Chapter 16: Schmidt's Event
Cece's coaching session happened two hours before the event, in the loft's kitchen where Schmidt couldn't overhear.
"First rule," she said, adjusting my collar with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd spent years being adjusted. "LA networking isn't about connecting. It's about appearing worth connecting with."
"That sounds exhausting."
"Welcome to my industry." She stepped back, assessing. "Your posture's better than expected. The gym sessions?"
Coach's corrections, still encoded in muscle memory despite his departure weeks ago. The bench press form, the confidence stance—lingering gifts from a mentorship that had ended too soon.
"Something like that."
"Good. Now, the drink." She handed me a glass of water, demonstrating. "Hold it at chest level, not waist. Creates a barrier without looking defensive. When you want out of a conversation, take a sip and pivot. The motion buys you two seconds to scan the room."
[Technique Observed: Social Positioning (Professional)]
[Fidelity: 82%]
The Photographic Reflex encoded her movements—the exact angle of her wrist, the casual-but-deliberate positioning. I mirrored it back.
"That's..." She paused. "You learn fast."
"Good teacher."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. The assessment I'd seen before—the one that categorized people into useful and not—was running again.
"Most people take weeks to get comfortable with event mechanics. You're picking it up in minutes."
"I watch a lot of tutorials." The excuse that covered everything and explained nothing.
"Tutorials don't teach instinct." But she didn't push further. The professional exchange from our coffee meeting held—usefulness exchanged, questions deferred. "Come on. Schmidt's already panicking about his tie."
---
[Hollywood Rooftop Venue — 8:17 PM]
The event was exactly what I'd expected and nothing like what I'd imagined.
Rooftop venue overlooking the Hollywood sign, string lights creating artificial intimacy, an open bar that attracted people who didn't need free drinks but would never refuse them. The marketing industry's finest—or at least its most visible—circulated with business cards and practiced smiles.
Schmidt navigated the space like a native species. His competitiveness, usually grating in loft contexts, translated into genuine charisma here. He worked the room with precision, introducing contacts to contacts, manufacturing conversations that might become opportunities.
"This is Chase," he said to the fourth group of the night. "Roommate. Freelance. Interesting perspective on emerging markets."
The introduction positioned me as Schmidt's satellite—present by association, potentially useful, not competition. I played the role willingly. Better to be underestimated than examined.
"Freelance what?" someone asked.
"Data management. Pattern recognition. Whatever needs doing."
Vague enough to fit anywhere, specific enough to sound competent. The cover story I'd been building for six weeks, polished through repetition.
The conversations blurred together. Marketing directors discussing campaign metrics. Agency representatives fishing for talent. Ambitious mid-career types projecting confidence they hadn't yet earned. I catalogued everything—not just the words, but the body language, the micro-expressions, the invisible hierarchies that determined who spoke to whom.
[Technique Observed: Professional Networking (Corporate)]
[Encoding: In progress — multiple sources]
The Photographic Reflex processed continuously, absorbing social techniques from every interaction. A particular way of shaking hands that conveyed warmth without submission. A method of asking questions that made others feel interesting. The precise timing of eye contact that separated attentive from threatening.
By the end of the first hour, I'd assembled a complete toolkit for professional navigation. Not mastery—the techniques still needed practice—but a foundation that most people spent years building.
Human moment: Nick called from the loft asking if there was free food. I assembled a plate of appetizers, wrapped it in cocktail napkins, and texted him to meet me in the lobby. His expression when he saw the spread—crab cakes and imported cheeses—was worth the effort.
"Schmidt actually throws useful parties," he admitted, eating directly from the napkins.
"Don't tell him that."
"Never."
---
The introduction happened near the end of the night, when the crowd had thinned and the serious networkers remained.
"Chase." Schmidt appeared at my elbow, tone shifted into professional mode. "Someone you should meet."
The man beside him was compact, precise, with the kind of attention that felt like being scanned by equipment. His suit cost more than my monthly rent. His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Marcus Chen," Schmidt said. "We're competitors at different agencies. Marcus, this is Chase Reed—roommate, freelancer, surprisingly competent observer of market dynamics."
"Freelance." Marcus's assessment was quick and comprehensive. Not threatening, not dismissive—simply categorizing. "That's brave in this economy."
"It's flexible," I said.
"Flexibility is another word for instability." His tone was pleasant. His meaning wasn't.
Schmidt laughed, the kind of laugh that suggested professional rivalry dressed as friendliness. "Marcus doesn't trust anyone who isn't attached to institutional structure."
"Structure provides accountability. Freelancers..." Marcus shrugged. "They come and go. No stakes in outcomes."
I filed the interaction under pattern recognition: professional predator, competitive intelligence, the kind of person who catalogued everyone for potential future use. The show had never featured a Marcus Chen, which meant either he didn't exist in canon or his role was small enough to escape my memory.
Either way, he was someone who collected information about people. And I was someone with information that couldn't be collected.
"Nice meeting you," I said.
"Likewise." He didn't mean it. Neither did I.
Schmidt pulled me away after the exchange, heading toward another group. "Marcus is harmless. Ambitious, but harmless. Don't let him intimidate you."
"I'm not intimidated."
"Good." But Schmidt's expression suggested he wasn't entirely sure whether that was appropriate confidence or dangerous underestimation.
I filed Marcus Chen under "monitor." He'd dismissed me tonight—freelancer, unattached, not worth tracking. That dismissal was protection for now.
For now.
---
The event wound down around midnight. I stood at the rooftop's edge, looking out over Los Angeles spread below—a carpet of lights extending toward darkness, eight million stories happening simultaneously.
Six weeks ago, I'd woken up in a hospital bed with someone else's memories and a system I didn't understand. Now I stood at a Hollywood party, wearing borrowed confidence, speaking a language I'd copied from observation.
The Memory Palace organized the night's acquisitions: social techniques, professional patterns, names and faces filed for future reference. I was accumulating competence at an accelerated rate. The toolkit grew larger with each interaction.
But the toolkit was just tools. Knowing how to network didn't mean I had anything to network for. Copying professional presence didn't create professional purpose.
Cece appeared beside me, holding a drink she hadn't sipped from.
"You did well," she said.
"Survived, anyway."
"That's doing well." She looked out at the same view, her profile catching the string lights. "The Marcus thing—he does that to everyone. Tests them. Sees how they react to dismissal."
"What did my reaction tell him?"
"That you're not easily rattled." She turned to face me. "Or that you're hiding something. Sometimes those look the same."
The observation landed closer to truth than comfortable. Cece's assessment skills were sharper than I'd credited—trained through years of being assessed, learning to recognize the patterns from the other side.
"Just awkward at parties," I said.
"Uh-huh." She didn't believe me. But like before, she didn't push. "The deal's fulfilled. I coached, you attended. We're even."
"Thanks for the help."
"Help was exchanged." She finished her drink—the first actual sip I'd seen her take all night. "See you at the loft."
She disappeared into the remaining crowd, leaving me alone with Los Angeles and the weight of everything I was becoming.
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