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| Scene Title | Namesake |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Rapture; n; 1. the state of mind resulting from feelings of high emotion; joyous ecstasy: 'The Rapture'; an event in the futurist interpretation of Christian eschatology, in which it is posited that Christians will be gathered together in the air to meet Christ at his return. The apocalyptic qualities of such an event were inferred much later, and to the general populace, this term equates to The End of the World. To some people in Rapture, it's the end of their world. |
| Date | October 22, 2010 |
The pulsing beat of bass throbs through the walls of Rapture, a high-class nightclub in the heart of Harlem. Rows of expensive cars line up out front of the exclusive club and a crowd of would-be patrons wait outside, cherry-picked by the bouncers to have only the cream of the crop on the interior, while leaving just enough eye-candy outside to entice other patrons. The club serves as a respite for the trendy and the influential from the grind of daily life.
On the inside, Rapture is as much a spectacle as it is a structure. Multiple dance floors in tiered balconies overlooking an enormous central dance floor ringed by plush leather-upholstered booths. Pale blue light shines on the wrap-around bar that curved around the back of the establishment, and the entire building is filled floor-to-floor and shoulder-to-shoulder with the pulsing, flowing sea of people dancing to the rhythmic beats of electronic dance music piped through the expansive sound-system.
There's this thing about Nightclubs in New York. They're like Baptist Churches in the south. You just have to throw your arm out and you'll hit four of them without even trying. Even with the closure of more than a few thanks to the state of the city these days.
In Harlem lies Rapture, a haven for hedonism, alcohol, girls in short skirts and a little something extra if you know who to ask and where to look for it. It's a cocoon of ignorance from the troubles of world once you're inside the doors and they prefer that. Sure they have to close with the curfew, such is the law of the city. Sure, New Jersey is getting an influx of people who can stay out all night but really, who wants to run into pint sized Snookie, orange skins, j-wow's breasts, the situations situation and deal with some fist pumping Guido's?
Not the people who have entered Rapture, flashed their ID's, gotten beyond the velvet rope to partake of all that the Linderman group has to offer to the demographic who frequent this den of iniquity, bastion of alcohol, indecent dancing and grindings, flashing lights and loud music.
Hello, hello baby you called?
I can't hear a thing
I have got no service
In the club, you see, see
Blue and purple lights flash everywhere, bathing people in their glow, the floor packed on the Friday night and the drinks all cut by a dollar. The DJ is working away in his little booth, one of the headphones clinging to his ears as he skips over the boards, setting up the next couple songs while some woman tries almost desperately to get his attention, leaning over and flashing ample cleavage.
Wha-Wha-What did you say,
Oh, you're breaking up on me
Sorry, I cannot hear you
I'm kinda busy.
At the bar, the drinks are coming and going, empty cups picked up and put to the side, out of sight as soon as they hit the counter, replaced by new alcoholic concoctions that are exchanged for crisp or worn bills. Everyone's trying to get their 9 pm's worth of alcohol even though it's only half past seven.
K-kinda busy
K-kinda busy
Sorry, I cannot hear you, I'm kinda busy.
In the VIP corner, someone important - one thinks - is dancing with their little posse who came in and the bottles of champagne and other drinks that one gets to prove their wealth is flowing. If the manager were here, he'd be more than satisfied with the surprising turnout. People flow in and out too, pleased expressions on their face that are more visible after they leave. It's hard to hear in here, one has to yell to be heard above the music and more than a few accidents of spilt drinks, dropped drinks and hands to ass happen with regularity.
Just a second,
It's my favorite song they're gonna play
And I cannot text you with
A drink in my hand, eh
You should've made some plans with me,
You knew that I was free.
And now you won't stop calling me;
I'm kinda busy.
There's probably no one who expected to see a single mother and piano teacher out at a Lady Gaga-type club. But Marjorie is here, none the less. She is wearing a navy blue silk retro swing dance dress, halter top. A wristlet is around her, well, wrist. It's very strange to see how a woman can manage to be so 1950s and yet, at the same time, so…cleavage, and modern. Of course, her lips are still bright red, and her mousy hair is curled in waves down and loose, pinned back to keep it from her face. She's already checked her coat.
And, she's not alone. She's walking with a dark-skinned man, close enough to signify that she's near him, but hardly hanging over him. Still, it might explain why her cheeks carry a warmth that rogue could not manage. "Well, it was very sweet of Dave. Oddly enough he's been a patron of my candle company for years, that's how we met up when I came to New York." Discussing of the mutual friend! How…romantic?
She's not blonde, she's not darkly tanned, but Kristen Reynolds epitomizes the word cougar at this very moment. Dressed in her usual skirt, heels, and camisole, her jacket's been shorn in favor of looking 'clubbish' and makeup redone with a bit more sparkle.
A drink in one hand, a twenty something man on the other and another two (drinks and men) waiting in the wings for those ones to be done, she occupies a plush chair looking like a queen holding court. Her eyes are also a little glassy as she stares at the VIP section.
"Listen, dollface, I know you're trying to get closer to some of the talent, but really? This is not going to get you a job." She slurs in a rather bitter tone before slogging back another mouthful of her drink. "You're boring, why don't you go see if there's some little blonde cheerleader here for you to impress? You can tell her that you're a security guard or something." Her voice is a little more than patronizing while her smile is nothing more than placating.
For someone who, fairly recently, was a prostitute, Gin is perhaps the most modestly dressed woman here. Jeans and a t-shirt under an old blazer, she looks like she's sporting the distressed wear look, but really… it's legitimately old clothes. They don't need to know that.
She stands against the bar, an Old Fashion in hand. She does not look like she's having a good time. In fact, she looks like she's hating every moment of this outing. And yet, there's a bar. So. It's enough to hold her attention.
Rapture is the place to be for a party girl like Harmony Roberts. She has come out to live up as much as she possibly can in the remaining hours of the day before she, like everyone else, has to be confined to their homes for the evening. The little blond rocker-DJ-girl has gone with a saucy look for the night. She wears a tight pair of leather hot pants, with designer patterned slashes down the top of the legs, showing that the pants are actual pants and not painted on like they appear to be at first glance, a white spaghetti strap cami with Mick Jagger's face painted across the front of it, and a pair of black leather woman's boots with a sizable platform to them. Her wrists adorned with various leather bracelets, one of which is a band with metal studs all over it. Her curly blond hair hanging down her back, and across her shoulder, the curly nature of it giving her a slightly wild appearance.
