18386/Lux and Lies

Lux and Lies
Date of Scene:	21 June 2024
Location:	VIP Lounge - Hellfire Club
Synopsis:	Having recently started working at the Hellfire Club, Aria bumps into Sebastian Shaw in the VIP Lounge, and Shaw's interest in who she really is is piqued.
Cast of Characters:	Aria Seraphine, Sebastian Shaw

---

Aria Seraphine has posed:
"Haley," Aria shakes her head. "I just started like a week ago. I've never even been in the VIP lounge."

"It's easy! Plus, everything's comped, so you get a straight percentage on everything you serve. Keep them drinking, girl, and you'll be rolling in dough after tonight. Maybe you can even find your boyfriend!"

"Brother," Aria sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "And look, normally I'd cover for you, but it's already been a long day, and I..." She was going to go home and shoot up. She can already feel the numbness wearing off. "...I already made plans."

"Please? Just this once?" Haley pouts and loops her arms around the smaller brunette.

Aria sighs. Again. "Haley..."

Haley bats her eyelashes.

Aria's shoulders slump. "Fine."

There's a squeeze and some clapping, some excited bouncing, and then Haley's gathering her things. "I'll go tell the VIP Lounge manager. You're going to be great!"

...

Later, Aria glides through the space, her form-fitting black corset and sleek mini skirt clinging to her every curve. Her long, golden-brown hair cascades over her shoulders, styled into soft, seductive curls that frame her flawless face. Her piercing blue eyes, though dulled by life's brutal lessons, still smolder with a wild intensity.

Balancing a tray of champagne flutes, she moves with a grace that's both inviting and achingly elusive. The pristine white marble bar and frosted glass walls set off her fair, ethereal skin, making her stand out like a diamond among the other servers. All around her, industry titans and political power players murmur in low, confidential tones, their eyes occasionally flicking to her with thinly veiled interest.

She approaches a table where a power couple sits, their conversation charged with unspoken tensions. Aria places the tray down with a practiced smile, her voice smooth and carefully sensual. "Your drinks."

The man's gaze lingers on her, appreciation evident in his eyes. "You're new," he says, his voice practically a lecherous purr.

"Yes, sir," Aria admits with a coy smile. "Please let me know if I can get you anything else."

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
The social scene in New York City is many and varied, offering something that will appeal to almost anyone, depending on their mood, on their preferences for entertainment. It is one of the many things that makes the city such a wonderful place to live. Despite all the little annoyances like the horrible traffic or the fact that it tends to be ground zero for every alien armada that happens to pass within a couple of light years of the solar system.

And while there is no shortage of clubs and popular attractions to catch one's eye, to divert one's attention, few stand so centrally at the heart of things -- and do it so enduringly -- as the Hellfire Club.

A network of clubs that spans the globe, with chapters in most major cities, it is the first choice for relaxation and entertainment to many of the world's richest and most powerful, the archaic tradtions going back centuries somehow enduring, even strengthening over time.

And while the original chapter in London might take exception to the fact, none of the Hellfire Clubs are quite so lavish, quite so central -- quite so powerful -- as the New York Chapter.

Founded with the intention of being a thumb to the eye of traditional mores and values, the Club continues that tradition, reveling shamelessly in its decadence and catering to whatever the desires of it's patrons might be.

And, as such, offers a diverse set of 'clubs' within the greater Club as a whole. Ranging from the suitably archaic to the ultra-modern.

But in many ways it is the VIP lounge that straddles that line better then any other, a mix of modern sensibilities and timeless, classic touches. Offering the very best to the Club's elite, the curious that might flock to the public facing of the Hellfire offerings do not pass through these doors. Only the rich and powerful are welcomed within.

And more then a few of them only ever receive that invitation due to one man. The public face of the Hellfire Club. Sebastian Shaw.

The elevator dings, opening to reveal the solitary figure within and even amidst all the finery, all the glitz and glamor that seems to have gathered in even these relatively -- for the Club -- early hours, he stands out.

As is his tendancy, at least within the Club, Shaw eschews the modern aesthetic for one that feels riped out of the past. The dark jacket is trimmed in gold with rolled cuffs and golden buttons. The white silk shirt beneath likewise features flared lace cuffs that drape artfully out over his hands and the red velvet waist jacket is intricately detailed. The flared silk cravat is a far cry from the more modern tie and even that dark mahogany walking stick looks like something out of century long since past.

