multiversallogs | 003 | OPEN. red lipstick on the end of a cigarette.

003 | OPEN. red lipstick on the end of a cigarette.

Who: Hasibe Ozcelik, and OPEN.
What: A show premieres at The Vault.
Where: The Vault.
When: Evening til the wee hours of the morning.
Notes: I will set up sections in the comments for people to hang out.
Warnings: WELL IT'S AN ADULT CLUB, SO.

The show starts at nine o'clock, and the bar is full pretty quickly thereafter, but the variety in the club is pretty striking. Xenians in their best suits, non-Xenians in leather and ripped fishnets, everything in between. There doesn't seem to be a lot of cultural divide here between human and not, even given recent issues. Hasibe makes good on her promise to have members of her cohort given seating preference, as she's sweet-talked the cocktail dress-clad hostesses, and the bartenders (in their vague approximations of suits with very open shirts) are aware that she's invited a lot of heavy drinkers. ...she just assumes people in her cohort want to drink--they've been kidnapped to a strange city with many new things to offer, so why wouldn't they?

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"I don't mind being here," Ilde says, considering, "but I don't intend to stay when we find a way out."

When, not if; she speaks in terms of absolute faith and it's faith in Sonja, mostly, because she trusts her implicitly in ways that are a little bit frightening.

Rhade isn't the only one with a feline curiosity, and periodically Ilde is making a habit of wandering away from her date to peer at things, intrigued by the place - she gravitates towards the private rooms mostly out of sheer nosiness and the reasoning that it's more or less the ultimate in ice-breakers, but she's not long lingering and drifts out of one in time to catch someone familiar.

"Hello, again." The easiness of her smile is mostly to do with the cocktail she was drinking earlier, it should be noted; besides 'a little drunk' she doesn't look quite the way she did the last time they met, the illusion she maintains somehow thinner than usual. Her features are still hidden beneath a human-seeming, but her skin catches the light when she moves and it looks liquid-smooth, almost, against her satin dress. Like a little ghost, or something else entirely.

He blinks slightly. He's always smelled the difference, but seeing the edge of it was a little unusual. He doesn't question it however, and goes over to her. Whatever alcohol he's had isn't affecting him yet. It takes a lot to dent his system.

"Enjoying yourself, I hope?" He really prefers this area. There's something oddly homey about it, in a way he can't really identify. Perhaps that Nietzscheans don't generally lock their doors inside their family houses, and someone can come in whenever they feel like it.

Her attire... does not go without notice.

As much as she's not especially interested in pursuing most of it (impulse-driven, she drifts back to Ivan's side now and then to remind herself what he would and would not like her to do and that she actually cares about that), she's been mildly entertained by the very different reception her visible inhumanity has earned here. Her scent is mostly perfume and cigarette smoke, but she passed a vampire earlier who remembered what lies underneath it from Gutters; she'd smiled, because she has no goddamn self-preservation instinct.

"I am," she says, on that note, twirling her empty cigarette holder in her hands for something to do; she's restless, almost, unable to still but not terrible demonstrative in it. "I was too young to see Hasi perform when we were in Italy-- I loved it, though, here. And I like what else you can see. It's beautiful, when you go up into the Ctenophora and just look down and watch everyone moving."

...a little more talkative for the booze, yes.

Hands clasped behind his back, he breathes a laugh. "She has a level of talent rarely seen before. It's exceptional." And, in his culture, would have been gladly cultivated. Though he's aware of the divide- an more respectful of it than other Nietzscheans.

"Have you thought about it?" He asks, starting to walk around her, giving her a good once over like a museum curator would give an artefact of high quality. Though respectful of those boundaries he is still what he is, and doesn't shy from appraisal of the people around him.

"About--?" Ilde straightens slightly under the scrutiny, tucking one foot behind the other and half-turning as he moves, tilting her head back so she doesn't miss anything he says when he's not in front of her. That she doesn't lose her balance in those heels, with her alcohol tolerance, is really something in and of itself - she tenses on the edge of what's noticeable when he's behind her, too.

After a beat, clarifying: "About performance?"