Flashing her ID to the front, she steps into the club. Sure she came alone, but there is a good chance she won't be leaving alone, given how she is dressed, how she smells— which is fantastic by the way— and the way she just looks like she is gonna have fun, no matter what anyone else thinks. She hits the bar as soon as she enters the door.
Dante isn't carrying much of an expression of joy, despite being the date of such a pleasant (and pleasantly dressed) younger woman. Still, he smiles politely for Marjorie, nodding and planning special ways to "thank" Dave for messing with his Friday night. The stoic man is dressed not a whole lot differently than he usually is for work, except he's eschewed the tie and suit jacket for a more comfortably navy blue dinner jacket, with matching pants and a cyan button up shirt underneath, though the top buttons are undone.
As the pair arrive at the table, Dante pulls out a chair for Marjorie while offering, in a semi-yell to be heard over the music, "I'm going to get a drink, would you like anything?"
Normally, he wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this. Lady Gaga blasting in the speakers, people screaming and dancing, the swell of a crowd; it never really was much of Griffin's scene. But he's here, just as inexplicably as ever. The lanky man is wearing a pleasant black lapel suit, complete with a grey button-up shirt. He's skipped the tie today, in an effort to look a bit more casual.
A brief glance is cast about; thankfully for Dante and Marjorie, he doesn't spot his baby sister walking with a man. Yet. His first destination is the bar, which he leans against as he orders a tall scotch on the rocks, his drink of choice that's been passed down from father to son through the history of the Mihangle family. The music really isn't his choice; he'd rather go to a good jazz lounge, but thus far, he hasn't found an inexpensive one yet.
Sometimes, a man just needs to lose himself in the crowd. Tonight's one of those nights.
Richard Cardinal's dressed in a sharp black suit, jacket open and tie loose, relaxing back in one of the leather-seated booths with an arm resting up along the back of it. The other hand's cradling a glass of something, a faint smile curving to his lips as he watches the flashing lights and pulsing music of the club through a pair of Ray Bans.
The future's so bright, as Pat MacDonald once sung, he's gotta wear shades. At least it will be if he has his way.
Wearing his AC/DC shirt with a white suit jacket thrown over himself, Amadeus is just hunched over at the bar, downing drinks, not at all too interested in partying at the moment. He just wants to drink and people watch, maybe willing to go out on to the floor if he gets a little less sober.
He's got a decent suit. Who'd've thought - something black and chic enough to get him in here. The military haircut sort of jars against it. But who's to notice, when Fel's just lurking at the bar, nursing some vodka concoction like the cheap bastard he is. No glasses, even, so the narrow blue eyes are further squinted against the club's lights.
Even in times like these ones, clubbers tend to preen and peacock themselves as always. The various VIP spaces are especially saturated with these types of people. From Kristen's good times, all the way to the tension of one particular booth that seems to have both men and women coming and going. The well-dressed Chinese men that stay put, enjoying themselves with liquor and a pair of brunettes, seem to be the primary source of it. Business is not ignorant, and nor is the general populace.
Of the people paying tight laughs and favors in drinks, few stay to talk long. Schmooze with the ladies, offer to buy a round- it is quite mundane. A man of mixed race slips out of the booth with a polite exit, his open blazer pinned between his forearms as they stubbornly find both of his jean pockets. Black hair, dark, almond eyes- there is nothing about him that sticks out whatsoever. In fact, one man he passes on his way out of the front door seems to not acknowledge the bump at all.
Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna think anymore!
I left my head and my heart on the dance floor.
Stop callin', stop callin',
I don't wanna talk anymore!
I left my head and my heart on the dance floor.
It's the medal, Felix's face plastered all over the news with the others who received the shiny bits of gold for a job well done protecting people that half of New Yorkers aren't aware even exist and a quarter of the population do, and just don't care about them. He's bothered soon enough by a girl in a bit of what one could swear is red dental floss - and more suited for burlesque and on the stage instead of trying to drape herself across the counter where Felix has parked his speedy rear and making eyes at him in the hope of getting a number. Or a drink.
The men in men's warehouse are eye'd in their respective places by females int eh club, a set of honest to god identical twins are just making eye's at Cardinal and griffin, dancing on the edge of the floor, doing lavicious things with their tongue that might make a lesser man drop dead from a heart attack. Their intentions pretty clear. Come over here men, you look like decent men. Put your glasses down and come get a little busy with us.
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh I'm busy!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh Stop telephonin' me!
Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh
Harmony's path is blocked by a guy in a painfully white cotton shirt that under the dark light highlights everything, his teeth glowing when he smiles, hair slicked back with maybe a bit too much gel but not too bad. He puts his hand to his ear, pinky and thumb out as if he were talking into a phone. "This is a test of the emergency pickup line service. Beeeeeeeeeep. If you had been any less beautiful, you would have just heard a bad pickup line." He winks to the Blonde, his other hand holding a coke and rum.
You can call all you want,
But there's no one home,
And you're not gonna reach my telephone!
Cuz I'm out in the club,
And I'm sippin' that bubb,
And you're not gonna reach my telephone!
Marjorie, on the opposite hand of Dante, appears to be having a decent time. At least, her eyes are bright and green, catching the strobing lights every so often to make them spark. Her painted lips turn up in a smile, revealing those dimples. "Singapore Sling, please," She says to Dante by way of a drink order, a drink that probably hasn't seen or heard the light of day since Buddy Holly and his buddies took a nosedive in a single-engine prop.
"Or a midori sour, if they don't have the other. And thank you," She smiles up at him, that smile and glance just for him, just a little thank you for getting the drinks. How very sweet he is doing that!
"Come on, baby, just one dance," the nameless twenty something does his best to hide the Brooklyn whine with Harlem chic but it ends up just sounding like a ghetto whine. He's dressed like many of the other twenty somethings in the bar; jeans that show off everything just right and a shirt that does much the same but still, Kristen curls her lip at the offer.
"I'm no one's baby," the brunette starts but then she flashes a celebrity worthy smile and plucks a business card from — somewhere. "Tell you what, get out of my face for the rest of the night and I'll give you a job." She slips the card into the young man's palm and narrows her eyes slyly as she leans in to speak into his ear. Maybe a little too loudly. "Show up tomorrow morning at this address, don't worry about what the card says, it's just a cover. Tell the owner you're there for the 'job', you'll have to audition… but you've definitely got the body of a professional escort. If she says you're good in the sack… then she'll set you up with me."
