@pritvolny asked for a starter.
the overhead light keeps flickering on and off at irregular intervals. vivienne watches it; on & off, as it casts a clinical glow to the rest of what would constitute an empty diner, were one generous enough to name it as its aspiration rather than what it actually is-- a shithole. in her cup, coffee near rancid sits still, untouched for the time being. she will get to the part where she drinks it, of course; she always does. it's a small act of sadomasochism, although the pleasure part never truly registers in her pain-addled brain. perhaps, if one had the time to theorise, it could be said that there is pleasure to be found in a pebble of pain; reprieve, finally, from the mountain of it that one might be accustomed to.
but vivienne doesn't exactly have time to spare to such musings. and, if she was perfectly honest with herself (something she avoids like the plague, a pit of lava that you would find at the very center of the volcano that constitutes her current pain), then she would admit that even with all the time in the world, she would never spare a second for such thinking. the mind is a machine she steers clear off-- it scares her like no other. guns and computers make sense, in a cold and detached kind of way that she appreciates dearly.
this train of thought would lead us to this encounter; the meeting, and its goals. not that the connection jumps out-- but there is something to be said about vivienne's failure to take into account the mind's propensity for fucking up her plans. exhibit a: she didn't take into account the scorching anger that would flare at the sight of the corpo suit, nor did she consider refusing the call when it came on her internal agent. in fact, she thought of little but the eddies, and what she could bargain from someone like him. she should have, of course. it seems absolutely idiotic, now that he comes to sit in front of her, to have ignored such an important parameter as one's own feelings.
she could still walk out, of course, but time would tell you that v doesn't do such a thing: she didn't when she was a corpo rat killing herself for recognition. she didn't when, later, she was sent to the streets, implantless and drug-stupid. she didn't with deshawn. the bullet to the brain didn't teach her shit, because she stayed again and again and again, until now, facing nikolai lantsov, the automatic scanner bipping with recognition. she will do it again, of course, because at the end of the day, it is who she is: someone who climbs the mountain, jaw clenched, pretending the ground has never been anything but miraculously flat.
pressing a thumb to the chipped edge of her coffee cup, she gestures at the simmering brewage she ordered for him when fritz was still at the counter, though his silhouette is now a forgotten feature. (v knows, of course, where he is. she hacked the cameras the second he went out of sight, only to discover that dear fritz intended to watch terrible bds on the other side of the wall) (which is better than the last time she hacked it, and found him dick out watching porn) "got you some juice", she says with a flat tone, still scanning the man facing her; the revealed data is scattered and uncomplete. if she had less of a poker face, you'd find a disgruntled frown between her brows. "what's the job, lantsov?", she asks, his name a familiar weight only because she remembers it on some paperwork, when she was still arasaka's bitch. her tone, of course, is straight to the point & aiming for the bullseye-- as usual.
