AINT NO PARTY LIKE A SAFFIT FUNDRAISER (DAY :47)

[unsea]

Just prior to the mission, everyone will receive handwritten copies of Sheena Frey's lists, previously held by Lexa. These lists contain the names of friends and enemies that Sheena Frey believes are not associated with H+H1. The Darkling has acquired the list, and immediately dispersed it among the nest. Because he is That Guy. There is a neat note from him at the top of each page, indicating that one of their goals is to match names to attendees at the fundraiser and to either confirm or debunk Sheena's legwork. There is also the matter of the well-earned findings, dredged up from Ngozi's files.

Under the cut, you'll find the mods description of the venue, some of the NPCs you might find there, and other general information!

THE VENUE --

The event itself is a benefit dedicated to raising money for those injured in the recent bombing, as well as for the families of those killed in it. It is being held at CAVANAUGH HALL - aka "THE OPERA HOUSE" - a live theatre and performance hall in the Beta Block. Some hosts (cough Mara and Hux cough) might be more acquainted with the layout of the building since they recently attended a performance there.

Most of the fundraiser is taking place in the Hall’s grand foyer rather than the theater itself. The foyer is four levels tall with balconies overlooking the main floor on each level. There’s a fabulous stained glass dome roof. The whole Hall is primarily decorated in shades of red, white and cream - white walls, ornate naturally cream woodwork, stunning glass-like fixtures, red carpets. For tonight’s event, a number of small white cocktail tables have been scattered throughout the foyer and a small circular platform has been erected in the center of the room where a small orchestra is playing music at any point that someone isn’t speaking over the microphone for the purposes of the fundraiser.

The catering is extensive, the outfits are lavish. The security is tight, so expect to either be in possession of an invitation or get ready to use your credit card to buy one (this IS a fundraiser after all - and for such a good cause!). Sorry Nathaniel, this is mostly a mingling and eating party and not so much a dancing party. On the plus side: that sure is an open bar!

THE MISSION --

The hosts initially have a twofold mission for this one: Carata, Aoba and the Darkling have secured a private meeting with Goram Saffit, and will be picking his brain for information. The rest of the party is a free-for-all for intel-gathering and - you know - in case you want to actually contribute to charity. There are a number of events-within-the-event to experience as well, including a lovely and rather familiar lion tamer, a silent auction ( all proceeds go to charity!! ), a live orchestra, and whatever else you all want to throw in there.

THE ATTENDEES --

Most of Saffit's guests are as follows:

middle (and above) aged politicians

business professionals

media figures

There are also a few theatre stars, but it's unclear whether they're actually there to support the fundraiser or if they're part of the deal with the opera house. Despite that the event is a fundraiser, most people in attendance seem to be Saffit supporters and more or less share his sensibilities - that androids are useful for production, but they’re just advanced machines and their increasing numbers of the workforce are creating problems for people on the economic fringe. Many of the politicians are for increased regulation of androids in the workforce, though that point is clearly one for casual debate among even Saffit’s supporters. By and large, everyone is mortified about the violence that’s recently plagued the city; some seem to be unsurprised - “It was really only a matter of time” - but no one seems happy that bombs are going off in the city.

There are a few people in attendance, and they are clearly there for the charity and not for Saffit. There are a few small time politicians, or media affiliates - and there is at least one journalist from a semi-serious EXTRAnet news outlet, though she spends most of her time camping by the bar and eating hor d'oeuvres. This is probably the fifth or sixth fundraiser she’s covered this year.

For the hosts who were not as gung-ho about fraternizing with a bunch of wealthy anti-synthers or attending fancy-schmancy events, feel free to take a much-needed and well-deserved break. Have a movie night at the Bearings - I hear that one flick "keeping tabs on your fellow hosts through the security cameras at the event and commenting on every move they make while throwing popcorn at the screen" is a great one. You can assist with observations, hack where you please, run detail and defense from the outside and even feed intel to the hosts at the party. Otherwise, you've got the Bearings and the whole city to yourself for the evening.

