not_a_goddamn_princess | MASQUERADE PARTY, 33 Apocalypse Ave, Friday Evening

Party night. The best of nights. An ornate sign on 33 Apocalypse’s door invited all to knock and make themselves known.

The space inside was bigger than it looked from the outside, stretched and displaced by magic. The wallpaper was green and textured, hinting at the English countryside. On one side of the room sat a significant bar offering food and drinks, while the other gave ample space to sit. A large Jenga tower held prominence in a corner.

It was easy to miss it, though, in favor of the little streams of water that ran across furniture and floor. Tiny glass gondolas, animated by magic, made their way back and forth across each stream. The gondolas were real, though the water itself was an illusion. It called attention to the ceiling, doubly enchanted: both to draw all cigarette smoke to itself so it wouldn’t blow in anyone’s face, but also to mimic the starry sky above Venice.

You could watch the stars twinkle, or see the occasional cloud go by. Magical fireflies added to the illusion, dancing through the air like tiny lights. If you listened closely, you could hear the sea rolling in across an invisible beach. Even the air smelled faintly of it: the sea, warm food and good wine.

Welcome to Eliot and Margo’s pad, people. They’d make damn sure you had a good time.

[ocd up, come party!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Wow," Eliot said, his habitually dry tone a contrast to the amount of blinking he was doing at that picture. "That is . . . certainly a look."

"Hey," Miguel said, a little defensive, "it was the one thing I had that would stand up to...everything." And it did make his ass look damn good.

“And strike fear into the hearts of any who would defy you, I’m sure.”

"If only." Miguel rolled his eyes. "You know, I never expected to come here and be judged on something I didn't wear."

"Yes, well, then you shouldn't have brought it up," Eliot said cheerfully. "Can I get you a drink?"

"You asked!" Miguel protested, mostly for the sake of arguing. "Sure, what have you got?"

"Yes. Because you brought it up."

You weren't going to win, Miguel.

"We have an array of cocktails, and lots of wine. What's your preference?"

Eh, story of his life.

"Whatever tastes best," Miguel said. "I can't get drunk, so it's all the same to me."

"What, at all?" Eliot looked personally wounded. "That's tragic!"

"If I drink a lot really fast, I can get buzzed for a bit," Miguel said, shrugging. "Not usually worth the price tag. Does mean I can always do all of Summer's jello shots, though."

"But what do you do when you need to just -- not deal with your shit?"

Look, Eliot came about his chemical dependencies for very specific reasons, okay?

"Scream a lot?" Miguel shrugged. "Go out in the terrible outfit and beat up criminals? Yeah, usually one of those."

“Huh. I suppose violence could work. But it tends to mess so much which your hands.”

And Eliot’s hands were how he did magic!

"Eh, the not getting drunk thing is just because I heal fast," Miguel said. "So I really don't have to worry about that. Besides," he intoned over-dramatically, "my hands are weapons."

Eliot attempted—and failed—not to laugh.

“You sound like a comic book.”

Miguel snorted. "Wish I could say that's coincidence. You did see the outfit, right?" Yeah, he knew what it looked like, okay? Never get scientific inspiration from comic books, even ones about real people.

“So what you’re saying is, you’re a superhero and a super-nerd?”

"Got it in one," Miguel answered. "Former head of experimental genetics for an evil megacorp, current Spider-Man, and those two things are not unrelated." Even if he hadn't technically done it on purpose. "But the fringe benefits aren't bad."

“Wait, were you an actual mad scientist?”

Miguel grimaced. "I mean, not on purpose? Except for one of the island's weird weekends, but those really don't count. I just had a job, and it turned out my boss was bigger on profits than morals."

“So . . . they were like any boss.”

"Pretty much," Miguel agreed. "This one had a thing for human experimentation with inadequately proven techniques and highly addictive genetically bonding drugs."

He grimaced and made grabby hands at the liquor. "Any of that really strong? I hate talking about this shocking stuff."

Eliot pondered, then summoned a bottle from the liquor cabinet with a simple levitation spell.

“Polish vodka. 96% alcohol by volume. Strongest non magical shit I know of.”

"Sounds disgusting," Miguel noted. "It'll do."

“I mean. It’s vodka.” Eliot shrugged and handed the bottle over. “Enjoy.”

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