Turn 16

Having returned home after completing another day of research at 'Biology Today' Eleanor decided to make dinner; nothing too exotic, just a simple meal for one. Sitting down to eat later she wondered if Mars would ever feel like *home* to her. She'd left Earth for good reasons, although her family had thought her mad, "running away" her sister had called it, but none of them had been jilted for money - had they?

Finishing her meal, her thoughts turned to the night before. She hadn't wanted to go out but the girls from the office had insisted. 'Come on, don't be such a....' Adele's voice echoed in her ears as she recalled her feeble excuses for not joining them, 'wall flower!'

After what had seemed like days waiting in the bar while they drank their cocktails and she her mineral water, an attractive, well dressed man had approached her and asked her to dance but she'd declined, automatically comparing him with someone else. She'd left soon after pleading the return of the migraine that she'd been suffering from in recent days - "always the wall flower," she'd laughed humourlessly to herself as she departed.

It had been difficult to concentrate at work today, her mind straying back to her recent experiences as Psyche. She couldn't help but wonder what the other Leaguers were doing, were they feeling the same way she was, frustrated, bored even? Clearing up after her meal Eleanor wondered how long it would be before she received a call to say her skills were needed again...

Elsewhere...

Mason Roth feels his legs swept out from beneath him and falls down hard upon his back. Supine, he blinks uncertainly at his looming attacker -- a tall, swarthy man clad in black -- as the fellow raises his weapon above his head with both hands and moves in for the kill. Mason desperately rolls to his left in an attempt to evade the coming strike. Too late, too slow...

Mason groans loudly as a wooden bokken slams down heavily upon his left shoulder, sprawling him on his back again. Although the tall man could easily destroy his now vulnerable opponent, he does not press his advantage; instead, he simply stands over his fallen opponent with his mouth agape, nearly as stunned by the blow as Mason is.

"Master, I apologize!" the man half-stutters, red-faced. "I did not mean to strike you!"

"Of course you did, Singh," Mason replies, massaging his soon-to-be-badly-bruised shoulder and grinning ruefully. "That's the point of the exercise, is it not? You just didn't expect to connect, since you'd never managed it before."

"Master, I..."

"Nothing to be sorry about, Singh. Just lend me a hand up, and please stop calling me master. My name is Mason, remember?"

"Yes, Master," Singh replies by reflex, extending a hand and helping Mason to his feet. The young disciple can only barely suppress a smile; he regrets having struck his teacher, but he is silently pleased at having had the skill to do so. "Shall we begin again, Master?"

"No, I think I'll quit while I still have one fully functional rotator cuff, thank you." Mason pats his much taller student on the shoulder, absolving him of any lingering guilt with a grin and a wink. "Hit the showers. I'll see you on Monday."

Returning Singh's parting bow and grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat off his torso, Mason steps off the raised floor that acts as demarkation between his private dojo and its observation gallery. He mock bows to the gallery's sole occupant, a slender young woman with brown eyes and dark hair, pinned up short. She is dressed in a gray business suit, wears stylish but sensible gold rimmed glasses, and would probably be considered quite attractive were it not for the stern expression on her face.

"Greetings, Ms. Reed. Come to leer at my half-naked body?"

"Very amusing, sir," Mason's executive assistant replies, her tone of voice making it clear that she is in fact anything but amused. Indicating Mason's shoulder, she asks, "Your injuries still slowing you down I take it, sir?"

"Not at all," Mason lies, "I'm simply a fabulous instructor."

"Of course, sir," Ms. Reed replies, not fooled but not challenging her employer's statement.

"What can I do for you, Ms. Reed?" Mason sighs.

"Your escort for the charity ball at Covington Manor has canceled, sir."

"I've been stood up, have I?" Mason grins at his assistant. "Care to trip the light fantastic with me then, Ms. Reed?"

"Not at all, sir. Shall I arrange suitable companionship?"

"This isn't Vegas, Ms. Reed; I don't need you to get me a girl. Flip-phone, please." Considering his options for a moment, Mason hits the 4th number on his speed dial...

Dressed in her favourite joggers and sitting comfortably in the Padmasana posture Eleanor concentrates on the heart-lotus; her mind empty of extraneous thoughts having attained a state of calm. In the background the phone is ringing, almost overwhelming the gentle tones of her 'Mind, Body and Soul' yoga music. Eventually the phone's strident tone forces her out of her contemplative state and reluctantly she answers it, "Hello?".

"Eleanor? Mason here. Are you still speaking to me, or have you joined the 'Gaslight Is A Dink' Club?"

Determined neither to lose the benefits of her recent meditation nor to rise to the bait Eleanor takes a deep breath, "I think I ought to plead the 5th on that one Mason." He can hear the reluctance with which she continues, "I know you did what you thought was right and that's all any of us can do at the end of the day.... "

Curious as to the purpose of his call she asks, "Is anything wrong?"

"Not at all," Mason replies lightly. "It's only that I've been invited to this charity to-do tomorrow evening, a masquerade ball that the family is simply insisting I attend, and my date -- an actress, or model, or someone of the like I think -- has canceled out on me. And, although it's rather last minute, I was hoping you might like to attend as my escort?"

