pallas athene

It’s not like she’d downloaded the app intending on actually dating anyone -- it’d always been more like an exhibit of evidence; could anyone really fault her lack of dating life when the pickings were so slim? Brantley had been a surprise for multiple reasons, not the least of which was his relative normalcy considering how other older men on Tinder seemed to behave. They’d ended up exchanging numbers; it was that sense of intuition (Not quite, she whispers, you know better) that he was someone worth knowing. Vague coffee plans had never quite materialized, so she had been surprised to receive his rather outrageous request for her to post his bail over text.

That’s when it started, a slow niggling feeling that Alex she had done this many, many times before in a different lifetime; the very idea of posting bail for a near-stranger (and his friend? compansion? fight buddy? she didn’t glean the exacts in their short conversations) should have felt ridiculous, absurd, but instead the only emotion flooding her (HER) senses as she stepped out of the cab to enter the precinct was fond exasperation. The weight of her black credit card is nothing in her palm as she pays for both her new friend and his companion to be released. The door opens with a quiet click as two men are brought forward, and the steady, calm beat of her heart suddenly begins a war march and neutral expression fading into something angrier.

Because it’s not just a stranger who’s face seemed remarkably similar on his dating profile, fire in his eyes, heated expression revealing the whirring cogs and mechanics of a sharp mind. It’s also fucking HIM, the brute from the gym, tall and broadshouldered with blood in his teeth-baring grin and challenge in his stride. Alex SHE sees them both and the intuition instinct that causes her hand to twitch sharply (she doesn’t notice the coffee cup she knocks over the desk, bitter liquid seeping into papers and onto the floor with a steady drip that matches the throbbing in her head) for a weapon she doesn’t have is that of a warrior’s, and suddenly ---

it all makes sense.

Except, that it doesn’t, Athena frowns, not with the silly heels posing such an obvious weakness to her ankles and mortal prisons that could apprently hold the gods. None of it makes sense, aside from one little detail.

“You did this,” Athena hisses as her brothers draw near, eyes focused coldly on the war god. Every line of her body is taut, jaw set and fist curled to keep from swinging. “You did this, I don’t know how but you did.”

Nodding, Calla made a mental note to Google A/B testing and figure out how best to implement it in her own business. Lips twitched at the corners and she stretched out her other calf, wanting to be limber enough during the session coming up. “Try stretching your spine just a bit more,” she suggested to Alex. “You’ll get a bit more traction that way.” She bit her lip. “That does seem to be the conundrum. Time, money, and enjoyment. I worry, sometimes, that I won’t get as much enjoyment out of my weaving if it turns into a business instead of art.”

It was a good idea, now that Calla thought about it. She tilted her head to the side. “Some do,” she said with a shrug of one shoulder. “I try not to mix things up too much. People come mostly for the yoga, don’t they?” She ran her hand through her hair as she thought about what else Alex had to say. Calla chuckled at the suggestion. “Perhaps something other than water, but you have a good idea. I’ll have to think on it, see if there’s something fun and niche to do. I think some of my students at the other studio would be into learning about weaving a bit more than those here.” The penthouse yoga studio catered more to the upscale clientele, while the smaller studio she worked for downtown seemed to appeal to holistic types that were more similar to her.

Ever the dutiful student, Alex followed Calla’s instructions wordlessly. The stratgeist inhaled as she stretched, gaze contemplative. There was some truth to Calla’s reflections -- Alex did what she did because she loved it. The income was just a very, very nice bonus that allowed her liberties she deeply enjoyed. And perhaps, that financial security allowed her a singleminded focus which made her excel at her craft. “I suppose the rest is moot until you know what you hope to gain from your art.”

For Alex (her), it was the confident thrill of that moment right before victory, when her gambits had played out precisely as expected and there was that empty look of loss in her opponents’ eyes.

“I’m sure some come for the instructor too,” Alex observed, returning back to a cross legged position on her mat. She wasn’t blind; Calla was pretty and friendly. It was no surprise she had admirers. “But that’s a fair assessment. Unless--”

The idea strikes her then, drawing a somewhat mischeivous smile from her lips. “Wine and Weave? You know the Upper East Side housewives would love it.”

Oliver wasn’t trying to put on any type of show. He wasn’t trying to paint a picture about himself, he was just speaking from the heart. Politics were something important, that simmered beneath everything he did, in their own way. He was raised with almost nothing, after his father had left. He grew up, scraping his way through. He only made it through high school and college with big scholarships, and his graduate degree was going to put him in debt, surely, for his whole life. He couldn’t afford to let the power and leadership of New York City to continue working against him.

