you can't make homes out of human beings; someone should have told you that.

[norea]

Who: Hasibe Ozcelik and anyone who feels like it
What: The nightlife goes on.
Where: The Vault.
When: Evening.
Notes: Hasi will do some aerial silk work during her act! AERIAL SILKS ARE COOL.
Warnings: The ratings are appropriate to the location, let's say.

As her star rises in Baedal's society pages--fashioning herself the actress, the scandal, the girl with the golden eyes you'd never leave alone with your husband but love to see onscreen--so does the anxiety in Hasibe's employer at the Vault. She doesn't want to lose one of her best girls, her so-called 'black diamond', and although Hasibe has reassured her she doesn't plan to go, she did, originally. But now Mitchell is gone, and so is Bruce, and her plans have reconfigured only because places like these, places where women dance and drink and entertain, are her homeland. She feels safe here, and she's never alone. Sometimes she even brings Huan into her dressing room, because she doesn't want him to feel alone, either--this isn't really a problem, but she projects feelings onto her dog, occasionally, and he tolerates it.

She smiles, and makes her way through all of the various dens of sin at her disposal, looking for unfamiliar faces, or familiar faces, or really, anyone who catches her interest. Being forward has never been her problem. It would take a truly superb level of observational skill to sense there are any cracks whatsoever in her guile and charm, and even then, only at various moments where she's carelessly machinating a few chaotic moments with clientele simply because she can. That isn't characteristic Hasibe behavior, but she's looking for something right now.

As for what that is...she'll know it when she sees it.

Comments

[kecharitomene]

This is not actually where Lourdes had planned to wear this outfit tonight, but after being released from the arrival room she'd picked a direction and started exploring - the Vault caught her attention long enough for her to find out at the door that her cohort (which is probably something she should learn more about, huh) has no cover charge tonight, and that just didn't seem like a thing she ought to pass up. Cypra would probably never forgive her, which is assuming Cypra is ever going to see her again and hear this story, which is something she is definitely, right now, choosing to assume.

There are lots of ways to get to know a city. Convincing somebody in here to buy her a drink sounds like a pretty good one, and in spite of certain interesting personality traits, she's never had that much trouble finding somebody to foot that bill. This is what she has in mind, opening her coat, until she realizes she recognizes one of the women circulating this evening - Norea Serhati. The actress; Bellamy's actress, the one he didn't want her or Cypra to talk to.

So it's sort of like a race! Will someone near Lo realize she's watching Hasi before Hasi does? Stay tuned.

[deservesadaisy]

Ivan has noticed that Mitchell went home; they didn't talk often, but after Daniil's repeat disappearing act, Ivan thought to check and see who else was still on the Network. It would be disingenuous to pretend he missed Mitchell as such, but he had bee someone familiar. It's not as if Ivan is regularly chatting with Hal.

And, with Mitchell gone, he did think of Hasibe. He usually kept his distance from Idle's friends for a variety of reasons, but Hasibe struck him as a woman who could take care of herself. As a woman who survives. It interests him.

Besides, he's out wandering, and he tries not to go straight back to Ilde when he's flush with too-recent feeding. He looks almost alive, in these moments - almost - and he's sure she's noticed as it is. He doesn't see the need to flaunt it.

Admission is free for his cohort tonight, so he ducks in and finds himself a place to sit and watch. If he'd remember to pretend to breathe, he might be less unnerving. At least it's too dark for anyone not notice the small fleck of blood on his collar, like telltale lipstick, unless they're very close indeed.

[mightyfallen]

Jack hadn't responded to her broadcast. He'd seen it and appreciated her antics, but he doesn't like to establish a connection between them on the network — and not for the reason most would-be politicians avoid advertising their relationships with Vault starlets, or he wouldn't be in the Vault now, risking near as much of a scandal. But he doesn't mind a scandal he can control; what he does mind is giving the press (or the Militia) an opening to stick their claws in the only real friendship he has in this city.

Which is why he's here, really. Another small dose of authenticity to carry him over until the next time he sees her. It's been a while, and a lot has happened, but there's more to come, and he just wants to pause everything for a moment before it hits.

Getting backstage isn't terribly difficult with his money and position and the fact that he's been seen with Hasi more than once before, so he makes it all the way to her dressing room and knocks on her door.

"Room service," he calls out.

(Well, he did bring her a drink.)

[captaincocksure]

After Hasi's performance, Jim waits patiently back near the dressing rooms, offering charming smiles to the other performers as they pass and catch his eye. He's bold enough to come back here, but not disrespectful; he won't actually go to her dressing room without clear permission. So one of the stagehands has been dispatched to pass a message: whether he's permitted to come back, or she chooses to come out, he'd like to say hello.

He holds a small bouquet, small enough that maybe that word is exaggeration, a few blooms tied together with ribbon. Dr. McCoy told him, once, after some event at the Academy starring some girl Jim badly wanted to impress at the time, that this is What You Do.

He misses his friend's guidance so much. Nearly as much as he misses the man himself. It's been months, now, and he's finally given up all hope that the doctor can pull off a second miraculous return to the city. And he's grown aware, too, that in his grief, in his inability to cope, he's in danger of letting the other friendships he has here slip through his fingers.

So maybe the flowers are more than a token of congratulations or appreciation for a performance well done. Maybe they're an apology, too, a peace offering.

[gotbottle]

Rachel, as is her wont, roams the club over the course of the evening. She takes in a performance here and one more over there, drops into and out of the bar and lounge, passing by tables, greeting old friends. She's a social creature, and a restless one at that; sitting in one spot is just not something that happens when she's out.

And maybe there's a certain desire to quietly do a headcount, check on as many people as she can while she circulates.

She happily stops, sits, drinks, makes conversation and catches up when she spies someone she knows; she's just as pleased to make new acquaintances, whether by introduction or just striking up conversations with people she runs into.

It's only near the private rooms that her energy and friendliness dim. The corridor is crowded as always, people coming and going, hovering around trying to take over a room or peek into them to look for friends or some fun they can join. Rachel dodges a waitress with a tray, stepping into the open doorway of a room just vacated by a trio of giggling couples. She lingers a moment to let the traffic thin out, availing herself of the wine she's been carrying in a glass, and her eyes idly sweep the empty room.

...Was that a pick-up line?

On another night like this--God, was it really a whole year ago?--she made a friend. Right here in this room, she remembers now, needing a break from all the activity and ready to shout at anyone who barged in that they'd broken up some Important Personal Time (even though so such thing was happening--funny how they kept bumping into each other at clubs and getting out of trouble by pretending they were Doing Things that they really were not).

And now he's gone. But not forgotten, never forgotten. She takes a deep breath, blinking damp eyes, and she raises her glass in salute to the empty corner where once upon a time, she sat with a good man.

The logjam in the corridor clears; she's slightly melancholy as she steps out of the room, a bit lost in her own thoughts. But the best cure for that is the company of other people, music, another glass of wine, and she intends to get back into all that.