Drops of paint and booze [Ai & Nimue]

When approached with the opportunity to mingle with leeches, his gut reaction was to disrespectfully decline. Museums monopolized whole channels of creative expression, and knowing they're funded by institutionalized theft made him seethe. Financial incentives for public art solved a self-perpetuated problem, one that arose from criminalizing such work being done for free. In the back of alleys and underground, adorning tunnels deep, across steel gates when storefronts close, all under the shroud of night. When legalized villains, with their badges and guns and tripping high on undeserved power, came upon his fellow freethinkers midway through a piece, they developed the ingenious notion that the best way to serve society would be to cuff them up, slap a fine, and toss these artists behind bars. Only a complete moron would shoot themselves in the foot and hobble begging for aid.

The invitation had come from a client whose rose-colored glasses were all but surgically attached to his face. Submit a piece, he'd said. Show the world your colors.

Ai had scanned the letter and tossed it, but second thoughts recreated the message on his skin. What better way to tear down a prison than to devastate its foundations from the inside? He'd toiled long nights, building up and tearing down and surprising himself with unprecedented levels of commitment, until the paper boasted lines and hues that at last met his high standards. If this didn't get accepted, then all hope truly was lost. The mindless cogs who'd been shunted to judge duty had thankfully held some iota of taste. He ripped his acceptance in half before marking the time and place on his calendar.

On the awaited evening, he tore through slick streets, no helmet needed thanks to his quirk. He wove between buses still struggling through traffic and cut them off with middle fingers thrown back. Droplets crawled through his hair, amassing at the tips of his strands before falling and streaking his face. He locked his bike in a No Parking zone and let the rain soothe its overworked engine.

Faceless worker bees in their precious suit and ties choked flabbergasted on their greetings. Some sopping wet redhead just pulled up to the door, and even more perplexing, he demanded to be let in. They didn't expect to have to enforce dress code, but they also couldn't deny his name being on the list. They tripped over their queries as he brushed wordlessly past them and stomped up marble stairs.

Chatter dialed down to dignified volumes, polite yet also abuzz, his fellow guests were spared the need for formal attire, but their jewelry and coats still marked them as scum. And there stood Ai, the black sheep of the flock, with a corresponding leather jacket, fitted jeans, and damp shirt. A modest crowd lingered by his inkwork framed plainly among the rest. As much as he scorned the spineless artists who fed into this obvious scam, he had to acknowledge their skill, which if he were honest, might've surpassed his own. Alas, he wasn't, and he quickly dismissed their efforts as cheap doodles.

He plastered on a manufactured smile as he approached the huddle admiring his submission. Scripted niceties were exchanged. Then, suddenly, Ai pulled off his jacket. Next, his shirt. Two dripping articles thrown haphazardly onto waxed hardwood. Onlookers recoiled at the immodest display, but his torso wasn't exactly bare. From one fingertip to the mirroring, across taut muscles and chest stretched an exact replica of his illustration on the wall. Chains, ghostly and red, bordering on biological with their translucence and mimicry to prehistoric beasts of the ocean deep.

Predictably, a couple of concerned organizers approached him and begged his pardon, eyes wishing him to explain. He gave some handwavy spiel about art transcending its medium and how his body was one with the piece. Much like this event, it was all bullshit, but the organizers preferred to interpret his hijinks as postmodern didgeridoo rather than causing a scene so early in the night.

He dared the rest of these rubberneckers to come make a fuss, staring down anyone looking his way. Vindicated, he gravitated toward the free alcohol and let bewildered eyes follow him. He downed a glass of champagne, the taste reminiscent of his time with the Chinese elite. Out of the corner, he caught a curious face. The glass flew into a rubbish bin as he took a spot at the table, resting his elbows while taking hold of her gaze.

"Forgive me if I'm being too direct," he began, a class act of his own if it weren't for his mild exhibitionism. "But I wanted to ask about the mark on your face." Few in this country were bold enough to wear colors for all to see. Then again, he couldn't discount the possibility it was genetic, as he'd disappointingly encountered at Semper Fi. There was no cost to clarify though, so he might as well dive in.