Comments

mid-event // OTA

[100mitsubishis]

A: Gambling Table

[Kavinsky isn't generally the right man for a game of espionage. When he breaks in somewhere, it's usually his own home when he's forgotten his keys and his lush of a mother locked the door without thinking before passing out on the couch. At least, that used to be the case.

He prefers crash landings and the look of shock slapped onto someone's face when he bursts in. But this is no time for a showy display or being the very center of the party; it isn't his gala and he's been made to help. That one guy who sent them all the Goodies and Baddies list may want him to be checking people out on a personal level, but he's found a method where people will loosen their tongues all on their own without him having to do much at all.

He's working one of the gambling tables, collecting money for charity, and cheating so ruthlessly it's doubtlessly illegal. Then again, no law has been made to directly handle what Kavinsky is capable of. The loaded dice are a dreamt pair that under any scrutiny wouldn't seem to have been tampered with. The cards flow between his fingers because they've been created to ripple in pretty waves; Kavinsky isn't a card sharp and has no experience running scams. The bets he used to place had to do with which car would survive a collision, who could overcome a purposeful overdose, where would they end up that night after the sixth bottle. This is sophisticated.

He isn't wearing a tie, but he has on a dress shirt, a blazer. The former is unbuttoned a gratuitous amount and he's wearing sunglasses despite being indoors; his chain hangs around his neck, his one earring glints whenever he tilts his head, mockingly sorrowful at someone's bad hand or shit luck with his dice.

The tokens which indicate money lost by the gala's guests stack up. Kavinsky starts humming the rudest song he knows under his breath. His fingers are always tapping. People keep talking, treating him as near invisible, and it makes him itch. He should be listening, but the snatches of conversation don't stick with him as well as they should. Only the itch. An itch that anyone else with a symbiote might feel as it spreads from where he's settled. Kavinsky is growing bored and that boredom is a problem.]

B: On a Balcony

[cw: drug-use]

[Finding a balcony with a population of zero took some time and patience that Kavinsky didn't feel.

Hours ago, in his room, he'd prepared for a night out, tingling from head to sole by the time he was done loosening up. He spritzed on cologne with his head in such a haze he swore he could see the particles waltzing through the air around him. For a time he batted at them, like a cat seeking out dust motes in a ray of sunshine, before it hit him that he was supposed to go. Bag of tricks packed, he stepped out, tucking an itty bitty ziplock of white powder into one of his pockets.

That same powder is spread out now, on a balcony that's lost its last pair of lovers, its last grouping of gentlemen wanting to chat about stocks or whatever boring people enjoyed. Kavinsky is alone as he creates a thin line on the railing before he lowers himself over it. He doesn't breathe, cautious about causing the coke to scatter as he angles one nostril and presses with his thumb to plug the other. The whole line is snorted up in a single stroke, barely anything left behind as he sets his hands hard on the railing and leans as far back as his arms will allow.

The balcony spins. All noise from beyond the doors behind him turns slushy, underwater. He shuts his eyes and breathes again. Much better.]

C: Wildcard

[ooc: I'm open to most hideous things with Kavinsky! Just let me know where you'd like him.]

B

[erbier]

[ She follows his euphoria outside. He is not the first to do this, Petre plays with drugs in the streets of Concordia, her brood has gotten wildly drunk on their own, and from what she has heard there was too much drink at that street fair. She disapproves of it all, a creature of control and judgment.

She steps up alongside him and slaps his leg, swift stinging little strike with the back of her hand. They're in public so she isn't going to slap his face, but she'd rather like to. ]

If this was your only interest you should not have come.

[100mitsubishis]

Hey, honey.

[If it isn't Mistress Buzzkill. He snickers, less bothered by the slap than he would have been ten seconds ago before the whole of his existence went fuzzy around the edges. The sting of the hit is a sensation that melds into the overwhelming sense of comfort afforded him by the drug.

