Party plots [backdated]
[OOC: set the evening of Thursday, May 4.]
They never did show up. The fundraiser was a success (what was it for, again? Something medical, social, political? Oh, who the hell cares), but the al-Razi twins' spywork was a failure because they did not show up.
I'll call Percy in the morning to find out why, and Emma . . . well, I wouldn't want to be Adel al-Razi right now.
5/5/2006 [backdated]
Logfile from Shaw.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hellfire Clubhouse - Ballroom
Easily the largest room on the estate, the ballroom is able to accommodate upwards of a hundred fifty people comfortably. The vaulted ceiling soars more than thirty feet off the floor, through the second story of the mansion and reaching for the roof of the building itself.
Black and white marble squares tile the floor in the distinctive design of a chessboard, framed by dark-stained wood paneling of walls accented by rich velvet drapery and antique ornaments. Alcoves nestle in regular intervals along the walls, holding suits of armor and cases of artifacts from the history of the Hellfire Club. Above them, small projections in the railing form discreet balconies from which those who have free rein of the upstairs level can peer down on the room's occupants.
Along one side, a series of glass doors leading out onto the patio. Abstract but spare patterns in wrought iron hold the glass of both doors and the windows that flank them, and provide a feeling of weight and presence to the transparent panes. Of course, they are not without their surprises: a switch hidden behind a panel flick the windows to complete opacity at a moment's notice, and they are a fair bit thicker than might be expected for a simple country manor.
--
Thursday night has never looked so good -- except it's the Hellfire Club, which does black-tie splendor and jeweled glitter several nights a week, and Thursday is merely one more in the dazzling string. Over the soft classical musings of the string quartet in the corner, conversations among New York's high society rise and fall in tidal murmurs, occasionally peaking with a higher-pitched laugh or called greeting across the echoing hall. Shaw is circulating at the moment through the visiting business representatives, and while there's no laughter with him, he's smiling and charming and pressing the flesh, and hiding to almost everyone how impatient and restless this duty actually leaves him.
Almost everyone. As he nears the completion of his circuit, Emma slips up next to him and slides her hand under and around his arm. The other holds a companionable glass of something bubbling and white, blending in against the pale background of her dress. "Sometimes I forget that you /do/ know how to be charming," she murmurs, smiling secretively.
"That's why I show up to these things every now and then, to remind you," Shaw replies without missing a beat, out of the corner of his mouth as he nods a cordial parting to the trio of bankers with whom he was speaking. He draws Emma away to a spot of quiet and space, and shakes his head. The arm in her hold is tense, and he keeps glancing away from her, over the crowd with frowning eyes and a fixed blank smile. "Have you seen the twins? I told them to come." << Spy on the powerful, not that you can't do that yourself, but more minds triangulating/sifting/storing, where could they be? >>
"Haven't, but the night is just begun," she notes without concern, gently redirecting any undue attention given to the sight of the monarchs conversing in a quiet corner. << More minds loyal to you, you mean, >> she observes cattily.
Shaw snorts, but lets it go. << Maybe, maybe . . . >> "Oh, someone's in a wicked mood, isn't she?" He slants a cautious look down at her for the cattiness, then pats her hand on his arm. "Long day? Or just all the slobbering attention you're getting in that divine dress?"
"Just waiting for you to notice it," she responds, shifting herself to look out across the room and moving her hand from him, the glint of jewelry at her wrist the only point of direct light in the shadowed corner. "The conspiracy whispers are growing."
Restless mood spikes; Shaw clenches his fist. "About--?"
"About the safehouses, about mutants, about the governments plans to regulate them," Emma says smoothly, lifting her glass for a sip.
Shaw slides his arm free of hers and thrusts his hands behind his back in a bone-tight clasp. For all the physical tension, however, his mood is now loose, loping, eager as a wolf to the scent; and he keeps his head angled slightly to hers while he watches the swirling patterns of the party. "Ah. Good. Are we fanning the flames? Should we turn down the heat a little or let it keep rising?"
