Hexagons are fascinating when you think about it. Equilateral, equiangular and perfectly symmetrical. Escher revered them in his tessellations, Hales in this theorem; every honeycomb and basalt column on the planet paid homage. One simple shape upon which artists, mathematicians, bees, and lava flows could all agree.

On Mel's computer screen was an intricate map made entirely of hexagons, and all she could do was stare.

She was bored as hell.

The interlocked hexagons built the chemical structure of cellulose before delving into a multi page abstract on its potential as biofuel. It was a marvelous idea, she agreed, but none of these proposals ever detailed how to make the process viable. She tipped her head back against her office chair. It required such specific enzymes to break it down that the cost outweighed the benefit. Financial would never greenlight the study until someone cracked that code. Until then these clusters of hexagons would show up on her screen about twice a year and each time would conclude, as always, with an unsatisfying stalemate.

Mel turned away towards the windows. It was sunny; it been grey and drizzly all last week but it was beginning to feel like spring had come for real. She glanced at the clock. Now was as good a time as ever to take her lunch. Maybe she'd even draw it out a bit and go to the park to sit and eat and soak in the sunshine.

Her laptop chimed, the Wayne Enterprises messaging platform flashing in the notification bar. Mel's eyebrows raised.

Edward.

She wasn't terribly surprised. He was not really her boss- boss adjacent, maybe? Certainly higher up on the pecking order. A nice guy, a bit smug, on the Board of Directors in some capacity but she didn't remember how. At the Christmas party he'd chatted her up over multiple glasses of champagne and the messages had trickled in ever since.

Jan 27, 3:44pm

17 seconds. You?

crosswords/game/mini

Feb 12, 10:03am

21 seconds. I must be distracted. ;)

crosswords/game/mini

Mar 18, 11:51am

Seemed up your alley…

vickivale/blog/225922/2016-will-the-real-raised-beds-please-stand-up

And today:

Apr 28, 12:07pm

Any interest in joining me at a sort of Board soiree on Friday? Probably too stuffy and boring for a lady of your interests, but this guy never skimps on the catering. ;)

A coy little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She wasn't terribly interested in Edward. He was smart, to be sure, and cocky as well. He also wasn't the first of his type to ask her out; they were like moths and she was a flame. She couldn't really explain why and, honestly, she hadn't bothered examining it too much. He was, however, the first to flirt via expert level crossword puzzles and she was admittedly flattered. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Left to her own devices her freetime was admittedly rather uninteresting and she rarely turned down a chance to get dolled up and enjoy a pricey glass of wine. It usually took no more than a hair flick for these types of men to bend over backwards, anyways. She was a pro.

Apr 28, 12:15pm

Intriguing! Time/place?

She rested her cheek in her hand and watched as a text bubble instantly appeared, flickering as he wrote his reply. She glanced at the sunshine again and fiddled with a pencil. Another damn hexagon she realized. Instead of scowling she twirled it around in her hand, taking in the hidden symmetrical miracle of its shape, and used the eraser to gently nudge a leaf of the small potted plant on her desk. Peperomia argyreia, Watermelon Peperomia. Native to South America, happiest in a shady spot with bright light and soil with good drainage. She'd name him Julius.

Mel felt her smile melt into something warmer as she gazed at his leaves, marked like little watermelons. She touched one with a finger, stroking the smooth green stripes as Edward messaged her details. 8pm on Friday. She almost added it to her calendar but figured it wasn't worth the effort. She'd remember. Instead she gazed at Julius, this little Venezuelan plant that sat in a pot twelve stories above the ground and two rows of desks from the sunny window, nestled in his unnatural bright shady spot in his specially purchased well draining soil. He seemed happy. She hoped so, anyway.

Strictly speaking, she hadn't forgotten. While her hair curler was heating, she'd sipped a can of wine and watched the contestants of a Friday night reality show shriek at one another until she'd realized it was 7:25pm. Now Mel blew out a breath of relief as she slid on a pair of strappy sandals. Somehow her Spanx were smooth, her hair was pinned up, and she'd even managed to chuck on some earrings and a bracelet and it was only 7:51pm. By the front door she had one of those cheap floor length mirrors. She'd never bothered to hang it, opting instead to lean it against the wall and make do with the awkward angle. She bent closer and popped a lid off of a tube of lipstick. It was one of those brands that boasted 24-hour, forever, no smudge, no turning back, all holds barred color: one end had the color that slicked on bright and dried sticky, the other a smooth gloss that made her mouth look and feel human again. Mel refused to look at the ingredients. Waxes and oils made up most cosmetics, which were all made of esters and acids and hydrocarbons. She didn't want to think about any more goddamn hexagons.

