20222/Love in Bloom: A Masquerade

Love in Bloom: A Masquerade
Date of Scene:	13 March 2025
Location:	Sion - Nightclub
Synopsis:	Ferris Aircraft sponsors a spring masquerade at Sion, where masks blur identities, drinks flow, and the dance floor pulses with energy. Harley Quinn's quellazaire may or may not be responsible for several follow-up incidents.
Cast of Characters:	Carol Ferris, Emma Frost, Violet Paige, Aldrif Odinsdottir, Tessa, Jack Ryder, Harley Quinn, Kitkat

---

Carol Ferris has posed:
The line outside Sion moves slowly, a restless crowd of silk, feathers, and masked faces shifting under the city's neon glow. The bouncer, broad-shouldered and silent, looks over each guest before stepping aside. Besides the standard 'club chic' wardrobe requirement, there's one more stipulation tonight: no mask, no entry. Simple rules. Each time he lets someone in, he opens the mirrored doors just long enough to swallow them into the dark.

Inside, the club is alive with movement and sound.

The bass rolls through the floor, vibrating through the walls and deep into bones. The dance floor is a shifting sea of color, lit in waves of violet, blue, and flashes of gold, catching on sequins, slick fabrics, and bare skin. Mirrors stretch along the walls, reflecting light back onto the moving crowd, making the space feel endless, full of flickering silhouettes.

To the left, the bar is black lacquer and silver trim gleaming under the glow of its backlit shelves. Liquor bottles stand in neat rows, and the scent of citrus and spice drifts through the space, clinging to the rim of crystal glasses and the occasional brush of someone passing too close.

Besides the full bar, menus abound on every table and counter that advertise the multi-billion dollar aerospace company Ferris Aircraft as the night's sponsor, listing the signature cocktails:

-- First Glance - Champagne, hibiscus, honey
-- Heat of the Moment - Bourbon, cinnamon, dark cherry
-- The One That Got Away - Pomegranate, blood orange, bitters

Above the main floor, the second-level balcony curves around the room, sheltering deep booths in the shadows. The lighting is lower here, the music softer -- a space for quiet conversation, for masked figures to lean in close without raising their voices. The air is warmer, heavy with the scent of wine and perfume. Chrome railings line the edge, cool under the touch of anyone lingering there, watching the crowd below.

The party is already in full swing. The music is loud, the bar crowded with people brushing too close, laughing too easily.

Though masked like everyone else to conceal her identity, Carol Ferris stands at the bar, near the curve where the rail meets the wall. Her elbow rests against the polished surface, a glass held in one hand. Her dress is deep violet silk, sleeveless and dipping low enough in the back to be interesting. Her mask, silver filigree edged in the same shade, catches the light when she tilts her head slightly, scanning the room -- not searching, just taking it in and seeming thoroughly at ease.

Emma Frost has posed:
Emma Frost is here. She's also taken some time to put some work in to make herself look differently. A carefully applied wig, a switching out of her normal attire to something more 'traditional' associated with the Inner Circle.. But all of her outfit is a completely dark, crystal black that seems to be almost liquid on her. Her eyes have been darkened to take on a rather sadistic looking tone, her form sharper, and a gleeful, twisted look upon her face to match the extreme paleness of her skin and the almost vampiric persona that she's taken on, aided by her telepathy to get just a few subtle things across. A bit of time spent working on her voice to make it match, and some time spent ensuring she has an aura of almost frigity about her.

Finally, a dark domino mask covers up her eyes. Her intent is to make herself almost impossible to miss - and to do a close to flawless representation of someone that she loathes almost as much as the other ancietn woman does herself. Emma has gone all out on the 'masquerade' function of this event. And she's goin gto enjoy herself.. If she can do so at the subtle expense of another, all the better. A gleeful, twisted look is on her face as she sashays in, a cold air about her to hopefully 'get' others almost instinctivley out of the way as her heels would click.

Violet Paige has posed:
A line. How quaint. Violet Paige doesn't queue for anyone. She also doesn't turn up on time. Heck she'd probably be fashionably late to her own funeral...

When she finally does arrive it's without her usual entourage. Just a few paparazzi on motorcycles chasing after the limo in search of a scandal. Cheerily she lifts a hand up, flipping them the bird over her shoulder, and breezes in through the VIP entrance. While they impotently snap pictures right up until the door slams shut behind her.

Presumably they'll linger outside until the show is over. Or Violet gets thrown out for... something. Whichever comes first.

The Gotham socialite is wearing a Gatto mask, a traditional feline inspired style of Venetian mask, that's made from ink black carbon fibre. A juxtaposition of modern and ancient. The rest of her outfit? A little black dress. Military issue combat boots. And, because she doesn't want to get thrown out /immediately/, an borderline illegal vape pen. Which produces some sort of synthetic cannabis scented fumes.

What makes it borderline illegal you ask? The fact it makes an actual joint seem like an air freshener. Duh.

Supermodel tall and surprisingly strong she moves through the crowd like a shark in water. There's a bar that is desperately in need of it's top shelf clearing out.

