Chapter 10: Take Another Look Into His Eyes And You Will Only Find A Reptile

I enter a foyer. When I cross the threshold, my arm brushes the drell's body. The matte-weft material of his outerskin suit smells of leather. Its squared collar descends a few inches below his neck, baring a swatch of his green chest. I direct my gaze away from him and his unfathomable eyes.

In this antechamber light and color is muted. Art hangs on the walls; textured paintings. A cream couch and loveseat surround an enormous chunk of quartz that serves as a coffee table. Brighter light filters in from the interior office. The drell crosses in front of me before I take a step. He pauses in the entryway to the office proper.

"Coming?" He asks, smiling that taunting smile. His voice rasps like Dakan's, but it's not as deep and he doesn't have those distinct baritone sub-vocals all turians possess. Rather, it sounds like he has a perpetual frog in his throat. I want to give him a lozenge. Because his eyes are pure black, I can't tell exactly where he looks, but I think he gives me a once over, appraises the goods. I get it at Shadow Matter all the time. On the whole, I enjoy people watching me. Right now I don't. Putting on my best bitch face, I march into Dalessia's office, hip-checking the drell as I pass. He shadows me, chuckling.

The inner office is spacious and airier than the mood lit foyer. My boot heels clack against the lightwood floor. Besides a large, unoccupied desk set back in the center of the room, only a chaise situated by an enormous window and a blown glass hookah decorates the space.

An asari—not Dalessia—drapes over the chaise. One of the four silver pipes attached to the hookah rests between her lips. The drell makes himself comfortable beside her, leaving me on my lonesome in the middle of the room. His asari friend snakes an arm across his chest. Fingernails dig into his thigh as she slides the pipe from her mouth, throws her head back, and breathes out a delicate stream of perfumed smoke. Snagging the pipe, the drell takes a hit. He watches me all the while.

"Good morning, Persephone." Dalessia emerges from the automatic door behind her desk. The entrance seals faster than I can determine what's behind it. "You certainly had an eventful evening." She sits at her desk and lifts a slender remote from its surface. A click of a button reveals a vid screen hidden behind a retracting panel at my back.

I twist around. Citadel Space's logo is frozen on the screen. Dalessia reanimates the banked teaser. Stock footage of shady characters and goings on plays with dramatic narration from Emily Wong. There are shots of a burned out Chora's Den, doors cordoned off with C-Sec's projected crime tape, officers gathering evidence. And then there's me. I don't look or sound too bad considering the circumstances. Dalessia speaks over my interview clip.

"Already all over the channels and I haven't even booked you on a go-see." She stills the teaser and flops the remote aside. "The spot on Citadel Space will be a good supplement for your pre-package. I still want you to do a cold reading here. Vlair?"

The drell gives Dalessia his attention.

"Set up the camera," the asari orders. "I'll want some stills when she's done with the read through."

While Vlair vanishes behind the automatic door—the asari he abandons pouts at her loss—Dalessia quizzes me on my other talents.

"Can you sing?"

"If my life depended on it," I say. I can carry a tune, but I have no range or power.

"If you can't live out of the galactic limelight, it does." Dalessia adjusts the sleeves of her dove gray suit. "Give me the chorus of Name in the Stars."

At least I know the song she throws out. Name in the Stars is Zanica Lau'la's latest hit. Halfway through the infectious hook, Vlair re-enters the room. Under his arm he carries a metal folding chair. At his back, a mini campanion hovers. His nose wrinkles at my rendition of the hypra-pop single.

Everyone's a critic.

Dalessia bobs her head in time with my melody. I wrap it up and the chaise lounging asari giggles. Smoke she's inhaled puff-puff-puffs out of her mouth. She coughs and splutters as Vlair sets up my chair. Dalessia silences the peanut gallery with a single sharp glance. The asari quiets herself, stares out the picture window and sucks her pipe.

Massaging her temples, Dalessia says, "It's not entirely hopeless. There's such a thing as Live Pitch."

The program she means keeps a singer in pitch synthetically. Two, near invisible nodes go on either side of the throat and control tone, endurance, and power. Even the most tone deaf elcor can sound like a star. The criticism doesn't sting too bad. Singing is my weakest talent.

"Sit," Dalessia says and holds out a datapad which Vlair accepts after he finishes adjusting the mini campanion.

Seated, I slump my purse off my shoulder and let it slouch against the chair's legs. Vlair passes the portable screen to me. I scan the lighted text fixed in frame. It's a promotional script for a bogus perfume.

Dalessia waves her hand. "Whenever you're ready." An active terminal demands most of the asari's focus. I don't let her dismissive attitude throw me.