The whole thing might look a little ridiculous really. In another setting. On another man.

Hawkish features sweep across the lounge, seeming to take in every little detail all at once. And only then does he step from the elevator, ignoring the on-staff servers that snap to attention at his approach, moving to mingle with the crowd.

His people.

Aria Seraphine has posed:
There is a distinct difference between being eternal and being omniscient. While Him Who Is, the ultimate creator, might know every facet of everything that has ever existed and will ever exist, a mere Angel -- a member of the Pax Dei or not -- only knew what she had been exposed to, and before her exile, Aria had never had reason to explore these facets of humanity.

The Songstress. The Salvebearer. The Eternal Light. Seraphine is a beacon of purity and salvation, a guardian of the downtrodden, a ray of hope for the sick and infirmed.

At least, she used to be.

In the last five years, the Fallen Angel that now calls herself Aria has had to learn many lessons the hard way. She lost her faith in the purity of the divine when she was cast out unjustly -- when she lost everything she knew and loved because she was steadfast and true. Now, cast out of Heaven, the humanity she'd spent thousands of years defending turned on her like rabid animals, and she was left all but broken within a pretty exterior.

She had no idea what the Hellfire Club was before a week ago. She still didn't really know, except that she'd been rescued from the last dive she was stripping at by some twist of fate by -- as things of this nature usually go -- someone who knew someone.

She may not know much about the Hellfire Club, but she knew one thing about it.

She knew Sebastian Shaw was important.

When the man steps off the elevator, and strides so purposefully into the room -- so confident that everyone here knew exactly their place, their role, their function -- it's Aria who almost crashes into him.

She hadn't seen him. She'd been doing her last checks over the couple an then turned to stride back to the bar, but there he was, two paces in front of her.

And thank God it was two, because she takes one and stops, looking up at the man before her with wide blue eyes that are simply too blue, to perfectly clear, to big and innocent on a face that's to perfectly innocent under all that makeup.

Even in her heeled ankle boots, she's still nearly half a foot shorter, and she blinks long lashes at him once before recognition sets in and her eyes dip at once, her head bowing.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Shaw."

It's soft and matter of fact. She's not tripping over her words. She's not trying to prostrate herself. She's sincere in that apology, but there's more there, too... the resignation of a woman destined for the gallows with no hope for escape.

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
In many respects, the Hellfire Club is a world apart. With it's many different clubs, it's many different levels catering to tastes of all sorts it is easy to get lost in the many possibilities, the many different distractions. While there are certainly places filled with light, with beauty -- limited to though it may be to the beauty that humanity is capable of -- somehow the shadowy places suit it better.

The chambers sealed off from the light of day, or even the stars at night. The windows heave with Victorian age draperies that blot out any trace of the world beyond, that shut out that world, reject it for the pleasures to be found within the Club and only the Club.
#-1 ARGUMENT OUT OF RANGE the outside world Sebastian Shaw is a billionaire industrialist, like numerous others that wander these halls. Successful, wealthy to be sure. He is a power broker in politics, one of the rare few to genuine call President Luthor friend and confidante. Even amongst those who frequent the Club he would stand in the upper echelon.

But in the Club, none walk taller. And despite all his many accomplishments, it is clear that the Hellfire Club is Sebastian Shaws true pride. Whether such a man is actually capable of joy is an open and fair question, but if anything would bring it to him, it would likely be this place.

And while he might thrive in such byzantine surroundings, that piercing gaze misses very little in what he quite clearly considers -- rightly or wrongly -- his domain. While he is no micro-manager, to meddle endlessly in the small details ofthe daily operation of his Club, he does make a point of checking on at least one small detail each day, some little corner of the Club's operation.

And he makes a point to know everyone in it's employ.

The VIP lounge is busy, as it so often is and the odd collision -- usually minor -- is nearly unavoidable. Even with the perfection demanded of the staff, that is still inevitable. Accidents happen. And apparently even the will of the Hellfire Club's Black King can't change that particular fact.

So when he very nearly runs into one of the Club's nearest employees, that's no real surprise.

