dualislogs | oh, we dance in misery

oh, we dance in misery

WHO: Open to all Dualizens!
WHAT: the Plague Memorial Masked Ball
WHERE: the Mayor's Mansion (central Dualis)
WHEN: the evening of November 16
WARNINGS: Visuals/discussion of disease and death in the setting. Anything else, please use appropriate warnings!

At 8 p.m. sharp, the lights inside and around the Mayor's Mansion turn up, and the doors are opened to the crowds that begin to trickle inside. All entrances are manned by Iterations, and all party-goers are scanned for both proper attire (formal and masked, mandatory) and weapons (absolutely forbidden) before being allowed entry.

Once inside, attendees are greeted to a spectacle of warmth and light and lavish decorations, all themed in white accented with gold and violet. Venture into the ballroom, and you'll see intricately carved ice sculptures in various representations of death, all laden with garlands of marigolds and violet chrysanthemums. At one end of the room, a rotating cast of musicians plays soft music in differing arrangements of strings and piano. Long tables at the other end of the ballroom are piled high with punch fountains and platters of delicious party foods, and a few bar stations serve beverages of the more adult variety to those of age.

Outside the main ballroom are seven smaller rooms, for more intimate conversations and quiet recovery from the main gala (or just skulking like a brooding weirdo, if that's your thing). Six of the rooms are decorated in monochrome blue, purple, green, orange, white, or violet, and the seventh room is pitch black with red accents.

Throughout the night, the mayor herself winds in and out of the crowds, shadowed by a pair of bodyguards. She is all smiles, greeting people with a friendly handshake and effusive words of thanks for attending the ball, but she never stays in one place long enough for a true conversation. This is a celebration of life and a remembrance of the dead, after all - not the time or place for talks of business or politics.

Enjoy yourselves tonight, everyone! And remember - death eventually comes for everyone.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I'm not sure I'd brag about that." Vincent finds himself more and more confused the longer this conversation goes on, and more uncomfortable. He's never been very good with people. He could guard a body all day long, but interacting had always come poorly to him.

"A ghost?"

"Why not?" She asks with a little more edge to her tone than she intends, unnecessarily proud of it, "You have no idea how many entirely sober, freshly out of training rookies don't even get both feet in the dirt before dying. Popping off drunk and completing the mission successfully is pretty fucking good and absolutely a bragging right."

Oh, wait, drunk. She slows her bullshit, shrugging and letting her voice drop lower but falling short of a whisper as she leans in like it's an secret, "But yea- ghosts. Got murderbot clones, why can't we have ghosts too?"

Something in her wording caught his attention and his eyes narrowed behind his mask somewhat. Her leaning in got his attention even more. To be so uneasy on her feet, to have such slurred speech, her breath smelled pretty good.

"A mission?" His voice was low but gruff, growly almost, but not intentional. It almost sounded as though something might have happened to his larynx at some point.

She decides to play it a bit dumb. She gives no note of any tone, but she does wonder if it's for a reason or if he has damage going on, though his lack of any aggressive cues makes her tilt more to it being something fucked in his throat. It does press in her thoughts to keep an eye on his body language, just in case.

"Loads of missions," She ends up finally replying with, letting a hand wave in an exaggerated gesture at nothing, her own voice heavily toned with bragging and an edge of cockiness, "I'm a space marine, one of if not the best in my special military program. Knocked out tons of missions, kinda awesome like that, just so you know."

Whether that's what he was asking about or if he was asking if she currently was on one, she's not sure, honestly, but she's going with it. Careful to keep just a touch too loud and too close, focusing on her 'drunk' act a little more, not wanting another almost slip up.

He was following along the best he could, trying to connect her story with pieces of knowledge he possessed, but her profession was beyond him and he shook his head slightly.

"What's a...space marine?" He looked apologetic even as he spoke the question. He didn't mean any insult, if it occurred, after all. "And...are you a space marine here?" He had, after all, been inquiring about this potential mission, but now he was growing more and more confused.

It might be asked with an apologetic look, but South has to pause and stare a long, hard second to the question. Right. Most people haven't even gone off Earth, much less have any idea what a space marine means outside of the basic definition of each word, if even. Still, it throws her a bit each time, having grown up with this as the norm back home.

"A marine in space," She starts simply enough, trying to bite back any condescending tone, "Big suit of armor, lots of guns and fighting, war in space, typically against aliens but sometimes other people."

South straightens up just slightly, keeping the 'drunk'ness in mind as she eyes him, "No, I'm a bodyguard for the Mayor around here. And doing some deputy work with Hank- not a lot yet, but some real prestigious titles." Because she is awesome, obviously.