Aldrif Odinsdottir has posed:
The Angel who isn't an angel is back on Earth, and somehow she finds herself in a queue to get into one of "these" events to socialize. She promised Sera to do such things to learn how mortal beings interact, and it's even a masquerade, perfect to disguise herself. And how do you disguise a wing-less angel? ..... You wear a set a large golden metal wings on your back, which leads to a lot of discussing with the bouncer. And Angela didn't even brought any of her weapons with her, no sword, no scimitars, really lame party without any fighting for life or death. Patience, calmness, inner peace... these would be handy now but Angela misses of of these virtues and only bites on her lower lip, not freaking out as she waits for the bouncer to discuss her costume, until she is signaled to step in, quickly pausing as she finally steps in, at once overwhelmed by bright lights and loud sounds, but she finally enters the main area.

Angela's presence is a study in contrasts, a whisper of danger amidst the night's revelry. At 6'2", she commands attention with a regal stillness, her form a symphony of refined elegance and hidden strength. A cascade of fiery red hair, a wild mane reaching her mid-back, frames a face of classical beauty. A gilded, winged headdress, its golden wings stretching wide, partially obscures her forehead, adding to her enigmatic aura. A delicate, ornate mask, crafted from shimmering gold, conceals her eyes, adding an air of mystery and intrigue. Her lips, painted a deep, alluring crimson, often hold a whisper of a frown, a subtle barrier that both intrigues and distances.

    She embodies the night's theme of longing, draped in hues that capture the twilight's essence. Deep violets and rich crimsons dance in the shimmering fabric that clings to her form, hinting at the dangerous allure beneath. A flash of gilded metal, a breastplate echoing the headdress, catches the light, a perfect illusion of restraint. From her back, a pair of magnificent wings, crafted from shimmering gold, unfurl. They move with a subtle, almost imperceptible grace, catching the light and casting shifting shadows. Her long legs, revealed beneath the flowing fabric, lead to gold-plated boots that reach mid-thigh. And then there are the ribbons - shimmering, ethereal ribbons that are wrapped around her torso. They are a shade of sunrise pastel, a fleeting contrast to the deep colors of her attire. She wears the night as a second skin, a whisper of silk, a flash of skin, and a promise of untold stories.

Tessa has posed:
It's not often that Tessa leaves the environs of the Hellfire Club, with so many schemes to plot, so many plates to spin, and the vast and complex financial outlay of the Club (Made complicated by her very own specifications to send any other would-be accountant screaming into the night. Job security.)

But it's important to keep an eye on the competition, even in the actual night club business. And sometimes? Well, sometimes she wants to do some boots on the ground recon of her own. Even if she's not wearing boots. Waiting in line in strappy heels of midnight black, her legs only sometimes slip into view through a slit in the ankle length dress, a midnight black at the bottom, lightening in curling waves to a dark blue, near her thighs, lighter and lighter to a light almost aqua beneath her shoulders, the strapless dress bringing to mind the crushing depths of the ocean and the joy of rising up from those depths to glimpse the sun above before one drowns.

While those pale shoulders are exposed, and that slender neck and fine, pale jawline and pert nose are exposed, her upper face is obscured behind a custom masquerade mask, continuing that trend of her dress at least somewhat, predominantly black, with a starfield of smile, shining sapphires to catch the light.

Despite her usual almost manic level of task-juggling and fierce energy, waiting in line seems to do nothing to dampen, enhance, or otherwise impact her mood one bit. Not that Tessa is all that known for _having_ moods. Once she achieves access to the club proper, she practically disappears from notice, a void in the crowd and revelry.

But a void that's certainly moving towards one of the servers to try a Heat of the Moment. Or five.

Carol Ferris has posed:
Pushing away from the bar, restless in the space, Carol moves through the crowd with unhurried ease, weaving between guests. The music thrums low in her bones, not quite loud enough to drown out conversation but enough to set the rhythm of the night.

A flicker of movement at the bar catches her eye -- a woman in gilded wings (Angela), striking enough that Carol can't help but take a detour. She stops just close enough to be heard over the music, tilting her head as she takes in the details.

"That's a hell of a look," she says, voice light, appreciative. "I was expecting feathers tonight, but not the metal kind. Did you make it yourself?"

No assumption of recognition -- just a casual observation, an invitation rather than an expectation. She lets the words hang, taking another sip from her glass. The drink is crisp, lightly floral, a slow contrast to the heat of the club.

Not far off, someone in a feline-inspired mask prowls toward the bar, the sharp angles of carbon fiber catching the gold sweeps of light.

Carol watches for half a beat, then flicks her gaze back to the winged figure.

Jack Ryder has posed:
Jack Ryder enters quietly for a change. He's wearing a black domino mask, with a black surgical mask to assure no one will recognize him> He's angered too many people and had too many drinks hurled at him. Speaking of drinks... he orders a bourbon and cherry concoction. He remembers when you drank bourbon to get drunk. Actually that was last week.

He stays by the bar, not seeking company yet, because he needs to settle and this is an extraordinarily bad idea even for him. That's without the other guy showing up. He looks into a mirror and for just a moment a leering yellow face with mad eyes grins at him. He gets a straw to drink his cocktail. Orders a vodka straight... no just vodka dammit! He counts to ten.

Do you really think I need to do anything to ruin your evening, Jack? You'll do it yourself.

Beat it Creep.

Emma Frost has posed:
The very twisted woman that Emma Frost is presenting herself as gives a casual, arrogant look over towards the angel in passing. She feels a little too sure of herself, different telepathically so Emma can pin her over as one of thsoe whom is not human here. Emma isn't trying to read her mind - that would be rude, of course. But it's good to pick out those here that are dangerous and thsoe here that are just about for casual indulgence.

