The Lasso of Truth shimmered around Dionysus' wrist, glowing with a warm golden light that somehow felt both gentle and uncompromising. The god of wine looked toward Diana as she strode forward.
"Why are you here? Have you come to interfere in my affairs? To protect this blasphemous mortal?"
Diana stopped a few paces in front of him, one hand holding the lasso.
"I was returning to Themyscira when I sensed the surge of divine power you were releasing. Such an intense manifestation of authority in a place where mortals gather violates the ancient covenant. I'm not here to protect anyone. I'm here to stop you from making a mistake you'll regret."
She gestured with her free hand toward the crowd around them.
"Look at them. Your revel has crossed the line. This isn't a natural celebration anymore. It's a forcible distortion brought on by divine power."
"Crossed the line? Distortion?" Dionysus shook his head, trying to wrench himself free of the lasso. The golden rope didn't budge. Instead, a stronger binding force pulsed through it, and Marco could see the god's movements slow, like he was moving through water. "You don't understand. This mortal is different! I didn't try to destroy him at first. I tried to grant him joy, but he refused! My power failed on him."
He stared at Marco.
"This shouldn't be possible. Unless he's not truly mortal, or his soul has been blessed by some higher power... or cursed. But he had the audacity to use his filthy fist to make a true god bleed! That is blasphemy!"
Diana's gaze shifted to Marco. Then, without warning, she flicked her wrist. The other end of the golden lasso shot out and coiled around Marco's wrist before he could react.
"Hey—"
"Answer me, mortal." Diana's voice left no room for argument. "What is your name?"
"Marco Vitale."
"Where do you come from?"
"Gotham City Police Department."
"What brings you to Key West?"
"Road trip."
"Why can you resist the wine god's power?"
"I don't know."
Diana studied him for a long moment. Then she laughed. The lasso loosened from both their wrists and retracted to her belt, coiling itself neatly at her hip.
"There," she said, looking back at Dionysus. "He's just an ordinary man. No one can lie while bound by the Lasso of Truth. I suspect he had some unusual encounter when he was very young, or perhaps..."
A note of helplessness crossed her face. "Perhaps Father got involved again."
Dionysus gave Marco another long look. "I don't sense any demigod blood in him. But with the King of the Gods..." He shrugged, some of the fury draining out of him. "Who knows. He's fathered enough bastards to populate a small city."
"Dionysus. A true god shouldn't lose his composure over a mortal's peculiarity. If he's truly immune to your transformative power, then perhaps it's the design of fate. Or some mystery we don't yet understand. Return to Olympus. Or go seek out mortals who are willing to accept your gifts. This place doesn't belong to you anymore."
Dionysus looked at her for a moment. Then, the destructive energy gathering around him dissipated. His form shifted, the glowing divine aura fading until he looked like nothing more than a handsome young man in a linen shirt and jeans.
"You're always right, Diana," he said quietly. "It's exhausting."
His form began to blur around the edges, becoming translucent. Within seconds, he'd dissolved entirely into a thin mist. The mist dispersed on the humid sea breeze, leaving nothing behind.
The moment Dionysus vanished, the pressure in the air evaporated completely. The music, which had been warped into harsh, discordant noise, snapped back to its original lighthearted reggae and folk tunes. The temperature returned to normal. Even the sky seemed to lighten slightly, though the sun had already set.
But the crowd didn't immediately return to normal.
The divine influence was gone, but what it left behind was chaos.
Fire dancers stared blankly at the extinguished torches in their hands, looking confused and vaguely horrified. The acrobats' human tower collapsed with a crash, bodies tumbling to the ground. Street musicians stopped playing mid-song, staring at their instruments like they'd never seen them before.
And then there were the people who had torn their clothes off.
"Oh my God... where are my pants?!"
"I was just...oh Jesus... I was doing what with my boss?! Stop! Stop! We can't... your wife is right there!"
"Mom! I swear I'm not usually like this! I don't know what happened!"
"Who hung my shirt on the streetlight?!"
"Get away from me! What are you doing with that candlestick?!"
People scrambled frantically for anything to cover themselves. Some tried to explain their inexplicable behavior to friends, strangers, or the cameras that several tourists were still holding. Others just ran, sprinting away from the scene as fast as their legs could carry them.
It was pandemonium.
Marco stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the apocalyptic farce unfold. He instinctively tightened his grip on his pockets, making sure his badge and wallet were still secure.