The surprise is the fact that she manages to avoid him at all, to spin away with that tray with surprising nimbleness.

Enough to draw that hawkish gaze her way. Enough to draw a spark of interest from the man.

"You're new," he ays quietly, just loud enough to be heard over the background hum that resonates through the room. It is no question, just a statement of fact, the surety in those words the same with which the dark-haired man carrries himself with in all other respects as well. "I do not believe that we have had the pleasure. Sebastian Shaw," he offers up with a brief nod of his head.

But that piercing gaze remains fixed upon her, assessing.

Aria Seraphine has posed:
"Aria."

It's such a soft word, but her voice, like her face, has a kind of ethereal harmony to it. That kind one finds in those rare events when two people come together to make a child that's too perfect to be real.

One foot crosses behind, and she sinks through he knees in a proper curtsy -- the small, formal dip one might expect from British nobility, not the elaborate stage productions put on by American theater.

The tray doesn't waver.

Only after she's risen again do those too big, too blue eyes lift, venturing a glance up through long, luscious lashes that are heavy with mascara instead of lifting her chin. It lends her an innocent, submissive quality that might be mistaken for temptuous suggestion if it weren't for the lingering worry on her lips.

She wasn't trying to seduce him. Or, if she was, she was attempting it through a brazen act of innocence.

"Haley had an emergency. She asked me to fill in for her."

Pause.

"May I get you anything?"

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
While a few curious gazes might turn in the direction of their discussion, perhaps curious to see if one the staff is about to be chewed out over so minor a slip -- and probably more then a few of those same eyes hoping for something of a show -- they are destined to be disappointed.

Whatever Shaw might be like behind cold doors, he does not seem to go in for white hot flashes of anger or pique. Clearly he is far more at home playing the long game, at least most of the time.

But regardless, he doesn't seem put out at all, and any curiousity that might be directed their way rather swiftly dies.. Instead her rather swift action to save that tay of drinks, to keep from making a much greater scene then would otherwise be the case gets a brief nod and an approving gleam from Shaw's eyes.

"Aria," he repeats as if filing that little bit of information away. Nor does it seem to be just for show. At the very least he doesn't look at her with a blank expression when she mention's Haley's name, no sense of confusion. Whether he is actually aware of the ship and schedule for the many and various individuals working the assorted rooms of the Club might be up for question. But there is at least the light of recognition in those eyes. "Of course," he says slowly.

Pausing consideringly at her request, he finally seems to make a decision. "Speak with Dominic at the bar. There is a bottle of thirty year, Bushmill single malt Irish whiskey. Bring the bottle and two glasses," he instructs quietly, regarding her for a moment before gesturing across the room and the booth that dominates the far end of the lounge. "I will be there. You will join me," he adds, seeming to take it as a matter of course that what he says will be done.

Clearly someone is a little used to getting his own way.

Without another word or backwards glance to check and see if she is attending to that, well, order, he is off into the growd, slowly making his way in the indicated direction, pausing here or there to have a quiet word with one patron or another.

The lord feting his tenents.

Aria Seraphine has posed:
As much as Shaw is clearly used to getting his way -- so confident, in fact, that he strode off without so much as a pause for acknowledgement or a backwards glance -- Aria seems equally accustomed to taking orders without question.

And why on earth would she question _that_ order? Whatever his reasons might be, joining Sebastian Shaw for a glass of thirty year old single malt whiskey was easily the most pleasant thing she'd been 'ordered' to do since her wings were clipped.

And so Aria's head dipped in acknowledgement, just a ghost of a pleased smile touching the corners of her lips.

"At your desire."

It's another breath of a phrase, almost too quiet to her, carried forth on a voice that should be singing instead of speaking.

Once he's left her company, however, her course is direct to the bar -- not a deviation to go out of her way to check on even one more table. There, at the end, the tray is set down and the man, Dominic, who had obviously seen her interaction with Shaw, is there in an instant.

"You okay?" the man asks, whatever was said between the two clearly lost him, but there's a measure of concern in his eyes.

Aria offers confident little nod, straightening her posture. "Mr. Shaw would like a bottle of Bushmill single malt Irish whiskey and two glasses," she repeats the order, smallish hands resting lightly on the edge of the counter as her weight shifts to the balls of her feet. "Please."

