castlenim | (no subject)

[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.]

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[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.

[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.

[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.

[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?

(no subject)

so sorry for the wait!

No worries!

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