Post by Bailey Dahl on Apr 29, 2009 9:43:01 GMT
It had been one week since Bailey Dahl’s run-in with the Batman, and only three days since the disappearance of the court liaison, Dr. Crane’s replacement, had disappeared. Bailey was serving as the temporary replacement for the replacement so Jeremiah Arkham had invited her to the fundraiser, hoping to get some good press about the naive young doctor’s new position. Dr. Dahl was completely oblivious to his intentions, but was told that she either went to the ball or lost her temporary (and prestigious place) so she had no choice. Even though her wrists were still lightly bruised and she was still bothered by her previous encounter, she managed to get herself presentable enough to go; or so she thought.
Gotham’s finest: socialites, heirs, and cultural elites were everywhere, decked out in their jewels, gowns, and furs. Bailey Dahl, on the other hand, had just thrown on some pink dress (she had worn to a cousin’s wedding) because she was told it was not that formal: needless to say, she looked rather out of place. Not only did she look under dressed, but she also looked even more like a child than usual.
“Where’s your mother dear?” had been asked of the small doctor, too many times and she was getting rather sick of it. She felt like she had been explaining that she was the newest doctor at Arkham all night.
Snotty social elites weren’t the only ones bothering the small girl, however. Strange, eccentric, and usually large men had been quizzing her all night about her newest job as the court liaison. Irish, Italian, and even Chinese men had come up: handed her a business car (with no profession listed) and told her to call them, because they were “interested in doing business.” Bailey had no idea what they were talking about, but would nod politely, thank them, and put their card in her purse.
The latest “business” man to creep up was at least six foot four and had a heavy Russian accent.
“Zdrastvuytye” the large man said as he extended a meaty hand for the much shorter doctor to shake.
“You are court liaison, no?” Bailey shook, her head in the affirmative, trying to be polite, but not encourage another one of the “court liaison” conversations.
“Ah, very good. You take this. Call me. We will do business.” He handed her another, professionless card, with the wave of his hand.
“Nice meetin' you.. Mr. Dimitriov.” Bailey said sweetly as she closed her purse with a snap.
Once Dr. Dahl had escaped to the less popular seating area, next to the refreshment table, she plopped on a velvet chaise and curled her legs underneath her. Bobby Darin’s “Under the Sea,” began to blare and a man serving champagne stopped by and offered her a glass without looking down to see who he was serving: Bailey reached up and took the glass he offered and placed it next to her on the seat. She didn’t want to get tipsy, because she was driving home, but there was no reason to drink these people out of her head. How can people be so boring?
Gotham’s finest: socialites, heirs, and cultural elites were everywhere, decked out in their jewels, gowns, and furs. Bailey Dahl, on the other hand, had just thrown on some pink dress (she had worn to a cousin’s wedding) because she was told it was not that formal: needless to say, she looked rather out of place. Not only did she look under dressed, but she also looked even more like a child than usual.
“Where’s your mother dear?” had been asked of the small doctor, too many times and she was getting rather sick of it. She felt like she had been explaining that she was the newest doctor at Arkham all night.
Snotty social elites weren’t the only ones bothering the small girl, however. Strange, eccentric, and usually large men had been quizzing her all night about her newest job as the court liaison. Irish, Italian, and even Chinese men had come up: handed her a business car (with no profession listed) and told her to call them, because they were “interested in doing business.” Bailey had no idea what they were talking about, but would nod politely, thank them, and put their card in her purse.
The latest “business” man to creep up was at least six foot four and had a heavy Russian accent.
“Zdrastvuytye” the large man said as he extended a meaty hand for the much shorter doctor to shake.
“You are court liaison, no?” Bailey shook, her head in the affirmative, trying to be polite, but not encourage another one of the “court liaison” conversations.
“Ah, very good. You take this. Call me. We will do business.” He handed her another, professionless card, with the wave of his hand.
“Nice meetin' you.. Mr. Dimitriov.” Bailey said sweetly as she closed her purse with a snap.
Once Dr. Dahl had escaped to the less popular seating area, next to the refreshment table, she plopped on a velvet chaise and curled her legs underneath her. Bobby Darin’s “Under the Sea,” began to blare and a man serving champagne stopped by and offered her a glass without looking down to see who he was serving: Bailey reached up and took the glass he offered and placed it next to her on the seat. She didn’t want to get tipsy, because she was driving home, but there was no reason to drink these people out of her head. How can people be so boring?
