multiversallogs | 002 | CLOSED. join the children of hell.

Entry tags:

002 | CLOSED. join the children of hell.

Who: Hasibe Ozcelik, John Mitchell, possibly certain others
What: Hasi drags Mitchell to Gutters, pretending it is "for her protection".
Where: Gutters!
When: Evening, lateish.
Notes: Your log page is belong to Kays.
Warnings: Hahaha uhh. It's a vampire bar and Hasibe exists. Stay tuned.

Ending up at Gutters was always in the plan, for Hasibe. She had made a list of all the bars and clubs she absolutely needed to hit up ("needed" at least in the context of her own mind), and since this place came recommended, it was bumped up a few notches on the list. Cognizant of the danger inherent to the place, she'd even managed to wrangle a companion, though her motivations for persuading him to come along had less to do with her own need for protection--at least, that was how she saw it--and more to do with her desire to push him into interacting with his own kind. It was convenient for both of them...and, for the purposes of particular other activities of hers, gave her ample opportunity to observe the effect recent events had on the population.

There's always an ulterior motive with this one. She sees it as benevolent.

Mitchell probably didn't need the help, though. She'd even admit that, freely. But she has her ways of showing her interest in people, and arranging social situations for them with varying degrees of subtlety happens to be one of them. Once they make their way into the bar, buried as it is in the undercity of Mafaton, she abandons her coat, which means she is fully unveiled in her patently ridiculous white dress with its cut-out spaces, and accompanying towering black leather ankle boots. It's not exactly dressing to blend in down here.

(She gets a little bit of silly entertainment out of wearing pristine white to places where everyone is almost certainly dressed dark. It's a thing.)

"What do you think?" Hasi inquires, smiling at Mitchell. She loves the undercity, of course.

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The first thing that hits Mitchell is the smell of blood. He's hungry; especially since the last time he properly fed was over two months ago. And right now there are bowls of blood being passed around like most pubs back home serve peanuts.

Then he notices Hasi's dress after she's taken over her coat. And the look he gives her isn't so much Oh no, we don't match so much as Lady, are you trying to draw attention to yourself, and the answer is yes, Mitchell. If his distant and well-practiced air of someone not to be bothered wasn't in full force already, it is now.

(Intellectually, he thinks Hasi must have something else up her sleeve. She did say she was a witch after all. Or she doesn't have much in the way of a self-preservation instinct. He hasn't decided which.)

"The floor isn't sticky," he says, finally, as he casually eyes up the other patrons.

"Well, it's still early," she says, with a trace of a laugh in it -- she smiles wide enough that her own teeth show in just a glimmer. Hasibe has fangs, it is worth noting, just on top, but they're not like a vampire's, small and innocent-enough to look like just a quirk of dentistry.

"You don't like the dress?" It's so blithely poised, that question. In Gutters, she's looking for a taste of Tryst, the club she frequented at home; she's always chasing certain feelings, certain elevations of being. This is the only woman in the world who goes to a vampire bar looking for a spriitual experience, but hers don't hinge on anyone else's behavior. Just the way she enjoys some things. "I'm pretty pleased--this place is...unexpected."

And she is always aware of the eyes on her, but she nearly always has them. Call it vanity, but she accepts stares as a natural consequence for her own existence, so while she is conscious, she seems almost peculiarly unfazed.

The question about the dress means looking at Hasi, and looking at Hasi means looking at Hasi. Mitchell is by no means easily flustered by women but its not like he can pretend she's not attractive. He's already admitted as much in their earlier conversation.

"I can tell you picked it with a purpose in mind," is what he finally settles on. Along with, "I don't think this place is really my scene."

It could be. There's something about Gutters that speaks to him in a way that Hasi is perfectly fine with accepting, but which Mitchell has spent the last several decades trying to deny as much as possible. He was always a little bit showy for his own good.

Edited 2011-11-10 14:16 (UTC)

"You don't think so?" Hasi considers that remark with some amusement, and Mitchell, too. "You never know; it could surprise you."

She observes some of their own observers, making eye contact with more than a few--she likes to memorize faces, styles. There are so many vampires of so many shapes and makes here that energy signatures are more difficult, and she'd have to spend time attuning herself to one or two individually to commit those to memory, but faces she can do.

