The Inapace Winter Gala

[Loveless]

Chapter 1
Part 1
9:00 PM
Dark but warm and pleasant, the streets lit up with lights

Each
and every
step they took
brought them closer to
the crowds that waited below
at the foot of the marble
staircase that was decorated with magnificent streamers

Everyone watched with pride and praise as those marble steps were flooded with colors of charcoal, crimson, white silk, regal blues. The colors flooded down like a tide from the women's gowns, and stood firmly in the figure of the men's tuxedos. Against the pale backdrop, they were certainly something to look at in awe. The air, their voices, their thoughts, everything hinged on their movements. The stairs seemed to reach up to the heavens, and these man-made gods were descending to bless them with their presence. Even the rich and powerful fidgeted anxiously as they awaited the arrival of those approaching from above. Everything in Inapace was still and silent, only the faint click...click...click... of heels on marble echoed for those long first moments.

Everyone watched as the All-Marshals descended from their palace.

Streamers flitted in the air, glitter twinkled down from unseen roosts, the entirety of Inapace was decorated in jubilee and celebration. As one looked around, they would see all of Inapace's citizens, and those brought from every city in the universe, garbed in delicate gowns and sharp tuxedos. This was an event to celebrate throughout civilization. Finally there was peace. They had nothing to worry about now, only what color their next gown or tuxedo would be for the next big event. Men held women's hands nervously. All eyes were fixated on this procession. Most had never heard the All-Marshals speak, it had always been repeated by the Wardens, or in some cases even the Fates. But not now...

All-Marshal Ana Falkuin led the group, her scarlet gown trailing behind her in a long train resembling blood on the marble steps. Her expression was placid, but her eyes showed appeasement at the crowd that had gathered. Fates flanked every All-Marshal, their preferred weapons shouldered or holstered, all of them dressed just as impressively as their leaders. This was not a night for violence. This was to exemplify peace and bolster the hopes of the people, to unite them. And the All-Marshals knew, as soon as they looked out at the crowd splayed out before them, that they had achieved that. They were certainly united that evening. Now it was time to drive the hammer home...To show them the faces that kept them safe and sound every day, every night.

The smell of sweetened meats, candies, and other magnificent delicacies choked the air with their mouthwatering aromas. They hadn't spared any expense for this event. People, the All-Marshals had decided, would never forget this night. The first of them, All-Marshal Ana Falkuin, was almost to the end of the staircase. The anticipation in the air curdled as everyone readied themselves for the words of an All-Marshal. She rested her hands on the extraordinarily decorated podium, chiseled from solid gold and jewels embedded in its inlay, and looked out over the crowd. Suddenly the aromas of the banquet didn't have their intended effect, the decor didn't have its dazzling appeal, the whole of the event didn't seem to have its shock-and-awe that it was solely planned for. Only the All-Marshals commanded the gravity of the crowd now. Everything else could wait...

All-Marshal Falkuin began speaking in her soft but commanding tone.


The flood of jet black came down the stairs just behind the procession of Fates that flanked the All-Marshals. She could feel the hush in the air, and she could imagine the looks on their faces down below...But blackness was all she saw. As black as her gown. Her black polished heels made that telltale click...click...click... just like the others. Lost in the background, she listened intently from behind her mask, trying to imagine what the ball looked like...She knew it was so much more than she could think up...But it was her only hope of making it real. That black ghost...Moving slowly down the steps in the background, all eyes fixed on the All-Marshals...All eyes except for one pair...A pair that didn't have eyes...She couldn't help but be bitter...She imagined it in her twisted head...A sea of black...Morbid gowns and body bags for all...

This was a splendid moment in history...And all she could do was pretend...

[Warden Marcoux]

Maybe everyone else was all excited about the ball, but Marcoux wasn’t. Not in the least. Marcoux was a researcher, not a soldier or politician or anything like that, nor did he have any interest in those sorts of occupations. This was totally out of his comfort zone - His very small, square comfort zone.

If he had a choice in the matter (which in his opinion he really didn’t) he would not have come at all. He didn’t give a damn about all of the women’s pretty dresses, the food, the alcohol, the glitz and the glam. No, he could have done without it. He could have done without listening to the All-Marshals speak. He could have done without the night out. The Sandman would have been perfectly happy at home…And honestly, he could dream up something more visually stimulating than this any night.

But as a member of the Force, he couldn’t really make the choice to stay home. Of course they wouldn’t have stopped him. But he had people to keep happy…money to be shifted over to fund his research. He was useless without funding, absolutely worthless without the favor of the All-Marshals…But most importantly going to the ball would make his dear body guard happy, which would in turn – and more importantly – help alleviate some of the tension and possibly give him a whopping five minutes of rest without her nagging him about the fucking ball. Fuck. She was driving him so insane he was even swearing now. Wonderful…He should go as a sign of respect to Zalixa’s father, at least. He was nice enough to send his own fucking daughter…Fuck! Stupid…obligations.

See, all of that mounted up. All of those stupid obligations and all of the little perks that made his life easier. Perks. Obligations…Yup, no one cared that such a public display might result in his decapitation or anything like that. He didn’t like these foolish social events. Introducing himself to random stranger #207 just to keep everyone else happy…and in the end random stranger #207 squeals to Generic Terrorist Group who then seeks out the Dream God and slices his throat. Yes, perfect. Good idea. Let’s go to the BALL! How very exciting. Yay. Fun.

The ever unconfident-when-waking Warden was clearly uneasy. His brown eyes shifted here and there, his face tense with poorly-hidden nervousness. He hardly said a word, merely agreeing with whatever comments were made about him.

“Yes, the streamers are very nice.”

“The color scheme is very fitting, you’re right.”

“Mmhmm, the food does smell nice.”

Ok, Miss Falkuin, hurry along and make your little speech now. The sooner the better. Let’s get this show on the road, some of us want to get home at a reasonable hour tonight.

[Fate Zalixa]

It was all about stating dominance.

Peace for all. That was true, that was the Force’s main aim. But displays like this…lavish, otherworldly transports to a transcendent plane of decadence- no, parties like these were powerful tools in their own right. If anything portrayed peace and happiness, it was the perfect ball. Security screamed silently through each splendid curve of marble, ice, and each draught of expensive perfume, hidden shadows of the Fates on duty she knew lay in wake. This was the world of the Force, and it was controlled and beautiful, just as it should be.