Her phone buzzed, and she didn't bother checking it. It was 8pm on the dot. She looked at herself in the mirror and her reflection stared back in its little black dress and unsmudgable red lips; the effect was effortless, perfect. She tossed the tube on the couch before heading out the door.

"Wow."

Whoever the host was, he was wealthy. Extremely wealthy. If the twenty-first story penthouse apartment hadn't already tipped her off, Mel would've known it the minute the elevator doors swished open. Edward held out an arm.

"After you."

She stepped out of the elevator and it was as though the very air reeked of money. Everything looked expensive in an untouchable way, like aliens had arranged things into the perfect facsimile of a billionaire's home but no human being had ever stepped foot inside. But there were humans inside, many in fact. Men mingling with drinks or sitting rigidly in crisp suits, some laughing, some eating, some snapping their fingers at faceless caterers for more champagne. The occasional flash of color came from the occasional female in a bright dress, but they were sorely outnumbered. Across the foyer sat an antiseptic orchid arrangement in a glass tray. Mel shifted her clutch.

To his credit Edward made a decent companion. When she'd met him outside her building he'd held the car door open.

"After you, m'lady."

He had run his palms over his thighs and watched as she buckled her seatbelt.

"You look great."

"Thank you," she'd grinned, flicking her hair, "you know how to make a gal feel special."

Edward had laughed and revved the engine, driving them down through the city to the ritzy neighborhood on the east side of the park. He was not unattractive she decided; he was perhaps in his late thirties, tall, not especially fit but quick and clever. He was exceptionally neat from his polished Ferragamos to his carefully combed hair. Once in the car he was a little awkward, trying cooly to conceal it behind his cocky words.

"Like I said, I'm not sure how dull this is going to be," he'd drawled after passing his keys off to the valet, "I apologize in advance."

Mel had just adjusted her wrap and shrugged.

"Don't worry about me, Edward, I'm a big girl."

He'd chuckled and offering her the crook of his elbow.

"Please, call me Ed. Everyone does."

In another circumstance she might've pretended not to notice the offering but she was having a nice time and she wasn't one to turn up her nose at a gentleman with such expensive shoes. She looped a hand through his arm and gave his bicep a purposeful little scratch with her nails, smirking when she could've sworn he shuddered.

"Then feel free to call me Mel," she'd steered him towards the extravagant front doors, "everyone does."

As the evening progressed, however, her good mood began to sour. Ed was fairly attentive, involving her in conversations when he could and frequently remembering to keep her fed and watered. He had not been exaggerating about the catering, which was decadent to say the least. She knew that if a person asked the right caterer in the right way they could end up with a tupperware at the end of the night; after her eyes had taken in the baked brie and crab cakes, she'd begun scanning the room for that perfect caterer to befriend.

"John Daggett!"

A slender man sidled over and shook Ed's hand.

"Glad you could make it, Nygma. It's about time we started seeing your face at these things."

Mel put on a pretty smile and placed her wine on the table behind her to free a hand but John Daggett didn't offer. He and Ed continued their conversation without him giving her even a passing glance. She bristled. This must be the guy who was hosting the thing; if his perfect sports jacket and smarmy turtleneck didn't give him away, his shitty elitist attitude did. She vaguely remembered the name John Daggett as belonging to one of the Wayne Enterprises execs, but beyond that she knew nothing besides her growing dislike of this man she had just met.

"I commend you - really, Daggett - because, speaking professionally, I can tell you that not everyone is equipped to see value before it becomes commodity," Ed said and, in an act of boldness she had not thought he possessed, draped an arm around her waist. She couldn't decide whether or not she was impressed "I mean, three years ago who would've thought that gravel mines would be the talk of the in crowd?"

Daggett glanced at Ed's hand resting lazily on her hip then briefly lingered on her breasts as the two men continued to speak. Never looked her in the face, never introduced himself; Ed's posturing, conscious or otherwise, made it very clear that she was decoration, a prop in a LBD. He sipped his scotch and with mingled disgust and horror she realized the rim of his expensive tumbler formed a hexagon. She remembered the orchid display by the front door. Mel's skin itched, every single centimeter of dermis, and she wanted to climb out of it and leave it standing in stolid silence at Ed's side. Daggett gestured to a closed door in the corner as he moved away.

"We're talking shop in the study in five, grab a drink and bring your strategist's mind."

Ed was plainly delighted with himself. He smoothed his fingers over his perfect hair, gave her waist a squeeze, and murmured in her ear.

"You must be my harbinger of good fortune."

She gingerly extracted herself from his hold under the pretense of collecting her wine. Taking a sip she gave him a brittle smile.

"Lucky you."

Emboldened by either his drink or the prospect of high-powered business, Ed caught her hand.

"I won't be long, I promise."

