The decorations here are positively grotesque. I am not opposed to opulence when it is used to create beauty. To the contrary. But here, here it is used to excess, an excess whose purpose is to pander to the lusts of overweight, over-moneyed men. There is no elegance here, no delicacy, no restraint. When I think of how many of the people I've seen who could have lived with a fraction of the money spent on just one of the gilded ashtrays... I tighten my jaw and shrug my bags a little higher on my shoulder. I just need to do what I'm here to do and that's all.

I put my bags down in the elevator, grateful for the rest. The Palace staff would carry them, I guess, but I feel better carrying them myself. That way, if anything gets broken, the only person I can kill is me. There's a lot less bloodshed that way. 'Sides, I'm not used to servants. I'm brazening it out, but I have to admit they make me nervous. I feel much better when the elevator stops and drops me off on the appropriate floor--I'm not sure which one--and I'm left alone on a hallway.

It's a surprisingly plain door when compared to the more-than-baroque decor from downstairs. Black, with a graceful silver handle. I dig into my pocket and haul out the key I was given at the front desk. It's a beautiful thing, in the shape of a young woman, her hands circling a globe of moonstone, her face downturned as she gazes into it. The White Magic Key. I stick it in the keyhole and turn, shoving the door open unceremoniously with my shoulder.

The Key is sitting at a desk halfway across the room. At my entrance, he stands and crosses the floor to stand in front of me, a few feet away. "Welcome, Master," he says in a quiet, cultured tenor. "I am Adam Jeremiah Toreador, the White Magic Key. At your service." He bows, but I'm no longer paying much attention to him. I've seen his holos; I know what he looks like. I'm busy gaping at the room.

It's... enormous. I've seen much larger, of course, but those were public spaces, not private. It's got a high ceiling, painted a simple, soft grey, though when the light hits it just right, you can see silver flecks, like stars, scattered across it. The walls are papered as white and grey marble. The wood at the bottom of the wall--is that called a baseboard?--is white, with a repeating pattern of fleur-de-lis carved in deep relief and painted black. The rest of the room, from the furniture to the books, is in black and silver. The bedroom, which I find through a door on the left, and the bathroom are pretty much the same. "Damn," I say. "This place is like a fucking museum to Art Deco." I finish sizing up my Key's wardrobe and then glance back at the Key himself, now standing in the doorway between the bedroom and the main room. "And," I continue, "so are you. Bit taller than I expected." He is, now that I think about it. We're practically of a height, with less than half an inch one way or the other.

"Will that be a problem, Master?" he inquires calmly, apparently unfazed. "I can arrange for another Key if you so desire."

"Not a problem," I reply, eyeing him. "Just unexpected. S'you I'm here for. Now, you got anything to wear that ain't monochrome?"

"For myself, Master, no." He seems somewhat surprised at the question.

"Now that," I inform him, "is a problem." I walk past him--he moves smoothly out of my way-to the vidcom set in the wall next to the front door. "I need clothes for my Key," I tell the young boy who answers. "As soon as possible."

The boy blinks. "They can be sent up right away, sir, if what you wish does not need to be fitted. If you require something special, it will be ready by this evening. May I ask what you would like?"

"Hmm. . ." I glance speculatively over my shoulder. "For now, something like what he has--the robe, shirt, trousers--except I want them in dark crimson, forest green, and midnight blue. Later, I want a nineteen twenties tux, full Turkish outfit in the same colors I said earlier, and. . . full eighteen twenties British aristo. Any color, long as it ain't just black 'n' white. Oh, and a wraparound skirt. Try for an African pattern, if you can find one. Any color that would suit him is fine."

"Very well, sir." They are apparently accustomed to odd choices in costume. "We have robes, tunics, and pants already; they will be sent up momentarily. We would ordinarily have a skirt such as you desire, but those we have at the moment are too short to suit the White Magic Key. I apologize sincerely, sir. It will not take long to acquire one, however. Should I hold the robes and send everything up together or shall I send the skirt up with the other clothing later?"

I think about it for a second, then answer, "Send up the robes. Those'll be enough to keep us busy for the time being."

"Very well, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"No."

"Then have a pleasant afternoon, sir." The videocom snaps off.

If you are near to the dark
I will tell you 'bout the sun
you are here, no escape
from my visions of the world
you will cry all alone
but it does not mean a thing to me
--"aura" from .hack//sign

~~~~~ The Chronicle ~~~~~

He knows it is not his place to judge, but Tor cannot help but think that this Master is more than a little unusual. Never before has one completely bypassed him in favor of investigating the room. And now he rummages in the bags he brought with him, muttering to himself. Tor remains where he is; a Toreador does not 'snoop.' That is, a Toreador wouldn't if he knew the word. Little does Tor know. The clan may not know the word, but the Toreadors nearly invented the concept. One does not become rich enough and powerful enough to indulge one's whims without a great deal of chicanery and ruthlessness. As, I may point out, may be proven time and again throughout this chronicle.

In spite of his Master's odd behavior, Tor feels soothed by his presence, as though he is an old acquaintance, come to chat for an hour or two. The last feelings of unease from last night's encounter flow from him. He does not jump--as he would have done not half an hour ago--when his Master suddenly turns to face him. "Sorry to ignore you like that," his Master apologizes with a grin. To his own surprise, Tor returns a small smile of his own. "I shouldn't of, really; you're the reason I'm here, after all. I ought to figure you a bit more before we get started. Oh, by the by, I'm Pasha." He glides forward, his hand extended.

Tor watches his Master walk towards him, fascinated by the combination of individual features that make up the man entire. Any geneticist would kill to discover the man's ancestry, or else go mad trying to figure it out. He's perhaps in his late twenties, tall and skinny--and I mean skinny, not slender or lean--with red-brown skin imported from the Americas and darkened by plenty of time in the sun. (Which, I might point out, means he is not a man of fashion. Men these days are supposed to be as pale as possible.) His eyes are almond-shaped, so he must have an Asian ancestor somewhere, but they are also a unusual violet. And another ancestor contributed a long, angular face and a strong (though not Roman) nose. Brilliant red hair curls violently around his shoulders. It is rather like someone threw all the different racial characteristics in a pot and drew them out at random. Which really isn't far off the mark.

He extends his own hand automatically, even though he is much more accustomed to the archaic bow. The almost crushing grip of his Master distracts him, so it isn't surprising that he takes a moment to make a connection.

kimi to hajimete deatta hi no koto o ima demo oboeteiru yo
shizuka na kaze ni kami o yurasenagara boku dake o mitsumeteta
kitto dare yori mo issho ni ireru to omotta kimi to nara
boku de sae waraeru to omotta

I still remember the day when I first met you
As the soft wind swung your hair, you looked just at me
You surely thought that I would be there with you more than anyone else
If I was with you, I thought that even I could smile
--"Missing ~egao o misete~" by Gackt

