaken snow globe trapped tight to her body. Each movement sent flurries of snowflakes cascading down her figure, while gusts of wintry wind played with her hair, turning it into a swirling blizzard. The gown's crystalline structures caught the light, casting a thousand tiny rainbows that danced around her. Like Magnus, her body was revealed in fleeting moments, the frosty veil never allowing more than a brief glimpse before wrapping her in its icy embrace once more.
The contrast between them was mesmerizing—fire and ice, chaos and tranquility, passion and calm. Their presence commanded the room, the very air crackling with the energy of their combined auras. It was a testament to their mastery over both themselves and their surroundings, a display of their power and control.
Brenda leaned back against a wall, trusting that Janice wouldn't whimsically decide to open an entryway there. She sipped her drink with slightly more eagerness than usual while surveying the expanding crowd. The counter was down to seventeen. Buried somewhere in the sea of faces was Richard, she was sure of it.
The last to arrive, for whom there was a significant penalty, was Douglas Dunleavy, whose bright red hair a fairly drunken Brenda mistook for Richard's. As per tradition, Douglas was encased in light amber and suspended where the countdown had been, allowing him to observe but not interact with the party whose beginning he had delayed. A few guests attempted to float up to tease him, but without their Halos, they were grounded. Janice turned a deaf ear to their verbal requests.
Janice simulated fireworks outside the dome, signifying that the party had begun in earnest, and the frenetic intensity of the shifting décor increased.
Richard's attire stood in striking, yet seemingly intentional contrast to Brenda's luminous ensemble. Cloaked in sartorial splendor, his suit was the embodiment of refined sophistication. An exquisite blend of smart-fabric fabricated from genuine matter, the suit was as dark as the void of space, yet twinkled with a constellation of miniature fiber-optic lights. These sparks of artificial stardust wove a celestial tapestry across his attire that morphed with every step he took, mirroring the ever-changing night sky and beckoning onlookers to a wondrous journey across the universe’s expanse.
Stealthily, Richard navigated the mingling crowd, making a silent orbit around Brenda’s position—a satellite in a self-imposed exile from her gravitational pull. This distance between them, both physical and temporal, had only served to deepen his longing and sharpen the fond memories of their interwoven dialogues. Yet, the shadow of past disputes loomed just as tangibly as their magnetic attraction, stubborn and unresolved. Their union—a fusion of body and mind, yet a divergence in spirit—remained a riddle wrapped in a star-crossed enigma. For Richard, bridging this cosmic chasm called for the numbing oblivion that only an ample supply of liquor could offer.
Lost in a tête-à-tête with the enigmatic St. Seres, Richard found himself nursing a seemingly bottomless glass of champagne, his attention stealthily anchored to the resplendent Helena. Against his will, his eyes kept tracking for an unobscured view of her breasts or other regions. With each sip, he yearned to will Janice’s omnipotent control to mute Magnus's irksome banter—a distraction from Helena's captivating presence. The champagne's effervescence emboldened him, making the St. Seres' suggestive proposition feel dangerously alluring.
Helena's radiance was undeniable; her dark skin was a canvas for the vivid contrast of her white, flower-like hair, her eyes a portal to uncharted depths, and her form, a sculpture of temptation—the embodiment of his concealed desires. Yet, the simmering animosity that coursed through the veins of his camaraderie with Magnus erected an invisible barrier, one not easily dissolved by the intoxicating vision before him.
Nevertheless, the mere notion propelled his thoughts into a tantalizing dance, and, as if moved by the undercurrents of the revelry around him, Richard found himself drifting. He retreated to the wall, deftly navigating through the throng, until he edged ever so close to Brenda. Their hands met in a fleeting caress, accidental yet saturated with the echoes of former closeness and passion.
As the Immortals swirled around them, caught in their own eddies of conversation and merriment—with glasses chiming symphonically, uproarious laughter punctuating the atmosphere, and murmurs conspiring in corners—Richard ensnared Brenda’s gaze. His look conveyed an inquiry that, though silent, reverberated with the profundity of their shared past and the gravity of all that had been left unsaid.
