Mark Who: Galen and Natasiya Where: Moriarty party When: early evening What: Galen's test run/possible crash and burn
Galen parted company with Domina as discretely as he’d met up with her, slipping away from her and her proud halo of disdain and adamantine confidence. Her self-satisfaction cleared like a fog from his mood as he put some distance between them and after taking a moment to seclude himself by the refreshment table, slowly resettled to a temperament of his own design. Untouched by the emotions of others, he found he was surprisingly at ease. (Excellent, Ells. A natural freakshow.) He felt good. Domina’s challenge sent of warm thread of anticipation throught him and he thought, for the first time that night, This could be fun.
The party was really getting into the full swing of things now. The volume and motion of the moods and people around him like a physical collage of sensations on the edges of his awareness. He circled casually along the fringe of the crowd. His eyes however, brightest clearest blue, remained fixed sidelong on the his assigned mark for the night.
Nastasiya was the type of woman Galen would have noticed right away, regardless of her position in the ranks of super stardom: Dressed in a dark liquid fabric gown, the kind that clung here, hung there, fluttered and swept in exactly the right mixture of modest and flat fucking fuckable as one could get without being a contradiction in terms. The skin left bare by her gown was smoothly gold olive oil in the lamp lights, casting of flashes of warm ambrosia and dazzling anyone close enough to catch a hit of her laughter. Her hair was up in a twist, softly tussled and perfectly designed around the fineness of her features. She didn’t need the make-up did wear.
Galen insinuated himself among the outer edge of her entourage (the pale too lovely hanger-on’s who gave off airs and graces like they couldn’t help it). He smiled and nodded politely, bent back in laughter, leaned into ears and murmured barbs of sarcasm that pleased arrogant dispositions. In a matter of twenty minutes or so, the bulk of Natasiya’s unimportant friends were crooning, exchanging secret glances, like they’d discovered the clever little human themselves. Galen smiled, tilted his head just to the left, feigned embarrassment, flirted with fluent disinterest. Half an hour later one Natasiya’s male companions – platonic business associate, possibly gay, no threat – tapped her on the shoulder.
“Natasiya, sweet,” he said, trying to draw her attention from the dull, walking hard-on she was feigning interest in. “Sweetie. Come here. Have you met Galen? We just found him. He’s a friend of the host’s daughter.” The man pounded Galen on the shoulder like they’d been pals for years. “He’s just been telling me about his work on the Brena Meyer’s case. You remember that scandal with – ah, you know…” He knocked back an invisible shot. “And the…” He shot himself in the head with his fore and middle finger. “That? Well, Galen here was part prosecuting team.”
Galen hated this man with random intensity, but smiled at the starlet, maintaining a demure low key. “Hullo.”