Emma lowers her lashes over the gleam of calculation. "I suggest we wait. See where things are heading before we make any more moves. It's... simmering, and I don't know where it will explode."
"No, neither do I, but . . . I want to do /some/thing, Emma." Shaw frowns at the party and then at her. Restlessness nips again at his surface thoughts (hazy, dissipating plans of action there) and courses his voice lower and faster. "It could be my natural impatience -- you know how it is! -- or some gut feeling that we do need to do something, that /I/ do, but it's been driving me crazy these past few weeks. Pontificating like an asshole in the media isn't enough."
"What do you suggest then, Sebastian?" She turns her eyes directly on him, voicing the question with all sincerity. "Politics is a slow process. We're playing to public opinion and leaning on those who listen to it."
Shaw answers brusquely as if he'd had the words ready, needing only her prompting inquiry (and he might have, he might have indeed, so much time thinking about it, weighting his thoughts and his words with sticky over-and-over-and-over-again). "I'll drop out of sight again. No need to risk a misstep in front of the cameras because my head's not in the game, and it's good to play the public against the private: bombast against our back-room pushes." << And the al-Razis had better show up, do their part, "more loyal" minds, my ass-- >> His jaw juts, carrying a grim smile's wisp. "And I need distracting, but I can find my own way to that end, as always."
Emma nods slowly, acquiescing before glancing out and about again. "We're sitting on a powder keg with a hole in it, darling. Either it will drain off by itself, or it will explode. "
"Some days," Shaw mutters, "I wouldn't mind sitting on it when it does."
"Some days it might be more comfortable than your throne." Her eyes glint hard, but she smiles simply and turns, glass at her lips.
A bitter lash of wordless thought gives Shaw's reply, but he's smiling, smiling like the villain he is, and steps up to offer his arm again. "'Heavy is the head,'" he quotes in soft, merry mockery. "Let's go see how high the fundraising's gotten, shall we?" His mind adds, harder and brighter, << Let me know when the boys show up, and if they don't, track them down at your leisure and show them what it means to violate a royal decree. >>
[Log ends.]
They never did show up. The fundraiser was a success (what was it for, again? Something medical, social, political? Oh, who the hell cares), but the al-Razi twins' spywork was a failure because they did not show up.
I'll call Percy in the morning to find out why, and Emma . . . well, I wouldn't want to be Adel al-Razi right now.
5/5/2006 [backdated]
Logfile from Shaw.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hellfire Clubhouse - Ballroom
Easily the largest room on the estate, the ballroom is able to accommodate upwards of a hundred fifty people comfortably. The vaulted ceiling soars more than thirty feet off the floor, through the second story of the mansion and reaching for the roof of the building itself.
Black and white marble squares tile the floor in the distinctive design of a chessboard, framed by dark-stained wood paneling of walls accented by rich velvet drapery and antique ornaments. Alcoves nestle in regular intervals along the walls, holding suits of armor and cases of artifacts from the history of the Hellfire Club. Above them, small projections in the railing form discreet balconies from which those who have free rein of the upstairs level can peer down on the room's occupants.
Along one side, a series of glass doors leading out onto the patio. Abstract but spare patterns in wrought iron hold the glass of both doors and the windows that flank them, and provide a feeling of weight and presence to the transparent panes. Of course, they are not without their surprises: a switch hidden behind a panel flick the windows to complete opacity at a moment's notice, and they are a fair bit thicker than might be expected for a simple country manor.
--
Thursday night has never looked so good -- except it's the Hellfire Club, which does black-tie splendor and jeweled glitter several nights a week, and Thursday is merely one more in the dazzling string. Over the soft classical musings of the string quartet in the corner, conversations among New York's high society rise and fall in tidal murmurs, occasionally peaking with a higher-pitched laugh or called greeting across the echoing hall. Shaw is circulating at the moment through the visiting business representatives, and while there's no laughter with him, he's smiling and charming and pressing the flesh, and hiding to almost everyone how impatient and restless this duty actually leaves him.
