OOC Logs
=NYC= Apt 510 |Travis| - Autumn Lights Apartments - East Village
Tonight, we are presented with an unusual sight. Travis, at his table, with newspaper covering every literal inch of it. Or rather, parts of newspaper, torn with jagged edges, some large columns, other small quotes, pieced together in no recognizeable pattern. Paper mache gone awry. He leans back, staring at the conglomeration, two fingers slide a scrap from one side of the table to the other before the staring resumes.
Tonight, Ismena is ignoring the unusual sight in favour of claiming Travis's television for her own purposes, draped over his couch in a graceful fall of silk fabric, light cotton wool, and long, lean limbs. Her own is still very, very dead. She's claimed some of his alcohol too, along with the remote control. CNN is reporting the same news it reported last hour, with minute changes. "Do they believe that if they discuss it often enough, Roger Lowe will rise from the dead?"
"After three days, perhaps," Travis says, absently. "On him, it would be called 'miracle;' on any one else, 'mutation.'" He crumples one of the pages into a ball and tosses it into a growing pile at in the corner. With a sigh, he pushes away from the table, aimed for the kitchen. "Can I get you anything? Tea? Wine? Aspirin?"
"It would be lovely if he was indeed a mutant after all," Ismena muses, abandoning CNN to the thin and famished existence of being muted, and rising from the couch to step lightly over to Travis' chair when he abandons it, the better to study the more interesting sight of his newspaper clippings. "I wonder how difficult it would be to obtain a sample from the corpse and have it tested..."
"Not difficult if you knew the right people to talk to," Travis calls back. He returns a moment later with a glass of wine and the open bottle, which he sets on the coffee table before returning to his handiwork. "It's a marvellous game, really," he says, waving at the paper. He sips at his drink before continuing. "Except in this case, we already know the whodunit, and I'm simply 'finding' accomplices."
"And have you found many?" Ismena wonders, trailing one long forefinger against a clipping of particular interest.
"Enough for tonight, not enough for tomorrow," Travis says. "Some of these people might as well be handing me the clippings," he says, pulling a small stack toward him. "From what the 34th district congresswoman has said in public, I've almost convinced /myself/."
"And what happens tomorrow?" is Ismena's next question, setting down her wineglass and resting her chin upon hands folded above it. She peers at him through lowered eyelids, a sleepy python sprawling along a branch. "Anything amusing? Things have been so tedious lately, with the National Guard about for so long."
"Today's people find themselves with a few extra minds writing their speeches, and tomorrow's clippings will be pushed around the table." Travis pulls one of the chairs towards him, settling down. "Just business, hardly interesting. There are good types of chaos and ones that simply create a long laundry list. Presidential Assassinations hardly have a manual. At least written in English," he adds wryly.
Ismena looks approving for a moment, before the nigh-constant ennui overtakes her again. "You understand well the two faces of Eris," says she. "But really, all chaos presents opportunities. Have you availed yourself of any chances for amusement amongst all this paperwork?"
"No rest for the wicked," Travis says, lifting his glass in a mocking toast. "Not recently. Although I try not to let any skills grow stagnant, I have to say certain ones are used much more often now." He tips the chair back on two legs, looking at her with interest. "Did you have something in mind?"
"Senator Kay Williams," Ismena murmurs, almost dreamily as her finger traces the outline of the woman's face, caught for all time in a press photograph on the table. "She's always seemed such a very -ripe- peach to pluck, and in such a well-guarded garden."
"A senator," Travis nods approvingly. "Upping the ante, are we?" He stares at the liquid in his glass, swirling it about. "So this would be beyond the one night plaything. Do continue."
"Mmm..." Ismena looks abruptly tired. She picks up her wineglass and wanders back to the couch and the television. "I have never met the woman. I should need to meet her before I could continue."
"I'm sure that could be.../arranged/," Travis says after a moment. "Pity you didn't mention this interest some time ago. I used to have a contact right in the senator's office."
"Really now..." Ismena murmurs, blinking slow and considering at Travis from her position on his couch. Absently, she sips from her wineglass, drooping her eyelids and focusing on the flavour for a moment. "And who was that?"
"She's since...moved on," Travis replies. Which apparently, he decides is a good thing for him as well, as he abandons his chair, crossing the room to settle in the recliner.
"Who would -you- play with, given a chance?" One eyelid lifts, letting one amber eye peer at Travis over the arm of his couch.
"I am given the chance. Every day," Travis says, one side of his mouth twisting into a smile. That fades though, and he thinks in silence for a moment. "Not politicians. They've become too routine. And easy. Especially now. No, someone more deserving of my- our efforts, I think."
"Erik Lensherr, perhaps?"
Travis blinks, his head darting up to stare at her. "My, you /are/ ambitious." He runs a finger along his chin. "I was thinking someone less- retaliatory, but wouldn't that be make for headlines. The one who bested Magneto from anonymity."
"Bested Magneto from anonymity... I believe you shall have to explain this to me," Ismena directs, with an encouraging twirl of her fingers in some strange bit of charm-signing. "If Magneto is ambitious, then wouldn't pursuing the one to best him be moreso?"
