09-20-2018, 05:33 PM
The man- Jaxen Marveet was it?- had an easy smile. His retort gave Beto pause. In fact, it was a good question. Who would he like to see skewered? President Dawson perhaps. Not out of malice. But those in power needed the pricks to keep their heads at manageable sizes. Secretary Holden certainly. Bilson Iron Cloud.
Marveet would know none of them, though, not even Dawson. Parody and farce was based on in-jokess and familiarity; caricatures that required you to know the original in order to recognize and laugh at the distortion.
Brandon- Ascendancy here in the CCD- was known the world over. But even Beto confessed that some of the barbs had gone over his head due to lack of familiarity.
All of which said something about Marveet. He was powerful enough that he feared no reprisals. And he was, perhaps, familiar with Brandon.
He was about to probe further when the gift of a drink arrived, pulling the man's attention away to another table. And then two.
Beto knew who Methos and Finnegan were only by virtue of the images that plastered the holoscreens in Times Square. Their music was not something he listened to. Curiously, he found his tastes ran to industrial rock, Nine Inch Nails, White Zombie, Deified, Spatter, Nihilo.
They spoke to him.
The moment gone, Beto decided to leave. Watching two pop stars battle it out held little appeal. Paying his tab, he began to head out when his eyes fell on a rather striking woman.
A smile appeared. Daved Henlon. The man was a pencil pusher of the first order. Their meetings had been fruitless. But at the Institute he had been all order. Here, in drag, he was someone else entirely.
Beto slowly walked to his table, the man's eyes not noticing, fixed as they were on Marveet and the commotion he was causing.
He pulled out the other chair. "Madam? May I join you?"
Marveet would know none of them, though, not even Dawson. Parody and farce was based on in-jokess and familiarity; caricatures that required you to know the original in order to recognize and laugh at the distortion.
Brandon- Ascendancy here in the CCD- was known the world over. But even Beto confessed that some of the barbs had gone over his head due to lack of familiarity.
All of which said something about Marveet. He was powerful enough that he feared no reprisals. And he was, perhaps, familiar with Brandon.
He was about to probe further when the gift of a drink arrived, pulling the man's attention away to another table. And then two.
Beto knew who Methos and Finnegan were only by virtue of the images that plastered the holoscreens in Times Square. Their music was not something he listened to. Curiously, he found his tastes ran to industrial rock, Nine Inch Nails, White Zombie, Deified, Spatter, Nihilo.
They spoke to him.
The moment gone, Beto decided to leave. Watching two pop stars battle it out held little appeal. Paying his tab, he began to head out when his eyes fell on a rather striking woman.
A smile appeared. Daved Henlon. The man was a pencil pusher of the first order. Their meetings had been fruitless. But at the Institute he had been all order. Here, in drag, he was someone else entirely.
Beto slowly walked to his table, the man's eyes not noticing, fixed as they were on Marveet and the commotion he was causing.
He pulled out the other chair. "Madam? May I join you?"