Almost everyone. As he nears the completion of his circuit, Emma slips up next to him and slides her hand under and around his arm. The other holds a companionable glass of something bubbling and white, blending in against the pale background of her dress. "Sometimes I forget that you /do/ know how to be charming," she murmurs, smiling secretively.
"That's why I show up to these things every now and then, to remind you," Shaw replies without missing a beat, out of the corner of his mouth as he nods a cordial parting to the trio of bankers with whom he was speaking. He draws Emma away to a spot of quiet and space, and shakes his head. The arm in her hold is tense, and he keeps glancing away from her, over the crowd with frowning eyes and a fixed blank smile. "Have you seen the twins? I told them to come." << Spy on the powerful, not that you can't do that yourself, but more minds triangulating/sifting/storing, where could they be? >>
"Haven't, but the night is just begun," she notes without concern, gently redirecting any undue attention given to the sight of the monarchs conversing in a quiet corner. << More minds loyal to you, you mean, >> she observes cattily.
Shaw snorts, but lets it go. << Maybe, maybe . . . >> "Oh, someone's in a wicked mood, isn't she?" He slants a cautious look down at her for the cattiness, then pats her hand on his arm. "Long day? Or just all the slobbering attention you're getting in that divine dress?"
"Just waiting for you to notice it," she responds, shifting herself to look out across the room and moving her hand from him, the glint of jewelry at her wrist the only point of direct light in the shadowed corner. "The conspiracy whispers are growing."
Restless mood spikes; Shaw clenches his fist. "About--?"
"About the safehouses, about mutants, about the governments plans to regulate them," Emma says smoothly, lifting her glass for a sip.
Shaw slides his arm free of hers and thrusts his hands behind his back in a bone-tight clasp. For all the physical tension, however, his mood is now loose, loping, eager as a wolf to the scent; and he keeps his head angled slightly to hers while he watches the swirling patterns of the party. "Ah. Good. Are we fanning the flames? Should we turn down the heat a little or let it keep rising?"
Emma lowers her lashes over the gleam of calculation. "I suggest we wait. See where things are heading before we make any more moves. It's... simmering, and I don't know where it will explode."
"No, neither do I, but . . . I want to do /some/thing, Emma." Shaw frowns at the party and then at her. Restlessness nips again at his surface thoughts (hazy, dissipating plans of action there) and courses his voice lower and faster. "It could be my natural impatience -- you know how it is! -- or some gut feeling that we do need to do something, that /I/ do, but it's been driving me crazy these past few weeks. Pontificating like an asshole in the media isn't enough."
"What do you suggest then, Sebastian?" She turns her eyes directly on him, voicing the question with all sincerity. "Politics is a slow process. We're playing to public opinion and leaning on those who listen to it."
Shaw answers brusquely as if he'd had the words ready, needing only her prompting inquiry (and he might have, he might have indeed, so much time thinking about it, weighting his thoughts and his words with sticky over-and-over-and-over-again). "I'll drop out of sight again. No need to risk a misstep in front of the cameras because my head's not in the game, and it's good to play the public against the private: bombast against our back-room pushes." << And the al-Razis had better show up, do their part, "more loyal" minds, my ass-- >> His jaw juts, carrying a grim smile's wisp. "And I need distracting, but I can find my own way to that end, as always."
Emma nods slowly, acquiescing before glancing out and about again. "We're sitting on a powder keg with a hole in it, darling. Either it will drain off by itself, or it will explode. "
"Some days," Shaw mutters, "I wouldn't mind sitting on it when it does."
"Some days it might be more comfortable than your throne." Her eyes glint hard, but she smiles simply and turns, glass at her lips.
A bitter lash of wordless thought gives Shaw's reply, but he's smiling, smiling like the villain he is, and steps up to offer his arm again. "'Heavy is the head,'" he quotes in soft, merry mockery. "Let's go see how high the fundraising's gotten, shall we?" His mind adds, harder and brighter, << Let me know when the boys show up, and if they don't, track them down at your leisure and show them what it means to violate a royal decree. >>
[Log ends.]