(no subject)

[tuneable]

[Sunday likes to think he's gotten used to the scripts by now. Most are straightforward, and even the parts mired in metaphor or double meaning tend to reveal themselves without much effort. So, although this mission's stage blocking contains some parts that are more...opaque than others, he's not all that concerned.

It helps that schmoozing is the same whether he's the head of the Oak family or a newly minted Stellaron Hunter. Polite smiles, a little flattery, knowing what leverage to use.

The problem is the host of the party is exceedingly cagey. Sunday hasn't caught so much as a glimpse the whole night, no matter who he's endeared himself to. Technically speaking, he doesn't need to actually talk to the host, but he'd rather not resort to Plan B so soon.

He's contemplating his options from the second level of the ballroom, watching crowds and seeing how they move to maybe catch a hint as to who's most important, when his attention snags on someone walking along the edge of the dancefloor. There's something familiar about them.

Unfortunately, Sunday figures out why a moment later when their gazes meet. Even through the mask, it's unmistakable. There is, to anyone's knowledge, only one person in the universe with eyes like those. Well now. Sunday can only hope he's not recognized in turn.]

Comments

[rehearses]

[Frustration pinches his insides, though Aventurine doesn’t allow even a faint shadow of that anxiety to crease his smooth countenance. He wears a charming smile, the corners pulled too wide—as if to suggest the considerable influence of alcohol. The small group he entertains seems to have bought into the deception, gently teasing him for his alleged low tolerance. Aventurine tires of their boisterous merriment, a cluster headache building behind his delicate mask, but continues the charade. One of his current conversation partners just so happens to be cousins with the evening’s target. If he can coax her away from the others…

He times draining his flute glass with her own drink, then offers to accompany the woman in securing refills. They peel off from the rest of the group, her hand comfortably settled in the crook of his elbow. As the two slip through the crowd loitering at the edge of the dance floor, Aventurine feels it. The sensation is undeniably familiar—not only to a performer accustomed to the figurative stage, but also to a former slave. Someone is staring at him, the weight of their attention drawing pebbled skin down his exposed spine. Nonchalant, he waits until his tipsy companion trades him a bawdry joke; when he throws back his head to laugh, his bicolor gaze sweeps the area.

Above them on the second floor, a lean silhouette stands. Aventurine’s stomach twists sharply as his subconscious recognizes the man’s identity before his waking mind. “Oh, Triple-Faced Soul,” he distantly hears as a memory rises unbidden to the surface of his thoughts, “please sear his tongue and palms with a hot iron, so that he will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.” The once-illustrious Sunday, fallen hard from grace yet still somehow set loose again.

Dammit, Jade, he curses inwardly, eyes flicking away. Without missing a beat, he fumbles his flute glass; droplets of alcohol spatter over his would-be informant’s cleavage, shocking her. Aventurine rushes to apologize, contrite and embarrassed. The woman, terribly sweet in spite of her unpleasant family connections, just titters in amusement and takes her leave to visit the restroom. Though her sashaying hips are likely for his benefit, he doesn’t pretend to watch her go.]

Well, isn’t this a lucky coincidence? [he remarks blithely upon joining the Halovian on the second level.] Or maybe I should ask… Are you here by invitation, Mr. Sunday? Or is it a summoning?

[Though a careful dash of condescension is tempting, Aventurine’s tone remains amicable. Sure, his gamble paid off in Penacony—but not without the experience bequeathing indelible scars. Sunday proved a formidable player at the table, just as willing to bet it all.]

[tuneable]

[So much for that brief hope. It is interesting Aventurine recognized him that quickly, considering he's hidden his halo and has traded in his pale color palette for a more Hunter-appropriate pitch black tonight. Then again, the impression they'd made on each other in Penacony hadn't been a forgettable one.

He doesn't bother moving, even once he's spotted. He recognizes the "accident" for what it is, and thinks he'd rather take the opportunity to see what Aventurine's doing here instead of playing hide and seek the rest of the night.]

It's been a while, Mr. Aventurine. I'm here on business.

[So he's technically been invited, if Silver Wolf hacking the invite list and adding an extra name counts. Of course, that's not what Aventurine's really asking, but Sunday thinks the implication is enough. There's a bounty on his head no member of the IPC wouldn't have seen already.]

As I'd assume you also were, but your department doesn't usually frequent these circles, do they?

[rehearses]

[With discipline, he tamps down on the traitorous need to fidget. Instead, Aventurine irons out any potentially restless movement into something deliberate and natural. A bead of sweat slips beneath the high collar of his top, the design of which was chosen specifically to conceal the brand on his neck. While the Avgin normally prefers to flaunt the marking—(at least it’s useful in making soft-hearted people uncomfortable and sympathetic)—he’d hoped to remain relatively anonymous tonight. After all, there should have been few here who would know him by his singular eyes. Only time will tell if this unexpected reunion is a fortuitous one.]

