The air in Bathilda's parlor, usually light with a subtle, cheery undertone, now vibrated with her barely contained frustration. Scout Jones, perched on the edge of the plush sofa, held his tea as if it were a fragile truce offering, his previous cheerful demeanor evaporated. Hiro, ever the observer, reclined beside him, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips.

  Bathilda paced, her hair swirling like a halo of agitated energy. The recent exchange with Tom and Gladys, a forced bestowal of unwanted responsibilities, had left her feeling less like a savior and more like a dictator. The promotion Scout Jones had announced, now upgraded to Diplomat Jones, was far from being a reward and seemed a convenient way for the city to keep her at arm's length. A leash disguised as a laurel.

  "Redemption?" she scoffed, her voice laced with incredulity. "You mean acceptance, don't you? What grand sins do you imagine I'm atoning for?"

  Diplomat Jones, his newfound confidence faltering, attempted a placating tone. "It's just… you possess a certain… intensity. A power that suggests a… complex past." He gestured vaguely, his gaze darting around the room, as if searching for an escape route. "Surviving out here, alone, speaks volumes, doesn't it?"

  "Volumes of what? Resilience? Self-sufficiency?" Bathilda’s voice rose, a low growl rumbling beneath the surface. "Or is it just that I don't fit your governments neat little narrative of a damsel in distress, waiting for a knight in shining armor? This isn't some fairy tale, Jones. This is survival."

  Hiro, sensing the escalating tension, interjected, his voice smooth and calming. "She's got a point, bud. You're viewing her through a lens of your own preconceptions. She saved your asses, didn't she? That's a pretty tangible act of goodwill."

  Bathilda whirled around, her eyes flashing. "Exactly! I arrive, I avert a catastrophe, and what do I get? Suspicion. Whispers. Fear." She paused, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "Why can't they just… accept me? Why can't they see me as an asset?"

  She gestured wildly, her movements echoing the restless energy that pulsed through her. "I'm strong. I can defend them. I can heal them. I can even feed them." A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. "And yet, I'm treated like a pariah. Like some monstrous threat lurking in the shadows rather than saviour."

  She kicked at the ornate rug, the sound muffled but sharp, a punctuation mark in her tirade. "Shouldn't it be the opposite? Shouldn't they see me as a guardian? A shield against the darkness? Someone who can banish their fears, not amplify them?"

  Her voice dropped to a low, frustrated murmur. "Instead, I'm the boogeyman. The outsider. The one to be feared. It's… illogical."

  She turned away, her shoulders slumped, the picture of wounded pride. A bottle of rich, ruby-red wine materialized in her hand, the glass catching the dim light of the parlor. She uncorked it with a sharp, decisive twist, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.

  Hiro watched her, his expression a mixture of amusement and concern. He knew Bathilda’s frustrations stemmed from a deeper longing, a desire to belong, to be accepted for who she was, not judged for what she was. Jones, still clutching his tea, looked on with a mixture of fear and dawning understanding. He had stepped into a whirlwind of powerful emotions, and he wasn't sure if he could weather the storm.

  Bathilda took a long, deep draught of the wine, the liquid a dark, swirling contrast to her pale skin. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the soft clinking of the bottle against the table as she set it down. The wine, a catalyst for truth and unfiltered emotion, was about to unleash a torrent of words, a raw, unfiltered outpouring of her soul, and neither Jones nor Hiro could anticipate the sermon that was about to begin.

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  Instead, a soft sigh escaped Bathilda's lips. Her eyelids fluttered, then stilled. Her head dipped, a slow, graceful descent, until it rested gently against the cool surface of the table. The promised sermon, the anticipated deluge of raw honesty, evaporated, leaving only the lingering scent of dark berries and the heavy, anticlimactic thud of unconsciousness.

  Bathilda’s eyelids fluttered, a slow, reluctant unveiling of the world. A dull throb pulsed behind her temples, a familiar echo of a time surrendered to the grape. Disorientation clung to her like a damp shroud. She remembered the heady aroma of the wine she’d conjured, a deep, ruby elixir promising to sooth her evening. But the thread of memory frayed abruptly, leaving a yawning chasm of blankness.

  Her enhanced physique, a recent and thrilling development, had instilled a misplaced confidence in her. It seemed, however, that even augmented physiology couldn’t entirely conquer the ancient, potent magic of fermentation.

  A wave of unease washed over her. What had she done? What had she said? The fear of drunken indiscretions, amplified by her newfound abilities, sent a shiver down her spine. "As long as I didn't accidentally vaporize anyone," she muttered, a dark humor masking her genuine concern.

  Steeling herself, she ventured into the lounge. The scene before her confirmed her suspicions: something had definitely transpired. Hiro, sprawled on the sofa, radiated amusement like a heat lamp. His eyes, bright with mischievous glee, were fixed on her. Jones, the scout-turned-diplomat, sat beside him, his posture rigid, his gaze resolutely averted. The air crackled with unspoken narratives.

  Hiro’s laughter, a booming, unrestrained sound, erupted, shattering the tense silence. Jones, caught in the crossfire of Hiro’s mirth, looked like a statue carved from anxiety. Bathilda’s cheeks burned. She was a spectacle, a source of entertainment.

  "Alright, out with it," she demanded, her voice a strained rasp. "I know I made a fool of myself. Just tell me how bad it was."

  Hiro, feigning innocence, wiped a tear from his eye. "What? Me? I wouldn't dream of it." But his grin betrayed him, a wide, predatory curve that promised a delicious recounting of her debauchery.

  "Hiro," she pleaded, her voice laced with a tremor of genuine distress. "Please. Did I… did I do anything... terrible?"

  He paused, a flicker of something resembling sympathy crossing his features, quickly replaced by a renewed wave of amusement. "Terrible? No, no, nothing like that. Just… spectacularly clumsy. After you took a sip of that… that divine nectar – which, by the way, you’ve been criminally withholding – you simply… collapsed. Like a marionette with its strings cut. One moment, you were standing there, radiating a kind of magnificent, drunken fury, the next, you were face-planted on the rug." He dissolved into another fit of laughter, clutching his sides.

  “I... passed out?” Bathilda repeated, her voice incredulous. “Just like that?"

  Hiro nodded, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Yep. Gone. Lights out. I carried you to bed twenty minutes ago, by the way. A heroic feat, if I do say so myself. Jones and I then valiantly finished the bottle. He was a wreck, poor guy. You really shouldn’t take your frustrations out on him like that. He’s a good egg. But, back to the point, I think I deserve a reward for my chivalry. Another bottle of that… what was it again? It tasted like liquid starlight.”

  “Twenty minutes?” Bathilda asked, her mind reeling. “You carried me to bed twenty minutes ago?” The timeline felt warped, distorted by the wine’s potent magic.

  To appease Hiro, and to try to salvage what was left of the evening, she conjured another bottle of the wine, explaining its composition in a hushed, almost reverent tone. She took a tentative sip, the rich, velvety liquid sliding down her throat. Perhaps, she thought, she could redeem the night.

  But the wine, a seductive siren, proved too tempting. The world dissolved once more, the edges blurring, the sounds fading. When she awoke again, the familiar ache in her head and the crumpled sheets confirmed her suspicions. Another blackout. Another loss to the intoxicating allure of her own creation.

  "Damn it!" she hissed, the word a frustrated sigh echoing in the quiet room. The cycle of wine, oblivion, and embarrassment seemed destined to repeat itself.