It was a perfect utopia.

And Rejan looked the part of the perfect debutante. Blond curls tumbled over bare shoulders and milky skin, barely cresting the back of the red satin fabric swirled about her form like a dream. Against the marble of the nearby statue, she looked almost picturesque.

Oh yes, it was all about dominance.

It had taken her long enough, but she’d dominated her charge’s ”iron” will and forced him into attending the gala after all. She could see him, just a few feet away, practically dancing on the spot with both irritation and paranoia. He’d have almost looked handsome if not for the constant furrow of his brow, and the darting rhythm of his eyes. Smirking to herself, Rejan walked, no- glided over to him.
The short train of her dress floated behind her, an ethereal ghost of the power and elegance the blond walked with, slim neck and wrists
adorned with thousands of tiny, sparkling cells of opulence. A soft click, click, muted by the ripple of the soft fabric, announced her presence before she spoke.

“You’ll get your check, and then we can get out of here. I promise.”
Perfectly manicured nails alighted on his shoulder, but not for too long. There were appearances to be kept up, reputations to be maintained.

Couldn’t have anyone thinking they were anything but professional, of course.

That would ruin the night’s chances.

The eyes on her bare back were insatiable, and the Fate felt her skin ripple deliciously with the night’s potential prospects, dancing partners on the ballroom floor and upon the mattress. But, still, she had to remind herself coldly: she was on duty herself. Dressed and shined up, but on duty no less. Her first obligation lay with Marcoux. But nonetheless- no need to let that obligation completely ruin her night.

“I’m going to dance for a while after the speech. Are you going to be alright on your own for a few minutes?” Nevermind, she mentally answered her own question. He was already a wreck as it were. A brief aquamarine glance flitted up toward the woman All-Marshall, smiling. What an eloquent speaker, an exemplary role model for women everywhere…

Before he had the chance to answer, she unsnapped the wristlet purse encircled around her pale flesh. A smaller, but somehow stronger hand pressed two white pills into the neurotic Warden’s hand.

“Nerve pills. They’ll keep you from embarrassing yourself or giving away too much, Maxipad. I’ll get you a rum and coke to wash them down, or something.”

Again, she glided away, but not before giving him an impish glance over her shoulder, just to watch him squirm. He’d probably expect her to drug the drink, but Rejan had no such intention. As nice as it would have been to turn her charge into a bedroom conquest and loosen him up, tonight was simply not the night for such an undertaking. The bartender happily attended to her request, and it was then she took note of the sickly sweet scent permeating the air, the blot of black ink amongst the sea of red and other spectacular colors. Her relaxed, demure expression quickly hardened, and her visible shoulder blades quivered .

Why had she been invited? Rejan seethed, brought back only to reality by one of the guest’s surprised cough. Untensing, she quickly restored the immediate quality to the air, but continued to stare with a cold sort of loathing toward the porcelain-masked figure of one Loveless Fissier.

Who thought it would be fun to bring a cadaver to a ball anyway?

Oozing, sickly sweet and anything but a true Fate, she seemed like more of a liability than something the Force would want to show off…a diamond like herself on the other hand…

Her heavy steps brought her quickly back toward Marcoux, disgust making her nearly thrust his drink at him.

“Stay away from the creep in the black gown, Maxipad.” She practically spat. “She’ll try to rape you.”

Every ounce of her skin shook on the inside, the only telltale sign a slight flush along the plunging “v” of her dress.

Calm down, Rejan. Deep breaths. Just take a few deep breaths. Calm, composed. Delightful.

Her own mask was up once again, and All-Marshall Zalixa’s daughter smiled and thanked the helpful waiter for the glass of champagne. Collected as she may have looked, the aerokinetic took several huge swigs of the champagne before it was even time to toast.

Suddenly, it was going to be a very long night.

[kestrel]

Kestrels were naturally solitary predators, and often waited as spiders for wandering prey to happen across their path. Their webs were intricately woven of eyesight, wit and speed; their venom – a seal to dealings before a victim would even know their hand had been shaken – their unwavering conviction in the immediate decisions of their choosing. Their diets were varying and flexible, and so they, tiny raptors incapable of holding their own in a test of strength of brawn versus distant cousins as the osprey or the eagle, prospered in the advantageous nature of being quick-minded and quick-bodied.

Perhaps a glancing mind would have immediately considered her as part of the roost of larger, more striking birds, nestled within their eyrie as a clutchmate and compatriot to a collective cause. These did not aim solely for something so trivial as survival. These birds looked to flourish; these birds looked to war.

Still, though their opponent was the same, the philosophy was decidedly different. The outcome would likely, in the hands of either faction, be decidedly different.

Her musings were private, of course, and held in steadfast symbolism with little in the way of direct comparisons or given identities for the sake of the Drone. As it sifted through for potentially offensive thoughts, the net would gather and discard only ideas of birds of prey in varying levels of detail or action. She wondered, curiously, if it was capable of gathering her thoughts for the nature of her existence being something beyond organic, and yet, she was sure it was better not to test it.

Her thoughts were veiled; her disdain for the speaking All-Marshal disguised. The Force understood nothing of the universe around them, taking a child's route to safety out of what Kestrel could only assume to be fear. They stifled opposing lines of thought with technology over true manipulation, forging and fancying themselves a greater predator based upon greater allowable assets over realistic ability. They'd topped the food chain in a game too easily cheated, and the Lasarum could only scoff at the idealogy that ignored chaos as a rightful creator of the universe.

As she considered the boring fancies of the universal dictatorship, assuming this flagrant show of opulence a mark of their power and control, she mused over one of the various tables that littered and enhanced the room. Though serving plates were brought across through the crowd with champagne and hors d'oeuvres, real decadence rested and waited to be found. Unimaginably delicious treasures rested, undisturbed, waiting for a scouring Kestrel to pluck them up before any of the entranced crowd could manage to break themselves from the All-Marshal's speech.

Nom, nom, nom, nom.

