With a silent nod of approval, she gracefully placed her delicate palm in the strong, steady hand of her companion, their fingers interlocking with gentle precision. They moved as one, gliding across the smooth dance floor to find their own more secluded space to start the lesson.
Closing her captivating blue eyes, she surrendered herself to the enchanting melody that filled the air. The rhythmic beats intertwined with her very being, guiding her every step and infusing her with a sense of pure instinct. Her body became a vessel for the music, translating its seductive cadence into fluid movements.
"Relax.", she whispered in a hushed, melodic tone, her voice laced with reassurance. "Now, I shall guide you through the simple steps of the male dancer."
In that moment, she transformed before his eyes, assuming a more assertive and commanding presence. Her slender frame straightened, shoulders becoming proud and poised, emanating a captivating blend of strength and elegance. With deliberate yet unhurried motions, she guided her companion around her, seamlessly assuming the role of the dance's focal point.
Stepping forward, she pulled herself up, leading him in a slow, controlled twirl that elicited a playful smile upon her lips. Taking two steps back, she allowed him to twirl once again, this time gracefully encircling her.
But the dance was far from over. With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she guided him into a dramatic figure known as the 'gancho'. In one swift motion, she hooked her leg around his while using her unnatural strength to keep him from falling down. As they moved in slow harmony, their connection deepened as Damien was learning how to dance, transcending words and melting into the artistic language of the tango.
During those opening moments, Damien couldn't help but feel a little confused and maybe even overwhelmed. They were here under a pretense, pretending to be things they weren't, and that served to cause Damien some hidden discomfort. But as the seconds wore on with his focus occupied between his partner and footwork, that notion took a backseat for now. He could be enjoy this for who he was rather than as some thinly veiled persona.
It certainly helped his performance when this dance started to feel more like the kind shared between fighters. There wasn't anything else like the thrill of going up against somebody with the same skill and resolve, but this came close. He found himself trying to think like her, anticipating what she might do, and what he needed to do in return to maintain the flow. Naturally, this meant a certain degree of improvisation, but that was hardly something people would condemn when it came to art. While this was as alien as the language she spoke at first, time spent reading into the motions provided insight, and this proved no different than the process he followed trying to learn said language. If anything, being open to culture for what it was served to help him in the present, better understanding the person drawing him through the remainder of this musical number.
There was a flourish coming, he was sure of it, like the split second before getting the nose on target and ending the affair. Though in this context it was far less lethal, and typically was the sort of thing that was mutually enjoyed. And after all this, free of the confusion he'd initially felt, he was prepared for what might come next. Even the music gave subtle hints, pauses of certain instruments to allow a focus on select others heightened the drama, but it signalled a transition as well. She was right to admire him for his fire and confidence, since especially in a moment like this, those were the only traits he personified. What was more significant to reflect upon was that in moving in such exhausting unison like this, they had effectively become mirrors of each other. Even if by necessity, they were absorbed in the flow of uninterrupted focus on each other, so at least until the music stopped, they had become more than themselves.
As her companion's tango skills grew more refined, Fiorella de Marco effortlessly matched his progress, gracefully quickening her steps with an air of naturalness. It was a moment where she unleashed her exceptional strength to her advantage, a display of power that defied her smaller stature. Though Damien Morreti stood taller, it was he who found himself dancing around her, while she remained the radiant center of their captivating dance.
"That shall suffice as a foundation,"
She softly informed her companion, subtly guiding him closer with her commanding gestures. In a seamless motion, she switched hands and delicately rested her hand on his shoulder. The once-forceful control with which she had led him around now dissipated. Her posture softened, exuding femininity as she eased her shoulders and embraced a more fluid movement of her hips.
"Now, you shall lead."
She declared, her smile faint but discernible beneath her mask. Allowing him to take the lead, she surrendered to the spirited rhythm of the lively music. With each note, every chord, her movements intensified, and her smile radiated through her eyes. It was as if an inner essence had awakened, unveiling a hidden depth beneath her seemingly impassive exterior. A primal joy of life surged within her, animated and channeled through her extraordinary Outcast physiology.
