Futuristic 𝙋𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙊𝙍𝘼’𝙎 𝘽𝙊𝙓 — the story.

[demonology]

ACT I

opening ball

MUSIC — x

WORD BANK —debutantes, celebration, champagne spilling, soft glow of Nimm lights, awkward forced-upon small talk, suspicious glances, flirtatious smiles over glasses of chardonnay

♡coded by uxie♡

IN SUMMARY: Spring cherry blossoms fill the air with an elegant stink. The bounty hunters have settled into Holhorse House, preparing for their first outing under their mysterious pseudonyms. Across the Alley, the Pandora hackers have just learned of the bounty calling for their heads. $7 billion. Still, the Lazarus social scene beckons them, especially as they are of age. Expect shenanigans to ensue, particularly as the hunters begin their investigation and the hackers learn to manage both their reality and their hidden identities.

IN DETAIL: Madame Heatherstone’s estate gleamed in the last breath of sun. The horizon perfectly matched her color palette, and the pastels of yellow, orange, and purple drenched the scenery. A stark figure against her hand-picked decor, she stands at the head of the stairs in a grandeur, shadowy ball gown. Tufts of tulle and a matching veiled cap, her ruby-red smile pointed perfectly at her arriving guests. She spoke rarely to anyone passing, though at Dr. Truffle’s arrival, she gave a haughty laugh and appeared to tease the academic for her lack of timeliness.

Nimm lights sparkled across her patio and back yard. Sparse dots of people sprinkled the grass. Echoes dressed in similar pastels offered champagne, hors d'oeuvres, and their various services. An outdoor bar, manned by one of the few true-humans on staff, offered a wider variety of goods. The end-of-spring heat served the ball well, as it ensured anyone hanging around outside entered just in time for the debutantes to walk.

The interior offered respite from the sun’s lingering raze. Pillows of white floated everywhere, and if you glanced up far enough, you would see the overly-done piles of hair and smatters of faces belonging to the young hopefuls. Their coming out was today, and all the debutantes anxiously stood in lines outside the grand Heatherstone ball room. Wreaths decorated with Egress’s country symbols, from orchids to the Founding Families’s crests, rested in their palms. Gold of some sort was expected to adorn their bodies, many opting for a family heirloom. For the sake of tradition, one debutante wearing a suit was paired with one wearing a gown, if possible. All others were expected to attend to their assigned seating, where refreshments and meals were served. It appeared there would be very little eating for the debutantes, as the Ceremony took place amidst dinner.

Once the bell dawned for people to take their places, Madame Heatherstone made her way towards the center, circular stage. The tables lingered on the edges, thought very clearly in a rotund fashion. All eyes were forced towards her person.

She gave a polite smile, a signature of her namesake, before speaking into the antiquated microphone, “Good evening!”

Chatter stopped.

“Tonight, we celebrate an age-old tradition. The Opening Season Ball is one we all suffered through in our youth, by choice or by force.” Madame Heatherstone earned a few good-natured chuckles as she held her lips pursed, expecting said reaction.

“Yes, tonight we will see this year’s beauties, guess on who might end up with who,” her mischief oozed.

However, the smile tempered itself, continuing, “And most of all, we open Lazarus Alley to the promise of rebirth, renewal, and summer fun.”

 

[demonology]

click!

Twin

dancing… gross !

location

waiting in line in an itchy dress

outfit

interactions

xander (cleio)

tags

ravensunset

thirst for champagne

I remember those years before, when I thought, No one reads anymore.

You told me it was impractical. There was no glory in producing it.

I don’t know if I ever forgave you for that.

”This is the grandest display of idiocy I’ve ever seen.”

They spoke only loud enough for the man next to her to hear, a headache already building. The thoughts of the three others within hearing-distance had minds that spoke loud. In front of her, a long-tendril’d girl stood, barely rising above her shoulder or the age of sixteen.

