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Casual engagements, although they occupied a lighter (arguably trivial) side of politics, were for Garamond as necessary as any other social obligation. The face of circle seven, Garamond handled his public relations smartly. He attended as many events as his schedule permitted, delegating the rest to representatives. This particular event, however, required Garamond in person. The invitation had been extended to him by a large corporate head and political lobbyist. Dudbar Trolt was a businessman with his claws deep in politics. To say he was a puppeteer was to put it lightly — This guy had his politicians on a noose.

The event was Trolt’s fourth marriage. The venue was a luxurious space aboard the Lunessa, a modern entertainment vessel used for meetings and conventions. It travelled around the inner Solar System to wherever it was summoned. The impromptu announcement of the wedding had forced Garamond to make quick arrangements. He’d spend the prior day cancelling and rescheduling meetings and handing out tasks to lower management. He’d packed the next morning and, after finding out his son would be unable to attend due to his pooch having an illness, plucked Calibri out of the lab without warning.

Two white suits and three hours later, they were aboard the Lunessa, waiting in a grand ballroom with upwards of a hundred others. The room was square with a high, arched ceiling. The ceiling panels looked like they opened up to reveal a window, doubtlessly to let in a view of the stars when the lights were dimmed. There were bars set up at every corner of the room and long tables with hors d’oevres. The minimalist décor on the Lunessa was the only thing that kept the environment a step away from gaudy. People shuffled about, making idle conversation and snacking. They stayed in groups of two or three, mostly. The fact that it was an hour before the wedding ceremony and that no one had much drink in them probably contributed to the lack of mingling.

Garamond, not quite sure what to do with the unexpected hour of free time, had sat down at a bar and was nursing a small glass of bourbon and ice.

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A more sentimental man would have taken a moment to appreciate it for what it was - a second where sixty people high on laughing serum could relieve even the head of the System's largest organized crime organization of his worries, a second where he was having a genuine bit of fun (even if it was at the expense of others). A more wise man would have let it last for as long as possible, knowing that the pressures of the outside world would all too soon rush back in for the beat-down, that it was worth hoarding these precious seconds when you could, considering they were in such short supply.

But because Calibri was neither of those things, he ruined the moment anyway by smashing the last custard cake he had managed to nab on the way back into the underside of Garamond's chin - the closest part of the man's face he could reach at his height.

They stood staring at each other for a second after that, with Calibri watching his handiwork dribble down his superior's chin. "I believe that makes us even, sir."

Garamond looked reasonably shocked for someone who had been assaulted with a fistful of custard. The shock, however, was not actually linked to the cream filling, but to the fact that Calibri, usually a slope-shouldered textbook bundled up behind an oversized labcoat and a pair of glasses, was playing along. A grin quirked the line of his lips when he looked at Calibri, but his brows were still scrutinizing.

"You're supposed to be on my side," he huffed.

Under the canopy of Garamond's makeshift shield, suddenly it sounded like hail on a tin roof, and bits of biscuit came crumbling down around the pot lid. They missed Calibri narrowly. Garamond had taken him into it like it had been an umbrella. Garamond used his unoccupied wrist to wipe his face, and lowered the lid once the pelting had forfeited. His knuckle stayed on his lip when his glance then left Calibri.

A few men in security suits had shuffled through the door. Unable to deploy their typical arsenal of taser guns and batons, they began sedating guests with fire extinguishers. A frothy fog slowly spread out around the ballroom floor, and foamy liquid expelled from extinguisher to party guest, doing little to quell the chaos but a lot to add to the mess. From the looks of it, Dudbar had gotten wind of what was going on. And in all truthfulness it would be hard not to notice. The volume of the room had been rising at such an alarming late that the live band had been drown out long ago (and had been forced to stop playing out of fear that their equipment would fall to victim to the flying carbohydrates).

Garamond anchored a custardy hand on Calibri's shoulder. "How about you and I duck out of here for a bit?"

"A reliable course of action," Calibri agreed, eyeing the hand but not bothering to remove it. After all, it was a lost cause anyway - despite how custard-coated Garamond's fingers were, Calibri's suit and appearance were already a lost cause that he hadn't cared much about to begin with.

Flicking a piece of mousse off his glasses, Calibri followed Garamond as the man, surprisingly stealthy even with his size, maneuvered around the frenzied crowd and slipped out of the hall before they, too, could be hosed down with fire extinguishers. (The crowd could have just as easily been subdued using minute amounts of neuro-tranquilizers. The fire extinguishers were just a superfluous waste of compressed chemicals.) Once or twice, he had to hold onto the slippery cream-splattered tail of Garamond's suit jacket to avoid getting lost in the still shuffling crowd, but they eventually managed to escape the premises none too worse for the wear...in a matter of speaking.

The valet staff looked appalled to see them.

"Is it human custom to carry around vials of laughing serum at weddings?" Calibri asked mildly.

"Of course not," Garamond said, slipping generous bills into the staffer's hands before they left the premises.

"Hungry?"

Calibri, covered from head to about knee-level in all sorts of edible delectibles, stared.

Or at least he gave a valiant effort at trying to. About three-quarters of his glasses were smeared with cream or jelly of some nature, but rest assured - the bottom half of his left eye was definitely staring.

Garamond smiled back at Calibri, offering an unapologetic shrug.

"Didn't have much of a taste for the Hors d'oeuvres."

"I suppose you expect us to walk into a food service locale like this?" he asked, illustrating his point of 'this' by raising a soppy arm. A piece of jellied maraschino cherry rolled off the top and splatted on the floor.

"Why not? We're paying customers," Garamond hailed a cab.

"Rather a change of clothes first?"

