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

“Upstate New York,” Margo said readily. “It’s where El and I learned magic.”

"The university answer to the old swish-and-flick magic boarding school?" Irene asked, teasing. "And you did this sort of thing there, too? Making the house bigger on the inside and everything?"

She was still so impressed by that -- even more so now that she was seeing it herself.

"You must've been quite popular."

“I was, but not because of that,” Margo said wryly. “Me and El had to redo this spell several times over the course of a couple of days. Never used it on anything bigger than a fridge before, the math was all outta whack.”

"What happens if a spell like this goes awry?" Irene had to wonder. "The house just doesn't expand? Or do we all risk falling into a pocket dimension or something?"

Sounded exciting, provided Irene wasn't the one doing the dimensional-falling.

“The dimensions get all. . . off,” Margo said, pulling a face. “I wanna say worst case scenario, the house falls down, but it’s magic. You get one Circumstance wrong and something explodes.”

"I mean, you are bending reality itself, aren't you?" Irene noted, gently teasing. "I'd imagine quite a lot goes into it. Congratulations on avoiding explosions, in that case."

Margo thought about shit a few weekends ago and winced. “I think I’m just lucky,” she muttered. “A couple of weeks ago El and I were looping through some alternate universe bullshit where he blew my face off.”

But it was fine! She was fine. It wasn’t even the first time she’d experienced her own death.

That was enough to give Irene actual pause for a moment, and she frowned over at Margo.

"Oh, no, Fandom got you good, didn't it?" she asked quietly, sympathetic. She'd been lucky herself, this time, but she'd certainly dealt with her own share of traumatic Fandom-induced bullshit in her time. (And plenty of the non-Fandom-induced kind, too.) "What an awful thing for the island to throw at you."

She wasn't going to bother asking if Margo was all right. First of all: what a stupid question to ask someone who'd experienced her own violent death. But secondly, Irene doubted she'd get an honest answer to that question, anyway. (She herself wouldn't have given one, in Margo's fabulous shoes.)

“Yeah, well, same old, same new, honestly,” Margo said. She shook her head. “We should have one of those signs. ‘It’s been 13 days since the last time one of us died and came back’.”

"What a thing to get used to," Irene remarked lightly, shaking her own head. "I've only ever faked it, personally. You really must be lucky, if you've been able to undo the damage repeatedly."

“Eh, for me, it’s mostly been probability spells,” Margo said. She lifted a shoulder. “It sucks, but you know you’re coming back.”

El. . .

El had some damage.

MASQUERADE PARTY, 33 Apocalypse Ave, Friday Evening

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