Are my palms sweaty? I hope she turned the lights off before we left. Mom will be mad if she finds out. Are they looking at me?

Twin followed the girl’s thoughts to her eyes, which were looking distinctly at the person next to her.

Ramiel took in the rest of her figire. Her dress poof’ed out, tickling Twin’s toes, and he forced Xander to follow with them as they took a tiny step back.

This is so itchy,

the internal monologue of the young one continued. She itched at her hands, a scratching that was noted in the script of her mind.

Twin tried studying the young girl, poking and prodding at her with his eyes. Invasive, and they were all cattle to be sold. The suit-dressed youth next to her, cropped-haired yet femme, gave the other a smile. Squeezed her hand and whispered something certifiably sweet, they made the medicine go down easy and the girl stopped quivering her hands. The wreath clearly poked at her palms, and the other youth took it from her.

“I’ll give you a break,” they offered.

Beautiful,

was all they could hear of the suited kid’s thoughts.

Ramiel twisted their gaze. Just animals. The wreath in her own hands crushed under the weight. More wounds to tend to.

At home, taped under the sink, a brown leather bag sat in potato-like glory. It taunted him, now, as the sting of thorns born blood. They looked down, studying Egress’s first Church’s symbol. Wrings enshrouding a cross. A man nailed elegantly.

She looked back at the girl in front of her. Prepared and pampered for a wedding, yet she dressed not for the spouse but the dowry. The politics of relationships, the politics of money. The backbone. More blood eaten from Twin’s palms by the wreath.

The line of white drew on and on. An endless and meaningless glow of heavenly virginity. Their mind called for treachery, in both question and morality, and they thought of their mother. Twin brought her hands forward to avoid staining the front of the gown. Ulla had tsked at the dress as they met in the front hall, but that was all she said.

I don’t know if I ever forgave you.

Mom was hunched over the sink, studying the water as it dripped, and Ulla was trying to cook dinner in the midst of all this chatter. I was eating a snack, something nutritious the way you always told me to pick out my food. You were distracted by my youth.

“Why not a scientist?”

”Why do our parents keep insisting we participate in this fucking parade?”

This time, Twin spoke bolder.

The stormy black of their eyes met the serene and trust of their counterpart.

”I mean look at you,”

her voice rose to a higher pitch as the dark pits took a journey across his body.

”You look like a damn show pony playing dress-up.”

Straightening the jeweled, chain-laden shift, her piece of gold, she huffed and studied her partner with a softness, marveling the same structure she has known since infancy. We are dual victims.

”And I look like a fluffed up peacock at the crematorium, dressed and begging God to forgive my sins.”

To pepper his words, he flung around the wreath and almost hit the same youth from earlier. She yelped and, upon recognizing him, gave Twin an eerie look before snapping her eyes forward.

Why’d they let her in? Mom said there was something off about them… she’s a distraction…

Ramiel stopped listening then.

I don’t know if I ever forgave you.

That day, after your speech, Mom cut it out, moving in a reverse drip. Fluid and liquid, as though her own brain was being poured into a mold. Rematerialized gelatin. “It’s very rewarding, Twin,” she added, coming up to cup your waist. She was solid.

The warmth of Xander’s body called them home. Juniper, an Echo in charge of Madame Heatherstone’s staff, bustled down the small space between the debutantes and the chiffon-decorated walls.

Their voice rang out, announcing, “Places! Arm in arm! Places!”

The material quality of Cleio’s arm, forced by Juniper to become laced with her own, silenced the cacophony of skull thoughts for a moment, including Twin’s own. Once more, brown sewersludge met decadent chocolate, and happenstance, Twin gave the gaze a small crinkle of the edges, a shrinking of garbage. Her lips never followed suit, and the look quickly dropped.

Things were different now.

She didn’t know whose thought it was.

I don’t know if I ever forgave you.

She was solid in that rare moment, and once you gave me that look, she melted away again. You left me to think about the entirety of my life, past and future, while Mom returned to her studies.

