Excerpt: Curves and Angles

The pair had caught up to the Manifestation just in time to see it disperse in front of a night club. Hanging above the door is a large, somewhat tacky sign that read “Hawt Zone” in blinking, neon blue letters. A burly man, heavily tattooed and garbed in dark clothing stood at attention, granting or barring patrons entrance.

“Lotsa people!” Blinkers exclaimed, his eyes taking in the sight before them. His tail stretches taut behind him, “Up! Up!”

“Looks like we’ve come to the right place,” Trent notes as he peers heavenwards. It is not the evening sky that had drawn the man and the Manifestation’s attention. It was the tentacled, spherical creature looming on the building’s roof: Celeste.

Max was certainly not far.

“You don’t think...” Trent trails off, disbelief and amusement hanging heavy in his words.

“Meanie-face inside?” Blinkers finished.

“I’m guessing she is.” He muses, “But only one way to find out. Blinkers, when I go in, I’m going to need you to keep Celeste busy.”

The Manifestation yips happily, any excuse to bother the stuffy female is welcomed. “I’s go now?”

Trent shook his head, “No, I’m going to need you to thin out the line first.” He hated having to use Blinkers for something so petty, but if ‘Las was right, he’d be able to see a different side of Max. And he was curious as all hell to know what that was like, or if it even existed.

Blinkers’ obsidian lips cracked into an eerie smile. He leapt off his human’s arm and darts along the streets, the wind picking up to trail after him. He winds about the Ordinaries’ feet, nips at their ankles and heels even if they are unable to feel his teeth. It is the chill of the wind that the people standing in line senses.

It makes them irritable and less willing to wait.

The Manifestation is careful not to come on too strong, it wouldn’t do to have Celeste notice him too soon. Eventually, there is less than a handful remaining. But even they seem reluctant to stick it out in the sudden cold.

Blinkers plants himself by the bouncer’s sneaker-clad feet, tongue lolling, extremely pleased with himself.

“I’s do good, yes? I’s do good?” He yips. “Please can I’s play with Celeste?”

Trent nods to the Manifestation as he approaches the bouncer. Saffron eyes notice the man’s skin is prickled with goosebumps and he hears him say gruffly “Go on in.”

The Conductor steps past through the double doors, into the dark interior and has his senses immediately assaulted by a cacophony of sounds and scents.

It takes a while for him to adjust to the dim glow of the lights as he makes his way to a table. It is occupied by a couple who look at least two years below legal drinking age. He stands in front them, arms folded across his chest, face a menacing grimace, stance emitting an aura that screams big trouble.

The couple grabs their jackets from the chairs and bolts for the door, much to Trent’s appreciation as he eases himself onto an empty seat to acquaint himself with the environment.

The music pounds out the speakers, blaring, throbbing, it sets a steady rhythm throughout the club. There are no words, no shrilly vocalist making distorted howls, no unintelligible lyrics marketed to self-deprecating adolescents.

Just calming, hypnotic beats.

Trent can feel it reverberating in his head, the vibrations of minor tremors along his muscles and skin. It tempts him to move. A twitch of a finger, the unconscious tapping of his foot, but that is all the music manages to evoke from him. Before he catches himself and snuffs the notion without the slightest hint of hesitation.

It is not a question of self-consciousness or inadequacy.

He can dance.

He just doesn’t want to, at least not this kind.

Bodies grind, hips gyrate, in-sync and out to the deluge of sounds. There was no structure, no order, no sense to the wild flailing of limbs, the bending of joints that was the crowd on the darkened dance floor. He likens their movements to epileptic seizures and frowns in distaste.

Why was he here then?

Amidst the white noise of small talk, cheesy pick-up lines, the warring scents of perfume, alcohol, cigarette smoke and sweat he wonders.

From the corner of his eyes he catches a glimpse of venom-green hair slicing through air, the slender arms of a tall silhouette arcing with grace. The strobes overhead flicker to life, illuminating sharp features, closed lids, supple curves in brief, tantalizing flashes.

Oh yes, he remembers now.

He was here because she was.

And Maximillia was here because, well, Trent doesn’t really know why she would choose a club that catered mostly to fake-ID carriers and fresh graduates.

She looks out of place, sticks out like a sore-thumb, the proverbial fish out of water. She towers a good head-and-a-half over most of the crowd. Her lips are not painted black, complexion not hidden beneath thick layers of pasty powder. She sways to the music, a monochrome of sterile-white cotton amidst an ocean of leather, denim and lace.

She gets strange looks, questioning stares but they never linger long. Not when they see the devil-may-care gleam of her eyes, the unconcerned confidence of her demeanor, the smug way she carries herself that was one or two smirks shy of arrogant.

He can’t see any obvious change in her attitude, but he can tell that something is distinctly different about her. It’s in the way she smiles, in the way she moves. She seems lighter on her feet, less suspicious and more relaxed.

Does it bother Trent that he doesn’t know why? His teeth grinds, an answer in the affirmative.

Was he doing anything to remedy this situation? His teeth continue to grind, an answer in the negative.