She looked the part, at least, even if she didn't necessarily think or act it. Where other women looked pale as flawless porcelain dolls, adorned with the obscene glitter of priceless jewels or dangerously extravagant dresses to further an appearance of frailty, the projection had opted for a look of heat. The natural glow of her skin – a shimmer of reds and golds that brought to mind deserts, guns and tequila – was the exchange for jewelry; a lack of bracelets, rings or necklaces to mar the pricelessly precious stone beneath giving way for the boldness to appear on a slender figure and dramatic eyes. A curtain of red, draping and flowing, enhanced her warmth, and though red was surely the color of the evening, Kestrel – in the idea that, for once, dressing down was standing out – seemed of a mind to own it.

A slender neck and a slim collarbone were displayed and emphasized by a plunging v-neck and a formally elegant up-do. The double shoulder straps of her dress – the inner set adorned with a semi-precious encrusing to match the shimmery nature of the matching, connected bodice – placed the emphasis squarely on dancer's shoulders and the fae-nature of her general appearance, and the flowing, breathable skirts that extended towards the floor were enhanced with a slit that only rarely made itself apparent. It reached up hungrily towards a thigh, but the flowing nature of the long, classic fringe was made to leave one guessing on if they'd really seen anything at all.

One silver, strappy-heeled sandal was lifted up slightly as she reached across the table like a bold little girl, extending a fork towards a freshly prepared Lanzaic Volcano Scallop, and nearby woman scoffed quietly at the Lasarum's arguable rudeness.

[calissa]

"We cannot tell what may happen to us in the strange medley of life. But we can decide what happens in us - how we take it, what we do with it - and that is what really counts in the end." Truer words have never been spoken. I wonder, is the Force happy with their little creation? Do they see the lives they ruined, do they see how many people in this room wish to kill them? Maybe they just don't know it...

She stood in the very back, leaning against one of the walls with a champagne glass held daintily in one white-gloved hand. She swirled the liquid slowly, staring up where the female All-Marshal spoke. She couldn't help but wonder why this event was being put on, why every citizen was invited. Lucina Pierce shook her head slightly, sipping at her drink. The blond girl had started off excited, after all she's never been to a ball before. But now, standing here and watching everyone, she couldn't help but wonder if this was a mistake. Everywhere she looked people seemed on edge. From the handsome Warden, to the blond girl beside him, to the strange woman clad all in black, to even countless more. Even she, a naive, innocent little dove in a room of hawks could see it. She only hoped that nothing bad would come of this ball, that everyone would be safe, that everyone would leave alive.

Her blue-gray orbs turned from the sight before her to wander around the room. No one from her old home was here, and she didn't see Changtzuzi was no where to be found either. I suppose that's not too shocking though, he didn't really seem the type to come to one of these things. Lucina turned, catching sight of herself in one of the grand windows. She wore her favorite gown. It was floor-length with no straps and a beautiful silk bodice. The dress was all white, even whiter perhaps than one f God's favorite angels. It was elegant and gorgeous and accentuated her beautifully. Her slender neck was bare, as were her smooth shoulders. Her long arms were clad in white gloves that reached her elbows with the tiniest of pearl beads. The skirt was full and flowing, giving this ballerina the perfect room to move. It too was the purest white and made from silk with cream pearls waving a beautiful, intricate design. White tool covered all of the skirt save for what showed through the full slit up the center, giving the dress an almost messy elegance. No heels adorned her feet like most woman here. No, she had on her satin flats so that all the noise she made was the soft whispering of her skirt. Her hair in its self was another work of art. It was twisted and curled into a beautiful updo and decorated with white pearls. She smiled softly at her reflection and moved on, for her stomach was starting to growl.

The smells of the food were intoxicating and Luce's mouth had begun to water. How no one had sneaked some food was beyond her. She moved silently behind the crowd, not attracting a soul, for they were all-too engrossed with the All-Marshal's speech. Truthfully, Luce didn't really care. Maybe that was wrong in a place like this, in an event such at this one, but she simply didn't. The Force didn't interest her, she only came here to have fun. Though is that woman continues the way she is now, her speech may take up the whole evening. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle her tiny giggle as she neared the table. Oh, pure heaven! Luce picked up a fork and was just about to take some Lanzaic Volcano Scallop when another fork entered her view, going for the same piece. Politely, Luce chose a different one and looked up only to come face-to-face with a brunette woman in red. The young girl smiled a guess-you-couldn't-wait-either-smile at the woman.

[Regent]

This calls for a toast, so pour the champagne, pour the champagne.
I chime in
Haven't you people ever heard of closing the god damned door?
No, it's much better to face these kind of things
With a sense of poise and rationality

What a beautiful, beautiful party.

What sights, what sounds, what smells, what STIFF BACKED ARROGANCE!!!!

What idiots. :3


Selter very nearly danced on the spot in a celebration of victory once more, hastily steadying himself as he nearly stepped on the flowing table cloth of the appetizers. It had been lucrative, so lucratively easy to slip past the demons in wait, the lurking shadows of the Fates stationed around the perimeters of the gala. He looked, he SMELLED, he walked…a lot like thetypically reclusive All-Marshall Selter Othello Zalixa. Who was to say he hadn’t taken a dose of Elixir Dew for the occasion to make himself debonair once more? It wasn’t entirely unquestionable. The eldest of the All-Marshalls had slogged through the years of foundation, through the very beginning of the 200 Year War, timeless titans that oversaw their world and scoffed at the years of eternity.
Some of them barely looked a day over thirty.

Glittering, gold, droplets of opulence anywhere, everywhere. It was a thief’s dream, a conglomeration of careless behavior, money to burn, and distracted eyes. Oh, how very careless the rich were when nesting with each other. It was all a grand waltz, he observed through erratic glimpses of the spiraling show of affluence, just a strutting of peacocks to prove that they had a perfect handle on their perfect little world.

As the barking old lady droned on…okay, maybe she wasn’t barking per se, but the frequency of her voice bothered him somehow, as if she were using some kind of physical, outside manipulation to make her tones carry more authority than they could possibly hold. Each word of hers, a diatribe of promises, goodwill…and yet, undertones of something far more sinister laced each sweet proclaimation of the utopian leaders.

Yes. There was…something. Something in her voice that simply did not belong.

Something caging, a hidden threat made Selter’s toes curl as he fidgeted closer to the food-laden table. He was out of his element, oh yes, out of his own skin even. This stiff, unworkable fabric, this black tuxedo was not his skin- not the cloak of a thief.

