In a world torn between heroes and villains, it can be a dangerous and hostile place. Some take comfort in the Gifted that stand up against those who would use their powers for greed and chaos. While others choose to hide away, fearful of the day...
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Standing alone in a swirl of vanity and prestige, Dominic Cramer knew it would never be enough.
Around him, debutantes and socialites chatted and snickered, and he couldn't hear a word they said. Maybe they mentioned him, maybe they called out to him, but it was static noise. Catering staff passed out plates of hors d'oeuvres and glasses of fine wine, which periodically ended up in his hands. He may not have felt the brush of the server's body against his arm or the weight of the dish in his palm, but he felt the hunger. Civic told him he had free rein to eat whatever he wanted and however much he wanted so long as he ate. However, just like with any other night, he found himself unable to take a bite. Instead, he'd exchange the food for a glass of wine. Civic did not agree with him drinking anything other than water, at least not until his appetite returned. He, however, paid Civic's salary. So he took a deep swig of the full-bodied wine that had the necessary bite of tartness to shock his system and bring his attention back to the matter at hand.
"How have you been feeling, Dominic?" cooed a woman who might have been named Cindy. "You seem so distant. I hope you're not pushing yourself too far for this event, no matter how important it may be to you." She placed a hand upon his arm, but he failed to notice as he watched the party sway before him in a glittering haze.
He had heard her, though. It was hard to miss when she parroted what Walt said earlier that day. His most trusted confidante also worried about his condition and his ability to do his first public appearance since his return to San Francisco. That being said, Walt's concerns had nothing to do with his employer's physical capabilities.
"Dominic, are you all right? Should I go get your assistant... Mr. Iverson is his name, correct?"
"No. I mean yes, that's his name — Walt Iverson. But, don't call him over."
Dominic knew his right-hand man was well aware of his exact position and the stiff stoicism with which he greeted the donors who had come out to support his fundraiser for the Central San Francisco Medical Center. However, the billionaire tech mogul felt far more comfortable with Walt lurking on the sidelines than standing next to him, reminding him how terrible this idea was.
And it was a terrible idea. Dominic accepted that. However, the guilt was eating away his sanity, and he had to do something.
He could only relive that night so many times before his mental stability fractured beyond repair. Day in and day out, he played tug of war with himself, debating his reasons for sealing Elaina Hart's fate. He reminded himself that during his time with Mir he was in a significant amount of pain and was also suffering the aftereffects of a serious concussion. It impaired his ability to think, which, in turn, damaged his ability to make sound decisions. Or at least that's what Civic told him. Of course, she also noted that Ms. Hart was far from the first to die for the cause and that Dominic would get over it, just as he had gotten over everyone else.
He paid her for her expertise in neuroscience and biochemistry, not her bedside manner.
"Okay, if you say so," the woman said before sliding her hand around his elbow so that they appeared to be linked together.
