multiversallogs | open post ● we're about to get up and burn this floor

Entry tags:

open post ● we're about to get up and burn this floor

Who: Everyone.
What: The Grand Re-Opening of the Gravity Falls Station.
Where: Babylon.
When: Veerdi to Sukkardi.
Notes: Party post!!! Go nuts y'all.
Warnings: Probable alcohol (and drug?) use. Flag stuff in subject titles if it needs a warning and I'll edit it up in here.

It's clear from the first moment anyone even gets on the Skyrail tonight that the Stratosphere Entertainment Group's pricey investment is going to pay off - every rail car is crowded with people decked out and excited for the event. To natives of Baedal, the idea of a holiday is days off work, maybe some camping - escape is alien, a little frightening, and completely thrilling. Even when the Gravity Falls station had hosted other venues, it was nothing so ambitious as to capture the imaginations of the city as a whole. And to immigrants to the city who no longer have the luxury of even simple trips out of town - well, it's priceless. A bittersweet but suddenly vital excursion.

Doors open just as the sun begins to set, the light reflecting off the water of the ocean illuminating the great floating platform as if the entire sky was on fire, before slipping into deep purple then black, the ceiling of their experience dotted with brilliant stars. Staff members wrangling the hazards of the first night are anxious but excited, kind and helpful even if they end up frazzled by the overwhelming turnout. There is security, all sporting neon purple shirts with lion logos, but even by their own admission, they're only there to breakup fights - and even they're smiling all night, too.

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Her hands fly up to cover her mouth, eyes a bit wide above them, and for a moment it might seem like she's shocked, disapproving, about to launch into some how dare you, how could you lecture. But then Rachel drops her hands, and she's grinning, broadly, barely restraining a laugh.

"Oh my god," she says, and her tone is completely approving and amused. "You're totally my favorite person ever right now. Yes. Please. Let's."

Bruce flashes her a proper smile and then turns to scope out a path to take, nodding at her to follow him down the hall and to the elevator - which isn't electrical, if the glow from the mechanisms encased in glass above their heads has anything to do with it. He has to use the key to be able to push buttons beyond the second floor - which he does.

"They have to realize there's about twenty people doing this right now," he muses, of their sneaking, all the while staring up at the elevator gears.

He has no real excuse for this, by the way. If Bruce didn't like sneaking around and skirting past trouble, being Batman would be a whole hell of a lot harder. (Alfred would be ashamed.)

Rachel can at least fall back on the rather flimsy excuse of wanting to keep informed, now that she works for someone running for office and so forth, or those aspirations that still linger, all the way from home, of moving from editing articles to doing the reporting herself. But she hasn't really a good excuse, either, besides her own curiosity. And her devotion to figuring out this city's secrets, its history, anything and everything that might someday show them the way out.

She's not sure how snooping around a hotel will serve that goal, but whatever. She wants to check the place out.

"I'm sure they must," she agrees, her attention on the panel of buttons. A number of floors, the ones labeled differently clearly being the more exclusive lodgings. She wonders if it's one key to get access to the rest of the hotel; it's probably more likely a special key is needed to get to the more posh areas. She guesses they'll find out, see how far this key gets them.

She glances at Tom, and then her gaze follows his up to the glowing gears. "What do you think it is?" she asks. "Some kind of chemical reaction, maybe, supplying the energy to power this elevator?"

"Alchemy, looks like." He's gotten good at picking out what's what, and since Tom works for an energy-source engineering firm, it's not weird that he's able to. "I've come to learn that's like science magic." There's a bemused tone to his voice, there.

The doors ping on their selected floor and Bruce walks out casually, drawing no suspicion - but then remembers Tom isn't supposed to be a secret agent, and does kind of an obviously-trying-to-be-sneaky-and-failing lean and peer down one hall. Smooth.

... Anyway. "I hope half these rooms are empty."

Because seriously, imagine breaking into one and having it be occupied.

"Alchemy," she repeats, still studying the gears. "I have so much to learn about this place, still."

She follows him out into the corridor, also furtively checking for anyone lurking nearby. "Okay, so if there's someone in the room, laugh and pretend you're drunk and stagger out with many apologies." She shrugs. "It worked for me in college."