"He didn't say please," Dominic points out with a friendly little grin.

"No, he did not," Aria answers that little grin with one of her own. "The please was from me."

"You dancing later?" Dominic fetches the two glasses, setting them in one of the hands that Aria holds out for him. Her fingers are barely long enough to get around both of the crystal bases.

Aria gives a little shake of her head. "Tomorrow."

Dominic nods, leaving her for a moment to fetch the bottle from the private reserve before returning.

"Planning to sneak in?" Aria prompts with a wicked little curl of her lips.

"Maybe," he answers, preparing the bottle so that all that remains at the table is to uncork it.

"Then _maybe_ I'll see you." Aria winks and then snags the bottle from his outstretched hand, turning away from the bar to slip easily through the crowd, the click of her heeled boots mirroring the sway of her hips until she's reached that booth.

Once she's there, it's right back to being that unassumingly submissive waitress for Mr. Shaw, the bottle set down on the table first, then each of the two glasses in turn.

Notably, she does not take a seat before being instructed. Nor does she open the bottle or pour. Though a smile lingers on her lips, warm and inviting.

"Would you like me to pour for you, Mr. Shaw?"

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
It does not necessarily take very much time spent in the Hellfire Club environs to realize that there can be a certain undercurrent of competition amongst the members of the Club. At least some of them at any rate. And that might be a natural thing. Most of them are wealthy and powerful. Social climbers with their own agendas and while the Club might cater to those looking for a little relaxation, a little break from the cut-throat worlds they inhabit by day, it is perhaps inevitable that some of that would creep into their 'downtime' as well.

Some habits are extremely hard to break afterall. And instinct, once instilled and cultivated is nearly impossible to entirely abandon.

Given that, it is not necessarily a surprise that a little of that might bleed through to the staff. If those that they serve have their games, it only stands to reason so to do those that do the serving.

Fortunately it is not something that infects everyone. Some seem to be able to pass through, unaffected by the scheming and the petty power games.

But it does seem to have a way of seeping into one's soul, intended or not.

If Sebastian is tracking the progress of his drink -- and the intriguing newest member to the family that has been sent to fetch it -- he gives a good show otherwise as he glad-hands the room, the smile on his lip never seeming to quite touch his eyes.

Indeed, by the time he finishes his own round, he is only just reaching the table, settling himself like the King in his castle, one hand still gripping that gold-headed cane in one hand, the other strewn artfully over the arm of his chair even as Aria arrives with bttole and glasses in hand.

His gaze flicks towards the label of the bottle, taking it in and giving a little improving nod before stirring himself enough to give a little rolling motion with one hand, the ripples of lace that make up the cuff of his shirt threatening to spill out over the back of it, unbound by button or link.

Only that, no more, waiting for her to pour out his glass before reaching for it, rolling the deep, amber liquid for a moment, taking a sip of it before a brief smile slides over his expression.

This one almost -- almost -- manages to crack those piercing dark eyes of his. Then he gestures for her to pour a second cup, motioning to the seat across from him. "Please, join me," he says, words quiet and clipped, managing to be both an invitation and a subtle command at the same time.

"You have been with us, what? A week? Two?" he asks, seeming to take it for granted that it could not be any longer. Not without him having already encountered her.

Aria Seraphine has posed:
There's a difference between being a frightened child and being inexperienced in a certain set of skills. Often, when one looks like Aria, they'll simply go hand in hand -- a young woman, fresh faced and naive, trying to make a name for herself (and perhaps even land a wealthy suitor or at the very least draw the fleeting attention of one) who's new to the position and frightened or intimidated by the sheer amount of political and social clout she's surrounded by.

Aria isn't, which itself may be odd, because she doesn't come across as icy or indifferent, either. She is kind, respectful, courteous, unassuming. But she is not afraid or intimidated.

She is, however, very inexperienced -- at least at this. She doesn't know how to conduct herself in the VIP Lounge. Not really. She's been a dancer for years, even waited tables at their crappy little establishment where the patrons would grab her ass and pull her into their laps on the way by. This job was offering more than the sleazy club she came from, but she quite obviously had no idea how to present a 30 year old bottle of whiskey for inspection. Nor did she really know how to pour...