Emma goes to move to grab over one of those special drinks in passing with a sneer, moving about the room like she owns it. Like everyone here is beneath her. This sort of thing is fun. She really should do this more often. If only to get it out of her system and see what she can do to stir the pot.

And the woman that Emma is passing herself as gives a look of casual smugness over towards Sage, that she definitely can pick up the very subtle cues of the woman - or at least the void that is normally her mind, likely permanently locked away from any sort of ability to scry it.

Aldrif Odinsdottir has posed:
    This is worse than any bloody battle, Angela would change this place any moment to fight now an angry orc from Jekla IV. But she stays, slow breathing, fighting against her instincts, which are loudly yelling inside her brain: RUN, Angela, RUN! At least she is able to force her artifical wings to fold and stay behind her back, not wanting to accidently hit one of these soft and weak mortals, they break so easily. The angel quickly catches a long drink from a passing waiter, not really interested in its liquid, but to hold the glass with both hands before her chest, like she would hold her beloved longsword Xiphos, while her pure white eyes (no pupils, no ireses, just good white contact lenses) rapidly scan the room, hoping to recognize at least one familiar person behind all these masks, not wanting to be alone in a room full of humans.

    And suddenly a woman is obviously speaking with her, "Feathers are only for the winged angels." she honestly tells, nodding her head in a respecful greeting "And no, I am not able to craft such a masterpiece with my own hands." she simply adds. "But it looks like, it was a bad choice, I would have expected more space."

Harley Quinn has posed:
The fleeting moments where winter departs and spring makes it's presence known are precious, the kind one should enjoy to the full extent possible. For who knows the day of tomorrow? Tonight though? Everything is allowed.

And no one seems to embody that near as much as the Queen of Hearts currently dancing in the middle of the dance floor. Killing it. Not literally. But still killing it. This particular woman is dressed in an outrageously long, goth black and red dress, the skirts so long that her feet are not seen but for when she is make a more intricate dance move, all the way up to a sculpted torso, the dress tight along her lines, showing plenty of cleavage and leaving her shoulders bare, all the way up to elegant chin and ruby lips. Her face is hidden behind a domino mask of the same dark and red color, feathered, long gloves that go up past her elbows and her ensemble ending with a quellazaire held between fingertips, the other busy with a glass of champagne.

Hair is midnight dark, skin with a tan to it. Surely not the Clown Princess of Crime, right? And yet that's exactly who it is, fully in disguise.

Kitkat has posed:
Some people can masquerade. Others can literally change their skin to try and fit in, though that does not necessarily make them particularly unnoticeable for mannerism. Or what they deem normal clothing. But for some... putting on human was actually a mask.

As Kitkat arrives at the bouncer, it's a ginger young woman, clad in a thick fur coat, and without a simple mask, discussing with the bouncer to be let in... well, it did result in a sudden flash of light, shown feline teeth, and then another flash before the redheat tries anoteher time. "You see only the mask." she countered the bouncer. Finding a compromise in the shape of a borrowed mask did take some extra time...

As the young adult finally got past security, the opening fur coat exposed a sheet of silky fabric, wrapped into a toga dress of almopst tyrian purple color. Besides the (borrowed) Columbina with white, black and purple diamonds between golden edges, the only other accent was the golden bracer on the left, and of course, the heavy fur coat. Real fur. Mink to be exact.

There's little who she can recognize, even less who she knows, and so once she got her way in, she strays to the side, even though she might make a convincing case for a little Venus in furs. And the worst part: it was unlikely anyone would recognize her for being the cat people warrior that hid under the normal human's skin unless they saw the transformation magic of the bracelet at play.

Carol Ferris has posed:
Carol glances up, tipping her head toward the second-floor landing, where figures linger along the chrome railings, watching the dance floor below. Even up there, the crowd is thick, space carved out only in slivers.

"Usually, there's more room to breathe," she muses, gaze sweeping over the packed balcony before flicking back to Angela. "Guess everyone got the memo that tonight was worth showing up for."

Her attention lingers a second longer, catching the strange absence of pupils, the solid white of Angela's eyes. A trick of the light, maybe -- but it's a good one.

Carol gestures loosely toward the wings. "They're nice, though. You ought to find a place to really let them out," she says, lips curving in something just shy of a smirk. "Bet you'd get a lot of attention." The way she says it, there's no question about it -- it's just fact.

She shifts her glass in her fingers, rolling the stem absently before taking a sip. "So if you didn't make them, who did?" A pause, then, "And do they take custom orders? Because I'm starting to think I might need an upgrade."

The music dips for half a beat, just enough to signal the shift before a voice rolls through the club's speakers -- smooth, rich, threaded with just enough charm to make it feel personal.

"Welcome to Sion, and welcome to Spring in Bloom -- a night of passion, mystery, and maybe even a little bit of trouble!" The words hum over the crowd, pulling focus for just a moment before the bass slides back in, steady and low. "Winter's gone and love is in season. So grab a partner and lose yourself on the dance floor -- tonight's for feeling, not thinking."

A sultry laugh, a crackle of static as the mic cuts out, and the music surges back -- deep, pulsing, beckoning. A golden sweep of light arcs across the dance floor, catching the mirrored walls and scattering reflections like fire across the moving crowd.

Jack Ryder has posed:
Jack Ryder sips the vodka slowly. It mutes the Creep a little. Not much. This venue is not to the Creep's liking. He wants to be skittering along rooftops looking for crooks to brutalize and punk. Doing a podcast is fine with the creature. Then Jack gets to attack people himself and the Creep enjoys it. This romance business? Feh. They have each other and that should be enough for Jack. Ignore the gossip.