Their silhouettes swirled in synchronous harmony, as if Janice had orchestrated the confluence of melodies undetected, seamlessly blending their rhythms into a shared cadence. Amidst a sea of individualistic movements, Brenda and Richard found themselves unwitting partners in a synchronized dance, their motions aligning gracefully within the temporal fabric of the celebration.
Without a word exchanged, the two danced, allowing the music's resonance to fill the void of conversation—a harmonious truce that neither wished to shatter. They tacitly agreed to let the language of their bodies articulate the complexities of their relationship, surrendering to the physical discourse. Their glances spoke volumes, and the subtlest of touches sparked dialogue that no words could match.
Janice's uninvited symphony buoyed their connection, mingling notes and beats until they became entwined in a sweet harmonic rhapsody. The poignant possibility lingered behind each gesture, revealing the expanse of what lay hidden beneath the surface—a peaceful accord cradled in the chasm of their shared history. As they circled each other in this delicate pas de deux, the noise and chaos of the celebration faded to the periphery, leaving only their quiet negotiation amidst the din.
The long celebration continued but for them, time passed in a flash.
Abruptly, Dunleavy descended to the floor and was liberated from his amber prison. His place was swiftly claimed by a timer, igniting once more with the digits 10. In unison, the crowd's voices elevated the chant, "Ten." A fleeting Decimicropunct (approximately three seconds) elapsed before the number nine materialized, perpetuating the collective incantation. Amid the hastening tempo, guests scurried to align themselves with their chosen companions, adhering to the tradition of sealing the advent of the new year with a kiss.
Brenda and Richard exchanged a knowing glance, their fingers interlaced with unyielding certainty. Together, they joined the resounding countdown, each Decimicropunct punctuating the thickening atmosphere. The once lively music yielded to silence, and the dynamic decor decelerated in sync with the descending numerals. The revelry of the chamber hushed, focusing entirely on the imminent embrace of a new cycle, as anticipation coiled with the seconds dwindling.
The final count settling on zero, an exuberant cacophony erupted—a kaleidoscopic fusion of riotous carnival melodies and thunderous detonations. The dome's structure blazed into a scintillating supernova, bathing the revelers in an incandescent glow. Within this radiant spectacle, couples and thrupples alike were silhouetted against the luminescence, their lips locked in celebratory kisses that persisted even as the brilliant light gradually receded.
Then, as swiftly as the climax had come, it waned, leaving no trace of its grandeur. The room's illumination returned to its customary levels, the once enchanting decorations vanished into the ether, and the simulated glass of the dome receded, revealing the room's true, unadorned round walls, now transformed into a myriad of exits. Janice's voice, infused with a humorous inflection, resonated throughout the room, "The party is over; you don't have to go home but you can't stay here," her chuckle, rich with mirth and authenticity, signaled the inception of a brand-new year.
"I don't want to go home," Richard declared to Brenda, his words cutting through the shifting ambiance of the room. "And it appears I can't stay here." His smile held a glimmer of mischief.
That impish grin was the final image imprinted on his mind before the veil of unconsciousness descended. When awareness crept back to him, he found himself in the familiarity of Brenda's bedroom. With clarity of thought returned, he placed his Halo on his head, initiating the detox sequence to eradicate the remnants of alcohol from his system. As sobriety flooded his veins, the memories of the evening's escapades swarmed back, each recollection arriving with acute precision.
"Selbstzerstörungstendenz," Brenda articulated with sobering clarity. There was an ominous weight to her words whenever she resorted to her native German, and the translation Janice provided didn't make it any easier for Richard to swallow—'self-destructive tendency.' This poignant admission, meant to be her internal musing, starkly vocalized while the silence lingered.
Yet, inexplicably aware of what they were plunging back into, they both consented to another round of their intermittent romance without pretenses. With a wistful sense of recognition and an odd comfort in the familiarity of the cycle, Richard silently acquiesced. Perhaps there was a hint of optimism, or maybe it was just the tangle of their past that coaxed him—leaving him not entirely reluctant to explore the contours of 'us' once more.