There's enough left in his baggy for another line and he dangles it in the air between him and Ilde before tucking it into the inside of his pants, where she's unlikely to reach.]

I have other things in mind.

[He shares the memory of the loaded dice with her. Ingenious, right? For charity!]

[erbier]

[ Her lips thin, irritated with him as a person, but not willing to deny he was doing something useful. ]

Saffron.

[ She corrects him with a different name this time, the one that the people of Concordia know her by. Her utter disdain for the farce radiates off of her. She too is bored with all of this, but that makes her no more interested in his chemicals. ]

( You should be paying more attention, that isn't helping you, and you're undermining those attached to you. )

[100mitsubishis]

( That's where you're wrong. This is helping. )

[Kavinsky wonders if she felt the angry snarl of his mind from before he did the line, or if she just came running when she felt there was some joy in the world needing to be snuffed out.]

How is that better than 'honey?' Strippers use both.

[Now she has free reign to hit him wherever she'd like. He's given her the opening and he's turned, planting his elbows on the railing so that he can press the small of his back against it comfortably.]

( Have you ever been to a real party before? Not like this. This is a joke. )

[erbier]

[ Her pursed lips become a fully irritated frown. She does not know anything about 'strippers' and the consensus of the Hive gleefully provides. She does not appreciate the analogy. She hisses, ]

Watch your tongue, or I will push you off this balcony.

[ She would do it. It would draw a little attention, maybe, if anyone chose to notice, but ultimately it wouldn't hurt him, not with the symbiote there to protect and heal him. ]

( This event is enough wasteful frivolity for me. )

C. - post ilde encounter

[doggo]

[All this time, Sirius has been getting an edge of feeling, a soft push toward some depth that is, distinctly, not his. Once he got his nose stung by bees: not his, precisely, but Padfoot's, which makes that particular pain-numb all the more difficult to pin down. This is more pleasant than the memory of that incident anyways, and he tries gainfully to combat it, digs heels in, sets himself up against it, but when it comes down to it, he can't ignore the feeling, the urgent soft speed that makes everything go jelly and unfocused.

It does help, with not thinking. Takes his weird pain and puts it away somewhere, and all right, yeah, he lets a millimeter of the feeling snake up his senses, swarm into his head. It is good until it isn't, until it jars to a bright violent end and he's tasting rotten meat at the back of his throat, a dizzying spill into anger that he knows really well himself.

What the fuck is happening, down there at the other end of this strand that connects them.

Sirius is not interested in parties, thought over the brief mention of it and put it away, but here he is, outside it. Wandered in to the fringe, carried along by Kavinsky's particular mindless high and the pull of connection. Stood in the shadow of some other building, Sirius stares down the street toward the riot of light and jangled noise, all working hell on his nerves even at the distance.

He goes on standing here anyways. Picking out the thread of Kavinsky until he's twisted him free, it isn't hard; he pushes off in a quick deliberate tread.]

oh honey

[100mitsubishis]

[That bitch. Kavinsky's burning white hot at the core. He wipes repeatedly at his nose, leaving no wetness behind but wishing he could sniff up some remnant of the line he'd taken before that bitch did all she could do to make him lose his temper. Kavinsky's not much of a brawler; he usually keeps muscle standing behind him, slightly to the left, tall and filled up on a carnivore's diet. When he beats someone, he likes to do it while nestled into a heated seat, sunglasses perched on his nose, wind whipping the gelled spikes of his hair back as tires squeal at the worst turns. He plays with bombs, the kind made from household items or classic tools of destruction; molotov cocktails, fireworks with the explosive power of dynamite.

She's made him hit her. She'd made him think of his dad.

Good riddance to that fucker. Kavinsky should've killed him years before he did. It isn't regret that pounds at his temples. It isn't pain. He is circling through the crowd, pacing, abandoning his station and ignoring the fact he left the collected gambling chips unattended. It's a gala. It's rich stiffs in monkey suits, they aren't gonna rob a charity drive. All around him, he senses the hive. That man, that woman, that kid. They're connected to him and he hasn't the resources to block them off from the singe of him.