Looking down at the card, the young man's expression turns confused before he looks up at the producer again. "Really? I thought this was some kind of bakery…" He glances to his two cohorts and then shrugs, giving Kristen a smile before sliding out of the booth and backing away from the table. "C'mon guys, I think I saw some hot blonde in a pair of those ripped up leather pants come in. Let's go see if she's got friends."
The producer rolls her eyes as the trio walk away and she slides into the corner of her booth. Reaching into her glass, she pulls the cherry out by the stem and taps it on the side. Before popping it into her mouth, she glances over at the dark suited man in the next booth and jerks her chin upward once. "Nice shades, got that whole… bad boy with money look going."
Much like the DJ that is having some titty girl waggle herself in front of him to get his attention, Harmony has seen and just about heard it all, from girls and boys. Boys of course have the most terrible of pick up lines. Case in point with the guy that just.. well if you can call it hitting on her. His attempt leaves her starting at him for a few moments, trying to register what to do next, while giving him a look over. She is also letting that terrible line sink in. 'Oh yeah. I so wanna have his children.' she thinks to herself, and then just gives him a smirk, and she reaches out to take his drink from him. His punishment for being a tard. Now go get yourself another one.
"Thanks!" she replies to him. "Say, you wanna buy me a drink?" she asks him, while taking a big sip of her newly confiscated one. On second though, go buy ME one then yourself one. "I'm parched, and you look like a guy that won't let a girl go thirsty. I'd be so grateful." She even tosses in the flirt in the end there, with the subtle batting of her eyelashes. So she'll send him on a drink errand and lose him for a bit. At the very least, he'll find her again and she'll be 1 drink richer, so it's a win-win.
Dante's lips quirk into a small smile at Holly's drink order and he nods. Hopefully the bartender will know what that is, because he has no clue. He holds up a finger to her before turning and pushing through the crowd.
Elbows are brushed aside, dancing girls slipped by…though in the dark, Dante has to politely push at the shoulders of a few of the drunker girls who dance with anyone that get in their space bubble. The sound of a horrible pickup line nearby makes Dante's nose scrunch up, but his focus is on the bar. That sanctuary where he'll only have bodies pressing in from one side. Closer…closer…a hand slams down on the wood. Safe!
"Gin and tonic, and…Singapore Sling?" he yells over the din of the music. The 30-something ex-detective blinks in surprise as the bartender seems to understand him perfectly. Glancing away, he goes to look towards where his date is perched, but his eyes are snagged like a magnet snapping onto a fridge door, and drawn to the VIP area. Pale eyes narrow and he squints in that direction, jaw slowly working as he eyes a few of the people coming and going. Dante watches one of the guys tuck a little baggy of something into his pocket as slowly, nonchalantly, pulls a cellphone out of his pocket, and starts to type out a text. He may not have any jurisdiction here anymore, but he has friends who still do.
The identical twins certainly don't go unnoticed by Griffin. The man turns, leaning against the bar to watch them thoughtfully, swirling his drink and lifting it to his lips to sip some of the harsh liquid. His brows raise slightly at the things the twins are doing with their tongues. He would probably be game to join these two ladies, if it weren't for the lovely Egyptian woman he has been speaking to lately. The one he's likely to get shot over, for involving with his particular group of friends that he's been in the company of these days.
Green eyes scan the club once more, searching the crowd for faces. Cardinal is spotted, and a small grin is offered toward the man. However, what grabs his attention more than anything else is the sight of his sister, wearing skimpy clothing, and talking to a guy. That sets his face into a slightly sour expression for a moment.
Then, as Dante reaches the bar, Griffin smirks quietly, sliding up to the man and swirling his scotch in his glass. "That's a pretty lady you have with you. Where'd you get so lucky to have her as a date?" He calls this over the music, lifting his glass in a 'cheers', and sipping down some of that harsh amber liquid.
A lazy smile curls up across Cardinal's lips as he catches sight of the twins that are eying him and Griffin, a stir of amusement and interest there. The drink in his hands is tilted back for another sip before he sets the glass down, shifting to sit up just a little, shrugging the open jacket completely off to rest behind him, leaving him in just the shirt beneath and an untied tie draped around his neck like a loose black rope.
He's interrupted before he can get up, though, and go find out if twins really are identical. A crane of his neck to the next booth over, and he tips his chin up in an easy nod towards the producer, "I try. Actually, I was just getting off work and I didn't feel like getting changed, to be honest."
Straight people and their mating rituals are so confusing. Fel's not quite sneering, that'd be rude, but he's got this sort of look of restrained disbelief on his face. Miss Dental Floss USA is pretending she's a doily, she's apparently the subject of that look. And then there's Cardinal, and Fel hastily buys the girl a drink, but then excuses himself to head for the man with shades. Perhaps wondering where the mutual girlfriend is hiding. Halp.
Not a fuss or eye blinked when Harmony liberates the drink from Mr cheesy pick up line. Score! He's gesturing to the little table that him and his posse have sequestered and heading off to do just that, get Harmony a drink.
A few more people filter out of the club, but capacity seems to have been reached because no one else is trying to slink their way in. The song changes up to something else without lyrics and more house, prompting an exchange of dancers to drinkers and vice versa. Ms, dental floss is only far to delighted that at least she got a drink out of Gloomy Gus and the twins, well, the twins, they saunter off in search of more fertile and non-distracted prey.
A gaggle of females erupt from the back where the bathrooms are located, clearly drunk, high or a combination of both. One's even wiping her nose as they leave, stopping a server who's delivering drinks so that they can place an order. Rapture keeps living up to it's name, even Kristen getting some looks from guys who might want to try a cheesy pick up line or two on her.
Marjorie, in the meantime, takes the opportunity to look around the club. It's been a good long time since she came out like this - in fact, she probably wasn't allowed to come out to a place like this the last time she came out to a place like this. That memory makes the young single mother smile, an amused, content smile. A nearby dancer bumps her chair - a fellow that's had a few too many. She laughs with him, helps steady him, and sends him on his way after a decline in a dancing offer. No, in fact, she's waiting on her date. Where is he? She glances toward the bar, but cannot see him in all this fuzzle.
"You might be one of the only people here with a job," Kristen smiles as she pulls the stem from her mouth and tosses it onto the table. She turns that smile over to the few men giving her looks and she just shakes her head before they even have a chance to say anything. Her attention veers back to the VIP section and she slides from the booth.
