Just Another Struggling Writer

hunter

The Godhead on festival night was as much a hunting ground as it was a melting pot. Diplomats and dignitaries, spies and propagandists alike socialized freely, pretending that ancient petty grievances and the idea of nationalistic superiority didn’t matter within the confines of these walls, at least tonight. It was a lie, of course, and they all knew it.

Leema hated these events. She hated the politicking and the conspiring that went on under the guise of friendly inter-sovereignty relations. She hated pretending dire enemies were strangers and strangers were dear friends. She was in the wrong line of work.