#( mari vc: a murder will probably force some hard pivots in the current choreography but y'know what? we ball. )

[dissimulxte]

@dcviated sent:

quiet, sender gestures for receiver to be quiet. [i know, the idea of them hushing is sacrilege isnt it?]

Every performance has its own unique challenges to navigate. Perhaps the walking gait of the chosen role is unique, molded by an injury sustained in younger years which never quite healed right; just as a vocal cadence might be so precise, so unique, that failing to emulate it just right ruins the illusion. Today's challenge, though, is much more conventional. A simple question of grace in a small space: moving around a tight enclosure while crooning sultry tones—in precarious heels and a classic, suitably expensive cocktail dress—in such a way that it seems effortless, so her attention remains fixed on the clientelle who've shelled out obscene amounts of cash for this whole affair on rails.

Working out the logistics of having a live performance space on a luxury passenger train was certainly no mien feat, to begin with, but a necessity insofar as its designers were concerned; no matter how fancy a sound system they could afford to install, any sort of pre-recorded shlock simply wouldn't match the opulent, art-deco atmos they'd woven into every other feature.

So they carved just enough space for a three-piece jazz band to be tucked into the wall, and laid a richly colored, damascus printed carpet down the center aisle where their vocalist might prowl; weaving between narrow lounges and booths as the audience watched, entranced—close enough to touch, though they wouldn't dare, (and she wouldn't give them the satisfaction).

All in all, it's an easy gig. A thin disguise by way of little prosthetic touches, and makeup done just-so, with the brunt of the work going into the pseudonym, the background, and strategic placement to ensure that of all the entertainment options the luxury line entertained in their selection process she would be chosen for this particular voyage... all preamble for the real work to come later—when vague faces and names became details, invitations, opportunities. Getting their attention is the start, and she does that beautifully; always a creature to thrive under attention.

Each person she passes gets their halfway glance from dreamy eyes, a dulcet word or two, but only that: a taste, a sample, no more than a second spared, no pauses as she works her way down to the end of the beautifully appointed car and faces the glass façade separating this cabin from a little vestibule, and another door on the opposite side which lead into the first line of deluxe sleeping suites.

This, too, happens in only a moment: where hooded brown eyes meet the glass expecting only to admire their own reflection a moment, to privately appreciate the show in media res, but meet another pair, instead. Maybe the movement caught his attention, the little sliver of song growing just that much closer despite the buffering walls between, or some combination of the two—or, perhaps, there really is some unseen string which tethers the two, and the fates gave it a little tug.

A hand scrawled note in neat script she'd left, somewhere he'd find it: 'Out of town on business for a few weeks. Try not to miss me too much.' A message from an unknown number: [sms] i was about to say the same thing. tell me all about it when we're both back in town—over bibimbap? my treat ;)

...she'd wonder, later, if he'd have recognized her even if she had been better concealed—if he'd know her, by then, from nothing more than the way she looked at him. At the time, though, she only savors that second's time, and does everything she can not to let the smile which tugs at her lips cause folly in her song when he raises a conspiratorial finger to his own lips, grinning behind the gesture.

What a laugh, that either of them would be shushing the other, considering... well, needless to say: the humor couldn't have been lost on him. More like that was the whole point—because in what world would she say anything? Make any sort of sound or allusion to how surprised she was? This wasn't amateur hour at the laugh-in.

Sure: an undeniable thrill moves up through her spine and sends a shiver down to her fingertips a the sight of him; her head rushes, abuzz with the new information, the new factor in the game being played—but that reaction is for her, and her alone; not a beat missed, no visible shift. She's too good for that, and he knows it.

...If she'd had a moment more maybe she could have lifted a hand and pretended to lock those lightly rouged lips he knew all too well, but alas, they remain shaped around the note she was sounding—all she can spare as her shoulder turns is a cheeky little wink, then it's back to face the audience.

The show must go on... and the script just got so much more exciting.