Hello, everyone! after dealing with real life and the other nonsense of living, panny and i have decided to bring back war of change. give a round of applause. we’ve worked through all of the information and hopefully improved coherency and cohesion; however, tell us if we missed something. eventually, we’ll announce an event to celebrate the re-opening, so look out for information on that. -RAIDNE, THE HEAD ADMIN
From the moonless night, screams of terror and fear resound, spreading across the world and infecting the masses; however, those sleepless nights occurred years ago. A new era began with the fires of war, and with no end in sight, the residents of Selene Isle trudge through life, basking in the momentary peace. Despite their prayers for continued monotony and peace, a storm brews, stirred to life by the continued presence of Rapture and Wraith. And as we set our sights on the seemingly peace laden isle, we must ask: how shall this tale end?
As the years passed, the number of true pairs increased; however, they continued to live in the shadows, catering to the whims of the mundane. Seven Moons kept watch over them all, instructing them and assisting them, but for many, the attitudes and ideals of the organization were smoldering, suffocating. With Seven Moons and the mundanes, they could not grasp the freedom, the power dangling before their eyes. In the beginning, rebellion was a dream, a fantasy, a figment—developed by the repressed and carried forward due to the nature of humanity. No one expected the call to sound, and no one expected the call to be answered. However, it happened.
MUSIC // OUTFIT // LET'S SEE MEPHY TRY AND GET IN WITHOUT AN INVITE? ;D ALSO THREAD NAME IS HILARIOUSLY SMARTASSY
Months now.
It had been months now since she'd arrived. Months now since she'd gotten this job. Now it was all so familiar, like it had always been. and Belle was starting to like this gig. The noise was intoxicating, truly, the position of power she held appealed to her not-so-better nature. But something about this night felt tight. Timid. Like there was something not so unfamiliar on the horizon that she couldn't see through the setting sun's glare.
The music seemed to hang at the fringes of her senses, long since used to to sounds, sights, and the smell, too. And the patrons. Nightshade was used to a particular kind of company, and that wasn't necessarily bad at all. It was certainly food for her, and for the most part, this was not a place these people would find those they were indebted to. It was Raptures lair in one part, and her's in another. The tiger who prowled and watched over the find tuning of the establishment. Well. Her days as a CEO served her well. She had her finger of the pulse of Raptures heart. For now, she didn't know what exactly to do with that.
Not that it mattered at the moment. Always having a job to do. Belle manned the bar section, somewhat away from the dancing fools and drunken idiots. Despite the preoccupation of Nightshade to attend to Raptures finest, the usual bridge of men, women, those in between or not at all, simply indulging. Or drowning. So it goes that all kinds of people found there way in here. Secrets never found there way to the main floor. Belle made sure of that, to say the least. Being neither here nor there in her affiliation certainly did her good. Here, she was on nobodies bad side, by way of being affiliated.
She stood imposing in her suit, seeming to blend into the background if ever the lights gave the dark time to creep in between flashing of neon. Some people simply know her as a ghost, seeming the vanish to and from place to place. She liked that. That was probably her favourite thing about this place. So full of powerful people, but she had the key, so she was King.
Belle felt every thump of bass in her chest, and the hum of life and living about her. She spoke to those at the bar, whether they flirted or poured their drunken little hearts out to her. At the very least, her job was pretend to listen, and kick them out if she did. Just because you were invited, didn't mean you were allowed to get away with anything. And those who tried to get in without one...well, they had the bouncers to face. And Belle, if they were unlucky enough.
It had been a little after nine when the effeminate young man with the poofy blonde hair had taken up the seat on the curb just opposite the infamous Nightshade club. From the viewpoint of the bouncers he was completely unimportant... at first. Simply sitting there, not doing anything, what appeared to be a violin case at his side. Every so often one of them would look over and see the kid saying something. Talking to himself? Or maybe someone else could hear him, via a tiny microphone or some such. The bouncers had been trained to be alert to any signs of trouble, but in this case there was little to be done.
An hour passed. Then two. The boy was still there, unmoved.
The bouncers, by now, were concerned. This kid, whoever he was, had watched a large number of the clubs invite-only patrons come and go, and had been talking to someone on and off in hushed tones the whole time. It stank of trouble. They began to look uneasily between each other after the first hour rolled by; by the time quarter to eleven arrived they were reasonably convinced something was up. One radioed up the chain while another walked across the street and approached him.
Which was when Theo opened the violin case, stood -- with instrument in hand -- and began to aggressively play Bach's Partitia in E.
