In Central Park, the stones are rising.

Antaeus's Great Commission for Lord Apocalypse comes together rapidly, seamlessly. He ignores the exertion as the ground quakes and twists and soars.

Finally, he strains his neck to eye his work, the towering, twisted, cold citadel, which just needs a little help from his fellows, and it seems his face is still capable of a smirk. "Antoni Gaudi would look up from his skull cathedrals and tremble," he mutters.