It is somewhere north of midnight but not yet two a.m. Two a.m. which is after the last call for alcohol because the city of Denver tells the 'tender at Tooey's that the place needs to fucking close down at two a.m. So: somewhere north of midnight and south of two a.m. and a band that treads the line between black metal and hard driving polka is on the small stage in the performance space in the back. The lead guitarist is wearing a tophat and the drummer sports the world's longest beard and there's something thrashingly noisy about the music they are pumping out but no one's thrashing in the open space in front of the stage where the rope lights are snaking about, all glowing.
There are photographs mounted to the interior walls, an exhibit, and the photographer is a tall, lanky girl with an unfortunate overbite who is wearing three scarfs in succession wrapped around her neck and a t-shirt with the cover of The Giving Tree on it and she is talking to a not-quite-as-tall but still tall chick with blond hair curling and sweatdamp around her shoulders who is holding a bottle of tequila loosely between thumb and forefinger of her right hand, her posture familiar, easy, louche.
The wail of the guitar over the oompah polka beat disturbs her not at all.
WhitneyOne of the perks of being nineteen years old is you're technically an adult and you don't have a curfew anymore and you can do whatever you want so long as the person responsible for you in a fiduciary sense feels you're doing what you're supposed to be doing insofar as bettering yourself and your station goes.
One of the downsides comes in the form of a huge Sharpie-black X on the back of your hand when you go into a bar on a weeknight hoping to catch a show.
At least the show is all ages and she still has her passport. No driver's license but she whips out the passport and tucks it back into her patchwork messenger bag and waits for Grace to show her driver's license. The girl is wearing combat boots and a knee-length olive green denim skirt and a brown henley underneath a black vest. Her thick hair is down and her eyes are blackly made up.
They've been out for a couple hours because Whitney was bored and didn't want to go home and hey Grace let's go to a show but that show ended and then the cops showed up and she still doesn't want to go home so here they are.
"Is that POLKA?" the blonde asks and then grins like that just made her night. "That is so rad."
GraceIt's not a movie, is what she keeps having to remind herself. It's only a crowd. Only people. (Only?)
Sometimes, though, you just have to get out. Grace hadn't gone and done anything remotely resembling play since that freaking movie, and something inside just wants to break loose.
So she said yes when Whitney offered to drag her out to do something. Besides, it's nice to reward one's self when one has had a major breakthrough.
Grace does have a driver's license, shows it with a (what she hopes is) matching smile. Whitney may have dressed appropriately, but Grace lacks the desire to dress for others, really, and is in her usual uniform of jeans, sneakers, and a grey turtleneck jacket over what is probably some silly t-shirt... There is no makeup to be seen on this one.
"Haah, sounds like death polka," she replies, laughing. It's one of those great and weird juxtapositions, this music.
SerafíneIt is POLKA. It is polka / black metal and sometimes the noise fills the room and the beat moves beneath it, syncopated and familiar and niggling at the ur-brain that recognizes the polka beneath the metal and cannot quite believe that the top-hatted guy is both shredding and shrieking beneath it.
The performance space is tucked into a nook at the far-end of the bar with a projection screen over it playing old black and white movies. White-skinned women with dark eye make-up and pincurls, and jaunty little men in bowler hats. Just another layer of stimulation.
Sera is - well, unmistakeable and hard to ignore, even from a distance. Even glimpses through a crowd and across the room; even lost in the noise and the dim lights see: she is telling a joke or an elaborate story or listening to one but participating, bright and lively at the center of a knot of people far enough from the stage and the speakers that one can, occasionally, hear what a stranger says, though still likely not hear oneself think. Wearing her fucking uniform of the evening: the world's tiniest red silk wrap skirt which extends approximately 1/2 inch below her ass, torn fishnets, silver-heeled platformed boots covered in silver buckles that take her from 5'5" to oh, 5'10" or so, and a midriff-baring leather bustier covered with small silver spikes.
Midway through the conversation, though, she lifts her sharp little chin and scans through the crowd, her senses are open, see - always so damned open and she spots Grace across the bar, lifts her own bottle in toast or invitation and waves Grace over.
Whitney[perc + awareness because yolo]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (4, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )
Whitney"Omigod, it does..."
This isn't either of their scenes but it's good to hear Grace laugh and the sound of it injects laughter into Whitney's response and she's about to steer her towards the bartender and his wares when something else catches her attention.
At first it's the young woman across the room and that flash of her essence like she's the only person in the place who's dancing but then it's the woman herself. Gorgeous in a primeval dangerous way and Grace can see Whitney enthralled for a half-dozen heartbeats before she remembers where she is and shakes her head hard and realizes the dangerous-tall woman with the sidecut recognizes Grace.
"Is that one of Ginger's friends?"
We've switched from educational metaphors to harmless barely-audible euphemisms.
GraceSera simply cannot be missed, even in the crowd, even in the distracting music. Whitney and Grace are both staring at her, when she beckons.
"Yeah, she's a friend. Good friend. Come on, you've got to meet her," Grace says, heading over to the woman in red. Sera's surrounded herself with people, but... they're only people, right?
