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She was beautiful, polished, an exquisite testament to what humanity could do with DNA given tens of thousands of years of selective breeding. All the twisted irony, decadence, and lies of the world were wrapped up in that delicious package which smiled and twinkled and shone for all to see.
Indigo watched as she performed her piece to camera. Behind her head, a big smoldering image of Christo took up the entire shot as she continued to dribble praise all over the viewers at home.
“An independently wealthy multi-billionaire, he moonlights as CEO at one of the world’s largest multinational corporations. Tonight, he hosts a star-studded dinner to raise funds for the most recent outbreak of Ebola in the Sudan. Join us, on this exclusive televised tour of the outer rings of the inner circle.”
She extended a graceful arm toward a party being held outside the real party. The fake party had guests and celebrities milling about drinking champagne.
The real party was inside, and the guests there did not need so blunt an instrument as alcohol. They were able to imbibe unique cocktails of substances so intoxicating the FDA would never be able to make them illegal.
Drugs catered to the explicit biology of the taker weren’t cheap, but money was of no object at a gathering like this one. The combined wealth of the real guests was larger than the GDP of several first world nations.
It was at the second party Indigo made an appearance. At the first party, he would have ironically been a nobody. At this one, he drew the gaze of everybody in the room. Most of them hated him. Actually, honestly, all of them hated him. But being hated was something of the point.
Their loathing made him stand straighter, smile wider. It made the food taste better, and caused water to feel more crisp on his tongue.
He was swarmed discreetly by the kind of women who did not mind a man like him, the ones who sought out power and influence at all costs. There were a lot of them, and they were all very visually appealing. It would have been easy to lose himself in them. If he were a lesser man, he no doubt would have indulged. As it was, he did not. He wasn’t interested. He moved through them with an arrogant sneer on his lips. It was perhaps unintentional, though it may very well not have been.
A waitress came by with a tray full of pills. She was beautiful, elegant, and a slave. Christo Monteverdi owned women. He owned men too. None of the people serving tonight were free. They were all peons of the Monteverdis, handpicked by the man himself in what were supposed to be secret ceremonies.
“How much are you?”
She smiled at him, far too brightly. “I’m not sure, sir. Are you looking to rent, or own?”
What a humiliating question to have a young woman answer, and yet she did it with a smile.
When he didn’t reply, she gestured to the tray.
“Can I offer you a synth?”
“No, thank you,” Indigo said. He was not there to get high, or socialize. He was there to make contact with someone who would rather have avoided him if he had a choice.
Christo was surrounded, of course. But Indigo was not in any hurry. His time would come, and soon. Tonight would be the culmination of so many nights of planning and organization.
A half hour or so of nibbling on canapés and making strained conversation with people who thought he belonged in a jail cell even more than they did led Indigo to the man of the hour himself. There were a lot of things you could say about Christo Monteverdi. You could say he was handsome, and you’d be right. You could say he was the sort of tedious, shallow twat who should never have been suffered to be born, and you’d be right too. He was arrogant. He was richer than many small gods. He was the sort of person who would send himself a Valentine’s Day car — car, not card, and brag about it.
“Indigo,” Christo drawled, finally noticing Indigo’s presence. “Last I saw you, you were abducting an imposter.”
“Last you saw me, I was saving your life, actually.”
“Yes!” Christo lifted his drink and smiled broadly, as if he had only just remembered the part where Indigo had intervened before he was shot in the head. “Did I ever thank you for that?”
“You did not.”
“Well. Have a drink.”
As if a cheap New Zealand chardonnay could ever erase the debt that had been incurred. It was a blood debt, and it could only be paid with blood. Indigo smiled and accepted the drink.
“What really brings you here, Indigo?” You’re not much of a social butterfly. And I know you’re not here to support the cause. You don’t care about malaria in the Congo.”
