Cabaret & Candy (TONIGHT ONLY!)

[Lih]

Folded over on the small couch in the corner, aside from the others, the boy stirred. He dislodged the threadbare throw covering him, and it fell on the floor.

Lillian paid him little attention. He seemed a bright enough young man, but he was just another drone who failed to moderate his drinking, and Lillian was sure she’d have difficulty picking him out of a lineup the next day or two.

What she did pay attention to was the mood here. It was good, everything considered. All the build-up, the extremity of it. This business required a certain finesse—most of the things were dealt with an expert touch. Somebody had to. There was a demand. And they were good at it.

Satisfied, Lillian had begun to enjoy the way the lights grew more intense; the simmering music adjusted at the slightest cue, the conversations didn’t slow down for a second in this increasingly crowded environment.

It was hard to hear any particular exchange because of this ambient background. A few words, not Russian. English. This was rare, but she did not question it.

Lillian wondered if there would be more… she, also, was allowing the momentum of the club to take her in.

She saw the drunk boy look her up and down, staring.

She didn’t know him. But he should rest, as the pain and vodka (or whatever adult beverage he had) crash should drift away over the course of the night if he slept.

But the young man couldn’t lie down. He was too buzzed.

He managed to sit up when he finally realized he could, and faced Lillian against the light with a big, winsome smile...

She acknowledged him with a slight nod. He was perspiring from the warm, damp air.

She looked at the boy again, as if considering a response, but didn’t reply.

There was something new... off ... about his features, his burnished curls, his manner. He was slender, and his youth lent him a feminine aspect, but in contrast to his extraordinary litheness, he was strong, forceful, undaunted. Awake.

That, and his eyes seemed very old, as though they had seen too much.

He staggered backwards, eyes watering, clamped with inexpressive discomfort / physical hurt, fist balled at the throat, mouth wide, no sounds coming out. He couldn’t call out.

She got in, crouched down, and tried to discern the actual words, tried to fish them out of that gasping mouth. What was he saying?

Lillian tried not to smile at the horrified expression on his face.

“Calm down. Just take it slow and quiet for a bit, see if that brings you down to a place where you can catch some sleep.” The diplomat turned, her left hand deftly slipped the pack of smokes from her hip pocket. “I’m going to get some air. Attend to yourself."

It wasn’t entirely reassuring, wasn’t meant to be. 

Do I look like a sentimental bastard to him? 

She was simply passing on what experience showed her.

Lillian thought about it for a moment. She just had an unbidden mental image of herself with nothing but a small glass bottle of water and an encouraging bedside manner.

The idea of her nursing him made her smile, but not in an actual useful can-I-get-you-more-water-or-pills way.

She shrugged and turned to leave.

[Aiden Finnegan]

                What a BITCH, Aiden thought to himself. This Jaxen sure had a mouth on him.


                Aiden’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline before he could help it, a half smirk crossing his lips. He had left America to escape the trolls, but here he was in the CCD, talking with the apparent king of them all. Almost instantly, the ethereal light sprung up behind his right shoulder followed by a thunderous clap overhead, drawing even more attention to them. The ‘invisible hands’ only manifested when Aiden’s emotions flared; he had thought that he had been rid of them after studying under Nox.

                Realizing that he had lost control, Aiden started to hum to himself for a moment.

                I bet you think this song is about you… Don’t you… Don’t you… Aiden sang in his head.

                The light faded.

                This mockery was nothing new, not after that dismal movie Aiden had stared in. He could deal with ridicule now, but airing it all in front of Sage was another matter… then again, Sage already knew more about Aiden than his own parents did; it paid to be a hacker, apparently. No. This Jaxen had played the stage quite well, and it appeared that he still held a theatrical paradigm in his social dealings.