Really, a fast-paced night club would have been more his style, what with the flurescent lights, the wagging of bubblegum tongues and bodies to a beat that could just about set your heart off rhythm. Here, the rhythm was a dulcet repetition of three-four time, carefully aligned notes that were both pleasing to the ear and predictable.

Fuck predictability, seriously.

A crackle of electricity licked his ear, the closest to a nervous twitch the clone would ever display. A grin followed as one of the debutantes looked up at him, and once he lost the woman’s gaze, he figured it was time for a bite to eat.

Of course, two broads had already scoped out the prize of this particular table: the Lanzaic Volcano Scallop. Good girls. Selter sauntered over, plastering his typical cockeyed grin back onto his face as he stabbed a particularly large scallop.

“It’s good to see you again, shiny.” He winked.

A bite led him into an eruption of tender, moist white flesh that made his tastebuds fluttered, quickly assaulted by the hell-fire spice sauce that gave the seafood its name. Still, the master escape artist swallowed quickly and let the rest of the taste simmer in his mouth. His drink, a glass full of what was mostly rum, remained perched at the table.

Of course, even the lowest of thieves knew how to properly eat a Lanzaic Volcanic Scallop.

Only weaklings tried to wash it down.

[Da Vinci]

"Ooooh we do hate parties soooo..."

"Did you say something?"

"No, you heard that too?"

Sweat beaded on Merdoc's brow, as the large assassin's eyes darted left and right around the ballroom. He let his eyes loiter on one of the many All-Marshals who were hosting the party, and when that one noticed Merdoc's subtle gaze, he quickly looked down at his drink. Champagne. He brought his glass up to his face, and it crashed into the skin over where his mouth used to be. Partly by instinct, and partly because of nerves.

He tipped his head back and downed the champagne. He then tried his best to shake his head as subtly as he could, attempting to stop the burning in his nostrils. Despite the pain, and slightly because of it, his nerves settled, and he was able to make his way through the crowds without spilling drinks on his brand-new tux. He passed group of Initiates, who watched him suspiciously as he passed, before continuing their conversations.

He remembered receiving the invitation on a mailing device, under a name that wasn't even his, though albeit familiar. The device belonged to some guy named Scott...Why was I invited here? Do these people know who I am? Wondered Merdoc. Do they know what I do for my job? Hell, do they know what I do for fun? He scoffed to the best of his ability, as he continued towards one of the many drink tables. He downed two shots of whiskey, and took one more with him as he left. As he drank, he had scoured his surroundings for familiar faces, good or bad.

He spotted the pickpocket and the "glowing woman" from his previous incident with them, as well as several members of his old mercenary group "The Rough", though he no longer remembered them, he found them vaguely familiar. There was even another Akkeylonyx a good thirty yards away. It was probably a lot older than Merdoc, had resided in the body of an older, yet still attractive woman, who was talking to several foreign diplomats. One glance from her told him all he needed to know. If he talked to her now, he would end up dead in less than a week. Akkeylonie were just like that to each other.

He backed out of sight from his peer, and found himself wandering back to the table with the thief and the pretty, shiny woman. They were clamoring to ingest what appeared to be what they called "Volcano Scallops." "Some party, huh?" He transmuted, attempting a conversation, while trying to look like a regular party guest, and not an intergalactic assassin, whose past-times were cutting up dead bodies and collaging them. He noticed a security officer, who had been eyeing him with concern for some time now, pull his radio up to report something...

[Loveless]

Delicate silks and exotic furs brushed her pale arms as she waded past people like a phantom at a tea party.

She heard the whispers, she felt the glances. She didn't understand what it all meant...Perhaps her gown was more beautiful than she imagined...She wasn't sure how it looked on her after all. She knew it had a long train behind it, held by two rather new Force recruits, orders from the All-Marshals, but she didn't know every last detail about it...She was told it was black to her liking...But she didn't know that for sure...Everything was black to her. She wasn't aware of every last fold and crease, every surface and every inch...All she knew was how it felt...Like her debonair suit of armor...Elegant and strong, and it bolstered her image, that's what the designer had said...His voice had had a hint of reluctance though..But still, all eyes were on her...And that was a good thing she supposed.

The Fate that held her pale arm and guided her through the crowds stopped for a moment.

How odd....

Oh she knew this feeling...She'd heard about him. People on the Force had talked about it before....The Dream God...Lord of the Night. Oh yes. One Warden Marcoux...How did he look? Was he frail and delicate? Or was he masculine and chiseled? If she could hold his body against hers, she would know for sure...Was he intimidated that she didn't sleep? Could he still enter her mind...What would he find? She didn't know for sure...The Fate at her arm handed her a glass...She could smell the champagne that it contained. She slid her mask up so that her black-glossed lips were exposed and drank the champagne in two smooth gulps. She stared at the Warden in front of her, this prestigious man that the Force honored so highly with those black pits where her eyes should have been...How..Peculiar.

"Warden Marcoux...A pleasure...I've heard so much about you...I hear that you're a treasure...That none in all the Force quite equal your measure, if it pleases you, perhaps we could talk at your leisure...I've taken an interest in your work, it would seem...I'm rather intrigued to know how you...Dream"

Oh yes...Dream...That's what she wished she could do...Dream away from this prison.

[Warden Marcoux]

Prosperity. Blah, blah, blah. Peace. Blah, blah. Nice big smile. Cheers to all, let’s have a lovely night. Wonderful assortment of words there, Miss Falkuin. A real show starter. Move along, pick up the pace…

And then Marcoux’s stomach felt as though it slipped right out of him onto the floor, eyes popped open wide as he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Some burly man would probably stick a gun against his back now, walk him outside, and put the poor wreck out of his misery. Or maybe it’d be worse. Maybe it’d be like when the Aladoni Plentark came and snatched him up and they wanted to torture the Dream God out of revenge for some fallen comrade. Or maybe -

Oh. Just Rejan. Well…no need for alarm.

He reiterated her point for good measure. “Yes, get the check and go. That’s the plan.”

But of course he was alarmed. Here they were in a swarm of – well who the hell knew what kind of people were mingled up with this lot. That fellow taking shots up his nose, yeah the one without the mouth, he just looked like wonderful company, someone Marcoux would love to get to know. Was everyone else so blind to this? The place was probably teeming with criminals. And no, he didn’t care how much security there was. Things like this were never safe. Never.