Then Jack looks over at the very tall woman with wings and a mane of red hair. He's stunned for a moment.

I wonder if she has trouble dating being so... huge? Ya think? Oh come off it Jack-o. You can't are not in her league. Your leagues are in different timezones. Maybe find a lady with a limp or one eye. You got a shot there! Hahahahahahahahaha!

Why do you have to shade EVERYTHING? She just caught my eye for a moment. That's all, really not my type. Creep.

Don't lie to yourself Jack. Didn't therapy teach you that?

Jack takes another look out of the corner of his eye. He's staying. He's been obstinate his entire life. It's one area he is clearly superior to his passenger. The Creep gets distracted. Maybe he'll go wherever he goes if Jack sticks it out.

Aldrif Odinsdottir has posed:
Angela hmms and seems not to be affected by the rhythm of the music, for now. She keeps her head straight, preventing winged tiara and mask to slip away. "Yes, it looks, like a lot of ... people are here." she slowly answers to the woman and tilts her head, thinking for a brief moment, "My plan failed, I chose the wings to disguise myself." she tries to explain, "I have no need for them anymore." she even adds and her white eyes notice the many glances she received. Her plan was not to draw attention, maybe a different choice of custome would have ben wise. But who says, that an angel is wise?

"But everything has a price." she tells the other woman, "I am Angela." she simply introduces herself, not even able to think about a false name.

Tessa has posed:
While Tessa casually consumes her first drink, she moves about with all the precision and uncanny ease of a cybernetic organism sent back in time to kill John Connor, minus the liquid metal of course. But there's just something about her that's uncanny, not the freewheeling partying of a socialite, not even the cool, confident superiority of a celebrity. She's just... there. Without really seeming present, like she's running on auto pilot.

But not too disassociated to forego lifting her glass towards Emma Frost in a small toast of recognition... Of her? Or of the evil death sorceress she's playing at being? It's impossible to tell, but... lips quirk in a ghost of a smile, because of course a party for those in the know would result in them crossing paths, of course who she thinks the woman is is utterly unreadable.

The Queen of Hearts dancing up a storm also earns an intense moment of attention. Perhaps as inspiration for the next Hellfire party, something card suit related? Or perhaps simply because she's magnetically attracting attention.

With her mind swiftly cataloging things, she almost doesn't notice Violet's approach to the bar. But no, the tall socialite doesn't quite escape alert notice, and the dark haired woman lifts her glass in yet another little toast of greeting. These parties are always so intense... and already Tessa's running through a mental catalogue of parties that Violet's attended. There are very few coming up under a category that isn't 'intense'.

Harley Quinn has posed:
The goth Queen of Hearts is already way ahead of the announcer with how she is losing herself on the dance floor, the woman dancing like no one was watching, the kind of moves that would make a nun blush. Moving through dance partners as if they were sand trickling through her fingertips. None remaining for long. None that catch those blue eyes under the mask for longer than an ephemeral moment.

And through it all the champagne flute remains miraculously upright, not spilling a drop, impeccable balance on the Queen.

The sway of her body comes to an eventual stop, exhilarated, taking a deep drink out of her glass until it's drained of champagne. Standing still right in the eye of the storm with all the dancing bodies around her, almost as if she was feeding off their energy.

Emma Frost has posed:
Emma Frost doesn't so much as bother to interact as she just goes to observe. For the persona she's portraying, all of these people here are just meat to her. That means it's all the more amusing to see who, if anyone, has the bravery to approach her. Even as she looks in with the guise of someone that sees them all as the type to be made to ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

The almost not quite smile of Tessa is returned there. Is ther eone? Is there Sage expressing some level of amusement as the two recognize one another?

Emma's normally the type to mingle but for now watching things imperiously is far too fun

Violet Paige has posed:
Violet leans against the bar, blowing a ring of the intoxicant vape into the air, and orders a top shelf bourbon. Neat. Leave the bottle. Yes she knows how much it costs. No she doesn't care.

She's finished the glass in one single gulp. And scoops up the bottle, leaving the glass behind, because you don't need glasses if you're not planning on sharing now do you?

Her gaze sweeps across the club. Todays intoxicants of choice too mellow to make dancing appealing. So for now at least she props up the bar. Seeing who is who.

Sure people have masks on. But the whole point of being famous is so people know who you are. Right? So anyone important probably hasn't picked a mask that totally hides them. Case in point her own mask leaves enough of her face visible to identify her if you pay attention.

When Tessa gives her the little toast Violet responds with another exhaled O of the vape smoke. Pungent enough it'll annoy anyone around her. She's a charmer like that.

Thankfully it's a big enough area they probably won't end up under the influence...

She might not know Tessa personally as such. But she's been to the Hellfire club often enough to recognize the walk of the... she's not entirely sure what Tessa does. Probably some sort of concierge? Head maid? That sort of fine detail isn't really her thing...

In her defence it's not really the sort of place you ask too many questions beyond 'Where do you keep your narcotics'.

Carol Ferris has posed:
Carol -- or at least Star Sapphire -- has been to many worlds, many parties, met more species than she can count. Does she recognize Angela for what she is? Hard to say. But if she does, there's no sign of it.

"Don't I know it?" she says at the mention of everything having a price, her smile ticking up at one side. "I'm Carol."