                All the world’s a stage…

                Sage took it all in stride, so Aiden followed suit; although he gripped Sage’s side like it was the only thing supporting him in the world. With a breath, he tamed his face and spoke smoothly to their host, “Since you are so very well informed, Monsieur Marveet,” Aiden drew out the last few syllables, “You’ll know that those photographs and its story are almost ten years old now… About half as old as those vinyl pants you’ve painted on. You’re trying too hard, my dear. Are you going to be a cock to your guests or are we going to meet as civilized celebrities?”

                Aiden winked at Jaxen with a sly smirk, “Tell me, Jaxen, have you ever heard of the Tuatha Dé Danann? They were the gods of the Celts before that whole Jesus thing… Your show tonight, and no doubt this meeting, reminds me of a poem about those very same Gods…”

                Taking on a pompous air, Aiden recited the Lebor Gabála Érenn, a collection of poems and prose that purported to be a history of Ireland from the creation of the world to the Middle Ages, “It is God who suffered them, though He restrained them. They landed with horror, with lofty deed, in their cloud of mighty combat of specters upon a mountain…”

                Aiden downed the last of the whiskey in his hand, “You’re no doubt skilled with the Ancient Power, Monsieur Marveet, why bother with political commentary when you can change the world?”

[Nox]

Jaxen tried to stir the pot. Observation was not hard. Though Nox was pretty sure he wanted nothing to do with either of them. Though he had had to endure their antics in the room across from his only making his insomnia worse. Nox wasn't going to let Jaxen, Sage or Aiden ruin the night. Methos was playing, Aiden was playing. Jaxen had ripped Ascendancy's name to shreds and he was pretty sure Jaxen was going to need a place to hide, Methos and Aiden too.

Sage answered quickly and cryptically. .... hellhounds.... What had they seen? A hell hound. Nox took a sip of his water from the beer bottle. It wasn't exactly what he wanted.

The power boomed around Aiden again and then there was a thunderclap. Nox sighed and stood up, he didn't want to mediate things but he would. Jaxen was powerful - probably more powerful than he was. His skill probably as good from the looks of the performance, but was it fighting worthy probably not. Nox didn't want a fight. He was confident Jaxen wouldn't take it as a threat. Aiden was just a baby in this all. He could barely control his power. Nox stood next to Jaxen but not between either of the men. He would have to grill Sage later about the hellhounds. They scared the shit out of him - his worst nightmare, but a hellhound could mean trouble. No one understood their appearance... but it was always a bad omen... always.

Nox leaned against Jaxen's shoulder to get his attention and then stood back up. "Don't mind Aiden's power, he's still learning how to control it. His emotions still rule it despite working on it." But Aiden had gotten it under control quickly. "But he's learning quickly."

But Nox had a counter to Aiden's question "What are YOU going to do with your god given gift?" Nox smirked, "Me, I choose to hunt monsters and keep humanity safe from the things you don't believe in." He realized he was completely outting himself as Atharim to the fucking world standing here with Aidien and Jaxen, but Ascendancy already had it in for him so now let the world hunt him. The Atharim wouldn't stop till he was dead, what was a few more.

[Raffe]

The texture of the scarring was unnerving, the flat of his palm still expecting to find smooth skin. But it was the voicelessness that bothered him most; a unique kind of torture whilst in a room full of strangers lit from the afterglow of the cabaret. It cast him an outsider, not an unusual role it had to be said, but here amongst a congregation of similar misfits it stung surprisingly soundly to realise he was quite alone.

The woman leaned in as if to capture the words clogged in his ruined throat, but there was little to hear. She offered her own instead, sharp and glacial as the shining hair pincered about her chin, though from what she said he began to wonder if she was in fact responsible for his lodgings on the couch. Funnily enough, it was the dismissive spike of her tone that tugged at his lips rather than the care of having rescued him from the floor. It reminded him somewhat of Carmen.

Raffe didn't feel right, but he didn't feel drunk either. In fact he couldn't pinpoint the aftereffect to any drug he'd tried before, though someone had to have spiked his drink. The daunting press of shadow hung against his soul, threatening intermittent panic that felt intolerably familiar; it was not normal.