Maybe they’d be nice enough to get it all over with quickly, drop a bomb and let it all end in a nice firey explosion. Maybe Marcoux could get a nice blow to the back of his head and sleep forever. Now that would be heaven. Just perfect.

Though he had to admit he felt a little safer with Fate Zalixa by his side. Wait, wait, wait – She was going to go off dancing and leave him here by himself!? What the – He could feel that stomach-sinking eye-popping reaction transmitting between his brain and his nerve endings all over again.

Yes. Nerve pills. That sounded nice, though that sinister look his guard offered as she wandered off was far from settling. Anything to keep his heart from cracking his rib cage – speaking of, if he didn’t have a heart condition already, he was well on his way to developing one. He spent his free time subtly spinning on the spot, attempting to keep tabs on each and every guest at this charming gala. An impossible task.

Before long she returned, shoving a glass of rum and coke into the poor doctor’s palm, who in a nervous fit nearly spilled the entire contents down the front of his blazer. He worked to choke down the pills as quickly as possible, as though his speed in performing the task would for some reason ease the Fate’s clearly disgruntled spirit. Marcoux popped the second pill into his mouth and gagged on Zalixa’s words.

“Wha – r-rape!?” He sputtered through his coughing, the carbonation bubbling up the back of his nose. Not rape. He must have misheard.

And of course, just his luck, he spotted the black-clad woman weaving through the crowd like a wisp of cancerous smoke and headed right in his direction. Of course fate wouldn’t make it easy to appease Fate Zalixa and stay the hell away from the Lady in Black, no instead let’s just piss of the blond. Make a nice show out of it. Shove Marcoux in the middle of a tense situation within a tense situation.

She knew his name. She knew his goddamned name. He hated this place, with all of these people picking him out and blurting out his name for the entire world to hear. Warden Marcoux here, invader of dreams! Come and get the Sandman while he’s awake! Did they want him dead?

That being said, his initial reaction was to stand there and stammer like a lost child at an outlet mall. “I-I – uh…” But…She was a…strange woman, wasn’t she? Understatement of the year, perhaps. The mask. The rhyming. That insatiable Mylian curiosity was piqued. “That’s all very kind of you to say. I’m flattered. I -” He was about to carry on and say he’d be happy to talk to her a bit – though of course he had no intention of revealing everything, he never did that – until he saw Fate Zalixa, who looked as though she downed a few too many Lanzaic Volcano Scallops at the buffet…

[Fate Zalixa]

Satisfaction slid across her glacial features. Eyes trained on his pulse watched the swallow, then waited for the nervous twitch in his jugular to go away. Not that she really expected it to, considering the sudden carbonation of his nasal passages. Oh, and the fact that Black Death personified was slowly gliding to them probably made his heart flutter a bit, all things considered. As she passed the…eclectic group by the appetizers, Rejan set to becoming a sculptor that would outshine Bernini himself.

It was almost a work of art in itself, the way she composed her features to an aloof expression that screamed of nonchalance, yet lay laced with utter disdain and contempt. Apathy, indeed, if apathy could wield a subliminal chainsaw. For all of the “honorary” Fate’s lack of eyes, Rejan’s were useless weapons against the pale doll, ice blue knives with an ornate twist of suspicion fortified with…was that possession?

Not a muscle moved, not an eyelash fluttered as the careful rhythmic tones of the farce’s poetry riddled the air. Oh, how cute. And it was working. Flattery spiraled across the Mylian’s curious, dark eyes. Fine, fine, irk her as it might, it was normal to exchange pleasantries at functions such as this. The youngest Zalixa would let it slide with the grace expected of her. A few more seconds, and Marcoux would give his typical excuse to direct the attention away from himself and wander away. He’d be safe. Just fine.

““That’s all very kind of you to say. I’m flattered. I -”

She’d studied him, slowly compiling an education on how this earthly Morpheus behaved, spoke, handled himself. And she knew by now when the perpetual tones of fear were absent in a voice that was JUST about to suggest further conversation. Of all the people to strike up a jaunty little chat with…he chose the one that slide under her skin like a ragged splinter, unsettlingly and opaque at the same time. Like a shattering chandelier, eloquence plummeting to a stone floor, Rejan’s facade fell. Rose, then carmine floated to the surface of her cheekbones. The air thinned. In a world of satin and finery, the blond’s entire being became obdurate stone, with clenched fists that threatened to shatter porcelain.

He really, really had no idea, did he? His own paranoia was a shield within itself- but trust Maxipad dearest to let his barrier down when SHE was at her most wary. Somehow, the space between herself and the reserved projectionist narrowed.

“Honorary” Fate…that was what they called the “exquisite” Loveless Fissier. She’d been honored. For what part in the War, Rejan did not know.

If knowledge was power, then lack of knowledge was a weakness to be exploited. There was nothing, NOTHING known for certain about the rhyming seductress. So many intrigues could be weaved through an enigma such as her.

So many intrigues that could have been forged just for this single moment, or ones to transpire after…all to bring down one of the Force’s most classified of weapons.

A lithe hand pulled lightly, but with the insistence of the most volatile warlord, on the lip of Marcoux’s blazer.

“Curious a question as that may be,……Fissier….” Venom threatened to wash away the perfect paint upon her lips. “I need to speak with my….client for a moment. Alone.”

Without waiting for an answer, or apologizing for the scuffs his dragged dress shoes would leave on the marble floor, she hauled him over to a relatively secluded spot. Of course she knew they would only have seconds before the curious entity and Marcoux’s own outrage (and more than likely rediscovery of the balls she KNEW he liked to hide, except for special occasions) brought her back to square one, but she’d make do with what she had.

A deep breath, and she was pummeling him with the hurricane spinning within her ever analyzing mind.

“Maximilien.” Hopefully the first name, let alone her hushed, frantic tone would get his attention. “Of all the guests at the ball, this is the LAST one to freely give information, alright? I know nothing, NOTHING about this woman. There is not a SCRAP of information on where she came from, how she earned her “honors,” her previous employers, lifestyle, contacts- nothing. I’m half convinced she’s a mole. Please, for the love of God, I thought the rape comment would scare you away enough. If you trust me at all, you WON’T tell this possibly ETHEREAL…being…voodoo doll…THING…how your profession works. You’re a grown man, and I can’t stop you from doing what you want but….oh, good lord.”

