Nocte Yin: Anti-Villain, Anti-Hero and Anti-Everything Else

Chapter Eleven

Nocte traced the box marked “Monday” on the kitchen calendar. She was no longer surprised to find that the days of the year matched Erisire’s, much less the passing of the day in a twelve-hour cycle. She was not shocked to see that the sun rose and the moon set on Earth, or that airplanes were (according to the encyclopaedia) vehicles that could fly using the air and engines to propel them up and away. She was, though, momentarily taken aback to find that the constellations were different. But then of course they’d be different. Earth was in a whole different part of the universe.

“So what time are we leaving again?!” someone from the dining room demanded, and loudly too.

Nocte cringed and pushed away from the refrigerator where the calendar was posted, and rubbed her face until it was warm again. She did not move very far though, not when the house had so many wandering about, jumpy and much too excited for the night’s proceedings. The oxygen tank was taking up space she could have used for herself. The house was much too crowded that evening.

Nocte was not a happy camper.

A day had passed since that humble lunch of bread and salad, but if had felt like years for Nocte. For the past twenty-four hours the doorbell had not stopped ringing, not even now of all times. (Their “guests” were running a bit close to the deadline, weren’t they?) She had tried not to, but every time when it sounded, Nocte expected someone from Erisire to haul her away, and every time she’d be disappointed to find instead a comrade of Marie and Burghard’s. The term “comrade” was used loosely when none of the members of their “group” seemed very fond of each other.

“When’s the concert again?!” another stranger in the house yelled.

Nocte closed her eyes and took a step back, forgetting that the fridge was behind her.

It was the night of Siren’s concert and Marie’s “group” of “comrades” were in the house getting ready to go. Throughout a day and a half, strangers had come and gone from the house, making plans and discussing schemes. Again, the terms “plans” and “schemes” were not really “plans” or “schemes.” Apparently Nahele had already worked everything out weeks before. It was going to be a quick “grab ‘n’ go.”

“Siren won’t know what hit her!” a woman shouted, shaking her bottle of Labatt Blue in the middle of the living room.

“HERE, HERE!” the others responded enthusiastically.

They waved their beers in the air and spilled foam onto Marie’s nice hardwood floors, something Nocte caught Burghard flinching at. She would’ve helped if she weren’t so irritated at the “group,” for they were a loud bunch, and a drunk bunch, gurgling the alcohol like a man having just found an oasis. Someone had brought a DVD of Siren’s music videos and it was now playing rather nosily on the T.V. Every light was “on” in the house, and some of the cars in the driveway (and some trickling out to the road) were left running.

For a group wanting the destruction of a planet, they weren’t very… villain-like.

Nocte frowned. She shouldn’t be judging; sometimes the best villains were the most unlikely of peoples.

She “eeped” when a man fell head-first onto the kitchen tiles, flat-out passed out. Fortunately for Burghard, who probably would have pulled his hair out, Nocte had grabbed the bottle of Molson Canadian out of the man’s grasp before it could shatter over the floor and counters.

“Obviously.” Nocte rolled her eyes. “He’s not villain material.”

She wondered how many people were in the house at the moment; it was getting hard to breathe. She had been surprised when Marie had informed her that their organization (more like “cult,” Nahele’s “cult”) numbered to the discreet thousands worldwide. “Just over five hundred in Canada,” Marie had said, almost a bit disappointed. But Nocte didn’t think all five hundred could possibly fit in the house that night.