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[baedalites]

Who: EVERYONE.
What: Swap meet.
Where: The Apache and surrounding environs.
When: Sukkardi the 14th of Haneden
Notes:

• Swap Meet Spreadsheet: Pre-chosen swaps are green. Assigned are blue. There were a few characters that were selected more than once, so objects were assigned on a first-come first-serve basis. If you have any issues or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact the mod team.
• For objects that might not be immediately apparent as belonging to their owners, there may be a picture or name attached, or players are welcome to have their characters ~just know~ it's for them. Drr drr drr, bb.
• Party post nights are a great time to come join the chatroom.
• The topic threads are just suggestions; if you've got somewhere else that your characters simply must be, make your own thread.

Warnings: None yet. Please put warnings up on individual threads.

The Apache is much the same as it always is: dimly lit, with the jukebox playing in the background, and the bartender serving whatever's on tap.

Comments

Lounge and Tables:

[baedalites]

This is where the swap meet is taking place. Patrons can come, show off their unwanted objects and hopefully send them away with their rightful owners. There's a table for unknown, unwanted, or just plain weird.

[asklepios]

Benevenuta, loosening her coat as she makes her way in, has had a glance inside the slim silver briefcase she's carrying and certainly has her suspicions about to whom in their cohort it might belong...but there's more in heaven and earth, after all, and certainly more in Baedal. No need to assume straight out of the gate that what she's carrying (and what she's mildly troubled by, frankly, although she can't tell precisely what it is and has a limited pool of options to draw from in having it quietly tested) belongs to a particular mad scientist just because they're already acquainted.

So. Drink in one hand, mad science in the other--

Arguably that sounds like the beginning of an interesting night.

[thedominatrix]

"You-"

Bam is the impression Irene likes to make. Always. Hence her outfit and hence her rather arresting opening line.

"-are such an enigma, Dr Bernát."

And she sounds so enamoured by it that it's hard to believe. It's almost a lovestruck sigh- which is Irene's joking recognition of how very unlike her (the real-ish her) giving lovestruck sighs actually is. She invites herself to sit down with her giving a glittering smile. "The briefcase? Dare I ask?"

Yes. Obviously.

She has those poems in her bag, and a flute of champagne in her hand, and she is ninety eight percent certain Benevenuta has had a look inside that briefcase which she highly doubts is a fashion statement.

[requiresssacrifice]

Ah, a familiar face. Small trunk tucked under his arm and a drink in hand, Rex takes himself over to Dr. Bernat. He glances her over once, mainly looking out for-- there we have it. The one thing that stands out, an object would look familiar to Rex, if there were anything distinguishing it from any other nondescript silver briefcase. He has no reason to believe-- at least not yet-- that it's his. That the gods would deliver his tools to him is a thought Rex hadn't even considered. No, more likely he'd get something worthless, something sentimental.

After all, a gift of nanomites would be far too good to be true.

"Don't tell me yours is locked, too," he says with a smile, nodding his head at the briefcase. As if he didn't peek inside his own borrowed box.

Well.

With his sister's help.

PAGING TATIANA; Open to All

[theworstmagician]

Cheated. That's how Marty feels by the piece of junk he finds himself with. Here he is, saddled with a snow globe. And not just any snow globe, nooooo. The piece of crap's broken! That's like... a freaking cutting hazard or something. He'd been hoping for something he could pawn off for riches, like somebody's long-lost family heirloom or something, and instead: snow globe.

The gods must be laughing.

He's half-tempted to put a curse on the damn thing, just to be spiteful. A cursed snow globe... Hm.

Marty stares at the object in his hand, this perfect encapsulation of his disappointment, as he leans against one of tables and takes a good, long drink of beer. There's a streak of white makeup still on his cheek, left over from tonight's show. Other than that, though, he's dressed completely normally, like he hadn't just spent the last few hours prancing around on a stage, singing poorly composed-- yet oddly catchy-- tunes with some Xenian cougars (that is, fine older Xenians, not literal... alien cougars).

