Owner	Pose
Illyana Rasputina	Someone decided to enliven Gotham on a Saturday night by offering live music at the Freaky Tiki. March is grey, dull, and wet at the best of times. Bright drinks and Hawaiian shirts make things better. What improves on that? A DJ spinning tunes and calling out for patrons to come and dance. This isn't someone's uncle's live set, either, tritely summoning images of balmy breezes and Don Ho ukelele excitement. Instead it's a cover of ABBA being spun up and the backing chorus happening to be from Samoa only improves things. Maybe that's the drink talking. Illyana happens to be here alone. Her companions are spilled sideways in a booth, thoroughly blitzed. The consequences of trying to drink with the Demon Queen or $5 cocktails will do that to someone unprepared. Checking they have not perished, she heads past the bar to acquire another something. The makeshift dancefloor under a sea of rainbow-lit pufferfish lamps is suspicious indeed.
Ben Reilly	Clubs aren't the sort of business that Ben usually trucks with. Mostly because they have cover charges and he can't afford them. But he's got a bit of money from a recent freelance job and after making sure he had somewhere to stay for the month and some new clothes, he decided to spend the rest on a night out. When nobody was free to join him, he decided it'd just be a night out on his own. At the moment, he just sort of ... ambles through the club. He's got a drink in one hand (charcoal-infused whiskey with a black olive - called the 'Gotham Tap', one of the better things about Gotham City being that they rarely card anyone) and he's taking a moment to look over the dancefloor and take a sip of his very gimmicky drink.
Illyana Rasputina	Coconut-spiked fruity rum may be popular, and Illyana would be lying if she told someone she had not partaken of one. Hers has an umbrella mounted on a plastic bone, and the scowling tiki god in her hand distracts from the pale Russian blonde's similar resting stern face. Not bitch face; nature gave her something more frightening, a seraph's countenance with eyes of a devil and a tongue to boot. A tongue currently stoppering the end of the straw, holding the spiced rum from collaborating on a very bad idea. Who lives for the moment? The pull drains the tiki glass and she looks around briefly for somewhere to stick it. Dancing with her hands occupied just looks awkward. A beeline for the nearest server with their cork-cushioned tray crosses Ben's path and she drops the red columnar drink there, before proceeding on. Blink and miss it; those aren't leather pants hip to toe but shorts, thigh tall boots, and possibly torn leggings or stockings. Are they? "Raise the volume!" she calls out to the DJ. The DJ's too busy grooving to his inspired jam session to be really listen. She has to collide with a wall of university students to get through or decide to dance there.
Ben Reilly	Ben amiably sips his drink, smacking his lips a little at the strong taste of straight whiskey that he's not exactly accustomed to. It's when he's turning his head away from the glass that he spots Illyana, blinking a few times. He clears his throat, looking towards the waiter as he polishes off the rest of the glass and deposits it on the tray. Spider-enhanced endurance keeps him from losing his footing, but he does feel a bit wobbly as he heads to the dance floor. He's adept at dodging through crowds. He ducks and weaves, not touching anybody as he follows after Illyana. Not intentionally, more in the manner of 'she has a good idea, I'll do the same'. His dancing is decidedly uncool, but there's nevertheless a little grace to it. He steps up behind Illyana, giving a jerk of his head as he nods towards a momentary gap in the 'wall' and ducks through it.
Illyana Rasputina	Spider senses could get the vaguest tint of danger from that drink but it's about par with the blonde and the crowd or the bad Cure cover been thrashed into Polynesian rhythms that people keep dancing to. Illyana has a way of making holes in crowds without the need for elbows, ahems, or a sword. The latter really does help with crowd-control, but the flinty, thousand-AU stare forged in the dying heart of a supergiant star achieves her aims. A handsy couple staggers aside to let her deeper into the space cleared of tables. Her sole peels off the sticky floor with a horrendous sound as she wobbles, and the glare sketches a downward path. If looks could kill then the spilled, drying drink would be atomized. "Don't step there," a warning to Ben, as she pivots and the sheen of black sheer material spun around her upper half tugs, so many shadows layered in pierced and spiked patterns. Bit dour for a place like this, but maybe not so much. //Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick That one that makes me scream, she said. The one that makes me laugh, she said. And threw her arms around my neck.//
Ben Reilly	There never seemed to be a danger of Ben slipping, his foot stepping over that patch easily as the faint twinge in the back of his skull sends him in the right direction. He comes up alongside Illyana, tilting his head to listen to the music. He doesn't quite look in place. His fancy clothes are a t-shirt (a Bat-Symbol with the words Gotham Pride written below) and jeans that seem newly-bought and not particularly expensive. His blonde hair is a shaggy mess, and the stubble on his chin has gone a couple of days without a shave. "Thanks!" he says, voice raising to be heard over the music before he adds, "Hi!"