"Well, I'd hardly want to attack him /openly/," Travis so explains. "I've no desire for my name to be on the lips of the public. But to have a public embarrasment, obviously carefully orchestrated, for so noteably a figure. Yes, that would be an accomplishment I'd be proud of."
"If you'd like company on that particular journey..." Ismena leaves the offer open-ended. There's an odd television commercial with a talking gecko. Her attention is caught.
Travis' mind, however, has now been set in motion. Food for thought. He sips his drink as he watches the green icon parade about the television screen. "I do love the way your mind works."
"It goes as the gods will," Ismena murmurs, resuming the full-out drape across the couch that she'd managed earlier, one arm flung back across the arm of the couch closest to Travis, hand curled around her wineglass. "And is neatly complemented by yours."
=NYC= The White Room - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
It's early evening, and the streets are paved with kiddies. And candy wrappers. Some parents still fight with hyperactive kids, trying to make a memory or something of that nature. The smart ones have shipped their offspring home and doped them up with Benedril. Travis, though, has found a window seat, where he sits, mostly ignoring the open book in hand as he stares at the window.
Natalie looks harried, juggling a folder filled with papers and a book under one arm while the other lifts swiftly from its brace against the door to free a space for a small child darting out of the coffee shop without care for the woman in his way. His bedraggled mother follows, and she throws Natalie an irritated glance before pushing her way past. Natalie heaves out a puffed sigh and steps her way inside, free hand already rising to push dark locks back behind her ear.
Travis observes. A snicker escapes, the sound carrying across the room, before he returns to his book, shaking his head and smirking to himself.
Natalie's gaze shifts quickly toward the source of that snicker, and her eyes narrow behind her glasses as she frowns at him. There's a moment of irritated consideration before she turns away and steps toward the counter to order a latte.
Travis flips a page, and reaches for his drink, his gaze trailing over the book to settle on the woman. He unabashedly watches her motions as she places her order, sipping at his coffee.
The order takes awhile, as all lattes do, and Natalie takes advantage of the time to shuffle her papers into a neater arangement, back turned to rest against the counter as she waits. At one point her eyes flicker up and then back down -- and then up again as Travis' gaze sinks in. She blinks at him across the room.
Travis offers a slight nod, recogniion of her recognition, before taking a long drink and setting the mug back on the table. "Terribly inconsiderate," he says, pitching his voice to carry across the room.
"What, staring?" Natalie shoots back, only to be interrupted in her accusation by the barista with her coffee.
Travis laughs aloud at that. "Well, least you're not afraid to speak your mind," he shrugs, setting the book page-down on the table, spine spread wide. "Her, not you, I meant. Can't say I'm sorry she finally took that brat home, though. He'd been whining for the last 20 minutes while she gabbed on her cell phone."
Natalie turns from accepting her drink to stare at Travis, and there's a faint note of bafflement in her gaze before she concedes to step toward him. She hovers over his table for a moment, steaming latte in one hand and folder tucked under the opposite arm. "Well," she allows grudgingly after a moment. "Yes, she was, but most people in New York are. Aren't most of them opinionated, too?"
"Vocal, at least," Travis shrugs. "I'm not sure half the views even warrant the term 'opinion.'" He swivles his chair slightly. "Sit, if you like. Not like the place has a lot of selection for company," he says, gaze trailing to one obvious homeless person in one corner, and a lone elderly couple in another.
"And noting that staring is rude, that wins approval?" Natalie wonders. Still, she can't quite keep amusement from her voice, and her gaze lingers curiously on Travis as she hesitates, and then finally moves to sit. Her folder and book clatter onto the table ungracefully.
"I respect people who say it like it is," Travis says simply, reaching again for his drink, then leaning the chair back against bit of wall that the window table offers. "Travis. Not a lot of people who settle for coffee on this all unhallowed of nights."
"Natalie," his companion offers, distracted as she shuffles through papers, shoving them into a neat pile and reordering a few as she goes. Her eyes flick upward to rest on Travis for a moment, and her smile is dry. "Some of us are working. All unhallowed of nights? You just come from a haunted house or something?"
"Bracing myself for one," Travis rolls his eyes. "Except these ghouls are still alive. Don't let the hyphenated last names fool you. They'll still try to suck your blood dry, though." His eyes trail across her papers. "What do you do?"
Natalie blinks evenly at Travis and folds her hands over the piled papers to ask, "What?"
"You said 'Some of us are working,'" Travis repeats, bemused. "So that begs the question 'What do you do?' Or was it supposed to be 'How is your grandmother?' No, no, I was right before."
"I meant," Natalie explains patiently, lifting a hand to push glasses back on the bridge of her nose, "What the hell are you talking about, ghouls and hyphenated last names?"
"Oooooh," Travis draws the sound of understanding out. "Just that I have a party later tonight, and not all the people who will attend, well, to be nice, would be my selection to invite."
"So why go?" Natalie wonders. She shoves her work aside to pull her cup toward her, hands warming around the porcelin of the mug. "Seems a bit stupid, don't you think?"
"It's my job," Travis shrugs. "I'm security."
Natalie's gaze sharpens on him, raking from head to toe before she answers, "Huh. You don't seem like the type. Not really your party then anyway, is it?"
"Well, I won't be there for /pleasure/," Travis says. "So, Natalie, what type /do/ I seem then? Just curious."