[alan_shore]

Alan, on the other hand, couldn't have been more pleased with what he'd received (no, that's not strictly true--he'd be positively delighted were he permitted to keep it). The DVD nestled under one besuited arm is cheap, tacky, by all accounts schlock of the lowest order--it's almost as if it was written (assuming, of course, there was a script involved at some juncture), filmed, and sent directly to the $2 bargain bin with Alan in mind. He's not particularly concerned about reuniting it with its rightful owner, but when he spies Marty and his fragmented snowglobe, he strides over without a second thought.

"Mr. Williams, isn't it?" Alan inquires, tone bordering on prim but eyes alight with amusement. "I almost didn't recognize you without the gold body glitter. Alan Shore."

Setting his whiskey on the nearest table, he offers his hand.

[catiana]

Tatiana decides to take a break from her own search, and wanders towards the bar. She's sliding onto a stool, pondering her drink, when her eyes catch on the globe in Marty's hand.

Her mouth drops open as she turns fully.

"Is - " She swallows down the sudden lump in her throat. "Is that what the gods gave you?"

Paging: Charity and OliviaPrime

[heardmermaids]

Sebastian has come with not only the item he received, a wand with a collection of charms, but also a small metal token on a braided cord. As far as he knows, there's only one other wizard he's yet to encounter and the sweet little charms hanging off the end reassure him that it should be a safe meeting.

He's found a place to sit, the wand tucked away until he spots Professor Burbage, and the metal token clearly visible.

[nolimitation]

Olivia's been wandering the lounge for a little while now, not entirely sure what she's looking for. She's never been one to get attached to things. Moving so often as a child, it was best not to, and even better to not give her stepfather something she cared about that he could take from her. There's nothing she can think of that she really needs here. Things she'd like, yes - pictures of loved ones, reminders of the people she misses - but nothing that strikes her as something the gods would go out of their way to retrieve for her.

But she stops when she sees the token, frowning a little. She recognizes the maze-like pattern on it, even if the memory feels like it comes from someone else's life. "Can I see that?" she asks, gesturing to the object.

[greatestofthese]

The difficulty is that on top of finding who got something meant for her, Charity isn't sure what she'd end up getting; there are a few things she'd well like, but who knows how the powers that be in this place decide these things?

But--ah, she turns around, and there's the young man sitting over there with her wand, and she grins. (He looks a little familiar--has she met him around, before, perhaps?) "'Lo there," she says. "I think you've got something of mine."

[alan_shore]

At a point in the evening when the other man doesn't appear to be occupied, Alan makes his way over to Sebastian, Glam Rock Vampires and a glass of scotch in tow. "Mr. LeMat, good evening," he greets, pleasant but not overly familiar. They've spoken all of twice, after all. "Alan Shore--we've conversed on the network."

[rhinemaid]

After arriving with Ivan, Ilde-- does not slink outside for a cigarette, or buy a shot, but acquires a virgin cocktail and fidgets with it, somebody's cd case (discman and cds inside) tucked under her elbow as she veers inevitably away from Ivan's side to see if she can spot anything that looks recognizably hers. The bar feels too full, on an evening like this, and she's forbidden herself from going outside (where there will be people smoking, and where she will want very badly a cigarette instead of another fucking lollipop); she drifts back and forth, a little, venturing further afield and then retreating to Ivan's side when she gets tired of risking sober small-talk with strangers in a bar.

[gramarye]

Wolfgang does not want to be here. He doesn't want anything from the gods. He does not want to be at a party so close on the heels of the series of funerals he's been to over the past few weeks. Apparently it's not an opt-out event, though, and he's not going to be rude about it because they're still gods, but...

Well, for one thing, the item he received -- he's not going to keep it (fuck no) and he's not going to just drop it off without seeing that it goes to whoever it properly belongs to. Who is hopefully not some kind of maniac.

Just having come off two shifts at two different jobs, he was falling asleep on his feet, so he called a friend of his and asked if he had anything. That woke him up, but it also makes it pretty hard to focus. His outfit consists entirely of shades of white and grey, and none of it quite fits right as he's not had the time or money to get anything tailored. He's experimenting some, mixing a sheer womenswear blouse with a menswear cardigan -- and a hat, which he removes once he's indoors because it's polite.