The music had the desired effect. The bouncer, confused and taken aback, didn't know what to do at first. When he tried to speak over the music the musician simply played louder, all the while with a look of utter serenity on his face like the man wasn't even there. This queer scene played out for several minutes without any kind of progress; at a few points it looked like the larger man was almost ready to grab the violin and smash it, but maintained his professionalism. This bizarre 'fiddler on the roof' was making it almost impossible for him to do his job, after all, and drawing attention from patrons coming in and going out. It was an unacceptable disruption.
Attempt to talk the boy down a failure, the burly muscle-man turned to walk away. Instantly, the violin stopped.
"A message for the good manager, if you please."
The boy had only a faint smile on his face, whereas his unhappy door guard seemed well and truly ready to deck the street musician at this point.
"Who from?"
"From me."
"And you are?"
"You can call me Mephisto." A once-folded long strip of paper was offered by the young man, with an insultingly polite smile. "Please, thank you."
The paper only had two things written on it: one word, and a phone number. "If I deliver your ****ing message, will you **** off, kid?"
"Gladly." 'Mephisto' smiled with a nod.
The bouncer went back over to his partner and exchanged words while Theo packed up his violin. Another radio call went up the line, describing the incident. Details were confirmed. One way or another, the general manager would have to be appraised.
----------------
"Excuse me, ma'am." One of Belle's subordinates approached her, leaning in in whispering tones and doing their best not to bake the impromptu meeting obvious. "We've had a minor incident out front. Nothing too serious, we think, but... rather unusual." The scene was relayed to her in brief, including the bouncers' impressions. "He called himself 'Mephisto' and he said he had a message for 'the good manager' -- I have to assume he meant you. It was a word and a phone number; probably just some stupid kid thinking they're clever."
A small slip of paper, freshly written on -- they weren't about to bring the original into the club, just in case -- was handed over. It's contents were simple and direct. Above the phone number was scrolled, without elaboration or explanation, a single word:
When one of the clubs lackeys seemed to be making a bee-line towards her she was fairly certain something was up. Tonight had a weird and unpredictable feeling about it anyway, so whatever was going on it should be interesting. Or at least interesting enough to keep her attention. Dear god these people knew Belle's patience was sometimes short, and her mood that night was somewhat disagreeable. It wasn't often Belle lost her temper, and she certainly gave off the air of someone who made a storm when she did. He moved closer, looking somewhat flustered, but not as if there'd just been a scuffle outside. She stood at the end of the bar, talking to a few of the regulars, having to pardon the guests as the man pulled her away. Her glare was inescapable.
Taking the paper, she didn't really look to begin with, just him. "Well if that were the case I don't imagine it would be worth bringing to my attention?" Questioning him made him seem even more flustered. "If you're going all this way to tell me about something that might just be 'some stupid kid' you probably won't want to bother." He looked somewhere between being lost for words and simply not wanting to say anything back. Belle didn't really blame him, not that the look on his face didn't amuse her.
There was a short pause between the master and her pawn. She waved him away after a moment, shooed him, folding the piece of paper into her pocket. And she wasn't really sure why when she could have discarded it in the nearest bin and forget about it ever happening, and in a place like this you did forget. The paper felt odd in her hands. Weighted almost, heavy. Almost as soon as she put it away from sight, something seemed to nag at her, something in her gut edged her on. But she had a job to do, a mob she was paid to run with Rapture on her neck...
...But even then...
No. It was probably some kid junkie out to mess with people because the sky was yellow and the lamps purple. But at the end of the day she didn't employ those fools at the front for nothing. But she might still look for replacements.
--------------------
The night went on, as it goes. By that time she was exhausted but not yet ready to clock out. The floor emptied. It was 3 in the morning. The band had packed up and headed out hours before, leaving the cave dwellers to drift about, until she told them to leave. She stood, and surveyed he damage; the broken glasses, the drink stains on the floor, the dropped invites and left behind shoes, illuminated by the bar lights. And yet she couldn't shake it.
Only a few hours ago it had suddenly started to eat at her. She was only just keeping her mood in check when she got around to kicking the really drunk and stubborn out.
She locked the doors, forgetting when and how she'd even gotten there. In a daze. A frustrated expression played about her features. Whatever it was, she didn't feel right. Belle took of her shoes, long since used to the ache of heels, and carried them in one hand. Bravely, she walked across the floor barefooted, and towards the bar. She grabbed a whisky, and lazily poured a single shot to down quickly. Then she sighed.
And the small glass found itself smashed against a wall.
Several minutes passed, the quiet of the establishment and the waft of alcohol fumes carrying with them the same subtle but insistent weight that the last four hours had. And then, of course, Belle's phone rang with a response.