"This is going to be a hell of a mess," he muttered.
Diana stood beside him. As someone who'd dealt with the Olympians for most of her very long life, she understood how mortals could lose control under divine influence. But understanding it didn't make the spectacle any less absurd.
She turned her attention back to Marco.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
Marco looked up at her and nodded.
"Thanks, Wonder Woman!"
"You know who I am?" She looked curious.
"Yeah. I mean, no. I mean..." He took a breath, trying to get his thoughts in order. "I've heard of you." His brain stuttered. "Jaina... uh... Proudmoore?"
Diana's expression went flat. "What?"
"Jaina Proudmoore. That's your name, right?"
"My name is Diana Prince," she said slowly.
Marco felt heat rise to his face. "Yeah. Diana Prince. Of course. It's a New Jersey thing. Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain."
Diana stared at him for a moment. Then she smiled, just slightly.
"You're an interesting man, Officer Vitale. But I think my work here is finished. It's time for me to leave."
"Oh. Thanks again." Marco nodded.
"You're welcome." Diana turned and walked toward the edge of the square. Within moments, she'd disappeared into the crowd and the deepening night, leaving Marco standing alone.
He sat down on a low concrete wall and settled in to watch the show. The chaos was still going strong, if anything, it was getting worse as people started to realize everything was being recorded on dozens of smartphones. Fights were breaking out. Someone was crying. A woman in a tablecloth was arguing with a cop who looked like he deeply regretted every life choice that had led him to this moment.
He was about five minutes into his people-watching when someone spoke from beside him.
"Hey, man. What the hell just happened here?"
Marco turned his head. A burly, shirtless guy with a thick beard stood nearby, staring at the chaos. He looked like he'd just crawled out of the ocean, his hair was soaked, and there was seaweed clinging to his jeans.
"Nothing much," Marco said. "Probably too much booze or weed. You know how it is."
He shifted over slightly on the wall. "Want to sit and watch for a while?"
"Uh... no. No thanks." The guy scratched his head, looking uncomfortable. "I was just wondering if anything unusual happened."
"Hm..." Marco gestured at the scene in front of them. "You call this normal? Or do the people here just have insanely high tolerance for weird shit?"
"I'm not from Florida," the man muttered under his breath. "Alright. Got it. Thanks."
He turned and walked toward the edge of the pier with long. Then, without hesitation, he dove headfirst into the ocean.
"Hey! That's not a safe spot to..." Marco stood up, but the guy was already gone, disappearing beneath the water without a trace. "Ugh."
He sat back down, shaking his head. Getting into the water from that spot was easy, sure. But reaching the shore from there meant swimming halfway around the island, fighting the current the whole way. Chances were the Coast Guard would be fishing him out within the hour.
"And you say you're not from Florida," he muttered.
---
Marco had originally planned to head back to Gotham the next morning. Pack up, hit the road, maybe grab some Cuban coffee for the drive north.
But then he started seeing the news stories.
A man in Tampa had been chased and beaten by a gang of feral monkeys for three straight months. Apparently, he'd thrown a banana peel at one of them, and they'd decided to make his life a living hell as revenge.
A teenager in Orlando had put on a full alligator costume and jumped into a gator pit at a wildlife park, trying to "bond with his reptilian friends." He'd survived, somehow, and was now facing criminal charges and a lifetime ban from the park.
Someone in Miami had broken into a county jail because he wanted to spend more time with his friends who were serving sentences.
A well-meaning activist in Jacksonville had tried to promote anti-drug awareness by burning a pile of marijuana in the middle of a public park. The smoke had gotten half the neighborhood high, including a group of elementary school kids on a field trip.
Every time Marco thought about leaving, a new headline would pop up. And every time he packed his bag, someone would do something so spectacularly stupid that he had to stay just one more day to see how it played out.
It wasn't until the sixth time he postponed his departure that he finally forced himself to make a decision.
He sat in his motel room with the TV on, staring at yet another news story, this one involving a stolen ice cream truck and a high-speed chase through a retirement community, before he muted the sound and stood up.
"No," he said out loud. "I'm going home."
He grabbed his duffel bag, checked out of the motel, and walked to his car without looking back. Then he threw the bag in the passenger seat, started the engine, and pulled out onto the road.
He didn't stop driving until he hit the Georgia state line.
And even then, he kept the radio off, just in case he heard another story that might tempt him to turn around.