He gets a drink and goes to sit down. Reason: the item he's carrying is an enormous revolver. Like, seriously huge. It's not loaded, he made sure, but he's treating it like it is because that's basic gun safety; you treat a weapon like it's live unless it's in pieces in front of you. The problem is just that he can barely lift the damn thing. He is extremely self-conscious about being seen with it, considering that whole convicted criminal thing, and it's obvious in his face and body language.

[alan_shore]

Since the table of unknown, unwanted, or just plain weird lacked the room to accommodate him, Alan sits elsewhere, his present company a glass of whiskey and a DVD with the words Glam Rock Vampires emblazoned on the cover. He'll make his way around the room in time, but for now he's amusing himself reading the critical "praise" for the marvel of cinema in his hands. He turns the case over and tries to imagine what the ellipses flanking "...stunning...!" could be standing in for.

[controlledvariable]

Steph, dressed in black and orange, has claimed a table for herself and the wooden box she'd woken up to this morning. She'd tried, experimentally, to open the lock but after getting nowhere with it had given up rather quickly. Partly because she doesn't want to piss off the gods, and partly because she wasn't sure exactly what was in there. Better to just leave it for the owner to deal with.

So it's still locked, resting on a table with Steph seated nearby, drink in hand and content with people watching for now. She'll go look for her object after she's given the box to it's rightful owner.

[perfectcameo]

If Logan is giving the impression that he is not one hundred percent keen on strangers striking up conversation with him-- then he is accomplishing what he has set out to do, his expression stone hard and demeanour less than open. He sits in the lounge, exactly two empty beer bottles at his feet and one half-full and in his hand. All denim, flannel, and leather, he might not be here if it wasn't a god ordained sort of event, and he doesn't intend to stay over long.

If the person doesn't claim their platinum, diamond-encrusted vibrator, or if he doesn't spy anyone who seems like they'd match it, then he will leave it on the table. Its value is why he hasn't already, and after a little bit of brooding, he simply just sets it on the table in front of him and eyeballs anyone who looks at him askance.

And otherwise, drinks his beer.

[hehaseatenthepancake]

Hellboy had liked the idea of the swap meet up until he saw what he was given to swap. Boromir's death was still too recent for something obviously of Gondor to seem like anything but a cruel joke to him. (Some part of him recognizes that this isn't really all that fair to Faramir, but he might as well be honest at least to himself with his feelings.) That it's specifically that dagger, one that he knows belonged to Boromir because he'd given it to him, only intensifies the cruel-joke feeling.

His initial foray into the lounge had netted him his own gift, now resting in the holster that had gone empty for so many years, which buoyed his mood somewhat. After a swing back out to the bar for a (non-alcoholic) drink, he's made his way back to the lounge to settle in and wait to see who has the stones to claim the dagger sitting next to him, or if he's just the victim of the gods' missing a beat.

[defenestrations]

He may not have needed to avail himself of the provided item exchange to deliver what the gods bestowed upon him, but now that the delivery has taken place, he has come to the lounge. He takes a seat at a corner table, the better to watch the exchange from a discreet distance. He makes note of who comes and goes, which items are picked up and left, the apparent relationships between people and items and, where applicable, people and other people.

The jacket to his charcoal gray suit hangs on the back of his chair, leaving him in the matching trousers and a deep purple dress shirt, undone at the collar, no tie. A snifter of brandy sits at his elbow, only a sip or two gone from it; he didn't come here to drink but hanging around the lounge without having a drink as a reason for lingering might make him look suspicious.

Paging Sherlock Holmes (and anyone else who wants some hot Sharma action)

[betterthansubpoenas]

It's doubtful that the dressing gown Kalinda found in her home falls into the category of unwanted, or even unknown. It certainly isn't weird, unless you count the bouncy ball she found in one pocket, but that's tame, truly. It's a quite frankly beautiful shade of blue, and made of silk, this robe. Kalinda believes it's highly likely that whomever it belongs to is going to want it back. She would.

It's draped carefully across the back of her chair where she's seated in the lounge, taking small pulls from a bottle of beer as she people watches for now. She's giving herself a chance to be seen before she decides to go and do the seeing herself. She's spotted familiar faces already. There will be plenty of opportunities to socialise while she's here.