"Hey, Sera! I brought a friend. This is Whitney," she says, loud, necessarily so to beat out the jaunty, screaming, deathpolka.
SerafíneBy the time Whitney and Grace reach her, Sera has muttered something into the photographer's ear, shared a toast and a familiar grin with a hipster dude in skin-tight purple jeans and an ironic brown fedora with a feather in the band, and slipped out of the small crowd. They are not alone, precisely. It's a bar, late on a Thursday: not packed but there are always people ready and willing to start the weekend early, and for some of it, it never stops.
Sera: smells of spice and smoke and alcohol tonight. Clove cigarettes cling to her hair, wreath around her skin, and she's been drinking straight from that bottle like a fish. Holds it with the familiarity a gunslinger reserves for his favorite revolver, doesn't she?
So she is bright and loose and rather smeary and also: laughing and dark eyed. So very dark-eyed tonight, because her pupils are huge, unfocused, devouring.
"Grace!" arms open wide, bottle in hand, nearly ready to huge the apprentice but some underlying instinct prickles some awareness or something so the gesture is shut down and subverted. Also hugging people when your clothing can cut skin is not necessarily adviseable. Still: arms open, her mouth a wide, quick, mobile slash as it drops to Grace's ear. Loud perforce, naturally - it is fucking loud in here. "I though you were a hallucination! Not really your kinda place is it? 'Course just 'cos your talking doesn't mean you're not, but you're making fucking sense so - "
Then she turns, all swimming-abrupt, fixes her too-large eyes on Whitney and lifts the bottle in tribute. "Whitney! Cool. You must be persuasive if you dragged Grace out for death polka - "
Or no, the bottle is not lifted in tribute. It is lifted in offering. First Grace, then Whitney.
WhitneyThe newcomer hangs back until the acquaintances properly greet each other. Keeps one hand wrapped around the weathered strap of her bag and nothing about her catches the light save for a small stud in her left nostril. When Sera turns her attention towards her she sees a strong brow and a strong nose and the girl is only an inch or so shorter than her wearing negligible heels.
If Whitney had to run she could run in her boots. She stops herself from looking past Sera's waist because she could catch sight of more flesh than would be considered polite in mixed company and the lingering of whatever magic she's done in the last few hours laps at her like the heat of a familiar fire and Whitney already looks somewhat awed by the time the Cultist turns her attention towards her.
"Who wouldn't want to come out for death polka?" she asks. Her voice is bell-clear and low without being fried. She takes the tequila only when it's her turn and belts it out of the bottle like a champ. This isn't her first rodeo.
Her uncle's going to be pissed when she gets home but whatever. She might not even make it home. Life is fucking short. As she hands back the bottle she also extends her hand.
"Sera?" Just for confirmation. Eyebrows raised. They relax and Whitney smiles regardless of the response. "Nice to meet you."
GraceSera's having Fun, more Fun than Grace will likely ever touch. Grace wants to say something about hallucinations, but... it's one of those things, right? Shouting at the top of one's lungs about the truth of perception because the music is too loud just seems wrong...
"She's very persuasive, and besides, this is a celebratory get-out-of-the-apartment night! Woo!" And why not accept a bit of nerve-reducing alcohol really? It's not like she couldn't use it. She takes a pull from the bottle, makes a horrible face (gah, it burns) and produces a weird noise. And then, it's off to Whitney.
Who of course, handles her liquor far better than the actually legal Grace. Natch.
Serafíne"Serafíne," the Cultest amends in response to that question-seeking-confirmation. Has to shift the bottle from right hand to left to shake but she does that seamless and thoughtless and takes Whitney's hand in her own. Callouses on her hand as they make contact, rough but cool from the neck of the bottle. This quick, crawling little grin follows the correction. " - call-me-Sera."
How many times has she said that to how many strangers in how many rooms? Can't count and doesn't. Sera, takes her hand back and then her bottle back and yes, Grace, it is straight tequila, no lime and no salt so it fucking burns. Note that before Sera takes another pull she licks the back of her sweaty hand for the salt, though, and does-without the lime.
"Oh my fuck," as Grace takes that pull and actually woos, Sera tosses back her head, laughing beneath the scrawl of the guitar. To Whitney, " - you get super extra bonus points for that. Never thought I'd see Grace do a shot from a bottle of Patron."
While they're talking, a tall, blond, bearded guy detaches himself from the knot of people around the photographer and walks up behind Sera. Takes her shoulders in his hands, both familiar and careful of the spikes on her bustier. Grace will recognize him as Dan-he's-cool, the consor she met at Sera's house the night she came to install Ginger. To Whitney: just a tall, skinny, well-tattooed hipster.
He kisses Sera on the crown of her head then drops his mouth to her ear and murmurs something, which brings her attention swinging around, brief and full to him.
The exchange lasts just a moment before Sera's turning back to Whitney and Grace, offering both another shot from her bottle by way of apology.
"I gotta go see some folks off, you guys have a kickass night if I don't catch up with you again before it's over - !"
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