He doesn't want to be approached. He doesn't want to feel better. He wants another line. He wants--

Sirius. There he is. There's the thread between them, yanked like Kavinsky needs it to be. He lunges in its direction, following their leyline. Power, power, and magic, and them, and a broodmate that snarls at him in distrust. Good ol' Sirius.

He doesn't realize he's left the party until he sees that Sirius isn't standing between two bedazzled elites. They are outside and perfectly alone in a wild, noisy world. Kavinsky stops.]

Hey.

oh buddy...........

[doggo]

[Frenetic piecemeal images twist into thoughts transferred more like impressions, and none of it calms when they're stood face to face. More it settles, temporary stop, and under the surface that chaos still writhes.

Sirius looks past Kavinsky so he doesn't have to look at him.]

Who is she?

[That bitch skims clear of the rest of that miasma, cut glass rage fueled from something deeper, stoked by the liquid high.

In some way, this is Sirius, being a good friend. This is what you do for your friends. You track them down. You get revenge for them. You hate who they hate, unless their hate is misdirected, but in this case--]

I thought this was meant to be a party.

[His gaze darts back to Kavinksy. Explain.]

[100mitsubishis]

Fuck the party.

[Kavinsky wants his lightness back, his buoyancy, but Ilde went and took that from him the same as she'd shaken his brain by its ankles and watched the loose thoughts fall out. Sirius demands explanation, but the words aren't so easily spoken. As open as Kavinsky had been on the station, there was never a time he'd had to think about his father, his past, his rebirth in Henrietta. Every part of him is acutely awake as if he'd bitten into a powerline. He's constructing walls for his own sake, but they are hodgepodge and wet-- too malleable, too new.]

She's nobody. I don't even care, man. Already over it.

[His shoulders are knots as his hands push back through his hair. Already over it.

That bitch.]

[doggo]

Yeah? Funny. Thought it'd be your scene. It was.

[--Was, until something fell apart. There's no need to articulate liar when the lie itself stands clean out, a fissure Sirius can read clear as anything. Similarly clear in reverse is his scepticism, crackled along their line of connection.

Father. It likely sticks deep because there's a similar fissure back in Sirius, somewhere, not half so immediate but stoned over by the years. His mouth twists.]

If she's nobody, then stop thinking of her.

[Easy advice to give, gruffly given. He wants the thought out of his head. He wants Kavinksy out of his head, this jittery plunge. Rebirth. Flashes, like fireworks going off, one after another, dying quickly in succession.

And somewhere beneath Sirius' impatience is that latent instinct, fix this, all canine loyalty. Will he know that bitch through some sort of sight recognition, like spotting a half-forgotten face in a newspaper clipping?]

C // Petre // post-Ilde upset

[100mitsubishis]

[Sirius was a balm placed over a burn, sweetly cool, but ultimately temporary. He was sand crowded on top of the fire, but not enough to fully enclose and extinguish it. The blood Kavinsky wants hasn't been drunk as of yet; the eye of the storm is passed, but everyone's smartphones should still be lighting up with weather hazard alerts. Back at the gala, he's fizzling to a safer temperature, not so distracting to the hive, no long a potential upset to the mission should someone latch onto his ferocious emotion. He isn't really that guy, anyway; Kavinsky has never been ruled by anger.

But he needs something. He needs a hit. The baggy of coke has been kept in place on the inside of his slacks only by their tightness, but movement has caused it to slip down from his waistline to the top of his thigh. There it brands him, a constant reminder of its presence. But he can't return to the balcony and being alone has never sounded less appetizing.

Then he sees him. Less him, than the memory of him ripping off the space pod's door like it was nothing. Paper to tear. Kavinsky's trajectory takes a sharp turn and he's walking in a straight line, pushing through a group of jabbering businessmen who make all sorts of flustered noises at the rude boy disrespecting personal space. Three feet from Petre. One foot. Contact. He grabs for his arm.]