A bodyguard. That was a position he was actually familiar with. Before his long slumber, it had been his job, too, though not for anything so influential as the mayor. Not yet. Not...ever, but that was beside the point. He tilts his head to the side curiously.

"Are you off-duty?"

"I mean, ehhh, yea? Kinda?" She gives a wavy hand gesture, exaggerated of course and no doubt too close to his face for comfort. "Spent the first half on duty, got cut loose unless something happens but...this place is as dead as the decorations."

South glances around and looks as if she might finally walk away and leave the poor man alone- and then she just gives an unsteady step or two and really doesn't go anywhere.

"Besides, like I said, plenty of drop missions when drunk, can handle this fine just a little tipsy."

He narrows his eyes slightly at the woman. "You're on call." There's an almost disapproving tone in his voice. "And so you got drunk." He Pauses a moment in his assessment of her, somewhere between disapproval and indifference.

"Did your drop missions involve imposter robots often?"

"Hey, okay, you can drop the judgmental tone, pretty boy." She scoffs and points a finger up at his face, her tone a mix of almost light teasing but there's an edge still sharp to it- because she's mildly amused at the idea of him thinking she can't still handle her shit even if she really was entirely black out drunk, but also fuck him for judging her behavior and doubting her abilities. "I can still rip someone's head off their shoulders even when drunk."

Then, she cracks a grin, sharper than the touch to her tone had been and too toothy, more amusement with a heavy dose of cockiness dripping from it, "Not exactly. We just played with the usual, ya know, giant fucking monster aliens called Covvies who were wanting to de-bone our bodies, and their hidden snipers trying to ambush us left and right, and then there's those invisible bastards who you don't even see until you're toe to toe and dodging a last second swipe of a blade, plus stealth Covvies that don't show up on radars and blend seamlessly with their surroundings- just lots of hidden and hard to spot little gems wanting to kill us before we kill them, wanting to wipe out humanity before we can stop them." She rambles, rattles off, more than happy to brag and shine some light on her achievements. It might have some exaggerations to the details, but overall it's pretty well true to the facts.

"If I can handle all of that weekly to daily- if I still fuck them with whiskey dick... I think I can handle if the murderbots try to come around again. Or another bomber pops up. Or anything else this fucking place can toss my way. I've got spotty memories of heavy missions, details blurred from too many shots the hour before drop. And ya know what? I always got in, hit em hard, grabbed fallen teammates or civilians or sensitive data and equipment- whatever the target was, and made it back to Evac with little to no injuries or losses and another successful drop under my belt. And that's not even counting Freelancer- though they're...less okay with you going in shitfaced for missions. Can and have done it, with copious amounts of success, but it's a good way to drop down the leaderboard and have a sleepover in the brig, so, eh, don't do it as much in the Project."

Is it professional to do shit like that drunk? No. Is it a good idea or safe? Nope. Does she care even in the slightest...? Well obviously not. She'd still do the same again, every time.

Nodding to herself, her tone is maybe just a touch too steady for "drunk" during all her wildly unnecessary yammering, but her movements are exaggerated like a drunk's should be, the previously pointing finger turning to an open palm as she gestures when speaking. She's wide waving that hand at nothing as her words spill out in the flood of noise, the other hand staying planted firmly as if it's the only thing keeping her properly upright. And there's at least the faintest hint of a scent to her breath as she leans in to invade his personal space again. Its some sort of fruity drink smell, though it doesn't really have the musk of alcohol... but maybe the drink was just really, really well made-!

South points at him again as she finally stops talking for half a breath, then she's chewing that fat once more as she reaches out in an attempt to pat his chest.

"Don't worry, buddy, I'll keep you safe if any more scary things show up." And it's, again, said more teasing than anything. Her voice isn't exactly, entirely condescending but it's, well... it's more of a playfully patronizing tone. He doesn't look hapless or like he'd need saving or protecting, but she can't help picking a little. Judge her, she'll judge too, regardless of if it really even makes sense.

"Mmm." It was the only comment he made on her demeanor, but listened to her tale. It sounded fantastic, exploring the far reaches of space, fighting giant space monsters with advanced weaponry. Like something from a science fiction novel. Shinra had never gotten their own space program off the ground before scrapping it for research into the JENOVA project, though that thought itself gave him pause. JENOVA itself was from beyond the stars. He found himself wondering if these giant space monsters she mentioned were from a similar place.

"I don't need your protection." Aside from having extensive training, and without armor to boot, and inside of him was a beast that would rear its head if his life was in danger.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

oh, we dance in misery

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