Oh? I didn’t realize you were so familiar with the Strategic Investment Department’s goings-on. And please, call me Aventurine.

[The non-answer is deeply unsatisfying to give; Aventurine has little interest in trying to talk circles around Sunday. So, leaning his elbows on the railing that overlooks the first floor, he considers a different approach.]

But you’re right. I’m not here as a Stoneheart. [Almost on cue, his phone silently vibrates in a pocket. No doubt another demand for an update. That Galaxy Ranger is certainly an impatient sort.] After that memorable trip to your Planet of Festivities, I’m officially on vacation.

[tuneable]

I did my research.

[Extensively. When he'd gotten word the IPC was sending a representative for the Charmony Festival, he looked up all the pertinent public information. And some that wasn't. From there, Diamond's ambitions and allegiances hadn't been difficult to parse.

But in this case, knowing Aventurine's background, Sunday finds the idea of him blithely attending a party hosted by a member of Oswaldo's inner circle almost laughable.

Knowing that, their goals aren't in immediate opposition. He drums his fingers against the railing, considering.]

Well, if you insist on forgoing formalities, allow me to be frank. I think this is the last place you'd choose to take a holiday.

ooc: the redesign speculation fanarts have all been so good, that one is by far my fave.

[rehearses]

[From his periphery, he observes the rhythmic undulation of fingers along the railing—not unlike a pianist testing ivory keys. As opposed to the restless agitation that thrums through his own body, the gesture seems measured and reflective in nature. Dangerous. Aventurine braces himself inwardly, anticipating Sunday to play an early hand. And when the man does finally comment, the implications of his aforementioned research become ever more apparent. It should be no surprise, really; given their oh-so-friendly conversation on Penacony, it was obvious that he was well informed on the sole surviving Avgin’s background.

Unfortunately for Sunday, he appears to still be laboring under some misconceptions about Aventurine.]

Underestimating me, Mr. Sunday? [This time, there’s a sharper note to the low croon of his voice. When he smiles at the other man, it doesn’t reach his eyes.] Were you unconvinced by my answer to your…personal question, that time?

[“...Do you truly wish to bring about the destruction of this world?”

Aventurine turns his half-lidded gaze on the guests below.

“Let's assume—just assuming, now—that every time I roll the dice, there is a possibility of achieving this particular outcome... Then, I would be quite happy to make that wager.”]

Really, [he begins softly, searching that crowd yet again for his target,] what better way to spend my vacation?

[tuneable]

Perish the thought.

[Robin is very much alive and well, so there is no weak point of grief in his armor for Aventurine to hammer away at like last time, but that doesn't mean Sunday can lower his guard.

Frustratingly, he could not say he didn't believe Aventurine's answer to that particular question, either. Because the same desire had been in his own heart, to tear down the trappings of the unjust and imperfect reality, and he'd recognized it.

His gaze flicks down to the dancers and the groups of partygoers tittering to each other, and upon finding nothing of interest, turns it back to Aventurine's profile a beat later.]

In that case, you might be glad to know I don't believe our objectives are at odds. This time.

[rehearses]

[In the wake of that vague suggestion, his business acumen senses a potential opportunity. Yet while Aventurine has continuously triumphed through ruthless leveraging of his own life as a bargaining chip, he hesitates to be so reckless now. The macabre beauty of the Horizon of Existence greets him every time his eyelids close, both a warning and an encouragement. Walk on, Kakavasha, his sister’s voice whispers. Aventurine draws away from the railing, left hand sliding behind his back to conceal the minute tremble of gloved fingers; he doesn’t doubt that Sunday would notice.]

“This time,” [he echoes, tone laced with the kind of empty humor that means nothing.] That’s indeed wonderful news. Though I do wonder how quickly the situation might change.

[A smooth step forward brings them closer—a proximity that would be indelicate if their identities were obvious. Gazing up at the other man from beneath the heavy fall of eyelashes, Aventurine smiles with teeth.]

If you’re proposing something, I’m all ears. [The words are pitched low, difficult to hear over the music.] But I’m not in the habit of losing, Mr. Sunday—and I’m not entirely certain I can place my trust in you as even a temporary business partner.

[tuneable]

[Sunday's attention briefly switches to Aventurine moving his hand behind his back, but he doesn't react to the action. He does, however, tense slightly at the other encroaching upon his personal space a sliver more, his grip tightening on the balcony's railing.