Simple. Direct. No last names, no titles -- just an offering.

She catches something in the other woman's stance, the way Angela holds the drink like a tether instead of something to enjoy. Hesitation, maybe. Discomfort. Carol doesn't linger on it, doesn't push. Just shifts, tilts her head toward the dance floor, an easy pivot out of the weight of introductions.

"Listen, I'm going to the dance floor. You should come. Wings and all."

No pressure, no expectation. Just an open door, whether Angela takes it or not.

Carol hesitates just a moment before she's moving, cutting through the club's heat and pulse. She lifts her drink, drains the last sip, and sets the empty glass on the edge of a passing table as she reaches the floor.

Bodies press in, the rhythm pulling everything into motion. The heat, the music, the way people give in to it without thought. Carol slides into the crowd, picking up the beat in her step, in the easy sway of her body.

A flash of black and red catches her eye.

A woman in a long, sculpted dress moves through the dancers like a force of nature, discarding partners like afterthoughts, never slowing, never missing a step. The Queen of Hearts, owning the floor with the kind of effortless presence that makes Carol pause. Not hesitation, just observation -- appreciation for someone who knows how to move.

She steps closer, not intruding, just falling into the edge of the orbit.

"Nice dress," Carol says, voice pitched just enough to carry over the beat as Harley drains her champagne. "You keep that up, and they're gonna start thinking you own the place."

A smirk flickers behind her mask. "Or is that the plan?"

She doesn't take over the space -- just moves into it, lets herself sink into the rhythm.

It's been a while since she's let go like this -- too much responsibility, too many things waiting on her. But tonight?

Tonight, she just wants to move.

Jack Ryder has posed:
Jack Ryder catches a bit of the exchange. He almost opens his mouth to introduce himself, to prove to the Creeper he can talk to a woman out of his league and possibly species. But she seemed to find someone to hit it off with. He adjusts his mask and heads closer to the dance floor watching the wild moves.

Pffft. I could do better then that.

Shut up! I'm entitled to a night out. It's been just work, and you and... if you don't get out of my effing face, I will go home and drink that whole bottle of Nyquil. You will spend the rest of the night inside.

He senses the presence retreat. Huh. He won that one. He watches the red goth gyrate. "Wow."

Kitkat has posed:
It took the redhead some time to work herself into the direction of the dance floor, the fur coat playing hide and seek with most of the skin. Maybe it created an aura of distance, keeping people away. Or reminded people too much of classic paintings. Rubens, though he did not clad his figure in tyrian purple below and kept her blonde. Titian maybe, but he too, did not include proper dressing to the woman. Maybe a little more like the Alonso Sanchez Lady in Fur Wrap?

Still, passing one of the servers, she reaches for the drinks offered, hesitating, then picking a flute she sees that clown queen down quite closeby, nose wrinkling a little as she smells at it.

Harley Quinn has posed:
The words spoken near to the Queen make the woman as if awaken from a trance. Pulled from the depths of her exhilaration which at such a close distance that Carol is in there's a faint, bittersweet, melancholic smile to her expression, contrasting to the frenetic dancing she was doing earlier, "Maybe I do." the faintest hints of a Jersey accent to her voice, "I have always been told I could rock the purple hair without fault." clearly an allusion to the actual owner of the Sion. Hand runs over her black hair, flicking some loose strands out of the way. Though when she is asked whether this is the plan or not? That actually makes her laugh.

"There are no plans tonight." The Queen of Hearts urges, "Just indulging, being." and she stares at Carol for a time, as if assessing the other woman, "It is not something you are used to." she tells her directly and without a doubt to her voice.

And then she sways and swings. Spins and pivots, returning to her dancing and facing Carol. But for how long?

Aldrif Odinsdottir has posed:
Angela is even able to offer a honest smile on her lips as the other woman introduces herself as Carol, "It's my honor." she replies with a bow of her head and quickly adds, "Oh, I will!" she promises. Indeed angels are not against dancing, they even love music and singing. Angela stares at the long shot in her hands, and raises up to her lips, sipping down the liquid in one long gulp, before she places the now empty glass on the next plate which will pass her location. She can feel the warmth of the drink rushing through her veins and is ready for some 'action'. But despite the words of the other woman, a quick motions of her hands to the backside releases her metal wings from the backplate of her golden corset, carefully letting it rest against the wall and slowly comes in the direction of the dance floor, arms crossed before her body, very much in a defensive stance as she looks with curiosity and awe at the dancing crowd, enjoying life as there is no tomorrow. Sometimes they seem to have the better ... shorter but more intense life.

Tessa has posed:
Tessa definitely recognizes Violet, and seems at least somewhat certain Violet recognizes her. And is definitely more than just a socialite who has her own dalliances in the same circles.

Cool, calculating eyes drift from Violet to the dance floor, only to dart back with more focus on Violet, dark painted lips quirking in a little smile, head tilting as she gestures with her hand not holding a glass, "So, seeing as this is a party... shall we partake? Of the dancing. Of course."

She sighs and shakes her head slowly, "It's always important to ensure one enjoys the delights of a party in the proper order, so that one dalliance doesn't dull the senses to another, yes?"

Violet Paige has posed:
Violet tilts her head, an exaggerated motion to make up for the mask covering her eyes, one hand has a bottle of expensive (well expensive for Sion by HFC standards it's probably not deserving of the name) bourbon and the other her vape. Not that anyone nearby is unaware of that. Probably the staff are trying to decide if it's worth the hassle of throwing someone quite so infamous out or not. For now at least seeming to land on the side of no.

