Knowledge of the BioShock franchise and universe will provide a deeper understanding of underlying themes and motifs, but is ultimately not required. A quick read of the Setting section on the BioShock wikipedia page should be enough of an explanation for those who are unfamiliar.
It's really none of his business.
It's hard not to notice her though. Not because she's particularly flashy, or that she's the only other Japanese person in the room, just about, but because her group is so goddamn loud, and she's the only one not saying anything. Hell, not even the band can drown them out. He didn't think these upper crust folk could be as loud as any other scoundrel from the Bronx, but a few glasses of booze make a whole world of difference, don't they?
She's trying, he thinks. She's certainly proficient at gaping like a fish, starting her sentences and closing her mouth when one of her friends interrupts. Strange friends, he notes, and all men too.
They look the snooty sort, with their thirty dollar tuxedos and receding hairlines. The guy directly across from her is pale, and wearing a ridiculous paper party hat and thick old specs; he's the one who's been gabbing the most all night, and the one who seems to command the group's attention. Next to him is a guy who keeps flailing his arms when he talks; the lady has to lean back to keep her distance. Beside him is a man who has one of the most annoying laughs he's ever heard. And the last guy, well… An umbrella might be the best option when conversing with a guy like that.
It's really none of his business.
Despite that, he keeps them in his periphery while he makes his rounds, delivering booze and cocktail weenies to other drunk rich socialites. He can only partially hear what they're talking about—some sciencey crap, if he could hazard a guess—but it doesn't matter, because she can't get a single word in.
He's pissed at her. He's pissed for her. They've done nothing but yap over her the entire night, so he's only half-mindful when he says what he says while he's refilling their wine.
"Hey," he says, "why don't you let the lady speak for once, huh?"
All four men stop mid-sentence and stare at him. The silence is deafening, especially compared to their earlier racket. The lady looks the most surprised out of all of them. She meets his gaze for just a second, wide red eyes beneath long lashes.
Old Specs' brings the matter back at hand. He sputters, and lets out a disbelieving snort. "Well I hardly think that's any of your business."
You got that right, his brain screams. His mouth moves faster than his brain can keep up though. "I'm just sayin' she's got as much right to be in this conversation as you do. If you shut up long enough, you'd know that."
Old Specs' pasty face flushes deep red. It makes the vein on his forehead pop out all the more. "Why— I— You insolent little guttersnipe— What right do you have to talk to me like that? You ought to pay more mind doing your job than barging into affairs you know nothing about. Of all the nerve. Just who do you think you are?!" He points, right in his face, and the glitter on his hat glints in his eyes.
The people in the immediate vicinity have grown quiet, turning and staring openly. Even a few of the band members have craned their necks to take a peek at the commotion. There are dozens of eyes on him. Her eyes are on him too, but it's her gaze he avoids most of all, for some reason. His fingers curl tight against his palms.
He ought to give him a piece of his mind, slap his finger out of his face and sock him in the jaw, right in the middle of the ballroom. But amid the silk suits, and party hats, and streamers hanging off their shoulders, Fuyuhiko is hit with the firm reminder of where he is, swallowed up in the crowd. Rich folk, societal folk, looking down on him. Drunk and loud and dressed in all manner of excess, but somehow above him nonetheless.
Insignificant.
"Well?!" Old Specs presses.
"Nobody," Fuyuhiko hisses, dropping his gaze. He's nobody. "My mistake."
He pushes through the crowd to reach the kitchen, shouldering past line chefs and servers. When he's safely out of sight, he slams his knuckles against the dry wall.
That was dumb.
That was stupid.
None of his business.
Of course, it's not like he doesn't expect to be ratted out, not after that stunt. His manager finds him, steam coming out of his ears.
"Do you have any idea what sort of trouble you've caused? I have Alistair Alwin out there thinking I'm running a madhouse for hiring one of your kind on my staff! On New Year's Eve, of all occasions! Do you know how much that man is worth?! One bad word and he could ruin my entire business!"
"I wasn't trying to cause trouble," Fuyuhiko mutters, clenched fists hidden behind his back.
"Shut your mouth! I don't care what your reasons were. How do you expect to pay for the damages you've caused me?!" His manager swipes a hand over his sweaty forehead, and gestures wildly to the door. "Get lost. Leave your name badge and go. I don't wanna see your sorry mug ever again. Don't expect any peanuts from all this. Empty out your pockets too, I want whatever you made in tips, every last penny. You're lucky I don't tell this whole town about you, you worthless, good-for-nothing street urchin—"
"Excuse me."
They turn their heads.
It's the lady from before, standing at the doorway, arms crossed and brows lowered. "I think I would like to dispute that decision," she says. Those bright red eyes that seemed so lost before have hardened into something more intense, piercing.
His manager fumbles. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but you shouldn't be back here—"
"Ignoring the fact that you just threatened to withhold his wages, your employee was very commendable. Many of my colleagues approached me after he so bravely spoke his mind. They were very impressed with how he handled the situation, and we would all be very upset should you move forward with your decision."
"But— Ma'am, we—"
"—We'd certainly think twice before attending anymore gatherings catered by your business from letting go of one of your most respectable staff members. It leaves us to wonder if you yourself support the morals your employees so boldly display. Is that what you are promoting? Disrespect?"
So she has a voice after-all. Fuyuhiko glances over at his manager, who looks like he's swallowed a fly.
"Of course not," he appeases. "This is clearly a… a big misunderstanding. It won't happen again." To his surprise, his manager pats him woodenly on the shoulder. "Fine job you did back there, boy. Keep up the good work."
The lady's hard expression doesn't twitch. "I'm glad we could come to an agreement. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to thank your employee personally." She turns her chin up defiantly and waves her hand. "You may leave."
