Masquerade Ball III


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Also featuring:

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Scene Title Masquerade Ball III
Synopsis Not all the guests at the Linderman Group's Masquerade Ball have the best intentions at heart…
Date October 28, 2008

Linderman Building — Courtyard

The courtyard encircled by the Linderman Building has received a booster shot of Creepy tonight. Fog billows out along the ground, the source of its genesis unseen and mysterious. Dark green foliage and the declining blooms of flowers have been overtaken by spider webs and faintly browning ivy. The ornate fountain that stands in the centre of the cobbled court is certainly the eye-catcher of the grounds. A pair of angels stands in the middle of the wide, deep basin, their hands stretched toward Heaven in search of salvation. For around them, the waters shooting higher than their fingers can reach and rippling about their feet have turned to blood. The droplets staining their once pristine, white marble skin and robes, the subtle lighting that usually makes the duo of saints look all the more celestial now casts harsh shadows on their features, causing them to appear distraught — if not properly terrified. The edge of the fountain serves as seating, with only minimal spray reaching the inner lip of the stone, easier to see in the macabre speckling of blood on pale stone. Along the cobblestone paths, dark cherry wood benches provide a place to sit, if one is feeling faint from the spectacle.

It's a little past nine o'clock and the masquerade ball at the Linderman Building is already in full swing. Although there's no way of knowing how much money the party's organizers have made from the ticket sales, it's probably safe to say that several charities will be receiving sizable donations in the coming weeks — between the courtyard, the ball room and the foyer, there are easily several hundred people in attendance, all of them dressed in ornate costumes and masks, many of which are easily as expensive as the price of the tickets themselves.

Tonight, Daniel Linderman is a glutton for aristocracy in royal threads. Expertly crafted with jewels, golden tassels and flanged detailing, his period costume screams power and embodies an aura of authority. It's hard not to, when you're dressed as King Henry VIII. A leather mask, black with gold accents, covers his face and keeps his identity a secret from those around him — save his hired help and the diminutive redheaded goddess on his arm.

Muse, technically speaking. Zoe keeps her hand draped on King Henry's arm, her hazel eyes taking in the display of dazzling costumes from behind her golden moon-mask. As intricate as her adopted uncle's costume is, hers is comparatively simple, but no less well tailored. The smile on her face is the sort of pleased expression one is usually expected to wear at parties, though the sumptuous displays of costumes do indeed impress her. "Is there anyone you need me to say hello to tonight?" she asks Linderman softly. Despite being a mole in the Linderman archives, she was raised in the upper-crust and actually knows about that sort of thing. It's an effort for her of course, but she's often inclined to go out on a limb for the older man at her side.

If people had their own theme music, Heather's would be playing some serious heavy metal based on her costume. Black. Leather. Shiny black leather. And /tight/. It's a miracle she can come. Black boots, combat style. Black trenchcoat (she's been cleared by security as having no concealed weapons). And a mask? Yeah, black sunglasses. A costume that cost her absolutely nothing because she had it all already. Working through the crowd of people, she keeps an eye on people she passes working her way towards the fountain.

Security at these events is actually something that Dixon quite enjoys; Manny enjoys them far more, for different reasons, but it's a relatively similar entertainment. Ulysses, in somewhat tandem with those centurions at the door, plays the part of someone perhaps more fit for an arena than a Roman army. A seven foot gladiator, complete with some manner of furry cowl over his head, shielding most of his face. Is that a club on his belt? No, wait. It's a mace, and certainly not the spray kind. He hangs around the outskirts of the courtyard, scanning the crowd and looking like something out of a museum.

If people really did have their own theme music, then this guy's would obviously be.. Phantom of the Opera. Brian is dressed in a black suit, black leather gloves, and a black broad brimmed hat. As wall as half of a porcelain mask that covers half of his face. His black cape sweeps behind him as he walks through the ball. A ticket got sent to the wrong address and somehow ended up in Brian's possession, so here he is.

'Hired help' is a fairly nebulous term. Then again, the help that Linderman has hired is fairly nebulous himself, not terribly creative with his costume (certainly not as creative as many of the other party goers). A black business suit, accompanied by a black necktie and white shirt would give the impression of some agent for a shadowy government organization, but that would, of course, assume that Allen Gladstone had properly completed that theme with a pair of black, polarized sunglasses, and he has not. Instead, his face is covered completely by a simply-colored, theatrical mask, the left half of it white with black accents, the expression one of boundless the joy. The other half, black with white accents, is twisted into agonized sorrow, a fact made all the more clear by the single splash of white on the forehead, resembling nothing if not a bullet wound. Viewed from the left to the right, the message here is an obvious one; laugh now, die later.

