||[Jan. 17th, 2006|10:30 pm]
Wine, really, was all he would settle for.
None of this synthesized alcohol bullshit the machines spoon-fed humanity to keep it complacent and gentle as a mewling kitten. No, sir, the high-end restaurants at which he dined knew that the Sublimely Magnificent Selric Girardot XXVII would not be satisfied with anything but fine, well-aged, vineyard-pressed, legitimate wine. And so it was that, having finished his meal, he found himself sipping from a stem-necked glass of sweet Pinot Noir, letting the punch of the delectable beverage scorch through his veins.
It was a sensation a machine could never feel, something he'd revel in holding over their heads if the pathetic, soulless Molochs actually had enough vision to appreciate it. The very sensation was poetic in nature, almost embarrassingly poetic, and yet he found a measure of frustration and malice taking away from his enjoyment of it. That blasted girl - no, that wasn't a girl, that was a thing - had thoroughly unsettled and annoyed him, both from a professional and personal perspective. If he was to bother setting up shop in some other part of the dome, he'd have to move all the girls, all the paperwork, Synapse, Influx, everything---and then who knew? The OIS might just decide they were done there and move on the next day, and he'd have to move it all back. But if he didn't move, he could be missing out on possible opportunities that could have been capitalized on elsewhere.
Selric murdered the remaining dregs in his glass and poured himself a new one from the bottle at his private table; the management was always quite willing to provide him with as much as he wanted. His thoughts wandered from business back to that damnable horde of circuits and wires, devoid of any true sentient being. Ugh. How he hated machines, and worst of all was the fact that his hatred did no good. Humanity certainly couldn't overthrow their enslavers - certainly, some of them had weapons, most of which were illegal (Selric's included), but he was no fighter, and neither was the general population - but then again, most of them could rot under the titanium fist, for all he cared. These fools made their captors, put the tools into their hands with which humanity could be subjugated, and then expected random chance to fall in their favor? Fools, fools! It boiled his blood just thinking about it.
He pushed his chair back abruptly, rose to stand next to the table, and snapped his fingers. "Waiter."
A flunky hurried up to him, trying to fake a smile at the sight of the establishment's best-paying patron in a bad mood. "Yes sir?" he asked, amazingly maintaining a decent semblance of cordiality, and was rewarded with a heavy tip.
"Put it on my tab," ordered the Sublimely Magnificent One, and with that, he headed for the door.
The tap-tapping of his cane on the tile floor echoed over the entire restaurant, but Selric most certainly didn't care. Let them all hear. Let the world hear, and be damned to them, every last one of these machine-enabling bastards. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the street, waiting for Synapse and Influx to show up and escort him back to the chateau.
The lingering aftertaste of the meat was still fresh on the back of his tongue. Selric found himself darkly wondering, had it been a synthetic's flesh, if it would've tasted any sweeter.