"Bored," Natalie opines without hesitation. She lifts her mug for a sip.
"Bored?" That solicits a stare from Travis. "Well, can't say as I've gotten /that/ before. How so?"
"You're sitting in a coffee shop chatting up a stranger," Natalie points out. "Only you're not really hitting on me, so. Bored."
Travis actually throws back his head and laughs at that. Which draws a glare from the couple in the corner, not that Travis pays them any mind. "Well there you have gist of it. Ok, so I'm bored."
Natalie's eyes narrow on Travis again, thoughtful, and she shifts slightly in her seat. "You're a bit odd, aren't you." It's statement, not question.
"I like to think so," Travis says, before pausing to take sip at his drink. "Or at least different, from say, that poor sap with his three kids," he says, head tilting to a small scene outside the window.
"Not up for children, huh?" Natalie's gaze follow's the tilt of Travis' head. "Why not?"
"The poor screwed up things," Travis says, mock sympathy for the thought. "The world could do with a few less breeders as is. No need to add myself to the list of offenders."
"Wow," Natalie answers. "Bored and /bitter/. What's up with that?"
"I live in New York. You expect otherwise?"
"Not everyone in New York thinks that having kids is a travesty. /Someone's/ got to, you know."
"You'd be amazed the things they can do in test tubes these days," Travis counters. "Seriously, though, I'm not against kids. Just the people who have them for a status symbol or just because they can and then let them raise themselves."
"I think you've just upped the 'New York cynical' quotient in this place at least a couple of good notches," Natalie observes dryly. "So what happens if you fall in love and she wants kids, huh?"
Natalie pauses and considers for a moment before she adds, "Unless you're gay."
"Isn't going to happen," Travis says confidently. He chuckles at that last bit, as if amused by the thought. "Hardly. But you say cynical like it's a bad thing."
"Kids, or love?" Natalie wonders.
"Yes?" Travis shrugs. "The latter is just an abstract made up by publishers of romance novels. Which then deludes people into the former."
"Damn," Natalie pronounces. Her eyes widen slightly. "You're even worse than I thougth."
"Quite hopeless, I've been told," Travis says cheerfully.
"And so bafflingly cheerful about it. Good grief."
"It's hardly as bad as all /that/," Travis shrugs off the response. "Most people go through life, looking to better themselves or find something they've been missing or paint the next Mona Lisa or whatever the hell their personal terminology of it is. Me?" Travis says, with a bit of a wave toward himself. "Me, I've found I'm perfectly satisfied without such grandeurish aspirations. Let them have their rat race. I'll sit on the sidelines, point and laugh."
"You think so well of people," Natalie remarks dryly. "There are, you know, a lot of people who are happy. With themselves, with each other. Even people who are in love, and manage to stay that way."
"Well, give them my number if you ever meet one of them," Travis shrugs. "I'd like to write a book about it."
"I've met many of them," Natalie answers matter-of-factly.
"One," Travis declares. "And even she had a hard time not succumbing to the pressures around. Well, two, perhaps. Neither of them disillusioned with ideas of love, though, I note."
Natalie blinks at Travis, and her gaze clouds with confusion. "What?"
"Two people satisfied with themselves."
"Who you've known?"
"That is what we were discussing, correct?"
"Oh, and bitchy, too," Natalie observes swiftly.
"Now that I /have/ heard before," Travis says, allowing a single nod.
"World-wise and weary," Natalie answers. Her mug lifts for a sip.
"Perhaps," Travis allows. "Though I usually call it 'observant.'"
"In case you missed it," Natalie allows kindly, "I was kind of mocking you."
"I'm used to it," Travis shrugs. "Don't dish it out, if you can't take it."
"You are a very strange man."
"Well, now we're in circular conversation," Travis smirks. "That's /my/ specialty. Start the point over again, change up a few adjectives, and get them so confused they don't know which side they're arguing."
"Right." Natalie's gaze on Travis is bafflement edged with irritation, and her shoulders roll back uncomfortably. "Well. Have fun with that."
"Oh, I do, I do."
"Yeah." Natalie blinks once and then stirs, hands shifting her papers to gather them up. "Anyway. I've got work to do."
"As do I," Travis nods, accepting the dismissal with a nod. "And all my ghastly guests." He picks his book up, closing it without a glance at the page, then stands abruptly. "Well, Natalie, it certainly made for interesting conversation. I thank you for that."
"Uh huh." If Natalie sounds doubtful-- well. As Travis stands, she remains where she is, tipping her head back to look at him.
Then, with a tip of the imaginary hat on his head, Travis is gone, without further word.
The entrances are always the best parts of these affairs, and the most predictable. Enter, pause, let everyone see your outfit, smoochsmooch, and move on. Lather, rinse, repeat. << It's more interesting than usual, >> Emma notes to her companion in the observation perch of the second floor. She leans over the railing and peers through the ill-light gloom as one after another member makes there less than dramatic entrance to the candle-lit room.
Yes, candle-lit. No whisper of power invades this room, or the obstacle (pumpkins, darling)-encumbered hallway to its entrance. Emma bites back a snicker as one guest very nearly summersaults off the landing before gathering her composure.