Passing by Felix, she pulls another card from — somewhere — again and slips it into his palm. "Well well, if it isn't Praeger's personal hero. You should give me a call sometime. We're very interested in having you on The Advocate." This card is her own and not the one for the dessert bar. Her name, the name of the studio, and the contact information to her office is printed across the front. "Excuse me for interrupting… but I just wanted to convey my personal thanks."
Then she's off again, this time following behind the woman wiping her nose. The producer pauses as she makes her drink order and then brushes by the woman, deliberately bumping into her. Wheeling around, she pastes a very surprised and apologetic expression on her face as she swipes a small napkin down the woman's front to blot liquor that may or may not be there. "Oh, I'm sorry! Here, let me buy your drink… and your friends drinks? I'm so so sorry…"
Okay, now Harmony can do one of two things. She can slip off and try to avoid him all evening and claim that she actually had no obligation to entertain her initial request for a drink should she bump into him at some point through the night. Or.. she could join his crowd, with the risk of getting so drunk that she ends up either making out or worse, sleeping with the dude that she immediately ran into upon her arrival. As it stands, Harmony doesn't know too many people so.. this could be a chance to branch out a bit more. She has to weight the pros and cons of the situation, while she sips her newly acquired drink.
The blond girl in the hot pants takes a look at the indicated table. She sighs, "Well.. maybe he has some cuter friends that I could maybe ditch him for. Or maybe she'll find 'Mr. Right' on her way over to the table, and she can say that she found her friend to the guy that ran off to get her a drink. For now though, she makes her way to the designated area, stopping for a second to check out a guy that catches her eye in particular. He isn't apart of the group, but he's hot, so she'll get her look on for a second, before continuing.
Dante glances casually from his phone to the VIP section and back. Taka taka taka taka… It's right when he hits send that a yell in his direction from nearby makes the man jump. Pressing his cellphone to his chest, he glances over with a surprised frown at Griffin. Who what? What'd he say? Following Griffin's glance, comprehension dawns and Dante relaxes just a little, but still tries to keep his cell phone screen hidden from prying eyes.
"Blind date. A friend of mine set us up. She's nice and everything but…" Dante's interrupted by his phone buzzing in his hand, and he glances at the screen again. For a brief moment, his eyes widen at what he reads, and then he slips the phone into his pocket, turning away from the bar and Griffin to push his way through the crowd, trying not to look hasty. Without even a goodbye! How rude! And look, his drinks just arrived, too.
Dante scans the crowd quickly, trying to catch Marjorie's attention with his eyes as he makes his way back to their table.
A brief glance is cast back toward Marjorie, then Griffin turns to peer at Dante, brows raising. Well, at least it's a first time thing. He'll have to wait and see if he's going to have to be scary or not. Griff is about to respond, when Dante suddenly pushes his way away from the bar and the crowd. Green eyes follow the man, dark brows raising. Well, that's just a strike against his record, then, isn't it?
A bit more relaxed than Dante, Griffin reaches out and plucks up the drink that was obviously intended for his sister. Then, at a bit of a slower pace than Dante, Griffin slowly makes his way through the crowd, a casual smirk upon his face. The gin and tonic is left for whoever wants it; it's a statement that he grabbed his sister's drink, and not the man's.
If this Dante fellow is going to be seeing Griffin's baby sister, words will need to be exchanged, and the fear of god will have to be put into him.
"Now that," Cardinal admits with a low chuckle, his head shaking slowly from side to side, "I could believe…"
Then he looks up again, and Kristen's heading off across the room, pausing at - oh, hey, it's his favorite ex-Fed - and then he looks over, and the twins have vanished into the crowd. Well, there's two misses tonight, but the evening's young.
"Hey, Felix," he greets casually as the FRONTLINE'r heads to his booth, "What're you doing here? Doesn't seem like your crowd…"
I…what, a card? Usually Mr. Jumpy there would've seen Kristen coming from miles away. But Fel's distracted enough that her mentioning the interview has him looking at her owlishly. HE glances down and then up again. "I'm not out of the closet officially," he notes to her, apologetically. Wrong Advocate, Felix. "I honestly don't know, Richard," he admits, once he's turned back to the man with the sunglasses.
Rapture; n; 1. the state of mind resulting from feelings of high emotion; joyous ecstasy
In many ways, that has always been the defining purpose for this place. The very name should illicit a reaction of heightened senses, and of positive emotion. For many of its continuing patrons, it rings true, and they return, night after night, as sinners to Gomorrah. Its owners are proud, and grow fat on the effect, ever complacent on the seat of power. Well, now, it is about high time that someone yanks the lone, dangling string on the trap door under the throne, isn't it?
Yoink.
The yank sounds more like a crash, and the crash sounds a lot like a door being busted off of its hinges. There is an immediate wave of shock that ripples inward from the front door, the metal singing a high chime as the hinges squeal back against the frame. Men and women in uniform, all bedecked in shining badges of silver and brass, in thick vests, some helmets. and stamped letters- 'NYPD', 'DEA', 'SWAT'. Dozens of figures that not only file in the front door, but the back as well, the sounds of muffled crashing already coming from the back. As the music literally screeches to an awkward halt, subversive techo dulling out into a ringing in the ears, the officer at the fore of those swarming inside and those at his flanks barking loudly. The sound is like a chorus of trained wolves, the pack acting as one.
"POLICE! EVERYONE DOWN ON THE GROUND, HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEADS!
'The Rapture'; an event in the futurist interpretation of Christian eschatology, in which it is posited that Christians will be gathered together in the air to meet Christ at his return. The apocalyptic qualities of such an event were inferred much later, and to the general populace, this term equates to The End of the World.
Marjorie did catch Dante's eye - her date, of course! How silly! She rises to move to meet him, her midnight dress billowing softly around her thin legs. If it weren't so thumpy-loud in here, the whispering sounds of nice fabric on skin would be felt. Marjorie's already thinking about it - it's so nice to get home and hear that, after a fun night, just before a bubble bath and some tea. She reaches Dante, and glances down at his hands.
"Where are the d-" And the last of her word is sliced by the shouts, the explosion of people and sound as the entire place is raided. Being the girl that she is, Marjorie shrieks. Her first reaction is to cover her ears and twist her body toward Dante - he is the man after all - but her eyes go wide with something as she sees all the cops. Anger, fear - everything except surprise.
