5

Ax is dressed as a wintertime Cinderella. Ze is wearing an all-white outfit with a corset top and hooped skirts, except the skirts don't come down to the floor; instead they stop at about midcalf, revealing several inches of pantaloons and the crystal-encrusted shoes. Ze is armed with a costume sword ze made zirself.

Though Ax has rented out an entire VIP table, ze is here with one friend, a somewhat nervous-looking guy in his fifties with a greying ponytail. "This is Seamus," Ax explains. "We lived together in the startup house. Seamus used to work for Google, but he's gone independent."

Seamus smiles at you and gives a half-wave. You wouldn't have guessed this was really Seamus's scene, and indeed he's come in a T-shirt with a picture of Marie Antoinette on the front. He isn't wearing any kind of mask, which normally would be enough to get him excluded at the door; presumably being a VIP guest got him around that requirement.

Ax zirself is mostly spending time with a gossip columnist. Doing it in this public place was Ax's idea: it will provide memorable imagery and establish a bit of context.

You hover in the background, trying to make sure that nothing goes too wrong—though you could only intervene so much.

The gossip columnist has shown up wearing a plastic parody mask of George W. Bush. You're spared wondering what exact statement it's meant to convey when she tells you she'd forgotten it was a costume party until the last minute, but she turned out to still have this old mask in her wardrobe.

"So," says the columnist. "What's it like being…well, exceptionally intelligent? Give us the view from inside that half-billion-dollar noggin."

Ax: "I haven't really experienced the alternative, so it's hard to compare."

The music isn't making this easy. "What?!" shouts the columnist.

Ax, more loudly: "I've never been stupid, so it's hard to compare!"

Oh no

The columnist giggles. "Okay, but…I found this quote online saying that you were able to solve problems just by focusing on them long enough? How does that work?"

"I never said that," Ax said. "In fact, I'm pretty sure it's not online at all."

Most people wouldn't be able to make that kind of claim—there might be an old forum post saying you look like an elephant's grandma and you wouldn't know it. But the statement holds some weight when it comes from Ax Williams, creator of Fama.

"I'm pretty sure I read that!" shouts the columnist, undeterred.

Ax's glance turns to you. It's either a plea for help or a look of absolute rage. Ax wanted a conversation, yes, but not this conversation. Not a dialogue about the interiority of genius that would only serve to make zir seem more peculiar and different from the rest of the world.

You have to shout your idea three or four times before it gets through, but when you do, both Ax and the columnist look grateful.

"I'll just go speak with the photographer," says the columnist, and she weaves her way out of the VIP area.

"That?" Ax says, when she's gone. "That was your pick to provide the public with a deeper understanding of who I am and what I am hoping to do next?"

"Sure, she's not very incisive—" you admit.

"And she's apparently never heard of research or fact-checking," Ax puts in.

"But that's the beauty of it," you say. "You can tell her whatever you want to tell her about your plans, your identity, your ambitions, and she'll just print all of that without questioning it."

"Assuming she understands it in the first place." Ax looks incompletely mollified.

"Yeah, well, you work with what gets the job done. Look, at some point, when you have more of a defined profile and you've undergone some media training, we can put you up against a more robust journalist. But right now, if what you want is someone who will do the equivalent of reprinting a press release? She's it."

Venice is Sinking Masquerade Ball

A quarter to midnight

This is the point in the evening where MJ Falter rolls in, with Felix in his wake.

Last you heard, he was in New York visiting friends. You had no reason to think he would be here, of all places. But here he is, all the same.

A gossip columnist perks up like a dog hearing the whistle, and you know without even asking how this is going to appear in the story. Now, suddenly, this ball is no longer a quirky regional thing that Ax Williams likes. Now it's a meeting place of the ultrarich, a decadent party spot for the children of billionaires, and that's how the story is going to be framed.

Which is grossly unfair. There was no reason at all to expect that MJ would come to this. To the best of your recollection, he has never been here before, and he was definitely elsewhere as recently as yesterday, because there was a Platinum conversation on that topic.

Next question: drunk or sober?

He is wearing a musketeer outfit with attached sword. There are boots, almost knee high. MJ's spurs click on the ground. His entire posture says he is in a belligerent mood and likely to pick an argument with the first person to offer a chance. It's just a question of who gets to play the role of the Cardinal's men in this situation.

MJ hasn't quite come with a full complement of fellow musketeers, but he has brought his friend Carson Mears, dressed in a Victorian morning suit ideal for a wedding circa 1882: grey tails, pale pink silk cravat, and a nosegay of carnation. But even with a comparatively small posse, MJ has enough swagger that people notice him coming in. Cameras flash.

Carson and MJ enter the VIP area and sit down in one of the few seats not reserved by Ax's party. They're talking to each other, but from their frequent glances, it's obvious they're discussing Ax's group.

Finally, MJ comes up to you. "You want to introduce me?" MJ says into your ear.

So you do the necessary thing—polite introductions, my two favorite clients, all that sort of business. No way this could possibly go wrong.

"Is your mother here as well?" Ax looks around, over MJ's shoulder. "What should I be looking for, a rental Catherine the Great outfit?"

"She's not here," MJ snaps. "But you're exactly the kind of person she loves to adopt."

Ax leans slightly on the chaise, allowing zirself to look more indolent. "Your mother is part of the neoliberal oligarchy currently destroying our country and our planet."

"Your mother," MJ replies, "is nobody."

The gossip columnist you brought in is faithfully video recording all this on her phone. The recording quality is probably terrible, but this is not the kind of image you were hoping to capture.

Ax, glaring, armed with a fake fantasy sword that might look dangerous enough in photographs.

MJ, hair escaping from under his wig, eyeliner smudged, about to take a swing at Ax.

Platt will blame you. You're supposed to protect clients, no matter what, even from themselves.

At least the situation hasn't turned into a full social group face-off. MJ only has his friend Carson here, and Carson is currently missing in action, probably waiting in line for the restroom. And Ax doesn't have too large a group either. So there's still time and opportunity to confine this particular situation.

What happens next is a bit of a blur. If it weren't that someone recorded it on a cell phone for YouTube, you would have a difficult time writing up a clear description for your event report.

By the time the venue security turns up, Ax's intricately made sword is in three pieces on the ground. MJ is bleeding from a cut above his eye, which came about when Ax's shoe went flying. Ax's wrist is sprained from a fall, when ze tried to dodge MJ's incoming saber swipe.

And there's a faint but distinctive smell of urine: someone here, and you don't know who, was frightened into wetting themselves. Not exactly the mark of a successful party.

Platt's reaction when you give him the report is extremely measured.

"I've already spoken to PR and to our public liability insurer," he says. "They'll probably be in touch with you for more details about what happened. But I need hardly say that I was hoping you'd be able to deliver better results."

He clears his throat.

"I know, it might not seem like part of your job to intervene in a fight between clients. But it is part of your job to protect their reputations and their social prospects. Indeed, for some of our suddenly wealthy clients, that's much more important than any specific service provision we might do. And you know how important the situation is with MJ."

"I take responsibility and I apologize," you say. "It won't happen again."

"Okay." He pours some more rooibos into his teacup. "I have some other things to do in order to clean up after this, and I've got a call with Charelle at eleven, so I'll let you go now."

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