circle7 | (no subject)

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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"Entertainment's not completely beyond you," Garamond reasoned as they walked. "And the plot does involve poison."

As expected, Calibri perked. "Your theatrical production involves poison?"

Garamond returned the keys to the service desk as they passed, leading Calibri out of the hotel and into the narrow sidewalks outside. Garamond smiled at Calibri's sudden interest. "Well, It's not exactly the main plot point."

Considering the briskness with which they concluded their business with the service desk, neither of them paid any real heed to the odd look the receptionist gave their backs.

"It's an investigation into the circumstances of a poison-induced murder," Calibri clarified, much more cooperative now in both pace and conversation. He was, unsurprisingly, easily hooked by the right...incentive.

The district was overflowing with characters of all sorts. The sidewalks were no less occupied than the streets, with people hurrying from one location to another. Garamond's tall stature made him stand out of the crowd like a patchy-faced beacon of sorts, his height only challenged by a few creatures of non-human origins.

"You really haven't changed at all over the years," He said as they walked, smiling like he may laugh.

Calibri frowned, looking up at his walking companion.

"That's not true. Technically speaking, the cells I was composed of at the time of our meeting have been completely replaced by new ones by now, and even if you didn't mean it that literally - as you usually don't, I'm well aware, sir - I'm at least five centimeters taller. You yourself have decreased in height about a quarter of a centimeter, in contrast."

Garamond did laugh that time.

"Have I? I must be getting old."

"It's just an average - your daily values differ depending on gravitational strength and hairstyle," Calibri consoled, and, in a motion he had probably observed many a time but never quite understood (though he was clearly putting in the effort, he awkwardly patted Garamond's forearm - once, and with about as much force as one would pat an ant.

"Ah, it's nothing to worry about," Garamond dismissed, giving Calibri a weighty pat on the back in exchange. "Your new height looks good on you!"

"It's inconsequential," Calibri said. From the flat way he relayed it, to him, it really was hardly a concern. Of more concern, however: "You were saying, about the poison plot, sir?"

"I'll let you see for yourself, we're almost there."

Within minutes, they arrived at the mouth of the theatre hall. Garamond, having secured seats from the hotel room, lead Calibri past the line at the ticketing gate, and into the coliseum-seated interior room beyond a small gift shop. There were people already filing in, and judging by the dimmed ambiance, they hadn't come too early.

The theatre was ornate - needlessly so, with embossing on every railing and engraved designs on every pillar, door frame and armrest. The establishment harkened back to theaters of old and gone ages, although its imitation was artificially-made at best, and everything was still manufactured for durability before artistry. That much was evident.

There was no sign of poison anywhere, which was wholly disappointing, but understandable given that such places for idle, unproductive enjoyment probably had to switch out a great amount of its productions regularly to even make do in this day and age, when electronic entertainment ruled most of the media sphere. Hopefully, the play itself would have more references.

But it didn't.

Calibri frowned in the dark, but he had enough understanding of social norms to know not to speak while the lights were dim. Once intermission hit, however, he turned to Garamond and said, accusatory, "They're not even speaking proper Common."

The star-crossed lovers had been a long worn-out plot device. Among the flood of modern media it was a dried up cliche, and had been retold in so many different formats that there was barely a grain of originality to shake from its picked-clean corpse. There was little love left for the traditional stories. They were better, faster on the big screen. More explode-ey too. Between the thin crowd in the theatre and the people on stage, though, there was some love that persisted for the old stuff. Garamond loved it, and despite how many times he'd seen it before, watched with full interest.

Garamond leaned back with his fingers threaded over his stomach, looking at Calibri with a vague smirk. "It's an old brythonic language common was based on," he explained. "Pay attention, you might learn something."