...that is, except to take the bottle pull the cork, dip the neck over to splash a few fingers in, and then right it again. It isn't so much a 'technique' as a function.

And then she waits. Patiently. Obediently. Attentively.

She watches, bright blue eyes following the movement of his hands, the expression on his face, until he gestures for her to fill the second.

She does, then she re-corks the bottle and.. stutters a step. It's subtle, but it's there. She'd anticipated that he was going to invite her next to him, but when the gesture was quite obviously to sit across, she shifted -- ever obediently -- and slipped into the indicated seat with a brush of her skirt to smooth it down the backs of her thighs.

"One," she answers with a gracious smile and an acknowledging dip of her head -- one that tipped a point to him for having it pegged without needing to look her up. He knew his club, and Aria now knew she wasn't sitting across from a blow-hard poser who got by on charm and guile alone. "But this is my first night working the VIP Lounge."

Finally her fingers find that glass, and she lifts it slightly as if to toast him, her smile grateful.

"Thank you."

And then she takes a drink.

Not a sip.

She doesn't shotgun it, either, but it's not a dainty thing. And her mouth seems to savor it almost... intimately, like welcoming back a familiar lover with an appreciative drag of her tongue across her lips.

So, not a stranger to drinking, then.

And if he's paying particularly close attention, he might even notice that she's watching him as closely as he's watching her. It's like she's feeding off of his energy, keeping things short and entirely professional because that's his energy.

With Dominic? She was light and easy... even playful.

Here, she's an employee of the club, and one that seems grateful to have this opportunity.

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
A host of young men and women past through the Hellfire Club in any given year and while some stick around for the long term, many others are simply in transition. It can be a coveted opportunity for some. Afterall, it places one in contact with some of the wealthiest and most influential people in the city, even the country. Even just that association can open up doors, create more lucrative opportunities.

Nor does it exactly hurt that, while the Hellfire might have high expectations of their employees, and of ocurse the demanding standards of the patrons that need to be satisifed, the financial rewards in tips alone can be significant. Not everyone of wealth and means is necessarily generous -- some are rich because they hoard it afterall -- but enough are that it can be a coveted opportunity to work even just in the public facing parts of the club.

Over the years, Sebastian Shaw has no doubt seen all manner of those sorts come and go, enough that even his formidable, filing cabinet-like memory might be hard pressed to recalls even a fraction of them.

But she seems a little different from the standard friend of a friend who made use of connections to get an in. Someone looking to latch their star to a brighter one and be carried in her wake. An odd mix of innocent and knowing that has apparently caught the dark-haired man's eye, intrigued him enough to demand her company.

Though perhaps not quite in the way she might have thought.

Does that faint smile grow just a hint at the stutterstep, when he seemingly catches her by surprise, not demanding a pretty little ornament to liven up his side of the booth. Perhaps. He does seem to enjoy his games, and that may just extend to the small as well as the large.

He lets her settle herself, that glass still cradled negligently in one hand, giving the liquid within the occasional swirl before plucking another sip from it, those dark-eyes sharp and assessing, the gaze of a bird of prey.

"Ahhh," he says in quiet acknowledgement of her tenure with them. "Good to know that I'm not slipping then," he adds with a hint of satisfaction. Clearly, being aware of what is happening in his club is something of a point of pride to the man.

And he seems to have no lack of that, no matter how quietly he might project it.

When she easily manages the offered drink without the slightest hesitation, with nary a cough or start at that warm burn in the back of her throat, his brow arches once more, the seeming evolution of just how he regards her seeming to have more fuel to add to that fire.

Composed, adaptable, graceful... and more experienced then she certainly looks at first glance. Enough to perhaps make the man reassess just how old she really is.

"It would seem that you have a natural aptitude for this work then. It can be an adjustment period for one to truly start to settle and make one's home here in the Hellfire Club," he asys with cear approval in his tone. "Which bodes well for you. All that an more is demanded for those that would thrive here. But the rewards can be commensurate," he notes.

"Which begs the question of what brings you to us here. What rewards do you hope to find?"

Aria Seraphine has posed:
'Good to know that I'm not slipping then.'