But no more standing. She moves nearer to touch Mitchell's arm, briefly, just a little absent-minded physical indication of imminent movement. "Let's go sit down. I want to read the room."

It wouldn't surprise so much as reaffirm a few things. On Hasi's suggestion, he nods in agreement. Sitting would feel better than standing out in the open.

To make a point to the room at large, he links that arm with his own. His face also softens a little for Hasi's sake because he realises it would be nice not to be a complete spoilsport. "Let's. Bar side or lounge?"

Edited 2011-11-10 15:19 (UTC)

"Lounge," she murmurs (into his ear, presumably to be heard above the music but also because this is just her way, sorry Mitchell), "definitely."

The bar looks packed. She makes her way toward said lounge, considering that she may want to let Mitchell take the lead in these things a bit more, for appearances' sake, but she thinks he's still getting acclimated, and it might take a little time before he's willing to push his way around. She does, however, appreciate how cognizant he is of the need for display, even if they go about it differently and have different motivations. (She's learning new things all the time.)

When she sits, she crosses her legs at the knee, absurd six-inch-heels balanced on the floor.

"Do they have places like this where you're from?"

"Not really." Which was true, in a sense. "At least not an actual business where people buy and sell blood. Every now and then, someone has an idea to gather humans together in one place for vampires to feed on but I think anything long term is impractical."

Herrick, of course, had kept a small number of humans captive as 'feeding stock' and had gone to certain lengths to keep them weak. It made sense, given the plans for world domination, but Herrick had a way of underestimating how vicious people could be when backed into a corner, and vampires had a habit of being arrogant. Mitchell isn't sure what would have happened there, if he hadn't interfered.

"How do we exist in your world?" he asks, relaxing back into the chair (or the appearance of relaxation, at least).

Hasibe thinks about the vampires she's met, and how to frame this without giving herself away, entirely. "There are a lot of vampires--most of them are quite old, though, I think there was some kind of general statute against turning people after the 19th century. Most of the ones I've met are at least four hundred years old. They vary in power, and they tend to feed freely; a lot of them keep to the old countries, where people are still superstitious."

She reaches up to tweak the sit of the straps of her outfit, absently reminded of something from a long time ago (flashes of Hyde come to her on occasion, the way he'd be driven to distraction by her adjusting her clothes or hair), and continues as though the thought never struck her. "In terms of the...hierarchy, I suppose, vampires are sort of mid-range. Hard to be the baddest boy in town when there are demons around. And there are things that eat them, because those things feed on the spirit and not the flesh which is, at least in my world, vastly more important. Vampires here don't seem to have any natural predators."

Four hundred years is considered old where Mitchell is from. He listens attentively; the concept of new breeds is still very strange to him and he considers it a good idea to get as much information as possible.

Something that can eat a vampire certainly gets his attention. He remembers Hasi saying as much before, in their first conversation but terminology like 'demons' and 'feeding on spirit' make it feel a bit more...solid. Still surreal, but he can place it better now. Which is also to do with his mental state as much as anything.

Speaking of predators. "They seem to take care of that themselves, here," he says, musing on his earlier conversation with Ivan. "Or at least their enemies do."

"So you did get filled in on that." Hasibe is reserving much comment here in the bar, where she's sure it's been discussed a million times -- vampires being what they are, she knows that there are many, many people present who have extremely augmented hearing. "Do you think we'll ever find out who did it?"

(She already knows, but she wants to see if he does.)

"I think so," he says, with a smile so slight it might almost seem nice under any other circumstance. "All vampires have is time. And ways of getting people to talk."

Which means he doesn't know, because Ivan doesn't or at least he didn't tell Mitchell. But when he thinks of his own fury after the explosion--

That's not a good place to go to. The location and the constant smell of blood probably isn't helping, in that respect. He does, however, spy someone walking past with a mixer in hand and that drags his attention away from his own thoughts. "It looks like they do something other than blood here. Can I get you a drink?"

That smile is interesting to her. Quite at odds with the rest of the image he presents, but she doesn't know how much of that presentation is conscious, just yet; time, as he says, will tell. The question makes her lift her head, as though she's just observed the presence of real alcohol that doesn't have O positive or something similar mixed in.

"I'd love something. Surprise me--but bear in mind I'm more of a whiskey and tequila girl than I probably look."

Her alcohol tastes don't exactly veer toward the gentle.