He nods. "You obviously have a sense of balance. And you know how to show what you want to be seen, and keep other things private." His sly indication that he had noticed something peculiar about her, but didn't necessarily mind. "You dress in manner that's flattering. You should be proud of it."

"Quite a show, isn't it?" Katherine says from his side, having appeared seemingly out of nowhere. There's a glass in her hand (not containing blood, at least not yet) and she takes a seat next to him, crossing her legs and leaning back in her seat. "Although one has to wonder how you discover you enjoy that kind of thing. Most would be too afraid to try."

Her laugh is quiet, the rush of a river from a distance; secretive isn't among the qualities she's heard cited before in the list of reasons why she should perform, and it seems fitting in a way that keeps her smiling when the laughter fades, wry. Sleight of hand is so much of what she is, after all--

"My father wanted me to sing," she says, touching the side of her throat, just under her hair, splaying her fingers there, thumb at her collarbone. "I was supposed to study for it at Guildhall, but it didn't- work out that way." Kidnapping and the apocalypse will put a crimp in the best laid plans. "I thought about playing somewhere, here; the cello, or if I can find a harp..."

A shrug.

"You know, I always wondered. What part was the immoral one, as far as you're concerned. Feeding at all? Killing them? Where's your line between guilt and lack of it?" He just sounds curious.

Katherine's checked out all the stages at this point, and while those employed by the place are very talented and put on a fantastic show, she's found herself wanting a bit of peace and quiet. She's poured herself into a dark purple dress (http://www.uk-karenmillen.com/images/Karen%20Millen%20Folded%20Cocktail%20Dresses%20Purple_1.JPG) that hugs her petite frame, and her hair is in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, a few stray curls framing her face. She wanders the halls aimlessly, a tumbler of scotch in hand, and when she comes to the private rooms she's intrigued enough to slip in the doorway of one of them to take a closer look.

"It's my personal belief that discretion is for the things you don't want people to see. Things that are yours. But strengths and talents should never be wasted.

"From what I've gathered, the majority of what this place is good for is either using it as an opportunity to indulge your abilities, or escaping what might have compromised them before." He leeeeeans just so, teetering to see into one of the rooms, then bringing himself back to standing.

"It's a big city. Certainly there must be at least one."

Since Penelope also made the dress that Ilde is wearing, she feels an obligation to present herself for inspection - so Penelope can judge how she styled the outfit around it, you see.

"What's in a red sangria?" ...but while she's here.

"Inexpensive and good enough for my tastes is- a little hard to find," she says, wryly; she's choosy about her instruments and a grand harp isn't the kind of thing most people just have lying around, unfortunately. Still, she's patient (even if she keeps prioritizing wardrobe over instruments in the list of 'things she doesn't really need but wants, anyway').

"But my music is more than talent--" that she follows his gaze into the room is reflexive, and she manages to stop herself from leaning as well when she realizes she's doing it, "--so I'd have to be very careful. Though it might be of interest somewhere like here."

Well, it's a thought, anyway; she meanders tangents.

Oh hey, it's Ilde! And she's wearing a Penelope Lane original. Well, not so original, it's basically a standard classic '20s flapper-style evening frock, but from the style and materials, it's pretty clearly come from the dress form of The Most Depressing Fashionista In Baedal.

"Oh, red wine, clear citrus soda, some fruit, other... stuff. I don't know, it's classy. I don't usually drink classy shit but this is a classy place and I couldn't think of anything else." Honesty is the best policy, unless it isn't. "Look at you, sexy lady. Fucking adore that necklace."

"I have a black velvet one, with a diamond buckle, but I thought it might give people the wrong idea." The thoughts that go through the mind of one Ilde Decima Featherstonehaugh, you are welcome, world. "Especially since Ivan's wearing a priest's collar for the evening." And it just gets better.

Penelope leans towards Ilde, in that conspiratorial friendly-at-the-bar sort of way.

"I'm not wearing any pants," she says, clearly not feeling any self-consciousness, since she has to speak up quite a bit over the noisy crowd at the bar. "I thought the wrong idea was generally the right way to go when you're at a place like this."