---

Not a blink went undetected as he zeroed in on her expression, stationed on high alert for any trace of judgment or disgust. He was committed to wasting no time on anyone too deeply seated in their social conditioning. If a mere stigma stood in her way of appreciating his artistry, then like these skittish lambs posing as independent thinkers, she too was lost.

Her visual sweep didn't go unnoticed, and she showed more concerned for his question than his questionable appearance. First criterion passed, she at least held an inkling of fine taste. What would really make worthwhile this whole encounter, however, was a confirmation of his hopes. These self-proclaimed artists still shackled themselves to convention, as made evident by their displeasure toward his innovative take. But if he could meet a kindred spirit wading through this talentless cesspool, then he couldn't say attending this was a mistake.

Alas, solidarity eluded him yet again. Her colors didn't hint at an artificial source, so the mutation shouldn't have shocked him. An uneven pull at the mouth betrayed his disappointment. "I see." Clipped, candid, without care. This was the second time his nose had been off. He gave a laugh that made it seem as if she’d led him on and fooled him. Standing there alone, twiddling her thumbs while waiting for conversation to befall her. He should’ve guessed at the start that a meek woman like her wouldn’t dare blemish one of the few sources of her worth. Not on purpose, anyway. He did have to applaud her for not erasing the marks under cakes of makeup. Coupled with her unidentifiable lilt that uniquely molded each word, he figured it wouldn’t be complete agony if he stayed put for one more round. One more back and forth before fully dismissing her as a run-of-the-mill societal slave.

He continued to stare straight into her, offering neither a nod nor smile of acknowledgement. “You and your family hail from a different country, then.” He quirked a brow. No need to ask for affirmation when it was so obvious. And since he couldn’t place his finger on her of accent, she must have flown in from beyond Asia. “Please don’t tell me you came all the way here for a nameless event like this.” That’d be utterly irrational. Unless this night was one of many, such as a tour. No, there was no way she was esteemed enough for that, otherwise she’d have been flocked from the start. Perhaps, instead, it was the other way around. She might’ve been so desperate to seize fame that no opportunity was too small to showcase her work.

Disgusting. But assumptions were only that. To test them, he gestured with an open hand toward the rest of the gallery, where starving artists wiped their tongues all over the curators’ shoes. “The art I show sits well above the status of a decoration, yes.” He didn’t need her petty praise to know that much. “Now, I must confess my interest in seeing your work, if that’s what brought you here tonight.” If she even hoped to stand on the same level as him, then the absolute minimum she ought to display is a hint of pride in her ability. Stepping back from the table, he let his eye scan over the pieces afar, expectations in the red as none of these finger paintings had even made him glance twice.

---

Inconsistencies swirled around him. These so-called pioneers of contemporary thought, arbiters of change, rebels against what chains us to today—none of them stood a chance of stepping into tomorrow. They proved their worth, that of the dust beneath his shoes, by dismissing the revolution tearing across his skin. Their stares, uncomprehending. Their minds, vacant. He could feel their gazes meander aimlessly before rolling over his shoulders, back, and chest. And he could feel their shallow verdicts dripping down his frame. Told to think outside the box, yet there they stood, surrounded by wooden outlines that constrained their originality to a finite space. The nerve and the hypocrisy.

He bore into the woman's eyes and assessed her assessment, or rather her lack thereof. He couldn't get a read. And she wasn't saying anything either. No questions, no comments. She just slowly drowned herself in champagne. Maybe she was oblivious. Too polite, perhaps. God knows the kind of imbecilic suffering her kind self-inflicted, fighting tooth and nail to remain bound to the prison known as politeness. Whichever the case, he no longer cared. Let her miss the opportunity to rise above these slaves. If she wrote him off, it'd be her choice, even if it was the wrong one.