“I am! I try to stay updated and knowledgable as I can. Civic duty, and all that, right?” He grinned, shaking his head. “I actually walk the dogs of one of her biggest donors, who introduced her campaign to me. From there I kind of went into a deep dive of the campaign. Big fan.” He smiled, nodding. “I’m a grad student at NYU! Writing musicals. And I’ve got three jobs and I busk, too. I really don’t have a lot of time, but I carve out the time for stuff like this. None of what I do matters, if the right people aren’t leading us.”

Dog walking. Alex struggles not to let her brows fly upward -- the whole gig economy thing didn’t make much sense to her. But then, she’d never needed to take a job during her studies. Her father had helped her find internships (unpaid for the most part, but it wasn’t as if she’d had bills to pay) with non-profit groups for the summers. She’d spent her master’s program splitting time as an analyst for a lobbying firm and as TA for some introductory level political science courses. As such, work had never been a matter of need so much as want for the political operative.

“That’s...nice,” Alex managed to reply, though it wasn’t difficult to tell just how much she was judging Oliver’s choice of career. “But I think you’re half-right -- having the right people in the right place is helpful in mobilizing the democratic process to its full potential, but anyone could be the right person. Even artists.” She prefered artisans and craftsmen with more tangible and objective skills than writing musicals, but she couldn’t be rude to a potential voter. Tapered fingers reach for one of the many sheets of paper before him, efficiently folding and reaching for another. “In any case, I hope I see you around the polls...and possibly on social media? The event hashtag is in these fliers if you feel inspired enough to post on Twitter or Instagram.”

Parker knew most of the parents, family members and nannies that came to pick the children in his class up from school. They were still little enough that they had to be collected right from the classroom, and most liked to stay and chat for a while when time allowed - Parker had a day’s worth of adorable stories to share with them, after all. When a woman he didn’t know walked in the door, his guard was up in seconds, checking over the shoulder of the mother he was talking to every few moments, trying to figure out who she was here for - to no avail. 

Polite as ever, he let his conversation run its course, farewelled the woman’s daughter with a bright smile and then approached the woman. He shook her hand, but his ever-present easy-going smile was dropped almost as soon as she mentioned his parents. Parker hadn’t seen his mother or father for years - not since he agreed to go home for Chuseok four years ago on his mother’s invitation only to find it was a set up for one of his father’s political events that he’d been too polite to outright leave. This kind of set up was not unfamiliar to him at this point. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Zhang.” He answered, hiding behind formalities where he felt threatened. “Though I hardly see how any of that is my concern. Is there, uh, something I can help you with?” God, he felt spineless. He wished he had it in him to tell her to leave him alone, that it was vastly inappropriate for his parents to send someone from the campaign to his place of work when they hadn’t so much as texted him for years. But he couldn’t. That had never been his way - not in this life, anyway.

It was as if one moment, there was simply a young man before her, full of promise and heart. And then he transformed, smile fading, shoulders sagging, the very picture of weariness. Somehow she knew that the burden he carried wasn’t simply familial dysfunction (though even that, she would have understood). He looked exhausted the way soldiers do, tired of battle but still standing tall. Parker’s question hung in the air as Alex tried to right herself from the sudden pang of guilt in her stomach (she extended her hand, and a hero finally stood; she withdrew her hand, and a different hero fell) and re-evaluate her plan of action.

“May I take a seat?” Alex asked, tilting her head towards his desk and the chairs near it. The more strategic plan would have been to ask him to coffee, but she hope letting him have the comfort of his own space, surrounded by the innocent drawings by his students and the tell-tale scent of whiteboard markers, would make him more amenable to his parents’ wishes. “I’m sure you don’t need to be told this, but your father can seem quite cold at rallies, and even fundraisers. Your presence could help alleviate that.” She doesn’t specify how.

Icy was one way to describe Alex. She was cold in a way that Ella knew well, calculating and to the point. Ella respected this, she really did. It almost reminded her of her own mother. Someone who was poised and graceful and took no shit. Intelligent and ambitious and connected. And these were all impressive things. But the thing was, Ella had a deep hatred for her mother. The mother who raised her to be bulletproof. Ella’s feelings for Alex were not much better. 