Even he wouldn't know the answer to that. Mitchell is almost unconciously conciously self-aware and it's difficult to say whether his niceness is genuine or a cultivated veneer.

"I can't make any promises on what their stock is like, but I'll try. Back in a minute," he says, and this time he really does seem pleasant, as if this is a perfectly normal evening.

And then he saunters off to the bar.

And someone saunters in.

Hasibe stands out, in her white dress and distinctly non-vampire scent somewhere beneath the chemicals, smoke and blood, and being not entirely without ostentation himself, Deacon notices, and has been watching with the air of someone currently bored with his current company. He and a few of what can be identified as his own cluster like a pack of wolves off to one side of the bar, draped on chairs, leaning against iron and cement, but he rises from them without a word, never one to ask permission.

"Hey beautiful."

Never one for subtlety, either.

His hand finds purchase on the back of her seat, more or less appearing in that silent glide through space and preternatural speed. "I wonder about the tourists we get down here sometimes. About what the attraction is."

She doesn't jump, tellingly, so either she sensed someone coming nearer--given how quick he was, she wouldn't have had a lot of time to tell--or maybe she is just generally disinclined to do that. Hasibe takes a moment to hope Mitchell isn't dismayed terribly by this turn of events, but she always thought it was probably inevitable. She wants him to get to know this place, and she thinks he'd like it. Maybe she's wrong, but--doesn't everyone need their own kind? If it's there, isn't that the way it's supposed to be?

She sort of guesses at this type of thing, owing to having no idea what it is to have a 'kind'.

Hasibe tips her head back and up, to regard her newfound company. With a smile! A smile absent of three things that would be considerably more normal: bravado, worry, or even guileless innocence as to the type of place she's in.

"Nothing good." But then she's considering that statement. "Nothing nice, anyway."

The two not necessarily being mutually exclusive, at least in Hasibe's book of admittedly questionable unreliable narration.

"But in my case, I'm facilitating." She indicates Mitchell through the throng of people (vampire-people) with a slight forward tilt of her head.

Two drinks later, Mitchell turns around to see that Hasi has acquired company, which is...not unexpected, because they had managed to get by relatively unhassled, and Mitchell figured it would come eventually. He knows his own kind, after all.

He also notices the group off to the side of the bar and that their relaxed demeanour means they're very much at home in this place. Or as close as these things get. And he's aware he is the new guy in town.

When he returns, the niceness is replaced with a cool detachedness. Hasi isn't his after all (although his latent alpha tendencies are bristling ever so slightly). "All right." It's as much a question to Hasi as it is a greeting to Deacon. The drinks get placed on the table with a pointed clink.

Edited 2011-11-12 12:33 (UTC)

Deacon doesn't deign to look up at Hasibe's indication, not until the glasses are set down on the table. His chin lifts, then, to give Mitchell a once over and a small, bland and slightly feline smile. "Facilitating," he repeats, his hand remaining where it is just next to the woman's shoulder, because although Mitchell is keeping himself in check, Deacon knows how vampires work, i.e., like wolves kept in close captivity where the territory, meat and bitches are all in short supply, especially when that isn't even true. He assumes, of course, that they are together.

"Haven't heard that one before. You're new?"

"Thank you," she says to Mitchell, meeting his eyes with a reassuring little upwards quirk in her smile. She's perfectly cognizant of some of these undertones, but, well--

This has happened around her so many times, albeit not with vampires, it barely impacts her. She tolerates the perception of herself as property on occasion because it is so easy for her to slip the leash, which has led to more than one messy debacle. Besides, it doesn't strike her as anything more than preliminary side-eying at the moment.

"Mmhmm, Mitchell and I got here round the same time, just in the past two. I'm Hasibe." Her accent gets thick as honey on occasion, and this is one of those times. Those little South Carolina island towns tend to have their own kind of lasting impact. Hasibe leans forward--having the side effect of exposing most of her back, since the dress is cut that way, and thus also unveiling the Scheherazade lily and accompanying serpent on her back--to snag her drink, then resettles. "Will you join us?"

"Like the lady says." He smiles fondly at Hasi, a quick switch between that detachment to create an air of intimacy between the two, followed by, "Although I think we might have to go elsewhere later on to get a decent whiskey."

