*bounces* I got to see Spirited Away in theaters this weekend!! Go Miyazaki!!
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Mark was the very picture of impatience, trailing along behind her as she handed her figures over to her boss. Janet looked a bit surprised to see her leaving so soon, but took in the look on Mark's face and didn't press for information.
"Are you going to be coming back later?" she asked tentatively.
Anne shrugged. "It's not in my hands at the moment," she said, not trying to be mysterious, but not really wanting to explain things, either. With a bit of a wave, she turned and let Mark lead the way out of the lab.
Their walk through the halls of the plant was silent and not very comforting. Anne caught herself looking around intently, knew that she was trying to memorize what it felt like to be free. Tension knotted her muscles and her stomach was clenched into a cold hard knot. This was it. The point of change, of confrontation. Her thirty second pitch for her species, her chance to convince the leader of the opposition that she wasn't a threat to him, to his way of life.
Winning meant she could live; losing, death, or imprisonment. She suppressed a shudder. Death would be better. She could feel the walls about her beginning to press in on her, holding her, trapping her away from freedom. Her skin itched with the thought of more pain, of people trying to break her again. Her breathing quickened as they grew closer to the boss's office and she clamped down on her racing thoughts.
She was ready for this. She was prepared. Her breathing slowed to its regular pace as she forced herself towards a state of calm. Even so, as they approached the door to her fate, her arm snaked out and grabbed a hold of Mark's sleeve.
"Wait just a second," she asked, closing her eyes and breathing deeply for a few moments. He looked at her, annoyance writ large on his face, but complied.
With a slight shake of her shoulders, she opened her eyes and nodded to him. "Ok, I'm ready now," she affirmed, and he opened the door.
The room inside was best described as opulent. Plants hung from the ceiling and clustered by the windows, softening the light that streamed down from the recesses overhead. Wood paneling edged the bottom half of the walls, a deep rich cherry tone that could only have come from trees on earth. Paintings of street scenes on earth decorated the walls, reminders of a life left behind and mostly forgotten. She got the picture; this was a man who remembered. That was fine; so did she. One of the paintings caught her eye, looked like something she had seen before, but now was not the time to go take a closer look.
Most of her attention was paid to the men arrayed before her. All men; she was the only woman in the room, and wondered if it was because they were incredibly sexist on this planet, or if they were looking for brawn to overpower her if things got rough.
If they were going for brawn, they had succeeded. Aside from Mark and the boss, there were six men in the room, all of whom looked like they could bench press a small car. There were two by the door, two about six feet to the sides and a bit in front of the desk, and two standing guard over the boss.
She suppressed a snort. What did they think she was going to do, jump him? As if that would solve anything.
Seeing the room in front of her took only an instant, and her course of action was decided in the same span of time. Obviously, they expected something physical from her, something drastic. She wasn't going to play that game. Instead, she stepped into the room, nodded at her boss, then walked over to the painting that had caught her eye.
No one said anything as she walked over there. She slipped her hands in her pockets, an unconscious habit that she had picked up as a child when placed near valuable things. Mark walked in after her, trailing her but unsure what to do. She smiled, a quick quirk of the lips as she took in their uncertainty.
She spent a few minutes looking at the picture, examining the brushwork, enjoying the way that light appeared to dance off the water in the background of the picture, the deep greens and blues of the hills on the other side of the bay. The houses in the foreground had been freshly whitewashed, appearing to glow in the light from a single sun.
After she showed no signs of leaving off her appreciation of the picture, her boss stood up from his desk and walked over beside her. They stood together for a good five minutes, she looking at the picture while he looked at her.
"Italy?" she asked, finally breaking the silence.
"Yes," he said softly.
"A Meyer? It looks like some of his earlier work, but it might be a copy. I can't remember if this style of lighting," she pointed at the reflection of the sunlight on the roof, "was a part of his earlier techniques or not."
"This is actually the first painting where he tried that out. And it is not a copy."
"Ah," she said absently, reaching out with her finger to trace the contours of the strokes, careful to come close to the surface of the painting but not to touch it. "He's always been one of my favorite artists of the Mezzoromantic period. Much more evocative than the majority of his fellows."
"It's one of the jewels of my collection. But please, sit. I did not bring you here to discuss my taste in art."
"No," she agreed easily as she turned away from the painting, her eyes not wanting to leave the scene that she knew so well, having once lived in that town. "We have much weightier matters to discuss."