Unfaltering in her pace, Fiorella refused to succumb to fatigue, her dress gracefully swirling with nimble turns around her companion. Perhaps only the slightly flushed cheeks betrayed the heightened physical exertion. She paid no mind to the beads of sweat forming on her companion's forehead, the plea of his fatigued muscles for respite, or the strain evident in his dance steps due to lactic acid buildup. It was as if he was ensnared by a mythical creature, capable of dancing him to the brink of exhaustion.
Yet, this evening was not destined to be his day of reckoning, and Fiorella's vivacious dance routine concluded with the fading notes of the music. A few stray locks of her lustrous black hair had come undone from her elegant coiffure, and her dress exuded a more liberated flair, hinting at an almost bohemian and unrestricted persona. However, the untamed spark of life continued to gleam brightly in her eyes.
Unbeknownst to them, the entire spectacle had captured the attention of the few couples and lone men lingering nearby. There was something about Damien that unsettled them, dissuading them from approaching his dance partner. Yet, as he appeared to take a momentary respite, one bold young man, donning a dark red suit with a harlequin mask, summoned the courage to approach Fiorella de Marco.
"May I have the pleasure of this dance, madame?"
He formally requested, extending his arm as if throwing down a gauntlet to a slightly older, leaner and shorter Damien. Her lips curled slightly in an amused and challenging smile, her gaze shifting upward to meet the young man's face, then subtly glancing at Damien, mischief twinkling in her eyes, perhaps in anticipation of his reaction.
As if on cue, they were interrupted during the interim between music played by the band. These were the precious seconds that couples typically used to exchange chit-chat on account of the lack of any music to drown out their voices. But there he was, an ill made mass of pride and vanity, wearing a suit of a colour that didn't suit his countenance. Whoever the fool was, he was exceptionally bold, bold enough to do what the others seemed wise enough to avoid doing. But it was hardly smart of him, considering that Damien's companion neglected to answer that request. Instead, she chose to mischievously defer the decision to Damien, the nuance of that choice wasn't lost on him. Rather than the actual mask on his face, the figurative one Damien wore slipped, if only slightly as he confronted the upstart politely. "Quite rude of you to interrupt a couple. You know what they say about trying to cut your way into a dance? It's bad luck. Awfully so." It might have been amusing for Fiorella to observe this sudden change in behaviour in such close proximity. The abruptness of it was as if a switch had been flipped, all at once putting his "opponent" in a situation where he was sincerely out of his depth. That notion pervaded through every word spoken and the way his eyes conveyed violent intensity. The upstart had, perhaps unfortunately, picked a confrontation with the one person here who was not only unbothered by confrontation, but relished it.
Waving his left hand dismissively at the upstart, as if to ward off a fly or some other minor nuisance, Damien decided to go one small step further and resort to humiliation. He'd taken note of the fact that a few other men were watching this little exchange with undivided focus, no doubt hoping for a good show. A few women looked on as well, likely vultures waiting to act on whatever scheme spun around in their empty heads. "I'm sure whichever court you're the jester for needs its fool back. Now, if you'd be so kind?" The onlookers audibly snickered and laughed at that comment, taking a sickening amount of enjoyment in watching one of their own be put down in terms of esteem purely because of his choice of mask. It might as well have been sadistic. And while nobody had noticed just yet, security personnel who were cleverly out of sight were keeping tabs on this bout of banter, having been placed under strict instructions to preserve the mood of the occasion, as well as making sure their chief guest didn't make a mess of the pristine floors. And that was quite a real risk at the moment, since Damien's request was actually a thinly veiled threat which would have been more than apparent to the court jester.
The young man, with audacious proximity, stepped closer to the enigmatic figure of Damien, their gazes locked in a prolonged and uneasy stare. In his slightly towering presence, he exuded an air of dominance, as if deliberately provoking a confrontation or a duel, secretly yearning for such an encounter to unfold.