Gladstone, unlike Dixon, stays close to the King's side, imposing, vigilant and, most of all, silent, on the lookout for danger, peasants and talentless court jesters.

"Of course, Uriana my dear," murmurs Linderman, using Zoe's assumed name for the evening, loud enough to be heard over the music and laughter in the background but not quite so loud that his words reach Gladstone's ears, "But I hope you don't mind if we first check in with Dixon for a few moments. I haven't noticed anything amiss this evening, but I'll rest easier knowing that everything is running as smoothly as it was when we first opened our doors."

"I'm sure it'll all be grand." Zoe assures King Henry. She seems very content to remain alongside him, and offers Gladstone a polite nod. She has a 'bad' habit of acknowledging the help. And upon seeing Dixon, can't help but raise a dark gloved hand to offer his a greeting. "I'm ready whenever you want to make your grand entrance." she asides to the king.

Heather finally makes it to the fountain. It takes careful maneuvering through the sea of bodies, but mission accomplished. However, she doesn't sit down. Maybe she can't with that tight leather. "Lots of interesting costumes tonight." she comments, to whoever is nearby.

Dixon even has some weird tooth for an earring, when it comes to details. The animal on his cowl also looks to be nondescript; it's certainly not real, but seems that way. From where he stands, the barbarian can see most of the heads in the crowd, so until Zoe's hand catches his eyes, busies himself with trying to guess who is what. When King Henry's lady-friend does raise her hand, Dixon resists raising his, but does peer over at the trio in silence and expectation of a visit.

Also working his way to the fountain, is the Phantom. Sidestepping here, stepping around there. Finally he gets there. At the words spoken by the woman, he looks at her cocking his head to the side. He thinks he recognizes her but.. "Yeah, there are." Brian does however take a seat, looking up at Heather. "Including yours.. what exactly are you?"

Whether or not Gladstone even sees Zoe acknowledge him is something of an unknown; it's just plain difficult to tell in this case. As per his usual routine this evening, he makes no sound and offers no opinion (even if he'd heard the conversation between Linderman and Zoe, he'd have kept quiet), but he'll answer if he's addressed directly. For the time begin, he'll stick close to his employer. Bodyguarding is not exactly his first choice for a job, but a little pocket money never hurt anyone, and in any case, it will ensure that at least someone will let some bit of information slip. Some of it may even be useful. Lead on, your Lordship.

Linderman clucks softly at Zoe. "I'm a little too old for grand entrances, don't you think?" he asks, reaching up to brush his knuckles against the curve of the redhead's jaw in an affectionate, almost fatherly gesture. "And even if I wasn't, you're all the splendor I need." Without another word, he sweeps Zoe off to where Dixon is standing and beams at the other man from behind his mask as they approach. He doesn't have to look over his shoulder to know that Gladstone is following — let it never be said that loyalty can't be bought, if only for one night. "All's well, I take it?"

Zoe looks so terribly pleased, like a little girl who's just won over a parent after presenting them with a straight A report card. Those same beamish (calloo! callay!) eyes meet Dixon's, looking up…and up…and up as she and Linderman approach. "Good evening, Dixon." she greets. Her voice is recognizable, even if she's far too elegant tonight to be mistaken for being mousy. Or 'spooky'. Feh.

"Yeah, very interesting." a young woman comments. Heather tries hard not to grin. Can't break character after all. Now, to find some refreshments. Green eyes scan around, and she starts her prowl through the crowd once again.

And the cowl tilts to look down, and down in return. Yes, he knows that voice. When Mr. Linderman's came from the King, he already had someone in mind. Even Dixon is surprised at the woman's ability to turn from 'that weird little lady in the archives' into Urania; if his face wasn't mostly shadowed, it would probably even show that. "Good evening." When he speaks, he does make at least a few people glance over to find the source- wait, you mean he isn't a statue? "It is, sir." The barbarian affirms this to King Henry with a soft clearing of his throat, glancing back to Zoe with a hint of a smile. "I made that suggestion you asked for, miss. If it didn't work, I'll just use my club next time."