<< I wouldn't know, >> Adel answers, leaning up against the wall next to Emma and watching people circulate beneath. Dark eyes veer toward black behind the white of his mask, dim light widening pupils and constricting the band of brown to a slight gleam. << This is my first Halloween party, dear Queen. >> Fresh from Washington, he carries himself with a certain cocky exuberance; it bleeds over into every movement and every action, and it sounds through the break of a laugh: << Should we go join them yet? >>
Waiting for a pause in the conversation, Loretta strides confidently into the room. Then, pausing a moment to let the candle-light sparkle from the diamonds in her dress, she glides gracefully towards the musicians.
This costume, that costume: there are two naughty devil-women (although they call it 'Lilith' and the 'Original Eve') for every one angel (Wings, non-mutant, afixed to the back of a young heir in a toga.) in the Hellfire Club's halls. There is also one President, ex-: wearing the sort of mask as comes out every Halloween, this is Lowe, cheap rubber repainted in the pale and gory shades of death. He is suited residentially and he wears campaign buttons for all those mid-term elections that Lowe supported. He enters in the same pause that Loretta took, but in his wake, continuing silence.
Enter Travis, in a much more civilized manner than the black cape, mask and rapier at his side might suggest. His pause at the door is fully a utility, a chance to scout out recognizeable figures, before making his way into those already mingling.
Through the doors, just another dignitary in a crowd of famous, masked faces, comes Henry Lawes, a member of the California chapter of the Hellfire Club and a well-known Hollywood producer. His costume, rich in dark reds and blacks, is that of a circus ringleader, turning his impressive paunch from unsightly into a sign of wealth and gravitas, and hiding his thinning hair beneath a tall top hat. He pauses to posture at the entrance, displaying himself in his percieved magnificence. On his arm leans a woman who seems a good deal less certain of how she should behave in such circumstances, uncomfortable in her exotic gown and matching mask of peacock feathers that edge towards the purple end of the spectrum. Identified officially as 'and guest', she seems a little older than the girls who might be expected to occupy such a position, and a good deal less excited than the various other guests of wealthy men around her as they proceed to the floor.
Ex-Lowe sidles toward Loretta with gore dribbling down his nice suit. Candlelight does bizarre things to the rubbery mask, flickering flames lending a certain ghoulish life to the immobile features: "Can I get you a drink?" comes the voice from within.
The problem with showy entrances is that you are the temporary center of attention. The problem with being a terrorist is that you really cannot afford to have everyone looking at you. So it is that Erik appears on the fringes of festivity, dressed and masked in solid, simple black with a shock of silver hair, having found (or perhaps created) an entrance more lenient to his lack of an invitation than the one most of the guests are having to endur. A flute of champagne is swept from a passing tray. Hello, party.
Hello, Erik!
Emma flaps her hand in the universal gesture for 'just a minute' and expands her powers to identify the various minds bumping around the room. Then she stands and smiles warmly at her Bishop. "Impatient, pet?" she laughs as she reaches up to pull her own mask--a silver wire and crystal affair--into place and reaches for his arm.
"Oh, yes," Adel says, wriggling fingers and toes and then laughing. He offers Emma his arm, courteous Bishop, and plays the escort to her Ice Queen: she glitters, he gleams. With empathy turned on to put out an all-embracing field of good-will and cheer and happiness and bunnies, White Queen and White Bishop make their way down to stage an entrance.
Unmasked comes the King, the doors pulled open by two fawning, scraping men in black with blood red dominos to make them them seem imps or goblins or low foot-stool devilish footmen for their lord - and they reveal Sebastian Shaw, wide black wings filling double doors with the faces of the Black Court making appearances like an army at his back. On his arm, a girl - blonde, and by surgeon's artistry made to be a clear mimic of the White Queen, only lacking a crown and dressed in black, old-fashioned Hellfire boots and corset with a leather choker that evokes a collar laced tightly around her neck. A racoon domino hides her eyes as Shaw sweeps forward, girl and court and foolish footmen trailing after.
"Sadly I never accept drinks from gentlemen who ooze," Loretta replies with a look of distaste. Then, without awaiting a reply the young women turns and drifts in the direction of a table on the other side of the room.
Court: that would include Bahir. Black Bishop, he is no imp or gobling, but perhaps a lesser devil than Lucifer -- on responsible for petty meanness. Shorn hair bares the arch of his neck: black hair, black mask, black tuxedo; the only off-note is the white handkerchief, to match his brother's black. He does not sweep; he trails.
Ex-Lowe's features remain the same -- how not? They can't change. They are rubber. His voice pitches sadly, however, as he watches Loretta stride off. "It's just makeup!" he calls after her.
Reflected candlelight turns silver even more into a wash of gold, flickering against fabric's ripple as its wearer steps into the ballroom on silent, slippered feet. Eyes' grey is muted behind an argent mask, though her gaze is no less keen as it sweeps across the room. A fairy, wingless, worked in silver and gold is she -- though no amount of costuming can hide the proud lift of head or the sleek, predatory walk than marks the shimmering spectacle as Sal Harper, Black Rook. Her entrance is elegant, eloquent, and understated in the wake of her King and Bishop.