Maybe it hadn’t been wise to pencil Alex in, so easily. Of course she would respond to Ella’s accommodating move with distinct professionalism. Ella knew enough people in their world, and knew Alex considered this, now, as some sort of gain. “Sit, make yourself comfortable. Would you like anything to drink? Water? Tea? Vodka?” She grinned, inhaling the scent of the candle, sizing Alex up. “So what’s on tap for today, then? Give me the pitch to give you the best narrative and I just might.”

“Water is fine,” Alex replied as she settled into the seat opposite. “It’s a little early in the day for me.” Day drinking was glitzy, popular among those in the media industry; she’d always found it distasteful and superfluous. Dark lashes blink, gaze narrowing to assess the girl before her. “Isn’t that your job?” Before Ella can respond with her own witty comment -- Alex never minded indulging a little clever banter -- she smiles guilelessly and plows forward. “I have a young woman of color, impressive education, emphasis on social justice and activism,” Alex begins, handwaving the credentials with a careless gesture. “She’s up against a straight, white male incumbent.”

It’d been a bold move on the campaign manager’s part to spend a large portion of the budget on the expertise of Alexandria Zhang, but to be fair, it was well worth the price. Because Alex didn’t simply come with an dazzling degree and endless list of references, she came with a brilliant mind and perhaps even more importantly, a vast network of high level contacts. “Obviously anything that makes her look good would be appreciated, but a little negative press for our opponent might be more valuable. He’s a politician, after all, surely you’ve got something on him.”

She’d felt the tug behind her sternum, as though something had pierced through the armor of her body and snagged on a rib. The pull promised danger, promised power, promised all the things Alex ever dreamed of beneath the silvery glow of moonlight, dark crescent lashes like brushstrokes on her cheeks. Alex (no-- Alexandria? no--) usually felt it most election nights, waiting for polling results, but lately the feeling, the urge had been growing stronger, ticking upwards on a dial. And so, finally, after the pressure at her temples became far too much to bear, the political (no-- the strategist? closer--) surrendered one evening after leaving her office.

Not a tactical retreat, but cautiously stepping into an ambush was the only way she could describe the sure steps that ultimately led her to the private gym. She should have felt an outsider, stepping through the glass doors into a fairly masculine space in heels, but following her intuition had never led her wrong. There were a few people scattered on various equipment, focused on their own training, but a few feet ahead of her was a tall (familiar) figure that her instinct told her was in charge.

“Hi. Are you--”

He turned and she knew his face and she was annoyed. She thought brother, and then wait, what, and then within a blink, Alexandria recovered and said --

“-- the trainer? I’ve been thinking about joining a new gym.”

( send me a copic color for a headcanon )

frost blue: does your muse enjoy the snow and cold? or are they the type to enjoy summer more?

peacock blue: is your muse honest? what sorts of lies do they tell, if not?

lapis lazuli: does your muse prefer the idea of exploring the depths of the oceans, or the boundless expanses of space more?

reddish brass: how likely is your muse to step up and take the role of a leader? are they willing to take the challenge, or are they more apt to being a follower?

burnt umber: how stable is your muse, mentally and/or emotionally?

champagne: does your muse drink (alcohol)? are they a heavy drinker, if so?

tea orange: what is something that your muse is fascinated with?

malachite: has your muse ever done anything that they winded up feeling incredibly guilty for in the end?

olive: is your muse prone to feeling envious of others? if yes, what is it that they typically feel envious over?

vermillion: is your muse courageous, or would they consider themselves to be more of a coward?

coral: what is your muse's romantic and sexual orientations?

bougainvillaea: would your muse consider themselves as blunt, or do they beat around the bush instead?

currant: what's something that absolutely disgusts your muse (can be a person, place, thing, ect)?

crimson: how passionate is your muse about the things they love most?

raspberry: what food and/or drink can your muse not get enough of? do they indulge in it often, or is it something reserved for special occasions?

baby blossoms: does your muse have a favorite scent? what is it, and why?

mallow: what sorts of things might remind your muse of those close to them? any scents, objects, sounds?

aubergine: does your muse prefer the day, or are they more of a night-owl?

acacia: how much does it take for your muse to hate someone?

cadmium yellow: what subjects or topics does your muse avoid, because they bring up harmful / painful memories?

honey: when your muse loves someone (whether it be romantic, platonic, or familial love), how do they show it?

chartreuse: if you had to describe your muse with a color, what color would it be and why?

anise: when it comes to self-care, what does your muse do to take care of themselves? do they take care to spend time on it, or do they feel they don't deserve it?

new leaf: what message would your muse send to their past self, if any?

moss: how easily does your muse adapt to any new situations they're thrust into?

silk: does your muse care about appearances much? do they spend a lot of time on their own appearance, or do they just go with the flow each day?

sanguine: does your muse typically have an optimistic, pessimistic, or some middle ground outlook on life?

atoll: if your muse could go anywhere, without any restrictions whatsoever, where would they go? why would they go there?

cool grey: if your muse could ensure one thing for certain in their future to come, what would it be?