Her eye brows raised as she listened to him tell her about the charity ball, unsure whether to feel pleased or offended that she was his choice of replacement. "Why me?" she wondered questioning his motives; knowing his ultra wealthy background perhaps she would be a convenient shield to protect him from would be admirers. Wistfully Eleanor discounted the notion that he might just want to spend time with her, if that were the case he'd have asked her originally wouldn't he?

"El? You still there?" his voice calling her back from her reverie demanding an answer. "Yes, I'm here but I need to think about it. Can I call you back?" Cutting off the call before Mason can answer, Eleanor punched in the code for her friend Adele, a warm smile on her face as the call is answered by a cheery voice, "Hi Hon! How're you doing?"

Adele had been one of the first people she'd met on Mars all those months ago and was privy to _almost_ all her secrets. After a quick rundown on the situation Adele swiftly offered her opinion, "Quit worrying about it, its about time you got out and socialised. So what if you don't know where you stand, go and have some fun!"

With her friends advice ringing in her ears Eleanor chose to rsvp directly to Mason, regardless of convention and the endless nagging about uninvited psychic contact. Quickly locating his mind amongst the many others within range her mental voice conveyed her decision, *OK, I'd be happy to come with you, just let me know what time and where.*

* * *

Stopping to check that morning's mail delivery on her way out to purchase some appropriate attire for the Ball that night, Eleanor is surprised to find a note asking her to collect a parcel from the concierge's office. It wasn't her birthday and she hadn't ordered anything to be delivered so it was a mystery to her who it'd be from or what it could be. Curiosity getting the better of her she decides to pick it up immediately rather than wait till later.

Excitement building she looks closely at the large well-wrapped parcel scanning for identifying features of which there were none. Opening it there and then in the lobby she tears off the brown paper wrapping to reveal a box decorated with a swirling signature she doesn't immediately recognise.

Removing the lid reveals layers of crisp tissue paper . Rapt with anticipation Eleanor carefully parts the tissue to reveal a dress - a beautiful black taffeta creation. Nestling within, a gilt edged notecard bears the message 'For you to wear - Mason'. A frown creases her forehead. "Why is he sending me this? Is he frightened I'm going to embarrass him?"

She might have chosen that dress herself. It _was_ beautiful but how could she wear it - it would be as if he owned her. Hurt by his presumption and feeling the anger building inside her she does the only thing can.

* * *

Stepping out of the cab Eleanor surveys the imposing building before her. She hadn't checked that he was actually at home so waiting on the doorstep she experiences the twin worries of 'is he in' and 'how will he react'?

The door opens to reveal a smartly dressed female executive 'Yes? Can I help you?'

Stepping forward with a determined expression, assuming her entrance will be automatic, Eleanor responds, "I've come to see Mr Roth."

The woman studies Eleanor momentarily, her penetrating brown eyes sweeping over Eleanor's frame and sizing her up in an instant. She extends Eleanor a professionally polite but not especially warm smile, then steps back and opens the door wide to allow Eleanor entrance.

"If you'll wait momentarily in the parlor, Ms. White, I'll let Mr. Roth know you're here." The woman, Ms. Reed, leads Eleanor to a sitting room south of the entrance foyer. Left alone to cool her heels, Eleanor surveys the room; the decor is not at all how she would have expected Mason's tastes to run. The gilded edging on the bright and airy room's paneled walls, and the floral patterns on the drapery and antique furniture's upholstery, immediately suggest a gentlewoman's tea parlor. The room is immaculate and does not appear to see much use.

The wind taken out of her sails by the ease with which she gained access and Ms. Reed's frosty welcome, El surveyed the room. She realised as she paced impatiently around the parlour that she knew very little about Mason, his family or his living arrangements.

Ms. Reed returns a few minutes later and leads Eleanor to a library on the second floor, immediately to the right of the staircase. The room is much larger than the first floor parlor and is decorated in High Victorian decor. The paneling, tall bookcases, and other wooden furnishings are carved elaborately from darkly stained oak, and the furniture is comprised of beautifully cared-for Victorian antiques. The room is richly appointed and original art pieces by several of the Old Masters adorn the library walls. True to High Victorian style, the entire chamber is vaguely suggestive of a Gothic church.

Mason is seated in a high-backed chair near the door, sipping coffee from an elegant antique porcelain cup and apparently enjoying a late brunch off a nearby breakfast cart. A short, slender man of advanced years and Asian (possibly Chinese) descent is seated to Mason's right, sipping a cup of herbal tea. The man is rather wizened, but healthy-looking for his age. He has dark eyes and only a sparse crop of black hair, and his wrinkled face is vaguely familiar to Eleanor. He is dressed casually in khaki pants and a polo shirt (a far cry from the elegant blue and gold garb in which the world-at-large was once accustomed to seeing him attired).

"Eleanor! Please, do come in," Mason beams, smiling warmly in greeting but not rising from his chair. "To what do I owe the pleasure of the visit?"