Although it can't be seen behind his mask, Linderman's face is flushed with relief. This is, apparently, exactly the news that he was hoping to hear. He reaches out and touches his hand to Dixon's shoulder. "Thank you," he says, his voice softer than it was a few moments ago, "I appreciate you taking time out of your schedule, away from Anthea, to be here with me tonight." This time, he does glance over his shoulder toward Gladstone. "Allen, take fifteen, if you would? Chat up some of our guests." He offers Zoe a small smile. "Not everyone is as fortunate as I am to be blessed with such wonderful company."

Zoe blushes behind her mask now. "I don't get to spend as much time with you now as I did when I was little." she admits. "Are you still sneaking into the catering kitchens to make lunch? Perhaps I'll join you sometime, if you don't mind. I promise to brush the dust off first." She's keeping an eye on the swirling crowd too, nodding and smiling at people as they pass. She's not quite a hostess per se, but she feels somewhat obligated, since she's on Linderman's arm.

Heather continues to work the crowd almost seamlessly. Is she looking for the refreshments, or is she looking for something else. Can't really say. Maybe she's just lost. Though, from the straight-face she's keeping, probably not. Nearing the entranceway to the foyer, she takes a passing glance back before ushering herself through the passageway and out of sight.

Heather has left.

Dixon returns the touch on his shoulder with a slight tip of his snarling beast-head and a wisp of a white smile underneath. "It's my pleasure. Halloween scares her, so she always insists on staying home anyway." Reason one why he kept his costume at work. No use scaring the bejeebus out of his own little girl. She'd probably pee herself silly. One large hand lifts to adjust something underneath of the cowl, next. The telltale blue flicker of something wireless can be seen on his ear.

"Chat. Right." Gladstone makes no effort to alter his voice; anyone who's heard it before (although that group may include none present aside Linderman himself) will know who it belongs to. But all the same, he takes a short break from his present task of intimidating everyone around him to mingle. "I can chat," he adds as he moves away. Fifteen minutes isn't that long, after all, is it?

Eve has arrived.

Among the many people coming into and out of the courtyard is Eve, wearing a long black dress that falls to her black leather boots, her heels click as she walks into the courtyard. After performing a set of her music, Eve has come for a breather. A black mask with sliver and red lining covers her features but her eerie grey eyes stare unblinkingly at the people around her and then up to the sky. Having Angela Petrelli ask her to perform at the ball was great in Eve's mind, perhaps someone with record companies connection would hear her and try to sign her. As Eve continues to look up at the sky and the moon looming above she accidently knocks into Gladstone, "Oh I apologize. I was to busy examining the sky and not paying attention to where I was walking," the seer says in her soft voice.

Pharaoh has arrived.

"Remind me to send her some special," Linderman tells Dixon, "for being such a well-behaved little girl the last time she visited Zoe at the archives." He removes his hand from the other man's shoulder and lets it fall back to his side, relaxed, before he turns back to his "muse". "What kind of a gentleman am I, keeping you chained to my side all evening?" he asks. "Go, explore, drink — give Kain a hard time if you see him. It's selfish of me to keep you all to myself."

It is, perhaps ominously, the sound of rattling chains that heralds the arrival of another guest to the Courtyard. Down the cobblestone path emerges a figure from the gloom of the darkly lit distance, fog swirling about the lower hem of a tattered black robe that seems to flow down in an imperfect silhouette of a human form. Intricately folded black cloth serve to disguise the true figure as male or female, giving the robe a false appearance of being layered by many different pieces of fabric. The edges of the wide and consuming sleeves are trimmed with gold threading in two thin bands. It is the mask of this ensemble that stands out from the black, looking as if hovering in place, framed by ragged tatters of the robe's hood. It is a Pharaoh's death mask, painted in rich shades of gold, with turquoise around the empty and black eye holes. The expression of neutrality, and perhaps peace on the mask is disconcerting as it comes more clearly into view on the figure's seemingly gliding approach.

