Into the Black Hole

Chapter 37: Occam's Razor

The party is in full swing by the time I get there. Huxley wanted us to arrive together, but I asked if could come a bit later. He believes I spent the extra hour prepping, but the truth is I spent it modifying and testing the two aerial robots I stole. There are still a couple bugs to fix, but otherwise they're perfect.

The theme is "Height of Twenties Fashion," so I'm dressed in the outfit Huxley sent me—black high-waisted hotpants, a matching black bralette with long lace sleeves, and black round toe stilettos—as I enter the ballroom. The astronaut in me was screaming to cover up, but now that I witness what other people are wearing, it's not so bad. There's a guy clad in neon blue shorts—and that's it. No shirt, no shoes, no socks.

In the ballroom, white and black tables overflowing with snacks and drinks line the perimeter. Orange and pink couches surround the bronze dance floor in the middle. A DJ is set up behind a table at the very back, rearranging the music queue while dancing to the currently playing pop song. About five hundred guests are here, each one invited by Huxley. Raising my gaze, I study the image of a mystical night sky and trees spanning the ceiling, wondering if the painting is real.

Probably not.

The older you get, the more you realize it's better to be invisible. Less harmful. Less painful. I wish for that superpower as eyes immediately latch on to me from every direction. The festivities continue, but there's a new topic to gossip about:

"Hey, isn't that the girl Boss is banging?"

"I heard she's a princess. Her dad's like the ruler of Earth or something."

"Woman needs to eat. Legs look like sticks."

"She's really pretty."

"I wonder how Boss met her."

"I'm positive she's sleeping with like five other guys."

"You think if I ask her to dance, she'll say yes?"

"I think Boss will cut your dick off if you try."

Ah, how delightful.

Avoiding the stares, I head to the nearest snack table, prepared to glare at the wall for the rest of the evening. But a man steps in front of me, blocking my path. My eyes travel up white dress shoes, white slacks, a red pinstripe suit, and a black bowtie. It's Felix, and at first glance, he seems happy to see me, yet the more I analyze his expression, the less certain I am of that fact. No bandana today, only the makeup. He leans down, his breath tickling my ear as he comments, "You look naked."

"I'm aware," I respond. "So does everyone else, whereas you... what are you wearing?"

"The invitation read 'twenties.' It didn't specify which century."

I laugh. "Impressive. What a rebel."

He shrugs. "If you're going to make the rules for a mindless birthday party, the bare minimum you can do is ensure they're sound. Otherwise, they merit breaking."

"You're not having fun?"

"I don't like not drinking when I'm constantly being offered cocktails. My own personal hell," he states while we linger by the wall and survey the crowd. "I have nothing against most parties, but throwing one for your birthday is tacky."

"He's trying to be a good host, mingling with the people who work for him."

"Nah," Felix retorts, "he simply craves the attention. It makes him feel important."

"Well... we all like to feel wanted."

He looks at me sideways. "I can't argue with you there." A few beats pass. "Would you care to dance?"