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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Go inside, you weirdos, you can actually smoke in there.

The initial show here is a series of women, some obviously Xenian, some not, performing a burlesque routine. Hasibe performs at ten-thirty, in her little glittering white outfit, dancing with serpentine fire whips that occasionally wrap around her, somehow never burning her clothing, skin, or hair. At around eleven, a new group (this time of mixed gender) appears to play rhythmic, slightly electronic-sounding music.

...are considerably more explicit. Use your imagination. At least one definitively is for suspension.

Smallish, plush, velvet cubicles with rounded backs and wrap-along comfortable sofas, big enough to fit six or seven people at once. Music is piped in.

Crowded, but fortunately also enormous. Blood is sold here, but it's bagged and in glasses.

Edited 2011-11-19 06:17 (UTC)

Suspended in what appears to be a giant, shimmering chandelier above the stage for an interesting view. It has its own bar.

These probably occasionally have people doing drugs in them.

Hasibe has her own, but there's a larger one, too. She'll be in it before her performance, after while she gets a bit cleaned up, and when she gets dressed to leave at the end of the night.

Where terrible things happen. You have to sign a legal form promising you understand the risks to get in here.

"Whatever you want" is, after all, the club's motto.

Of course Jim is at the suspension stage. He's in the front row, clad in dark jeans and a crisp white dress shirt, the top two buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, his hair artfully tousled. He leans forward in his seat, forearms resting on his knees, so he can look up at the girl suspended above him.

The expression on his face, as he takes this in, is a clear mix of oh my god, what the hell and ...that looks like fun.

It's probably a good thing he doesn't have McCoy in tow.

Glass of red wine dangling from her fingers--her third, not that it shows beyond a very slight lack of focus to her gaze as it sweeps the area outside the private rooms--Rachel wanders along the hall. Some of the rooms are already packed with boisterous groups, not quite what she wants at the moment.

She's in black jeans and a black corset-style top, hair left down and loose. She's restless, running on little sleep these days, and she's not quite ready to dive back into the noise and activity and crowds in the rest of the club, not yet. A little quiet conversation or contemplation, a chance to sit and recharge a little, and maybe she'll make another go of it.

She ducks into one of the rooms, dodging a knot of people headed for the one just opposite.

Edited 2011-11-19 08:39 (UTC)

It took a damned long while for Penelope to make her way to the bar, and it was taking even longer for her to be served-- being short in the club is not the best way to get your drinks. Often it is better to find someone willing to buy said drinks for you.

This is precisely the reason she turned up without any pants on (http://www.polyvore.com/penelope_drunk_girls_in_cluuuub/set?id=39643164). Shut up, she designed all the costumes, this is as much her exhibition as it is the dancers'. Well, maybe not as much, she's not shaking her ass for the viewing public. Not on the stage, anyway. Any ass-shaking is purely accidental and a consequence of aforementioned lack of pants.

Elbowing her way through the crowd as best she can, she spies a free stool and hops her petite ass directly onto it as fast as she can, hoping she didn't tread on anyone's feet along the way. Not that she cares, really, but it'd be nice not to start shit with anybody until at least last call.

"Goddamn!" Penelope leans forward, her elbows folded onto the bar. "Can a bitch get a red sangria up in here?" A more timeless, soul-searching question has never been asked. By Penelope.

Similarly avoiding being netted in any crowds, Bruce is picking his way through the catacomb of little rooms, moving with a practiced, unobtrusive grace that leaves him unnoticed by most people. Well - maybe usually it does, but apparently the way he holds himself draws eyes in this particular club like it doesn't elsewhere. He finds that a little funny, but that doesn't mean he's not still disinclined to mingle; enough's built up over the past week to leave him even more wary of socialization. But it's Hasi, his only true friend and ally in Baedal, and so he's here.

There's a bit of a near-miss with a waitress on teetering heels, a tray of half-finished shots, and a very tall patron making eyes at them both, but Bruce manages to assist smoothly to avoid disaster. He slips away before anyone can engage him in conversation - a little hurriedly - and ends up near Rachel. He flashes her a subdued smile that's just shy of self-depreciating in the event she caught his narrow escape, there.

The room is empty, thank God. She's just about to claim it for queen and country--surprise, she's both, in this case--when the waitress swerves to avoid her, moving away from a man making a real effort to get the girl's attention.

But another man is there, too, having stepped nearly to her side. It looks like he meant that escape to seem casual, like it was the most natural thing to do, but she didn't miss how quickly he extricated himself. She's good at reading situations and guesses maybe this is someone else who just needs a damn minute to sit down away from the rest of the crowd.