She was shaking. She hadn’t even realized it until one of her rings, a gorgeously cut star sapphire, fell from her chilled fingers. Fumbling, a tongue ran along her lips nervously as she bent to pick it up.

“For every Morpheus, Maximilien, there’s a dream eater. Curiosity killed the cat.” Her gaze caught the confused tilt of the walking corpse queen’s head, moving closer in the dispersing crowd, along with a rather disgruntled looking Fate Qet.

“Talk to her if you have to, but please….tell her nothing of consequence.”

Spun so tightly, her emotions coiled, then crested, sweeping her back into the crowd after that blond she’d eyed.

At this point, it was pretty much his decision.

The blond seemed to have vanished. Oh well. She supposed there were other matters a little more pressing to attend to. Namely, the giant, telepathic voice she’d heard BOOMING through the crowd just a few minutes ago.

Who would need to be speaking in such a manner?

Why, someone without a mouth.


She’d seen him earlier, but the disfigured guest seemed to have waltzed his way right out of her previous peripheral vision. Oh, to be forever “it” in the ludicrous game of tag the Force played with its possible foes…

[Omen]

The Galla looked grand, fascinating and demure. The Galla, the highlight of the Force's imposed peace and unity. The Galla… looked like a big fat trap waiting for it’s mice to assemble then spring into a blood bath. So why was she here? Because everyone who believed in this crap was here, that’s why. To blend in and camouflage with the rest she needed to be here to show her side of the brainwashed fence. She looked the part at least and waltz right in with a smile and melded in with the crowd. Invisible like, she swayed her hips like the rest and appeared comfortable in the mass. Outside she looked like she was the perfect zombie and greeted this Peace with open arms. Inside, she felt like a wreck. It had been so long since she put herself in actual danger that had found her natural rhythm again of sifting the participants for information. She snatched a glass of champagne on her walk through the crowd. Of course she wouldn’t drink from it, no matter how much she needed the drink to settle her racing pulse. It was more for the appeal than anything, to pretend a good time like a good like bunny. The more she walked, the less she needed the drink in her hand, but she placed her lips to it and faked a sip.

Click click click

Ugh she hated heels, not just hers but all heels and everything about them. The sound they make, the way they pinch your toes and make you taller, the hindrance they normally were. Nothing about them was okay in the Tiberian’s mind. She wore them only for appearance really. Thankfully Ivan’s training made sure she could fight while dressed the part, but still they were a pain in the ass. Her dress for the evening was one of her favorite of the entourage she had. Black stiletto’s adorned her feet to match with full toe coverage for the ‘just in case’ situation she’s always ready for, custom adjusted by her of course. She remembered the last time she wore opened toed shoes and regretted it. Past experiences learned she also used tonight’s dress with open back held together by a trail of jewels down her spine, being every jewel was a surprise on its own. The double slit of the front allowed for more leg room and the high front kept her scar hidden on her chest. That was not a scar to show off proudly.

The tattoo on her back was something she couldn’t hide with this dress and a reminder of her previous life, but none should recognize it for its meaning. Any who saw it should be dead and to place her as the ‘heir’ to the Tazzelle leader would be hard pressed in this place to remember five years ago at Tazzelle’s side. Her nails were painted a red color with a silver tip to match her earrings, giving her luck to add to her favorite Krena Amulet necklace hidden under the black fabric of her dress. The warmth of the pendant against her skin gave her more room to breathe under the stress of tonight’s festivities; she had luck on her side. Her hair was done with a flare of elegance and innocence. The pins in her hair were of her own design as well as her bracelet and anklet. She was dressed prepared more than she felt. She smiled at all the right people, trying not to zone out while she walked and listened. However she kept herself as far from her objective as possible, but it was difficult.

Noise and talking, talking and noise.

It all blurred into one big crowded room in Kaiya’s head, the noise was so great that it was hard to focus on the people that mattered in this glittering pool of gowns and tux’s. She was used to the noise, but there were too many here. Tazzelle’s guest weren’t as many and she could still keep tabs on everyone to do her job. Although those kind of jobs and parties usually ended with someone dying, normally by her own hands mind you. With that kind of history, it was hard to break the habit of monitoring every person that came in the door. Restraint wasn’t a chore on her part, but her nerves weren’t that easy to hold back. For things to go smooth and easy was hard to imagine for the ex-body guard. Places like these had her tense and alert, like she was expecting something to happen. This fact alone left an itch between her shoulders she couldn’t reach, like a target painted on her back with a sniper waiting to pull the trigger. Just slightly unnerving it was, hard to relax and enjoy the display put so delicately together for the people. She had to get past her need for knowing everyone like she had to do in Tazzelle’s world. Going from mobster to circus to street… Old habit’s die hard she supposed.

Tuning out more and more of the crowd she focused on the guard’s and security, instead of sifting through the thoughtless zombies around her. Too much work on her part. But the guards…They would be the one to make any move first upon order. To keep a mind’s eye on the train of thought was all she wanted to do. Already they had mentioned the mouthless one... better not to be associated with the like’s of him… she was sure that booming voice was him to start with. Interesting ability. Should she dare to test her influence on him? With the dull roaring of minds around her, better not to try just yet. Her pain killers were still in affect but to aggravate her brain further before the party really got started was a bad idea.

She was late to arrive as the All-Marshal had already began her speech, she merely leaned a hip against a marble pillar near the food table. The smell of the food would mask her peach hand cream scent. Swirling a glass of un-tasted champagne in one hand, she listened not to the speech, but to the thoughts of those around her. Many had the idea of peace running through their heads. Blissfully linked to the hive mind of the brainwash bunny up on stage, this described most of the people around her, save for the group at the table. It seemed they were just here for show like her… well those she could read anyways. Some seemed to be blocked or too powerful to get into, interesting… She noted their faces and tried not to stare as she examined the mind of a blue Tralaxian guard. Prone to dry skin of the air (and the fact that he wore a red tie, her lucky color) she dived into his mind and found that that was exactly what was in his mind, no matter how much he should be paying attention to the crowd he was worrying about his skin. She listened for a bit at his thought pattern while she watched the food table with interest. The pain in her head receded enough for her to try her influence on him.