With silent nods she affirmed his projections that her place of origin sat well outside this god-forsaken island nation. Then a twist. His eye almost twitched at her obtuse reply. He coughed into his fist, trying and failing to trick himself into rehearing a response that an educated person would make. "I'd hope neither you nor anyone else would take such measures." He suspected his subtleties got lost in translation, especially if it'd only been two years since her arrival. Unfortunately, he couldn't empathize with her likely language troubles. A decade of lessons had hung under his belt by the time he first stepped onto his indefinite stay.

Then again, her grammar was perfect, her words were fluid, and if it weren't for the foreign flavors soaking each sentence, he wouldn't have guessed it'd only been a couple cycles of seasons. She didn't hesitate to bounce the conversation back at him, either. He did notice she was tense at the start, but not so tense as to fear verbal communication. His next conclusion was that she might just be dumb. Socially, that is. Unable to navigate basic social settings, she'd clearly misplaced or never had received the predetermined script by which everyone exchanged empty words. Even a novice in Japanese could state where they were from. But she didn't. For that, she lightly reminded him of the brick wall he passed going up the stairs here.

He had to speak in a more straightforward manner, then. "You moved rather recently. From where, if I may ask?" Neutrality stilled his face. He couldn't be bothered to plaster on a sugarcoated smile, but he had a long ways to go before getting genuinely annoyed. Social simpletons garnered at least an ounce of pity from him. He had no doubt that if handed the key to interpersonal success, they'd immediately hop onto the carousel of complacency, but until then, a good number of them scorned the wind-up soldiers marching dutifully and according to the government's plans. Individuals in this state were ripe for enlightenment, but Ai was no puppet master. If this woman and her dull sense of camaraderie were to align with his views, it'd have to be on her own free will.

He highly doubted she could ever reach that point. So far in their limited time together, she'd shown an abhorrently low amount of initiative. An artist didn't wait for permission to share their livelihoods. Yet he found himself tracing the footsteps of a spineless soul who needed prompting. Her background and initial solitude, the little she'd revealed to him thus far, did pinch at his curiosity more so than these blatant bootlickers, so he gave her a final chance to redeem herself in his eye. They swerved the corner, and she gestured at a painting that had garnered quite a crowd.

For a moment, he said nothing. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, then crossed them again. A keen eye would notice his jaw cycle between slacked and clenched. "You painted this?" Fuck. "And it's an original?" Of course it was, how uncharacteristically unintelligible of him. He shook his head and with it, his stupor. "Ignore what I just said, I have no doubt it's an original." If not, the dunderheads who organized this circus were actively sending their cities to ruin with their incompetence. Actually, that wasn't a bad thing.

Few experiences measure up to the pain of his vision being brutally halved as easily as pulling grapes off a stem. However, being at loss for words came close. His brows furrowed as he furiously raced to reassess her. So she was the awkward genius type. Unaware of her own talent and unequipped to deal with the attention, she'd fled to the comforts of alcohol to avoid the starry-eyed flock.

---

Twenty whole hours to get from there to here. Wherever there was. She kept dropping hints about her origins but never fully delivered. Under any other circumstances, he would've chalked it up to coy girlishness. He had no patience for frivolous mind games, especially ones derived from tropes that sold manipulation as charm. He had to blame pop culture for that one, which was, of course and as always, well according to the national agenda. Yet in all his past experiences deflecting base advances, his provocateurs had at least tried to be entrancing. At minimum, a smile. Hell, even a laugh. The woman before him, on the contrary, made him question his own ability to properly interact with people, as if mingling underground had slowly chipped away at the mask he wore to convince people he too turned a blind eye to their enslavement.

So he bit the bait and asked for specifics. Where. Did. She come from. This was beyond an attempt to string him along. This became a lesson in common courtesy. A flat out enterprise guided by hand. Usually these timid, floating types also lacked the capacity to think for themselves. It wasn't necessarily their fault, but it made cooperating with them a mortal hell. So when she likened the exhibition to a vapid vessel, his proliferating doubts suddenly shriveled. "I agree, it's an investment with little return." He wanted her to expand on her last statement. "So tell me, what then inspired you to come to this 'meaningless' presentation?"

