Festive
mickilennial
Half Pint
Qia
Melissa
webboysurf
Supermaxx
Nemaisare
Aeolian@Roman That is not where I thought your story was going to go I love it haha
I'm more surprised it's gone anywhere tbh
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Watch out.
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW, WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED
Most Recent Posts
I'm more surprised it's gone anywhere tbh
Jubilee's breath was fast and shallow. She could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears, a fluid rushing sound pump pump behind her eyeballs. She was used to anxiety and panic, used to the fear of walking dark streets in the city, doubly-vulnerable as a woman and a mutant, not even able to rely on the gifts afforded to her by the latter to defend herself. But this was different; it didn't come with dread or angst, felt entirely removed from any identifiable emotion whatsoever. Instead, the pounding and dizziness and general full-body shakiness was accompanied by a far more primal feeling: hunger. Was this the serum withdrawal that her recent self-appointed caretakers had alluded to? The thought almost excited her - the potential that this was a triumphant resurgence of her genetic birth-right, long-neglected.
Hunger, though, by gods. She hadn't been joking when she'd asked Agent Sitwell for dinner, but that had been maybe half-an-hour ago and she'd not seen anyone yet. She was getting antsy. Her fingers curled and uncurled, her stomach growling. Eventually she got up from bed entirely, pacing the room back and forth. Had she seen a vending machine on the way in? Was the canteen far from here? Was it signposted, or one of those 'you just have to know how to get around' deals? Was there a tram system or was this particular SHIELD base built with the thirty-minute city philosophy in mind?
Anyway. Food, please, and quickly, and something meaty. Not unusual - she wasn't a vegetarian or anything, though her friends were increasingly moving towards veganism - but to this extent? It had her almost concerned. A subconscious craving brought on by low iron, maybe? All the blood taken for testing over the last couple days catching up to her? She didn't feel woozy or lethargic or fatigued, just a bit lightheaded in the face of the yawning pit deep within her stomach. But there was something darker about this particular yearning, something primal and wicked. It pulsed in her head with each heartbeat, a red haze moving softly but inexorably across her mind. It frightened her, but also felt...good. A comfortable loss of control, like something had switched on 'cruise control' in her brain and she could just sit back and coast.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor toward her room; she could smell the food from here, even through the wall that separated them. She didn't take the time to ponder on why or how that might be, instead all-but-overtaken by the hunger that now hoped to finally be sated. The few short seconds for the orderly to enter her room, laden with a silver tray, felt like an eternity, but finally, finally, her meal was here. The tray was laid carefully down onto the bed-side table and the orderly smiled politely as Jubilee descended with barely-restrained ferality upon the food.
Those first few moments could only be described as a 'frenzy', and the orderly busied himself with tidying and busywork, at the same time watching the savage performance with a sense of morbid curiosity in his peripheral vision. The opening pace, that initial burst, was frightening and inhuman in its barbarity, but as she made her way through the meal the tempo of her tearing and chewing and swallowing slowed, becoming something close to contemplative, before ceasing completely.
Jubilee sat straight. She poked around inside her mouth with her tongue, worming ragged scraps of meat from the crevices of her teeth. It tasted...bland. She sniffed the slab of flesh on the plate before her, and then her own hands where she'd forgone cutlery entirely in favour of ripping and shredding with digits and denticle alike. It didn't...there wasn't any scent to it. But she could feel the heat coming off the surface, see the butter and herbs and salt that had been used to dress and season. She nibbled carefully, swirling it around her mouth, spreading the morsel over the surface of her tongue. It was just plain. Boring. Tasteless. More than that, unsatisfying. With half a steak swallowed she felt no more sated than she had before beginning to eat.
She turned her head, looking at the orderly, who couldn't find the words to describe Jubilee's vivid crimson eyes or vicious, needled fangs. She'd caught that aroma again, potent and intoxicating and irresistible.
Down the hall, Jasper was leaning back in his chair, his left half illuminated by the computer’s screensaver while he stared at a portable whiteboard he’d rolled in while he tapped his lips with a marker. On it was written the scant few symptoms they'd been able to observe in Jubilee since picking her up yesterday.
Marty walked in holding two steaming mugs of coffee, handing Jasper one while he brought the other to his lips and took a couple cautious sips.
"You know there's no lid on that." Marty said, gesturing with his mug to the marker Jasper held to his face between two fingers. Jasper paused his tapping and looked down at the marker, which was indeed lidless; he ran his tongue across his lower lip and tasted the distinct flavour of ink, swearing as Marty handed him a napkin to wipe off as much as he could.
"What's this?" Marty asked, looking at the whiteboard as the pair supped their coffees.
"You got a differential diagnosis on sunburn?" Jasper asked by way of a reply, not looking away from the board.
"Going full 'House' in here, huh?"
Jasper shot a look upwards at his upright colleague.
"We got nothin', Marty. She's not had another seizure since the first, the paleness is endemic to regular treatment, and the only other thing we have is 'burns easily'. What am I supposed to say? 'Patient may be a ginger with dyed hair'?"
Jasper stood up, tossing the marker onto the desk and rubbing his eyes. The coffee, while appreciated, was doing little to stem the tiredness that had taken root in his bones.
"I'm sorry, but there's just not enough here to keep her in. We can support her riding out the serum withdrawal, maybe prescribe her a bottle of SPF500. After that, we'll have to release her."
Marty nodded, but Jasper could see the disappointment in his face, and honestly Sitwell felt it himself. Nothing more frustrating than an unsolved mystery, and if she had another seizure she'd be at the mercy of the public health system. The girl didn't strike Jasper as one in possession of premium health insurance. He hooked his blazer off the back of the chair and threw it over his shoulder.
"I'm going home. I'll check in with her tomorrow when I arrive but other than that, she's all yo-"
He was interrupted by a scream echoing down the hallway that turned his blood to ice. He and Marty looked to each other before sprinting out the room and down the corridor; they skidded against the floor around the corner, barreling down toward Jubilee's room. When they burst through the door, the pair froze at the carnage before them.
Jubilee was crouched over the body of the orderly, her mouth bloodied as she tore and supped and licked in a frenzy at what was left of the poor man's throat. The man himself was pallid and his eyes shifted wildly around the room and over the agents as the last light left them, the blood pumping from his savaged neck in weaker and weaker pulses before finally stilling, his limbs going slack. Jubilee just continued to sup, burying her mouth in the wound.
She finally noticed them, looking up from her prize carcass. Her eyes were a deep and intense scarlet, and as she hissed at them like an animal she bared terrible, jagged fangs that sprouted from her jaw.
"Jesus Christ! She's a fucking vampire!"
Jasper stepped backwards slowly, trying not to pay attention to Marty's yell.
"Marty...c-call security...we need to contain this mess." He whispered, careful not to interrupt Jubilee's...feed.
Hunger, though, by gods. She hadn't been joking when she'd asked Agent Sitwell for dinner, but that had been maybe half-an-hour ago and she'd not seen anyone yet. She was getting antsy. Her fingers curled and uncurled, her stomach growling. Eventually she got up from bed entirely, pacing the room back and forth. Had she seen a vending machine on the way in? Was the canteen far from here? Was it signposted, or one of those 'you just have to know how to get around' deals? Was there a tram system or was this particular SHIELD base built with the thirty-minute city philosophy in mind?
Anyway. Food, please, and quickly, and something meaty. Not unusual - she wasn't a vegetarian or anything, though her friends were increasingly moving towards veganism - but to this extent? It had her almost concerned. A subconscious craving brought on by low iron, maybe? All the blood taken for testing over the last couple days catching up to her? She didn't feel woozy or lethargic or fatigued, just a bit lightheaded in the face of the yawning pit deep within her stomach. But there was something darker about this particular yearning, something primal and wicked. It pulsed in her head with each heartbeat, a red haze moving softly but inexorably across her mind. It frightened her, but also felt...good. A comfortable loss of control, like something had switched on 'cruise control' in her brain and she could just sit back and coast.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor toward her room; she could smell the food from here, even through the wall that separated them. She didn't take the time to ponder on why or how that might be, instead all-but-overtaken by the hunger that now hoped to finally be sated. The few short seconds for the orderly to enter her room, laden with a silver tray, felt like an eternity, but finally, finally, her meal was here. The tray was laid carefully down onto the bed-side table and the orderly smiled politely as Jubilee descended with barely-restrained ferality upon the food.
Those first few moments could only be described as a 'frenzy', and the orderly busied himself with tidying and busywork, at the same time watching the savage performance with a sense of morbid curiosity in his peripheral vision. The opening pace, that initial burst, was frightening and inhuman in its barbarity, but as she made her way through the meal the tempo of her tearing and chewing and swallowing slowed, becoming something close to contemplative, before ceasing completely.
Jubilee sat straight. She poked around inside her mouth with her tongue, worming ragged scraps of meat from the crevices of her teeth. It tasted...bland. She sniffed the slab of flesh on the plate before her, and then her own hands where she'd forgone cutlery entirely in favour of ripping and shredding with digits and denticle alike. It didn't...there wasn't any scent to it. But she could feel the heat coming off the surface, see the butter and herbs and salt that had been used to dress and season. She nibbled carefully, swirling it around her mouth, spreading the morsel over the surface of her tongue. It was just plain. Boring. Tasteless. More than that, unsatisfying. With half a steak swallowed she felt no more sated than she had before beginning to eat.
She turned her head, looking at the orderly, who couldn't find the words to describe Jubilee's vivid crimson eyes or vicious, needled fangs. She'd caught that aroma again, potent and intoxicating and irresistible.
- - -
Down the hall, Jasper was leaning back in his chair, his left half illuminated by the computer’s screensaver while he stared at a portable whiteboard he’d rolled in while he tapped his lips with a marker. On it was written the scant few symptoms they'd been able to observe in Jubilee since picking her up yesterday.
S E I Z U R E
P A L L O R
U V S E N S I T I V I T Y
Marty walked in holding two steaming mugs of coffee, handing Jasper one while he brought the other to his lips and took a couple cautious sips.
"You know there's no lid on that." Marty said, gesturing with his mug to the marker Jasper held to his face between two fingers. Jasper paused his tapping and looked down at the marker, which was indeed lidless; he ran his tongue across his lower lip and tasted the distinct flavour of ink, swearing as Marty handed him a napkin to wipe off as much as he could.
"What's this?" Marty asked, looking at the whiteboard as the pair supped their coffees.
"You got a differential diagnosis on sunburn?" Jasper asked by way of a reply, not looking away from the board.
