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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At some point during the evening, Mitchell will no doubt be at the bar drinking Jack Daniels and Coke because, even if he were inclinced to drink blood tonight (and he has been thoroughly tempted during his time in Baedal) it's bagged and unsuitable for his needs.

It's a subject upon which his ears should be burning.

For now, some pretty young woman sitting alone at a table is eyeing him and he's returning her glances every so often. The difference being that the quiet hunger about his gaze is something completely different to what she's thinking about. Probably, anyway. It's difficult to say in a place like this.

Not that he would, anyway. This place is too public, he'd be recognised as the last person seen with her, it's the workplace of a friend, etc, and then the moral reasons. All these factors drift across his mind as he stands there toying with the idea regardless.

By the time Deacon is headed Mitchell's way, he's looking to wind down. Like he'd excused himself before, being around excessive amounts of people of a different species makes him itch, with the caveat being that he is barred from eating any of them. At least while in the building. There's being arrogant and thirsty, and then there's being stupid.

Burgundy tie has been slid off from around his now opened collar, the strip of silk absently wound around his knuckles. Upon entering, slate-blue stare does not speculatively tick over the available wall of liquor or the wine racks. He does scope, instead, the occupants, including the lady that Mitchell is eyeing up, following her own glance to the other vampire himself.

Next to silently, he steps up on Mitchell's other side. "She's pretty."

Deacon's presence doesn't startle Mitchell, but he does turn his head slightly to acknowledge the other vampire's presence. It's more for the sake of looking normal in front of the rest of the bar than anything.

"Yeah," he says, turning his focus back on the room at large. "And she's not shy about it either. She wouldn't come here, otherwise, but she's...I don't know. Not quite a tourist. New, maybe, the way she's been looking around. Trying to play cool." You can tell he's been considering these things for a while now, which says a lot about his current mental state.

He glances back in her direction while taking a drink, before asking, "Having a nice evening?" It's not unfriendly, but it is a little trite.

"Me? I'm having a swell evening."

Rather than take a seat, Deacon turns his back to the bar to lean against it, blocking off any query about whether he'll be drinking tonight as well as enabling both easier conversation and the ability to take in the room. "Kind of an interesting place to go poaching." The assumption is made casually, based off those details, based off expectations of his fellow vampire.

That, or Deacon is okay with being wrong. At least he is taking measures not to be overheard. "Only because of your girl, though she doesn't seem to have a real problem with it, does she? On principle."

"I'm not; not really." ...sure, Mitchell. "Just contemplating my options."

At the mention of Hasi, he shakes off any thoughts of 'poaching,' as Deacon calls it. "She's encouraging me to be more honest with myself. Not that I'd want to go messing up her workplace, anyhow." Then, a slight tilt of the head as he consider something. "Well, not unless anyone asked me to, I realise there's a demand for that these days. Those awful vampire novels putting ideas into people's heads. In fact, I used to know someone who would do it as a gig."

The way he gives a brief chuckle over that suggests it's not something Mitchell would consider for himself. "If people are putting themselves on a plate, I'm not about to say no." Although for a vampire in a certain mindframe, most humans are already on a plate to begin with.

"Yeah, well."

His fingers splay, relax. "That's more or less where they're supposed to be. We called 'em familiars, back where I came from. Humans who knew about us, sought us out, offered their throats. For promise of power, or because they'd get off on it." Which more or less amounts to the same thing, says a shrug from Deacon, glancing over his shoulder towards where the bartending is tending at a distance.

"We'd brand them. Any vampire who could make a name for his self had a mark."

"Interesting system. What our lot did depended on the place or the vampire. Some would grab and nab a kill, others would keep humans to feed on. Sometimes it was voluntary and sometimes it wasn't." Tra la, isn't this the most normal bar side conversation in the world.

"Different strokes, as they say. I know there were death cults way back when, but people wanting to be fed on only arose again in the past couple of decades. Groupies." That last part is more than a little dismissive.

"Is that what it's like at your place? Familiars?" It's not the first time that he's thought about Gutters tonight.

"Gutters?" Deacon tips his head. Kind of.

Not really. "Mafaton's got a population who like to pay tribute. There's no such thing as two much blood, so we'll take on willing donors, but it's not exactly the same. And it's not exactly enough." He tips a look back towards the girl, who is possibly surely disappointed that her prospect is getting distracted.

"We have our own system. If you want to check it out yourself," he adds, "you're more than welcome. It pays."

"I think I'll be stopping by some point later tonight. But there's someone I need to catch up with first." Assuming this interaction happens before he's gone to Hasibe's dressing room.

Surprisingly, his interest in the girl at the table is starting to wane.

"Night's young."

His hand claps briefly on Mitchell's shoulder once he pushes his weight off the bar. Releasing him thusly from the conversation to pursue said person, and in any case - Deacon is the kind of vampire who starts feeling like a traitor to his own kind if he socialises in more human public spaces for too long. "I'll see you around."

He moves, then, stealing a wink towards the would-have-been prospective girl before he is headed for the door.

Fuck that woman at the table, here's someone with a lot less patience for the dance of pursuit. Penelope slides onto a bar stool immediately next to Mitchell in all her pantsless glory (http://www.polyvore.com/penelope_drunk_girls_in_cluuuub/set?id=39643164), nudging his leg ever-so-subtly with her knee, in the way how it's not subtle at all.

"Hi. So we're both hot. You should probably buy me a drink." She somehow manages to look fashionably disaffected and yet flash him a hundred-watt smile simultaneously. The ease with which this is accomplished is frankly impressive.

Once again, Mitchell isn't startled, but unlike sensing another vampire's approach, this definitely wasn't something he was expecting. It has the effect of knocking him back into his Nice Guy persona and he immediately chuckles at Penelope's approach. It is impressive.