I don’t know if I ever forgave you.

A tea kettle whooshing and screaming for attention.

”All this pomp and circumstance. I mean we’re all going to end up in terribly unhappy marriages our parents picked out for us.”

They choicely avoided Xander’s eyes once that flew out of their mouth.

The girl’s thoughts chimed in for unknowing heckling.

Yeah, if she can even get a husband.

A toddler of a kettle. The pot overflows when not looked after.

”Sweetheart,”

their tone tender as they waited for the girl’s gaze to meet their own.

”my comment mostly applied to you and their wandering eye.”

They winked at the startled expression of the suited debutante.

Before the poor children could spit-on Twin’s bomb fire, Juniper’s voice came crawling back along the walls. Literal echoes, outshining Heatherstone’s own voice stinging in the ballroom.

“Places! We will begin the names! Places!”

As the first in line, the pair were ordered forward, and Twin gave a baby-bye gesture. Grand, white doors adorned in golden tinsel were opened for the pair to trot out of. Horses and show-ponies.

Time slowed to a stop, and their nails bit hard into Xander’s bicep. Heatherstone called their names, and the gallant glow of the ballroom beckoned them. Another year of whispers, scrutiny, and bets on her spinsterhood.

I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you.

there's a good reason these tables are numbered...

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[SirNateUnknown]

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  that's a secret~
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  black tuxedo suit

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  home- ballroom
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  the unfortunate victims...

  
  
  
  

  demonology ravensunset
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

kalen

janus

"You know what? you're right. I admit, you caught me red handed vee!"

He proudly claimed with a toothy grin, gentle were the smile he loved to invoke. The sweet taste of candy on his tongue and that sunflower on their hair, was that blinding light the sun just now? For a moment He could hear nothing in that cramped space. Embraced by crumpled papers, through the small crack of the wall.

A shimmer of gold lay on his cheek, Sunset or was it sunrise? The rustle of plastic crowded his feet, a smile filled those chapped lips. Standing before the blackout curtains, he chuckled. Placing a hand upon the silky fabric, he would have braided those golden locks. Oh how drunk was he last night? pulling the curtains fully closed. Darkness cradled his vision, save for the dim lighting from the television.

Words filled with static, stream of water left the faucet. Washing away the exhaustion from his face, a smiling figure stared back at him. He returned the gesture, halting the passage of water. Returning to that small room, a haphazardly sewn together attire hang upon the nail. Slipping into the fabric, he stood before the reflection and adjusted the loose ends. Vee would definitely praise him for this look, Not to forget their favorite flower.

He slid a treasured brooch on his black suit, of sentimental value. Today too he shall rue the day, let's see how fast he can rope himself into trouble. Plastering his face into history, it'll be a magnificent spectacle yet! Taking the handy device with him, he pocketed the harbringer of chaos. Just before he made his exit, a petal of the prettiest blossom lay gently upon the door frame. Announcing his leave, he stepped out of the dark room. He returned to life, where the sun can finally reach him.

"Boring.."

He uttered to himself, nudging the device against his temple. Figures, as much as he wanted chaos to ensue. He had to wait for all the participants with heavy pockets to focus on his colleagues, cue the violinist and trumpets. Whatever, the idea was that he will do his thing and help floor those jaws. Of course he is going solo as ever, that he could get down with. Now he just have to wait and try not to spill the tea just yet or champagne, tempting but not right just yet. He let it simmer, he was looking at their fire safety system. If he is lucky, then he can make it rain and it be a catastrophe.

Jokes aside, he was trying to see what he could get away with. Authorities hate him for breathing against their neck, a result from his constant misfit. Well not that it would stop his divine quest in search of self acclaimed glory. but before all that, a picture is in order. Xander and Twin paired together? more materials to rub against their face, shamelessly he had a dumb grin and snapped away. Just lovely.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[ravensunset]

cleio.