C'mon.

[And starts to walk again.]

[inflori]

[ Petre's like the odd one out in this party. The free food's nice, because apparently that's all he can think about in this stupid mission, but everyone stares at him wondering why the twerp with a scowl and idiotic remarks was allowed here. Some whisper that he's got something to do with the video game world, others simply guess that he's the son of some rich asshole who didn't teach him how to be any different.

He doesn't care about that any more than he cares about being here. It ends up being about having company and being among other hosts; the hatred for being alone grows with each day, each new experience, be it good or bad, and whatever happened between him and Angel only strengthened the thought.

So he may be the walking, talking equivalent of nails on a chalkboard, but at least he... cares? In a really grating way?

And then, as if on cue, here comes another grating factor in the hive's life. Petre is yanked off with a loud hey, a kid whining and about to ask what he did wrong this time. Except it's Kavinsky, and since when does this guy ever reprimand others for anything? He's the class clown every teacher wants to throw an eraser (and brick) at. ]

The fuck, man! What do you want?

[100mitsubishis]

[Kavinsky doesn't know Petre; they've met once and parted ways with less than polite speech and more than the necessary amount of teenage swagger. The only linking chain between them is that of the hivemind, the shackles clutching them all close together like a sorry bunch of prisoners. But it doesn't take more intimate knowledge than that. The surface level thoughts are good enough. Petre doesn't want to be alone and neither does Kavinsky.]

To blow your mind.

[He keeps walking, dragging the other boy along unless he makes too large a fuss to be ignored.

When Kavinsky first came to the party, he did a quick walk around to see where he'd be able to sneak off alone if need be. There's a supply closet not far from here with his name on it.]

[inflori]

[ He's still offended that he's being dragged along like some child, but the truth is that Kavinsky's as close to someone who likes to get in trouble as the people Petre would corrupt back home, and that's what draws the boy to him in particular. What makes him crave his attention while he simultaneously wants to break his face for being a self-centered turd.

Apparently he's chosen Petre for the night, for whatever this is going to do. Trouble, he hopes. But Kavinsky would get boring otherwise. ]

Yeah, it fucking better be. I was eating.

[100mitsubishis]

[Trouble, trouble, trouble. That's what Kavinsky is. Aliongby students are Lost Boys, following after whatever Peter Pan or Pied Piper can lure them away from their regular hours of studying. Few have parents in the state, let alone keeping a watchful eye, so when they fall in Kavinsky's clutches, it's only a matter of nature and time. Public schoolers are something else, but they're also desperate. They spread his name like wildfire, doing all the promotion he could ask for. If you want the good stuff, got to Kavinsky. If you want a bad ride, Kavinsky can give you that, too. The information trickles through an endless pipe. Trouble.

Nobody's learned it here. Not like they should. They will. Lots of trouble.

He finds the supply closet, waits for a woman in the hall to walk by, then wrenches open the door. Peter's stuff inside first, then Kavinsky follows right behind. The door's shut behind them and they can only hope there's no locking mechanism to accidentally trigger or this will get real embarrassing.]

You're gonna take a hit.

wildcards this into oblivion

[unsea]

[ The frosted, scalpel-sharp blade of a mind as cold as the depths of winter is offset by the press of warm skin to the back of Kavinsky's neck.

It's the back of his hand, glove folded down over his knuckles so that he might gauge the young man's health - temperature, quality, how altered his mental state is. Even knowing that this one had struck someone he very, very openly valued, whatever is between Ilde and Kavinsky is between them for the duration of this event. The touch, nearly only a brush of skin upon skin, is enough to make his mouth feel numb, his fingers tremble. A distant feeling, like he's been held underwater and the world is suddenly far to bright --

after a moment, it begins to vanish. ] The life of the party shouldn't act like a wallflower.