There's a flicker of a smile that stops just short of being patronizing -- a sort of worldly almost-smirk that's more calling his bluff ('As if you actually thought you might be slipping') than it is anything else.

But it's these little tells... tells that few people would actually pick up on that add up to a larger picture. The easy confidence, both in the environment and with te drink, even if not particularly refined. The chameleon-like changes, ready to shift from arm-candy to dinner-guest in the space of a blink, even if it did seem to confuse her.

If she wasn't arm candy, what was the point of talking to her at all? The owner of the last club had her sitting in his lap when she wasn't dancing. Dom, too, could barely keep his hands off of her, even if it never went beyond that with either of them.

'It would seem that you have a natural aptitude for this work then.'

Blue eyes shift momentarily out into the rest of the lounge, at some patrons -- some of which even met her gaze back, though she didn't flinch away. There's a ghost of something across her features that isn't pride. She doesn't swell at the high praise, like one might expect.

She accepts it. She accepts it as the insult to everything she once held dear that it was intended to be. She wasn't what she looked like. She didn't rise from the gutter, some street urchin that worked her way up to serving drinks to some of the most vile people on the planet.

She didn't care about the fleeting 'status' of mortals as they played their little mortal games and jockeyed for their five minutes of fame. She cared for them. She loved them like a mother loves her children. They were all her charges to protect. But they were no more than children to her, all their talk of politics and presidents and corporate mergers no more important than a child playing their imaginary games.

She didn't rise up to be here. She was thrown into the gutter from a place that most of these mortals couldn't fathom in their wildest dreams -- discarded by a broken system that had no more use for integrity or virtue.

This isn't an opportunity.

This is a punishment.

"Cash."

If there's a hesitation in the answer, it's only because it takes her that long to shift her eyes back from the room at large to re-focus on him.

"And some 'brown sugar' if you have a decent supplier. But I can get that on my own with the cash."

Apparently our little innocent, submissive waitress just admitted to a heroin addiction.

And then took another drink of 30 year old whiskey.

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
It would seem that Sebastian is not the only one that can play against expectations, and while it might not be any sort of game for her, any sort of one-upsmanship like it might be for the Hellfire Club's Black King, she probably also couldn't have done anything more to pique his curiousity a little more.

In fairness, while it is not exactly unknown for Shaw to occasionally pluck one of the numerous workers at the club out of the club and bring them to his table for a drink, for a brief discussion, it is not exactly an everyday occurence either. One that might draw some unwanted attention her way before all is said and done.

For some at the club, the 'servants' are just that, there to serve them. Their needs, their wants, to act as pawns in whatever games that they might be playing. A few of those in the know might even be used like pawns on the chess board, used by proxy in the great game of the Courts that is the true business of the Club.

And getting involved in that sort of thing can have consequences. Some incredibly rewarding. Others that come with the highest of costs.

Those apperances of hers are deciving. That surely has to be part of the interest. And she puts them to such good use, intentionally or otherwise. And if that was all there was, Shaw might be tempted enough to dally and then be on his way.

It could just be another way to play the game of course. One can choose how to play of course, but choosing to deliberately ignore the game, to openly refuse to play is a choice as well. A strategy of a sort, whether it is intended to be or not.

And if anything it clearly intrigues Shaw who arches a single brow at her offer, at the attitude reflected there in her eyes, in her posture. He has sat across the table from some of the most powerful and influential businessmen and politiians in the world, but rarely have any of them presented such an enigma as this slip of a youg woman.

And he would very much like to know why.

Shaw is a far cry from her last employer, and chances are before the morning light dawns he will have had people digging into her life, seeing what they can find, what they can learn. To see if there is anything to that quirk of interest she's seeded in him.

Only time will tell if either of them come to regret that.

"A blunt and honest answer. Interesting. One does not often get that in this setting. At least not until you truly have someone at a disadvantage," Sebastian muses before smirking faintly and giving a small shrug.

"Well, I suspect that you have already come to understand that you can do quite well monetarily. Even moreso should you be given more shifts in our higher end estblishments here within the Club," Shaw says with a brief smile. "Nor do I imagine you have missed the fact that we rather freely trade in all manner of vices. I'm certain we can arrange a supply for you at a discount commensurate with your service, if that is your preference," he allows.