He pressed a kiss to her knuckles before grinning and striding away. Mel watched him go, feeling belligerent. Being left alone at a weird gathering of billionaires and stony faced businessmen had not been what she signed up for. For a moment she stood there stupidly, wine glass glued to her lips, looking around for her next move. A few of the women were clustered by a window, looking like a colorful array of bored birds. She snorted. Not really her scene.

For lack of inspiration she grabbed a fresh glass of champagne and pretended to be interested in the various pieces of art as she walked stiffly towards the hall. What was it with rich people and Japanese antiques? It was like you gave a man a couple million dollars and with a sudden clarity he realized he needed a decorative fucking ranma panel. She threw back her wine and left the empty glass on a sideboard. On a different day she might've seen the rudeness in nosing about someone's apartment but tonight she scathingly decided a personal tour was her reward for being an ornament.

The hall, to her surprise, led to a short staircase which in turn led to an antechamber with four doors. Two were closed and she moved past them. The third was interesting: inside she could see tall windows and a pristine grand piano. The fourth led to an extravagantly decorated toilet -complete with a pair of okimono statues she noted, rolling her eyes- so she moved back to the third door and walked inside.

The sounds of the party had tapered off when she went down the stairs. Mel stood and revealed in the clean and silent quality of the air around her. She could still feel the ghost of Ed's arm on her waist and his lips on her knuckles but her skin was no longer crawling with revulsion and fury. She also noted that she was tipsy, but not quite drunk. Just beginning to feel that exquisite, unbothered state where she didn't care if people ignored her, didn't care if someone treated her like she was stupid. She put down her clutch and placed her palms on the cool black piano cover, inhaling deeply through her nose. The instrument was large; powerful, she thought, though she didn't quite understand what she meant by that, only that it was true. She exhaled and moved around to its front.

There was untouched sheet music sitting on the music rack. Mel rested a knee on the bench and leaned closer to inspect it, then suddenly drew back. Her calm and power and nonchalance wavered.

Ständchen (from Schwanengesang)

Unspecific memories flickered in her mind: practicing sulkily at home, arguing about lessons, the nerves before recitals. Phantoms images more so than true memories. She frowned and carefully, with a feeling somewhere between bitterness and reverence, her fingers pressed out the first several bars. She was rusty as hell. Over her shoulder came the sound of applause, and she jerked her hands back and whirled. A man was leaning against the door frame, cool as you please, an odd slice of a smile across his angular face.

"Sorry," Mel tucked a loose curl behind her ear; it was a subtle little move but it tended to work in situations like these, "I should've asked."

The man waved away her apology and stepped into the room.

"Not a problem, trust me," he sipped his scotch, "no one touches that thing anyway."

She gave a light little laugh and considered her options for an exit strategy, wondering if Ed was done 'talking' fucking 'shop'.

"So," the man went on, "what's your story?"

Oy.

Her phone was in her clutch, thank god, so she was one fake text from being on her merry way. She shrugged and reached for the bag.

"Oh, I'm not...I'm here with a colleague, I'm not really involved with-"

He snorted.

"Obviously."

Her hand stopped an inch from the clutch, her brain too shocked at his rudeness to continue firing. John Daggett was quickly downgraded to the silver metal on her shit list. Who the hell did this prick think he was? He gave her another one of his strange wide smiles.

"So what is your deal? The next Adele, that sort of thing?" he waggled his eyebrows. "The tortured artist?"

Blood was pounding in her veins and, to her frustration, so now was champagne. She shouldn't engage, she knew that. She wasn't just 'not dumb'. Her intelligence wasn't a negation. She was fucking smart as hell and also slightly drunk and looked hot in this dress and didn't owe this creep another second of her time.

"No, I'm a botanist."

She was fucking smart as hell, slightly drunk, looked hot in this dress, didn't owe this creep another second of her time...and also hated not having the last word.

"A botanist?"

"Yeah, a botanist."

"What, flowers and things?"

Duh.

"Plant physiology, biochemistry. My dissertation was on chemical ecology and conservation- "

"Christ, then what are you doing at a party like this, professor? Doesn't someone pay you for all those smarts?"

She was fucking smart as hell, slightly drunk, looked hot in this dress, didn't owe this creep another second of her time, hated not having the last word...and was becoming royally pissed off.

She knew this guy; she didn't have to know his name or his deal to know exactly who he was. His fingers flexed restlessly on his glass. His suit was expensive but not as nice as some of the other guests. In her heels he was just barely taller than her. She would've put money on the fact that his business card contained the letters MBA, but she and her PhD weren't the gambling types. Oh yeah, she knew this guy.

"It's Doctor, actually."

The man regarded her coolly and Mel stared right back. After a moment he exhaled through his nose and, to her horror, gave her a wicked and almost secretive look.

"Go on," he purred, "be honest, what did that degree get you? Secretary? Administrative assistant?"

