Deimatic Behavior

I'M THE SMARTEST ACTUAL human on the planet.

Also the strongest. And the fastest.

But despite my best efforts, I'm not the drunkest. This stupid airplane hasn't stocked enough booze to do the job.

It doesn't help that I'm competing for alcohol with three Darklings up in first class. My hearing is (of course) the best a human's can be, and I can hear quite clearly that they're having a drinking contest.

I saw the Darklings when I got on the plane: a vampire, a werewolf, and a demon one-off whose hide is a patchwork of human skin, mammal fur, bird feathers, and insect chitin. That's only what I could see on her face and hands; under her Armani, she likely has an entire zoo's worth of integument. Fish scales. Tortoise shell. Jelly from Cnidaria. Maybe tree bark and vegetable rinds, too. Even stuff from extraterrestrials.

I should ask if she'd let me examine her — I need a project for Biology 399. But she'd likely tell me to go to hell. I've never met a Darkling who wasn't a mean drunk.

All three Darklings sound like drunken assholes. They're loud enough that even the normal people around me can hear them. At this moment, the Darklings are hassling the cute guy who's playing air host for first class.

On major flights like New York to London, the airlines know that first-class attendants will have to deal with obnoxious Darklings, so every attendant gets an amulet or psi-shield to defend against magical mind-stomps. But gadgets like that are ungodly expensive; on pissy little runs like this one from Edmonton toWaterloo, the staff are expected to resist through sheer force of will.

Yeah, right. Even back here in sub-sub-economy, I can feel the Darklings flaring their Shadows. Every passenger on the plane is staggered by the effect — faces pale, hands trembling. A couple folks are puking into their barf bags.

The first-class air host is probably hyperventilating into an oxygen mask. But I can't tell for sure — the curtain is drawn between the first-class cabin and ours. Still, it pisses me off.

Oh, look, I'm up on my feet.

I'm not immune to the force of Darkling Shadows, but being a superpowered Spark, I have a dollop of mental resistance. On a scale from zero to shitting myself, walking toward the Darklings matches what I felt when my academic adviser told me I was close to flunking out. Or maybe more like before a hockey game, when our team is up against strong opposition. I just tell myself that fear won't improve my game, so I go on offense.

Like I'm doing now.

I force myself forward rather than running back to the bathrooms — partly because a crowd is already stampeding to bathroom-land, but mostly cuz I'm a heroine, fighting fuckery wherever I find it.

Also I'm half-drunk and making bad choices. So there's that.

I push through the curtains and enter first class. It's empty except for attendant-dude and the three Darklings. Two other seats have a lived-in look, with their TVs displaying a business channel and with hastily discarded copies of the Financial Post covering damp spots on the upholstery. The occupants of those seats are nowhere in sight — probably locked in the up-front washrooms.

Good. It means I don't need to worry about bystanders. I just have to figure out what I'm going to do.

Aw, fuck this, I'm drunk. I'll wing it.

"Yo!" I say. "What's holding up my drinks?"

The Darklings turn their eyes toward me: vampire red, werewolf green, and the demon's one-brown–one-composite. The werewolf is already furry. Thank you, baby Jesus. Actually seeing a werewolf change is enough to make your bladder crawl out of your panties. If that part is done, the worst is over.

I'm assuming, of course, that the Darklings won't actually fight me. That's a reasonable assumption: the Dark are as rich as fuck, so they don't like getting their hair mussed. Usually, they pay other people to do their rough tough dirty work. Besides, these Darklings probably own stock in this airline, so they won't want to cause costly damage. On the other hand, they may be drunker than me, if only because first-class passengers get all their hooch for free.

After a moment of silently staring at me and wondering, "Who the fuck is this bitch?" all three Darklings amp their Shadows in an attempt to turn my brain into pudding. In Bio 370, we called this deimatic behavior: attempting to intimidate other creatures by physical displays, like cobras flaring their hoods or poison frogs inflating their butt cheeks. Most normal humans would collapse under the psychological onslaught. However, it's common knowledge that alcohol makes some people immune to Darkling Shadows. I won't endanger my secret identity if I pretend not to feel their mental mugging.

More interestingly, the hottie air attendant doesn't seem too crushed either. His skin is a perfect black — I mean really black, and also perfect, making me want to rub my face all over his body — so the guy will never go pale, no matter how frightened he gets. But despite being here at ground zero of the Darkling auras, Mr. Dude only looks a bit shaky. He hasn't even retreated behind his coffee cart.

Maybe the airline did give the guy a defensive talisman. Or maybe he's the one-in-a-million human with natural resistance to magic. Or maybe, like me, he's just numbed himself with C2H6O, which makes perfect sense if you know you're going to spend a three-hour flight rubbing elbows with the Dark.

"Miss," the attendant says, "please return to your seat."

I say, "I will, but not empty-handed." I'm surprised the words come out anywhere near intelligible — the Darklings are still trying to make my brain cells shrivel.

With every passing moment, retreat gets more attractive. I came up here because I thought the Darklings were making waves without adult supervision. Now that I see Mr. Hottie isn't jabbering in panic, I'm okay with letting him deal with the situation. It's his job, after all; and while I happen to be the most tactful, diplomatic human on the planet, and therefore a better smoother-overer of Darkling jackassery than Mr. Air Host Cutie Dude, I'm also hella respectful and would never undermine his authority by trying to do his work for him. I'm also not so completely in the bag as to ignore the chance that me and the Darklings are gonna brawl if diplomacy fails. Since a three-onone Darkling-slash-superhero fight is a bad idea at thirty thousand feet, I'm prepared to retire graciously without further ado.

As soon as I...