Yet, the unspoken test of strength was abruptly halted by the distinct clicking of Fiorella's stiletto heels, resonating through the air. With her otherworldly poise, she gracefully embarked on a series of small, measured steps, drawing herself towards the nearby refreshment table. There, she indulged in a crystal glass of Gallic sparkling wine, delicately crafted from the overripe winter grapes, infused with the essence of roses.
Was this a calculated maneuver to divert the attention back to herself? Without betraying the slightest acknowledgment of their presence, she refrained from turning her gaze towards them, her focus solely fixated on twirling the rim of her wine glass with the gentle caress of her left index finger.
Whatever her underlying motive may have been, the tall young man who had earlier beseeched her for a dance cast a final lingering glance into Damien's eyes before silently retreating to rejoin his circle of companions.
With a smirk on his face, Damien joined his companion at the table. "Cattle always seem to gather in herds. Protects them from predators, or so they'd be inclined to believe. But I'm willing to wager you that every silk suited waste of space here dreams that they are the predators in that equation." His eyes were momentarily cast down at the wide range of food and drink on offer, and then back at the crowd, holding within them deep seated contempt.
In the world he came from, these people were considered of a lesser sort, their value to society considered negligible. They created nothing, and perhaps more importantly stood for nothing. Their lives an endless pursuit of new and convoluted ways to lionize themselves. "I remember why I left." Although a brief statement, it gave a lifetime of insight into how he truly felt about this place and its people.
Perhaps in some ways he had grown to resent these people for the same reasons the Xenos did, even if by an entirely different course of life experiences.
She narrowed her piercing blue eyes, a subtle glint of amusement shining through. A soft and melodic chuckle escaped her lips, muffled by the mask that concealed her face. Her voice, as always, carried a deep and resonant tone, but in this moment, she chose to speak in hushed tones, ensuring their conversation remained confidential.
"It appears that you harbor a certain disdain for your own culture—the genetic memory ingrained in you, in those around us, and the very people you lead towards a future of liberation."
With a graceful nod, she directed his attention to their opulent surroundings—a gathering of high society. To emphasize her point, she bestowed a long, knowing wink upon him.
"Currently, your people may not possess the means or opportunities to indulge in such affairs. However, when prosperity graces your path, events like this will become a testament to your success."
Gently intertwining her fingers with his, she symbolically evoked the steps of the dance they had recently shared.
"Or am I mistaken?"
A radiant smile parted her lips, revealing her canines. It was a playful gesture, laced with good-natured teasing. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, hinting at a temperament reminiscent of a playful yet still dangerous predator.
Keeping a grip on her hand, which she had decided to place in his and then lace their fingers together, Damien used this as a sort of leverage. A slight tug drew her in gradually, as if for a kiss or some other form of intimate gesture. But he stopped just short of anything, simply rearranging their position so that they were face to face and with minimal distance. To anyone trying to eavesdrop, their actions would be too mundane to draw suspicion. And when he did decide to speak, he conveyed what was on his mind without censorship. "It's not disdain. That would be moderate. I hate these people, and I hate what they stand for and represent. You know that, and you know why. So it's surprising to me how wrong you are. Thinking that my people will ever be like this is so ridiculous it might as well be a parody of the truth. Take a good look at all the faces around us, and in each of them you'll see the makings of someone who has never been challenged or suffered. Our entire lives have been nothing but facing challenges and suffering. We're culturally divergent from this cesspool that masquerades as the Great House of Liberty. Our values are entirely different, our views of life and the systems that should organize it are also different. The only thing these whelps and my people have in common anymore is a language." It was a running monologue conveyed with a subdued tone but with no less fiery conviction that she must have started to expect from him by now.
He truly, and fundamentally refused to see anything that his partner had just outlined as being worth merit. And his reasons for why were certainly quite exhaustive, culture was by all means an aggregation of experiences made manifest by people and preserved through repetition. And the experiences between the two groups in question could not have possibly been any more different than that already were. A deep seated contempt for everything currently in this grand hall served as a guiding beacon of what the Xenos would never allow themselves to become - hollow rulers made of porcelain rather than steel.
