That Evening...
Their taxi wound its way through the wide, bustling streets of the cities financial district, on its way to the guest entrance of the Herbert Russell building, headquarters of Light-Year Media. There had been an offer of a limousine to escort them to the party, however the pair from the Boomhower Gazette had refused in the politest way possible. As generous as the offer was from their host, it would not do to draw to much attention to their being here. Some of the higher-ups at Boomhower were sceptical of this proposed takeover, and would likely react badly if they heard of two of their most valuable employees being courted too ostentatiously. Besides, the taxi driver was a friend, who knew the value of discretion.
The Gentleman was pleased with his disguise. Today, both his eyes and hair were a dull brown, the hair having been greased into a semi-presentable side parting. He had bad teeth, stained yellow from the cigarette smoke that still clung to him through the cheap, over-zealously applied cologne and nervous sweat, matching the stains on the ends of his nail-bitten fingers. His tuxedo was black, rented, smart but badly tailored, and the raw, slightly uneven shave, along with the hair and the hint of bags under his eyes, told of a man not used to appearing tidy, but who had made a valiant effort. All in all, he looked like a thoroughly ordinary newspaper editor, on his way to a party attended by those much richer and better born than himself, and thus understandably more than a little nervous. A lesser thief may have been bored by the idea of such a mundane identity, but the Gentleman knew that perfection of the ordinary was an art form in itself. One should never look too unassuming. The first way to tip off any even slightly shrewd mark is to have no distinguishing features whatsoever, such as the inside-out socks and the rather ugly mole at the corner of his left eye.
Meredith had done herself justice as well. Like him, she was dressed smartly but simply, in a green, close-fitting dress that complimented her hair, which was now shoulder length and more honey than ochre. She still wore an eye-patch, though this one had seen far less wear and tear than her preferred. She wore a pair of gold heels that she could walk in with a no more than appropriate amount of difficulty, and a pair of tights perfectly matched to her skin-tone covered the tattoos on her legs, while make up from some of The Gentleman's own stores did for her arms, which would more than hold up against the worst possible heat of this gathering. It was a rather humid night inside the dome.
"Miss Turner should already be inside." he said to Meredith, still using his real voice "Mr Dickens requested her personally, so their was no need for an elaborate cover."
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Amy, by contrast, had been picked up at the hotel, and escorted directly to The colossal Herbert Russell building via Sirus' private VTOL. The man was certainly making the most of his fortune. Via a heli-pad of the roof of the building, she was taken by two of Sirus' private security down to where his personal elevator waited, ready to take directly to her new client's apartments. Said apartments were certainly lavish. The Golden Rose was used to high-society by now, yet still... Any suspected that the contents of these rooms were almost as much of a treasure vault as what was kept down below. Mr Dickens' taste in Old Earth artefacts was certainly in evidence. Amy counted what she suspected was at least 3 original Van Gogh's decorating the walls, along with a Monet's Water Lilies, which conventional wisdom reproted as having been missing for over a millennia. All these paled in insignificance though, to the centre-piece of the living room, an ancient stone Sphinx the size of an ash-crawler.
'What does a man have to do to get his hands on all of this?' Amy wondered as she stared into the Sphinxes weathered face in genuine wonder.
"Marvellous, isn't she?" came a voice from across the room, breaking Amy out of her trance. Sirus Dickens was a man in his mid-to-late fifties, and yet Amy's first thought was of a boy, literally living in the most expensive and over-sized toy box ever complied. His somewhat piggy eyes shone with a somewhat youthful glee as he drank in first the Sphinx, and then Amy herself.
"She certainly is." Amy replied. "I had never thought to see one outside of a history book."
"She may well be the last of her kind, sadly; but while she is indeed a beauty, I find myself with eyes only for you, my dear." he said, coming forward and kissing her lightly on the hand, tickling Amy with his immense, yard-brush moustache, now mostly grey. When he drew himself up again, he was roughly three inches taller than Amy, and his broad shoulders suggested that he had once been a powerfully built man. However, the comforts of wealth and middle-age had made his figure go somewhat to seed. Up close, he was podgy, sallow and rotund, though far from the largest or ugliest man Amy had ever been with. His white tuxedo was immaculate, paired with a black smoking jacket, and a blood-red cravat that made it look more than a little like his throat had been slashed. Gaudy rings were present on every finger that grasped an ebony cane, and Amy suspected that his black bowler hat concealed a rather lame attempt at a comb-over.
'A powerful man, and not without a certain shrewdness, but also soft in the centre.' Amy deduced as she blushed a little at him. 'To Sirus Dickens, wealth and power are just pathways to more toys and trinkets. He is greedy, but he lacks any real cruelty. I suspect he isn't even aware of half the things that had to be done to bring all these treasures here.
"Come." Sirus told her excitedly, offering her his arm. "The guests are starting to convene downstairs."
