Beto had no illusions things would move quickly. Bureaucracy was bureaucracy, regardless of nation or state or empire. Every person owned each email and message and task- or didn't when it was something they didn't want to do or be responsible for.
The memory of the fly caught in the honey flashed across his mind. He'd watched fascinated, as it struggled, wings getting sticky and mired, sinking. He was only 11 at the time but he had learned to catch flies fairly easily, his hand quick and yet gentle, not squishing it in the process. Summer in the Bronx could be humid and brutal and there were always plenty to disturb him as he tried to sleep, drawn to the sweet sweat he guessed.
They always fought so hard. Only one had ever made it out in all that time.
(He chuckled slightly to himself even as the usual discomfort from the memory came upon him. The triad concept was now mostly outdated, but it still stayed with him in his work. Questions of bed wetting, fires, or torturing of animals usually flashed an arrow in a single direction. Not that he had been surprised. He knew what he was. Or was capable of, rather. But definitions helped. They placed a box around the impulse, circumscribed it in such a way as to make it small, manageable. Mindfulness was key, the river flowing, thoughts and feelings leaves drifting along, examined, and then the choice to accept or reject.)
In any case Daiyu was still stuck, but Beto wouldn't give up. He had escaped the honey after all.
Beto was on his own, now. He'd left the studio he'd leased and just wandered the streets. The news out of the Kremlin was garbled and he didn't doubt the propaganda experts were working overtime to spin things. He heard rumors, of course, but rumors could be black or white or any shade in between when it came to truth. He preferred facts.
Tonight, though, he was tired. And walks in this alien city had invigorated him. It was a new energy, something that seemed to be missing from the US. Strangely, he found it all very attractive in a way that was frankly a bit disconcerting.
Not enough that he'd avoid it though. He'd come here becuase....well he needed to. There might be answers here. Meaning. Something.
The music of the club thrummed out an insistent heartbeat. Normally, not his scene, though it was easier to observe without the need of small talk. Not unless he felt like yelling, which he didn't. Inane talk was not his interest at normal decibels.
But this place seemed interesting. A cabaret. The screen out front advertising the show, Cabaret and Candy. It promised satire, the face that almost seemed to form behind the words that then drifted away in wisps of smoke recognizable. A small smile appeared on his face and he went it.
The woman at the door was taller than he was and built like a line-backer and smiled with flirtation as he swiped his card. He felt his normal persona take over. He smiled back and winked. He was not formally dressed, a light cream cabled v-neck cashmere sweate, brown wool corduroy pants over soft reddish leather loafers. Nothing too expensive or out of place. Less constricting than the tailored suits and shirts, the ties he wore every day. But still attractive, projecting an air of class and sophistication.
Which of course was only one of many modes of dress here. And yet that was the point of drag, the mockery of gender roles and clothing, the extreme styles a rejection of conformity, of societal expectation. There was a sense of liberation and freedom, though that was not something he himself required. He needed the rules.
Seated, a simple glass of red at his table, he watched the performances. Campy. Raucous. But fun for all that. The fawning announcer, Desmond Du Marc, voice breathy and worshipful- the perfect sycophant- announced the main attraction.
Despite himself, he smiled at the name. Ass-candy. Brilliant. Of course the performer would look like him, but at times, he was almost a dead ringer, then at other times not. The best part, though, was mocking penii of the Argus band. He idly wondered how Brandon would take the compliment. Evidently, they weren't afraid, otherwise they would not have gone at this with such abandon. American media always portrayed the CCD as oppressive and stifling. But he knew better to believe the hounds.
His lord Ass-candy seemed to lap up the humor, shifting back and forth between serious and mockery. The man was talented, happy to be the center of attention.
It was not high theater. It didn't need to be. The message was just as clear, the truth shining through.
The memory of the fly caught in the honey flashed across his mind. He'd watched fascinated, as it struggled, wings getting sticky and mired, sinking. He was only 11 at the time but he had learned to catch flies fairly easily, his hand quick and yet gentle, not squishing it in the process. Summer in the Bronx could be humid and brutal and there were always plenty to disturb him as he tried to sleep, drawn to the sweet sweat he guessed.
They always fought so hard. Only one had ever made it out in all that time.
(He chuckled slightly to himself even as the usual discomfort from the memory came upon him. The triad concept was now mostly outdated, but it still stayed with him in his work. Questions of bed wetting, fires, or torturing of animals usually flashed an arrow in a single direction. Not that he had been surprised. He knew what he was. Or was capable of, rather. But definitions helped. They placed a box around the impulse, circumscribed it in such a way as to make it small, manageable. Mindfulness was key, the river flowing, thoughts and feelings leaves drifting along, examined, and then the choice to accept or reject.)
In any case Daiyu was still stuck, but Beto wouldn't give up. He had escaped the honey after all.
Beto was on his own, now. He'd left the studio he'd leased and just wandered the streets. The news out of the Kremlin was garbled and he didn't doubt the propaganda experts were working overtime to spin things. He heard rumors, of course, but rumors could be black or white or any shade in between when it came to truth. He preferred facts.
Tonight, though, he was tired. And walks in this alien city had invigorated him. It was a new energy, something that seemed to be missing from the US. Strangely, he found it all very attractive in a way that was frankly a bit disconcerting.
Not enough that he'd avoid it though. He'd come here becuase....well he needed to. There might be answers here. Meaning. Something.
The music of the club thrummed out an insistent heartbeat. Normally, not his scene, though it was easier to observe without the need of small talk. Not unless he felt like yelling, which he didn't. Inane talk was not his interest at normal decibels.
But this place seemed interesting. A cabaret. The screen out front advertising the show, Cabaret and Candy. It promised satire, the face that almost seemed to form behind the words that then drifted away in wisps of smoke recognizable. A small smile appeared on his face and he went it.
The woman at the door was taller than he was and built like a line-backer and smiled with flirtation as he swiped his card. He felt his normal persona take over. He smiled back and winked. He was not formally dressed, a light cream cabled v-neck cashmere sweate, brown wool corduroy pants over soft reddish leather loafers. Nothing too expensive or out of place. Less constricting than the tailored suits and shirts, the ties he wore every day. But still attractive, projecting an air of class and sophistication.
Which of course was only one of many modes of dress here. And yet that was the point of drag, the mockery of gender roles and clothing, the extreme styles a rejection of conformity, of societal expectation. There was a sense of liberation and freedom, though that was not something he himself required. He needed the rules.
Seated, a simple glass of red at his table, he watched the performances. Campy. Raucous. But fun for all that. The fawning announcer, Desmond Du Marc, voice breathy and worshipful- the perfect sycophant- announced the main attraction.
Despite himself, he smiled at the name. Ass-candy. Brilliant. Of course the performer would look like him, but at times, he was almost a dead ringer, then at other times not. The best part, though, was mocking penii of the Argus band. He idly wondered how Brandon would take the compliment. Evidently, they weren't afraid, otherwise they would not have gone at this with such abandon. American media always portrayed the CCD as oppressive and stifling. But he knew better to believe the hounds.
His lord Ass-candy seemed to lap up the humor, shifting back and forth between serious and mockery. The man was talented, happy to be the center of attention.
It was not high theater. It didn't need to be. The message was just as clear, the truth shining through.