Kristen grimaces as she looks down at the floor when she hears the command of the LEOs. "Are they serious? I don't have enough Germ-Ex for this… this is New York for crying out loud." She drops the napkin, spills her drink over her hand to wash away any residue that miss nose wipe might have left on her and wipes it off on the waiter. Then she pushes about a half a dozen steps back toward her table before complying somewhat.
The producer does not get down on her face, but she is kneeling and with one hand behind her back, the other is quickly texting her assistant to have a lawyer meet her at the police station. Let him figure out the details of which precinct. As soon as it's sent, she tucks the cell phone away again and laces her fingers behind her head.
Son of a bitch.. Really? Since when is going out to a club a crime? Harmony takes a quick look at her watch for the time when all hell breaks loose. Surely she isn't our after curfew tonight? What the hell is going on?
The blonde girl is quickly starting to check herself through a wide spectrum of emotions. All of them negative and rather paranoid at that. Partially she is standing there, wondering just what she can do to get out of this situation. Boy.. she wishes she had some other ability than she does right now. That thought plays in her head rather prominently as she starts to comply with their orders. Harmony brings her hands to her head and moves to get down on the ground, praying she can stay calm enough to not.. yanno.. start glowing? Or a bit worse. "Shit.. shitshitshit.." she mutters to herself as she goes down.
For those who know where to look, they can watch that hand reaching for the string, and whether they help it or not, they might just know where that trap door leads.
A few moments before that crash resounds, Dante glances towards the front door with eyes wide. He /shoves/ his way through the crowd, the man's athletic form parting the sea of skinny girls and drunk Guido's like a ship's prow. He reaches Marjorie right as the doors slam open, and grabs hold of both her forearms as she shrieks.
"Don't panic! You'll be okay!" he says loudly, ears still ringing from the pounding club music. His firm and urgent grip on Marjorie's arms tries to tug her down to her knees, then the floor, hunching over her as he looks urgently towards the cops swarming into the place, then back towards the VIP lounge. You can never really tell who will actually lay down when the police come in, and who will pull a gun. Especially when they're all hopped up on coke. Fucking hell, /this/ is why he prefers to stay at the office!
At the very least, he'll make a good shield should anything go awry. Sorry about your dress though, Marj.
Griffin is about to make his approach, when all hell suddenly breaks loose. The crash of the doors sends his eyes toward the door, and he's suddenly pushing himself through the crowd, putting distance and people between himself and the cops swarming in. As the music cuts off, and the shouts come, Griffin narrows his eyes; the drinks are set on a nearby table, and Griffin slowly eases himself down to his knees, wincing at the discomfort this causes in his bad knee. Once on the ground, the man puts his hands behind his head, a frown upon his face.
This is not good. This is not good at all. He is a terrorist, and he is quite unsure how wanted he is. That aside, he is also an escapee from Moab, who has evaded the government fairly well. The last thing he needs is to be taken into custody. He knows what waits for people like him.
Griffin's green eyes trail from each cop, though he's never far from keeping an eye on Marjorie and the man he needs to have a talk with. Hopefully, he'll get the chance to have that talk with the man who is putting his hands all over his baby sister.
"Oh for fuck's sake." Cardinal lifts his elbows to the table's surface, both hands raised upwards and in plain view as he leans forward against it, head lowering a little although he's keeping an eye on the situation over the edge of his shades. "…Felix, sit down and pull out your ID so they leave us the fuck alone, will you?"
He doesn't get down on his hands and knees. He's….one of them. Sort of. Fel does, however, hold up his FRONTLINE ID, and sets his other hand on his head. His expression is dryly displeased. Look, his old buddies've come to piss in his cornflakes - even on SWAT, there has to be someone who'll remember him, right? No sitting down. Stubborn Russian is stubborn, and he used to give some of these bastards orders.
Chaos erupts with the order from the police. While others might be obedient, knowing that the best way to get out of his is to not resist and just get down on your knees. Don't be caught with any illegal substances on you in the first place and lastly… don't be present.
While a handful of people in response to the call do follow the first, that gaggle of females who came out of the bathroom that Kristen was putting her hands all over? They dash into the bathroom with feminine screams of surprise and one of them nearly screaming for them to flush it, flush it, flush the fucking shit now. 90 percent of the population in this club?
They just run. It's a stampede, uncaring of who might be kneeling, in the process of kneeling or trying to make for the bathrooms to flush whatever is on their person. They stream for the door that leads to staff areas in the hopes of finding an exit through there - of which there is one - or for the front doors with the hopes that sheer numbers will overwhelm any cops who might be trying to come in during the mad dash.
The little VIP camp setup though? They're not so smart, or maybe they just think that they're being smart. Either way, when the cops come busting in, the Asian are up, and the Asians are pulling out weapons. Handguns of many shades of black, grey and silver are pulled out and they just aim and shoot.
At the cops.
More screaming, even while Marjorie's tears up out of her mouth. Men yelling, women wailing, the sounds of bodies jostling together in a panic; music still puttering with screeching of discs and speakers. Drinks are spilling, feet tangling in booths and on the dance floor. Some people hit the floor right away, some hesitate in sheer surprise, some are pushed down and literally bowled over underfoot. The officers filing in the door drive down the walls first, pushing pathways towards the back of the club with efficient speed. They issue warnings as they go.
"Get down! Hands!"
"Don't touch your bag!"
"Knees! On your knees!"
Everyone knows how a raid goes, not everyone listens. The sirens wail outside, streaking the street and meager light shining in from outside with red and blue. Everyone knows how it is supposed to go. But everyone has also heard those numerous and faithful horror stories as well. The ones where everything seems to go right, and then turns blindingly and terribly wrong. It begins with the lack of capacity for the patrons to stop and drop- and ends the wrong turn when the Chinese men begin to fire their weapons.
Unlike the police, the clubgoers are not wearing vests, and are not trained to avoid gunfire. Screaming, cowering, crying, bleeding- someone has already been caught in the crossfire- whoever he was, he has been gunned down, and despite one wailing woman's determination, he is trod over and she is carried away by the flood of bodies barreling for the front door. The police have little else to turn to than to return fire on the apparent Triads, who so blatantly fired first.
The initial ones to return fire are the SWAT members nearer to the back, leading the way for fellows to swamp into the back rooms, bathrooms, and hell- even the broom closet- and meet those coming in from the alley. Meanwhile, the officers from the door and beyond are now faced with the task of getting everyone out of harm's way instead of keeping them inside. Perhaps they were hoping that sheer force would create a shock where things might, for once, go they way they needed. That is never the case, is it?