'Later' is quite purposeful. Mitchell is suddenly feeling very cosy and inclined to stand his ground. He turns to Deacon with a jagged sense of chuminess (well practiced from several decades spent with Herrick):

"I've been getting the grand welcome. A friendly face to let me out, a recommendation for a decent drink. Caught up with an old friend. Almost starting to feel at home. Although," and he nods at Deacon's hand near Hasi's shoulder, "you're sort of blocking my seat."

So nice.

And Deacon smiles, then, wide enough that his own fangs are on display but that really is just the physicality of the action than anything else. "Then I'll get the fuck out of your way," he states. A simple solution. A few steps later and he's dragging a seat around to stake out his own spot at the table. "I'll tell you, you two are doing better at this than me when I first came to Baedal."

He gets out a cigarette, not yet lighting it, just a fidget between fingers where it twirls baton-like. "I got by fine, to clarify. If you can't work that much out once you're out of the Inn then Jesus. But when it came to where to hang? Have a nice time? That was dire.

"So I made my own," in conclusion, a tilt of his head to indicate Gutters as he sets about lighting up. "Deacon, by the way."

Edited 2011-11-13 02:58 (UTC)

My my, Mitchell is just full of interesting twists and turns. Hasibe watches him for a second, smile not even slipping--why would it, this back and forth is fascinating, as long as no one's ripping each other apart--and, while seating arrangements are decided, goes through the process of uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. A touch Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, given the white dress, but she's as steady with eye contact as that woman was, and probably just as calculating, even if she does a better job of pretending otherwise.

"I love it down here, so you seem to have quite a knack. I've never been anywhere like it. I have a confession, though, when it comes to the night life," she says, with a conspiring little half-lean in Deacon's direction, "I work at The Vault."

On the one hand, people don't usually, say, die at The Vault, which offers disturbing features of a different flavor--many flavors, really, but there are only a few vampires in there, on occasion. It is not A Vampire Club so much as a place in which vampires are occasionally on hand, as staff, as clients, or as simple patrons.

On the other hand, 'usually'.

"But Ilde is a good friend of mine, and she liked it so much here that I just had to come and check out the competition." The name-drop is a deliberate clue: she knows about the Candlelighters, knows why Ilde was here, and is in the same business. 'Competition' probably isn't really what's on her mind so much as comparative purposes, but that's secondary. "You don't mind, do you?"

So earnest, widening her eyes just a bit.

"It's a mindfuck, I'll say that much." Some of the jaggedness leaves his tone because Baedal, at least, is a neutral subject. For now, Mitchell takes his seat, not completely relaxed but fine so long as everyone plays nice.

Despite himself, he does actually look a little, dare we say it, impressed that this is Deacon's place. The industrial look isn't really so much his style, but then he'd always had a fancy to run a pub of his own some day. Not that he really could (or would) have been able to cater to vampire customers. "Really? How long do you have to be here to get a place like this up and running?"

(It should also bear note that he also doesn't have any idea what The Vault is, but in the relatively short time he's gotten to know Hasi, he's going to make a (correct) guess that it's not your usual kind of club.)

It'd be hard to be any kind of nightlife business owner and not know anything about the Vault, as indicated by the curve of Deacon's smile as he considers Hasibe. "At a wild guess, I'd say we're pushing different commodities," he tells her by way of reassurance, his tone as dry as bone in response to earnest appeal, reaching away to steal an ashtray off another table and plunk it in the centre of theirs.

"Ilde's an interesting girl," he muses, simply as a way of flagging that he gets the message, before turning slate pale glance back to Mitchell.

He jolts a shrug, leaning back in his seat and opening his hand to indicate their surroundings, all loose limbs and self-assurance. "Depends on your methodology. This place was already drawing a crowd before I came along, but let's just say I reinvented it in my own image when I took over management." And he doesn't spell out in detail how exactly he did that. "If you can keep this kind of place going even in the wake of a population culling, then you're on to a good thing."

Edited 2011-11-13 10:33 (UTC)

"We were just talking about that," Hasibe provides, turning in toward Mitchell -- she sits close, hip-to-hip, though the touch is light. She always holds herself with a bit of leftover dancer's poise, as though her spine is straight because she doesn't know how to have it any other way, though that illusion is dispelled if she ever gets a chance to actually sprawl like a cat over something or someone.

Probably not an event destined to happen in this club. (One assumes.)

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