~~~~~ End Entry ~~~~~

"Whoops!" I just noticed the vague grimace on the Key's face and let his hand go immediately. "Sorry. Forgot you ain't ham-fisted like everyone else I know." I hold up my own as an example. Years on the streets have given them sturdy calluses, though not nearly as heavy as the ones on my feet.

"Please don't apologize," he answers. "I am perfectly all right."

I shrug. "Well, then. T'ain't much to do around here but wait till those boys bring your kit. Why not take a load off?" I take my own suggestion, throwing myself down on a couch. I look more confident than I feel; I'm sure the damned thing is going to break the second I land on it. Fortunately for me, it doesn't.

I catch a brief look on his face, something along the lines of a polite version of 'what the hell?' before he crosses the room and kneels neatly next to my couch, his robes pooling around him. Can't say as I blame him. I must be completely alien to him.

"Perhaps you would like a book, Master? Or some music?" I blink at him in surprise. "Or, if you are tired, I can draw you a bath." You know, for a bit there, I forgot that this boy belongs to me right now. He's a servant, not the aristo he feels to be. And yet... he doesn't quite feel right in either role. I study him for a while, puzzled. I almost think I see something in his eyes, but it's gone before I can catch it.

He's said nothing during the long silence; he's very perceptive, probably as much as I am myself. "No, thanks," I tell him. "I'm here to work, not relax. Though this couch might be enough to put me to sleep."

"To work?" There's incredulity in his voice, which is both surprising and amusing, since he's trying to make it sound like an idle question.

"Yes, work," I answer impatiently. "You know why I'm here, don't you?"

"I was told nothing beyond the ordinary, Master," he replies, blinking up at me. "I apologize for my ignorance."

"You mean they haven't told you?" I sit up to see the boy better.

"Only that a new Master was to arrive this afternoon."

Before I can answer, the doorbell rings: a page with the clothes I ordered. He lays them on the chair I indicate and leaves without a word. To my amusement, the Key immediately picks the clothes up off the chair and disappears into the bedroom. Through the open door, I can see him hanging them neatly in the closet. "We're going to be using those, you know," I call.

"I know, Master," the Key replies absently as he smoothes the trousers. "I just like things to be neat."

I shrug. "Your call. But I'd like to get you and the clothes up to the roof. I hear there's a park up there. Better light and color. Better atmosphere for the first shots."

"Shots, Master?" He looks puzzled.

"Oh, yeah, they didn't tell you nothing." I scratch my head, bewildered. Everyone else knows why I'm here, why doesn't he? "Well, try a look at this." I grab a book from one of my bags and hand it--well, shove it, really--into his hands. He opens it, looking through its pages with an intensity I usually reserve for three things: working, eating, and sex.

"You are the photographer," he says slowly. "Pasha the photographer." He lifts his eyes to mine; they are large and luminous. And completely unreadable. "You are here to photograph me?"

"Got a problem with that?" I challenge him.

"Of course not, Master!" He seems offended at the very idea. "It is just that..." His voice trails off.

"Just that..." I prompt him.

"I would not have thought I would be an interesting subject for you. A few of your photographs are beautiful, yes, but more often they are--unsettling."

"And you think you aren't?" I riposte, watching the Key's eyes widen. "Now grab those clothes, will you? I want to start on the roof first. Great park they have up there." I watch his eyes cloud briefly, then clear as he picks out the jewel-like robes. "Oh, and what should I call you? Not that 'Key' doesn't have a nice ring to it, you understand, but it's a little inconvenient if there are two or more of you in any one place. And 'White Magic Key's a bit of a mouthful. Any preferences?"

"If you wish, Master, you can call me Tor," he replies.

"Sure thing, Tor. As in 'Toreador,' I take it?" Nothing in the world like that family's pride. "Well, then, Tor, call me Pasha. S'only name I've got. And I rather like hearing it, truth be told." We get on the elevator. He turns his face before I can see the expression on it.

sotto fureru mono
motomeru koto ni muchuu de
unmei sae mada shiranai
itaike na hitomi

Something gently touching--
you're so intent on seeking it out,
that you can't even see your fate yet,
with such innocent eyes.
--"Zankoku na Tenshi no Thesis" from Neon Genesis Evangelion