( I'll contact transportation for you. ) [ back to the bearings with you, you little shit!! ]

[100mitsubishis]

[Kavinsky touches people in a one-way street context wherein his hands smooth over arms, chest, back, but he's always a little too animated to be pinned down himself. He's always been the captain and the leader of ragtag groups of youths with too much free time on their hands. No one put their hand directly on the match-- they blew it out. He liked the breeze.

Fingers graze him. Not the pads, but the backs, the knuckles, the thin skin over bone and veins. White light before him, like headlights turned on suddenly when the night was otherwise dark, lit by stars and cigarette cherries.

Then: never mind.]

Do I know you?

[He knows him as much as he knows most of the hive. He 'heard' his message to all of them, inviting them to this gala in the first place. They hadn't met, yet, though. This is a first face-to-face.

Hand-to-neck.]

( I'm not leaving yet. )

[unsea]

Do you?

[ He parries the question back, and twists it into a dare. Will he go looking, this new hosts with a mind full of mysteries and a chest full of fever-hot drugs? There are a number of new things, that he has begun to look for among the hosts. Adaptability without relinquishing one's mind, the sickly clever and viciously curious. This one, he cannot entirely place. He wonders if it's because of the chemicals he's put into himself. ]

( What does that do for you? )

[ The edge, the razor, the blade that accompanies the question gives it new meaning.

This isn't him asking why Kavinsky does drugs, as though attempting to pass judgement upon him. No. Oh no, he's wondering what the affect is upon his mind, upon the symbiotic connection that links them all - whether they want it or not. All the same, he slips his hand into the crook of the young man's elbow, drawing him close to his side. He'll still be attempting to send him back to the Bearings, unless provided ample reason he should be at the event!! ]

[100mitsubishis]

You feel familiar.

[Kavinsky sways as he's grasped, taken in close to the man's side, and he is casual with how he leans away. As fun as it would be to create a scene, he already has one member of their shit-for-luck crew battering him, he doesn't need a second. For a long time now, Kavinsky's had enemies, people that hated him, that sneered at the lifestyle, because they were so sure walking that straight edge would never cut them. But it's a one-sided sort of hatred; other than to laugh, he doesn't usually spare them a second thought.

Ilde's different. Ilde crossed a line in the sand by bringing a tsunami down to wipe it out. Kavinsky's fumbling with the makings of a grudge in his chest, but it's hard to fixate when someone's being handsy.

And curious.]

( Makes everything better, man. You wanna try some? The first hit's always free. )

[He's patting his waistline and while that could be a lewd invitation, it's true that he tucked the small ziploc into his briefs when that bitch implied she might take it from him.]

gambling table

[circumspector]

[ If he's cheating, well, good for him then - these people deserve to have every coin stripped off them so far as Angel's concerned. As it is, she's done her best to strip them of their money on pointless expenditures. The heavy gold bracelet that might just be the prettiest shackle she's had so far, about her wrist, all gold and diamonds and glittering. A small fortune that the besotted had thrown on her because she makes a good piece of decoration. Like she wouldn't melt it off her skin and onto theirs if they thought to bind her by it.

Where it's on her right wrist, she catches herself against the table with her company - the older politician that bought her the trinket in the first place. Easily the age of her father that's got his hand on her exposed back, where her skirts float and ruffle about her, and he is taking his seat at the gambling table with a nod to the dealer to deal him in the next hand. her turns to her after it's done, and from a waiter that comes past, she fishes them both a drink of something sweet and undoubtedly expensive to give to him. Playing her part well, all simpering and sweet like she's just one more ladder climber. Her lion comes to pad up beside her, and she bids it sit on all fours so she can sit on it in a sweep of skirts that she had practised with Gio before she'd come. One hand on the lion, stroking across its head like it had fur instead of metal plating, the other is wrapped around the man and she's just that, a perfectly matching piece of decoration to suit him as she leans in and nods obediently and explains the rules of the game to her. One that makes him look powerful.