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  current activity

  
  
  
  

  ballroom dancing
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  outfit

  
  
  
  

  a white suit with gold accents, a golden watch.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  location

  
  
  
  

  Madame Heatherstone’s estate.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  twin (ramiel), demonology
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

A crowd of people filled the space around Xander. Lines, ordered, dresses next to suits. All young, beautifully dressed up, faces a mix of hopeful and fearful. Gold glinted in the air, reflected off of the decor on the youth’s bodies, the shimmer of the wall, reminiscent of the young spring sun. Xander was a perfect part of that crowd, wreath in hand, adorned gold veins running through his suit, matching the golden watch heavy on his wrist, borrowed from his father for the night. Yet, his face was still. The Opening Season Ball was practiced, easy. He wasn’t looking to meet a new partner.

No. That was in front of him already. Twin spoke, critiquing the ball, his voice quieted so that only Xander could hear. The couple beside them, one of whom Twin was glaring daggers at, exemplified it. The one wore a dress that Xander could only imagine was even less comfortable than most of the outfits in here, and was nervous enough to visibly shake. She was so young. Sixteen? Seventeen? And worried over a single evening, a ball she’d have other attempts at. It wasn’t that Xander didn’t understand. The fear, ice cold, at the prospect of even the most irrelevant detail going less than perfectly, the pressure she surely faced from her family, the hope at something working out. He knew it, pressure in his chest, the want to look elegant and not just boyish, the way it feels to be watched by all eyes in a room. It was just to him, a practiced performer having stepped through the feeling many times already, a bounty over his head and Twin by his side, he was sure her troubles were irrelevant enough to seem to not exist.

“I can’t decide which of ‘grand’, ‘display’, or ‘idiocy’ is the most poignant choice of descriptor,”

Xander, similarly, kept his reply to be heard only by them. His expression had shifted from a calculated neutrality to slight amusement, lips poking upwards,

“Though I think I’m leaning towards ‘display’. We’re only here for a show, or rather, to provide one.”

The ball exceeded grand with ease. Inside and outside, it was decorated beautifully, not a spot missed. It didn’t impress him. Each Egressian event, desperately hoping to outperform the last, only succeeded in blurring into boredom. With enough wealth, it was shockingly easy to get tired of spectacle. Though, decor aside, he supposed him and the rest of the crowd were the real spectacle of the night.

Twin spoke, and for a moment, everything felt right. Her in front of him, her voice the only sound in the room. For a moment they were both only thirteen again, hand in hand, Xander laughing at his best friends’ joke meant only for him, their gazes a message kept secret from the uptight, expectant crowd around them, mocking it. They were locked into each other, them against the world, them playing a perfect part of it. Everything about them was familiar, known from an age younger than he could remember. This ball, this event, blurred into the many years of events, formal and otherwise, they’d been by each other’s sides.

The moment passed, and again, nothing was quite right. Twin’s voice was laced not with mirth but with anger. His eyes made it all too clear he didn’t want to be here, not even with Xander. They were older, sharper, and with each glance they switched between someone Xander knew down to the bone and someone he couldn’t recognize at all. Taking comfort in him at these events was a long established practice, yes, but one that was now dusty, lost to them years ago already.

It wasn’t that Xander enjoyed the balls, either. Twin was right, it was only a charade, a tradition that should long have been allowed to die down, it was a missed dinner and a dance devoid of any fun in its steps. And still, Xander had been looking forward to it. She made everything else worth it, then and even now. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t be anywhere else.

Xander, here, wasn’t much more than a ‘show pony playing dress-up’. Despite everything, he was playing along. Well, they all were, really, but he especially allowed it, didn’t protest. His wreath pressed into his palms. It was a welcome feeling, sharp, unpleasant, somehow fitting perfectly into everything else he felt around him. He wrapped a hand tighter around it, right as Twin flung theirs upwards. The girl in front of them yelped.