"Who says this is the party I started at?" she notes wryly. "Want a little?"

The bottle gets shaken. Drinky drinky. Not that she expects Tessa will take up the offer. She gives off the sort of vibe of someone who eats takeout pizza by the slice with a knife and fork. Drinking from a bottle. Scandalous.

The vape gets tucked into her mouth to free up a hand. She slinks forward. Tall and assured. Offering her hand to the woman with the inhuman gait as she passes.

It's not like there's much else to do other than dance. If this was Gotham there'd probably be a stick up about now.

But then. That's why she's not in Gotham.

Carol Ferris has posed:
Carol's grin ticks up, just a little sheepish, when the Queen of Hearts calls it out so plainly. It is not something you are used to.

"No, it's not," Carol admits, exhaling a quiet laugh, apparently impressed by the Queen's perceptiveness. Despite the way she moves through the space, the way she mingles and smiles, there's a stiffness beneath it. Not tension, exactly -- just a kind of restraint that hasn't quite loosened yet.

She's a woman torn between two worlds. One of structure, boardrooms, control. The other of battles waged in the name of love.

Neither leave much room for indulgence. Neither really allow her to just exist.

But here, under the lights, in the heat of the music, she could -- if she lets herself.

She watches the Queen twist away again, slipping effortlessly back into movement, and Carol lets herself match the rhythm, finding it in the roll of her shoulders, the easy sway of her hips.

Letting her eyes wander, she catches a glimpse of Angela, arms crossed, hovering at the threshold. Carol lifts a hand, beckoning.

"Come on!" she mouths, eyes warm, coaxing. She doesn't linger on the invitation, just leaves it there, waiting.

The shimmer of fur at the edge of the crowd pulls her attention next -- a redhead in a mink coat. There's a pause, just a beat, as Carol watches her lift a flute of champagne, wrinkle her nose at the scent.

"You picked it up," Carol notes, just loud enough to carry over the music, clearly amused. "Might as well try it. Nice coat, but aren't you too warm?!"

The moment lingers only moment before she turns back into the music -- back towards the Queen of Hearts. Has she moved on? Carol's moving, but she's still holding back in ways she doesn't quite realize -- maybe can't quite help -- but it's a little less than before.

Aldrif Odinsdottir has posed:
    The Angel who isn't an angel even moves her chin a little bit in the rhythm of the bass, she seems to really enjoy the crowd, the loud music, the flashing lights. This isn't an experience she often has, but she is close to loose herself in the crowd, jumping and screaming, bodies touching, hands groping. But in the last second before she steps on the stage, her usual me wins her inner fight, getting the angel back under control.

Everything has a price, and she isn't ready to pay the fee for her own fun. Her right hand is raised, her fingers wave to the dancing crowd (and the woman calling her over) before she turns around on her heels of her golden boots and heads for the exit (without her metal wings).

    Outside, Angela looks at the long queue and smirks, "The wait is worth it." she honestly comments before she heads for a dark and empty dead end in a nearby street and with a swift motion, a golden comet raises into the dark sky.

Tessa has posed:
Tessa's all about refinement and cool, classical beauty.

And, every now and then, absolutely shattering expectations. Not just by drinking from that bottle, but by maintaining intense, arguably very offsetting eyecontact with VIolet the entire time.

And then she's smoothly shifting to take that offered hand and be led towards the dancefloor with a smooth, not quite too precise motion. She might not have the raw enthusiasm and passion that most think of when it comes to wild club dancing.

But she's pretty sure she just hasn't worked up the proper personality engram to match that requirement.

Something that has no doubt been added to five different mental checklists to be completed in the future after significant research.

Kitkat has posed:
"Too warm? No, most certainly not. I like it warm, and the dress isn't as warm as I'd like..." comes the answer from the redhead, parting the coat a little to show the tyrian purple fabric below, the dress-like wrap exposing quite some skin, and... well, being silky satin not offering much retention of heat.

"It smells a little dusty..." The nose wrinkles again behind the diamond patterned mask as the redhead takes a trying sip, head shaking a little. "Tastes odd. Not really nice, though prickly... Red wine is better though." she contemplates, trying another sip but it doesn't help much to make it more to her liking.

Harley Quinn has posed:
The knowing smile on the Queen of Hearts is all the answer there is to Carol's admittance to what she said. An untold mystery under ruby lips before the undercover clownette is back to dancing, without restraints or any weight upon her shoulders, almost as if she was a fairy spirit herself, weightless and free and as fleeting as one such mythical creatures.

She still lingers when Carol looks back at her, that same smile upon her lips, watching the other woman, and the others as they flock towards the dance floor.

She only answers when the 'cat' speaks of the oddity of champagne, laughing first before saying, "But champagne is so much more fucking classy." nothing like joining the word classy with a swear word.

And then she extends her quellazaire over to Carol. In offering.

Carol Ferris has posed:
Carol watches the Queen of Hearts move, the ease of it, the weightlessness. Nothing holding her down, no tether but the music. There's something in that -- something that makes Carol wonder if she could let go like that, if only for a little while.

She doesn't dwell on it. Instead, she laughs, breathy and genuine at the comment about champagne. "That depends on how much you've had," she says, amused.