That was more or less her plan if she'd been stopped downstairs from venturing further into the hotel. A giggle, taking the person's arm, I'm just lost, is the bathroom back this way?

"I like that tactic." He sounds amused - and he is; hey, at least pretending to be drunk is something he's good at. (Fooled an entire city into thinking he was capable of burning down his family's mansion, even.) With the coast clear, they're free to meander down the hallway - which is pretty swanky, all things considered; high quality and nice decor. Tom walks backwards for a bit, facing Rachel and looking at an abstract pastoral on the wall.

"Not bad."

"Yeah, it's like--" She glances at the painting, up at the light fixtures, down at the carpet. "Indulgent and showy without being, like, totally gaudy about it. It's pretty classy."

The carpet is especially nice, thick enough to muffle any footsteps, which has her occasionally glancing past Tom to make sure no one's creeping up. They're still the only ones wandering this corridor, so she flashes him a vaguely troublemaking smile.

"Would you like to choose a room, or should I?"

It's a good thing Rachel can articulate what's to like about the hotel - Bruce has zero taste, and can't get past 'it's nice'. (The decor at his apartment is just sad.)

He inclines his head. "Ladies first, by all means."

Next to them, sudden roaring laughter comes muffled from one of the rooms, and the sound of drinks spilling. "-Not that one."

"Oh, thank you." She seems honestly delighted by this; it's the little things, sometimes.

"Yeah, no, not that one." She pauses outside the next, and then she sidles up to it, pressing her ear to the door. She listens for a moment and then she steps away quickly, the color rising in her cheeks, hand pressed to her mouth for a second to muffle a laugh. "Um. Not that one, either. Someone's, they're, um... busy."

But everything's quiet outside the next door. She gives this one a listen too, and then she steps back. "If you'll do the honors," since he does have the key he swiped, after all, "let's see what's behind door number three."

He makes an expression like Oh good heavens at 'busy', though it's obviously just him trolling. (Look, they met at a sex club.) Door number three seems like a good choice (no noise, the carpet near the threshold doesn't look like it's been stepped on all day, bracketed by noisy guests otherwise), so he doesn't argue - just slides over and uses the skeleton key to swipe the lock open.

A tiny green light flickers. Ta-da. Bruce opens the door slowly but smoothly, and after a heartbeat to decide that yes, it's empty, he nods at Rachel to go ahead inside. Once she's in, he follows suit and closes the door behind them.

She murmurs her thanks as she passes Tom, waiting just inside the room. He closes the door, and nothing seems to indicate they've been seen or they're about to be in any trouble.

The room is just as nice as the corridor that led to it, just as tastefully and indulgently appointed. The same plush carpet, just in a different color, beautiful furniture, and art similar to what was in the hall displayed above the bed and the writing desk.

Rachel perches on a corner of the bed with a small, experimental bounce; even the mattress is good quality. "Not bad at all," she announces, getting to her feet. "I bet the view out the windows is excellent."

Bruce notices the layout, the windows, the way the building is constructed to offer privacy in the form of angles and sound proofing; he thinks he could slip out the balcony window and down the side of the building in an easy minute. It sounds fun.

Alas.

At her remark, Bruce pushes back the curtain - and it is a nice view, of the lights from Babylon, the ocean, the port.

"It's clever of them. Making it feel like you aren't trapped."

She turns to look at him quickly after that statement, mildly alarmed, because--what? Trapped? She's concerned he means the room, the hotel, the establishment, but after a moment she realizes he means the city as a whole. Their entire predicament.

She wonders if she should worry that that wasn't her first thought anymore.

Rachel nods, her gaze drifting back out over the water. "Maybe that's what money or status get you here," she says softly. "If you have the means, you can have the illusion that the horizon actually goes somewhere for you."

"Am I being too fatalistic?" He gives her a smile over his shoulder - brief, somewhat private, like telling an inside joke. Half an apology and half teasing. He's just Like This, you'll have to be kind.

Somewhere in the distance, glow paint has been broken out. Or glow-something; in Baedal, it could be anything. Bruce opens the glass, enjoying the sounds, the breeze.

Being kind has never been a problem for Rachel, it's what she does, sometimes even how she copes. Her hand goes to his shoulder, a brief, warm touch; it's not born of the sort of affection that implies a pass being made, no hey, we're alone in a hotel room, why don't we...? but of the easy esteem that rises in a person with a friend. It's fine, don't worry about it. Or worry about being Like This.