She felt very self-concious, made uncomfortable by the obvious grandeur. A touch of envy hit her at the sight of the vast range of books in the library. The room itself was intimidating. As a child she'd visited Stately Homes back on Earth where the attitude was very much 'look but don't touch and where the whole purpose was to remind you that you were one of the 'have nots' rather than the 'haves'. To then discover that Mason was not alone almost deflected her from the purpose of her visit. Holding the box in front of her, unconciously using it as a shield, she advanced into the room nodding to acknowledge the guest as she does so.

The smile wasn't returned. "I've come to return _this_," thrusting the box at him. "and for your information I am not some model whose company you can buy !" Her tone of voice leaves Mason in no doubt as to her opinion of those in the glamour industry. "I bet you even sent your Ms. Reed to choose it..."

If Mason is surprised or discomfited by Eleanor's angry words, it does not register on his face. Unperturbed and making no move to accept the box, he continues to smile graciously and gestures towards his guest. "Eleanor, I'd like you to meet Mr. X’ian Chia, my sensei and a dear old friend. Teacher, this is Ms. Eleanor White."

Mason's guest rises fluidly, and bows slightly in greeting. "I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. White. You are even more lovely than Mason described you." There is a twinkle in the old gentleman's eye as he retakes his seat.

Mason purses his lips for a split-second in response to his friend's final comment -- surprised, perhaps? Smiling again, he finally takes the box and places it casually on his lap. "I'm afraid you've misunderstood my intentions, Eleanor. I was only hoping to make the evening more pleasureable for you, and I thought you would enjoy wearing a designer original. Women do, I'm told. I was not trying to use it as currency to buy your affection."

If Mason had thought his words would have a calming effect then he was sorely mistaken. "Just as well given its had exactly the opposite effect!" Eleanor says curtly before turning and half-smiling at the old man, briefly acknowledging his compliment.

"So Mason, what you're actually saying is you don't think I have an equivalent dress of my own already?" she makes it sound like an accusation rather than a simple question. "And before you ask, that's none of your business! Either that or I'm incapable of dressing appropriately for the Ball without your charitable assistance!"

Mason refrains from commenting that it is almost a certainty Eleanor doesn't already own an "equivalent" dress -- the gown is obscenely expensive and well beyond the means of a science journalist. His smile and tone still cordial, he replies, "I'm sure you would have dressed very elegantly. The gown was simply a gift to a friend, nothing more. I apologize if I have offended you, but I hope you will accept my gift nonetheless?" Mason holds the box out expectantly.

Eleanor was relieved to hear him apologise. It didn't matter if he was patronising her; he'd admitted his actions were wrong. It would be churlish not to accept his gift now, even if it did imply a degree of familiarity between them. "If you insist," she says taking it reluctantly, "but you'll find I treasure gifts from the heart more than those from the wallet." Box in hand El moves toward the door turning as she does so to X’ian Chia, "I'm sorry to have disturbed your tea, sir."

Watching Eleanor depart, Mason breezily comments, "Well, I daresay it's likely I shall be stood up again."

His mentor chuckles lightly in response.

"What's so funny, old man?"

"It amuses me that one of the foremost detectives on the planet clearly has no understanding of the female mind whatsoever..."

* * *

"This can't be happening... It just ...can't be."

Several lighting fast blows from jet and silver gloved hands rain down upon petty street tough "Money" Jenkins. Before he falls to the ground the lithe but powerful figure grabs him at smashes his face back and forth with a flurry of kicks. The career criminal lands bloodied and battered.

His associate, Hollis "Holly" Green, against his better judgment and perhaps disproving the old adage that there is no honor among thieves rushes the obviously masterfully skilled assailant from behind with a blundgeon.

Without even turning to face Holly the figure disarms him of his makeshift weapon. Its as if his mind is like the moon, watching over the arena. Making him aware of the attack even before Holly thought to make it.

An arcing leg sweep drops Holly even as The Man in Silver leaps into the air gracefully. He lands atop his would-be attacker. Standing upright on the crooks chest, he quickly thrusts a foot into the man's throat.

Dragan, the last of the felonious trio begins to run to the opening of Paper Alley in Old Town.

If Dragan had been eyes in the back of his hand, as his pursuer seemingly does, he would no doubt be astounded with the way the man virtually ricochets off the walls before landing nimbly in front of him.

Eyes concealed behind mirrored crescents glance the russian punk up and down. A cool voice, almost soothingly hypnotic in tone says from seemingly out of nowhere, "Take your shot, Dragan."

The scum tries just that. Point blank and he missed. How the hell was that possible?!?

Dragan's green eyes, alive with fear, can not find his target. Anywhere in the alley or out.

Then from out of nowhere a small glint of silver and a golden glow surrounds his attackers hands. Two crescent blades cut his pistol in cleanly in half. Chrome and mother of pearl rain down upon the dirty street.

The Crescent hefts Dragan high into the air, blades at the ready. "Leave. My. City." He then drops, Dragan sufficently pleased at his intimidation.

He scales the side of the building impossably fast and gazes over Old Town. Speaking to no one in particular his cool voice shines in the night, "Artemis. I'm ready to return to Arcadia. Pick me up in five. Bring the Blue Moon. Oh, and be sure to have one of the Satellites ready my suit for later. You and I still have a busy night ahead of us."

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