Marjorie falls to the floor with Dante, and she presses close to him. Nothing personal, Dante, but you're ruining her skirt and she's afraid. But there is something under that fear - some liquid steel that seems to be slightly dangerous now. As the screaming rises, the stampede begins, Dante will be surprised to find that they are not dead. Quite the contrary. Marjorie is sitting up a little and there seems to be warped air around them - like looking through very still water. It's almost exact. As people start to run toward them, in danger of stepping on them, they'll bump against this bubble, slide over it, go around it. But they won't step on either of them.
Of course, Marjorie only has her torso lifted - the rest of her is still pressed against Dante, and her skirt is hiked up a bit for those falling over them to see if they care to look. Most probably don't. And then comes the next shocking development - Marjorie lifts her hand from between her body and Dante's and reaches out, almost signaling the Triads to stop. But her hand - it's glowing yellow! And between the Triads and the cops a flat sheet of that 'bubble' will appear. Bullets hit it, but do not pass through it - most bullets just loose their momentum as though hitting a bullet-proof wall. Triad bullets, adversely, are trapped inside this wall.
Is she helping the cops? Maybe, but the back end of this wall has been left open - leaving the Triads a way to escape if they take it. An oversight? Something beyond her ability? Likely as any explanation.
The name's Cupid, not stupid, and when the first people begin to run past her, it only takes the first stomp on her ankle for the producer to let out a blood curdling shriek and crawl toward the nearest booth to hide under it. Whether she's picked up for not complying with an order, or whatever it's called, she doesn't care. Kristen Reynolds is not going to be Mufasa in a yak stampede and that was probably some yak that she crawled through right now.
The first of the gunshots to go off have her cowering almost flat under the table. Scrambling to retrieve her phone from that place she stashed it (with her semi-clean hand), she begins to send a barrage of texts to her assistant, informing him of a few particular details like…
im hurt
shooting
call news
need lawyer
call 911
Kristen doesn't notice the bubble or the wall between the cops and the Asians. She's busy trying to make sure she's not mortally wounded and taking a few pictures with her Blackberry of the various trampled and dead. This is fantastic, a major story and she's a witness…. as long as she survives.
Oh shit! Gunfire! Not again! How does she get in these situations?! Harmony is in a bit of a panic at the moment. She does NOT want to get shot. Or arrested. Or eaten.. Okay, the last one is probably less likely to happen, but still. The girl is freaked. Out. She is on the ground, with her hands behind her head. In fact, they're covering her head at the moment, though that goes without saying. She is practically trying to become one with the ground, while at the same time wishing all of this would just.. go away. Please.. PLEASE just go away! Oh god! She could get shot! No way! She doesn't wanna get shot!
The blond girl shivers, and she starts to lose herself to more intense sensations, and in doing so, she starts to lose herself to her ability. It isn't exactly hot, but it's visible light that begins dim and quickly grows into an intense white light. She starts to light up the place like a Christmas tree that is very very difficult to look at directly. Also, the rays in which she is giving off could possibly interfere with the radiowaves present in the air. As if being in a club alone wasn't hell on signal, Harmony makes it much worse.
Dante has his eyes shut tight, teeth gritted. His heart is pounding, and he can feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he listens to the pounding footsteps of the crowd, holding tight to Marjorie and preparing… His eyes blink open and he looks up in surprise, glancing around the inside of that protective bubble. His jaw hangs slack in surprise, so it's only after her hand starts glowing that he looks back to the shimmering wall between the two gunning groups. After a moment of staring in awe, his jaw sets and he takes Marjorie's hand. "Get up. We're leaving." It's a command, said in the tone of someone used to having his orders followed.
Taking Marjorie by her glowing wrist, Dante slowly rises up to a crouch, urging Marjorie up as well, and towards the door in front of him, though he spares one last, worried glance to the officers in the line of fire. Or, at least, who were recently in the line of fire.
That glance is a lucky one, as his attention is caught by the extra bit of eerie glow. He stops in his tracks, his hand on Marjorie's wrist keeping her from moving further. Thrusting a finger out in Harmony's direction, he flashes an urgent look over to Marjorie. "There! Can you throw a bubble over her? Quickly!" Something is tickling at the back of Dante's mind about that glowing girl, telling him that if she keeps glowing, things will be bad.
At least Griffin doesn't have to worry about being trampled. As the true chaos begins, Griffin's eyes lose their green, instead glowing a faint bluish-white as his telekinetic arms are summoned into existence. The lanky man slowly raises to his feet, while people seem to bounce off of an invisible something that separates him from the panicked crowds. He keeps as low as he can, that vector wrapped around him in a small circle to prevent him from being trampled.
He stays low in the crowd, however, his eyes flicking from police to the Asian mafia members who are rather angry at the police, at the expense of the innocents that inhabit the building.
God damn it, can't he ever just get a drink without some kind of insanity happening? Griffin is considering the merits of drinking at home.
Vectors are sent flying out toward the members of the Triad, and promptly bounce off of the 'wall' that his sister has created. A glance is cast back toward his sister and Dante, the man frowning as a wave of defensiveness wells up on him, seeing Dante trying to pull his sister out. Then, those glowing white eyes turn back toward the Triads, the man slowly edging back toward the door, staying in the cover provided by the crowds.
Okay, so Cardinal wasn't expecting people to start shooting… that's not usually how a raid on a club goes down. At the first crack of gunfire through the air, he instinctively ducks his head down towards the table. "What the mother fucking… fuck…"
The man begins to fade back into the shadows of the booth — and then there's light, a brilliant white light that's burning through the air of the club. Perhaps not enough to blind anyone yet, but it's enough to burn like fire against shadow, forcing Richard back corporeal in moments, a hint of steam rising off his skin. "JESUS H CHRIST!"
Helpful Felix is helpful. It's way out of his jurisdiction, but instincts being what they are, he more or less literally can't help himself. Nobody shoots at the NYPD and gets away with it, not in front of him. He's got his pistol out and is firing. And then it…doesn't do any good, because of the magic wall. He has just enough wisdom not to try and pass said wall to do his killing at close range. The blinding light makes him falter - even his reflexes don't do much good against the glare.
Say goodnight Lightbrite. Harmony's little act of incandescence is mixing with the panic that Marjorie's forcefield is creating, the guns are creating, hell, that everything is creating. She's knocked over by feet, someone stepping on her wrist enough to cause a delicate crunch that will likely result in a need for a cast for a few weeks to her left wrist. It's the foot to the back of her head, that brings about an all encompassing blanket of darkness to the woman that is the final result of her night here at Rapture. Blessed, blessed darkness.