"Give her my love, please?" Zoe asks Dixon brightly, and then grins at Linderman. "I'll consider that an official order, Uncle Daniel. I do want to see if he acts like a gentleman or a jerk tonight, if he even realizes who I am. And I saw some of the costumes going in…they're absolutely beautiful. Fingers are touched to her mask's lips and pressed to the cheek of King Henry's. "Don't lop off any heads while you're out here." she tells him cheekily, given Henry's well known proclivities concerning his wives. And with that, she slips further into the party, just missing the arrival of the ominous pharaoh.

Zoe has left.

"Sir, I suggest having a chat with Mister Zarek about which guests he brings to functions, at some point in the near future." Dixon's voice rumbles softly (yet with the obvious irritation), before King Henry begins his own business once more. Across his vision, the tall barbarian spots that figure, complete with the death mask; his attention is drawn to it, out of both appreciation and concern for its purpose here.

Gladstone is barely even put off balance by the bump with Eve. However, he most certainly does notice it; it would be very difficult not to. "It's fine, he says to her, "Lot's of people around. It was going to happen to someone." His reply might be less unnerving were it not for the pied, white and black theatrical mask he's wearing. If the right half of the face wasn't twisted in apparent death throes while the left smiled gleefully, this would assuredly be the case. "Quite the party, wouldn't you say?" Orders are orders, and he will chat up the plebeians, no matter how much he would rather not.

A nod is given in response to Gladstone's response and then removing the hood from around her head, the woman's long dark hair falls free to her shoulders. "There are a lot of people, when Mrs. Petrelli asked me to sing, I didn't think it would be this many people here" Eve comments and her attention is stolen by the death pharaoh before she returns her gaze back to Gladstone, "Nice mask" Eve smiles softly and ruffles her hair a bit before looking around the courtyard, "I've seen some outrageous costumes this evening. I know that this party was given for Mr. Linderman, I've never met him before. Mystery surrounds that man. So many rumors? "

Linderman follows Dixon's gaze, steely blue eyes settling on the figure of the Pharaoh as it makes it approach. "Well," he says in a sotto voice, "there go my chances of winning first place in the costume contest." His curiosity getting the better of him, he begins moving to meet the newcomer halfway, the smile on his face so forced that it appears positively frigid. Now that Zoe is gone, he is free to conduct his business without the kid gloves on.

The black shadow of folded cloth moves with silent grace through the fog, passing beside a pair of conversing guests dressed as Hermes and Aphrodite, giving no pause or concern to them. Behind the long trail of shredded blackc loth, the fog swirls and stirs, accompanied by the constant — though muffled — sound of loose chains rattling and clinking together. The shrouded figure pauses, turning the golden mask towards the man of the hour, "Daniel Linderman," The voice is muffled by the mask, but comes across as weathered and rough, a weary and aged voice that has a rough grit to it.

Then, the spectre begins to move again, carried across the floor of the courtyard with even grace, one cloth-shrouded arm slowly raising, "I've been looking forward to being able to make your acquaintance for some time now." As he passes by Eve, the figure's tone of voice is faintly familiar, the mask disguising too much for her to be able to place exactly where she heard it, but there's something familiar about it.

Dixon keeps his nigh-unwavering attention on Linderman as he moves towards the newcomer. The taller of the two did have a smile at the comment, but it flattens out of habit as he watches. Another habit- Dixon steps after Linderman when it seems the two men are greeting each other- looming in the background even while he meanders his way closer. That angry animal serving as a cowl leers ahead as well, and even short steps on long legs take Dixon close enough to Linderman so that he can keep an obvious eye on that strange, shrouded guest.

"He's an even sort of fellow," Gladstone replies, "In my experience, at least. You ought to be introduced, should the chance arise. After all, if Mrs. Petrelli, whom I've heard a bit about yet have never met, thinks you ought to provide entertainment, it's surely a sign that you possess qualities that others find, highly desirable." It's no secret that this masked man is laying the compliments on fairly heavy, although to what end is still a mystery. "That's very fortunate for you."

That voice, where did Eve hear that before? Her head tilts and she examines the figure and then she blinks a few times. "Where" she starts to say but then shakes her head, that voice gave her shivers, worse than when she met Huruma. But she can't seem to place it. Let's all hope she doesn't remember where she heard the voice before, "Oh, is Mr. Linderman here?" Eve inquires softly to Gladstone, "That guy seems to be looking for him."

An eyebrow is raised at the mention of highly desirable qualities but of course you cannot see that eyebrow raise. "And what qualities would these be, sir?" a chuckle comes from the woman and Eve nods her head, "I would like to be introduced at some point" her gaze briefly returns to the two men meeting each other nearby.