"Yes," Calibri said shortly, pushing his glasses for the umpteeth time up his creamed nose. "I am becoming increasingly aware that certain parts of me are beginning to congeal and I don't think that would be conducive to the rest of your...plans."

"You could be more convincing, but I'll fold," Garamond said as a taxi rolled up. He opened the backseat door, stepping aside for Calibri to enter first.

"We'll take this too the station and head back from there."

Calibri was mildly surprised anyone had pulled up at all. The statistical evidence given the contributing factors seemed to suggest otherwise, but Calibri supposed that homo sapiens sapiens were easily swayed to do just about anything if one waved enough currency bills in their face. Either way, he slid in gratefully, considerably less grateful about the squish of pastry against his back as he sat back in the leather seat.

"To the docking station," he said authoritatively once Garamond closed and he locked the door. Once the vehicle took off, he glanced sideways at Garamond. "And then to the cleaners, sir."

While the driver didn't look incredibly pleased to have his seats scummed with frosting, he didn't say anything. Either he was a very polite driver or he was reassured that, judging by the quality of the suits under the layer of whipped toppings, these customers would come with a worthy tip. Just so there were no misunderstandings, Garamond paid it upfront before giving the mam coordinates. However, It wasn't the kind of money that said "sorry for the mess," it was the kind of money that said "if you tell anyone about this encounter we will effectively silence you."

"Well, that was fun," Garamond said. "Shame to duck out early."

Calibri paid no need to the driver either way. As long as the man followed through with their temporary and social contract, what the man thought really didn't register anywhere near Calibri's list of things worth thinking about. Instead, he busied himself with wiping the lenses of his glasses off on the back of the passenger seat, oiling the faux-leather covering with fatty but exceptionally light-whipped cream.

"Will the patrons think poorly of you for making an early exit?" Calibri asked. Truthfully, he didn't much care for what the patrons thought either, but if Garmaond had thought it worth his time to make an appearance, then they must be of some standing to him, and what was important to the Boss should be important to all his subordinates. "Is this an appropriate time to send..."

He trailed off, looking thoughtful. What was it that humans did in situations like this? Their customs were so odd and illogical.

"...An apologetic fruit basket?"

Ah, yes, that was it. Humans did like sending each other bananas and apples.

"Dudbar's an understanding man. I'm sure he won't take it too hard if we skimp on the fruits," Garamond said, scrolling through the planner screen on his communicator.

"In the meantime, it appears I have the luxury of a free afternoon."

Dutifully, Calibri looked up at Garamond and was exceptionally quick to remind, "Well, sir, if that's a problem for you, there are some Balorean accounting checks you could look over before we send it to the budget department for approval-"

"It can wait," Garamond excused himself just as quickly. "In fact, I would say today's events pose no problems at all. It's a perfect opportunity to take the day off."

Calibri's brow knit tighter, a regular sea of wrinkles and consternation in the middle of his forehead. "But that would be a severe waste of time."

The cab rolled to a stop and Garamond stepped out, holding the door for Calibri. "On the contrary, I think bailing out a failed business is a waste of time. The Balorean private banking system is more or less owned by us already."

Edited 2012-12-30 00:14 (UTC)

Human courtesy and customs never really registered on Calibri's senses of recognition, regardless of how finely tuned they were in other cases. He neither noted them nor thought the absence of them were of any real consequence, so he stepped out of the car with neither thanks nor surprise at the admittedly not uncommon gesture from his superior.

"Then what do you propose we do instead?" Calibri said, looking around with mild interest. This definitely wasn't the Balorean Economic Consulate. In fact, it looked more like...an entertainment district?

The hotel Garamond checked them into was of standard quality, but it was good enough for showers and getting suits delivered. The clerk, a cephalopod creature looking to be a young adult, looked on suspiciously at the two men covered in melted cream. That look turned into pure incredulousness when Garamond asked for a rest period.

"Can I see you ID, sir?" The clerk asked, looking pointedly at Calibri.

Calibri looked pointedly back or, at least, he would have, if his vision hadn't been so thoroughly blockaded with a layer of thick, frothy cream. It must have been that, then, that kept the clerk from being put off by his death stare at all. Being covered by about five pounds of pastry apparently had a negative effect on his powers of intimidation - how disappointing.

So, instead, he chose the next most efficient solution to the problem, which was to, in fact, rummage in his suit jacket pocket until he found a relatively untouched wallet - untouched until the moment he found it, of course. The black polished leather didn't quite escape the ghastly fate of its owner the moment Calibri's oily fingers touched it, but at the very least, he didn't seem to care much about the maintenance of high-quality goods like imported Penesphean leather.

He handed an ID chip-embedded card to the put-upon-looking clerk. It was, of course, as illegitimate as the rest of his livelihood, but no system in colonized space would be able to tell.

The clerk scrutinized the identification chip with her glance, eventually handing it back with a relenting frown. She disappeared behind the counter, reappearing after with two key cards. She slid them over to the two guests.

"You have three hours. Use the room line if you need an extension. We sell commodities in the lounge room on the second floor... if you didn't bring any."

Calibri, of course, misunderstood - after all, there was only one kind of commodity he really had in mind. He raised both brows, looking mildly impressed. What a surprisingly well-stocked establishment.

"You carry laundering supplies?"

Garamond smiled politely, a hand patting Calibri's shoulder with the weight of a led brick.

"We'll be using only complimentary goods. Thanks for your help."

Unsurprisingly, Calibri buckled a little, but he didn't complain as Garamond led them away, though he did wonder why the clerk looked so bewildered, considering all the up-selling she had done about their supposed stock.

"What room is it, sir?"

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To* stupid iPad autocorrect <-- omg it just autocapitalized that p frickin sassy ass tablet

LOL

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