“Ball has yet to start and you’re already tormenting the others,”

His words were chiding, yet his tone approving, the widening of his smile only backing it. He’d enjoyed hearing the yelp, enjoyed the discomfort spilling from the others around him. He was sure they knew that, and they had enjoyed causing it. His chest twisted with dull satisfaction at the thought.

“Arm in arm!” A voice rang out, and as the Echo passed by them, Xander’s arm got linked with Twin’s. The touch was familiar, and there it was again, the flash of something right. He looked at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

Things were different now.

He knew it. He could trace it, every step. Not just the formation of Ramiel and Cleio, Twin’s transformation, the burning summer neither could ever take back, but everything. Verona’s wings and Themis’ sister. They were all interconnected, shift after loss after change, time slipping through their fingers. The past flashed through his mind, identical to the flashes of future he could on rare nights achieve. He could see, clearly, the version of them that was unharmed, happy to be dancing together, happy down to their bones. That version of him slipped away.

Twin’s words stung. He couldn’t quite deny it, though they looked away when they said the words, so luckily might not have noticed the momentary flash of expression across his features, quickly again replaced with his practiced neutrality.

The girl in front of them had caught Twin’s attention. Xander, just for a second, caught her gaze. He couldn’t say anything; it wasn’t him to make any commotion, much as he’d sometimes like. Instead, he put on a frown and glanced her up and down briefly with narrowed eyes before turning his gaze away, a clear expression of judgment. He hoped she recognized him. She’d seemed nervous enough a moment earlier that he’d figure it would shake her.

The doors in front of them opened. The duo ahead of them passed through, into the glimmering ballroom, and then their names were called. Twin Papillion Sylvester and Xander Eugene Lloyd. So what if he liked how it sounded? Taking the lead, Xander stepped forwards, past the door frame. Twin’s fingers dug into his arm, and his into the wreath, and he focused on the feeling, sharp and burning. They filled the space allotted for them. Momentarily Xander envisioned every pair of eyes in the room on them, but quickly enough pairs of debutantes spilled into the room that the thought was impossible. Still, they were being watched. It was undeniable, sharp as daggers on their back.

Xander led someone who was not quite his best friend anymore into the steps of the dance, his movements natural from an abundance of practice.

“Must it be an unhappy marriage?”

He asked, voice hushed, his reply too late after Twin’s words. He couldn’t resist it. Once, back when the talk of marriage was all jokes and games, when they were too young for it to be a consideration, that image has just about been Xander’s definition of happiness. He’d thought it was just about a given. Years had passed, yet he still didn’t know what his life was to be if not with her always by his side.

Xander shook his head. He didn’t want to hear the answer, it pounded in his chest already. The other dancers circling around them, he could just barely see the attendees through them, and he scanned the crowd, watching for his parents, his friends.

“Well, we only get the wonderful opportunity to suffer through this once a year, and we’re certainly not getting younger, so we might as well give a good show,”

His voice stung with sarcasm, an edge to attempt at matching Twin’s own disdain for the festivity, yet unable to lose the amusement in the words,

“I intend to be the winning show pony, I’ll have you know.”

He took Twin’s hand in his own and reached out, allowing him to spin under Xander's arm in time to the gentle music.

cry for love

백현

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[livingdead]

verona.

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  absentminded, tired, cautiously optimistic
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  outfit

  
  
  
  

  a white suit with gold accents & long bowtie.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  Madame Heatherstone’s estate.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  demonology
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

White gold reflected back at him, it glinted under stark lights and adorned Ellis’s ruffled, gold-accented suit. Younger than himself, a familiar platinum-haired face stared back; they followed suit on the other end of the mirror, choreographed, tilting their chin, stretching an itchy collar away from their neck, making sure the buttons and the bow sat right, participating in the particular practice that both Ellis and his younger self despised in his love for it. Gold-stitched dresses and suits, a flooding line of exquisite white, the crowd never quite looked the same since.