Champagne is meticulously sipped, and then, when it seems no one is looking, it is downed in the manner of a shot - the tinkle of dropped glass briefly mingling through the murmer of ongoing conversation and the rustle of fabric upon fabric. What little candlelight their is in his vicinity is almost entirely absorbed by the black of his suit, with only subtle highlights cast orange over his shoulders when he turns to angle his head slowly after the procession of white, and then, the procession of black. Like peacocks. Or perhaps roosters.
*there, also, that was Magneto's. I am given away by bad grammar.
I think it was the roosters.
An entrance free of tripping and stumbling and all the other fun little touches Emma had ensured for the Black King's guests tonight. A hidden staircase and a less obvious stage for an entrance, and they are arrived, islands of defiant white amid the black. They slow, near and unaware of Erik, or comparisons to roosters, just yet. << Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, >> the mimiced-White Queen notes to her companion with a nod at the Black King's companion.
<< You're hotter, >> Adel flatters with juvenile honesty. "He certainly does enjoy his little entrances. I like the wings." Mind throwing up images of Warren (irritation associated, for White King and general annoying figure that he is), Adel sets them side by side: Shaw. Warren. Black. White. Old. Young. Dickhead. Jerk.
The spectacle of Black's entrance brings a hearty, appreciative laugh to the lips of Henry Lawes, and murmuring aside to his trailing peacock to fetch them drinks from the next tray that passes, he begins to circulate through the crowd towards Shaw with practised ease. His designs are somewhat thwarted by the fact that many others with equal practice are equally intent upon the Black King's company, and his progress is more diagonal than direct.
Travis mingles. That is to say, he claims himself a drink and watches from the sidelines. More watching than drinking. A few greetings, tips of the hat later, he spots Emma and Adel, and begins making his way in their direction.
Collecting herself a drink of Champagne Loretta begins a slow circuit of the room, making polite introductions to people she recognizes as her fathers friends.
Ex-Lowe watches Loretta from across the room: smitten with her for her rebuff, charmed by her cool reception. He reaches for a drink before recalling the full mask and waves the servant on. He prowls the room in opposing circuit, coming to fetch up in front of Loretta from the other way. He can't smile. Again, see: rubber mask. But his voice can! His voice is wreathed with cheer as he says, "Fancy meeting you again."
<< So observant of you, >> Emma retorts, turning around to reach after a passing tray of fruit and champagne. "He looks like some sort of tribal witchdoctor." Her attention is drawn to the abnormal pocket of quiet behind her, and she throws a glance Erik's way, then dismisses him as the husband of a fat socialite, no doubt.
Lean as he is, there is a conspicuous absence of large women in Erik's territory. With another glass already in hand, sparkling and expensive, he watches back as he is looked cleanly over, unsmiling and unflinching until Emma turns away, and his eyes flicker aside onto Lowe. And Loretta. Charming.
Sheathed in a slink of black, a redhead enters -- lean and tall. She moves smoothly, with a fluid grace, despite the high and slender heels of her black shoes, buckled and strapped to her feet. Her hair is feathered auburn, stylishly cut. The gown is cut to cling and enhance rather than reveal, its neckline conservative. The skirt is ankle-length, but split to the knee, revealing the smooth cream of leg beneath, and allowing for movement. Her pale skin is warmed slightly bronze, her face shimmered with golden hints. A choker clasps the column of her throat, gem-studded black. Of course, to any telepath in the room, it is glaringly obvious that she is not Jean Grey. Or a she.
Eyes narrowing under the mask, Loretta stops. Then, with a flick of her hair and a rustle of black and white feathers, sets off away from Ex-Lowe. "It is unseeming for a respectable young women to be seen with such a crass boor," she notes loud enough to carry to those nearby.
Sal has no reason to circle 'round to Shaw -- she is already there, a shining counterpoint to his macabre spectacle. She dips her head to murmur pleasantries to a passing party-goer, loose curls tumbling in gleaming accent to her pale skin. Her attention is caught by the latest arrival and she bristles, all unknowing. To the telepaths in the room, she does not quite become a blank -- but her thoughts are masked by trivialities, her weekend's shopping list dominating the forefront of her mind as she excuses herself from conversation and begins to make her shimmering, glimmering way toward the door, and (not!) Jean Grey.
"A good thing that there are no crass boors to bother you," Ex-Lowe tries, offering an arm in Loretta's direction. Despite the dilapidation of his costume-sake, it does not detach. "Dance?"
"His head exploded," Erik offers helpfully over the lifted rim of his glass from /far/ too close at Ex-Lowe's shoulder, now that the pair's little drama has progressed on into his direct line of sight. "You really should not have bothered with the mask."
<< I thought so. >> Adel does not even notice the pocket of quiet -- one dull spot in so much activity? Impossible for him, with eyes turned elsewhere, onto everything female. The redhead of fine legs gets a lecherous sort of appraisal that suddenly tints green and sickly. Ew. Adel reaches for a drink.
Bahir moves silently through the party, dark eyes glinting behind the black of the mask as supplicants and pals come up to pay court to Shaw. With Sal to act as bodyguard -- because that is what she /does/ -- against the dire return of Black Queens, he does not pay much attention until her bristle. Black domino obscuring his features, he slants a look back over his shoulder, looks forward -- and then looks back again for a second, longer look. << Not Jean, >> he informs Sal, kindly.