[cerebral]

There were few things more unlikely than handing Charles Xavier a bundle of scientific papers and expecting him not to look --and he was glad he did. Baedal had already opened his mind to the idea of magic --thaumaturgy-- as science, and in his first few weeks he'd read various books and articles from TMU on the subject. This research was of a different calibre. By the time he had finished, his lips were thoroughly bitten and he was overwhelmingly reminded of the horrors that the city had faced in the previous weeks.

Suffice to say, these papers are not going on the table. Gods wrath or not, he would never forgive himself if they fell into the wrong hands. Instead, he takes a seat at a table and places the documents in front of him, waiting for the rightful owner to claim them.

Up until that occurs (and afterwards), he's more than happy to push away such worries and greet friends and acquaintances as they pass.

[martyrdomoption]

There's something about the item that Mitchell received that nags at him. He doesn't know it but six months later, dimensions apart, some part of him recognises the familiarity of Annie's handwriting, the same handwriting that used to make little lists for him to keep his life on track.

But he can't voice that familiarity, and so it continues to niggle him as he waits against the wall of the swap room, rota unfolded in the hopes that its owner recognises it but otherwise he's hoping to stay low-key. It's not been that long since the attacks and it wasn't long before that that there was a city-wide price on his head.

His objective is clear: hand the item over, get his, find Hasi and stick around for as long as she wanted, but otherwise leave. Whether or not the night had that in store for him remained to be seen.

For Olivia Prime and open

[andyoullmissit]

Clarice spends the first half of the swap meet trying to find Alan; after that, she lingers for just a while longer in case someone is looking for her. She doesn't know what she's getting, of course, but for someone with a photo albums including a little girl with purple skin, the grown woman with purple skin will probably stand out.

...in fairness, she'll probably stand out to a lot of people.

[captainredwhiteblue]

"Excuse me... pardon me... watch your head, ma'am, sorry..."

Steve is not the kind of guy to make assumptions about another person, and he understands it's not real kind to refer to a lady as a witch in most cases, but gosh if he wouldn't otherwise think this is a witch's cauldron he's currently carrying into the lounge. He's got the lid in his left hand--it sort of reminds him of his shield, a little--and the cauldron itself carried in his right hand with his fingers curled around the lip. It's cast iron but he's carrying it one-handed like it weighs nothing.

The note that came with it told him who to look for, not where to find her, so he figured coming back to the Official Trading Area was the best place to start.

❤ Attn: Hal ❤

[diogenesis]

Mycroft had waged a war with himself regarding his decision to attend this party. On one hand, Martel had already made a Network post, and the issue of his portrait had been sorted squarely away without any need for a ridiculous social gathering. On the other hand, the knowledge that someone out there still had something that belonged to Mycroft had eaten at him more and more with each passing second, offending every sense of privacy he possessed, until he'd been compelled to go to Mog Hill simply to put himself out of his own misery as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately, being at the bar (the noisy, crowded, dive of a bar) is its own kind of misery. The elder Holmes brother has sequestered himself away in a corner of the lounge with a tumbler of scotch to keep him company, and is busy giving off the distinct impression that he is Not Amused. It's conveyed more through a series of small details than it is via any one obvious expression—perhaps it's the way his lips press together just a bit too tightly, or the fact that his eyes never seem to completely open or close. Even if one can't pinpoint the signs, the overarching message is clear: whoever approaches him had better mean business.

for ayse ♘ open to all

[thethingsidoforlove]

Thump.

A debt paid, presumably, as well as keeping the favour of the gods; Jaime deposits the strange book of magic onto the table without much in the way of ceremony. He would swear it's made of human hide, and after a brief if fascinated flick through, he's decided he doesn't care much to talk to whoever owns it. He is among those that leave their item for the taking, and after a brief scan over anything there that looks familiar or something intended for himself, he turns away.

He stands out, a little, for two reasons; he is big and brawny and blonde, with a possible gravitational field around his jaw. The other is his dress sense, which differs a little from the largely contemporary-Earth population. A loose shirt with ties at the cuffs, deerskin trousers, although the leather jacket, while simple, could be from any time. Jaime also goes armed, but for tonight, with only a knife.

He decides he will get a drink, and wait to see if his brother would grace the evening with his diminutive presence; perhaps, a little bit, for company too that aren't just the quasi-acquaintances of those that fight in the Arena.