An itch on the back of my left hand… stupid dry skin.

[All-Marshal Raum Mammon]

Grave business...Yes it was.

Those eyes peered out at the crowds as the reclusive All-Marshal slowly made his way down the stairs after the procession of Fates and All-Marshals. He didn't much like being seen with them. Most of them irritated him, like a rash beneath the skin that bubbled and festered...A pus-gorged itch that could not be scratched, cured...No salve concocted by petty alchemists of this world were going to remedy this infection. He would have to do it himself...The first step of that was removing himself from the source...Similar to withdrawing one's arm away from a patch of poison oak. He would need to do this...Somehow stem the irritation and weakness that choked the high echelons of the Force. This was not what he had helped create.

This was not what he had forsaken the Eyrie for.

Barroes Relin had been a strong individual, destined for greatness, but that greatness had needed to come to an end. All of them had to go. The brute, the Vampire, the Shadow-Walker, the...Guardian, and even Month'kai, one of his own from their home realm. They didn't understand the potential this place contained...The resources to be harvested in their entirety, the sheer abundance of opportunity startled him at first, but now it was something that nagged at him at all hours of the day. Opportunities that were just beyond his reach now. He was sure he had missed the window of time almost one hundred years ago, and now he was stuck with this bastard child known as the Force, decaying from the inside out. Rumors of rebellion were slowly spreading throughout the galaxy, like a virus through the circulatory system of a diseased Karioxan. He would be the antidote.

He offered a dark, placid gaze to the crowds that applauded him.

He picked his way down the giant marble steps in his velvet loafers, careful not to step on the hems of his trousers. He hadn't dressed up for the occasion, he rarely invested in petty interests such as attire. Things like that in the Abyss were almost nonexistent. They were insignificant and foolish. Who would busy themselves with looking their best when there were so many other things to be pursuing? In the Abyss everyone looked their best because they were at the height of their potential...their power. Here that capacity for power stretched beyond what was known in the Abyss because the creatures here, the beings, were all so much weaker...Like a Blaccant..Those dark insects in the Abyss that skittered around the flows of magic that pulsated in the air. Their tiny wings fluttering, waiting to be crushed by the first gaze of a powerful being. Their realms were similar indeed...

"Would it kill you to smile, Mammon?"

One of the All-Marshals, Selter...Asked. Selter was one of the few All-Marshals that hadn't been completely blinded by preserving peace. He was absorbed himself, that was true, he had tried to replicate himself in the form of his son, but that hadn't turned out at all...Mortals' foolish attempts at immortality...It was pathetic. Still, he knew how to put on a face for the public, he was charismatic, ambitious, and powerful, the three lethal traits of a good All-Marshal. Still...Raum and him didn't always see eye-to-eye...No one saw eye-to-eye with him, because they didn't understand anything. Even the speech that was being recited to the seemingly infinite tides of onlookers, was a shell of what could have been. He had been pleaded with to write the speech now being recited to the seemingly infinite tides of onlookers. Such things did not take hold in his interest, however, and he had declined. That act alone had earned him the criticizing attention of most of his fellow All-Marshals, but he didn't care...Soon enough...The rash would be gone.

Selter's question didn't deserve a response, so instead he folded his arms behind his back and made his way down to the hordes where he would...Mingle.

For a moment at least.

[calissa]

Fire exploded on her tounge in a delious melody of flavors. Mmmm. She slipped her champain, eyeing the man that came over. He and the momen seemed to know eachother from before. Actually, everyone here seemed to know someone else. It was actually kind of, well, lonely...Slowly, she drifted away, back through the crowd. Twinkling lights of gold and silver in fake candles and chandelers lit the place. People were begininng to dance while others chated. Fake smiles and measursed tones were present in every being. Nothing was real, not even the promises of the long-winded woman. As a waiter passed, she gently set her empty glass on the plate, smiling a soft word of thanks as he left.

She contnued watching the people around her, simply observing. Maybe coming here wasn't the best of ideas. Shaking her head, Luce pushed a small, loose curl back into place behind her ear. Yes, she felt odd here. Fears from her latest nightmares started to creep up, chilling her to the bones. She still didn't know what would happen to her after what happened with chang. She was no longer just a innocent, a tiny, insignifigant bleep on the radar of the Force. She was...well, Luce didn't wknow just what she was to them anymore.

She continued to gaze around, taking in the people. They were all so different, yet the same. The Force definetly succeeded in bringing people together for this event. One question still remained though. Why? What were they up to? Were they up to anything at all?

“Luce, you're just being paranoid,” she whisper-scolded herself. Just because she had some worries about the new ruling faction didn't mean that they were always planning something. Right?

Sorry it's so very short. :/

[Regent]

Murmurs of pleasant, albeit forced conversation grew. Such a menagerie of false politeness and utter insincerity- it made his skin crawl, and for a moment, the grin dropped off Selter's happy face. Not everyone was having it, though. Not Raum Mammon.
Not Selter Othello Zalixa junior, certainly. For a split second, glacial blues met, making the thief swallow hard.

Oh God, he KNOWS…

The suit suddenly felt like a too-tight skin, and he was fairly certain that it wasn't the spicy seafood he'd just eaten that was making his throat close.

Mammon wasn’t alone.

Tail- white haired- but certainly not frail looking, he stood in a sweeping black ensemble that made him look more like some Fate than the All-Marshall so prided himself on being. Hadn't Senior been a Fate at one time? He couldn't remember. Why couldn't he remember? Their memories were interchangeable, weren't they? Electricity rattled from neuron to neuron, forcing the blond to suppress the physical manifestation that threatened to burst from his skin. Mammon’s gaze lingered, then a suspicious twitch of the brow.

Raum Mammon. He remembered him well.

Happy thoughts, Selter. Happy thoughts.

The pale orator...hadn't he accompanied Senior on his last visit?

The very last time....

The lights flickered.

He was a mere stone's throw away. That prententious fuck, the perfectionist partisan that had thrown him away was only a few feet from his station at the table. Selter itched, fidgeted, longed to hurl the inactive ball in his pocket right at the old man's probably significantly softened skull.