She watches the movement below, the breeze just catching the ends of her hair from time to time. "I wasn't sure about the whole idea of the nightclub being right here with the hotel," she admits, "but I think it works. Like... so many hotels are totally about isolating you. You get in and you go straight to your room, you're asked to keep quiet, to not turn up the TV they provide you to keep you occupied too loud. All the comforts you'd need and you don't have to step over the threshold if you don't want to. And you can still do that here; I noticed we couldn't hear the music and all until you opened the window. You could still sequester yourself. But you don't have to. You can open the window and know the party's there, or you can go down and join it. I don't know, it's nice."

"So you're going to buy the vacation package, right?" Ha, ha - but it's fond. She's nice; he appreciates it, throughout his social weirdness. He hopes this place isn't fucking with her too much.

From the hall, there's the sound of people walking by, but it doesn't bring anything. He flips the light out anyway.

"It is nice. I went camping up on the cliffs, a while back. It's a similar feeling." A beat. "I mean, with less indoor plumbing."

She laughs, shaking her head. "I don't know about a long-term stay here. A night or two might be fun. Like, to get away with a friend or someone."

She hears the people outside, too, and she stops speaking, listening. He turns out the lights--that's good thinking, if that's hotel staff there won't be any outward sign that someone's here when they shouldn't be.

It honestly doesn't occur to her that maybe a socially awkward businessman might not think to turn out lights or lift master card keys from housekeeping carts so readily.

When she's sure whoever was in the corridor has passed, she goes on, "The camping sounds like more fun anyway. Is there a good spot? Or a spot to stay away from at all costs?" she adds, laughing.

Hey, he's a socially awkward businessman who gets bored a lot. These are all hobbies.

Keeping his voice down, he answers: "There's some regular camp grounds near Flag Hill, they have stations where you can get up the cliffs, and areas where it's okay to climb up, if that's your thing. It clears out back a bit and to the east, but don't.. go too far in because-" and here he makes a sound like a self-depreciating, sheepish laugh- "I apologize in advance, for saying this sitting in the dark, but there's people that live back there? In the ravines. Blind, fog-made people."

... Yep.

He apologizes in advance. For saying this sitting in the dark.

If he didn't have six inches and a muscular build on her, Rachel would put this socially-awkward businessman in her pocket.

"Thank you for letting me know," she replies, also keeping her voice quiet. "Knowing me I would've gone wandering out of curiosity and wound up in the wrong place.

Flag Hill, huh? That's not that far from me--I live over in Raven's Gate. I'll have to check it out sometime. Or if you go again and want company, let me know."

There's a shift in the music below, a new DJ taking the floor. The beat is slightly different but the energy remains high. The lights and the glow paint and all the other colorful things down there seem that much more vibrant now that they're in the dark, their eyes adjusted to it.

Has Rachel ever been punched for telling something akin to a ghost story without warning? Bruce has. He is Being Polite, okay.

"It's best if you go up when it's still dark, and watch the light come up." Not the sun come up, he's not sure if the sun does anything, here, or if they're moving in orbit, or... He lets that train of thought fade into nothingness, or else it's one of those threads that'll drive him insane.

"Practically a drive-in theater up here," he murmurs, and then - noise from the hall again, this time a handful of people laughing (drunkenly) loudly, stumbling around. Somebody thunks into the door of the room they're currently borrowing, and a muffled but distinct 'WHO HAS THE KEY?' can be heard.

Welp.

She's about to answer when the commotion outside the door startles her. Rachel freezes for a moment, all but panicked. But then she takes a step away from the window, eyes darting about the room--it's probably evident to Bruce that she's thinking, trying to come up with a plan, and quickly.

There's no other exit besides, well, the window. But she's not sure how far the next balcony down would be, if there are decent handholds, if it's safe. Nowhere really to hide, either, closet, bathroom, under the bed; even if they did manage to remain undetected they'd then have to stay the night to remain hidden.

Dammit.

"DON'T TELL ME YOU DROPPED IT." "WAIT, WAIT..."