"Good girl," Shaw offers to Sal as she begins to arrow for the redhead. "Deal with that little problem. I'll have no one spoiling my mockery with mockery of me." He shakes his head, though nearby telepaths might note nothing at all - for something glistens at the Black King's ear as he goes to stake a place to stand in court. A murmured smile to a pair of socialites that approach, and then a brief discussion with an industrialist before he turns to pat his faux-Emma on the bottom and send her for drinks.
Women in short skirts and men in tails and all with white gloves circulate alcohol freely about the room, and the candles flicker in the breeze drifting in from the opened patio doors. Outside, a bonfire and the allure of starlight have already tempted a few couple to brave the cooler temperature. "Time to pay my dues," Emma murmurs under her breath and detaches from Adel's arm. With an incoming Travis and newly arrived Percy, identified from his brightly colored mind and not, thank goodness, his wardrobe-- Adel is shot an inquisative look for the sudden mental bile following usual lechery. Follow the train of thought-- "Oh, /Percy/."
"Frights of the season. Or whatever the appropriate greeting is for such a venue," Travis says, with a mild flourish of his cape as he joins Emma. "You outdid yourself this year."
"Nice cape," Adel says to Travis, as friendly as two cats fighting over the same fish could be.
The pressures of the human tide prove too much for the portly Henry Lawes and guest and, as the purple peacock snares them a pair of elegant champagne flutes, Hollywood Harry gives up on his approach. Later will be fine. "Let's go see if we can't find some nibbles," he suggests, and the pair dissolve back into the crowd from which they came.
Those familiar with Percy's /wonderful sense of humor/ should not really be that surprised to see him decked out like an ex-Queen. The not-Jean skirts the shadowed ballroom, firelight's sheen leaving eyes molten gold; candles tease the wig, richening amber fires in highlight through rich red. She steals an hors d'ouevre from a passing servitor with the flash of a charming smile, and nibbles daintily on it as she watches the party.
Taking a step away from Ex-Lowe, towards the disguised Magneto, Loretta offers the incognito master of magnetism her arm. "Why perhaps I /would/ like to dance," she replies. "If you would be so kind?"
Given the unusual nature of the Black Queen's exit from the club -- stricken from the lists, etc., and never mind the property damage that certain parties whisper of -- there is a silence that follows her, as well, and noise lifts in her wake; ex-Lowe looks jealous. And not just because Loretta ditched him for a terrorist.
<< not jean >> is reflected back to Bahir on a thin-edged smile, but still Sal circles, wary. Vigilant, even, despite abandoning her post by the King's side -- there is a bristle /there/ as well, for his words on her exit, but this is masked just as smoothly once again. Slippers silence her steps as she approaches not!Jean, though dangerous amusement colors her voice as she dips a curtsey and addresses, "My Queen."
"I'm not the only one," Emma sighs and gestures toward the newest white pawn and his truly macabre sense of humor. She shoots a glance at Adel and whispers a telepathic promise with the intent of soothing his hackles. "I hate Halloween."
More conversation from Sebastian Shaw - a little laugh, leaned close to some shipping magnate, and then a pointed glance in Emma's direction with a clap on the man's back. As his faux-White Queen returns with wine he drinks, and then his eye skates around for Bahir, to attract the bishop near.
A simple, formal nod attributed Loretta's offer, Erik glances aside for long enough to set his empty glass down upon a passing tray before her arm is taken, and the lead initiated in the vague direction of the dance floor, upon which only a few have taken up temporary residence.
He has not gone far -- not far at all; he stands to Shaw's left, and slightly behind, a proper Black Bishop. When the King turns his head, searching, Bahir catches Shaw's gaze and inclines his head in silent question.
Hackles drop, soothed and smoothed, and Adel restored to glossy cheer. "I don't mind it. I like the candy. We had fun at NYU with it, but Columbia's law students are so /dull/. And Stagram & Wolf is Halloween all days of the year, so nevermind the holiday."
"Did you want to dance, Ms. Harper?" The not-Jean's voice is laughing and brushed carefully soft, blending as close to throaty femininity as a tenor's register allows -- hardly his usual cadence, and the accent is upstate New York without a trace of Oxford. She raises fine brows, darker than her hair, with amber eyes dancing bright. Her lips damasked soft rose, they curve and part for the wicked flash of a smile. "Aren't you concerned that it might cause a fracas?"
"Who is our crasher?" Shaw inquires softly, nodding towards Sal and the not-Jean who presently seems to eclipse attention paid to him. "And can we give Miss Harper any reason to throw the dear Black Queen out?" A beat. "Perhaps into the river."
"Adel," Travis greets with a brief nod. To Emma, he adds, "But the costumes are always so...revealing. How blatant can one be without crossing the line of tact. And without the obligations of thank you notes for birthday or holiday gifts."
The strains of a stringed waltz provide just enough excuse for those dancers, and enough cover to mask all but wanted conversation. "I'm superstitious though. The one night of the year when the dark lord is free to walk the earth?" Her grimace is plain, as is the focus of her words.
Emma says, "Mine!"