Remember why you’re here, Selter, he hissed desperately at himself. Remember why you’re here. The plan was no good if Selter Senior was one of the dead. Another glance at mouthless Merdoc leveled his nerves. What was the mute doing here anyway? Silk brushed his leg as a tittering girl brushed past the table, then another in a strange parade of pastel swatches. Could the Catalyst have sent him too? The brunette hadn’t exactly said who all was involved yet…or maybe, he never would.

“Some party, huh?”

Oh goody, Merdoc was feeling less spine-crunching today. This could be useful- especially if the other recruits hadn’t shown up. Hell, who was to say they already hadn’t? He’d only met with that strange man in leather armor…the whole affair was rather haphazard.

”Yeah, yeah it is. Look at all the putzy peacocks putting on a show for us, Munchy! Kinda borin, innit it?”

Either way, he SHOULD be involved, the electrokinetic decided. Snidely, he pulled at Merdoc’s sleeve and mumble-thought to the alien host.

“Wanna have some fun?”

Shifting, the well-dressed mercenary’s eyes were flickering back and forth- so much so that Selter wondered if the man had heard him at all. Again, his pocket went to the metal spheres safely hidden in his pocket. Smooth on the outside, shrapnel on the inside. All it would take was a good roll under All-Marshall Falkuin’s chair, at the center dias, and the fireworks could start.

The fun would start.

The revolution would start.

He felt the same tenseness arise in his blood, one that made his toes curl and his skin heat. But the grin returned in a slow spread on his face. Incapable, eh Selter Senior?

Introducing Selter Zalixa Junior, All-Marshall of Terrorism. He liked the title. Without waiting for Merdoc’s answer, he pressed one of the silver toys into the massive man’s hand. Selter flashed him a grin, and promptly excused himself from the table. Confident, his strut almost made it seem like he belonged in this world of finery, just for one second of his life. He purposefully navigated around the seemingly all-seeing Mammon.

Peace? She offered peace? The chilling gaze in Mammon’s sockets offered no peace, making him dip his head low and flit between the crowd like the expert thief he was. The Catalyst was right.
It was time to ruffle some feathers.

He palmed the sphere again, almost shivering. It felt so very, very strange to leave such tell-tale signs on a weapon- but hey. His fingerprints were what had gotten him this job in the first place. Best put them to good use.

Discrete as ever, his arm looped back, then forward with a squeeze of the hand and a slow, rolling motion. The bomb, one of his favorite types, actually, made a soft, sensual “thd” on the plush carpet, rolling carefully up the dias and just under the well-spoken woman’s near-throne of a chair. He smiled.

Jagger-balls, he called them. Packed with a high dose of C4 and every type of shrapnel he could think of. A quizzical brow quirked as he passed a young blond, no doubt lecturing her lover over some misgivings or awkward groping. Silly, silly people. Best to think happy thoughts before the fun began. His shoulder bumped in the marble column, but that barely deterred him. The raven-haired lass, however, was a bit harder to get around. She looked just as out of place- just as jaded as Merdoc might have. His brain short circuited, and he put a hand on her shoulder.

“Erm, miss, would you mind stepping outside with me for a moment?” He flashed her a winning smile. Total creepstick, but Selter had never been an ace with women. The backless, gilded dress of the girl fluttered in the slide breeze. Oh. Breeze. That meant about four minutes, right? Yeah. Four minutes ‘til detonation. He flashed the widest “get-the-fuck-out-of-here” smile possible at Merdoc, appealing with every single sparkling tooth, dancing on the spot.

For another moment, he eyed her amulet- a rare artifact indeed, and had to shove his twitching fingers in his pocket to avoid snatching it right out of her hands. For all he knew, she could’ve been a Force advocate, but he was feeling particularly friendly tonight.


“I’m not trying to be a creep, honest. I just noticed your tattoo and I was wondering if you could ‘splain it to me? I’m thinking of getting a new one m’self and I’m looking into a lot of cultural symbolism. Can’t really hear in this place either- terribly deaf in one ear.” His voice was pleasant. Accented. Convincing, even. Maybe Broadway would be an option someday, he laughed inwardly.

One more minute and he’d have to ditch her. And Munchy.

Uselessly, he hummed a useless pop tune under his breath “Tic-toc, tic-toc, but the party won’t stop. Tonight Imma fight til we see the sunlight.”

Actually, he’d prefer not to be around by sunlight. Just for the fireworks, thank you very much.

[Da Vinci]

When the Marshall who had been eying him disappeared into the goggles of mindless sheep, The giant assassin became too racked with nerves to even hear the first word that his acquaintance had said. Instead, his eyes had been zipping around the room, looking for even a glimpse of those golden locks that had haunted him for the duration of the party. Then, his eccentric little friend, thrust an orb of plastic into his hands as he asked him, but a simple question.

[Wanna have some fun?]

The question ripped the dark host out of his slumber so violently, that Merdoc's head began to hurt. The erratic blonde left Merdoc in a daze to go off to his business, and someone would have to pay for disturbing his slumber. His fear soon became hate, and though he didn't know what the ball EXACTLY did, he did know that if knew Selter as he thought he knew he knew him, then this device was designed to hurt people, and the deliverer of death knew exactly the person he wanted to give it to...

His nerves had long since become rage, and he needed an outlet to direct that rage at. He pushed through the crowd, no longer slipping through carefully, undoubtedly attracting the eyes of the hosts of this party. His eyes searched for the golden locks that had haunted him so not minutes before. He began to slow down as the crowd grew denser, tried to calm himself a bit.

Then he saw her! The sight of her quelled his rage instantly. He passed her in the crowd, going the opposite direction. Her skin was so soft, all he could think of was how wonderfully the red would go with her pale features. Instantly his had went down to were his bonesaw would normally have been holstered, then remembered that he had left it elsewhere. His right hand squeezed the explosive sphere once, and then he tossed it towards her lightly, as he passed her by.

Not even looking back, he sleuthed his way through the crowd, making his way back to the refreshment table. With the blood rage gone, he was feeling kind of hungry. He looking the table up and down, and found a cake, neatly cut. "That looks really good." He thought. "But how the hell do I eat it?" He looked to one of the waiters standing close by. "Can I help you sir?" He asked, obviously used to strange-looking guests.

"Blender?"