He checked for his friends, but was not unperturbed to find himself abandoned. Two recognisable faces (and voices) radiated attention, though, and for a moment his curious gaze fixed on the scene -- mostly, it had to be said, for the sheer stupidity of those involved. Most people here were faceless; as well they would want to be when the shit hit the fan (this was Moscow; there was no question that it would).

Those two would probably live to regret the openness of their attendance tonight.

He ought to make himself scarce. Not that Raffe had much in the way to lose should the red devils come swooping down on the scene, but he'd rather not play with the fire of Custody hospitality. He'd had a taste of that; he was not eager for another. 

Beside him his companion had by now risen. A sigh swelled Raffe's chest, wheezing frustration, though it seemed pointless trying to stop her when he was chained by this damned silence. He might have blithely followed, just for something to do, but was not quite certain enough that his legs would tolerate his weight. The thought was distracted soon enough, when a sudden thunderclap shuddered through his ears. Raffe's eyes narrowed. He stared.

[Ascendancy]

Directorate on Custody Interior

Custody Security Services

Message to Anatoly:

Well-done, Consul.

Monitor and document the event as unfolding. Persons of direct involvement and other interests are to be identified and files tagged. CSS is now involved. 

Signed: 

Consul Radek Klimeš

[Lih]

The claim that Lillian almost died of fright the instant Aiden channelled would be fair one. To say that the sudden weight in her stomach soared into her chest would also be fair. In fact, they both happened at once, which occurred a very peculiar sensation for Lillian, who was quite convinced she might actually fall in half.

The urge to scream took hold and she nearly did so; prudence stayed her hand and she fetched a glass of water instead. Not trusting in her mouth’s ability to stay loyal. Quite certain she was going to be blown into pieces of Lillian pudding, or burned into many sausages by a salvo of randomly appearing lighting. Well, maybe she didn’t actually think the term “salvo”.

She was almost visibly chewing her bottom lip, having discovered it was much easier to gnaw than the upper, and her hands were quite visibly pressed into her stomach in a vain attempt to catch the butterflies…

Time to go.

Lillian took control of her legs and started to walk. It was done now, and she took small solace in leaving this place, with her career still intact.

She was an observer, and she never stayed anywhere long enough to get bored with the view. Lillian liked to drift. To look through other people’s windows. Or in this case, out the door. She never felt any particular patch of land defined her; never felt connected to anywhere, not even as a child, certainly not now as an adult. Her demanding profession, tailored by her character no doubt, required her to be a guest. Visiting places and people, looking in, informed by the contrasts and details revealed simply by her lack of familiarity.

And she’d always been very grateful for it. She had always believed this life made her somehow more alive. Lillian was not satisfied with one fixed, static experience.

As for tonight's entertainment, Lillian had enjoyed beyond measure, or at least beyond the traditional method of measure.

She was very satisfied. It was fun to watch the people and their reactions.

Human passion was not a thing to be avoided, but embraced and in many situations the ability to think reactively from human instinct would save lives otherwise lost. Being a cold and calculating machine might work for soldiers whose main purpose was to destroy, but it did not work for Lillian. To sacrifice all those emotions and cares that made one human was a dangerous thing. It caused as many issues as it solved...

The other entertaining part of the evening had been the nature of the performance.

Jaxen Marveet: in a very unflattering but terribly appropriate way, Lillian likened him to a trained circus animal. Namely, one of the large carnivorous variety that eventually, despite all of their training would take someone’s arm off at that annoying impractical and unforeseen moment where it was likely to do the most damage. 

Jaxen knew the fallout was coming, in a sense, the CCD would have “friends” with them watching. There was no telling what kind of reaction there might be. The plan, plot, coup de main, nasty little prank, whatever you want to call it, did not hinge on the two rockstars’ participation, which was just as well. On the other hand, they had more power than the combined theatre contingency and more influence than all others combined. Sure, power and influence did not translate as “pivotal” and “crucial” but it did rather come "bloody handy” where Lillian was concerned and given... the plans Jaxen had… well it’d be nice to have numbers in the coming days.

