Celestial Bodies

[CHAPTER 4] - LEO : JACQUES ARBER

Camera's flash. Lenses rotate. A dark mass of bodies salivates. Though I cannot see their faces, I know them to be predators. I call them surgeons, not because of their intellect, definitely not, but rather because of how they tear into people with cold precision. However, what makes my colleagues fear them was not their incisions, but their vulturous appetite for blood.

"Mr Arber, Mr Arber! Over here! Over here!" These bastards don't think I know that they are 'over here'? Stupid. Annoying.

"You." I pick my poison of choice, knowing that in this game of Russian roulette, everyone carried a loaded gun. A slight man of angular proportions stood above the loathing crowd; his chin lifted in a such a self-righteous way that it begged for a good punching. So, this was to be my Nemean Lion for today. Internally, I asked myself, how many more labours could I take? The reporter pushed his thin tie up, keeping the knot tight below his vastly protruding Adam's apple.

"Given the news on the Wolfe Centre's ransacking, are you worried that a similar fate is on the horizon for your own observatory?" Is that all? What am I supposed to say- yes, I cry every night into my pillow over the inevitability?

"No. And the next person who asks me a stupid question is banned from the Matternhorn Observatory, for life." I hid satisfaction as the wave paused for a second, each devious white horse questioning their own lines of inquiry.

The room exploded to life once again. I glanced over at my agent, who swayed her neutral features towards the media, redirecting me to the task at hand.

"You." I point to a stout woman who had weaselled her way into the prime seats. She was almost entirely obscured by a cannon of a camera, which looked as though it cost more than the watch on my wrist. And that was saying something. With a twist of its barrel, she rose to her unimpressive height of give or take five feet, hooking her violet rectangle glasses down her nose with a crooked index finger.

"Some say you are responsible for the incident at the Wolfe Centre. Care to comment on this, Dr. Arber?" Finally, a worthy question! Wow, this woman has balls! I let a smile that would put a Cheshire cat to shame claim my features, the stout lady blushing at the intense eye contact I dedicated to her. I coughed a short cough into a closed fist, one that signalled to the room that this was my chosen question of the day. Journalists hung their heads in shame, some even exiting completely, no doubt going home to recline on their leather sofas, a beer in hand while they rewatch the press conference and take notes from this very, very smart woman.

"Well, first of all, can I say that I love your question. Bold, concise, open. You even kept your source hidden! Hearsay is a wonderful thing in the realm of journalists." I leant forwards, elbows rocking on the smooth blue of the tablecloth. I felt like I was eating at my Oma's house. "Did I do it? Am I responsible? Would I do such a thing? Who could do such a thing?" I listed off rhetorical questions, drawing in the paling cheeks as I led them to believe in the accusations. "Alas, I did not. I am not. I am the first to admit my... competition, rivalry, feud, with the Wolfe Centre- it is long lasting and vicious, but us academics tend to stick to what we know best. Pens and paper. Literature. Research." I watch the tension leave the room, draining away like Florence Wolfe's chances of beating me. "I do not condone what has happened and will be in touch with Marco Winter soon regarding what my extensive funds can do to support them." No situation is ever too dire to have a quick pop at the opposition. "Thank you, young lady."

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I reclined, sinking deeper into the chocolate dyed tiger skin. Faux, obviously, hunters are a very... pathetic species.