His manager's jaw goes slack. Fuyuhiko wonders if all men look so stupid when they're finally called out on their bullshit. His manager gapes for a second more before snapping his mouth shut and walking back into the ballroom.
Fuyuhiko unclenches his fists.
"Hot damn," he exhales in one big breath. "Thanks for the save. Um, ma'am." An hour ago he'd been tearing his hair out over her hesitancy, and now she just waltzes in and kicks his manager out of his own damn kitchen.
"Please. There's no need to be so formal. And I should be thanking you," she says. Her eyes have changed again, still a ghost of that intensity he just witnessed, but softer around the edges. "For earlier. No one's ever done anything like that for me before."
"Oh, that. Don't mention it." He scratches his temple sheepishly. He's more surprised that anyone had agreed with him in the first place. "Did your friends really say all that about me?"
"Oh. Um." She goes a bit pink, and her gaze flits to the side, conspicuously. "Not quite…" She meets his eyes again and gives him a meaningful look.
Oh. He's speechless, eyebrows up to his hairline. He tries hard to contain himself, but it escapes him, in a sharp, wheezing sound at the back of his throat, and soon he's doubled over, arms wrapped around his middle, laughing.
"Holy mackerel," he says, still laughing. He's severely underestimated her. "But thank you all the same. My sister would be pissed at me for throwing away a perfectly good paycheck over a couple of jackasses."
Her gaze drifts to the side again, wavering and lofty. "They're actually very… capable in their fields," she drawls.
"That sounds like something you'd say about a couple of jackasses when you don't wanna call them jackasses."
She laughs, in a way that's short, and light, and breathtakingly beautiful.
"Would you like to join me for a drink?" she asks.
Fuck, would I. He rubs the back of his head and cranes his neck towards the door, because he should at least try to look conflicted. "I probably shouldn't while I'm on the job?"
"I won't tell."
That's good enough for him. He grins. "Then I'd be happy to, Miss…?"
"Professor," she corrects, smiling, "Peko Pekoyama."
"I'm Fuyuhiko," he says. "Nice to meet you, professor."
They find an empty guest room across the hall where they can hide from his manager. They keep the lights off, so that the bright city lights outside fill the room with a soft glow. The New Year's Eve party is nothing but a murmuring buzz in the background.
Turns out she's a biochemist. She's two years older than him, and employed at a research institute in Manhattan. She's here at her work colleagues' request ("Making business connections," she says, with a distasteful frown), but she's happy not to be a part of it anymore. He is too.
He doesn't understand more than twenty percent of what she tells him about work and biomedics, but he doesn't mind, because she seems happy enough to be conversing with someone who won't interrupt her, for once, and it's still interesting in its own right. He blushes when he lets the F-word slip, accidentally, but she wrinkles her nose when he tries to correct himself. She doesn't mind at all that he swears like a sailor. In fact, she tells him, it's actually a bit ofa relief, compared to the stuffy places I must frequent.
He hides his smile in his drink.
He can't imagine spending his weekdays around someone like Old Specs. He tells her as much, and her eyes widen.
"Old Specs?" she repeats.
"Ah." He flushes. "The guy with the big glasses who blew a fuse. Not that there's anything wrong with glasses, I mean!" he tacks on quickly. (The corner of her mouth twitches in amusement.) "Just… didn't know his name, so that's what I called him in my head?"
He lists all the rest, since she's curious: Arm Waver and Donkey Laugh and Spit Shower. She laughs herself silly over his dumb nicknames, belatedly clapping her hands over her mouth to keep quiet. Her laugh is infectious though, or maybe it's just the wine talking, but he's shockingly proud of himself for pulling such a candid reaction from her, so honest and plain.
She sobers up quicker than he anticipates, and points her gaze to her shoes.
"They don't take me seriously," she says, picking at the skirt of her taffeta dress. Her eyes go far away, distant.
"Yeah, no shit," he says. "They're fucking idiots is why. Too infatuated with the sound of their own voices." He rolls his shoulders back and slumps more comfortably in his chair, wine glass dangling precariously in one hand. "Just wait until you prove them wrong, huh? Nothing better than seeing the look on a bastard's face when you best him at his own game."
She refocuses her gaze on him, and her mouth curves up just enough to be purposeful. "I admire your tenacity," she says warmly.
Shit.
He's saved from any embarrassment by the cheers of the partygoers back in the ballroom, counting down for the new year. Peko looks to the door.
Eight… Seven… Six…
"'Bout that time," he says, straightening his posture.
"It seems so."
Three… Two… One…
The ballroom erupts with music and applause. The night sky comes alive with shimmering fireworks. Her face is briefly illuminated by bursts of greens and reds and yellows. They clink glasses.
"Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year."
He sips from his glass, the sour-sweetness settling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't expected to spend his first moments of the new year with a girl he'd just met when he'd taken the job, but it's made the noise and crowds and late hours worth it, no contest.
He glances back at the door. "… I should probably actually get back to work now. Help with the clean up and all that." He can think of a hundred other things he'd rather be doing than sweeping up confetti and balloons, but he's almost lost his pay once already, and bills don't wait around.
"Yes, I should be returning home," she says with a nod.
He stands and helps her to her feet. They leave the wine glasses where they are.
"Thank you for keeping me company for the night," she says.
"Don't mention it," he says.
It ends like that. Polite smiles and awkward stances and longing stares. He chews the inside of his cheeks. She tucks an errant strand of hair that's escaped its pin behind her ear, and flashes him another smile before she turns to leave.
Don't go.
"Wait," he blurts out. He has to shove his hand into his pocket to keep from reaching after her. (He'll damn himself for speaking out of turn for the second time that night if he has to.) She turns, eyebrows high. "Can I see you again, professor?"
She smiles. "Yes," she says.
And they do.