Lillian, over and out

[Jerry]

Durante left the estate alone. He caught a train to some club. Jerry didn't have time to the normal thing. He guessed that the traitor now had plenty of time. He wasn't exactly hiding either. The place looked to be very anti-american. And the show itself was not what Jerry had been expecting. He stood in stunned silence near the entrance. Durante forgotten for the duration of the play. He couldn't leave without Jerry noticing, but the performance was awe inspiring and when the finally came and the illusion ended Jerry wondered if the man Jaxen Marveet could channel. He wasn't a god hunter, but the name sounded familiar. The list for known gods was growing exponentially. Even the registry that the CCD started was only a short list compared to the one they had.

Thank god when the Baccarat burnt to the ground the data was all safe in the Vatican. Jerry wondered if they'd find a secondary home as a back up. Would Moscow be the home? So many questions. So few answers.

The performance ended and Jerry lost track of his mark. But only for a moment. Inside the lounge Jerry found him smoozing with the very same man that had been on stage. How many people did he know?

Jerry took up a post near the exit again and watched the man fraternizing with another god. Did they all know each other? Or was it pure coincidence? Jerry had to know if there were more like him around him. This job just got infinitely harder.

[Thalia]

"Painted on pants." She hummed laughter as she leaned to collect the drinks from across the bar.

Almost as funny as civilised celebrities.

The whole room revolved in various degrees around that conversation. A little tension sparked, toeing towards confrontation, though she doubted it would escalate. Jaxen Marveet was a showman; he would not let tonight be remembered for a quip over Aiden Finnegan's sex life. Though given the cabaret performance, the kinds of questions that followed seemed to sway away from artful subversion and dangerously close to mutiny. Her side-glance shadowed amusement, she did not pause before threading her path away.

One knight in shining armour departed for another to take residence.

Placing her own drink down, she ruffled a hand through the man's curls; overly familiar with a stranger, perhaps, but then she was on that glowy side of tipsy where such distinctions had even less impact on her behaviour than usual. The glass of water slid firmly into his grip. Thalia stared curiously at the marks on his neck as she flopped down beside him, even when his hand self-consciously pressed against the scars. Sweat glittered his forehead like tiny stars. He didn't look well.

Unperturbed, she folded her legs up under her. A thick braid curled around her crown, the rest of her hair left to a wild waterfall. The sleek glamour of such places as this made her an odd denizen; a dandelion sprung up amidst a bed of cultivated roses, though the distinction never seemed to bother her, social butterfly that she was. A pair of heels lingered somewhere lost during the musical interlude. Neither song had been of much tempo, yet while others had clamoured to immortalise the once-in-a-lifetime moment, Thalia let herself sweep away on life's current. The spontaneity delighted her. It didn't much matter that she had been one of the only ones dancing.

"The race of kings," she explained, wondering if he was staring at the group by the bar like that because he was trying to place the reference. Thalia had technically studied history at MSU, but her studies had unravelled almost as soon as she got there, lost to the voracious imagination of something else entirely. A poor student, but a marvellous collector. Myth dipped dusty fingers into most of her work. "Three days and three night of darkness? They lost Ireland eventually. I guess that's how they became fairies."

His gaze blinked away from the scene, lost. So maybe he hadn't been considering Irish lore. He did offer a grin though, a little frayed at the edges, the flat shine of his eyes suggesting the embrace of fever. Something tugged at that, but mostly her curious gaze was drawn to the scars. His mouth moved in words that were probably thank you before he took a grimaced sip of the water. Thalia's headed tilted, aware that she really ought to chide him into going home. But he was an adult, and it was the burgeoning of a smile lighting her lips, not concern.