"Going full 'House' in here, huh?"
Jasper shot a look upwards at his upright colleague.
"We got nothin', Marty. She's not had another seizure since the first, the paleness is endemic to regular treatment, and the only other thing we have is 'burns easily'. What am I supposed to say? 'Patient may be a ginger with dyed hair'?"
Jasper stood up, tossing the marker onto the desk and rubbing his eyes. The coffee, while appreciated, was doing little to stem the tiredness that had taken root in his bones.
"I'm sorry, but there's just not enough here to keep her in. We can support her riding out the serum withdrawal, maybe prescribe her a bottle of SPF500. After that, we'll have to release her."
Marty nodded, but Jasper could see the disappointment in his face, and honestly Sitwell felt it himself. Nothing more frustrating than an unsolved mystery, and if she had another seizure she'd be at the mercy of the public health system. The girl didn't strike Jasper as one in possession of premium health insurance. He hooked his blazer off the back of the chair and threw it over his shoulder.
"I'm going home. I'll check in with her tomorrow when I arrive but other than that, she's all yo-"
He was interrupted by a scream echoing down the hallway that turned his blood to ice. He and Marty looked to each other before sprinting out the room and down the corridor; they skidded against the floor around the corner, barreling down toward Jubilee's room. When they burst through the door, the pair froze at the carnage before them.
Jubilee was crouched over the body of the orderly, her mouth bloodied as she tore and supped and licked in a frenzy at what was left of the poor man's throat. The man himself was pallid and his eyes shifted wildly around the room and over the agents as the last light left them, the blood pumping from his savaged neck in weaker and weaker pulses before finally stilling, his limbs going slack. Jubilee just continued to sup, burying her mouth in the wound.
She finally noticed them, looking up from her prize carcass. Her eyes were a deep and intense scarlet, and as she hissed at them like an animal she bared terrible, jagged fangs that sprouted from her jaw.
"Jesus Christ! She's a fucking vampire!"
Jasper stepped backwards slowly, trying not to pay attention to Marty's yell.
"Marty...c-call security...we need to contain this mess." He whispered, careful not to interrupt Jubilee's...feed.
L U C I L L E C A L D E RL U C I L L E C A L D E R
Location: Augmented Reality Center - P.R.C.U. Campus
Dance Monkey #4.084: Trophy Kill
Interaction(s): Alyssa, @Lord Wraith
Alyssa was somewhere in the crowd when it started; Luce felt only familiar, almost nostalgic surges of fear and adrenaline rushing through her as the beast arrived and swiftly began clawing its way through the few foolish enough to stand against it. Luce knew, almost immediately, that she was also foolish enough to stand against it, and just hoped Alyssa would be there to back her up as usual. She hurriedly studied the creature; despite its fangs and claws, its stone-like skin, the powerful set of wings and tail to match, this thing was far too big - and, more to the point as it demonstrated its clear command over language - too smart to be an actual gargoyle. No, what she quickly realized as it exchanged words and blows with Torres and Blackjack, was that this thing before them had, at one point, been Robert Arkwright. She cursed inwardly. Robert had been a noble and intelligent man, well-respected despite his appearance. How many more would be twisted, corrupted, forced against once-brethren?
"'Lyssa!" She yelled, hoping her cry could be heard over the general pandemonium the ARC was quickly descending into. "Alyssa! Sound off!"
From across what used to be the dance-floor behind some overturned tables came the reply and a freckled hand thrown into the air.
"Over here!"
Luce was across in a flash, ducking and tumbling around the beast as she collapsed to her friend's side, the pair of them braced against the meager cover Alyssa had managed to secure.
"Don't suppose you brought any weapons with you to this dance?" Luce said, words breaking through ragged panting as her suped-up endocrine system continued to flush her body with adrenaline. Her hands shook and her eyes were wild and you could see her breath practically fogging in the air, thick and hot and feral.
"Lucille Calder, you know I did not!" Alyssa replied. "Usually I am weapon enough!"
Luce peeked over the top edge of the table as Rory and Gil made separate but equally ill-fated stands. She held herself back from crying out when Rory's leg snapped, but the maiming inflicted upon Gil and his clones made even Luce's hardened stomach turn somersaults in her belly.
"Fuck! Fuck!" Was all Luce could manage, her brain oscillating between panic-response catatonic and power-fueled savagery.
“Pardon the intrusion, ladies, but this might be of some help,” A familiar drawl interrupted as the pair found none other than the Chancellor sliding in beside them, holding his signature weapon out towards Luce. ”I’ll get to Tyler and Barnes, you two are used to fighting this sort of thing aren’t y’all?”
“That is a matter of perspective.” Alyssa replied. “At first when I heard the wing beats, I assumed it was a wyvern. We are used to fighting wyrms and wyverns - do you perhaps have one of those you might require the assistance of some honorary Jäger to dispatch?” She asked, her voice full of humourless mirth.
“‘Fraid not, ladies. Can’t ask y’all to put your lives in danger, but I’m afraid our boy ate the wrong Wheaties and he’s going to continue to wipe the floor with whelps who’ve never seen combat outside of a controlled environment. Comms are cooked; got no way to call in the cavalry 'til I make it to the next building over.”
“No alarms from the grid?” Alyssa asked with surprise.
“H.E.L.P. is so depleted these days, it’s unlikely there’s anyone to even respond to it. Torres’ phone though - it has a button to call in the big guns. If one of you can get it and unlock it, we might yet live.” Jim added before Alyssa slowly nodded. She looked to Luce, sharing a knowing look before motioning to her clutch.
She may not have brought weapons, but she wasn’t unprepared.
”It’s not my life I’m worried about!” Luce hissed, accepting Jim’s gun and feeling the cold weight of the sizeable revolver in her hands. She flicked open the cylinder and gave it a quick spin, assuring herself of the gun’s good condition before flicking the bullets back into place. Six shots. She’d have to make them count.
”Just make sure they splint it all properly when they’re re-aligning everything.” She said to Jim. ”And have the good morphine ready.”
She gave Alyssa’s hand a squeeze, returning her gaze before disappearing around the edge of the table.
Watching as Luce disappeared, Alyssa cracked her neck before standing. If ever there was a ‘David and Goliath’ moment in her life, it was now. The creature was quite literally calling out taunts against the army of students, and with Luce ready, it was time for Alyssa to do her part.
“Do you have any more insects to throw at me or are we quite done with this game?”
“Bigger than you.” She replied defiantly before walking forward beneath the flickering lights that illuminated her head and its fiery adornments, stepping forth while summoning her bio-metal to form into a blade around her hand. With an expert twist of her wrist, Alyssa quickly cut the train from the floor-length dress she had been wearing; tearing a slit in the side, she kicked her heels to the side, a swirling form of liquid metal wrapping itself in her opposite hand.
“Pardon?” The gargoyle asked with a sneer.
“Bigger than you. I have felled bigger than you.”
“I find that unlikely.”
“I assumed you would - which is why I wanted your attention on me, and not Lucille Calder.”
“No!” The Chernobog roared, turning to pounce on Haven only to be blocked by a purple shield of energy.
“Together!” Alyssa yelled, darting around the shield. She lunged with her blade, catching the Chernobog off-guard before turning, as the mercury-like metal instinctively formed a shield that caught an incoming claw. A retaliation threatened to draw blood as Alyssa rolled between its legs, aiming for where the Achilles tendon ought to be; but she neglected to account for the Chernobog’s tail, which now slammed down in front of her, prompting her to tumble deftly to the side before a powerful flap of its leathery wings sent her reeling away. Her powers protected her, retracting her blade before covering her body in a metallic shell as her nails extended and regained grip against the icy floor.
Luce meanwhile used Alyssa’s distraction to bolt for Torres’ crumpled form, desperately seeking the phone to call in some heavy-hitters. With Chernobog scrambling after her partner she had a clear run from her position to where Teresa lay, wounded and wheezing against the wall, and after a few faltering steps she took it, weaving through the fleeing crowd, keeping one eye on her target and the other on Chernobog and Alyssa’s dancing figures. Every time a claw clashed against the redhead’s metal or she tumbled through a tail-swipe, Luce’s heart skipped a beat, terrified for her friend but horror-stricken more by what it might mean if they failed.
Luce flinched as she watched the jagged tail slam down mere inches away from Alyssa; she felt the back-draft of the gust from the wings and Alyssa skidded away, scrambling on the frosted floor to gain purchase once more and return to her assault. But she was slow - tired, on compromised footing, and the beast was too big and so, so frighteningly fast. Luce saw it happening before Alyssa did and nothing in the world could have stopped her taking her next course of action, movement so instinctual and automatic Luce barely registered she’d even done it before the claw meant for Alyssa instead slammed into her, raking across her torso and sending Luce flying across the hall. She hit the wall hard, wood splintering from the impact and brick crumbling; there were a few long seconds as the dust billowed out and obscured whatever injury had been inflicted on the girl.
Gunshots rang out from the crater. Two, three, four, great bursts of light and sound as the muzzle-flash repeated itself. Luce stepped forward, grimacing but upright. Her right arm, initially wielding the pistol, was bent back unnaturally far at the elbow, her ulna burst forth from the wrist and now she fired the revolver with her left instead; the fingers there were sporting their own splinters of wood and fragments of bone poking out, yet squeezed that trigger again and again all the same. The gash from his claws came down diagonally across her torso, and if you looked closely you could see her heart, exposed and rent open, but still beating weakly; her liver was picking up the rest of the slack. She was shaky on her bruised and scratched but still-intact legs, practically vibrating from the adrenaline crashing through her veins, and she pulled raggedy, spittled breaths through a hole in her throat. Her vocal cords were traumatised from the blow, but hell if that meant Luce couldn’t yell at Chernobog at the top of her over-clocked lungs, making a sound like she was underwater.
”Why…can’t you just…fucking leave us alone?!”
"'Lyssa!" She yelled, hoping her cry could be heard over the general pandemonium the ARC was quickly descending into. "Alyssa! Sound off!"
From across what used to be the dance-floor behind some overturned tables came the reply and a freckled hand thrown into the air.
"Over here!"
Luce was across in a flash, ducking and tumbling around the beast as she collapsed to her friend's side, the pair of them braced against the meager cover Alyssa had managed to secure.
"Don't suppose you brought any weapons with you to this dance?" Luce said, words breaking through ragged panting as her suped-up endocrine system continued to flush her body with adrenaline. Her hands shook and her eyes were wild and you could see her breath practically fogging in the air, thick and hot and feral.
"Lucille Calder, you know I did not!" Alyssa replied. "Usually I am weapon enough!"
