09-08-2014, 08:51 PM
The look in her eyes transformed her from wide eyed innocent to queen surveying her realm in moments. That she thought that included him was funny, but he didn't care to correct her. She wore mood and impression like a chameleon. Everything she did was premeditated and calculated to elicit a specific reaction.
As if in demonstration, her statement flashed with the speed of a barb flying from horseback. It was designed to prick, to make him bluster in anger. Malik laughed. Did she think him in her arena? A low chuckle began in his chest and he looked at her. "Do you fancy yourself a picador, Señorita?"
His laughter slowly died. He let the amusement in his eyes show, an apologetic smile on his face. He tilted his head as if conciliatory. "Alas, my dear, I am no bull. Nor am I here for your amusement. But I am truly sorry you feel disappointed."
He raised an eyebrow and looked around the spacious interior of the limo, gestured to it with a shift of his head. "You will note that there is no audience here."
He tilted his head, showing interest. "And yet you continue to perform."
He thought about his own masks, the people he became and portrayed in his every interaction with others. And the overriding hunger that drove him, that had taken him from a broken trail of terrors and foster homes and brought him to Moscow, to the Ascendancy and the center of power. The car was still. "I wonder what the real Spectra wants out of all of this,"
he waved gesturing to the limo, to the life that she had.
An idle question. She would not answer, he knew. Of course he understood. He doubted he'd answer her if she asked him either. No matter. It was merely a brief curiosity.
Edited by Marcus DuBois, Sep 8 2014, 09:58 PM.
As if in demonstration, her statement flashed with the speed of a barb flying from horseback. It was designed to prick, to make him bluster in anger. Malik laughed. Did she think him in her arena? A low chuckle began in his chest and he looked at her. "Do you fancy yourself a picador, Señorita?"
His laughter slowly died. He let the amusement in his eyes show, an apologetic smile on his face. He tilted his head as if conciliatory. "Alas, my dear, I am no bull. Nor am I here for your amusement. But I am truly sorry you feel disappointed."
He raised an eyebrow and looked around the spacious interior of the limo, gestured to it with a shift of his head. "You will note that there is no audience here."
He tilted his head, showing interest. "And yet you continue to perform."
He thought about his own masks, the people he became and portrayed in his every interaction with others. And the overriding hunger that drove him, that had taken him from a broken trail of terrors and foster homes and brought him to Moscow, to the Ascendancy and the center of power. The car was still. "I wonder what the real Spectra wants out of all of this,"
he waved gesturing to the limo, to the life that she had.
An idle question. She would not answer, he knew. Of course he understood. He doubted he'd answer her if she asked him either. No matter. It was merely a brief curiosity.
Edited by Marcus DuBois, Sep 8 2014, 09:58 PM.