Each second that she stood frozen and fumbling for a response was like a hot poker on her rawest nerve. Whether or not he'd meant to, he'd found it. She tipped her chin up but her words were stiff.

"Research and development."

"Hmm, department head?"

"Research chemist."

His smile was smug and mean.

"Got it."

He took another sip and slowly dragged his eyes all over her. Ed's touches were nothing in comparison. She felt filthy. He stepped closer and her spine bumped against the side of the piano.

"Let me give you a tip," his voice was sincere and oily and cut like a knife between her ribs, "you can fluff your resume at these things all you like, but you'll get what you want much faster if you keep your lipstick fresh, find a higher heel, and let that body do the work for you. Trust me, it's much more convincing than the unappreciated brainiac gimmick."

His fingers snaked inside his suit coat and came out holding a card, which he tucked smoothly under the strap of her dress. She wrenched herself away, stumbling towards the windows, but he just straightened his lapels and strode towards the door.

"Give me a call. And if you must play that thing, make it New York, New York or something. No one wants your depressing classics," he shot a final smile over his shoulder as he disappeared round the corner, "this is a party after all."

The air was once again clean and silent as his footsteps faded away. Mel felt betrayed by its indifference and she stood trembling with humiliation. She was fucking smart as hell, slightly drunk, looked hot in this dress-she couldn't finish the sentence. Crying would be the logical thing to do but she couldn't muster a tear, couldn't muster a single sound.

Something small and white caught her eye by the furthest window. Phalaenopsis japonica, a nago orchid gazed back with its kind little flowers. Native to, of fucking course, Japan and the Korean peninsula. Its leaves were dark forest green; her heart leapt into her throat and her body into action. The soil in the pot was a bark mixture, which was correct, but it was much too dry. Mel cradled the little planter in her arms, making her way into the toilet where she turned the faucet on and offered the blossoms a well needed trickle of water. She let it continue to run even after she pulled the plant away and held it to her chest, forcing herself to smile at the flowers in the mirror but not meeting her own eyes. She clutched the pot until her knuckles turned white, tensed every muscle, clenched her brain and her lungs and her teeth in their sham smile, until finally letting it all drop away. Slowly, the trembling subsided.

The orchid's original location was too shady which explained why its leaves were so dark. The windows in the piano room faced south and west. Mel placed the planter onto a new side table closer to the south with a clinical precision. Then she turned on her heel and moved purposefully towards the stairs and the hall and the front door. She was going home. She grabbed her wrap and was nearly out when she remembered her bag which was still on the piano.

Fuck, Mel.

She didn't know why almost forgetting her purse was the thing to finally make her eyes well up, but it was. Blinking furiously, she made a beeline back through the hall, down the stairs, and across the antechamber and stormed back into the empty room. Her feet barreled across the threshold; at the same moment that her fingers closed around the clutch and the first angry tear trailed down her cheek all of her senses suddenly became aware of a massive presence. Mel stopped cold. The room was not empty. A man now stood by the southernmost window, a man who looked up stoically when she entered, who was absolutely enormous and clasping the lapels of a dark motorcycle jacket in his immense hands. But what made her heart pound was the mask. She could hear his breathing as it hissed from within the twisted metal piping that covered his mouth and nose, gripping his skull like a spider. Who the hell was he? A chilly fear trickled down her spine and at the moment she remembered the unshed tears still shining in her eyes. She looked away, embarrassed and decidedly unnerved. Could this night get any fucking worse?

"Such fine music has been played into a void, I fear."

It was not at all what she expected his voice to sound like nor the kind of thing she would've expected this beast of a man to say. There was something almost gentlemanly about his words, words that warbled and hissed from a masked behemoth. Mel whisked a palm over the tear on her cheek. She rolled what he had said over and around in her head. He must have heard her playing, if you could call it that, which means he probably heard what happened after as well. Playing into a void, he'd called it. She could feel his eyes on her.

She was fucking smart as hell, slightly drunk, looked hot in this dress, didn't owe this-this giant another second of her time...and hated not having the last word.

"If everyone is in the void, where does that put you and I?"

He stood calmly but his gaze was piercing, a predator's gaze. Calculating and sharp; he blinked. She blinked. Was that... amusement? A mechanical crackling from within the mask was his only response. Mortification suddenly flooded her when she remembered that there was a business card still tucked into her cleavage. She fumbled for a moment before managing to rip it out. Her chest heaved.

Phillip Stryver.

Executive Vice President and mother fucking MB fucking A.

Ugh.

Her only consolation was that her anger overwhelmed a second wave of tears. Knowing that nothing could possibly make this worse, she dropped the card on the piano cover deliberately and made for the door. When the behemoth made no attempt to stop her, Mel breathed a sigh of relief. She twisted herself in her wrap and slipped into the penthouse elevator, leaving the disastrous party to play itself out without her.