Luce peeked over the top edge of the table as Rory and Gil made separate but equally ill-fated stands. She held herself back from crying out when Rory's leg snapped, but the maiming inflicted upon Gil and his clones made even Luce's hardened stomach turn somersaults in her belly.
"Fuck! Fuck!" Was all Luce could manage, her brain oscillating between panic-response catatonic and power-fueled savagery.
“Pardon the intrusion, ladies, but this might be of some help,” A familiar drawl interrupted as the pair found none other than the Chancellor sliding in beside them, holding his signature weapon out towards Luce. ”I’ll get to Tyler and Barnes, you two are used to fighting this sort of thing aren’t y’all?”
“That is a matter of perspective.” Alyssa replied. “At first when I heard the wing beats, I assumed it was a wyvern. We are used to fighting wyrms and wyverns - do you perhaps have one of those you might require the assistance of some honorary Jäger to dispatch?” She asked, her voice full of humourless mirth.
“‘Fraid not, ladies. Can’t ask y’all to put your lives in danger, but I’m afraid our boy ate the wrong Wheaties and he’s going to continue to wipe the floor with whelps who’ve never seen combat outside of a controlled environment. Comms are cooked; got no way to call in the cavalry 'til I make it to the next building over.”
“No alarms from the grid?” Alyssa asked with surprise.
“H.E.L.P. is so depleted these days, it’s unlikely there’s anyone to even respond to it. Torres’ phone though - it has a button to call in the big guns. If one of you can get it and unlock it, we might yet live.” Jim added before Alyssa slowly nodded. She looked to Luce, sharing a knowing look before motioning to her clutch.
She may not have brought weapons, but she wasn’t unprepared.
”It’s not my life I’m worried about!” Luce hissed, accepting Jim’s gun and feeling the cold weight of the sizeable revolver in her hands. She flicked open the cylinder and gave it a quick spin, assuring herself of the gun’s good condition before flicking the bullets back into place. Six shots. She’d have to make them count.
”Just make sure they splint it all properly when they’re re-aligning everything.” She said to Jim. ”And have the good morphine ready.”
She gave Alyssa’s hand a squeeze, returning her gaze before disappearing around the edge of the table.
Watching as Luce disappeared, Alyssa cracked her neck before standing. If ever there was a ‘David and Goliath’ moment in her life, it was now. The creature was quite literally calling out taunts against the army of students, and with Luce ready, it was time for Alyssa to do her part.
“Do you have any more insects to throw at me or are we quite done with this game?”
“Bigger than you.” She replied defiantly before walking forward beneath the flickering lights that illuminated her head and its fiery adornments, stepping forth while summoning her bio-metal to form into a blade around her hand. With an expert twist of her wrist, Alyssa quickly cut the train from the floor-length dress she had been wearing; tearing a slit in the side, she kicked her heels to the side, a swirling form of liquid metal wrapping itself in her opposite hand.
“Pardon?” The gargoyle asked with a sneer.
“Bigger than you. I have felled bigger than you.”
“I find that unlikely.”
“I assumed you would - which is why I wanted your attention on me, and not Lucille Calder.”
“No!” The Chernobog roared, turning to pounce on Haven only to be blocked by a purple shield of energy.
“Together!” Alyssa yelled, darting around the shield. She lunged with her blade, catching the Chernobog off-guard before turning, as the mercury-like metal instinctively formed a shield that caught an incoming claw. A retaliation threatened to draw blood as Alyssa rolled between its legs, aiming for where the Achilles tendon ought to be; but she neglected to account for the Chernobog’s tail, which now slammed down in front of her, prompting her to tumble deftly to the side before a powerful flap of its leathery wings sent her reeling away. Her powers protected her, retracting her blade before covering her body in a metallic shell as her nails extended and regained grip against the icy floor.
Luce meanwhile used Alyssa’s distraction to bolt for Torres’ crumpled form, desperately seeking the phone to call in some heavy-hitters. With Chernobog scrambling after her partner she had a clear run from her position to where Teresa lay, wounded and wheezing against the wall, and after a few faltering steps she took it, weaving through the fleeing crowd, keeping one eye on her target and the other on Chernobog and Alyssa’s dancing figures. Every time a claw clashed against the redhead’s metal or she tumbled through a tail-swipe, Luce’s heart skipped a beat, terrified for her friend but horror-stricken more by what it might mean if they failed.
Luce flinched as she watched the jagged tail slam down mere inches away from Alyssa; she felt the back-draft of the gust from the wings and Alyssa skidded away, scrambling on the frosted floor to gain purchase once more and return to her assault. But she was slow - tired, on compromised footing, and the beast was too big and so, so frighteningly fast. Luce saw it happening before Alyssa did and nothing in the world could have stopped her taking her next course of action, movement so instinctual and automatic Luce barely registered she’d even done it before the claw meant for Alyssa instead slammed into her, raking across her torso and sending Luce flying across the hall. She hit the wall hard, wood splintering from the impact and brick crumbling; there were a few long seconds as the dust billowed out and obscured whatever injury had been inflicted on the girl.
Gunshots rang out from the crater. Two, three, four, great bursts of light and sound as the muzzle-flash repeated itself. Luce stepped forward, grimacing but upright. Her right arm, initially wielding the pistol, was bent back unnaturally far at the elbow, her ulna burst forth from the wrist and now she fired the revolver with her left instead; the fingers there were sporting their own splinters of wood and fragments of bone poking out, yet squeezed that trigger again and again all the same. The gash from his claws came down diagonally across her torso, and if you looked closely you could see her heart, exposed and rent open, but still beating weakly; her liver was picking up the rest of the slack. She was shaky on her bruised and scratched but still-intact legs, practically vibrating from the adrenaline crashing through her veins, and she pulled raggedy, spittled breaths through a hole in her throat. Her vocal cords were traumatised from the blow, but hell if that meant Luce couldn’t yell at Chernobog at the top of her over-clocked lungs, making a sound like she was underwater.
”Why…can’t you just…fucking leave us alone?!”
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A DG I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
Location: Augmented Reality Center - P.R.C.U. Campus
Dance Monkey #4.079: Heads Will Roll
Interaction(s): N/A
Gil froze up as the monster broke through the ARC ceiling and quickly began to decimate the scene. Why did this keep happening? Why were they continually targeted over and over and over again? Who the fuck was Daedalus, and why couldn't he just fucking die and stay dead?!
It was all a blur, events happening in such quick succession Gil could barely keep track. Cassander flew in first, unleashing a blast that had Gil covering his eyes and being blinded by pure white regardless; yet when the haze cleared and vision returned, the beast stood as if assaulted by nothing more than a light breeze, Cass hanging helpless and impotent by the throat in the clutches of one of its powerful claws. Gil could only stare, transfixed, convinced he was watching an execution unfold before him - a strange morbid tension stilling the air, like the collective held breath of the crowd in the seconds preceding the dropping of the noose - before Torres broke the spell, her strong voice and will pushing through the screams to rescue Cassander at her own sacrifice. She sailed through the air, discarded by the beast as easily as balled-up paper; the blood that burst forth from the initial blow stained students and floor alike, while more seeped from her crumpled form against the wall, pooling around her.
Rory appeared behind them, his face full of intensity and mettle that Gil hadn't seen in him before; this was a Rory far-flung from the usual thoughtful-and-slightly-thick - this Rory was a leader, a man to stand behind, a man to honor and be honored by through the heeding of his words. And his words came, laced thick with gravitas that seized Gil's attention and brought him headlong into the very real threat that loomed over them. The plan was so profoundly brilliant in its simplicity - Rory unleashing Amma's wrath so that Amma herself didn't have to - that for a brief, blissful window, Gil thought they might have a chance.
And then there was wind, and ice, and the beast was upon them and Rory was screaming on the floor clutching his leg. It was all happening again, just like the trials, and they seemed even more powerless to stop it this time.
From there the only thing Gil's mind could focus on was doing absolutely anything he could to ensure the towering creature didn't get within an inch of Amma. A strange little voice in the back of his head told him that this was so much more straightforward than the trials, his path of action so much clearer; defending Amma was all he had now. He could still feel wisps of her within him from their shared kiss, a connection there forged deeper than anything he'd ever experienced in his life. He knew aspects of her he didn't even know about himself, secrets she had no reason to tell that were unjustly plucked and placed in Gil's core all the same. He stepped forward and threw his arm across her, not a single inkling of an idea of what he'd do against this monster forming in his head but every atom screaming it doesn't matter; he had to buy her even just a scant few seconds.
"No one is coming with you." He said, stepping into the space between the beast and the rest of the students, his voice shaky and uncertain but carrying strength of conviction all the same. He clenched his fists to still his hands and cool his head, preparing himself for a difficult death.
2"Her name isn't Tiamat."
3"And it's not Ummu-Hubur."
Gils one through three glared defiantly with three pairs of eyes and one common purpose. Gil stood flanked by himself, suddenly summoning a deep truth even he wasn't quite sure how he knew, but was grateful for nonetheless.
1"It's Ammaranthe. And she's exactly where she belongs."
It was all a blur, events happening in such quick succession Gil could barely keep track. Cassander flew in first, unleashing a blast that had Gil covering his eyes and being blinded by pure white regardless; yet when the haze cleared and vision returned, the beast stood as if assaulted by nothing more than a light breeze, Cass hanging helpless and impotent by the throat in the clutches of one of its powerful claws. Gil could only stare, transfixed, convinced he was watching an execution unfold before him - a strange morbid tension stilling the air, like the collective held breath of the crowd in the seconds preceding the dropping of the noose - before Torres broke the spell, her strong voice and will pushing through the screams to rescue Cassander at her own sacrifice. She sailed through the air, discarded by the beast as easily as balled-up paper; the blood that burst forth from the initial blow stained students and floor alike, while more seeped from her crumpled form against the wall, pooling around her.
Rory appeared behind them, his face full of intensity and mettle that Gil hadn't seen in him before; this was a Rory far-flung from the usual thoughtful-and-slightly-thick - this Rory was a leader, a man to stand behind, a man to honor and be honored by through the heeding of his words. And his words came, laced thick with gravitas that seized Gil's attention and brought him headlong into the very real threat that loomed over them. The plan was so profoundly brilliant in its simplicity - Rory unleashing Amma's wrath so that Amma herself didn't have to - that for a brief, blissful window, Gil thought they might have a chance.
And then there was wind, and ice, and the beast was upon them and Rory was screaming on the floor clutching his leg. It was all happening again, just like the trials, and they seemed even more powerless to stop it this time.
