It didn't show in her face--cool, serene, expertly made up--or her pretty white hands--calm, still, clasped atop her knee--or the fold of her knees, of the tilt of her neck against the car seat leather, or the pitch of her voice as she directed her driver to Highway's door. In fact one would be very hard pressed to detect anything amiss in Hana Sato...unless one knew very well where to look.
Mischa would've noticed. Mischa would've looked at the floor-length dress and boots, and dialed the fire department. But Mischa was already too dearly involved with this mess; Sato would be damned if she let her heir get stuck any further.
Well, as much as a self-declared heretic could be damned.
The problem with that, Sato reflected sourly, is that heresy sounds a lot less chic and a lot more stupid when you're willingly doing what you certainly know is wrong. She'd had few qualms breaking the conventions of her kind when she was young(er). But she seldom flirted with the laws and obligations those conventions symbolized. Even when free in the waking world, Sato remained loyal to what she was. In her own way.
But could she take pride in that way, if it had lead her here...
What she planned to offer the drug god was a dear and costly thing. That it would tempt Marijuana Sato didn't doubt. Neither did she dismiss the risks of the act. The procedure itself was deceptively simple, edged with faults that could trip her, could twist her neck--
Enough of that, Sato warned her conscience. What I do I do of my own free will. That is price and profit of having such a thing. She did not recant when her kin first accused her nor when they judged her false...nor when they punished with subterfuge and imprisonment. And she would not falter now, whatever the risk of her bribe.
She would, however, tear Ian a whole lot of new ones when the opportunity arrived.
"Madame? We're arriv--"
"Yes. Thank you, Ilya. Get my things out of the trunk, please." She pulled open the Benz door and slipped out unaided. Ilya was one of her "veteran" drivers; he knew when the typical gentlemanly gestures were unwelcome.
Outside, Sato accepted her "luggage" (a bulky grocery tote and its slightly smaller twin), bid Ilya to go enjoy the air and tar until called, and then, finally, turned to inspect Marijuana's kingdom.
It was...well. It was a shop. Hardly impressive to the eye, that. But to her nose, her real nose, ah, that was a different matter altogether. To the Baku's senses Highway had the heady air of a spice shop. It spilled out into the street, into the buildings, into the people. Sato's stomach rumbled.
Perhaps she'd been taking too pessimistic a view on the matter. Indeed, it could prove...enriching. Though she would have to be careful, of course.
Picking up a bag in either hand, Sato shoved open the door with her shoulder and stepped inside.
"Buy me more!"
What--oh, it wasn't directed to her. She paused, eyes adjusting from the light outside. Natural sunlight wasn't an altogether foreign element to her senses, but it was unpleasantly disconcerting sometimes. More so, when her temper was out of balance. A Baku's temper was nocturnal by nature as few things could be. Plus, the damn tote strap was digging into her shoulder.
Which is why Sato's tone were less than sweet when she turned a flat look at the man staring her way. "No, don't help. Really."
Never mind that she could tow a Buick with her teeth. There was such a thing as chivalry.