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Dim corridors bustled with bodies—with laughter, noise, and the sound of ringing slot machines. Mrs. Arrow crossed through the commotion of what stood as one of the Casino Palace's many drinking and gambling halls. A keen ear would not have heard a plastic, clacking heel to her shoe, but the thud of heavy, reinforced rubber on the inlaid floors as she walked. She wore over her shoulders a dark coat that swept her through the crowd in a brown shape that disrupted the sprawling, colorful patterns in marble beneath her. The glitz of gambling machines and the beckoning smiles of card dealers did not concern her.
Nor should the tall shape poised at the nearby counter have garnered her attention, either. Mrs. Arrow lifted her shades and let them stay tucked atop the blond crest of her bangs. She approached the bar counter.
“Hey, champ. Didn't expect to catch you here.”
Spade's upper half swiveled to face her. He considered it an awfully funny name for his having made fifth place, and for that, he chuckled.
“Hello. I'm waiting on friends. Thought I would pass the time better at the bar.”
“Not a bad idea.” She looked over the array of bottles in all myriad of colors, where they sat against a large mirrored pane that reflected the sparkling chaos of the casino interior. She ordered the bartender over and had them pour her a glass.
"I don't mind being joined by a star pilot."
Spade's exact tone eluded Mrs. Arrow as she took up her full glass. She found little to read in the flat, doll-like sculpt of his expression. Her partially emptied cup met the counter again, though she held her eyes still on the alien across her. A testing part of her nature found itself emboldened by the challenge of parsing something meaningful from a physicality as foreign and illegible as Spade's. Mrs. Arrow spotted his fingers drumming the underside of the counter. This had to be her social purchase worth pursuing. She spoke up again.
“You're looking a little ill at ease. Why's that?” she folded her arm one over the other and let her weight lean on the counter. “I would have thought some place like this would be your sort of stomping ground.”
“Not an incorrect assumption. It was, once.”
“Yeah?” Mrs. Arrow adjusted her stance to better hone her hearing. “What made you leave?”
“It's not the ideal environment to raise a child.”
Two performers bedecked only in red tassels walked past the bar counter where both sat. Mrs. Arrow watched them cross the open floor from over her shoulder.
“I can imagine.” She extended her glass away from herself, though she remained facing Spade. “How does the current circus work compare to your old gig?”
Spade shifted in his seat—a startlingly naturalistic moment of expression from a figure who for his puppet-like, lanky physique, lacked most social-physical moorings to abide by. His nasal voice came only after a precursory wince of uncertainty.
“It...may not be optimal as a means to profit from my talents. The circus needs work. I'm responsible for pushing them in the right direction. I could never walk out on them though, not as they are now.”
“Responsibility...” Mrs. Arrow laughed softly, “I didn't think that was in your vocabulary.”
“It is.” His head angled downward, lifting the pinpoint lights of his eyes. “You wouldn't know that because you only see my act. Believe it or not, the circus is second only to my son.” He walked his fingers over the rim of his glass. The glass tilted at a precarious angle, but Spade rocked his fingers with tact enough to bring the bottom flat again. Mrs. Arrow glanced to his glass.
“Don't let me talk down to you, Spade, but I wish you'd extend a little of that caring to your fellow pilots.”
“Hah,” Spade chuckled. The glass leapt and rolled across Spade's knuckles. “I am only ever a danger to myself, madam.”
“Until you cause a crash, sure.”
“Eheh. One has to take some risks to keep the audience engaged. Or perhaps my fellow pilots are less adept in their reflexes than they should be for racing of this caliber.”
“Mm hm,” she twisted her lip to one side and lilted an incredulous hum. “While there is something to be said for that, it's not on them when we have racers skirting the rules.”
The glass jingled and thudded down onto the counter, wobbling fast side to side.
“Ah-ah-ah! I haven't broken any rules!” Spade tutted and wagged a finger. “And if I have, they must make their illegal maneuvers more clear next season! Nobody disqualified me for the last stunt I pulled.”
Mrs. Arrow rolled her eyes. Her arms crossed atop the counter and her blue eyes found Spade again, her brow heavy. He felt suddenly like a child being seen for some slippery misdeed of his.
“Listen--” Spade conceded. His palm opened, “I appreciate you keeping a close eye on me, but I'm far from your biggest worry on the track. My intent is never criminal!”
She sat back and eyed Spade. She peered at the orb hovering in his midsection and saw its slit pupil fixed on her. It blinked, to no aid in Spade's poor attempt at assuaging her concerns. He saw only apprehension in her face.
“--I do find it. Admirable that you would try to put a leash on someone like me. Of course, it wouldn't work, I'm not the same type of man that your husband is.”
“No kidding!” she laughed. A teasing worked its way more sincerely into her voice, as she replied. “Though I wonder at times if he wasn't a circus clown in a past life. Fine. I won't grill you any more. I'll stay off of your back as long as you don't get in my way for the rest of the season.”
“Mm. I'm of the mind that what happens on the track, stays on the track. But I will...keep that in mind.” He motioned for the bartender to refill his glass. Spade continued while the bartender topped him off with a bright blue liquor. “Something of the racing culture that surprised me—the penchant for rivalries.”
Mrs. Arrow's brow pinched together as she watched Spade toss back his drink into the empty cavity of his mouth. No, she did not want an answer to that question. She kept on the topic at hand.
“It might be a surprise to you, but not to someone who does this as their career. That's not even mentioning the money tied up in it. Actually, that's half the reason you see some of the law enforcement racing—keeping huge sums of prize money out of the wrong hands.”
He snickered, “Naturally, it's the biggest sport in the galaxy! That isn't over my head. But even if it isn't serious to me...well, one wonders why some pilots are just trying to kill each other but with extra steps.”
Mrs. Arrow sucked a breath between her teeth. The veracity of such a blunt observation struck her dumb for a moment. Her shoulders shifted and she made a noise, as if conceding to the absurdity presented.
“...Yeah. Makes you wonder why I waste my time hounding anyone at all.”
“Oh, don't worry, madam,” Spade chimed. He sipped—'sipped'—on his drink. “You'll catch someone truly nefarious one of these days. I'm sure of it.”
“Way to talk me up. Thanks, champ.”
She jutted her glass across the counter and begged the bartender for a refill.