She laughed, mostly to herself, as she leaned to fish through her bag, currently dumped on the floor. The rush of movement made her head feel a little dizzy, but it was triumphance that offered out the small sketchbook and pencil.

[Jaxen Marveet]

Aiden’s reaction was basically exactly what Jaxen anticipated. He’d be a dumb Russian to not expect the bear to snap back when poked. The poor, sad billionaire celebrity whose privacy was invaded. Jaxen’s smile was mockingly sympathetic. What was with the monsieur, too? Wasn’t Aiden Irish? The blend of his accent with something so synonymously French was blending oil with water. It didn’t work.  Good for him for trying to sound sophisticated.

“Hey!” Jaxen sniffed for the jab at his pants. He liked his outfit. And vegan leather bettered the environment. Didn’t need to take the attacks below the belt. Though given what he knew about Aiden, maybe below the belt was purposeful. Jaxen grinned. Nobody could blame him. Jaxen was well-aware of his own hotness: traits he did not withhold from the world. Aiden was the prettier of them both with his slick hair, chiseled cheeks and manicured brows or so might be considered by some, but Jaxen had that je ne sais quoi many lacked. See, he could be sophisticated fake French too. Meanwhile, he just waited patiently for the rock star to finish his rant, sipping casually at his drink once in a while, nodding along at the interesting slew of facts to follow.

Finally, the glaze across his eyes came into sharp focus. The Irishman recanted lore that Jaxen himself vaguely recalled in his research. He shifted in his seat, dismissive of the political question to follow. He cared nothing about changing the world for the better. Let other more altruistic gods devote such efforts.

After shifting in his seat, he was more fully positioned before Aiden and stretched like a cat roused from slumber. The movement rippled the bones of his tattoo to life, a snake skeleton that seemed to slither with the stretch. He was near to probing the Irishman for more morsels of Irish lore when warm breath softened his ear. Nox leaned in.
He grinned and awaited an answer to Nox’s query.
“Indeed. Will you be pissing away all your powers to the stage? Not that I disapprove of such uses. Clearly I am in like mind.” He laughed at himself and silently cheered Nox.

A blur of brown hair rushed past like a creek trickling full at the banks. He glanced at the girl, who seemed to choose another companion upon which to flow. Cute girl. But that was about all.

[Raffe]

Raffe blinked. The presentation of a paper sketchpad was endearingly quaint. She must have a Wallet in that bag too, and that would have been the implement most people reached for first. Writing was practically archaic. Yet she didn't seem embarrassed, or even particularly cognisant of the oddity. He took the gift with a bewildered grin, and thumbed through to find a blank page.

The woman watched from her cross-legged perch beside him, but didn't seem to mind as his eye caught on the drawings within and paused; fur rendered in pencil that looked real enough to touch, followed by paws and muzzles and tails. Gleaming eyes that felt like they might blink at any moment. Stranger things too. The profile of a girl with hair dripping like wet ink. Piles of odd creatures staring hungry from cross-hatched shadows.

While he lingered, a little entranced, she was still talking, steady as a whispering stream and as conversational as if she had known him all her life. "My Nanna's family emigrated during the eighties. When we were kids she used to tuck my sister and I up with stories of the Aos Sí. My mother said she filled our heads full of daisies."

Raffe reflected that there were worse things to have a head full of. Family was a somewhat alien concept, at least insofar as the type tied by blood. He couldn't even remember his mother's face. Friends were easy to come by, but even now they scattered like leaves on wind.

Maybe it was only that dark feeling of pressure dipping his stomach low.

She laughed, dispelling the self-pity. He'd lost the meander of her words. A shiver burrowed inside, like his body could not choose between heat and cool. "Have you ever been to the Bodleian? One of the biggest libraries in Europe. Fewer books than MSL, but gosh, it's like living inside a dream. I grew up in Oxford. I saw the Rawlinson B 502 there once. There's beauty in the old things." She leaned in to tap a finger against one of the pages. "They're just doodles. Write anywhere."