He hadn't been offering cooperation. Or not yet, at least. It had been enough to know they wouldn't step on each other's toes while pursuing their objectives, but he also can't deny that he's hit a bit of a dead end. Still, no matter how much of a fortunate coincidence it is they have similar goals tonight, it might be more of a liability to try and cooperate with someone Sunday lacks trust--

[Sunday meets a golden opportunity.]

He remembers the script, and the odd use of "meets" in the blocking instead of "finds" or "discovers". Golden opportunity. Gold. Like honey. Oh, really now, Elio?

He's agitated enough by the revelation his wings flick, briefly, before he lets out a sigh and tries to relax again. Since something undoubtedly has shown on his face and tipped off Aventurine, he doesn't bother to hide it.]

I was just going to establish that we don't need to get in each other's way and be done with it but...what if I said you were a part of my script?

i hope all the scripts Elio writes are just as infuriatingly corny

[rehearses]

[Bicolored eyes snap up to fix on the wing closest to his head, though the appendage’s twitch had been so subtle that Aventurine isn’t entirely convinced that he hadn’t imagined it. He’s still considering the wing—the pierced one, naturally, and wouldn’t he love to hear the story behind that decision—when Sunday’s voice draws him back. The initial clarification earns the Halovian a wry, unapologetic smile. Ah, seems like Aventurine may have jumped to conclusions. Whoops! But then the man continues, and…]

…Your script.

[It isn’t often Aventurine feels so left-footed. Blinking in owlish bewilderment, he affords Sunday some personal space by taking a small step away. While Aventurine has been peripherally aware of the Halovian’s impressive bounty, he hadn’t looked into the matter personally. (Darkly rueful, he’ll admit that his reluctance had been born of a desire to put as much of Penacony behind him. The Doctor of Chaos who had met with him about his now-frequent nightmares informed him he was fortunate to not have become a Self-Annihilator, as is typically the case for anyone who survives falling under the gaze of IX.) Honestly, he’d made the erroneous assumption that Jade and Sunday came to an unholy accord, permitting the criminal to slip his leash and avoid trial. The mention of a script, however…]

Is that what’s prompted the dramatic wardrobe style change? [he asks suddenly, as if this is the most important point to be clarified.] Because I have to admit, Mr. Sunday…

[The Avgin takes his time giving his companion a thorough once-over. The scrutiny is as close to clinical as a sensual creature like Aventurine is capable of; sometimes, it’s almost impossible to relinquish the figurative mask he wears as an IPC slave.]

Very nice. Not everyone can pull off black without it making them appear too severe. But I suppose severity suits you well, doesn’t it? [His smile is conspiratorial, like they’re both in on an inside joke.] Martyrdom almost demands it.

[Meanwhile, as Aventurine effortlessly spouts his usual nonsense, his brain turns over the idea that Sunday may now be in league with Destiny’s Slave. Does Diamond know? Stupid question; of course Diamond knows.]

considering that "three deaths" stuff? i'm sure they are

[tuneable]

[Aventurine isn't off by a lot when it comes to Jade and a deal with Sunday, although it had been on Robin's behalf that Jade undid the shackles. And after that, Sunday happened to recall a peculiar invitation he'd gotten.

Elio promises the fulfillment of his wish. Averting the ruination of the universe in the meantime is simply a bonus.

He doesn't appreciate the scrutiny or some of Aventurine's quips, and he returns the conspiratorial smile with an icily polite one of his own.]

As much as deception and frivolity suit you, Mr. Aventurine. [He pointedly forgoes the other's former insistence Sunday didn't need to use a title.] But, if the script is hinting at it, I'm willing to set aside my distrust of you temporarily to complete a greater goal. And I believe I'd be safe in assuming if you have the time to chat with me, you're not making much progress with your own, are you?

[rehearses]

[Perhaps that rebounding remark should injure. Deception and frivolity—his only existing legacy. “You Sigonians are notorious throughout the entire universe!” delighted the Masked Fool impishly. “Liars, thieves, social manipulators, wolves in sheep's clothing... You're really living up to the reputation.” But whether Sunday meant the barb specifically in reference to Aventurine’s heritage or not, it doesn’t matter. The blond’s skin is thick; there’s little disparaging abuse he hasn’t heard over the years. And, more importantly, the Halovian isn’t wrong.]

I’m on no one’s schedule, [comes the airy answer, with Aventurine pausing long enough to tip into a passing server’s space and liberate her of two drinks.] Though, I’m a bit of an overachiever, if you can believe it. I wouldn’t mind pushing things ahead of schedule.

[Another day, another gamble. Aventurine sets the second glass down on the railing before Sunday—an offering without any insistence that it be imbibed. As for his own…he sips leisurely at the cocktail while eyeing the first floor once more.]

