Chapter Text
The spaceport is all windows and barely any corners. Blues and greens stream in, making stained glass of the white tile floor, and even after the red eye flight the queues are far too long. Peter Nureyev slips into the crowd like a snake shedding its skin, and emerges as a commuting businessman. He strides for the bathroom with the air of someone who has been through this spaceport a million times before. A few eyes in the crowd follow him, but he jots it down to interest instead of recognition.
He remembers their faces anyway.
When he locks himself into a cubicle he resists the urge to slump against the wall. Not making new alias documents before leaving Hyperion meant he'd either have to reassume his Duke Rose persona and hope nobody had put out a warrant for his arrest, or try to make it through the planetary control undetected.
The first is risky, but navigating security protocols in an 'unconventional' manner could bring him far more attention.
He folds his glasses neatly and puts them on the rim of the sink, then begins scrutinising himself in the mirror and gelling back his hair. He's somewhere in the Proxima system - so well developed technologically, home to Suriel Pharma, tall high rises, underground slums. Their police databases are well organised and rigorous. Rose will be recognised here. If he'd just thought before going to the spaceport in the middle of the night like that, if he'd rationalised instead of jumping on the first ship, if-
His fingers come away from his hair with a few grains of what feels like grit on them.
Nureyev puts on his glasses and stares at his hands. Red grit.
His breathing quickens before he forces it back into a steady rhythm. Once he worked out how he was getting out of here, his first point of call was going to have to be another hotel to scrub off the last vestiges of Mars. He thought he'd done what he could to clean off the grime from the tomb the night before, but clearly he'd been... well, distracted.
He files it away for future consideration.
By the time he breezes out of the bathroom, hair newly slicked back, elegant piercings replaced with silver studs, tie in a clean knot, Peter Nureyev is gone.
//
The man in the hotel foyer orders a coffee - black, no sugar - and a room key.
This time, his name is Mr Q Roswell. On paper, he's here for a deal. In practice, his pockets have gotten a lot heavier in the time he's been waiting in the lobby.
The attendant comes back with a key card for his suite, and he thanks the man without smiling, before taking the elevator to the thirteenth floor. Earth customs would have had this floor renamed to 12b, but nobody in Proxima A7 needs to believe in luck - not if they have the assurance of wealth. This place certainly has the latter, with thick plush carpets muffling the click of shiny black business shoes, and soft lighting illuminating complex panelling in the halls.
It is exactly the kind of place appropriate for a man negotiating with pharmaceutical companies.
Roswell has no reason to feel sick to his stomach at the thought, but the nausea still seeps in. He walks a little faster, checking the triple digit numbers as they count down to his room. He ignores the memories of the last time he saw numbers in an unfamiliar script ticking down. Files it away as best he can.
When he gets to the room, he opens the door slowly, scanning the suite inside. Anyone would expect that of a businessman here, given how cutthroat rival companies get. They wouldn't expect the more thorough sweep he does once he finds no immediate threats - hunting instead for bugs and cameras, which is why he comes up with three: all small, shiny, and unlabelled. All identifiable at a glance as created by rival pharma corps.
Clearly, even in the time it took him to bypass the security and leave the spaceport, his name has caught some ears. It's exactly what he hoped for. His debut will be at the hotel dinner, where with any luck he'll be approached by a rival company lead hoping to hire him.
The elegant silver watch on his wrist had been lifted from an almost identically dressed man on the street, so he trusts its accuracy, and it gives him four hours until he needs to be ready. He starts emptying his pockets. All manner of standard jewellery and trinkets line up nicely on the bedspread as he removes them, one by one, including his earrings from earlier. Some he remembers taking, others he might have picked up absentmindedly, or slipped his hand into a pocket for without thinking about it. At the very bottom of his left trouser pocket, he finds it.
It's obviously some sort of tourist knickknack, possibly even from a child, and he can't place it. He doesn't even know if he picked it up on Mars before he left. Holding the marble in the palm of his hand, he studies the deep red color, traces the miniature domes with a fingertip. Nureyev wants to curl himself around the thing, hold it so tight it crushes into a ballbearing. He wants to throw it out the window and never see it again. He needs to take a shower.
He rolls his shoulders after staring at the miniature Mars for far too long - feeling his Roswell facade settle back into place - and sets the marble down on his bedside table. It’s something to consider later. For now, he takes a well tailored suit from his bag, unfolds it carefully, and disappears into the ensuite for his shower.
//
Nureyev scrubs at his skin and hair for so long that it starts to sting, watching the little red grains swirl down the drain until the water runs clean. He takes less care than he should around his wrists and ankles, catching himself only once he remembers that if he accidentally reopens any of the just-healed electrical burns, they’ll scar back even thicker and messier. The way they are now he can probably hide them with makeup, if he does it right.
He pushes back all the memories that reach for him when he looks at them, but despite his best efforts, he can’t help thinking back to just 24 hours before now. The day cycle here is longer, so he won’t see the stars again for 11 days. Perhaps it’s for the best.
The last time Peter Nureyev looked at the stars, he was racing time through the Martian desert in a stolen car.
It had been from one of the assistants, used only for driving to and from the tomb to deliver soup packets for Miasma – a rust bucket compared to the Ruby 7. Really, the car was barely able to take over 200km/h without spluttering.
In that moment, Nureyev hadn’t cared.
He hadn't cared, because he couldn’t stop looking over at Juno, next to him, against all odds alive.