From there the only thing Gil's mind could focus on was doing absolutely anything he could to ensure the towering creature didn't get within an inch of Amma. A strange little voice in the back of his head told him that this was so much more straightforward than the trials, his path of action so much clearer; defending Amma was all he had now. He could still feel wisps of her within him from their shared kiss, a connection there forged deeper than anything he'd ever experienced in his life. He knew aspects of her he didn't even know about himself, secrets she had no reason to tell that were unjustly plucked and placed in Gil's core all the same. He stepped forward and threw his arm across her, not a single inkling of an idea of what he'd do against this monster forming in his head but every atom screaming it doesn't matter; he had to buy her even just a scant few seconds.
"No one is coming with you." He said, stepping into the space between the beast and the rest of the students, his voice shaky and uncertain but carrying strength of conviction all the same. He clenched his fists to still his hands and cool his head, preparing himself for a difficult death.
2"Her name isn't Tiamat."
3"And it's not Ummu-Hubur."
Gils one through three glared defiantly with three pairs of eyes and one common purpose. Gil stood flanked by himself, suddenly summoning a deep truth even he wasn't quite sure how he knew, but was grateful for nonetheless.
1"It's Ammaranthe. And she's exactly where she belongs."
G I L G A L A H A D // A M M A C A H O R S
G I L G A L A H A D // A M M A C A H O R S
Location: Augmented Reality Center - P.R.C.U. Campus
Dance Monkey #4.072: Harpe
Interaction(s): Amma, @Rockette
Gil was drinking and eating, eating and drinking, truly showcasing the great British past-time of binge-boozing, all while watching Amma on the dancefloor with a mix of mourning and yearning. He barely registered Banjo’s appearance before him until the Aussie’s accent broke through the noise; Gil’s attention snapped to him fiercely, as in the same moment Banjo snatched away his food and drink, swallowing both in equal measure just to definitively deny it to Gil. He opened his mouth to protest, but Banjo was quicker than Gil’s alcohol-soaked brain.
"You're not gonna like this, but remember it's me. And I'm equally likely to dack you in front of everybody as I am to give you the boot in the arse you so sorely bloody need. So be thankful I'm goin' with this route."
And with that, Banjo’s bad leg was on Gil’s good backside and giving him a swift and measured kick away from the booze and onto the dancefloor, carefully-aimed to put him right in the path of the woman he’d been watching most of the evening.
The tempo of the music dipped almost on cue; the DJ cutting away the pounding tunes, shifting to a slower, more intimate soundtrack. Unconsciously, Gil found himself drawn to Amma’s nearby form, and if she had any reservations she kept them to herself. The two were quickly entwined, one of Gil’s hands on the small of Amma’s back and the other gently lacing fingers together with her as he lead them in a simple but elegant swaying movement, old muscle memory coming back as he carefully guided their feet one way, then the other, then back again.
She was only slightly out of breath when they met, her previous display of power slowly dispersing as delicate waves of scarlet through her palms traveled down her arms and waist, hissing into tendrils that fled onto the dancefloor the moment his touch settled on her spine. Amma observed other couples, the movements in some awkward and others fluid, and had realized that such a mundane and simplistic motion held reservations through so many as pairs came and went on the intimate plucking of string instruments and quaint melodies. Her opposite hand settled over his shoulder with a flutter, allowing Gil to lead them (she had never formally danced before, but he led her with a finesse that bespoke of experience). With the quiet that fell upon them, Amma permitted herself a reprieve to study the man who so effortlessly drew her attention through the crowd, a sort of helpless and immediate draw that was sired on an unconscious level that levied her usual hesitations.
Here, and even before when he flitted on the edges of the dancefloor, watching her, Gil beheld a dour expression, content to ply and drown himself in food and drink, his movements elegant but weighted with an emotion Amma couldn’t place, for it was her sincerity often muddied by a surge of hopelessness felt and undone, and credit it to her lightness of foot at the glitz and glam that adorned her surroundings, or perhaps to her powers still coiling betwixt flesh and bone. Still, she made a subtle gesture with her hair tossed back to expose gilded shoulders as he guided them to and fro.
“You seem awfully moody for someone who helped pull all this off.” Not quite a whisper, but just an octave higher, her accent threaded through her playful words offered by a slight cant of her head.
Gil was too drunk to be anything but surly, even as he shivered skin-to-skin with Amma and swam in great gulping breaths of her perfume.
“A fake sheen over a fake recreation of a fake life. Of my fake life. I’m thrilled.”
“Oh yes, the scowl is most becoming.” Amma quipped back and leaned in just so, close but yet far, vague in her words as she often was, with lazy spools of warmth coiling through her limbs as she drew her index finger across his shoulder, a delicate dance of her gestures against the purple threads of his suit jacket. “Must be all of that acting you do.”
“Did.” Gil said, off-handedly, and Amma raised but a single eyebrow. “I quit. Don’t know what I’m going to do after the academy but…it’s not going to be that anymore.”
“Just like that, huh.” She responded immediately, her accent slipping off into a whisper, a touch of understanding, to face the uncertainty of what came after. Amma couldn't even begin to comprehend that shadow of a thought that came and went. For her, the concept of a future was a bleak promise of destructive retribution.
“Is that the reason for your sullen face then?”
“Just like that.” Gil said, almost wistful. The faintest trace of a smile flashed across his lips. “I suppose I’m just…ready to put all this behind me. Permanently. This ‘theme’ was thought up by a very much mask-on Gil. I know it’s only been a week, but he feels like a lifetime away.”
Amma went quiet at that, her eyes dropping at the flutter of her lashes, lulled by the music that guided their swaying, a whirl of thoughts ringing between her ears before she said: “I… sort of get that. In that, things feel a lifetime away.” She rolled her lips together, teeth against her pout, before a smile broke across there, a darling glimmer that fought against the eclipsing mask she, too, wore as the ill-sought harbinger. “To cast away the role made for you by you. I suppose that makes you free.” A word foreign to her likeness that caused a slight flex through her arms, her fingers laced together with his own tightening just a fraction, squeezing slightly before she relaxed.
“Free, ha!” Gil broke a true smile now, and the hand on Amma’s back moved to wrap around her waist and pull her closer still. “Yes, that’s right. Free to cock up my life all on my own.”
They swayed softly, Gil no longer able to maintain his misery in the face of Amma’s gentle words and tender gestures.
“You look beautiful this evening, by the way.”
“Mm, so you did notice behind all that doom and gloom.” Amma lanced back swiftly, unable to deny the flush that flamed through her figure, weighted as coals ignited in every movement made and felt. “You clean up well,” she mused aloud, her palm against his shoulder feathering up to his neck, the pulse beneath her gestures leaping at her touch.
“I'm glad you found me when you did; I've had to turn down quite a few people this evening. Something in the air has them feeling brave.” She laughed, something of a teasing flair, a dance not only in their bodies so close with naught a fragment of space betwixt them but a soft challenge in the gaze that found his eyes and held there.
“I’m sullen, not blind.” Gil teased back. “Had I known you were saving a space, though…well, I probably wouldn’t have needed Banjo’s ‘encouragement’ to dance.”
They held each other's eyes for a few long moments as the music swelled around them.
“Saving anything else for me?”
“Actually…” She breathed, distracted at the moment, her nails delicately plucking at the small arrangement of flowers still pinned to her dress. White petals now lay with remnants of glittering red fragments, such a superficial adornment that she held in her inked hand before she pinned it to the lapel of his purple jacket. Her head canted to one side as she studied the placement as she had seen done on others.
“A custom, I guess- as was explained to me by the girls.”
Gil watched as Amma’s intricately-woven fingers delicately pinned the boutonnière to his lapel; he silently cursed himself for leaving behind the corsage Aurora had thoughtfully sent to Lorcán’s dorm room. He had been too wrapped up in himself to consider it might have made an intimate gesture for Amma.
“Stupid…I didn’t think about it. Aurora even had some sent over, but I was more worried about getting blotto. But thank you…it’s gorgeous.”
He held his hand over the pinned flower for a few moments and then proffered his other face-up to Amma; suddenly, with a slight shimmering haze, a copy appeared cradled in his open hand. Carefully, he plucked it from his palm with two fingers and affixed it to her dress, mirroring the positioning as close he could.
“Hand-crafted with my very own hazies. Hopefully better than nothing.”
Amma was silent in the intimate exchange, the performance of his powers so streamlined compared to her own as he pinned an exact copy to her dress, watching the careful gestures, the two of them standing still in a swaying crowd. She had not considered nor expected to receive such a sentiment, despite what had been mentioned in the purposes of corsages and boutonnières; a faint shimmer hovered there, the perfect replica more symbolic than she realized. Her fingers came up to trace over the white petals and line of her dress, the fabric cool against her touch before she reached forward to curl her fingers against his jaw, soft and delicate, nearly unfelt before Amma leaned up to ghost her lips against his cheek in a kiss that spun into a whisper against his skin.
“Thank you, Gil.”
The hand that stilled over her collarbone where it had pinned the flower moved easily, smoothly upwards across her neck, thumb tracing her clavicle and the veins beneath her pale skin before resting on her chin and gently tilting her face towards his. When their lips met, he pulled her in tightly. Something like a spark emanated: a crackle of red across the outline of their shared figure, shadowed and crimson lightning that converged on the replicated flower.
The way her powers bloomed and swelled elicited a gasp that hung somewhere in her throat, reminiscent of a stuttered breath as electric coils snapped and dragged over her arms, posturing in the lingering remains of black and silver that feathered from her grasp as Amma slid her hands up and over his shoulders and pulled Gil even tighter against her. She felt the siring of warmth at her front, faint lines that pulsated over and over, in tandem with her heart that bound the two of them in the fated tendrils of red and something within that melded entirely with his own, a shared breath as she drew back, eyes aglow and lost and hazed before she kissed him again with renewed intensity.
A colliding manifest of wrath, sorrow, and loss, a melding of two halves wrapt in desire, she felt and tasted the bitterness of uncertainty, the lines of fate swollen with the want and need of connection and purpose. A heaviness that shifted there through their kiss. It melded and coiled with the vibrations felt through the world as Amma relinquished pieces of herself that no one had ever known- a singular construct that yawned as a bridge between a unified soul.