Perhaps, as a recent immigrant, she was desperate for acceptance. "Well, Nimue, you can call me Ai." Such a cowardly motive would earn no respect from him. She really ought to have done her homework prior to fleeing South Africa. He knew little of the country, but he couldn't imagine the leap to have been anything but small.

"Nervous, you say. That's exactly what they want," he laughed bitterly. "A piece of unsolicited advice: don't apologize for your presence. It gives these social scavengers an opportunity to intimidate." They leapt at signs of vulnerability.

Vulnerability he now found himself struggling to suppress. Eyeing her submission, he felt coarse hands seize his gut. Heavy forces pushed his head aside, making it strangely difficult to stare too long. Every stroke and surreal blend gave her subject life, translating fuzzy thought to figure. To achieve this sophistication suddenly felt beyond reach. He wanted to look down but couldn’t.

The crowd was going wild, at least by gentlemanly measures, and they oohed and ahhed unabashed. Elbow nudges and pointing fingers made obvious their awe. A pair of suits approached the artist and congratulated her for another top piece. Their implication didn’t go unnoticed, and Ai furrowed his brow in suspicion. "If I recall correctly, this exhibition is for amateurs and those entering the field." A sideways glance put her just in view. “Seems to me you’re neither.”

Unfortunately, neither he nor the bootlickers seemed to get through to her. For a pause, she stood reeling from shock. Her pupils followed some ghost far away, forcing him to wave his hand in her face. Perhaps she too had been executing performance art. Unlikely, given her nonsensical babbling. Mentions of lies and wizards spouted forth from her lips. “Nimue, what’s gotten into you?” Her face grew warm and her eyes blushed red. Inside, he let out a groan. This was no time to play damsel in distress, not with hoards of opportunists ready to pounce. They were ready to whip up a media storm, and he did not want to give them that chance.

Hoping to knock her out of her stupor, he hooked his arm in hers. He shepherded them both out into the halls, swinging by his own painting for clothes.

Mindless chatter dropped dead at the shut of the door, handcrafted and heavy as a vault. He let her arm drop from his and began to slip his shirt back on while wearing an impatient stare. “Care to explain what that was back there?” He pulled at his hem and smoothed it.

---

For all the shit he gave society for groupthink, none steered even close to her level. Three words, two chances, one lousy excuse of a functioning adult. It was the coward's non-answer. Deflection for the purpose of flight. To claim ignorance and bury herself in everyday bliss, she injected pure anger running hot through his veins. Sullen silence became his next play, no longer interested in hers. He paid zero heed to cards held to her chest, since they no doubt were all blank. So she attended for no reason. He struggled to decide if that was much worse than appearing for cheap social gain. Imagine if she received a letter from a slave trader, would "just going along" be suffice? These were the fools upon which corruption could flourish, blind to fine print between lines.

And it seemed too much stimulus truly overworked her mind, for her screen just completely froze. No response to his waving. Irresistance to his pull. By god, even a child had more sense. If she trusted him at all, then her sentiments were misplaced, for his patience had finally run thin. A pause blinked by, and he turned promptly to leave, only to be roped back in by her vagueness.

He pulled his arm through the sleeve of his jacket, then the other soon mirrored its twin. Pulling the leather taut over his shoulders, he gave her an exasperated stare. "So you're implying it's stolen." Leave it to the government to thieve. Anything backed by those low lives could never be trusted, especially with fodder like her.

Itching for a chance to unmask their true selves, he dragged her back into the exhibit. Doors slammed shut, he pinpointed the organizer and intercepted him, still clamped onto her arm.

He demanded to know how they got hold of the painting, the grey elephant in the room. The man, dressed to the nines, furrowed his brow in confusion, but offered an origin story nonetheless. He recounted the transaction, sold by a young man, stated his name and price and more.

Ai listened, then drew a connection between figures. "This 'Oz' you mentioned before, would you say they're the seller?" He let go of Nimue to cross his arms. At this point, the puzzle had so few linked pieces, and he'd be damned if she couldn't complete it.

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