Felix might be firing, but the forcefield of Marjorie's keeps them from hitting and the same goes for the triad members who's bullets hit the wall and loose momentum. But the cops at the front aren't the only cops and the ones that now sprawl out from the rear, coming in from the back doors and back halls of the place have their weapons up and the triad members turn their weapons on them, their guns barking in the bisected room as people still flee in screams of horror and shock.
Kristen finds companions as the doublemint twins take refuge under the booth with her, squishing her in towards the back, heedless of her injured foot, tears streaking down their faces in a run of mascara and clinging to each other. The white shirted Guido with the horrid pick up likes grabs onto Griffin, trying to drag him out towards a door marked bathrooms. "This way dude! The window! You don't wanna get caught dude! Fucking raid!" He reels off, unknowing that Griffin's trying to help mostly. Cardinal and Felix ignored in the stampede of runners to the front and back doors.
When the China-men go bouncing off of some other construct, the reaction is not as immediate as it could be; the police are now forgoing keeping anyone inside at all, though there are cars and more uniforms outside on the street where people are now exposing themselves and literally fleeing like cockroaches from a lamp. More appropriately, like sinners from the aforementioned Gomorrah. The police entering in through the back are largely able to return fire amidst what agents have infiltrated the back rooms to corral such runaways; gunfire everywhere, and all the thanks that Felix Ivanov gets is a vested officer clearing the wall, gun at the ready.
"Drop your weapon!" The woman- tall and lean, with a tail of dark hair- sounds conflicted about getting this out- but it is a necessary evil that she has to get the FRONTLINE sweetheart to behave. "Drop it!"
For everyone else who is not currently being arrested or shot at, it seems like a good time to finally escape out onto the streets through the bottlenecked front doors.
(Exit, pursued by a bear.)
Fortunately for Dante, when he yanked Marjorie up by her off-arm - the one not pointed at the Triad guys - the bubble around the pair vanishes as they hit their feet. Marjorie is slightly disheveled, her hair askew, and a bit slower in her peep-toe heels. But Dante's hand on her wrist is firm, so she is pulled along to the door, keeping her hand up facing the Triads.
And then they turn. "Yes, I think so," Marjorie says, rattled but still remarkably calm for this situation. And so she raises her free hand, still glowing, toward Harmony, who would have found herself in a breathable bullet-proof bubble (say that ten times fast) if she hadn't been knocked out first, and the room thrown into darkness.
Marjorie gasps, when the Triads are attacked from behind. Maybe that's why she lets that force field down. Maybe it was becoming too much for her. Maybe she was hoping the cops might shoot each other in the cross-fire. Who can say? "I can't hardly see anything!" She gasps in Dante's general direction.
When the twins crawl under with her, Kristen's shaking her phone to try to get it to work again because somehow, it just stopped. For all the harm they're causing her injured ankle, the two Barbies make an incredible meatshield. Aside from a visible wince and then a grimace of pain, she doesn't turn them away from her hideaway, in fact…
"It works much better if we're really close together, we should hug or something." The suggestion is more for her own personal safety than theirs, but Kristen smiles reassuringly to the two of them and waves them close. Wrapping her arms around their shoulders, she does add a little something for curiosity's sake. "Would either of you happen to have a working cell phone? And did you take any pictures or videos?" Ducking down into their huddle, she keeps talking through her agony, "Kristen Reynolds, producer of The Advocate… I can introduce you two to Bradley Russo and Reuben Spencer and maybe get you on both shows if you'll give me exclusive rights?"
It takes several moments of Harmony glowing for her to realize.. Oh shit! I'm glowing! It's happening again! She can feel the radiation emitting from her form like body heat. She needs to calm down, but she isn't going to calm down while this chaos is going on. "Damnit.." she lifts herself up just enough to look at her hands. Harmony doesn't completely understand the way her power works exactly. She doesn't realize that once she brings her emotional state down, she'll stop glowing. She believes she is going to have to 'vent' in order to get back to normal. As such, she gets even brighter at this point, her skin illuminating through her clothes.
She is now pressed with another decision other than people going away. She has to get out. Out out OUT.. Get out before Harm does any major harm. She is reminded of the plane so many years ago, and she is certain that if the nature of her radiation changes, it could be bad for people around her. Maybe.. just maybe.. she could do something. One of her hands plants on the ground, at which point.. she gets stepped on. It HURTS. And it does cause a disturbance within the light she sheds, taking her down quite a few tones. However, more than hurting, one thing goes through her mind, and leaves her lips, "Goddamnit!!"
The pain isn't the only worry. Harm uses her hands a lot to make a living, and play the drums. So pain AND frustration course through her at the same time. "Son of a BITCH!" she yelps while she cradles her wrist against her body protectively. She is trying to keep herself from further injury, and her light isn't enough to make people get away from her as however, as she finds herself trampled. The sudden discontinuation of the light she shed would indicate that she is out of commission.
"…huh. Well." Their target knocked out, Dante blinks away the sunburst in his vision from staring at that bright light for a moment. Instead, he closes his eyes for a moment, tilting his head in the direction of the exit, listening to where the stampede of feet all around them is leading them.
Giving Marjorie's wrist a comforting squeeze, Dante leads her back into the crush of bodies, pulling her in front of him so she's not going to get slammed into by any of the panicked crowd. "Now we're leaving. Head down and keep moving." Somehow, they seem to be slipping through the cracks in the crowd, moving a little faster towards the door than the whole, crowding mass.
As the Guido grabs his arm, Griffin frowns. He allows said Guido to lead him toward the bathroom, though he still stays low, limping along beside the Guido. He's more than happy to get out of here, with all of the insanity going on, but he wants to help. Much as he hates the police, he's not too keen on the idea of just letting the gangsters get away with shooting people. He sends the Guido on, explaining that he'll be in momentarily, he just has to look and make sure his sister is okay. It's true, after all.
First, his eyes find Dante and Marjorie. The man frowns; he'll have to head them off at the pass, once he gets out of here. Then, those glowing eyes of his turn toward the Triad. He can't help much, but he'll do what he can.
Reaching out with four of those telekinetic hands, he attempts the most simple form of assistance: he attempts to wrench the guns free of the Triad's hands and toss them to the ground, right at the feet of the police they are facing off. He remains halfway inside of the bathroom as he does so, ready to duck within once he's certain he's done his part.