Then the quellazaire extends toward her, a cigarette balanced at its tip, the silent invitation lingering between them.

Carol glances at it, then at the woman behind the mask. A challenge, maybe. Or a test?

There's a very telling hesitation -- but then, Harley already knew there would be. Carol is the quintessential 'good girl' (when she's not being possessed and mind controlled to kill Hal). The CEO. The Queen of the freaking Zamarons. The one in control... all the time.

Screw it. It's a night for love -- for living, not thinking.

So, she takes it between her fingers, a glint of something mischievous in her eyes, like it's the craziest thing she's ever done.

"What's the etiquette here? Do I take a drag, or do I just hold it and look impressive?" Her smirk sharpens just a fraction.

She lets the question linger, turning just enough to catch the redhead in mink reacting to her champagne. The wrinkled nose, the cautious sip, the unimpressed shake of her head. Like someone trying a new food just to be polite.

Carol huffs out a soft laugh. "It's an acquired taste," she tells her, watching the way she parts the coat, the deep purple fabric catching the light. "Though red wine's a safer bet. And something tells me you're not much for wasting time on things you don't like."

And then, without any more delay, she brings that quellazaire to her lips and takes a drag.

...Because what's the worst that could happen?

Violet Paige has posed:
Violet would normally engage in an impromptu staring contest with Tessa. But she's wearing a mask and it makes it easier to cheat. Why play by the rules now? It's not like she follows them the rest of the time!

Plus the vapour isn't easy on the eyes. Even for a connoisseur.

"I didn't think people like you got time off," she notes with an amused smirk. Girl can drink. "Or are you here on business?"

There's a sway to her motion as she leads Tessa over to the dance floor. As much a sign of intoxication as a prelude to dancing. Thankfully there's little chance she's going for any high intensity dancing. It's a Thursday after all. The day you wind yourself down to relax before picking up the partying again on Friday. Revived and refreshed. It really does help she's secretly a cyborg. The party scene is murder.

In Gotham quite often literally.

The whole secret cyborg thing is also how she manages to balance dancing and some serious bourbon drinking. It's a masterwork in party-girling that she doesn't so much as slosh the spirits. Let alone spill anything on anyone.

Not because she's worried about other people. It's just bad form to waste good liquor.

Tessa has posed:
Drawing back from that closeness, Tessa is momentarily annoyed... masquerades. They make it so difficult to properly raise an eyebrow skeptically. Still, she trusts her vocal tone to convey her dry humor. "Oh? People like me? You mean people in management positions that detest delegating tasks they know they can handle themselves?" She sighs out and murmurs, "You may have a point there."

But then she's doing her best to keep up with cybernetically enhanced dancing and drinking. Because while she may dislike letting her subordinates take on tasks she finds important? Well, she dislikes not matching up to a proper challenge even more.

Does this mean waking up bleary eyed in another city is in her near future? Perhaps.

But that's par for the course for being in her line of work.

Jack Ryder has posed:
Having fun, Jack? I notice you're in the john.

Jack splashes water on his face. The Creeper looks back at him from the mirror. "Just aces, you fucking Horla!"

Are you referencing the story or the movie with Vincent Price?

"The movie of course. Diary of a Mad Man. That Horla was intelligent... and he eventually kills it." The Creeper nods.

Iprefer The Haunted Palace. He doesn't get away easy in that one.

"You would. I'm going back out." It's a struggle to be sure, to mingle with the happy people he might have savaged while streaming. Sometimes the biggest fight is internal. It's ironic no one ever admires the Batman for the restraint he's shown with the Joker. He must want to murder him but he doesn't. Jack wants to climb in a hole right now. But he emerges from the bog banging the door. He strides over to the dance floor and asks loudly, "Anyone like to dance with me? I might be Bruce Wayne after all?"

Kitkat has posed:
"An acquired taste, like ruining the taste of meat by adding spices." The redhead nods at the assertion about not liking to waste time on unpleasent things, and she offers the glass to be picked up.

"There's something about red wine that tastes more... it tickles the sense of something different." The redhead's lips curl a little, her posture with the coat of mink and purple dress below now much more what one might find in a classic oil painting.

"You seem to know what people like, madame Cat."

Harley Quinn has posed:
There's an expectant look on the Queen of Hearts gaze when Carol accepts the quellazaire and considers it, the grin in those ruby lips absolutely cheshire as she awaits with baited anticipation on what will happen next. When Carol decides with taking the drag out of the cigarette on the tip there's approval on the woman's, along with another laugh that this time seems to reverberate alongside the sound of the music playing. Just a little too unhinged. Just a nudge too out there.

And just on the rear end of those fumes out of the cigarette the Quinn finally whispers, "I will be finding you later." it said in way of promise...

And then she spins in-between Tessa and Violet with laugh, showing startling agility as she moves fleetingly between the various dancers without touching any.

And disappears.

Carol Ferris has posed:
Carol inhales deep -- damn the torpedoes.

A slow drag, the burn sharp in her lungs, smoke curling between her fingers as she exhales. The Queen's laughter cuts through the music, wild and too delighted, and Carol chokes -- just a little. Smoke puffs past her lips in a rush, her shoulders shaking in half-caught laughter, half-cough. Or maybe it's just the shock of whatever the hell that was.

She barely has time to process before the Queen spins away, leaving behind only the trace of her voice, a promise, a warning -- both? Carol watches her go, bemused, impressed, and maybe just a little wary.

