Costume Party in Honor of Lex Luthor's Birthday [OPEN]

[defenestration]

As stated on the invitation, Adrian is throwing a costume party to celebrate Lex's twenty-fifth birthday at the Luthor-Veidt Building in Brock Marsh. Everyone is welcome, whether they know Lex or not. There's plenty of food and free alcohol (mostly wine, fancy beer, and champagne), music and a space for dancing, and room to mingle and make new friends. Some simple and classy decorations, purple of course, have been put up on the first and second floors to create a festive atmosphere.

(A note to those who might try to take the opportunity to go snooping: security is insanely tight. The elevators will not go beyond the first and second floors without a special code, and there's an elevator operator who is very obviously there to make sure you don't try anything funny. The stairwells are likewise under guard and the private areas of the first floor are locked and under camera surveillance.)



[ooc: Please wait until a few threads are set up before tagging! Party time! Everyone is welcome!

Note: I've turned off notifs so if you need my attention in a specific spot, please PM or plurk me.]

Comments

a++ would lol again

[aviophobia]

McCoy's eyes lift at the voice, and his eyebrows shoot straight up. It's - Spock, but at the same time ... it's ... not. The face is unquestionably the same, but soft where Spock's is angular and hard, and his ears are rounded.

...what in the ever-loving fuck.

"No, uh," he stammers after a second. "You're good. Your name Spock, by any chance?"

I couldn't resist lol

[aintwoundright.livejournal.com]

"Spock," Gabriel repeats, moving for the chair he'd indicated but remaining on his feet. He hadn't missed that look on the other man's face. "No, it isn't. Do I remind you of him?"

He holds out a hand. "I'm Gabriel Gray."

[aviophobia]

"Leonard McCoy." He gets to his feet and shakes the other man's hand. His body temperature is perfectly normal for a human's; maybe a bit cool, even. Nothing like the burning hot temperature of a Vulcan. "You look just like him."

[aintwoundright.livejournal.com]

Gabriel immediately recognizes, in the way McCoy gets to his feet to properly shake his hand, another man who was Raised With Manners. It's oddly comforting, somehow. He knows, too, despite his years of being out of practice (serial killing doesn't exactly lend itself to being a proper gentleman, but he's changed now, he's not that man anymore), that he should let the other gentleman know it's all right to take his seat again. He gestures at McCoy's chair before settling into his own.

"Do I? Huh. Poor guy," he says, good-naturedly. "Friend of yours?"

[aviophobia]

McCoy regains his chair, picking up his drink and taking a swig, still eyeing the man with open curiosity. It's the weirdest fucking thing - and, he realizes, this must be how that Boromir guy felt. A man who looks just like someone you know back home but isn't them. It's an unsettling feeling.

"Crewmate." They're not friends. "There's minor differences, but stick some pointy ears on you and you'd be practically indistinguishable."

[aintwoundright.livejournal.com]

"...Pointy ears on top of looking like me." Gabriel makes the sort of face one makes when unsure of whether to be amused or sympathetic. He settles back in his chair, half a smile tugging on his lips, the open examination not bothering him in the slightest.

"A crewmate? Do you work on a ship?"

[aviophobia]

McCoy nods. "USS Enterprise. Flagship of the 'Fleet."

[aintwoundright.livejournal.com]

Gabriel raises his eyebrows. "It's a Navy ship?" That's what it sounds like to him, anyway. He'd seen those ships coming into the harbor a few times, when he was a kid and Fleet Week hit New York; they always had their names on the side, preceded by USS.

[aviophobia]

"Oh, no," McCoy corrected, shaking his head. "Starfleet. Constitution-class starship."

[aintwoundright.livejournal.com]

Gabriel blinked. "A starship. Oh. My mistake--where I'm from we're still sailing on the sea, those ships. And the odd orbit around the earth. Wow. You're an astronaut, then? If they still call it that."

[aviophobia]

"They don't. They call me a doctor." He shook his head. "'Astronaut' hasn't been the term for nearly a century now."

[aintwoundright.livejournal.com]

"I see."

He was trying, he really was, not to turn this into an interrogation. Most people around here seemed to be from a time and place comparable to his own; this poor guy must've been questioned by so many people by now.

But one thing made him frown, sympathetic, because he had some experience himself, earned helping out in the makeshift triage clinic at the inn, when the monsters invaded. (The first monsters. How messed up was it, really, that there had been more than one such invasion?)

"...The state of medicine around here must seem really backwards to you. I'm sorry."

[aviophobia]

"Yeah." McCoy snorted, shaking his head. "I remember when I first got here, when Jim told me there weren't even dermal regenerators here - still using honest-to-god hypodermic needles - stitches - I damn near had a heart attack myself. I'm pretty well-versed in twentieth century medicine, but this was a shock."

[aintwoundright.livejournal.com]

Gabriel sighed. "Even leaving aside the question of technology or lack thereof, this place has been short on proper medical help of any kind." He made a face. "During one of the emergencies--must be months ago, now, it was when there were slimy things coming up out of the sink drains and I swear to god, attack monkeys."

He realized how that sounded, but, look, he was just relaying the facts as they happened, it wasn't his fault said facts were fucking ridiculous.

"I only ever found one doctor in all of that, and he was running ragged trying to help everyone. I got pressed into service stitching people up for him. I'm a watchmaker," he added, by way of explanation... not that it was much, really. "Accustomed to delicate, precise work. The place is bad off, Doctor, when it's putting watchmakers into service as medics."