Chandeliers became menacing, as did plum skies pouring through the window, tall stairs and ceilings riddled with a tiny feeling. Familiar faces, they had always been there, even in the last few years. Some were new faces he had since learned about, a prying smile, an elegant facade. Ellis never kept track. He couldn’t recall their names or their whereabouts, or the color of their eyes. They knew him once, and he knew them in some strange mutual way, and then they would leave and learn eachother’s names again a year later.

Two faces ahead of him he could never forget. Suddenly he was no longer staring at a reflection of himself but Twin’s dress and Xander’s suit, both turned back to him yet still eerily recognizable. The white gold jewel sat securely on his bow (which surely someone on the floor found egregious), and a wreath he held loosely and delicately as though it were glass.

Their exchanges were indiscernible. Too far ahead in the crowd to perhaps wave or say hello as much as he’d like to.

Unfamiliar, and unlike Twin’s—he would even say neither resembled another in any discernible way—uptight, the face by his side turned in nervous occasional glances. They met eyes, tightening silence hung over him, gold-plates chandeliers.

Suddenly he was looking into a mirror again. A ruffled gown, much too poofy for even an occasion like this, Ellis hadn’t once reconsidered his own attire until that moment.

Her own wreath dug into her hands, changing positions to find what was “correct.” Ellis let part of his hands free for a gesture, raising his shoulders, grinning tensely in an intentional, humorous sort of manner.

“You know, I was fashionably late,”

he remarked, finally linking arms.

“Had I been a second later, I would’ve simply gone home.“

Little did a ball offer him but the opportunity to speak and the exhaustion afterwards. Prior years must’ve worn him down quicker than he ever knew it could, or maybe it was the associations he had made with it. All negative, all inciting nerves he would’ve never otherwise had. It was clear on his face, even through his smile, it was as clear on him as it was on the woman by his side, wreaths in hand, Ellis absentmindedly focused elsewhere until they walked.

She agreed with a half-hearted chuckle and a smile that he could swear was no more willing than the last. Getting through this part of the night was as tedious as homework, if it was anything but that. Pixie dust couldn’t patch up these unfortunate events, but it could sew up the hole in his sleeve last minute. Nothing could truly prolong a moment, not even that. Not even the hands on a clock. Ellis reminded himself that this would soon become a memory, that the repetitiveness of now may become the gratefulness of later. He didn’t believe that, not fully, but it was sometimes difficult to determine which advice meant anything and which was total bullshit.

Sometimes he never wanted to see another mirror.

The poofy-dressed girl’s unsure demeanor had somehow rubbed off on him. They shuffled after the pair a step ahead of them, both sharing the awkward stance like they had never been there before, done that—terrified, dancing clumsily, a party-goer outdone by his current situation.

“If it’s of any help,”

they met eyes again, as uncomfortable as the last time,

“I thought about staying home this year.”

In truth, he couldn’t stand this place any more than he could the sight of his wings.

“Don’t worry. I did, too.” An exchanging of words, quiet to only one another. A step back, turning, Twin’s face beyond his partner’s shoulder. Ellis’s blank, dazed stare quickly a charming smile mid-dance.

cry for love

백현

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[alabast]

cyril d'ambrosio

THEMIS.

interactions- n/a.
mentions- n/a.

Jan 12, XXXX

Cyril is asking about the Ball again. I knew I shouldn’t have read him those stupid stories... Now he’s waddling about how he’s going to meet a prince at the ball too, and get happily ever after and all that kiddy stuff. Fuck, you’d think he would’ve grown out of that stuff…

I lied again but time’s running out. His first ball’s going to be in less than two years, but I still don’t have the guts. I just can’t. Not with him.

How do I tell him the truth?

How do I tell him true love only lives in the next world?

//

“Apologies, sir, though we must continue another time. It appears the Ceremony shall began soon and I’d hate to steal the lime lights,” Cyril lamented gently with a smile.