It was a picture message with accompanying text. The image was what could be called a selfie, though not in the normal way; it was a young man without much in the way of visible muscle or fat on him, his bare back to a mirror and the camera lens of a cell phone pointed to capture the reflection. Just between his shoulder blades, scrawled in a font that seemed blacker than ink and yet somehow also slightly reflective, was the word 'GLAMOROUS' tattooed in elegant, flowing script. The crop of the photo stopped just shy of the youth's eyes and just below his waist, so a full sense of his appearance was impossible, but a stray spill of poufy blonde hair was just barely visible in the image.
Belle wasn't entirely sure what to make of the image she's just been sent. She starred at it for a good long time, or until her own phone's screen went dark automatically. A scowl on her face. Glamorous. It was on the back of her neck. Was this what she'd been looking for? Or was this some nutcase with an agenda and too much information? She didn't enjoy being messed around after work, or any other time, either. The warm of the whisky stayed in the throat, an ebbing heat in her stomach that settled her somewhat.
The little brat was certainly cocky. Not that she didn't recognize beauty when she saw it, it was her job. He seemed like the models she worked with, thin and pale. All he was missing was lipstick.
Is this supposed to mean something to me?
She could have simply blocked his number. It wasn't hard, after all. He was no one to her, like so many, but something seemed to be telling her otherwise. Normally so decisive, she was having a hard time deciding what exactly to do. He seemed so sure that she had this in common with him. If he knew how did he know? If he didn't know...why was he guessing? She wanted to send another text, written out on her touch screen. But she couldn't.
There was no room to let him think he had the upper-hand here, in whatever he was trying to do, this Mephisto. Her interest in him was shallow as far as he would know. Belle wasn't going to trust this image. The benefit of the doubt was not in her nature. Nor the trade in which she dealt.
The text made no apologies for or attempts to hide the change in subject; it did it blatantly, brazenly, and yet without malice. There was a brief pause and then a second message followed.
Let's meet in Kuu Park. Does tomorrow work for you? If so, when?
Or, if you prefer to be in control, I can cook for you in Nightshade. Whatever you're comfortable with.
Whoever Belle's unwelcome fan was, he at least knew how to seem polite -- even if he was being undeniably rude by ducking her question in the process.
Absolutely she would be more in control here, at Nightshade, but she couldn't simply go letting random people in. She'd be fired, very simply, and that was not a position she wanted to find herself it. She rather liked her power-role here. His dodging and ducking was irritating. Answer the damn question. All she needed was a straight answer to let this be but whoever this was wanted to make a dance of this, no matter how unwilling she was to play her part.
She thought. And thought. And thought.
Not doubt she probably wouldn't get a wink of sleep if she didn't put this to rest soon. Turning her gaze towards one of the cameras, she thought some more. It was closing hours. There was no information lingering that he could possibly have. He would be invited, by her permission...
...I'll be here.
Out of all the things, this she didn't need. Suddenly she regretted throwing the glass. Right now she needed it back.
It was thirty minutes later when Belle's 'guest' arrived. Even after business hours Nightshade still had all the basic security measures that any business would take; the bouncers may have gone home but in some ways it was easier to get past them than a locked door. The club was all but silent when a short rap at the door echoed to her ears, announcing his arrival.
The young violinist waited outside the door for her to allow him in. His violin case was slung tightly over his back; in each hand he held a bag of groceries -- eggs, milk, orange juice, seasonings, a few hand-picked choice vegetables, bakery-fresh scones with tiny jars of jam and cream, packed lightly with a scattering of ice cubes and loose cloths to keep everything cool and (reasonably) dry. The bags still dripped but only ever so slightly; Theo carefully shook the one that didn't have the eggs as he waited, preferring to get the droplets on the sidewalk than on her floors.
Her floors. Even though she wasn't the owner he still thought of this place as hers. In his mind she commanded any stage she stepped onto, whether it was the runway, a club, or a literal stage. In some regards it was fair to say that Theo was enamored of the retired fashion designer, though far more in the vein of admiration than romance or lust. He knew well from the few interviews she'd given during her career that she was not the kind for such whimsical notions, and although it probably worked just fine for some True Pairs it had nothing to do with the reason he was here.
The devil's voice in his head, so much like his own yet so much stronger and truer, had led him without fail thusfar. Sometimes it led him by clues and hints, other times with things he could never have known on his own. The devil -- his true self, he felt confident -- had guided him here, to her, just as was promised. She had to be the one. It only made sense. The Name. Her name. Everything in every fiber of his being knew without being told that she was his counterpart. She had to be... how many times had the voice reassured him it was so? The human might be weak and hesitant, but the devil moved and spoke without either flaw.