"Look at your own corner of the Sector and draw yourselves up against the Corsairs for comparison. Consider how different you've both become given time, circumstances, and your respective environments. Acknowledge all of that and then try and tell me that success or money would make you and them, or these dregs and my people the same. You can't, because you know it's not true, and you've even witnessed that much with your cousins." If she had expected him to merely disagree and not put her to the test in return, then she would now find herself entirely blindsided by what was effectively a case study to test her perception.
With this challenge issued in return, Damien grew quiet and resolved to watch and wait for a response.
She let out a soft, musical chuckle, her voice wrapped in a gentle whisper that was just on the edge of being louder. Drawing herself nearer to his ear, she added a hint of amusement to her words.
"I have caught you, have I not? Your fervor and dedication to the cause led you to draw comparisons that border on the impossible."
With those words delivered almost as a tender secret into his ear, she eased back into a more typical conversational tone, though her countenance remained in close proximity to his.
"There has been no cultural exchange between Malta and Crete - these worlds and their denizens have existed in complete isolation from each other for eight centuries."
A brief pause followed, a natural lull to ensure her discourse was not overwhelming. She was attuned to the art of nonverbal communication, allowing this temporary quietude to settle in a comfortable cadence. Her crystalline blue gaze briefly flitted to the surrealistic depiction of Manhattan's skyline hanging on the wall nearby.
"Notwithstanding this profound isolation, there are parallels in our cultures - our fiery dispositions, our propensity to embrace life to the fullest, and even echoes in our dances, languages, and familial traditions. Moreover, we share similar dispositions towards outsiders and denizens of Sirius as a whole."
"Much of this can be attributed to the extreme conditions that shaped our cultures and our subsequent adaptation during the fight for survival. Yet, the rest is enshrined within our cultural genetic memory, guiding us in remarkably akin directions despite the passage of over eight centuries of independent existence."
"And if cultural convergence has transpired between the Outcasts and the Corsairs in certain areas, whether my people embrace it or not, one can only fathom the depth of behavioral affinity between your compatriots and those of Liberty - particularly - if Liberty-born individuals continue to find their way to your cause. Those individuals, who were nurtured in Liberty embrace and steeped in mass culture - to a certain extent, of course."
Drawing nearer to his ear once again, she paid no heed to any potential unease her feathered mask, akin to that of the goddess Athena, might cause.
"Now, my subsequent inquiry revolves around your personal aspirations, Damien. What lies ahead for you once victory is secured and your autonomy is established? Will you be content to retire your mantle of military and political involvement, or are you the sort of man irresistibly drawn to the crucible of decision-making, perpetually immersed in the heart of action?"
A smirk took shape before he nodded his head briefly as if to concede her correctness, but what actually followed was simply more defiance. "I'll make it simpler for you. The only reason people align themselves with us is because Liberty doesn't represent them, that and the fact that they resent the currently prevailing cultural influences of essentially corporate rule. And when you hate what you descend from then the obvious reaction is that you seek to be different wherever possible. I am nothing like the family I come from, and my people are nothing like the House they happened to be born in - you're already aware of all the fundamental differences between us, yet you're being coy." Since she hadn't moved away, and had furthermore made her mask a minor nuisance, his free hand was brought up to gently hold her by the cheek and prevent any repeat. Though it did seem to at least partially be an intimate gesture, not unlike the one she entitled him to on Houston.
This new line of questioning made him pause to think, visibly considering his own nature but also the future he thought he wanted. "I think we already talked about this when we went out last. When this is over and all is said and done, I do want to hang up my wings and just exist, preferably with a family. I won't lie that I enjoy all the struggles of leadership, but I'm only doing all this so that one day I can be free too." While speaking, his thumb idly traced across the side of her face, moving along the more punctuated lines of its structure.
"What about you?" It was a far simpler rendition of the question she just posed, but it did still carry all the same weight and requirements of honest consideration.