An apologetic look flickered across his smooth features, purposefully crooked to create a sense of friendliness and with the dance of annoyance in his eyes, one’d truly believe Cyril rued nothing more than the interruption to his conversation with the overdressed man next to him. Of the last few to filter into the ballroom, the two were among them, and Cyril even accompanied him to his seat. The other had not many years on him, but by the way he’d listened intently to the man’s seemingly endless stances on how one ought to run a business in Egress, even laughing at the other’s jokes, it truly appeared that he was very much the naïve heir beguiled by a newcomer in a fancy coat and even daintier vocabulary.

In reality, Cyril can’t even recall his name.

Years of observation has led to him noting several curious trends out of sheer boredom, and one in particular was that often, eager grandeur correlateed with, well, utter bullshit. The fervent need to prove thyself, the initial aloofness which quickly broke into juvenile spite-driven sanctimony at the slightest goad, the over-accesorization. He pitied them, but he was glad he was not them. There are reasons why Lazarus Alley tears itself into existence above all, and it takes far more than some clever quips to even survive, let alone thrive within its calcite walls.

This one was no different, but alas, Cyril must play his part, and he knew the heavy amount of pleansantry he laid will surely lead the other back one day, believing he’d finally found an willing ear. For the other’s sake, he hoped he wouldn't be ordered to use the other as a pawn one day to further the D’Ambrosio house.

As he pulled the other’s chair out for him, the businessman thanked him, pausing in hesitation before he continued in a lowered voice, “Yes, of course. Lazarus and its, hm, ceremonies…” It seemed Cyril was a bit too friendly, if the other already dared to voice apathy to the Debutante Ball to him after talking for barely some twenty minutes. Oops. “I don’t recall the papers ever mentioning your engagement- otherwise I’d have thought you would have wanted to participate as well, being still young and handsome.”

Ah.

His expression must’ve soured, because the other immediately tried to apologize before Cyril cut him off, hand waving for the other to stop, “No, it’s fine. Yes, I insist. My mother wants the best for the family, and unfortunately, none I suggested caught her eyes.” The half-truths began once more as his eyes looked away in thinly veiled disappointment, allowing the other to catch on. His shoulders relaxed slightly as the other clearly believed he must’ve fallen for someone too unfit for the D’Ambrosio wealth, and he then quickly excused himself.

In reality, he almost fainted in relief some month prior when the deal his mother had with his previously arranged match’s family fell through. That is, one of Pandora’s Box’s plans indirectly resulted in the other family going bankrupt. Though such disasters that’d decimate most people of Egress meant next to nothing for the elite bloodlines of Lazarus, it was still a mess his mother wanted no part of, given the whole rebranding and all. Since she was hardly going to waste him on some random fool when he could be playing glorified house in the Ball’s remaining attendees, there he was instead, buttering up newcomers so they’d all flock to the D’Ambrosios when the time called.

By complete accident, he dodged another one of the most dreadful events (tall words for someone who regularly attends Saturday stockbroker brunches in his mother’s stead)- unlike some of his more unfortunate companions.

Cyril swore he could hear them complaining about the Debutante dress code all the way out in the ballroom. He almost felt guilty for leaving them behind, but he convinced himself that there was benefit to him staying out of it (beside the pre-existing personal benefits, of course). With the bounty, it wouldn’t hurt to be more cautious out in public, especially together. If fate grants it so, he could even hope to catch wind of any shifts in their reputation- any slight hint that they no longer blended into the sea of Lazarus residents.

Finding his chair near the ballroom doors just as Madam Heatherstone took the stage, Cyril nodded politely at the attendees already seated before taking his.

This was going to be a long night.

//

How do I tell him it’s too late for us?

coded by reveriee.

 

[miyabi]

click!

ERROR

UR MOM'S HOUSE

location

garden

outfit

interactions

bounty hunters

tags

@ user @ user

FVCK U...