Their taxi wound its way through the wide, bustling streets of the cities financial district, on its way to the guest entrance of the Herbert Russell building, headquarters of Light-Year Media. There had been an offer of a limousine to escort them to the party, however the pair from the Boomhower Gazette had refused in the politest way possible. As generous as the offer was from their host, it would not do to draw to much attention to their being here. Some of the higher-ups at Boomhower were sceptical of this proposed takeover, and would likely react badly if they heard of two of their most valuable employees being courted too ostentatiously. Besides, the taxi driver was a friend, who knew the value of discretion.
The Gentleman was pleased with his disguise. Today, both his eyes and hair were a dull brown, the hair having been greased into a semi-presentable side parting. He had bad teeth, stained yellow from the cigarette smoke that still clung to him through the cheap, over-zealously applied cologne and nervous sweat, matching the stains on the ends of his nail-bitten fingers. His tuxedo was black, rented, smart but badly tailored, and the raw, slightly uneven shave, along with the hair and the hint of bags under his eyes, told of a man not used to appearing tidy, but who had made a valiant effort. All in all, he looked like a thoroughly ordinary newspaper editor, on his way to a party attended by those much richer and better born than himself, and thus understandably more than a little nervous. A lesser thief may have been bored by the idea of such a mundane identity, but the Gentleman knew that perfection of the ordinary was an art form in itself. One should never look too unassuming. The first way to tip off any even slightly shrewd mark is to have no distinguishing features whatsoever, such as the inside-out socks and the rather ugly mole at the corner of his left eye.
Meredith had done herself justice as well. Like him, she was dressed smartly but simply, in a green, close-fitting dress that complimented her hair, which was now shoulder length and more honey than ochre. She still wore an eye-patch, though this one had seen far less wear and tear than her preferred. She wore a pair of gold heels that she could walk in with a no more than appropriate amount of difficulty, and a pair of tights perfectly matched to her skin-tone covered the tattoos on her legs, while make up from some of The Gentleman's own stores did for her arms, which would more than hold up against the worst possible heat of this gathering. It was a rather humid night inside the dome.
"Miss Turner should already be inside." he said to Meredith, still using his real voice "Mr Dickens requested her personally, so their was no need for an elaborate cover."
=========================================================================================================================
Amy, by contrast, had been picked up at the hotel, and escorted directly to The colossal Herbert Russell building via Sirus' private VTOL. The man was certainly making the most of his fortune. Via a heli-pad of the roof of the building, she was taken by two of Sirus' private security down to where his personal elevator waited, ready to take directly to her new client's apartments. Said apartments were certainly lavish. The Golden Rose was used to high-society by now, yet still... Any suspected that the contents of these rooms were almost as much of a treasure vault as what was kept down below. Mr Dickens' taste in Old Earth artefacts was certainly in evidence. Amy counted what she suspected was at least 3 original Van Gogh's decorating the walls, along with a Monet's Water Lilies, which conventional wisdom reproted as having been missing for over a millennia. All these paled in insignificance though, to the centre-piece of the living room, an ancient stone Sphinx the size of an ash-crawler.
'What does a man have to do to get his hands on all of this?' Amy wondered as she stared into the Sphinxes weathered face in genuine wonder.
"Marvellous, isn't she?" came a voice from across the room, breaking Amy out of her trance. Sirus Dickens was a man in his mid-to-late fifties, and yet Amy's first thought was of a boy, literally living in the most expensive and over-sized toy box ever complied. His somewhat piggy eyes shone with a somewhat youthful glee as he drank in first the Sphinx, and then Amy herself.
"She certainly is." Amy replied. "I had never thought to see one outside of a history book."
"She may well be the last of her kind, sadly; but while she is indeed a beauty, I find myself with eyes only for you, my dear." he said, coming forward and kissing her lightly on the hand, tickling Amy with his immense, yard-brush moustache, now mostly grey. When he drew himself up again, he was roughly three inches taller than Amy, and his broad shoulders suggested that he had once been a powerfully built man. However, the comforts of wealth and middle-age had made his figure go somewhat to seed. Up close, he was podgy, sallow and rotund, though far from the largest or ugliest man Amy had ever been with. His white tuxedo was immaculate, paired with a black smoking jacket, and a blood-red cravat that made it look more than a little like his throat had been slashed. Gaudy rings were present on every finger that grasped an ebony cane, and Amy suspected that his black bowler hat concealed a rather lame attempt at a comb-over.
'A powerful man, and not without a certain shrewdness, but also soft in the centre.' Amy deduced as she blushed a little at him. 'To Sirus Dickens, wealth and power are just pathways to more toys and trinkets. He is greedy, but he lacks any real cruelty. I suspect he isn't even aware of half the things that had to be done to bring all these treasures here.
"Come." Sirus told her excitedly, offering her his arm. "The guests are starting to convene downstairs."