"Have you, now?" There's a definite note of suspicion in Linderman's voice, one that Dixon will recognize as his cue to remain on the alert. His identity this evening was known to only a select few — either he needs to sit down with the members of his trusted circle and have a heart-to-heart with them about the dangers of loose lips, or there's something else, something darker, going on here. "I'm afraid proper introductions will have to wait," he says, eyes narrowing behind his mask. "They'll be judging costumes in the ballroom soon, and I want to be there when Mrs. Petrelli presents the winner."

Clearing the distance to Daniel, the shadowed spectre gives no pause, no sight of hesitation despite the towering colossus of muscle behind the respectively smaller Mr.Linderman. The pair of black, hollow eye-holes that serve as a gateway to the nothing contained behind the mask only further accents the mystique of the outfit. With mask and attire, there is something certain about the spectre's approach, unerring in the way death itself would be carried. "Thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed able to corrupt a saint." King Henry the IV, Shakespeare. "Not quite the same, but I only know of one man fit to crown himself king." From within that shrouded sleeve, a single bare hand is extended towards Henry the VIII, "I promise to take no more of your time than you have." Cultured and civil speak, mixed upon literary references and an offered hand.

Unfortunately for the spectre, there is someone else needing the King's attentions. Dixon, the literal barbarian, has made himself present beside Daniel with his own extended hand to lead him (read: herd him) towards the entrance of the ballroom. If experience does anything, it'll make the Boss privy to a motion of 'avoid'. Just doing his job, sir. "Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end. The security in the ballroom tells me that it's time for you to be in there." Sorry, Pharaoh guy that gives Dixie the heebie-jeebies. He only gets more Shakespeare from the giant ogre(!), and unless Mister Linderman feels the need to disregard Ulysses, he has to be places.

"Mister Linderman is around," Gladstone replies. Just like Eve, he's noticed the exchange occurring between Kings Henry and Ramses II. Unlike Eve, however, he's developed an exceptionally keen interest in it. "He's always around." But then, he quickly, temporarily, changes the subject. "You will be around for the costume contest, won't you? It should be starting in only a minute, so if you can manage it, you ought to hurry and find a good place to stand. I should like to continue our conversation, but I must interrupt it for a moment. I've, just recalled a matter of some importance I had best attend to before the opportunity slips away."

"I will and nice meeting you, sir" she says as she quickly backs away and makes her way towards the ballroom. Her dress makes the fog swirl around her and she glances back at Linderman and the masked figure before finally leaving the area, the click of her heels echoing as she leaves.

Eve has left.

Linderman is torn between his duty to himself and his duty to his guests — and by extension, his reputation. How would it look if he were to brush this man off when all he wants is a simple handshake? Like everyone else here, he's paid the price of admission and deserves his host's acknowledgment. "In a moment, Ulysses," he says, using Dixon's first name instead of his last to emphasize his position, "Angela can wait another minute or two. She is nothing if not patient." He reaches out, calloused hand closing around the Pharaoh's with a grip that belongs to a man at least half his age. Linderman is stronger than he looks, though perhaps not quite as wise…

"King's always turn a deaf ear to sound counsel." Those rough words come only moments before there is a graying of Linderman's right hand as it takes the Pharoah's, "You did so much good for the cause," the voice becomes more rough as the prickling sensation in Daniel's hand turns into agonizing pain, "It is a sorry state when — "A gurgling gasp escapes the Pharoah as his hand also begins to wrinkle and wither on the touch, and the adamancy of Daniel Linderman's grasp is the only thing that keeps him from pulling his hand away immediately. As if by lack of concentration, there is suddenly an explosion of shadows that write and slither out from within the robe, snaking tendrils of inky darkness surrounded by dusty motes of blue-black that serve to shroud both Linderman and the Pharaoh in darkness. A growling, pained gasp erupts beneath the mask, and both men seem to be locked in a lethal handshake, their hands draining of color, and the Pharoah's skin begins to crack and flake, as if made of rough parchment paper.