In that kiss Gil felt a presence unlike any experienced before, a mix of self and other, simultaneously alien and instinctual. Wrath, not his but powerful and consuming, was an ever-present specter, but in this moment it was tempered with grief - and then all scurried regardless to dark corners to be replaced by exploding passion and excitement and desire, a fever that burst and bloomed like firework flower-heads in their bellies. This was a mingling deeper than the heat of their breaths, and lips against partner, and hands pulling skin and cloth taut into one another; emotions and scattered thoughts were interwoven and shared, randomly selected and extricated effortlessly from closely-guarded cages. It was frightening, exhilarating, intoxicating. Gil broke away, searching in Amma’s eyes for a hint of what he’d felt, confirmation she’d experienced the same.
Shared breath heated and fanned and plumed between lips and lungs and teeth, heavy and intoxicated by more than just spirits and wine, shored with obsidian and crimson lightning that struck and writhed and finally withered away into a spectacle of ribbon-like silver that reflected back in half-lidded eyes of blue that searched and carved a path through steel and heat and desire. Amma inhaled sharp and quick- words that floundered and failed and retreated from tender lips as she shuddered from the remnants of powers still quaking through her frame before it pooled low into her belly as an abyss of hunger that could barely be sated, an overwhelming swell of connection that anchored her to Gil in more ways than one, a now intertwined surge of knowing him as he was, as he had been, and what he could be through hazy shadows. Amma leaned in, foreheads touching, a familiar gesture known to them as the only answer he needed that she had felt the same.
As the music changed and the pace quickened the words petered out and all that was left was hasted, passionate movement as Amma and Gil separated and began to truly dance in earnest. The crowd around them melted away into a blur of faces and cloth and all Gil could feel was the hard wood beaten rhythmically beneath his shoes and the warmth of Amma’s body close by, weaving out her own pulsing pattern. The music alchemized with the alcohol in Gil’s belly and synthesized some manner of elixir, that spread throughout him and swept him away from his surroundings; forced out of his own head and only able to focus on his body and the rhythm pounding through, the weight of his misery lifted until all he was doing was dancing.
Her earlier performance had been a summons, a deliberate show of power and ability that aligned eyes upon her figure undone through the carefully laid intentions in her smiling graces. Amma now danced with a carefree flare, lightened in the moment and yet weighted by that fluttering connection betwixt them. The silken line of her skirts fell around her legs with every twirl, the thrum of music measured out in every sway and then left abandoned when it swept up and over in a thrumming beat with every other snap of her heels. She brought herself closer to Gil and then she would sway back, almost playful in the breadth she would allow with roaming hands that fell over his shoulders, some instances where she would perch on his chest and lean in so close that tendrils of midnight hair would brush against him. Amma’s smile was one of a veil being lifted, a shedding of a mask of sorts that glistened gold, encouraged by the wine that she still tasted on her tongue, the taste of him in every breath she took, and the commanding presence she afforded as everyone and everything fell away into blissful nothings of red and black.
Location: Augmented Reality Center - P.R.C.U. Campus
Dance Monkey #4.071: And I'm Watching All The Stars Burn Out
Interaction(s): Alyssa, @Lord Wraith // Banjo, @Hound55
Lucille Calder cut a drastic figure among the student body.
Her dress was...bold. Backless, the bodice covering her chest but otherwise delivering bare shoulders and sides, and below the waist it split in two before stretching to the floor, a double-slit effect that drew attention to her toned legs. Her hair, no longer than her jawline, was still pushed back, but rather than the hasty and practical slick she usually sported, this was more elegant and considered, strands of silvered hair artfully woven and set into a braided crown as the rest fell away. And then her makeup; Luce had always been pale, and she'd chosen a powdered foundation that only accentuated this, paired with a matte-black that swept across her eyes and brow in strong, sharp lines, ending in vicious points. All in all, the combined effect gave her already-severe face an almost regal but predatory quality, and as she scanned the faces of her peers, many freshmen - and some sophomores, too - cowed beneath her intense gaze.
The point of the dress was almost a challenge in and of itself; many were aware of Luce's abilities, but most assumed it was a neat and tidy healing process - her staunch refusal to attend the university's infirmary was well known within her (admittedly limited) social circle. Those assumptions were plainly wrong, though; there was nothing 'neat' nor 'tidy' about Luce's power, and every injury mitigated still left its appropriate scars. Luce still bore those from her awakening, the very first time she had cheated death, and over the years she had collected several more, her skin criss-crossed with burns and lashes and bite-marks from her gap-year encounters aside Alyssa. Her usual attire hid these - long sleeves and practical trousers tucked into boots - but tonight's dress was specifically chosen to show these off, force them out into the open and prevent either Luce or her peers from hiding from them.
She lingered on the fringes of the thrumming crowd, sipping her martini, feeling...small. Despite the meaning behind the choice of dress, Luce felt old anxieties bubbling within her, and the scars meant to be worn as armour instead only made her feel exposed and vulnerable. Alyssa, her usual buffer in troubling scenarios, was amidst the shifting bodies at Luce's own encouragement, and her roommates had similarly dispersed to find closer friends or hopeful romantic connections. Even Eden, her bubbly blond teammate unusually forgiving of Luce's anti-social tendencies, and perhaps the closest thing Luce had to a true friend on the team beyond Alyssa, had disappeared to mingle.
A shock of red hair suddenly appeared from the throng, and beelined for Luce. She finished the rest of her martini as Alyssa approached.
"Lucille Calder, are you avoiding having fun?" She teased, a wry smile playing on her lips.
"I'm having my own perfectly acceptable kind of fun, 'Lyssa." Luce replied, her face as stoic as usual.
"How is it your kind of fun so often involves standing away from everybody else, not doing anything?"
Luce cut Alyssa one of her trademark withering looks, a glare that had long since lost any power over her friend, if indeed it ever held any to begin with. Alyssa had an incorrigible and pragmatic positivity to her that even Luce's brand of cynicism could not stymie.
"Look, I know you don't get on with everybody in Firebird, but you're not restricted to them. What about your old teammates in Blackjack?"
Luce surveyed the hall again; it was true, Luce struggled with many of her teammates (it was only Alyssa and Eden she could honestly say she enjoyed the company of), and most of Firebird were scattered across the gala anyway. Even now she spotted Cass sauntering along the dancefloor and felt the usual pang of irritation at his smug, caustic persona. Her old team, though? Even before the gap year, she had moved away deliberately from Team 21, and by the time they she and Alyssa had returned to PRCU...
"There's more of Blackjack that are strangers to me now than aren't." Luce said, and it was true; with Calliope off-island and Katja a shadow around campus, she was one of only three remaining of Blackjack's original roster from when she'd first enrolled at the academy. She spotted Rory in the crowd, sharing a dance with his new beau, but when she looked at her empty glass, and then over to the bar, thinking of a refill, she saw a familiar head of messy blond hair. Or it would usually be messy, anyway; even from here she could see it had been impressively tamed.
"Fine. I need a few more drinks if I'm to spend my entire evening here." She said, relinquishing beneath Alyssa's urging eyes. The girls had known each other the better part of five years; it was perhaps the singular reason Alyssa could so easily goad Luce into going against her insular nature, for better and for worse. Either way, Luce pushed herself off the wall and gently patted Alyssa's shoulder - the closest she got to an affectionate gesture - before weaving her way through the crowd towards the bar.
She didn't need to say a word to order; she was a memorable face, and the bartender merely gestured to her empty martini glass as she set it on the surface. A nod was given and the empty glass was whisked away, soon to be replaced by one new and freshly-filled. She sipped cautiously, ensuring the refill was of satisfactory quality, before spinning and leaning against the bar with one elbow, facing perhaps the only old teammate with which she shared some camaraderie.
"I'm sorry Calliope couldn't be here this evening." She opened with, proffering uncommon sympathies to her ex-comrade; but beyond platitudes, she wasn't quite sure how to navigate conversation. "Blackjack's had a rough start to the year so far, huh?"
"We're livin' through it." He raised the juice to his lips again. "You, more than anyone, know all about that, eh..?"
Similarly, the things she'd seen, the places she'd been. Banjo certainly didn't view himself as anything less than 'well travelled', but the tales Luce doubtless had to tell were certainly beyond his ability to relate. Ever since her 'hiatus', at least.
"She'd have been proud." He determined, a single nod from a tight jaw. Placing the empty glass on the bar and gesturing to the night's interim junior barkeep for another. "Course you tell Gil or Baxter I said that... I'll deny every word." His teeth flashed a sizable grin whilst he struggled to hold his form, avoiding making eye contact with his old teammate knowing it would cause him to break out a laugh.
"How 'bout you? How are you holdin' up? Since we both know bein' upright, on two feet isn't much of a gauge in your case. Takin' care of yourself?"
"I can't say your celebrity friend is in a fit state to talk to anybody tonight," she replied, tilting her glass slightly in the C-lister's direction; he was standing at the precipice between buffet and dance floor, nibbling away while tipping back a cocktail from a highball glass. Luce watched him polish off the drink and move on to a beer bottle. "And Baxter...I don't like being looked at at the best of times." She looked to Banjo, who looked pointedly up and down at her dress and wiggled his eyebrows in that particular way he had. "Tonight notwithstanding."
She took a step closer to sit by Banjo on the stool next to him.
"Alyssa keeps me steady. The time we spent away was...changing. But being back; it can feel like we never left in the first place. Everything keeps ticking on."
She sighed. Returning to the academy had been a contentious decision between her and Alyssa; Luce could have cut ties like shedding a limb and never looked back, even to her own detriment. Especially to her own detriment. Alyssa was more optimistic, more faithful than Luce.
Ultimately, she realized she could leave PRCU behind, but never Alyssa; so with her friend's heart set on coming back, Luce had relented and returned beside her.
"I'm grateful the greenhouse is still here, at least." She concluded quietly, almost wistful; all of Firebird and many more of the general student body were well aware of the long hours Luce spent among her flowers and vegetables at the campus' allotments.
There was an awkward pause, and Luce realized this was the moment she was supposed to reciprocate.
"And you? I heard you were put up in the infirmary again." She said, halting and worrying she sounded insincere. She noted Banjo's soggy attire. "And isn't it a bit early in the night to be aggravating? Even for you. Old habits die hard?"
"Some things are evergreen, Luce. Both for your garden, and for stirrin' the pot." He grinned. He thought of Zimmerman cleaning his clothes downstairs in a bathroom somewhere, no doubt in a state of panic. "And some pots deserve it more than others."
He turned and ordered another juice again. He could finish one last one quick before he went and helped come down his frantic roommate.
"Your greenhouse is in good hands, anyway. It's bein' looked after by--" He hesitated and thought. He knew this. Someone had mentioned they'd taken it on. Where was it? This wasn't right...that rolling fog had just come and covered everything. "It's in good hands." No. It was gone. No matter. Surely, Luce'd be happy enough with just that.