My lips move as I read through the script once, twice, cramming all the info into my short term memory. Lifting my head, I let the datapad drop into my lap and address the campanion's recording eye.

I do well until I reach the middle of my monologue, then my mind blanks. The pause I take seems eternal. A trickle of sweat creeps down my neck. Words, phrases, scroll across my mind's eye. They're not in the script, but they sound good, so I recite them and finish with an actual line I've memorized.

Vlair, who stands behind the campanion with his hands clasped behind his back, cocks his head sidelong as though testing the quality of my words. He casts an over the shoulder glance at Dalessia. The asari rests both elbows on her desk. Plum colored fingers steeple in front of her face. They lace together and she inclines her head in deference to me.

"Good. Good." She swivels her desk chair to face her p-interface and enters in data from her light key console. "Stills," she says to Vlair who interprets her one word command with no difficulty. Snatching the mini campanion from the air, the drell collapses the device and reshapes it.

"There's a temp contract on that datapad," Dalessia says.

Tilting up the screen, I see it's true. The perfume script is gone. Legal jargon replaces it.

"Take your time."

Dalessia has read my mind. I make myself read every word, every bit of fine print though anxious tremors shake my arms. My brain screams sign, sign, sign! But I can't, not without knowing Band Cluster's terms. Legs drawn up, I sit cross legged in my uncomfortable chair and suck on my upper lip as I read. Nothing comes off fishy, but the term of representation is shockingly brief.

Two weeks.

That's my booking window. If I don't generate at minimum ten notices of interest or book two jobs in two weeks, I'm toast.

"Temp contracts are standard for Band Cluster's courted talent," Dalessia says, interpreting my frowning, pooched out lips.

Despite my best efforts, my poker face has slipped. These interest and booking quotas are ridiculous. I've jumped through two of the asari's hoops. How many more tricks must I turn?

Dalessia observes the shift of emotions over my face. "If no one's interested in booking, I've no further interest in you. There are too many opportunities available for the agency to waste time with," her eyes flick up and down, "dead weight."

I clench the datapad so hard the frame creaks.

Dead weight? Dead weight? Dalessia Kella has no idea who she's dealing with.

The datapad's stylus slides free of its frame's upper corner with a sharp snick. Scrolling to the bottom of the contract, I sign my name and place the date in the appropriate field. She needs a thumb print scan too. My plasilk suit has built in gloves. For a print scan, my whole top must come off. I rub my sheathed fingers together and am about to mention my conundrum when Dalessia cuts me off.

"I'll need you out of all that," Dalessia waves a hand at my outfit, "for the stills. Take your hair down too. You may keep your underwear on. Are you ready, Vlair?"

"I am."

While I've come to grips with my training wheel contract, Vlair has completed the campanion's transformation into a palm friendly still shooter. He waits on me, but doesn't appear impatient. I clamber up from my seat. The backs of my legs knock the chair and it shrieks over the hardwood floor. Dalessia and Vlair wince. The chaise asari bites down on her sliver pipe and groans. Shoulders hunched, I fold the chair and—kicking my purse as I go—lean it against the wall. I drop the datapad atop my bag. Then I begin negotiating my complex outfit.

The attached overtunic and jacket, which most resembles a hardsuit, comes off first. Chucking those pieces by the chair, I proceed to shuck myself out of the skin tight bodysuit beneath. Plasilk peels from my sweat misted body. The suit's built in support made a bra redundant, so I'm bare from the waist up. Cool air swirls around me and raises goosebumps all over my arms. My nipples tingle and harden.

Doubled over, I've rolled the bodysuit down to my waist. I straighten to work the stubborn garment over my hips.

"What is that?" Dalessia's inquiry freezes my clumsy strip tease.

I'm momentarily bewildered, then I remember the gauze and medical tape tacked to my chest. Of course, the bandage will ruin the full body stills Dalessia needs for my pre-package. An aching knot forms in my gut. Fingering my wrappings, I divulge the brutal events the Citadel Space teaser hasn't revealed. If my stoicism impresses Dalessia, it doesn't show. Transfixed by my bandaged chest, the asari pinches her bottom lip and leans back in her chair.

"Let's see the extent of it," she says and motions to Vlair.

The drell pockets the collapsed campanion and encroaches into my personal space. I've already started picking at the medical tape. Vlair sweeps my hands out of the way and, in one swift gesture, rips the gauze from my tender skin like someone waxing my bikini line. A guttural cry tears from my clenched jaws.

"You fuck!" I strike his chest. The light blow doesn't move him. All I've done is jammed my fingers. I shake my stinging hand.