"You're not shy, I'll give you that." Which seems enough to oblige the lady and he waves the bartender over. He's not really thinking about why he's doing it, which is interesting because he was contemplating tearing someone else's throat open only a second ago. That's...just how he rolls? Oh dear.

"So what's your poison?"

"Just about anything." The entendre there is so far past 'double' it's disgusting. "Fuck it, Jack and coke, I'm sick of trying to be classy for this place. Nothing against beauty and art and all that but fuck it, I don't have the patience. I want what I want."

There's another one of those smiles. She may be straightforward, but Penelope feels it's always good to dispense with the artifice and get right down to business with these sorts of things. Get in, get what you need, get out again. No muss, no fuss.

Well. Less fuss.

"Make that two," he says when the barman comes over, then clarifies, "Bourbon and Cola." Or the closest approximation. The perils of ordering alcohol in a multi-dimensional city.

"It's a good attitude to have." And once again, the opinions of many people throughout the week linger in his mind. Want what you want. It's not like Mitchell really needs to be enabled much.

"Did you have anywhere particular in mind?" He's unsure about trying to feed in The Vault since it's Hasibe's workplace. ...yes, he's got no problem with making it look like he's about to have sex with someone in the company of someone he just had sex with, but wrecking their workplace is apparently crossing a line. Don't ask how his mind works.

"There's a spot backstage that's pretty secluded. I mean it's loud, but that's good, right?"

Because god knows Penelope doesn't want anyone to know about this. The lack of preamble might be a hint as to how she's planning on pursuing this-- exactly the way she pursues basically all of her encounters with men. She doesn't want to know his name, doesn't want to be his friend, doesn't even want to remember what he looks like a couple hours from now. As simple as possible. Streamlined. That's a nice, non-slutty word. It's almost professional.

Yeah. That's what she is. A professional sex-haver-- oh god no that's not right at all. You know what, it doesn't matter. She is young and he is hot, the music is loud and the drinks are free. That is when magic happens. And she should know.

(If she feels any predatory vibes coming from his direction, she assumes they mean completely the opposite. She has no idea what she's just come on to.)

There's a very normal seeming smile from Mitchell, while part of him calculates that backstage usually means exits are close by, that a place like this means that feeding in public is not unheard of, that if anything did go wrong--

Another part of him maintains that this if for sex, over and over, nothing more nothing less, this is a club for it for god's sake, it's not like he and Hasi agreed on any definitions or boundaries yet (like that makes any of this okay).

"Sounds good to me." The bartender brings their drinks over and he takes a good, long sip, trying to muster a placebo affect. At least for now, anyway.

Edited 2011-11-21 10:58 (UTC)

Penelope does the same. Alcohol helps, with these things, because there's always some little part in the back of her mind that hasn't been completely burned out yet, worrying and trying to tell her that this probably isn't such a good idea, as it does every time. She thinks it's part of her conscience. Not that she's really sure, though-- she hasn't listened to it since high school, and that was a long time ago now. Long enough that the pattern of Find Easy Target --> Get At The Very Least Buzzed --> Use Target --> Evacuate ASAP has become so ingrained in her psyche that she's nearly forgotten that normal people don't operate that way, at least not 100% of the time.

After about half the drink is drained (she powers through with a purpose-- not having to speak to the target), she hops off her barstool and reaches for his hand.

"Come on," she says, and although her face is smiling, something in her demeanor is more impatient than affectionate. And maybe that's as it should be.

Mitchell, thankfully (okay, maybe not in this scenario), is not a normal person. Which probably should trigger alarm bells a little, but oh well.

But even he's a little surprised at how quickly Penny operates. If she were a vampire, she could probably beat him hands down. But thank God she's not, because that would be the worlds most awful competition.

He takes her hand with a faint smile. "Lead on."

It's not a conscious decision to walk over and stand near one of the vampires in attendance, but Njoki tends to gravitate towards the (un)dead and this one in particular has a feel like Ivan. While she's never seen a picture of Mitchell, there's a good chance this is the man in question.

Once she's nearby, Njoki leans in to say, "You know she's got tentacles, eh? Literal maneater."

It's possible she's joking.

This time his glance back to the table and its occupant is a might more wary. "...god, I keep forgetting that in this city."

But then his attention shifts to Njoki because he remembers her vaguely from somewhere. "I know you," he says, trying to remember back, hand making a gesture like 'it'll come to me eventually.' And then, "The arrival room! I was the rambling weirdo who thought this place was Hell."

Like that is the most natural way to proceed a conversation. Njoki gets the friendliest of smiles and a cheery, "Hello."

"I remember," she replies with a too sharp grin and offers to shake hands. "Ivan's only said the very best about you."

Realizing she ought to clarify that for Mitchell's benefit and blood pressure, "Bastard was on my couch after his apartment had a bit of an accident."

And hands are shaken.

"I'm sure he did." Don't mind if it's said a bit dryly, he just knows Ivan well enough to query the word 'best.' "I never did catch your name back then."

Ivan had mentioned someone who was a vampire doctor named Njoki, but they never did get around to introductions on his first day way back when.

"Njoki, but Ki works if you can't get around it." The first syllable of her name is somewhere between a glottal stop and a click and while it's comparatively easy to pronounce, it does tend to confuse Western speakers.

"I'll stick with Ki for now, but I'll at least practise the other part." And most likely still pronounce it weirdly. Irish accents, fff. "Ah, so you're the vampire doctor Ivan was telling me about. Now he definitely had good things to say about you."

"Don't believe a word of it. He's all flattery," she manages to say with a straight face . "And, yeah, not what I used to write on my cards but I can advertise more openly here."

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

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