Luce frowned as Banjo's face first went blank, then went searching, eyes darting up as he rummaged through his own mind for a name that obviously escaped him. It wasn't like Banjo, she realized; he was a sharp individual, much as she'd hesitate to admit it to him. Was Calliope's absence harder on him that he was prepared to show? Or was there something else looming over him, sanding the edges off that quick wit?
"I've been dropping by. When I have time. Whoever's looking after the flowers is over-watering." She said, unsure how to address his lapse or if she even should. Banjo was perhaps the only soft spot she'd had when she'd enrolled and been tossed into Team 21 a little over five years ago; but it had been a long time since then, and she couldn't say that either of them were the same person anymore.
Hesitantly, she reached across, gently putting her scarred hand on Banjo's tanned skin.
"I don't typically know how to approach this. Alyssa's better at the emotion. I'm more...pragmatic. But...if you need an outside observer. Or someone who knows a bit of...historical context."
She removed her hand, quickly returning to her martini and taking a long pull, draining the glass dry.
"I'm not a very good friend. But that doesn't mean I wouldn't like to try."
"Killin' em with kindness, at least. If they're gettin' overwatered." He said through a creased line of a smile.
"It's alright, I've never been much for receivin' emotional support either. So you're doin' fine. Wish I could cut loose and do some appropriate damage to the bar, but... terrible bloody timing, this." He slapped his leg again. The fog was there already, but there was no buzz with it.
“Well, when you’re cleared by the white-coats, we can give it a good go.” Luce offered, adding a good attempt at a smile to help the light and uncharacteristic joking land.
“That is, of course, if there’s anything left after your teammate is done with it.” She continued, pointing carefully toward Gil who was leaving a trail of empty bottles and glasses in his wake. “Is he...okay? Or is this normal for the English?”
"Well, now there's someone in more need of concern than yours truly..." His attention finally drawn to Gil, even after he'd mentioned him.
The fog. Everything was like cutting through treacle. How'd he miss that before? And he'd forgotten all about his concern for Raw earlier as well, until it all boiled over. He had enough wherewithal to pick through that scumbag Chad's intent, but then...
Fortunately other hands were on deck there already, but this wasn't-- Things don't normally-- He should... Wait-- he'd said he'd go check on Zimmerman. How long ago was that?
"I've long given up tryin' to understand the inner workin's of the common garden variety Pommy bastard, and even its celebrity variants..." He replied with a dry drawl. A wide grin crossing his face, but his eyes seeming almost vacant. Things were happening around him, and right under his nose, and he wasn't picking up on any of it. He was free to just... be. It normally took him a six-pack before he hit that kind of pleasant haze.
But when he did that he could sharpen up in an instant if he had to.
"Hopefully get to catch up with you again later, but I've gotta go help someone out. Said I would a bit ago and... can't remember how long ago that was now."
He got to his feet and started on his hobbled journey downstairs to the bathroom, parting the assembled crowd waiting for the bar and gingerly limping past Haven, skirting carefully around her wings as she spoke to some redheaded bird who missed the memo on the dress theme.
Banjo grabbed the handrail and descended the staircase at the sluggish pace of one step at a time. He snatched some kind of finger-food item off a tray, and told himself that it was salmon, and that it fit his enforced diet. Limping onwards, he finally found himself staring at the pitiful sight of Gil, paralysed, stuffing his face as he stared ahead at their newest teammate on the dancefloor.
Banjo sighed, looking up at the sky, before limping on towards his teammate, not breaking stride anymore than the hitch already had.
"You're not gonna like this, but remember it's me. And I'm equally likely to dack you in front of everybody, as I am t'give you the boot in the arse you so sorely bloody need. So be thankful I'm goin' with this route."
Banjo snatched the plate out of Gil's hand and drank the remaining contents of his glass, before turning the former movie star to the floor and prodding him in the seat of his pants with the same sole of his left foot that could barely push the boat off the wharf earlier, nudging him onto the dancefloor and into the path of the raven-haired woman who'd been the star of his own limited third person performance playing out before his gaze from the side.
And then he saw the look on Katja's face to the side.
Ah Hell's Bloody Bells... One fire at a time.
Banjo limped on and threw his shoulder into the mens' room door.
Luce had simply nodded and turned to order another drink - something sweeter this time, the dryness of the vermouth lingering behind her teeth. She sipped a rum and coke as she watched Banjo limp away, maneuvering his way carefully across the hall, navigating around and through his own teammates with an ease Luce envied. She considered, perhaps, that she did not have a monopoly on being cagey and withholding; she wondered if the frustration she felt now, at being locked out of being able to properly support a friend, was an emotion her closest friends were intimately familiar with.
She stood straight, gauging her own steadiness, rolling her neck and deciding exactly how tipsy she was, and whether than was enough to try being affectionate, potentially even romantic. Target unclear, to be sure, but uncertainty hadn't stopped Luce in the face of beasts and savages. She couldn't imagine the alcohol-infused student body could be that much worse.
Then again, thinking of recent events, the claws of a wendigo had a far more straightforward response than the intricacies of social politics.
It was times like these that Luce almost missed being out on the hunt.
Her dress was...bold. Backless, the bodice covering her chest but otherwise delivering bare shoulders and sides, and below the waist it split in two before stretching to the floor, a double-slit effect that drew attention to her toned legs. Her hair, no longer than her jawline, was still pushed back, but rather than the hasty and practical slick she usually sported, this was more elegant and considered, strands of silvered hair artfully woven and set into a braided crown as the rest fell away. And then her makeup; Luce had always been pale, and she'd chosen a powdered foundation that only accentuated this, paired with a matte-black that swept across her eyes and brow in strong, sharp lines, ending in vicious points. All in all, the combined effect gave her already-severe face an almost regal but predatory quality, and as she scanned the faces of her peers, many freshmen - and some sophomores, too - cowed beneath her intense gaze.
The point of the dress was almost a challenge in and of itself; many were aware of Luce's abilities, but most assumed it was a neat and tidy healing process - her staunch refusal to attend the university's infirmary was well known within her (admittedly limited) social circle. Those assumptions were plainly wrong, though; there was nothing 'neat' nor 'tidy' about Luce's power, and every injury mitigated still left its appropriate scars. Luce still bore those from her awakening, the very first time she had cheated death, and over the years she had collected several more, her skin criss-crossed with burns and lashes and bite-marks from her gap-year encounters aside Alyssa. Her usual attire hid these - long sleeves and practical trousers tucked into boots - but tonight's dress was specifically chosen to show these off, force them out into the open and prevent either Luce or her peers from hiding from them.
She lingered on the fringes of the thrumming crowd, sipping her martini, feeling...small. Despite the meaning behind the choice of dress, Luce felt old anxieties bubbling within her, and the scars meant to be worn as armour instead only made her feel exposed and vulnerable. Alyssa, her usual buffer in troubling scenarios, was amidst the shifting bodies at Luce's own encouragement, and her roommates had similarly dispersed to find closer friends or hopeful romantic connections. Even Eden, her bubbly blond teammate unusually forgiving of Luce's anti-social tendencies, and perhaps the closest thing Luce had to a true friend on the team beyond Alyssa, had disappeared to mingle.
A shock of red hair suddenly appeared from the throng, and beelined for Luce. She finished the rest of her martini as Alyssa approached.
"Lucille Calder, are you avoiding having fun?" She teased, a wry smile playing on her lips.
"I'm having my own perfectly acceptable kind of fun, 'Lyssa." Luce replied, her face as stoic as usual.
"How is it your kind of fun so often involves standing away from everybody else, not doing anything?"
Luce cut Alyssa one of her trademark withering looks, a glare that had long since lost any power over her friend, if indeed it ever held any to begin with. Alyssa had an incorrigible and pragmatic positivity to her that even Luce's brand of cynicism could not stymie.
"Look, I know you don't get on with everybody in Firebird, but you're not restricted to them. What about your old teammates in Blackjack?"
Luce surveyed the hall again; it was true, Luce struggled with many of her teammates (it was only Alyssa and Eden she could honestly say she enjoyed the company of), and most of Firebird were scattered across the gala anyway. Even now she spotted Cass sauntering along the dancefloor and felt the usual pang of irritation at his smug, caustic persona. Her old team, though? Even before the gap year, she had moved away deliberately from Team 21, and by the time they she and Alyssa had returned to PRCU...
"There's more of Blackjack that are strangers to me now than aren't." Luce said, and it was true; with Calliope off-island and Katja a shadow around campus, she was one of only three remaining of Blackjack's original roster from when she'd first enrolled at the academy. She spotted Rory in the crowd, sharing a dance with his new beau, but when she looked at her empty glass, and then over to the bar, thinking of a refill, she saw a familiar head of messy blond hair. Or it would usually be messy, anyway; even from here she could see it had been impressively tamed.
"Fine. I need a few more drinks if I'm to spend my entire evening here." She said, relinquishing beneath Alyssa's urging eyes. The girls had known each other the better part of five years; it was perhaps the singular reason Alyssa could so easily goad Luce into going against her insular nature, for better and for worse. Either way, Luce pushed herself off the wall and gently patted Alyssa's shoulder - the closest she got to an affectionate gesture - before weaving her way through the crowd towards the bar.
She didn't need to say a word to order; she was a memorable face, and the bartender merely gestured to her empty martini glass as she set it on the surface. A nod was given and the empty glass was whisked away, soon to be replaced by one new and freshly-filled. She sipped cautiously, ensuring the refill was of satisfactory quality, before spinning and leaning against the bar with one elbow, facing perhaps the only old teammate with which she shared some camaraderie.
"I'm sorry Calliope couldn't be here this evening." She opened with, proffering uncommon sympathies to her ex-comrade; but beyond platitudes, she wasn't quite sure how to navigate conversation. "Blackjack's had a rough start to the year so far, huh?"
"We're livin' through it." He raised the juice to his lips again. "You, more than anyone, know all about that, eh..?"
Similarly, the things she'd seen, the places she'd been. Banjo certainly didn't view himself as anything less than 'well travelled', but the tales Luce doubtless had to tell were certainly beyond his ability to relate. Ever since her 'hiatus', at least.
"She'd have been proud." He determined, a single nod from a tight jaw. Placing the empty glass on the bar and gesturing to the night's interim junior barkeep for another. "Course you tell Gil or Baxter I said that... I'll deny every word." His teeth flashed a sizable grin whilst he struggled to hold his form, avoiding making eye contact with his old teammate knowing it would cause him to break out a laugh.