She spares a glance at the door before doing another quick study of the room. And then she turns back to Bruce, grabbing his arms and giving him a gentle shove in the direction of the bed. "Sorry. Get on the bed, lie down."

She follows, but she doesn't stretch out, instead perching at the foot of the bed, watching the door, waiting to see if the noisy revelers just beyond come through or not.

Apparently, now there's a plan.

Bruce already has a plan, because out the window and down the side of the building is perfectly safe (if alarmingly steep) and he could probably get away with only minor bruising even with Rache- oh okay, he's being steered at the bed.

He dos as he's manhandled, plunking down, though he remains raised up on his elbows to observe the scheming.

Quietly, but sort of amused: "Sure you don't want to jump out the window?"

(Meanwhile, in the hall: "I CAN'T FEEL MY LEGS!!")

"It still might come to that, depending on how this goes," she says over her shoulder, still watching the door. There is a plan, she swears, and as soon as these people come through the door, it'll happen.

She waits.

And waits.

(Out in the hall, someone says "THAT'S OKAY, I'LL FEEL YOUR LEGS FOR YOU," and laughs in rather a suggestive way.)

But any second now the people in the hall will stop fooling around and find their key and come through that door and--

"I GAVE YOU THE KEY, I SWEAR."

"Jesus Christ," Rachel mutters, and there's a clear, impatient note of do I have to do everything myself about the Son of God's name taken in vain there. Look, really, why can't people get with a plan and stop drunkenly pussyfooting around in the hall when she's waiting for them to do something? Honestly.

She pushes off the bed, heading for the door, clearly addressing it with a very loud "What the hell is going on? I didn't pay all this money to get up here and have my night disturbed like this."

The noise beyond the door subsides.

"This is ridiculous-- no, you stay there," she adds, addressing Bruce as she pulls the door open, oh so neatly letting the people gathered on the other side know she's not alone in the room. "Can I help you guys?"

"Um. This is our room."

"No, this is our room, they said so at the front desk. Our key opened the door and everything. You guys sure you have the right room?"

There's some discussion among the four people in the hall, and the consensus is, yes, it is their room, they have the right number. "Then you guys just totally paid for a room that you can't use, you better go back down there and deal with that." When the partiers don't appear to be prompted by that, she adds, with a pointed tone and an elaborate shrug: "We're already using the bed and everything."

Some more discussion, a lot of yeah, this is messed up from beyond the threshold, and a bit of I'm sorry about this but I don't want you guys' night ruined, go make them give you the right room on Rachel's part, and the group finally goes staggering back toward the elevators.

She closes the door and turns, leaning against it. And as much as she's trying to keep up that air of collected, I-totally-handled-that confidence, the slight sag of her posture as she puts her back to the door, and the swift, shallow rise and fall of her chest give away that she's running on adrenaline and probably pretty damn surprised that worked as well as it did.

"Hopefully that buys us enough time to get the hell out of here before we have to consider your out-the-window plan."

As soon as Rachel loses her patience, there's a noise from Bruce that sounds like a stifled laugh - if she'd have been looking at him, she might have actually caught that rare sight (not that she'd know it was that rare, but hey). He plays his part, sitting up on the bed in the dark, body language oh-so-confused - despite the fact that his shoes are on, but hey, some people are into that.

"What, you don't want to go out the window?"

Why won't anyone let him do anything stupid tonight? Alas. But he gets up, still trying to bite down on the impulse to laugh at the scene that just transpired.

"Nice job." He doesn't sound remotely worried as he stands up again, going nearer to the door and pausing to listen as their impromptu guests struggle down the hall noisily. Once the ping of the elevator doors bookends the noise and leaves the floor silent, he moves to open the door.

"Fire escape?" Since, you know. Now it's time to get the hell outta Dodge.

"I didn't wear my going-out-the-window shoes, what was I thinking?" she asks, wry. And far too kind to come out and say who the hell just goes out windows, dude, are you serious? "And thanks. It's occasionally served me well to make a quiet scene, when I think I can get away with it--most people don't want a scene so they'll try to appease you."

It's probably not nice to play on most people's inherent good natures and good manners like that. Oh, well.

She nods as he moves toward the door. "I think the fire escape's the best way. We can probably get down to the lobby but I'm not sure about our chances down there in the open." It's also more safe.

Probably.

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