Hanging out at bars is something Penelope herself is implicitly comfortable with. Starting conversations with strangers generally isn't. Still, she's never been one to keep her mouth in check when she has something she wants to say, especially when it's remotely complimentary. So when she spots Njoki, after a long, studious stare (she really doesn't give a shit if it's obvious to anyone else, fuck their judgement, she's not wearing pants tonight.), she sidles up and gently-but-friendly-like nudges Njoki in the arm with her elbow.

"I like your mods," Penelope says. "I'm too chickenshit to get any myself but I'm a student of other people's. Yours are among the most bitchin' I've seen here." Ladies and gents, this is the nicest Penelope has ever been to a stranger, probably.

Ilde bumps her hip against Penelope's, as if to indicate that she has in fact noticed the distinct lack of trousers going on in that general area. The area of Penelope's arse.

"That's true." When she turns slightly for the sake of conversation (it doesn't matter how quiet it is, just as long as she can see), it becomes evident that the gleam on her isn't a trick of the light; the light catches there, mother of pearl through the illusion that's much thinner than usual. This just seems like the right place to play with that. "I don't think I've been to a place like this before, quite."

Penelope's meandering back to the bar from the backstage area-- some of these girls are just not used to performing in couture, shit needs adjustments-- when she passes a rather usual-looking gentleman that wouldn't otherwise get a second glance, except that he's wearing a priest's collar, and didn't Ilde mention something about that?

P.J. Lane, Girl Investigator. She approaches, entirely un-tentatively.

"Hi, are you Ilde's dude? She mentioned a guy in a collar, I just thought."

He's amused to be described that way, but it's not inaccurate. "I'm here with Ilde, yes. You're a friend of hers, I take it."

Ivan is unsure he's ever been described in any capacity as a 'dude.'

"Me neither," she shrugs. "Despite my youth and relative coolness, clubs aren't usually my thing. I like bars because I run into more guys that I know I won't want to have sex with more than once."

Penelope clinks her glass with Ilde's, in a show of solidarity. She saw that little glimmer, but it could easily have been reflected sparkle from any of the myriad shiny objects twinkling around the club. Or Penelope could be hallucinating. God only knows what they make alcohol out of in this crazy-ass city.

Rachel is not the only one needing a break. Though incapable of getting drunk himself, surrounding himself with the life energies of so many people who are (not to mention intoxicated on other substances, including hormones) has had something of a contact effect. Not quite as intense as his brother Rory would feel on stage during a concert, to be sure, but still potent. Various people have whispered various suggestions into his ear, with or without a hand slipped into a pocket of his jeans or fingers toying with his vest buttons, but he doesn't quite feel ready to cut loose and go with the flow.

Yet.

As he passes the private rooms, his sharp hearing provides him with a fair amount of detail of what goes on in each one. When he finally locates a door with no party sounds coming from within, he opens it, forgetting for the moment that a room might be quiet because it has one occupant, not none. He stops short, blinking as he recognizes the red-haired woman from his CiD conversation with her, then offers a slightly apologetic smile.

"Hello ... Rachel, isn't it?" He follows up with a half-bow. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Yeah, hi, I'm Penelope Lane, I designed Ilde's dress she's got on tonight. You may already be acquainted with my cat."

She offers her hand to shake, transferring her glass of fruity red sparkling drink to her other. Despite him clearly being way more fussy and upperclass than Penelope would ever lower herself to affecting airs of being, she is determined to make at least one slightly positive impression on a stranger tonight. God knows she could use the good recommendations from more well-connected people than herself, and now's a damn good night to make that shit happen.

"When I was fifteen, sixteen, there were a couple of nightclubs that I could get into--" that she should not have been able to go to, still baby-faced at nearly twenty-two and by the nature of what she is probably always will be (in fairness, at sixteen her skin didn't sparkle), "--but they weren't as explicit."

She sounds as though she thinks this was a design flaw on their part, clinking her glass against Penelope's.

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003 | OPEN. red lipstick on the end of a cigarette.

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