You’ve likely inferred my reason for coming here. [His honeyed tone sobers into something more businesslike now.] If I’m allegedly part of your script, how closely related is your own task?

[tuneable]

[Sunday doesn't easily forget the wool being pulled over his eyes. Even if he ultimately got the information he'd wanted out of that whole incident, he doesn't like being outmaneuvered. Aventurine should know -- he'd been the one to call Sunday a control freak.

But that, he tries to remind himself, had hinged a good deal on the IPC and Family being inherently at odds. Things are certainly different now, aren't they? At least for tonight, according to the script.

He takes the proffered drink but doesn't sip from it. Instead, he simply taps the side of the glass while he thinks.]

Very. Although, I only need information from our mutual target. That said...[He finally does take a small sip of the drink Aventurine handed him. A little drier than his preference.]...there are many ways to retrieve it. I don't know if the same is true for your objectives.

so sorry for the wait!

[rehearses]

[Aventurine considers this. Drink glass occupying one hand, he retrieves his mobile phone with the other. The lock screen reveals little intrigue beyond a ludicrous number of notifications—emails from work, communications from social media, and a chain of texts. Before opening the latter, he ensures Sunday cannot see the screen. As expected, a dozen increasingly agitated messages featuring censored language greet him. His mouth quirks briefly, not quite a full smile.]

My apologies. [Distracted, he continues to quickly scan the texts.] I’m confirming that the situation hasn’t changed with my…stakeholders.

[The Galaxy Ranger is eager to wring the target’s neck. Aventurine doesn’t blame him. But, if their merry band of avengers only walk away tonight with new intel…it will still be a win. (Though, he’s certain Boothill will cuss him out colorfully in such a case.)]

…I believe we can cooperate, Mr. Sunday. [His thumb dances over the glass screen, tapping out a response to Boothill—coded in such a way that, should Aventurine mysteriously vanish, the cowboy will need to rely on a certain renowned doctor for decryption. The phone disappears back into a pocket.] Unless you’re interested in pursuing opportunities in the ballroom, perhaps we should tour the building? I’m curious about our host’s sense of interior decorating.

No worries!

[tuneable]

[Sunday spares the barest glance over Aventurine's phone, watching him take it out and tap on the screen, but no more than that. Not because he isn't curious, but because there's no way to get a look subtly, so he doesn't bother to try.]

Glad to hear it. [It's an exaggeration that he's happy about this, but at the very least he won't have to be fighting a war on two fronts, so to speak.] And it's as tasteless as you'd expect. I've already had someone show me the host's collection of priceless artifacts from planets the IPC has...ah, what's the word you use for it? Aquired?

[He gestures to one of the hallway openings that can be seen from where they're standing.]

Through there. I found nothing of interest, and the only other place my own colleagues scoped out is very deep into the building.

[rehearses]

[Mouth curved like a scythe, the Avgin takes a moment to savor his drink. Who knows…? One day, when Aventurine’s rotten luck has finally evaporated beneath rainless skies, perhaps these oh-so-precious eyes will be plucked from his bleached skull and set on display here too. An inevitability, even! Unless he should perish in some particularly messy fashion, he harbors no illusions about what will ultimately happen to his corpse; like all possessions of the IPC, that body will be picked clean with ruthless efficiency. He might have found humor in the thought, if not for recent developments on Penacony. “Do stay alive.” Dormancy, huh? Well, damn.]

What do you suggest?

[Clink. The glass is set down on the railing. As he regards Sunday, expression ever sunny, the young man casually walks a coin over the bony ridges of his knuckles. Under normal circumstances, his investigations will have equipped him with enough information to seize control of a situation and improvise from there. This time, Aventurine is admittedly fumbling in the dark. If his impromptu business partner has no preferences on how to proceed, the blond will offer a simple game of chance to determine their path.]

Is that location you mentioned worth searching further? [His masked face twitches against a smirk.] Or maybe you’ll grant me a dance, Mr. Sunday? I’ve been remiss in not asking sooner, really.

[tuneable]

[If Sunday knew Aventurine's thoughts, he wouldn't disagree, although there are those outside of the IPC just as greedy to have something that's truly one of a kind.

He watches Aventurine's sleight of hand -- if not for the display of dexterity, then for the way the ambient light gleams off the edge of the coin.]

It's the host's personal office, so I would think so.

[But no guarantee either of their goals will be served by the information inside. Look at that, five minutes around a chronic gambler and he's already having to leave things up to chance.

At the mention of a dance, Sunday tips his head almost imperceptibly. It feels like the offer came a bit out of the blue...which means it likely didn't. ]

It would be terribly rude of me to refuse you...if you're that set on one?