Proximity provides reassurance, and Sal's aspect (mental, physical) is soon soothed with a throaty laugh. "No more," she murmurs, "than your presence already has, my dear." One hand is extended toward not-Jean, the other gestures toward the dance floor. "I can't think of anything that would please me more," the silver and gold fairy says to the auburn-haired one, "than a dance with such an elegant queen."
Bahir identifies in a word: "Percy." The word comes out tapered thin, the better to strangle any ill-placed laughter.
Dancers come and go from the floor, though it would be hard to deny that most are on the pair of striking and scandalous young women taking the floor together. The waltz slips into another song, and time counts off against the notes.
"How scandalous," comes the answer, dark lashes fanning long and thick over skin and lifting with a coquette's coyness. The Black Queen is white musk, apricot and spring blossoms; she is a slither of dark fabric, catching the Rook in her arms, black-gloved hand splayed at Sal's hip, seizing her other hand; she assumes the lead with blithe confidence, and smirks impish mischief.
Adel slides his hand under Emma's elbow and then curls his fingers around her arm. "We could lock him up," he suggests, drawing her out onto the floor with the flash of a grin. "Would you like that?"
"So you're saying," Shaw replies, "that we can't have Sal throw him in the river?" He shakes his head to Bahir. "You disappoint me so," he says, and then his eyes turn to focus on Emma. "Your brother might get it in his head that Emma shouldn't expect a dance, tonight, or even a nod across the room."
Finding herself on the dance floor with her mysterious savior, Loretta follows along demurely. With formal politeness she asks "Might I inquire which field you are in? And of course, offer my thanks at your timely rescue."
"In fact, my King, I said nothing but the name," Bahir points out. As to Sal and her dance partner, he shrugs. "You are the Black King, and tonight is your holiday; you could throw the White Queen out, if not into the river."
"I dabble," replies Erik, voice cultured and even (and distressingly, perhaps, familiar) as his hands smooth into polite and dignified place - left going to her right, right going to her lower back, "in a variety of them."
"Yes, please," Emma breathes with girlish delight at the thought, and turns to deliver a request for attendance later to the Black Knight before she's delivered to the dance floor. They pass the pair of Erik and Loretta and again, a sense of disquiet tugs at her attention.
Falling into step with her faux Queen, the Black Rook murmurs a reply: "Isn't that the point?" She is still slightly unsettled, but not obviously so -- that is, to anyone without her dance partner's gifts of perception. Leaning close as they steal the spotlight in shimmering contrast to each other, she whispers, "You /smell/ wrong."
Adel leads Emma onto the floor in stately fashion, as befits the company of a queen. << What do you think of Percy's dress? Shaw is cranky. >> He pays Erik no mind, and the twinge of his knee is only due to the movement of the dance, nothing else!
"I suspect I'd hear about it later if I did," Shaw chuckles. "As much as I'd enjoy seeing her all wet - can you imagine what the river would do to that dress?" he says with an easy leer. "But alas, Bahir, it is not to be..." A beat. "Let our dear 'Black Queen' know I'd like to speak with 'her'?"
As they dance, sleek black to shimmering silver, body to body, the Jean imitator laughs. "I'm in costume," she answers, given barely more voice than a whisper.
<< I think he looks better in it that the real thing. When is Shaw not cranky? He hasn't slept well all week, though, poor dear. >> They pass the slinky couple and Emma gives her pawn a scathing look suitable for his ensemble.
Jean withdraws a hand from Sal, but only long enough to blow Emma a kiss.
"And interrupt their dance?" Bahir is not so reluctant as he pretends, and he detaches from Shaw's coterie to await the end of the dance that he might cut.
Shaw smiles. "Let them have their fun," he says. "Afterwards." With that, he turns away from Bahir to greet the next captain of industry who appears to be waiting in line.
Travis chuckles at Adel's dismissal, watching the dancers move across the floor, and those on the outskirts. He winds past a few conversationalists, falling beside Bahir. "They make a lovely couple, hmm?"
"Well and truly," Sal conceeds with a hint of a laugh, tipping her head to Emma as Jean disengages enough to blow her (his) kiss. The hand is reclaimed, at least for the duration of their dance.
Under her mask Loretta frowns slightly. The young women allows her partner to take the lead, as is proper in such situations. With a titter of amusement she replies "You dabble? How delightful, far too many people fall into the trap of over specializing. Which is a terrible mistake in the modern business environment."
As the dance winds to a close, so does Jean knockoff stop dancing. She brings Sal's hand to her lips and kisses its back, as courtly a gesture as one might wish from the court jester, and smiles. "So kind," the redhead says. "If you will excuse me, I am quite parched. I think I will avail myself of some of that sparkling wine."
"Actually," Bahir says, forced to actually consider the couple by Travis' questions, "they quite do. Say what else you will about our former Black Queen, but she was quite striking. He is a good imitation."
Magneto is talented on the dance floor, and smooth enough despite the hint of alcohol on his breath, and despite the way that his eyes turn slowly after their fellow dancers on the floor behind the shadow of his half-mask. Still, even for this, he manages a side-long smile in a somewhat more /subdued/ echo of her amusement, and eventually tilts his chin down enough to regard her more directly. "I am afraid it is a matter of taste, more than it is one of strategy. My attention span is not what it used to be."