"Does he ever," the couch asari breathes out with her latest puff.

Neither my pitiful hand to hand nor the bawdy comment from the puffed out peanut gallery dissuades Vlair from his appraisal of my recent disfigurement. After he drapes the bandage over the folding chair's back, he bows and lowers his face too near my chest. I take a shaky step back and he stills me, catching my forearms.

"Just a moment," he says.

Warm breath courses over my skin. Sandpapery fingers pinch and stretch the sutured slash above my breasts. I grunt and hiss at the little spikes of pain his prodding invokes. My nerves are ultra-sensitized by his proximity to my bare self. His touches aren't sexual, but he's very male and very close and very not unattractive.

Vlair sighs. "Sloppy," he mutters and pulls away. Over his shoulder, he addresses Dalessia, "Barely more than a scratch."

A scratch? Is he nuts?

I nurse my wound which, in my opinion, warrants far more than cursory irritation.

"We can doctor the stills," Dalessia says. "Go ahead and take them. If she books, we'll back a few regenerative treatments at Pure. That should take care of any scarring."

The drell's chin dips in assent and he tugs the collapsed campanion from his pocket. He raises the viewfinder to his eye, then hesitates, lowers the device.

"Your hair."

Vlair draws close again. One arm circles around my head and eases the pins from my upswept hair which sheets passed my waist. Swathes of it fall over my shoulders. Vlair's fingertips brush my cheek when he retreats to shoot the stills. He takes a tight shot of my face, my profile, a couple full bodies. They upload to Dalessia's terminal. I see them through the back of the semi-transparent screen. She resizes the shots, makes the red slash across my chest disappear, ports and arranges them onto one official agency document.

Work finished, Vlair re-pockets the campanion and attempts to redress my wound. Snarling, I snatch the bandage from his grasp and press it to my chest. The medical tape, dulled with sloughed skin cells and fine hairs, barely sticks to me. It'll drop off without constant pressure. My suit's tight enough for that. My dismissal sends Vlair back to the chaise where he sprawls alongside the asari. He slides the wetted pipe from her mouth. A pink tongue curls invitingly at him. I give their intimate display my back.

Two itching patches bloom on my shoulder blades as I wriggle back into my suit. The drell's eyes are on me. I know it. I ignore it. Half dressed, I snatch up the datapad and press my thumb to the scanner before I slip my arms into by bodysuit's gloved sleeves.

"Your pre-package is on the way out." Dalessia swivels her office chair so she faces me. "I'll route any offers to your sig. Make the appointments and I'll make you a star."

Yeah, I think. Easier said than done.

The human is gone. The leaf is spent. Vlair sucks at the pipe anyhow, the metal cool and tangy against his tongue. Anise, the leaf's flavor, tinges the back of his throat. Behind him, Enel dozes, utterly spent on the smoke.

"She's booked tonight." His supposed mistress rocks in her chair. The dark tips of her head crest peek above her seat's curved back. "Quasar wants her for a kinetic ad series."

Vlair trails a finger down Enel's cheek. The slumbering asari mewls softly, but doesn't wake. The sound sends a ripple of pleasure through him, stiffens his cock. Enel makes that sound when he's in her. He'll hear that noise quite a bit before the day is done.

Rising from the chaise, Vlair bends and works his hands beneath Enel's body. He lifts her. Slack arms bump his backside when he slings her over his shoulder.

"I'll have her up in time," Vlair says and strokes Enel's bottom, tweaking one cheek hard. She groans and quiets. She's smoked too much. Kella has spun around.

"Don't wear yourself out with Enel. You're going out tonight."

Vlair expects this command.

"You think the human is a suitable candidate?" He asks.

"That's what you'll determine. She possesses the correct qualities. Follow her. Establish her routine, her social network. She may only be good for another line of revenue. In that case, we'll keep searching."

Neve Cezetti, your life is in my hands.

In his hands is exactly where Vlair prefers his women.

With Enel in tow, Vlair abandons Kella's office for the suite upstairs. Toeing open the bedroom door, he crosses the carpeted chamber and settles the asari onto the bed. Frosted windows fill the room with gray light. The gray sheets are still tangled from the previous evening. The mattress dips when he sits and Enel stretches herself awake. She yawns, throws an insistent arm about his waist and tugs. He gives her what she wants. That's his purpose, but this liaison is his choice.

Enel's hands undo his trousers' fastenings. The buckles give her trouble. He helps her, guides her hands with his own. Puppeting her pleases him and he enjoys the frenzied way they tangle.

Sex is his reason, his purpose. And it's always better when the woman cradling his hips doesn't have to die.