“Precisely,” she said with a nod. “Though if I have learned anything living here it is to not judge anyone by their appearance. Though I would hope that those who are not aware of the issue would at least be sensible enough to listen and then research more after if they felt the need. I do dislike people who attempt to ask questions during a talk.”

Laurel sighed and brushed a hand through her hair. Even thinking about the file that had kept her up late in Robert Strathos’s office was enough to make her feel exhausted. “It is only a file. But it is time sensitive and many of the documents seem to have been kept in an old barn, or at least a filing cabinet with a hole in it. Highlights include rat droppings and snail nibbled pages - not exactly glamorous.”

“A wise saying -- though you can still learn a lot from someone’s appearance.” If one paid close attention to the details. Idle observation was a habit born of college (divine birth, more like), bored in introductory classes where attendance was required, though the professors only ever read off their slides. Mind wandering, Alex would frequently pay more attention to the students around her, challenging herself to determine their majors from the half-visible textbooks in their bags and other games of the like. Nodding in agreement, Alex added, “Contrary to popular belief, there are stupid questions; they send out the event topics well in advance, giving anyone enough time to research beforehand.”

Half-focusing on the speaker -- in case she needed talking points when the group mingled after -- Alex didn’t bother to hide an amused snort. “You say that like you didn’t know what the job was going in.” Though, old texts didn’t sound so bad in her opinion. “It could be glamorous if you picked a different specialty. But you and I both know that we’d prefer hard work and true skill over something as shallow as glamour. Who cares for sparkly things when there’s knowledge? You know what they say about power.”

She met the other woman’s smile with an open one of her own. Calla was the definition of a free spirit and at times it conflicted with her own desires. She would love her tapestries and wished to make a living off of them, but she was free-spirited enough that she preferred to work when she had muse. At least she had the frame of mind to have a normal job, as normal as teaching yoga could be.

Calla listened as Alex spoke, her ears open for any bits of wisdom the other woman could impart. Though they were two very different people, Calla trusted in Alex’s advice more than she might trust in the advice of another. Her lips quirked at the corners. “Well then that begs the question of do I work on bespoke items depending on the person or should I have some ready-made?” If it was the latter instead of the former, Calla knew she’d need to reorganize her small apartment. “Perhaps I will need to test out a couple of different strategies.” She lifted a shoulder in a small shrug.

“I believe they call it A/B Testing.” There’s an energy about her, passion coloring her voice with more emotion than usual -- it wasn’t the heady thrum of excitement that hummed in her nerves on election nights, but something softer. That first flicker of illumination, dipping her toes into a pool of new knowledge and finding the waters pleasantly warm. "Though likely, you’ll have to do a combination of both. It’s simply a matter of figuring out which is worth more time and money.”

Twisting at her waist and contorting in an easy imitation of the position Calla had taught the week before, Alex observed the instructor intently. “How many of your other yoga practitioners know about your work? It might also be a matter of awareness,” she thought out loud. The strategist herself quite enjoyed knitting, but it was one of those secret, feminine things about her she tended to keep to herself. “If you have the time for it, you could even teach your weaving -- like paint and pour. Weave and...water?”

Her eyes are mirrors -- clear, bright and most importantly, reflective. The Rhee family had joined Alex’s roster of clients most recently, bringing her on as an extra set of eyes to identify areas of improvement. At least that was what had been mentioned in their initial email. It hadn’t taken long for her probing questions to reveal their true motive: they needed to someone to capitalize on the Rhee family’s full potential, i.e. wrangle their darling son for the political capital.

Hence the reason that Alex was striding into an elementary school of all places, a few minutes after school had been let out, a neatly stapled itinerary of the Rhee campaign tucked into her leather portfolio. There were already a few parents meeting with the Rhee’s son when she reached his classroom and the strategist waited politely while she observed. He was warm and genuine and it was easy to see why his parents wanted him more involved with their campaign. It couldn’t be that difficult to convince him, not when he was obviously so nice. As he turned to greet her next, Alex brought out a hand.