No, not entirely. He had followed her hadn’t he? Tried to see what she was like beyond the four walls of the laboratory, find what kind of company she keeps. Maybe even learn how she interacted with the world that existed outside of work.

He wasn’t doing a very good job of it, though.

Because the rhythm pounding in his head continues to distract him from his original objective. The music continues to beckon him to dive into the sea of bodies and push his way to join her, regardless of his personal taste. And he finds himself rising from his seat, stalking away to the exit in a decision to leave before he made a fool of himself.

After all, they functioned well as professional partners and social strangers. Why risk the possibility of ruining what they already have or the lack thereof?

Fingers close over the door's handle and something holds him back. A nagging sensation that demands he make a furtive glance over his shoulders. His instincts have yet to fail him so he concedes.

And immediately regrets it.

The music dies away.

The spasming dancers still.

The strobe remains decidedly lit.

Because he finds himself staring back at Max’s carmine eyes and is now wondering how long she has been watching him.

--------

Maximillia does not consider herself a regular at this establishment. She only visits it at most twice a month and even then she has no set schedule. She usually comes here when she wants to be away from the people in the compound. Not just from other Eccentrics but from her team in particular. She needs to distance herself from Trent especially, but the female Conductor decides not to dwell too much on her partner.

She had instructed Celeste to wait at the club’s rooftop, giving her permission to feed on any stray Manifestation regardless if it’s Benign or Malignant. It keeps Celeste preoccupied long enough without Max having to worry about maintaining control.

And control is really the last thing on her mind.

The music selection being played is what is currently keeping her occupied. The way the beat pulsates through her body and makes her move as if beyond her own volition. The way the rhythm and lack of lyrics clears her mind of her thoughts.

Thoughts about the way she acts and treats her colleagues, about how they must view her. Everyone attributes her prickly disposition to her relationship with her parents and how she’s taking out her frustration on everyone else. They think she doesn’t care about what others think and she supposes they are correct to an extent.

Carmine eyes make a casual sweep of her surroundings, and she smirks to herself. Ordinaries the whole lot of them. Not a single Eccentric in sight. These people she can confidently say she doesn’t care about. They have no idea what she knows or what she’s gone through and therefore it doesn’t matter. Their opinion is as inconsequential to her as a drop of water is to the sea.

But the people on the compound?

They know. They are like her, even if they aren’t able to do what she does. They’ve been through the same things, seen the same sights. Therefore their judgment matters, their words, their views, they hold some measure of power over her.

Maximillia hates it when others have power over her, which is why she tries so hard, so very hard to appear like she doesn’t care. And that she acts the way she does to throw them off and make them think her self-esteem borderlines on egotism when in fact nothing could be further from the truth.

She really does care about how her teammates treat her, how the other Eccentrics on the compound whisper and talk about her behind her back like she was some Malignant Manifestation. She does feel guilty about the nasty way she acts around others simply because they’ve come to expect that of her.

Even if she wanted to be nice, which she doesn’t really because she’s learned being nice got you nothing, she’s played the role of highly-critical bitch for so long any change in persona will only arouse suspicion. They’ll think she’s up to something when all she really wants is maybe to be looked at with a little less fear.

Everyone seemed to be scared of her. Except Malas but that was probably because she couldn’t see Celeste. There was Al but what kind of boss would he be if he was scared of his own subordinates. And of course, Trent.

Her lips curve into a frown at the thought of her partner. He had no reason to fear her, or respect her for that matter. He was a damn quick study, immediately picked up concepts and techniques that took her weeks, sometimes months, in a matter of days. She had been the prodigy before he came along.

No, she wasn’t a prodigy, not really. She was the only Conductor on the compound and had no point of comparison. Then he shows up, shows her up on nearly everything save for one technique but it wouldn’t be long until he’s mastered that as well.

What’s worse was despite his gruff, stony expression, when compared to her snide remarks and catty attitude, he’s Mister Congeniality. Everybody likes the guy.

Even her. Especially her.

He was genuine, dedicated, someone who didn’t play office politics not because he was bad at it but because he simply didn’t care to. He wasn’t intimidated by her or Celeste. He chided her because of her attitude but didn’t dismiss her the way her previous partners have. And he actually appreciated her during the rare few times she was in a position to be nice.

But she can’t let him know because how would that look?

The blinking strobe light is starting to get on her nerves. The crowd she was trying to lose herself in seems to be more oppressive. The music can no longer keep her in a trance. She still continues to sway, still pretends to let the beat control her body.

She wants to make believe she’s not the biggest hypocrite in the world for just a little while longer. Or at the very least until the song ends.

Amidst the grinding and gyrating, something draws her attention. Its movement is swift, purposeful, with broad shoulders and cerulean hair.

Oh god, it was Trent!

Max finds herself frozen, her mind suddenly abuzz with questions. Did he see her? How long has he been here? How long has he known? How did he find her in the first place?

She remains rooted on the spot, unmindful of the other dancers as she watches him arrive at the door. She finds herself unconsciously willing him not to leave, her slender finger tapping nervously at the mark on her chin.

He stops and looks over his shoulder. When their eyes meet, Maximillia realizes she has no idea what to do or why she wanted him to stay in the first place.