Ojo chan 42
Heckno12
Noctis
Vyce
op2024
AHeartlessNobody
Azereiah
Sp00ki
Slypheed♢♡ Marissa ♡♢
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The Slag. A dark and maze-like place, massive in size and unsanctioned in its existence. No one knows when the construction started, underground, in and around and across and under the artificial ley lines of the city's magical trains. It's utterly unnavigable—a place that changes in layout every time the government comes knocking. It's nearly pitch black, lit only by neon lights and the ambient glow of ancient magic. Only the worst dregs of society dare venture to the lower levels, which stink like a sewer, the ground coated in layer upon layer of blood and piss and Hell knows what else. Even the upper levels are teeming with shady characters. For both those reasons and more, it pays to watch one's step—and of course, to always mind the gap—even as you look over your shoulder for the person waiting to push you in.
If there's one sight that doesn't belong in a place like this, it's a beautiful young lady with pristine porcelain skin and alluring curves, wearing an old school uniform—old, but well-kept, and freshly ironed by the looks of it. As she walked, with her head held high and shoulders broad, the signature scent of a luxury-brand perfume wafted through the air. In the worst place to do so, she stood out, every aspect of her appearance projecting innocence, as if carefully calculated, daring any who laid eyes upon her to try to soil her pure visage. As it were, that was the exact intent of her fashion statment—to loudly proclaim a challenge to any damned fool who did not know this woman.
Only a select few could call her their associate, let alone a friend. None who knew this would dare to speak to her. Yet, one voice echoed toward her, carried to her ears by the claustrophobic halls. Even worse, it called her name: "Marissa." Whirling around, she glared at the source of the violet neon light. Another sight that did not belong in The Slag met her gaze: a suited man, wearing sunglasses in the underground—like some kind of fashion statement. As his light bathed her skin, inky imperfections revealed the truth: fresh blood.
The girl, just like her environment, was covered in the evidence of fresh blood, revealed by the man's light. At this, the Red Queen clenched her fists and trembled with rage. "I am the Red Queen. Who in the fuck are you?" she demanded. "You may call me Mr. West," he replied, deadpan. Now he was telling her to call him by a title?! Her pupils almost seemed to contract in response to his words. She opened her mouth, slowly, baring her fangs as if she were about to take a bite out of his face. "This is my territory. Get out," she hissed. As if he paid her threat no mind, he withdrew a golden envelope from his suit jacket. "I have correspondence which may be of interest to you. It's an invitation to a party, so don't lose it. No one in the real world knows who you are, after all," he said, returning her gesture with his own Cheshire-cat-like grin. His words carried no particular emphasis, but mocked her nonetheless—and before she could strike him, he vanished.
Infuriating, and nauseatingly so—every syllable of his words grated on her ears like a sanding belt. Instead of his face, her fist met the envelope, snatching it out of the air. Much as the man provoked her ire, however, a denizen of the dark would recognize the glitter of gold, even in the warped neon lights of The Slag. In grabbing the invitation, she saw that her skin was snow white once again. The sight calmed her a little. Letting out a sigh, she cut open the seal—a proper wax seal—with a bright pink fingernail. She stood there in the dark, reading its contents without a drop of fear in her bones nor an ounce of regard for her surroundings, as was her privilege as the Red Queen.
She smiled. A party—a fancy one, fit for a Queen. "Why, of course I'll attend!" she proclaimed with a schoolgirl-like laugh. What's more, it seemed like the Unity Organization had some kind of lead on the Seven. What it was, they were quite obviously not stupid enough to put to writing, but she was welcome to learn about it while in attendance. "Perfect," she said, as if the woman who'd hand-written every invitation were there to receive her praise. Holding the letter close to her lips, she smiled a smile that was the perfect picture of innocence, humming a tune and bobbing her head from side to side as she walked. Then, she gasped.
"Oh, shit. I need a bath!" she realized. Reminding her that she smelled of blood—how helpful the man had been, after all!
When what appeared to be an—admittedly young, but nonetheless—grown woman dressed like a schoolgirl approached the venue, security was naturally skeptical, even a little concerned. After a moment of silence, one of the men took a chance. "Invitation?" he prompted her, to which Marissa smiled and presented it. "Welcome," he said, trying to play it off like he knew all along. "Good call, rookie," his partner teased once she was out of earshot. "Guess a once-in-a-lifetime event attracts all the freaks, huh?" he laughed. "Psh, a cosplayer is normal compared to what I saw before your shift," his senior fired back. "At least, I hope it's cosplay. This is a fool's errand she's being taken for a ride on. If she really just got out of school, that's a godsdamned tragedy. Makes my career look like a fucking fairy tale, it does."
The young lady who was the image of purity walked through the hallowed halls, taking in the sight of it all. The glitter and gold, the luxury. Her heart swelled, but she wouldn't let it show on her dignified face. She belonged here, and she wanted all of them to know it. Of all the various characters gathered today, she certainly looked the most like she belonged. She appeared an icon of privilege amongst the other rabble. The gaudy name tag plastered on her chest looked most at home on her mundane, yet pristine clothing. It was also a problem, however. "Marissa." Wouldn't the lack of a family name draw attention? Yet, she looked around at the others. None of their name tags displayed family names, either. Marissa's satisfied smile returned. It appeared as if she'd fit right in here, after all.
Another woman of refined and elegant appearance had a dignified, satisfied smile on her face as well. Perhaps she was the one who'd organized all this? If so, it would do Marissa well to talk to her—but she would not approach the woman first. She was the guest. The onus was on her to see her guests satisfied. Until she approached, she would take part of the luxuries on offer. Motioning for a waitress, she spoke: "Your finest Riesling Spätlese." The impeccability of her manners and specificity of her order would surely—
"Um... ID?" the waitress asked nervously. "It's just... your outfit... I went to school there. I recognize it."
Did I fucking ask?! Marissa thought irritably, her smile turning just a bit false. "Why, thanks for the compliment~ I haven't been asked for my ID in years, so I always leave it at home~" she lied. She owned no ID. "Er, I can't... my job..." she stuttered anxiously. Marissa rubbed her temple in vexation. "Non-alcoholic, then," she offered in reluctant surrender. "Coming right up!" the girl responded without missing a beat, eager to leave the table, and the room for that matter.
While all of this was happening, Marissa watched the antics with Sinmara unfold. Unlike Fae, Marissa was not amused by the too-big woman who seemed to have missed every memo ever written in human history, about everything. Her appearance, her attitude, her loud mouth, her rough speech, her table manners, everything. Marissa couldn't decide what was the worst part, until the important-looking woman decided—in fairness to her, correctly—that the threat Sinmara posed to her wasn't worth it, and left the room. Ah, now this wouldn't do, not at all.
Taking the time to finish her drink—it was a bit tart for her tastes—Marissa slowly rose from her chair and approached Sinmara, her face the perfect image of friendliness. "Greetings, Sinmara. I'm Marissa, the Red Queen," she introduced, pointing to the gold-embossed fine print on her name tag, displaying her title. "Why don't we step outside and get some fresh air? You smoke? You look like a smoker. Need a light?" She pulled out an old—but polished—brass lighter, with unintelligible engravings on its sides.
