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.

Threaded | Flat

Calibri, previously nursing a finely filtered glass of just pure water (a request that had the bartender politely raising a brow before he handed it off), now sat beside Garamond with an empty glass, devoid of even the remnants of melted ice. He, unlike most other people, did not see the appeal of carrying the same half-finished drink around for extended periods of time. The only thing that accomplished was to raise the rate of possible suit-meets-beverage collisions. He had topped off his drink within five minutes of receiving it.

Granted, he hadn't seen the consequent appeal of carrying around an empty glass, either, but he had yet to find a waiter to foist it off on. Future experimentation with drinks and acquisition times would have to take that into account, he mentally noted.

"Sir," he began slowly, looking around at the lifeless party. Only the faintest hum of conversation drifted around the hall. It was like one of his petri dishes, where two entirely incompatible chemical compounds simply refused to mix or even cause a volatile reaction. The compounds just drifted around each other, politely making way, and never giving the other party the time of day. Wholly disappointing. "How long is this affair?"