The world only seemed to devour her whole, filled its belly with her and her will; little chance, void expressions of nothing as it lends her no hands to heal. It is then where it stops, abruptly—brands its impression into her back, showcases the disparities: the glowing line between wealth and poverty, beyond repair, the poor thrown into the belly of the beast as they cling onto life, try to make ends meet as is but only trips them further into the vast expanse of desperation, world unleashing its cruelty onto those who already seemed to suffer just as she did. Just as her family did.

It had its fair bits of players, some straight to the point, makes things happen; some didn’t, left them to become only fleeting ideas that were never pursued and were never going to be pursued. Snippets of memories work like that, too. Some will prompt one to act on their own volition, others will make you back yourself into a corner with your tail between your legs.

For Arden? It was a concept of doing something or shit would get worse. Directed aggression towards the subtle, passive aggressors that never seemed to care as much as they said they would. The rich, with their decorative words spun in gold, false promises to benefit their own; they were the real threat, the very people that made her sick to her stomach.

“Tonight, we celebrate an age-old tradition. The Opening Season Ball is one we all suffered through in our youth..."

"...By choice or by force. Yeah, yeah, yeah," she nearly choked on the words repeated, snorted at how blatant they were, but fell less-than-surprised. Arden had to hand it to them, the knack for extravagance had no bounds, the glimmer of riches and shining opulence smacked her in the face. Gaudy, bright, damn right sickening; basking in riches when they could be sharing. "What's next, blood pacts? Freaks." The thought made her shiver; cultish activity in the midst, choking up the air.

Familiar faces spotted crowds, images sparking up a storm against the monitor in her lap, quick fingers tapping against each key with vigor. They cramped up, a soft shake to toss the pain away; cool air seemed to make the digits freeze, but the constant movement kept them from striking up pain. Joyous expressions pained her just as much, the taste of willful-ignorance bitter in the atmosphere. Her stomach twisted, taking in the gleeful audience and their aimless prancing. Palms against palms, dresses flush against each other, the air of arrogance and anxious debutantes. "Hey, y'know," communications channels opened up, a modulated voice shaking through each wave, "this garden's real comfy."

Foliage surrounded her, covered up the trashily dressed body that hid amongst them in a corner, just below a window. Close, she was too close. "You guys want a flower? I got like," with a pause, she counts the picturesque, brightly colored plants in her head, "er. Hella options."

Now, it may not be true: the amount of hatred spent on the higher-class. To some admission of guilt, she'd wished that she could be in their shoes; little worry about the financials, Hell--if she had money like that? She probably would've lived in an estate like this. Cozy, warm, a contrast from the dark-clad, moist underbelly of a city born and raised in. A taste of luxury, only sitting in bushes like these, made her spine tingle. This, however, is only a temporary thought that she will fight--pushes it away, revolted at the idea that she may even become the very thing she sought to destroy under the thick soles of her run-down boots.

She slips a biscuit from her jacket pocket, munches on the delight like a raccoon that hasn't eaten in days. And then she speaks, mouthful, chewing between each word, "you uh. You think they won't notice if I take a lil' somethin' somethin' for myself?" A free hand flicks a leaf upward, masked eyes watching it bounce, "hypothetically speaking. If I went in there and took like, say," Arden taps on the keys again, focuses in on an ornate vase through the eyes of her drone, "a fancy vase. How would they know?"

One last score and she'd be free of debts, be able to disappear again.

There was a point to this, a small thought of selfishness that provided an answer towards selflessness: the meticulously made object could help with the bills, her parents' bills, brothers, Hell. They wouldn't have to worry much, just as long as she could get those sticky fingers on it. "Fucking with you. Sorta," she speaks after another breath, controls the drone and listens to the near-silent whirring as it runs laps around the hall, fitted in spaces to go unseen. "Keep a look out in there, these dickbags gotta be somewhere."

6 different ways to do

♡coded by uxie♡