"Damnable man!" The voice changes tone entirely, a rough, rasping German accent as he yanks his arm away, and horrifyingly his hand does not come with it. Snapping off at the wrist like a burnt piece of wood, the ashen gray hand in Daniel Linderman's grasp looks like a charred piece of ashen wood, matching the blackened stump that the chain-rattling Pharaoh recoils. But it is now not only Linderman that feels the pangs of pain, for ten feet around he and the Pharaoh, a wave of nauseating pain and life-draining agony fills the air amidst those searching, probing, and invading tendrils of blackness, seeing to suck the life out of anything and everything around, as if the Pharaoh were a wounded animal lashing out at everything within reach.

Linderman breaks free of the handshake in better shape than the Pharaoh, though this isn't saying much. His own hand sizzles with energy, the skin of his palm erupting into boils as he collapses backwards against Dixon, old cold before his mass collides with the much larger man's chest.

When you work for a man like Linderman, in a time like this- you have to know at least a schoolchild's dose of the Evolved; while Dixon does, his initial reaction is more along the lines of '!!!11'. When those tendrils quickly turn for the rest of them, he moves to the side to literally push people away. Not that they aren't making a circle around the two men regardless. Some eye the incident curiously, some let out cries of surprise or concern, and at least three people start clapping. Being inside of the circle, some of those tendrils do brush up a bit close to the giant man in the cowl. They likely get very close and personal when Linderman falls backwards into Dixon. Other security men are already filing through the courtyard crowd to apprehend the shrouded man.

This is exactly the sort of evening that Gladstone did not have in mind. In fact, this is the last sort of evening he was looking for. It's bad enough that someone apparently attempted to assassinate the body he's supposed to be guarding, but now the crowd around him is caught in a confused half-panic, trying to decide if what they see unfolding is real or an elaborate Halloween prank. Gladstone doesn't wait to find out which it is, assuming the former. He simply shoves a few persons out of his way while he rushes forward. Dixon can only do so much by himself, and it will take perhaps too long for other help to arrive; seeing his options wearing thin, the Brit does the only thing he feels he reasonably can; drawing his firearm and discharging it at the Pharaoh's head. Luckily, it's a "safety slug", completely shattering against the mask; no penetration and no ricochet, but it still packs a heckuva wallop. It has the added advantage of causing everyone in the area to duck when they hear the gunshot, which will hopefully make sorting the mess out easier.

Or maybe not.

Grasping at his withered stump with one hand, the Pharaoh growls out in pain and then staggers back as a round shatters against the gold mask, sending him tumbling backwards and down onto one knee. When he looks up, those tendrils of darkness begin surging around his body again, as glowing orange ashes begin falling from his wrist as if they were droplets of blood, looking as though he were somehow incinerated from the inside. The gold-masked figure recoils, baking up and away from Daniel, "Be this night your fortune." He growls out behind the cover of his mask amidst the swirling haze of dark tendrils. Some of the crowd begin screaming as they back away from the globe of darkness and shadows, even as Eve raises one horrified hand to cover her mouth. Those shadows and that voice. Her eyes go wide in terror.

"For next time, chance favors the prepared mind." His focus shifts to the enormous bodyguard and the one who fired the gun, black tendrils of darkness lashing out like serpents striking from the black, pulsing through the bodyguards' healthy and virile forms, siphoning much needed life essence from the men, but only enough that a workhorse like Dixon only feels mildly fatigued and momentary, while Gladstone lurches from a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, numbness momentarily in his limbs accompanied by a lurching pain.

In return for the gift, the Pharaoh's crumbling and missing hand begins to sprout bones from the stump, like some skeletal claw forming where a hand once was. Glowing orange ashes blacken and harden, forming musculature that becomes wet. Then, more flakes of ash blacken and crisp and turn to thin veins squirming over the muscle, and finally a layer of old, worn skin as the hand regrows from the blackened stump. Rejuvenated, the Pharoah breaks into a run, and those who knew what laid under the guide of shrouded cloth would never imagine he capable of speed and fitness of an adult, not that of the withered old man within. The cane, the slow gait, all for show.

But as he crashes down the cobblestone corridor past clapping and applauding guests, many of them suspecting this all to be some extremely elaborate and hilariously macabre display of Linderman's wealth and influence as a height to the Halloween festivities. The charred and blackened hand Linderman holds, though, is no Halloween prank.

This scene occurs concurrently with Masquerade Ball I and Masquerade Ball II.

October 28th: Masquerade Ball II
October 28th: Where the Pieces Fit
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