“I’m here for a parent teacher conference -- or at least, a conference with a teacher. About his parents,” she quickly said, smiling archly. “I’m Alex Zhang. I’m consulting on your father’s campaign.”

As much as Laurel detested being late, sometimes it was unavoidable. It was just one of those things that came with being in a profession that was effectively a glorified service role. She had thought she had enough time to get a drink before the speeches actually started but had miscalculated and only slid into her seat moments after it had begun. 

Unlike Alex, Laurel was looking forward to the farm to table meal. She was a firm believer in shortening the food supply chain and bought the vast majority of her groceries from farmers markets and local suppliers. 

“Really? I haven’t looked at the program,” she said. “I hope she talks at least a little about possible enforcement because surely everyone here would agree it is necessary?” 

“I hope so too,” Athena says lowering her voice a little as one of the attendees glances towards her distractedly. “I’d hoped that a group of women with a shared understanding would be able to take these opportunities to delve deeper. It’s not like lack of awareness is an issue with this crowd.”

Laurel had been one of the more pleasant acquaintances she’d made in her professional networks, polite with an odd morbid streak Alex found decidedly intriguing (and possibly amusing). The older woman regarded her companion curiously. “So what had you so busy? You’re usually so punctual.”

Calla was used to Alex by now; if not, she might have thought the other woman quite rude in her interactions and her statements. But Calla had always been one who believed the best in others – it had served her both well and not so well in the past – and she saw no reason to do differently with the woman currently in her studio. Lips curved upwards at the corner. “I could,” she countered, strongly believing that Alex’s words were coming from a place of good, a desire to help. “But it’s important to me to remind myself that I enjoy what I do. I teach yoga here, but I like to still enjoy it for myself.” She shrugged one shoulder, knowing that one day she’d get around to setting up some type of storefront for her weaving creations.

Most late afternoons were devoted to her craft and Calla had so many hanging up in her apartment that she’d eventually be giving them away if she couldn’t sell them. “One of my friends was telling me about how a lot of people are using Instagram to sell things these days,” she said, not wanting Alex to think she was discounting her advice entirely. “I’ve already had a few people message me asking about pieces but they…” she trailed off, not wanting to start the other woman’s day with negativity. She bit her lip as she considered the best way to word what she’d say next. “It simply doesn’t seem to go anywhere,” she admitted. “Though I’m not certain why.”

Penelope’s kind response easily highlighted the fundamental difference between the yoga instructor and the political strategist (though the difference was one Alex had noticed came up with nearly everyone). Stillness was an illusion with a woman like Alex, whose mind whirred incessantly; for her, enjoyment was found in intellectual challenge, whether from a worthy professional opponent or self-imposed timed daily crosswords. But she understood what the other woman meant at least and her answering smile is uncharacteristically warm.

“Identifying the problem is the first step,” Alex replied, tucking her phone away and settling onto her yoga mat to stretch. She’d had the benefit of decades (millenia) of experience to inform her quick assessments before strategizing. “I’m no businesswoman, but I know enough to speculate potential limitations: cost and variety of product come to mind.” Dark eyes gleam as the older woman is quick to assure, “But quality is definitely not the issue.”

Oliver considers himself to be many things. But one of the things he is most proud of, is the way that he is politically active. Sure, some of it stems from the fact that he doesn’t have a lot, and being an activist, much of the time, only costs time and not money. But Oliver actively likes to use his voice to shout out for the people that he believes in, and speak up for the people like him, who are in dire need of help. 

Kat Edison was a voice for the people. Oliver sincerely believed that. So he was out here, on an early morning, wearing an Edison t-Shirt under his big, thrifted flannel. He folds pamphlets with careful fingers, smiling as he does. He is putting in the time to advocate for the things he hopes to see in the world, or at least the city. That’s enough to make him smile for a little while. 

When a powerful looking woman comes up to approach him, he nods, smiling. “Yeah, of course! I’m just super happy to be out here, supporting a really radically awesome woman.” He grins, reaching out a hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, Alex! I’m Oliver.” He pauses, thinking on the question. “She advocates for the people. People like me. I haven’t got much… the cost of education has made my life a living hell, and I need to see someone in power that will speak for me, you know? That’s only one reason, but it’s a big one. I could go on.”