"How 'bout you? How are you holdin' up? Since we both know bein' upright, on two feet isn't much of a gauge in your case. Takin' care of yourself?"
"I can't say your celebrity friend is in a fit state to talk to anybody tonight," she replied, tilting her glass slightly in the C-lister's direction; he was standing at the precipice between buffet and dance floor, nibbling away while tipping back a cocktail from a highball glass. Luce watched him polish off the drink and move on to a beer bottle. "And Baxter...I don't like being looked at at the best of times." She looked to Banjo, who looked pointedly up and down at her dress and wiggled his eyebrows in that particular way he had. "Tonight notwithstanding."
She took a step closer to sit by Banjo on the stool next to him.
"Alyssa keeps me steady. The time we spent away was...changing. But being back; it can feel like we never left in the first place. Everything keeps ticking on."
She sighed. Returning to the academy had been a contentious decision between her and Alyssa; Luce could have cut ties like shedding a limb and never looked back, even to her own detriment. Especially to her own detriment. Alyssa was more optimistic, more faithful than Luce.
Ultimately, she realized she could leave PRCU behind, but never Alyssa; so with her friend's heart set on coming back, Luce had relented and returned beside her.
"I'm grateful the greenhouse is still here, at least." She concluded quietly, almost wistful; all of Firebird and many more of the general student body were well aware of the long hours Luce spent among her flowers and vegetables at the campus' allotments.
There was an awkward pause, and Luce realized this was the moment she was supposed to reciprocate.
"And you? I heard you were put up in the infirmary again." She said, halting and worrying she sounded insincere. She noted Banjo's soggy attire. "And isn't it a bit early in the night to be aggravating? Even for you. Old habits die hard?"
"Some things are evergreen, Luce. Both for your garden, and for stirrin' the pot." He grinned. He thought of Zimmerman cleaning his clothes downstairs in a bathroom somewhere, no doubt in a state of panic. "And some pots deserve it more than others."
He turned and ordered another juice again. He could finish one last one quick before he went and helped come down his frantic roommate.
"Your greenhouse is in good hands, anyway. It's bein' looked after by--" He hesitated and thought. He knew this. Someone had mentioned they'd taken it on. Where was it? This wasn't right...that rolling fog had just come and covered everything. "It's in good hands." No. It was gone. No matter. Surely, Luce'd be happy enough with just that.
Luce frowned as Banjo's face first went blank, then went searching, eyes darting up as he rummaged through his own mind for a name that obviously escaped him. It wasn't like Banjo, she realized; he was a sharp individual, much as she'd hesitate to admit it to him. Was Calliope's absence harder on him that he was prepared to show? Or was there something else looming over him, sanding the edges off that quick wit?
"I've been dropping by. When I have time. Whoever's looking after the flowers is over-watering." She said, unsure how to address his lapse or if she even should. Banjo was perhaps the only soft spot she'd had when she'd enrolled and been tossed into Team 21 a little over five years ago; but it had been a long time since then, and she couldn't say that either of them were the same person anymore.
Hesitantly, she reached across, gently putting her scarred hand on Banjo's tanned skin.
"I don't typically know how to approach this. Alyssa's better at the emotion. I'm more...pragmatic. But...if you need an outside observer. Or someone who knows a bit of...historical context."
She removed her hand, quickly returning to her martini and taking a long pull, draining the glass dry.
"I'm not a very good friend. But that doesn't mean I wouldn't like to try."
"Killin' em with kindness, at least. If they're gettin' overwatered." He said through a creased line of a smile.
"It's alright, I've never been much for receivin' emotional support either. So you're doin' fine. Wish I could cut loose and do some appropriate damage to the bar, but... terrible bloody timing, this." He slapped his leg again. The fog was there already, but there was no buzz with it.
“Well, when you’re cleared by the white-coats, we can give it a good go.” Luce offered, adding a good attempt at a smile to help the light and uncharacteristic joking land.
“That is, of course, if there’s anything left after your teammate is done with it.” She continued, pointing carefully toward Gil who was leaving a trail of empty bottles and glasses in his wake. “Is he...okay? Or is this normal for the English?”
"Well, now there's someone in more need of concern than yours truly..." His attention finally drawn to Gil, even after he'd mentioned him.
The fog. Everything was like cutting through treacle. How'd he miss that before? And he'd forgotten all about his concern for Raw earlier as well, until it all boiled over. He had enough wherewithal to pick through that scumbag Chad's intent, but then...
Fortunately other hands were on deck there already, but this wasn't-- Things don't normally-- He should... Wait-- he'd said he'd go check on Zimmerman. How long ago was that?
"I've long given up tryin' to understand the inner workin's of the common garden variety Pommy bastard, and even its celebrity variants..." He replied with a dry drawl. A wide grin crossing his face, but his eyes seeming almost vacant. Things were happening around him, and right under his nose, and he wasn't picking up on any of it. He was free to just... be. It normally took him a six-pack before he hit that kind of pleasant haze.
But when he did that he could sharpen up in an instant if he had to.
"Hopefully get to catch up with you again later, but I've gotta go help someone out. Said I would a bit ago and... can't remember how long ago that was now."
He got to his feet and started on his hobbled journey downstairs to the bathroom, parting the assembled crowd waiting for the bar and gingerly limping past Haven, skirting carefully around her wings as she spoke to some redheaded bird who missed the memo on the dress theme.
Banjo grabbed the handrail and descended the staircase at the sluggish pace of one step at a time. He snatched some kind of finger-food item off a tray, and told himself that it was salmon, and that it fit his enforced diet. Limping onwards, he finally found himself staring at the pitiful sight of Gil, paralysed, stuffing his face as he stared ahead at their newest teammate on the dancefloor.
Banjo sighed, looking up at the sky, before limping on towards his teammate, not breaking stride anymore than the hitch already had.
"You're not gonna like this, but remember it's me. And I'm equally likely to dack you in front of everybody, as I am t'give you the boot in the arse you so sorely bloody need. So be thankful I'm goin' with this route."
Banjo snatched the plate out of Gil's hand and drank the remaining contents of his glass, before turning the former movie star to the floor and prodding him in the seat of his pants with the same sole of his left foot that could barely push the boat off the wharf earlier, nudging him onto the dancefloor and into the path of the raven-haired woman who'd been the star of his own limited third person performance playing out before his gaze from the side.
And then he saw the look on Katja's face to the side.
Ah Hell's Bloody Bells... One fire at a time.
Banjo limped on and threw his shoulder into the mens' room door.
Luce had simply nodded and turned to order another drink - something sweeter this time, the dryness of the vermouth lingering behind her teeth. She sipped a rum and coke as she watched Banjo limp away, maneuvering his way carefully across the hall, navigating around and through his own teammates with an ease Luce envied. She considered, perhaps, that she did not have a monopoly on being cagey and withholding; she wondered if the frustration she felt now, at being locked out of being able to properly support a friend, was an emotion her closest friends were intimately familiar with.
She stood straight, gauging her own steadiness, rolling her neck and deciding exactly how tipsy she was, and whether than was enough to try being affectionate, potentially even romantic. Target unclear, to be sure, but uncertainty hadn't stopped Luce in the face of beasts and savages. She couldn't imagine the alcohol-infused student body could be that much worse.
Then again, thinking of recent events, the claws of a wendigo had a far more straightforward response than the intricacies of social politics.
It was times like these that Luce almost missed being out on the hunt.
As far as a soft reboot goes, I think what's being done to address it is enough. Making a new thread or something feels a tad extreme. "Soft" would definitely be underlined.
The iterations are now whipping around so fast that we're not even getting new threads between games.
The court messenger arrived in the early hours of the afternoon, sat astride a great and powerful white steed with mudded legs and accompanied by a weary stable-hand, riding an equally-weary nag.
When he had been charged with his solemn delivery, the messenger - a rotund, boastful, magisterial man - had descended upon the royal stables and demanded nothing less than their finest animal. Their finest animal was at war, attending the needs of their finest soldier, but what remained was a kingly and unruly stallion who held too much pride to respect the men that attempted to sit upon his back; yet he had been somehow goaded into allowing the pompous courier to ride him, plied and soothed with vegetables and sugar-cubes by the stable-hand. Still, the horse tossed his head and huffed as the pair cantered toward their destination, disgruntled and patience wearing thin.
Donahue watched their approach from where he toiled in the field, resting against his rake. He had spent the morning tilling his soil, preparing for a fresh crop to be planted. Winter was some months away still, but he still felt the first bites of cold in the air, and the food stores in their current state did not compensate for the lack of coin with which he would otherwise feed himself.
When he had been charged with his solemn delivery, the messenger - a rotund, boastful, magisterial man - had descended upon the royal stables and demanded nothing less than their finest animal. Their finest animal was at war, attending the needs of their finest soldier, but what remained was a kingly and unruly stallion who held too much pride to respect the men that attempted to sit upon his back; yet he had been somehow goaded into allowing the pompous courier to ride him, plied and soothed with vegetables and sugar-cubes by the stable-hand. Still, the horse tossed his head and huffed as the pair cantered toward their destination, disgruntled and patience wearing thin.
Donahue watched their approach from where he toiled in the field, resting against his rake. He had spent the morning tilling his soil, preparing for a fresh crop to be planted. Winter was some months away still, but he still felt the first bites of cold in the air, and the food stores in their current state did not compensate for the lack of coin with which he would otherwise feed himself.
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A DG I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
Location: Augmented Reality Center - P.R.C.U. Campus
Dance Monkey #4.053: If You Are What You Say You Are
Interaction(s): N/A
The suit still fit.
He wasn't sure why he was surprised - it wasn't like he'd let himself go in the years between now and the last time he'd wore it - but nonetheless he stood in front of the mirror in mild disbelief, the purple jacket and pants conforming nicely to his figure and pairing with the lavender shirt he wore beneath. The bow-tie, a semi-casual and slightly-floppy silk mauve number, was the aperitif to a suit that looked far more joyful than Gil felt; he was well-aware of the theme he had cooked up with the now-absent Calliope for the formal, and at the time of conception, returning one of his actual red carpet looks had felt like the perfect compliment to the motif of the evening. Now, though, he stood across from his reflection wearing a reminder of a life he'd discarded this very afternoon, preparing to revisit a version of him he was very consciously trying to leave behind, if only as a lighthearted facsimile.