She returns his smile, canting her head at the room. "Quick," she says, her voice both friendly and conspiratorial, "get in here. Help me stake a claim before the next gaggle of people roll through?"

Edited 2011-11-19 09:21 (UTC)

After thoroughly enjoying the stage shows and giving his fair share worth of applause, Rhade decides to have a look around. Only instead of the other stages (they might be next) he roams into the private area, glancing curiously into rooms.

He's picked up some changes of clothes too, but this evening he's resorted to a pair of tight, black leather pants, a dress shirt with the first few buttons undone, and a dark red blazer that he's had tailored for his boneblades to protrude comfortably from, and he can button around them.

It probably won't take him long to get back to the other stages, but he has to have a look at everything like an overly curious cat.

Never one to look down his nose as a golden opportunity to get the fuck out of a party situation, Bruce doesn't hesitate, and moves seamlessly into the indicated room as if that's where he was going all along. It's only when he closes the (lattice-worked, mostly decorative) door behind him and the woman who'd beckoned him over that he hesitates.

"...Was that a pickup line?"

(It might be a joke. Or that sudden look of Oh crap could be genuine.)

Rachel blinks a few times, and it's evident that was not what she was thinking, from the look on her face. "...No," she says, and it's firm enough to show she means it, but softened by the you're cute and all and it's nothing personal BUT smile she offers along with it.

She sips from her glass, and when she lowers it her smile has taken on an impish cast. "But if anyone comes through that door, join me in yelling about how they just interrupted us in an important moment or whatever. That'll keep them out of here. I could use some peace and quiet, for a little bit."

Well, that's a relief - he smiles a little, and there's a somewhat rusted feeling to it, but it's genuine enough. Similarly, it's not like Rachel isn't perfectly lovely, but he's a little out of his element, here, and it'd be nice to speak with someone for a few minutes who's not actively attempting to get his pants off.

(Not that it isn't flattering. Or that he doesn't appreciate the ego nudge. ... Or that he doesn't understand getting peoples pants off is precisely what this club is for, but look.)

"Good plan." And it is. He enters the room properly, more at ease now, and appears to appreciate the muted din of the crowds as well. "Overwhelmed?"

Edited 2011-11-19 10:25 (UTC)

"Completely," she confides, having decided now that the question of would-be awkward passes has been settled in favor of "nobody's making one, everybody relax" that this is all okay. "I mean, I like people and all, but there's a limit. I just need a break from all of them and all the noise and excitement for a little while."

She shifts her wine glass to her left hand, offering her right. "Hi. I'm Rachel."

His expression is sympathetic. Though Bruce finds it easier to relax here than the socialite parties at home (he is not opposed to the intent, or the content, even if the sketchier elements here concern him), he's still easily irritated by being obligated to be social. Wandering a club of this nature alone by default invites being approached; if only he wasn't so fickle with his moods.

"Tom." He takes her hand, gives her another one of those little smiles, and doesn't say anything creepy about her name. (Even CRAZY must be well-timed, all right, he's fine.) When he speaks, it's soft-spoken in a way that's reserved versus shy, and clear enough to be heard easily. "What inspired giving this place a shot?"

Vampires and invitations are pretty much a standard thing by now, so it's no surprise that Mitchell makes his way to Hasibe's dressing room a little while after her performance (she did say after all, and his name was conveniently put down on the security list).

There's a quick knock and then he waits with a perfunctory calm, friendly smile.

Ivan promised to be here, and here he is, complete with priest's collar (though no cassock - just black trousers and shirt). If that weren't enough, he and Ilde are usually attached, certainly when they're watching Hasibe's performance.

Those who want to catch him alone, however, can; he'll occasionally be sent off to fetch drinks, or Ilde will drift away to say hello to someone.

And of course, so is Angela. Though told to dress to impress... well, she does anyway and she really doesn't care if glitter gets on this dress. They do have dry cleaners in Baedal, right?

Whatever. Angela finds herself a seat to the left of the guy who looks really interested in the performer of the moment and far be it from Angela to leave him well enough alone. "Careful. If that thing breaks, you could damage your head." But which one?

Edited 2011-11-19 16:07 (UTC)

And one of those people is Angela, chatting up a complete stranger while sharing a joint of some sort between them. Only God knows what's in it because it doesn't quite smell like marijuana, but then again, as long as it doesn't smell like crack, it's all good to her.

She'll only live once. Might as well try a bit of everything while she can.

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

OUTSIDE

MAIN STAGE

OTHER STAGES, OF WHICH THERE ARE FOUR

PRIVATE ROOMS

THE BAR

VIP AREA

BATHROOMS

DRESSING ROOMS

RED ROOM

MISC

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tag him wherever

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