She does not know Kavinsky, doesn't need to, she feels the hum of the hive on him and watches how he plays. Knows that this table is probably nothing less than high stakes and with a soft gasp and murmur to her companion like there's honey sweet in her mouth her eyes flick up and across the table, in turn reaching with her mind out to him. ]

( Are you any good at the game? )

[ Not insulting, more, if he's game, she's got an offer. Petty and mean, but an offer all the same. ]

[100mitsubishis]

[Even if she wasn't a part of the hivemind, the lady has a lion playing ottoman for her, and that, if nothing else, is worth a second look. The cards aren't born from reality, so they continue to shuffle themselves even as his hands falter, attention diverted to the king of the jungle and its mistress seated up top. Some of his patrons pause, confused by how the cards continue to glide and flip even when Kavinsky isn't ushering them along as he ought to. But it was only a second's worth of hesitation, clearly a trick of the light, he's back to moving his fingers and palms in flourishes that could reasonably be related to the way the deck moves. Thank God for the space champagne being passed around like poppers on a night before exams. Kavinsky receives a few curious looks, but his own grin's tucked into his cheek and he stops looking at the lion tamer, because she's not the one with the cash.

He looks at her mark. What a guy. No fucking clue he's being played, just thinks he's special enough, rich enough to genuinely have a shot at a girl like that. Some things never change. Kavinsky could travel from space station to space station, all throughout the universe, go astral, become a god himself, and all the little ants look the same.

One last look at the lion. No one can blame him. None of them have one.]

( I'm cheating. )

[The dice are loaded, the cards are stacked. Kavinsky's grin widens, but it's no less private.]

[circumspector]

( Good. )

[ Her hand comes up in a bubbling little laughter, as she's leant into by her company. He's whispering what passes as sweet nothings undoubtedly. That he's going to win her the earrings to match her bracelet, that she's the most beautiful woman in the room, and she's going to be adorned like she deserves. Echoes back to her present company with a tingle of thought that is similar to gagging noise for how he praises her by praising himself.

Like she's the Mercenary Day trees in Gingerton and Tinsel Waystation, waiting for him to hang these things on her.

Her hands with glittering nails sweep up to hide her smile as she ducks her head, gasping softly like she's genuinely flustered by it all, that oh no - not her. She can't ever be worthy of it, she's just so grateful.

She's consummate down to the way she ducks her head and turns away, shy and abashed. But the lion stares fixed and forward, robotic backlit eyes watching everything that moved around her. ]

( Let him win a little bit until he's over confident. Then take him for everything he's got. )

[100mitsubishis]

( You know what I like to hear. )

[Kavinsky's been serving the ol' softball, letting himself win stacks only slighter greater than the ones he lets escape. He's been waiting for The One, and here the old fucker's come, a slender trophy on his arm with eyes that burn over two thousand degrees Fahrenheit. So, blue. The one subject Kavinsky mastered all on his own, no textbooks necessary, was chemistry, and he knows when he sees a flame that's made to bubble up everything around it. Combustion's soon to follow and he's always wanted to be at the heart of a bomb.

She's come to the right place if she wants to see someone squeezed dry.]

I like your cat.

[He nods his chin at the lion; the mark can't tell if Kavinsky's being a little shit or genuinely charismatic which is the line he likes to straddle. He spreads out the cards in one line of decorative backs, gold filigree and open-mouthed ravens.]

Who's in?

[circumspector]

Thanks. [ The part of her mouth is slow. Letting it hang. ] He's one of a kind. Got all sorts of tricks.

[ Outwardly, she gives him a look for his comment, immersed at a moment, and then the next she's giggling, flushed all pink in the cheeks where's white as a china doll ( smash her head up and see what comes out ).

Because he's right about the fire ( all chemicals burning under there ) and her compatriot doesn't see the smoke, apparently, he just glowers at Kavinsky when she's clearly spoken for and she smoothes her hand up his arm slowly. Beckoning him onwards, just enough of a hint that he needs to keep fighting for attention.

Voice that cuts across arrogantly that says he's in before he puts down a hefty number of chips. ]