The beers and the shooters burned in his belly and he swayed slightly on his feet. Food would be needed in short order, but for now he just tippled from a flask secreted in his inside pocket, swishing the warmth around his mouth in an effort to stop grinding his teeth. He was nervous, he realized, but couldn't quite pinpoint why; he'd done plenty of functions like this before, galas with far more pomp and circumstance to them than a simple school dance. Even casting aside public events from his pre-academy history, he'd surmounted far more troubling calamities in the last fortnight than tonight's ball. And yet there was a part of him that almost longed for the raining of hard-light blows upon his body over the social navigation that would be required of him this evening.
Well, expected of him, at least. Perhaps that was what vexed him in this moment; the weight of expectation. The gulf between what the student body anticipated, and what he was prepared to deliver.
He shook his head, scattering the thoughts to the wind as best he could. No time for it now; Lorcán and Rory had already headed out, urged on by his own faltering words assuring them he'd be right behind. They'd hesitated, and for that Gil was appreciative, both boys aware this was out of character for the Gil they knew, that he should be leading the charge, not floundering in the dorm, desperately trying to conjure the wherewithal to step outside and face the dance. But that was the Gil they knew, past tense. What of this Gil? This nervous, agitated Gil, who would just as soon wrap himself in a plush duvet nestled in the corner of his bedroom, with naught but the gifted bottle and his phone for company, as he would stride out into the night with swagger in his hips and a smile across his face?
Do it quick, like ripping off a band-aid. Just reach for the door, pull it open, and cross the threshold; once you're out, you're out, and there's no going back in. One foot in front of the other, and you won't even realize you've made the decision before you're there.
It took some more convincing, and another pull from the flask, but Gil did eventually make the leap.
The theme had come together spectacularly; in a way, Gil's crushing and sincere regret at the choice of concept was its own glowing recognition of its success. Everywhere he looked, the ARC was adorned in an extravaganza of Hollywood glitz and glam. The red carpet had been a particularly rocky entrance to an event Gil was already struggling with, far too eerily similar in its recreation to the paparazzi assault he'd faced many a time over his career, but even that was a backhanded compliment to how completely everything had come together. Would that Calliope were here to appreciate her hard work, because Gil certainly wasn't able to.
All about him was commotion; those lingering or taking a breather outside as he'd arrived had recognized him, of course they had, as equal parts student peer and campus celebrity. Some had pointed, some had the dignity to only dart their eyes back and forth, but the whispers had circulated nonetheless, about evening visitors, about nights in the infirmary. Jokes had been made that this must all seem very banal compared to Gil's career before PRCU, jokes that were met first with wan smiles and then withering stares. Banal was not the adjective in play: Gil preferred 'disconcertingly surreal'.
Bar. That was Gil's first thought, although food followed closely behind. Canapes littered the hall, again dressed up in keeping with the LA glitterati that pervaded (by resented design) the evening, and Gil mineswept trays and plates as he weaved through the thronging crowd toward the wall of booze on the other side of the arena. Fistfuls of cooked dough and seafood were mashed into his mouth, morsels admittedly delicious but barely chewed, less appetizers for the buffet and more belly-fodder for soaking up booze. Gil was in no way a lightweight; from a young age he'd been a prodigious drinker, especially for his otherwise-average stature, and that was under no threat this evening. He just needed to pad out his stats, so to speak. Tonight, he was going to get breathtakingly drunk.
He was attended to quickly, perhaps the first element of the night he was genuinely pleased about without any bittersweet complications, and he took a pause to consider what he actually wanted. A soda water, first of all, something to clear the pallet and maybe top-up from the flask if needs must - certainly no more beer, as the cans he'd polished off with Rory's help still sat gassy and bloating in his stomach. No, he needed something cleaner, smoother, something he could nurse while he got his bearings and ate some proper food before diving deeper into his self-imposed debauchery. The cocktail of the evening was, of course, the martini, and a menu on the bar listed several needless variations on them, but Gil would be damned if he was going to lean into the theme any more than he already had, inadvertently or otherwise. No, in times like these, he returned to his mother's favorite, brought in tumblers to the beach on sunny days, a mix undoubtedly quaint and bordering on tame, but nostalgic, a drink that tasted unequivocally of home, at least when a good cup of tea was out of reach, as it often was this side of the Atlantic.
One Elderflower Collins later, Gil was armed with a plate, sampling the buffet, scanning the crowd for his teammates.
He wasn't sure why he was surprised - it wasn't like he'd let himself go in the years between now and the last time he'd wore it - but nonetheless he stood in front of the mirror in mild disbelief, the purple jacket and pants conforming nicely to his figure and pairing with the lavender shirt he wore beneath. The bow-tie, a semi-casual and slightly-floppy silk mauve number, was the aperitif to a suit that looked far more joyful than Gil felt; he was well-aware of the theme he had cooked up with the now-absent Calliope for the formal, and at the time of conception, returning one of his actual red carpet looks had felt like the perfect compliment to the motif of the evening. Now, though, he stood across from his reflection wearing a reminder of a life he'd discarded this very afternoon, preparing to revisit a version of him he was very consciously trying to leave behind, if only as a lighthearted facsimile.
The beers and the shooters burned in his belly and he swayed slightly on his feet. Food would be needed in short order, but for now he just tippled from a flask secreted in his inside pocket, swishing the warmth around his mouth in an effort to stop grinding his teeth. He was nervous, he realized, but couldn't quite pinpoint why; he'd done plenty of functions like this before, galas with far more pomp and circumstance to them than a simple school dance. Even casting aside public events from his pre-academy history, he'd surmounted far more troubling calamities in the last fortnight than tonight's ball. And yet there was a part of him that almost longed for the raining of hard-light blows upon his body over the social navigation that would be required of him this evening.
Well, expected of him, at least. Perhaps that was what vexed him in this moment; the weight of expectation. The gulf between what the student body anticipated, and what he was prepared to deliver.
He shook his head, scattering the thoughts to the wind as best he could. No time for it now; Lorcán and Rory had already headed out, urged on by his own faltering words assuring them he'd be right behind. They'd hesitated, and for that Gil was appreciative, both boys aware this was out of character for the Gil they knew, that he should be leading the charge, not floundering in the dorm, desperately trying to conjure the wherewithal to step outside and face the dance. But that was the Gil they knew, past tense. What of this Gil? This nervous, agitated Gil, who would just as soon wrap himself in a plush duvet nestled in the corner of his bedroom, with naught but the gifted bottle and his phone for company, as he would stride out into the night with swagger in his hips and a smile across his face?
Do it quick, like ripping off a band-aid. Just reach for the door, pull it open, and cross the threshold; once you're out, you're out, and there's no going back in. One foot in front of the other, and you won't even realize you've made the decision before you're there.
It took some more convincing, and another pull from the flask, but Gil did eventually make the leap.
The theme had come together spectacularly; in a way, Gil's crushing and sincere regret at the choice of concept was its own glowing recognition of its success. Everywhere he looked, the ARC was adorned in an extravaganza of Hollywood glitz and glam. The red carpet had been a particularly rocky entrance to an event Gil was already struggling with, far too eerily similar in its recreation to the paparazzi assault he'd faced many a time over his career, but even that was a backhanded compliment to how completely everything had come together. Would that Calliope were here to appreciate her hard work, because Gil certainly wasn't able to.
All about him was commotion; those lingering or taking a breather outside as he'd arrived had recognized him, of course they had, as equal parts student peer and campus celebrity. Some had pointed, some had the dignity to only dart their eyes back and forth, but the whispers had circulated nonetheless, about evening visitors, about nights in the infirmary. Jokes had been made that this must all seem very banal compared to Gil's career before PRCU, jokes that were met first with wan smiles and then withering stares. Banal was not the adjective in play: Gil preferred 'disconcertingly surreal'.
Bar. That was Gil's first thought, although food followed closely behind. Canapes littered the hall, again dressed up in keeping with the LA glitterati that pervaded (by resented design) the evening, and Gil mineswept trays and plates as he weaved through the thronging crowd toward the wall of booze on the other side of the arena. Fistfuls of cooked dough and seafood were mashed into his mouth, morsels admittedly delicious but barely chewed, less appetizers for the buffet and more belly-fodder for soaking up booze. Gil was in no way a lightweight; from a young age he'd been a prodigious drinker, especially for his otherwise-average stature, and that was under no threat this evening. He just needed to pad out his stats, so to speak. Tonight, he was going to get breathtakingly drunk.
He was attended to quickly, perhaps the first element of the night he was genuinely pleased about without any bittersweet complications, and he took a pause to consider what he actually wanted. A soda water, first of all, something to clear the pallet and maybe top-up from the flask if needs must - certainly no more beer, as the cans he'd polished off with Rory's help still sat gassy and bloating in his stomach. No, he needed something cleaner, smoother, something he could nurse while he got his bearings and ate some proper food before diving deeper into his self-imposed debauchery. The cocktail of the evening was, of course, the martini, and a menu on the bar listed several needless variations on them, but Gil would be damned if he was going to lean into the theme any more than he already had, inadvertently or otherwise. No, in times like these, he returned to his mother's favorite, brought in tumblers to the beach on sunny days, a mix undoubtedly quaint and bordering on tame, but nostalgic, a drink that tasted unequivocally of home, at least when a good cup of tea was out of reach, as it often was this side of the Atlantic.
One Elderflower Collins later, Gil was armed with a plate, sampling the buffet, scanning the crowd for his teammates.
The messenger arrives, when he does, in the early hours of the afternoon astride a great white steed with mudded legs.
To undertake the solemn task the court had thrust upon him, the messenger - rotund, boastful, magisterial - had demanded from the royal stables nothing less than the finest animal, and had gotten it; the steed was a kingly stallion, strong and healthy and when he galloped his hooves were a thunderous chorus outpacing anything else among the palace’s nobles. But the beast is too powerful and too prideful to respect the pompous man sat upon its back, and the stable-hand who has escorted them has done well thusfar to soothe and ply his charge with vegetables and sugar; still, the horse tosses his head and huffs as they canter, disgruntled but so-far tolerant.
To undertake the solemn task the court had thrust upon him, the messenger - rotund, boastful, magisterial - had demanded from the royal stables nothing less than the finest animal, and had gotten it; the steed was a kingly stallion, strong and healthy and when he galloped his hooves were a thunderous chorus outpacing anything else among the palace’s nobles. But the beast is too powerful and too prideful to respect the pompous man sat upon its back, and the stable-hand who has escorted them has done well thusfar to soothe and ply his charge with vegetables and sugar; still, the horse tosses his head and huffs as they canter, disgruntled but so-far tolerant.
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