Illyana Rasputina	Lucky duck to not trip. Not everyone gets those Spider-quick responses or skill for floating over trouble through the world. Illyana simply claims a place as hers and that's that. She steps into the gaps in the dance floor, head tilted a degree in the midst of people grooving and shaking their tail feathers, as uncool as it gets. The distant look could be one for figuring out what the whole deal with the tiki-take on 80s pop music is. Ben really might want to move on for this one or put her out of her misery. "Hi." It comes deadpan, heavily Russian-inflected. She doesn't even sway to figure out the beat, watching the DJ like a high priest performing satanic rituals in front of a very unimpressed cardinal. Nun? She wears the colours of a Dominican with the same severity, probably best to go with the angry monk-inquisitor. Until that sinuous roll of movement falls perfectly to the beat.
Ben Reilly	Ben has always had the urge to help people. Even when it isn't rescuing them from dangerous criminals, he wants to make sure they're okay. So, seeing Illyana just kind of zone out on the dance floor is enough to keep him from moving on or slipping away. He opens his mouth to say something when he sees her start to dance, and his mouth closes with a 'pop' that would be audible if not for the music. He looks around for a moment, wondering if he should move on or if someone is going to come along to move him on for him. Seeing no one, he just starts to dance. Not quite with the same rhythm as her, but he tries. "You like this music?"
Illyana Rasputina	Rescuing Illyana from the dance floor would be nudging her right off of it. That would surer be the rescue of those souls around her, freed the dangers of a misfit standing alone and apart from their partying ways. Silly thing doesn't even know how to have a good time or two sheets to the wind? All paper-thin excuses. She can move as long as the movements convey her through the swift oblivion of dignity and concern for anything too modern. Mobilizing resources means elevating her arms, lifting them over her head at the same time her feet shift a deliberate pattern. A close look might could give away the gig; that her dancing isn't the stylish work of staring at too many YouTube videos until her footwork is down or mirroring some better person in a pale echo. The bruising to her ego for not quite getting it down first comes out in the wash, sort of. Ben doesn't need to worry much with the crowd closing in, a mob of happy people doing happy things. On the dance floor, no one cares unless you knock into them. Since no demon or facehugging scary horror has flopped down from the ceiling, they are all home free. "Nyet." Dead honest there. Count, count, turn. The tempo is child's play as she works through modified defensive forms. Swordplay and dancing, there's almost no difference except the courtly side. "Too happy. Not about like or not like, da?"
Ben Reilly	"Yeah, I get that," Ben says with a nod of his head, turning his head slightly to smile and shake his head with a 'no problem' to someone who accidently bumped into him. Then his attention is right back on Illyana, "Yeah, it's a bit of a strange mix, yeah." His own dancing is less about marrying fighting forms with artistic expression. He just kind of moves to the beat as much as a white boy can. Nothing to write home about and nothing that would draw any attention. He's just trying to enjoy himself, though his heart isn't really in it with the music. "I mean, if you don't like it, we could get, like, a drink? It's quieter outside."
Illyana Rasputina	"They do not care. So good enough." Illyana would shrug, but another shift in the music back to the Dancing Queen by way of Aotearoa inspirations is all well and good. She has to hasten to keep up with the forms of a new beat, shaking her head at the number of women - young and old - belting out the lyrics. Half the singers aren't too bad. The other half have enthusiasm on their side. Weirdos. She casts about to check the two barely asleep guests in the booth aren't in danger of anyone bothering them. Woe betide anyone who made that mistake. Ben is clearly in no danger of it. He moves easier than she does, carrying on comfortably with some unfair kind of ease that so often does not carve its way for others in the world. Nothing to write home about: clearly enjoyable though. "I cannot run from unliked things. Here, I stay, and maybe it gets better." A devilish smirk stains her lips. "If not, I hold the DJ."