"He's with FRONTLINE," Cardinal's voice rises in a rather irritable stir from the booth that's not far from where Felix is being accosted by the SWAT team, his own hands raised up still so nobody thinks that he's about to reach for a weapon. He's developed a rather sudden sunburn as well, skin flushed painfully red, his expression screwed up into a grimace, "Christ. Who the fuck shoots back at a nightclub raid…?"
He doesn't sound scared, or angry, no - just irritated as if this entire situation had inconvenienced him. God knows he'd seen worse.
Fortunately he doesn't say that out loud, or fate would ensure it got worse.
Guns are in the hands of the Triad members and then the next second, they are sailing through the air, coming to land with a skitter before the cops and suddenly, the gangsters aren't all that macho. The one attempts to make a run for it though, the rest of them lift their hands up into the air after the initial surprise at having been somehow separated from their weapons. It's all over for them.
The DJ who been working in his booth is now slumped over it, blood dripping down the side of the platform that separates him from the common rabble of the main floor, but he might still live through this all. A good three quarters of the club has emptied out and what remains are people like Harmony or Kristen that have either been caught up in the stampede, knocked out, injured or hiding wherever they could find shelter from the hail.
The doublemint twins cling to Kristen, wailing about the ordeal, denied a phone because it's in their purse which is across the way at their table. But it's all good when Kristen manages to sneak a peek at her phone while cowering behind her silicone meatshields, signals are back.
Outside, the street is chilled with late October wind, blue and red lights filling the dusk from corner to corner. There are only a couple premature barricades up, and so anyone that does make it outside will either find themselves busy with escape, or busy with the EMT presence there. A great many people, despite most small injuries, just scatter. The tall woman that has cornered Felix fixes him with an apologetic face when he is made to drop the gun, and a similar expression goes to Cardinal, when he speaks.
"I know, sir. I'm just doing my job." And Felix probably realizes this too. Aren't they all just doing a job?
The team engaging the Triads rush them when mysteriously- the guns fling out of grasp. Even elementary kids could guess a reason, but the NYPD takes it where they can get it, even if protocol says otherwise. The three that stay put are surrounded and pinned, and that runner- well, he had best have some real legs to escape a nightclub full of cops. He doesn't.
October has always been Marjorie's favorite month, but this is too much. Going from bright to dark(er) to cold all while scared is a little bit much. She doesn't feel it at all, is what that means, but she surely will. She clings to Dante's arm, and lets him lead her where he will, where he thinks is best. She only has one request: "We have to get away from here, please."
Looking at her, she's mostly just dirty and disheveled from making out with that floor so hard. No real injuries.
As the cool nighttime air outside hits their faces, Dante takes a relaxing breath. His hand presses to Marjorie's lower back, ushering her along with the crowd quickly towards the parking lot. "Of course. Let me take you home. It's been a busy as hell night."
And once he's dropped her off, it will be back to the scene of the crime for him, to stick his DHS nose into the aftermath. You can take the cop out of the force, but you can't take the force out of the cop.
Or out of the Jedi, but that's a different point entirely.
A small, satisfied smile forms on Griffin's face as he watches the guns sail free from the men's hands, pulling his vectors back into the bathroom. Once he's certain that the men have been neutralized, he slips into the bathroom. Guido is rather quickly followed out of the window, taking the fire escape into an alley, thankfully making it home free.
Thank God for Guidos.
"I know, I know…" Cardinal shakes his head slowly, remaining at his table as things begin to calm down in the club, keeping his hands clearly in view so as not to spark things up again. Unlike in past days, he's got nothing to worry about from the cops, so he just relaxes and waits for things to be under control.
It'll take hours to clean this up. Ambulances bearing stretchers and EMT's that cart away the injured to the various hospitals that can take the influx of victims from The Rapture that occurred here. The DJ will live, it'll be a bit till he'll be leaning over his turntables again and making music, but he'll live.
Kristen will find that her phone is fine, all her files and data safe and sound and at least three people who had cowered under the table who had recorded the whole thing going down and it'll cost her a pretty penny to get it, but she'll get it. Griffin and the Guido make it out, both living to tell the tale of what went down in the land of booze, beauties and bullets while his sister and Dante are let go with only a a little bit of difficulty.
Felix will have some questions to answer, by authorities in higher position than the officer who lead the whole thing and Cardinal, well, he'll be turned loose soon enough when he comes off clean with little more than a pink tan for his souvenir.
Many a person will be taken off, the charges ranging from being not of legal age to go in much less drink, possession, resisting arrest and plenty of other charges.
During all this, standing beside a cruiser with it's lights flashing and painting the faces of those gathered to watch who gets hauled off and who's released is a petite African American officer who stands just behind the open door of said cruiser. A phone to her ear, she watches impassively and waits for someone to pick up on the other end of the disposable phone that she uses for her HF activities. Her nametag reading Officer Castalides.
"It's done"
Somewhere Else
For Christians and some others, 'The Rapture' is a new beginning. A meeting with their Lord, who will take them up in his arms and give them a soul's eternal nourishment. Sometimes, before such existence, someone will guide them- advise them- tell them how to lead a good, wholesome life, full of charity, and full of promise for the world.
"Thank you, Officer Castalides. You have been very …accommodating."
On the receiving end of Aude's call, there is a simple and polite response to the news. Simplistic and sweet, yet quite detached. "I need you to proceed, as we have planned. Officer Chen has let me know that his role went as expected. I need the two of you to continue together. I look forward to when we next speak. You have both been invaluable." The call ends.
The fine white feathers of a small cockatoo rumple under fingertips, the bird's dark beak and eye tilted sidelong so that they may seek purchase at his head and neck. Pierre has a simple, quiet, and spoiled life. The finest food, the finest care, the finest family that a cockatoo could have to look out for him. He climbs his way across his seat of polyester pantleg and onto the armrest of the chair, sidling up, up, until he finds cloth on arm and tugs himself beak-first onto shoulder. The tip of his beak sneaks closer to whisper a breathy avian secret into his caretaker's ear.
"I know, Pierre." Slender fingers find soft feathers again. Pierre clicks and all but purrs, eyelids slitting closed. "You'll see. I promise." Marie d'Sarthe turns her ear from the yellow-crested cockatoo, cheek brushing into plumage, lips pressing a kiss to the bird's cheek.