There’s something dreadfully idealistic about his words, an earnestness in his whole being that Alex finds engaging -- hope brings with it passion and momentum and that’s something her young candidate needed to particularly capitalize on considering that she was running against an incumbent. The young man -- Oliver -- is genuine in a way that should have tugged at her heartstrings or appealed to her sense of civic duty, but Alex viewed such things far too intellectually to be taken in by emotional rhetoric. Most voters, however, did not, and that was what teased a more satisfied smile from her lips.

“It’s good to hear -- are you very familiar with her platforms? How did you hear about our campaign?” The word escapes her mouth and for one jarring moment, Alex feels off, disconnected and adrift. Campaign, she says but when she looks at Oliver, the word feels wrong, much too militaristic for someone like him. Her eyes remain even however, expression still and thoughts hidden. “I imagine as a student, you don’t have a lot of spare time; it means a lot for you to spend it with us. What do you study, Oliver?”

Ella furiously drank the shot of espresso, sitting plainly on her desk. She was in the office today and her brain was about to short-circuit, but she had it under control. She was just tired, and it seemed that the world was testing her. Her nails clacked on her keyboard, as she typed out yet another email, before she got a call from her assistant that Alex Zhang was heading up. But of course she was. Ella made certain to straighten up the things on her desk, light a candle, look presentable. The coffee cup was taken away, her skirt was smoothed out, and she waited. 

It’s not that Ella Vandertrap was intimidated by Alex. No, that wasn’t quite it. They were both powerful women in their industries, and Ella could respect that. She didn’t respect the precise ways in which Alex judged her, however. Even when Ella had essentially made an entire career off of her judgment of others. It was foolishly annoying every time they ran into each other at an alumni event for Harvard, or attended a political gala. Alex, like much of the world, assumed she had gotten where she was because of her parent’s wealth and daddy’s little plastic. But no, Ella could hold her own. She knew that much. And so she waited for the door to open, and the fake niceties to begin.

@greyeycd​

Home field was an advantage the more inexperienced players needed, in Alex’s opinion, and frankly, there was something to be said about entering an opponent’s den with confident grace and the sort of natural ease that came with decades of meetings with far higher stakes. This was simply a chat with a younger colleague who happened to run an online column the political strategist found incredibly trite. The only perceived benefit of the digital gossip rag was shaping narratives -- a key component in her line of work and the reason why she’d scheduled the meeting in the first place.

“Afternoon,” the older woman greeted, “Thanks for meeting on such short notice.” Her voice was a sliver too professional to convey appreciation, but she really was only being polite. Ella did after all have the opening in her schedule and all things considered, Alex was confident, in a bone-deep sort of way that led her to hold her head high in any battle confrontation, that her own time was likely more valuable given the where they stood in their careers. “I would have sent an agenda beforehand, but this shouldn’t take too long. May I have a seat?”

Women in her position, women who hadn’t shattered ceilings, but nicked themselves on the shards in their flight, women with ambition never really did it alone. Of the many invitations she received to networking events, the ones she attended most frequently were held by a women’s organization with a special interest in law and politics -- they’re circles were so very intertwined after all.

The last event had been a feminist lecture in some independent film house. This month was a zero-waste, vegan luncheon. Alex didn’t think she was fan, picking at the farm to table salad halfheartedly. One of the organizers was beginning to speak, some speech on women banding together to create change or something similarly lofty. Luckily, the empty seat beside Alex at the table is finally filled by her professional colleague. “You haven’t missed much - after her is the policy writer who wrote the legislation against the ‘pink tax’ in California. That will be interesting.”

Her work is more hands-on than people would imagine, or at least the way she does it. Chalk it up to severe control issues (only half true) or simply being someone who took great pleasure in doing her work well. Kat Edison, the passionate young woman who was running for city council was doing well with the college crowd, of course, as evidenced by many volunteers at her rally. 

Her consultancy had run all the surveys and focus groups, but there was something authentic about youthful energy and optimism at these events. Dark eyes alert, her attention catches on a figure folding pamphlets with a very specific face that feels familiar; perhaps it’s simply her intuition that this young man was the one who’d provide the perfect qualitative research. 

“Thanks for coming out today,” she greets, amusement teasing at the corners of her mouth at the mop of curly hair. “I’m Alex, one of the organizers. It’s amazing to see so many civically engaged young people -- can I ask what made you come out for Kat in particular?”