Grey eyes dance behind their mask as Sal dips another curtsey to her former Bishop in Queen's guise, smile genuine, if not broad. As Jean's imitator moves away, so does she; once again taking up the rounds of quiet pleasantries as she makes her way back through the crowd.
The dance closes, and Emma steps away from her partner with the dutiful hand clap required. Another partner presents himself, as the next song is introduced.
Thieving a glass of sparkling wine to cradle in her black-gloved hand, Jean twirls away from the dancing and sips it delicately in the firelight.
A frown on Shaw's face, and a little shake that sends wings shuddering - in conversation, it seems, with some local elected. The Black King raises a hand to make a point, pushing forefinger into the man's shoulder in a series of short jabs before the man nods in reluctant agreement and moves off.
Shaw's eyes track idly up and down his pet blonde between conversations, and he leans over to murmur something that's enough to make the woman blush before he turns to greet someone else.
After the dance ends, Loretta glances around to ensure Ex-Lowe is no-where to be seen. Then, after a curtsy to her dance partner, she heads towards one of the nearby waiters with a tray of Hors d'oeuvres.
Ex-Low is where to be seen, as it happens: where-where? Why, near Loretta-where. The mask turns after her, sadly.
Ex-Lowe, with an e, because someone sucks at typing, is where to be seen, as it happens: where-where? Why, near Loretta-where. The mask turns after her, sadly.
Poor Lowe. Poor disgusting, dead Lowe. Maybe her's a better dancer than fish face. Emma catches his eye (sort of). Come cut in?
Maybe he is too. Damn typoes.
Ex-Lowe would be glad to cut in. Emma looking in his direction just makes him all /kinds/ of giddy, and his mind sparks with delight of the 'ooh, me? is it really me? Pick me, pick me!' variety. He sidles toward her.
Maybe this was a bad idea. Um.
Propriety temporarily discarded once Loretta has moved away, Erik absently calculates her age as he watches the retreat of her rear end, only to have his attention tracked back after the advance of undead Lowe. "Hrmph." A hand is smoothed down his own front, and with a skeptical glance for Emma, he turns to step off the dance floor.
As Bahir moves off to capture the Black Queen's attention, Sal is at a loss for conversation. She does not seek to approach Shaw or his nubile imitation of the White Queen, but drifts around the fringes of the dance floor, once again watchful.
Oh no, baby. Great idea. Ex-Lowe's mind is all frat boy confidence as he so-suavely says, "May I cut in?"
As long as your palms don't sweat. Emma smiles apologetically and turns away from one faceless partner to join another, wiping her hands on the back of his shoulders. "That is an incredibly tacky costume," she offers by way of polite conversation.
"I like it," Ex-Lowe says, false-gore drying on his nice shirt. "Striking, don't you think?"
Collecting a few delicate nibbles and another glass of Champagne Loretta begins another circuit of the room, in search of potential conversation. Although she does make one last quick glance to be certain her unwanted suitor has moved to pastures new. << Rather her than me. >>
Polite laughter at some witticism from the next person Shaw is speaking with, and then a quaff of wine.
Emma heard that! She looks after the feather-clad Magpie and wonders about her, then has to turn back to the dead president's visage. "Indeed. I wouldn't be surprised if you went and laid down somewhere, if you wouldn't collect a few roses from sympathetic voters."
Adel, freed of Emma, likewise moves off the dance floor. He glances at Erik, to his side, as he catch a servant's attention to claim alcohol off his tray. Arrogant in his position as Emma's right hand, he doesn't even give Erik a nod: just a cool appraisal, and then a dismissive flick of his eyes away as his knee twinges.
The ebb and flow of partygoers eventually deposits Sal near to a gentleman in black -- familiarity tugs briefly at memory, just as swiftly dismissed: so many half-remembered scents and faces, from the multitude of balls thrown in her tenure as Rook. A vision to delight the most lecherous of lookers, she crosses Erik's line of vision, then stops a few steps distand to dip her head in muted, inconsequential conversation.
Cool appraisal and recognition are met with dark and level observation as Erik turns his wandering glare from Sal to claim a glass from the same tray, rigid posture and unreadable expression falling somewhere just short of menacing.
Emma sneaks a discrete look at her watch and exhales in relief. Mid-song, mid-dance, she stops and steps away from Lowe. "Excuse me." And that's all she says before escaping the corpse and weaving back toward the back entrance they had arrived through only an hour or so earlier. Shaking hands, kissing cheeks, smoozing... it all greases her way /out/. << Adel, darling, I have put in my appearance, and I am leaving. Care to join, or do you want to play some more? >>
Ex-Lowe is left bereft, lonely! And in the middle of the dance floor. But -- he got to dance with /Emma Frost/. He struts off the floor when he goes to look for Loretta.
Drifting slowly but surely in the direction of the Black King, Loretta smiles and nods at several of her fathers closest friends - and studiously avoids smiling and nodding at their sons. Her Champagne is almost untouched and held high, ideal for throwing.
<< My place, >> Adel flirts, << is at your side. Let Black have their party. Travis is here to tell us if anything interesting happens. >> With fewer hand hakes, no kissed cheeks, and not even a drop of smoooooozing, Adel oozes after Emma. Because oozing is hot. << Let me tell you all about Washington, instead. >>