"Any other surprises that I should know about Aria?"

Aria Seraphine has posed:
"Is that where I have you? Well and truly at a disadvantage?"

Coming from a fellow global leader, that might have sounded like an actual threat. But somehow, from Aria's almost melodic voice, it came off as a melancholy joke. Maybe it's just the half-hearted little smile she delivers it with that makes it seem so harmless and disinterested.

It was not a game of oneupmanship for her. In fact, she seemed happy to acknowledge, in her own way, that she had no power here -- none except for holding the answers he wanted.

The answers to who she is. What she is. Where she comes from. Why she's really here.

He could have his people dig, of course. They'd find absolutely nothing official. No government documents. No official work history, though plenty of people around Hell's Kitchen would say she's been around for about five years -- plenty of the 'right' people, anyway. Drug dealers. Strip club patrons. Dom and his gang, if poking into her didn't stir Dom's whole gang into a violent tizzy. She has no credit. No driver's license. No social security number. No passport.

"I don't need to do well, Mr. Shaw," she admits with a demure little shake of her head. "I just want to be..." Numb? "...comfortable." Unconscious in her own apartment.

Spoken like a Hospice patient. Maybe that's appropriate, given that she's saddled with terminal immortality in his living hell. Unfortunately, as quickly as her body 'healed' itself, the amount of heroin she had to buy to keep herself blitzed out of her mind was enough to kill a whole village.

"You don't have your hand up my dress right now. So this place is already a step above the last place I worked, but I'm still being paid at least in part to take my clothes off so that a bunch of lonely customers can go home and jerk off thinking about me. You're looking for angles, but I don't have any. It's a job. I just want to get paid."

Her smile thins a bit, but her eyes slip down to the table, another shadow crossing her features. If she'd just gone home, she wouldn't have been having these thoughts -- these moments of homesickness.

"As for surprises you should know about... I overheard a conversation earlier. The two men at that table over there.. one in the purple, one in the blue. They found a way to change the zoning laws that will allow them to bypass your bid on the waterfront property in Hell's Kitchen. Something about Debbie Masters on the City Planning Commission being a hold-out vote. I think they intend to force her."

She shrugs faintly, her smile haunted.

"As for surprises from me?" She shakes her head. "You're looking at everything I have left to offer."

One last drink of that whiskey finishes it, and she rolls her lips, setting he empty glass back down on the table.

"Thank you, Mr. Shaw, for the drink. And the kindness. I hope I can live up to your expectations."

Which sounded suspiciously like goodbye, but she didn't move. Perhaps she was waiting to see if he would dismiss her or refill her glass. She wasn't exactly sure what to expect out of him, either.

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
Somehow it does not seem likely that Sebastian will let a little thing like 'no official records' dissuade him from looking into things further, to reaching out to those contacts beyond the conventional to try and get some of the answers he craves.

Is it a waste of time? Of resources? It very well might be. But he can be stubborn. So very stubborn when he is denied, even simply by circumstances beyond anyone's reasonable control.

He, quite clearly, is not a man used to being thwarted, even in the smallest of ways. And quite clearly the lord within this den of iniquity has set his sights on her.

Even if it is just to satisify his curiousity.

A strange reason to go to so much trouble?

Perhaps not, amongst people like this. So many decisions made out of pride. That seeming entitlement that what they want, they shall get, regardless of other people's opinions on the matter.

So he regards her from across that table, dark eyes ever so slightly narrowed -- not in anger or frustration -- but in consideration, the unspoken questions quite clear there in his otherwise impassive gaze.

Who are you? Where do you come from? What has left you this way? And maybe, maybe discernable in those dark depths - can I make sure of any of that?

Sebastian Shaw might hold himself as somehow above a mere man -- whether do to his power or influence, or do to his mutant abilities -- then he is in most respects very human in his outline. In what counts.

And even if he knew the truth of her, the whole truth, that still might not be enough to dissuade him of his convictions. While some might not credit such things to Shaw at all, they are particular and surprisngly embedded.

Intrigued or not however, Sebastian does seem to be on the verge of letting her go, letting her return to her duties, to recover that facade that she initially wrapped herself in. Ready to surrender this particular game in her favor with his inability to crack that near indifferent posture. He's not used to dealing with someone who just doesn't want anything. At least excepting the oblivion of a drug-induced haze.

