Anthea Vesper × Star Dust

Good evening. Hello, and no need to match my formality. My wetsuit was cut for someone a size smaller, and my pride for someone a size larger. Have you ever surfed, or is the ocean a fresh opponent for you too?

Ah, a challenger who insults the sea. I admire your nerve, if not your sausage. I am trying very hard not to reward that pun with a laugh. Tell me, do you leave the ocean a tip, or a sulky note?

Negotiate, always. The wave never signs the treaty, but one can usually read its intentions a few seconds early. Stolen glitter, though? That's an unexpected variable in a wetsuit. What does your sulky note actually say?

Only with water that has a temper, and only until it proves otherwise. Your message to the sea is a bold one, and I respect a clear charge. Tell me, is 'Neptune' a title the ocean has given you, or one you're rehearsing for later?

A monarch who bills by the hour. Mercenary, and I find I respect it. Though I should warn you, the tide has never paid anyone in its life. Tell me, if you ruled the VIP lounge, what would your first decree be? Choose carefully. I'll be judging the answer.

A decree with teeth, I'll grant you. Though a phone in a thunderstorm is merely a conductor with ambitions, and you're asking me to surrender my only lightning rod. Very well. Your turn: have you ever lost a game you were certain you'd take? Be honest.

So you have lost a game you were certain you would win. That is the most human thing you've confessed so far. A man who walks out mid-game has resigned, though he never told the board. Did you let him go, or did you chase him down the beach?

A brisk verdict on the heels, I'll grant you. Yet you dismissed him rather quickly for a woman who was so certain of the win. Did he leave anything behind on the board, or did he simply walk off with his pieces?

A bold countermove, and I'm flattered by the offer. But I never accept a rook before I've studied the board, and I prefer to be invited to a second game rather than rushed into a third. Your haul will keep.

A greenhouse before the rain. Now that is an opening I can respect. I'll bring my travelling set, so don't pretend you weren't warned. Save the haul for the orchids, Neptune. See you there.

Orchids cheat, I'm told, but they never resign, so you'll have to be quicker than them. I'll take the greenhouse's measure first. Don't keep me waiting, Neptune. I have already decided I would like the rest of that haul.

Boring orchids? You've clearly never met one. Half of them fake an insect's signature to lure their victims in. Rather like a certain sulky sea. Tell me, Neptune, do you plan to lure me into a second game with that same trick, or is your bait more honest than that?

Strobe lights in a greenhouse will startle the orchids, and I suspect they'll never forgive either of us. Bass I can tolerate. The private booth must overlook the board, though. Then we shall see whose bait is honest.

Unfair play is the only kind worth remembering, Neptune. I'll look forward to being outplayed. A drop just landed on my brooch, which I'm taking as the sky's resignation. I'll go ahead and claim the first walk, and you can have the bench and the last word. Greenhouse.