But then she hears the man's call, Anyone like to dance with me? I might be Bruce Wayne after all?

Carol turns, brows lifting behind her mask as her gaze sweeps toward Jack, standing a little too bold, a little too loud, like he's daring someone to take the bait.

"Bruce!" she calls out, laughter bubbling up as she raises her hand, still holding the quellazaire like some kind of absurd party favor turned dance invitation. "I'll dance with you!"

Then, because why the hell not, she spins back toward Kitkat and Tessa and Violet, waving the quellazaire in an offering, as if extending the game. Even to Jack, if it isn't nabbed before he finds her in the crowd.

"Anyone?"

Violet Paige has posed:
That brief interruption as Harley whirls through the space between Violet and Tessa gives the socialite a moment to pause. Bottle in one hand and vape in the other. Her head tracks the motion and she blinks a few times. A shrug. "I think I need to go powder my nose," she decides. "Girls got to pace herself."

Judging by the amount of bourbon she's drunk, even accounting for Tessa's help, her pace is sprint.

She blows a little plume of vape smoke at Tessa. Maybe her mask should have been a dragon. It also means she doesn't need to partake in whatever the Mystery Goth Clown was smoking. Which is probably for the best.

There's only so many drugs you should mix in one evening.

She turns. Giving the bottle a little shake at Tessa.

Maybe it means she's inviting her to follow her? Or she could just be pointing out Tessa has a lot of catching up to do.

Either way Violet glides off into the party. Maybe she'll actually powder her nose. Maybe if she's feeling really fancy she'll even do her make-up too!

Tessa has posed:
WWith the dancing and the drinking and the alluring and intriguing figures rapidly being indexed in Tessa's mind for the next time she requires suitably understanding attendees for a party, the evening's becoming a bit of a blur. Nothing she can't handle of course, just the sort of blur where she loses most of a day to perfect recollection and careful assembling of the puzzle pieces of the night.

And when one's main duty is to see to the day to day affairs of the Hellfire Club? Well, being offered substances to partake of without any detail or explanation is just part of the life.

And, dedicated and frequent party hostess that she is, when her time comes to sample whatever chemical cocktail is in the quellazaire's substances, she's cognizant enough of manners to take her indulgence and pass it along.

Of course, with VIolet's taunting shake of bottle? Well, she may not be quite so icily competitive as certain former Queens of the Hellfire Club... but that was a direct challenge. That's going to lead to Tessa doing her best to carry the flag of overindulgence into this battle.

It'll be fine. She might just need to take more than half the next day to sort things out.

Kitkat has posed:
"Who is Bruce Wayne?" Kitkat asked the people around her, pretty much in earnest, though Violet and Harley slipped away quickly enough, leaving pretty much Tessa to be asked by the Redhead in mink and turian purple.

The offered smoke is eyeds carefully, the harsh cigarette smoke with the odd other additions gaining another ruffled nose while the woman next to her took a taste of it. "What is it?"

Jack Ryder has posed:
Jack Ryder takes the offered cigarette holder and takes a long drag on it, then hands it off to whomever.

Oh, nice. You're finally having fun.

He lifts the surgical mask up just a bit so Ferris can see his smile. He holds out a hand and begins dancing madly. He borrows a little of the Creep's style. A little goes a long way with the Creeper. His is a mishmash of styles but mostly Vinnie Vega from Pulp Fiction. He even does the thing with his hands making a mask. Then he tries to give Carol an energetic spin, ready to catch her if she falls.

Carol Ferris has posed:
Carol laughs, smoke still curling between them as Kitkat considers the offer and asks her question.

"I don't know," she admits, lifting one shoulder in an easy shrug. "You'll have to ask the Queen of Hearts if you want to know for sure." There's a glint of something playful in her eyes -- because really, is there a right answer?

Then Jack takes the quellazaire, pulls a deep drag, and Carol watches with raised brows as he hands it off again like it's just another prop in the night's ever-changing performance. And maybe it is.

He lifts his mask just enough to flash that grin, and she finds herself grinning back, stepping into the movement as he pulls her into a dance.

It's obvious enough that Carol isn't the party girl type -- not like some of the other women here, who move like they belong to the music, like it's in their bones. Carol's got rhythm, sure, but this isn't exactly the kind of dancing she's used to. Nothing structured, nothing choreographed. But she's loosened up just enough to let herself enjoy it.

Jack moves with something wild and chaotic, a mishmash of styles that shouldn't work but somehow does. And then he spins her -- sharp and sudden, and her balance is just a fraction off.

Her foot catches wrong on the slick floor, momentum throwing her off-kilter, and for just a second she's certain she's going down --

But Jack's already there, catching her, holding steady as she blinks up at him, half-surprised, half-amused.

Carol exhales a breathless laugh, still braced against him. "Good reflexes," she says, tilting her head up at him. "Maybe.. maybe I should find a seat."

Maybe it was something in that cigarette?

Or maybe it's just all of the excitement of the evening catching up to her. Either way, she looks ready to find a place to sit for a while.

Jack Ryder has posed:
Jack Ryder's grin can be seen through the mask. He chuckles as he escorts Carol to a seat.

Slow clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

Jack doesn't gloat. He exits on that high note though. Once outside he finds that handy deserted alley that birthed a comet and taps the transmogrifier imbedded in his arm.

????

"I'm feeling generous. Go play!" The Creeper's laughter echoes around the block as he springs onto a fire escape and climbs up and out of sight.