And while he could surely provide that, it feels like a waste.

Before he can dismiss her though, before he can turn the matter over to his invesitgators, or perhaps to his ever-faithful Tessa, she adds that addendum. That little nugget of information.

And while it might be entirely unwitting, again she finds a way to capture his interest. "Is that so?" he asks quietly, his gaze following her gesture towards the indicated table. Does any surprise register? No. But clearly Shaw is looking at her in a new light. Again.

Standing now, that one hand remains curled around the golden handle of that cane, stepping around the table towards her chair, drawing it out from the table -- less the lord taking his due from earlier and more the gentleman now, it would seem -- before offering her his hand to help her back to her feet.

But he does not let go, not immediately, instead fixing her with those glinting dark eyes. "You have earned a favor. After your shift here is done you may go to Dominic at the bar once more. You may inform him that his King has granted you five thousand in credit for your vice of choice."

A not insignificant amount of oblivion, hers for the asking.

Then he leans in closer, conspiratorially almost. "Everyone in this Club plays a game of one sort or another Aria. You are more then you seem to be, of that I am certain. But you have a genuine mind. You have eyes. You have ears. And you know how to use them. You'll find that being on my team has rewards as well," he says, finally leaning back a little, glancing pointedly towards the bar where they have once more drawn eyes.

"Perhaps you might even find a purpose once more."

Aria Seraphine has posed:
From the moment she was thrown naked on the street, to the next when she felt cold for the first time, to the next when she felt hunger for the first time... when she started doing her first favors to staunch the pain that built in her stomach from not eating...

From those first moments, five years ago, she learned that she had only one thing to trade. Not long after, when the hunger came back and she was forced to repeat the whole process over again, she learned that she couldn't end it. She tried, and every time she woke up again.

How do you find something to live for, when you were never meant to be alive in the first place?

Everyone wanted to use her in the crudest ways possible, to make her feel like less even than the nothing she was -- not angel, not human, not demon. For years, the oblivion of a drug-induced has was the only thing she had to look forward to. Even if just for a few hours, it was a peace in the eye of the storm.

No one, not a single person, had pulled out her chair for her in that length of time. Not one had offered her his hand to help her stand, and she watched those gestures with fascination just as much as she participated in them, setting her hand in his and rising smoothly from her seat.

But the expression on her face is nothing less than disbelief. She could write off the odd mid-evening drink as a boss finally making time for a new employee, but she didn't know how to process what had just happened.

Sebastian Shaw, of all people, just treated her with more dignity than she's known in half a decade... more dignity than she thought she would ever know again.

"Thank you," she whispers even before that mention of a favor.

Five... thousand.

She blinks, her hand forgotten in his. There's no amount of discomfort that registers as she stares in disbelief, _waiting_ for the punchline... for the address she's supposed to show up at, for what she's supposed to be wearing when she arrives.

She assumes it's coming when he leans in, her body stiffening without withdrawing. She was almost out, and a 'favor' like that would mean she wouldn't be _out_ for a while.

'You'll find that being on my team has rewards as well.'

It isn't what she thinks. Its not the instant gratification of a night in a hotel, but it could be worse -- a much longer-term corruption than that.

In the end, though, hasn't she already been corrupted? Wasn't that the whole point of casting her out of Heaven? She owed them _nothing_. It isn't as if she's getting back in, and is he asking her to do anything that she hasn't already done? No. He's not.

'Perhaps you might even find a purpose once more.'

"Thank you, Mr. Shaw. I wish I could tell you I was more, but I'm afraid I'm far less. Regardless, your reputation for kindness isn't encompassing enough."

There's a pause, then, and once more her eyes dip. Once more that facade slipped into place, the timid employee showing difference to Sebastia Shaw through touch, through posture, through words.

"I hope I have the privilege to meet you again, Mr. Shaw."

And once more, those blue eyes look up at him through her lashes, her smile just a bit more warm and playful than it had been before.

No blanket acceptance. No agreement on finding her purpose, but some part of her expected that if she did, he wouldn't respect her for it, anyway.

"Have a wonderful evening."

And with those words, she slipped her hand out of his and made her way the bar.