He carefully put the bag -- not the eggs one -- down and knocked again.
That knock seemed to echo through the entire building, and resonate back and forth inside her head for a while. It didn't really seem to fall into place, what that buzzer meant, for a moment. Not until the second irritating buzz seemed to do the trick, and unstuck her from suspended consciousness. Her breath came sharp as she realized, having changed into something looser, getting up and seeming to march towards the door, slowly come too as she went.
Fact remains, however, she did not go to the door. She worked at Nightshade, like hell was she going to manually open the door. It might not even be that stupid kid texting her. For all she knew, with the way the night was panning out so far, was that nothing was unexpected. Though the night was slowly turning into day, and she was feeling more and more distant with the moments, she hadn't yet dropped her guard. Her finger pressed a button down the hall from the door. There was it's own buzz, and a thump-click of the lock being opened. Belle turned and punched in the security code. Leave it for too long and Rapture come running.
After that, she turned, heading back to the bar, turning the chair to face the entrance way. It was him. Her most internal senses told her. Her deep blue eyes starred. And she waited.
The door made a sound that seemed to be it unlocking, but it didn't open. Theo waited a few ticks of the clock to see if someone would come to the other side... but no one did. Still... still, this was it. He felt certain. Her. Here. Now.
He'd come so far... he had no reason to doubt now.
Juggling the bags with a certain difficulty, he gradually managed to work the handle. The door swung open onto darkness, a hallway leading towards a central room. Mindful, the young man carefully shut the door behind him with his shoulder and heard it click and bolt. He was well and truly in the lioness' den now -- whatever happened next was inescapable.
He welcomed it.
"I am sorry to have kept you so late, miss Faustus." He called down the hall, bags in hand, then corrected himself. "Lady Faustus." He said it like it was a royal title, like she was a queen or duchess, and indeed in his mind she was all that and more -- heiress to a great legacy and her own unparalleled story besides. Groceries and thin plastic jostled in the dark still... and gradually he began to make her out, sitting on a chair at the end of his path. She could see him now, clad as he was in skintight jeans, low-cut black shoes without socks, and a trenchcoat that fell somewhere between punk rock and gaudy-gothic in its aesthetics. His bare chest, waxed and hairless, could be seen where the jeans ended and the v-cut revealed. It wasn't one of her outfit designs -- that would, he knew, have drawn a lot of attention under even ideal circumstances -- and, truth be, it was a bit flashier than he liked, but his closet inventory was still a bit limited since arriving on Selene and this was the best, regrettably, that he had. Hopefully it didn't send the wrong message to her.
"And I apologize for the manner in which I reached out to you. You are, respectfully, rather difficult to find -- no published address, no public phone number, well and truly concealed to all but those who need to know." He paused, stopping for a moment to readjust the weight of the bags. "I do understand why, though. Honestly, I do."
The young man looked about uncertainly. "Sorry, this is my first time inside. Is there somewhere I might put these down? The kitchen, perhaps? I really don't mean to impose... just want us to get off on the right foot, if possible."
Though, to look at her and read her expression, he wasn't sure that it was...
MUSIC // TODAY ON MEPHY DRESSES LIKE HIS FACECLAIM! XD
There was a silence. For a while after he'd finished speaking, Belle simply stared him down, like two wild dogs locked in a battle for domination. Even with a face like her's, the prolonged and dissatisfied eye contact was unnerving. If this boy knew anything about her, which clearly he did, he might know she was not famed for her winning personality or stunning capacity to sympathize with the plights of others. Especially not when it involved tracking her down to her work place, spooking her bouncers, and unsettling her for the rest of the night. Maybe a minute passed, her figured illuminated by the bar-lights, before she sighed to herself, letting her head hang, breaking eye contact, before her hand went over the bar, and reached under.
The lights turned on. And there she sat, legs crossed, an expression of scorn on her face. To him it must have been like the reveal of God. An idol and admirer face to face. She felt powerful here, in her den, and he would be able to sense it.
It was something of a sight. A relatively small boy stood like he were running errands, bags of shopping in tow, meanwhile dressed like someone who had his food made for him. Trying to make an impression.
Then...then she froze.
Her gaze became harder and harsher. She stood, the atmosphere forbid him from talking. Something in her was screaming because of him. A moment later she strode towards him like a fury, not seeming to have any plan of stopping. Suddenly, she was on him, looming, almost full foot taller than him, apparently having completely disregarded everything he had said. Reaching out, she grabbed him, turned him around, and threw him over the nearest table. The plastic bags he'd so carefully had hold of dropped to the floor, along with the violin case, as in one movement she'd thrown up the back of his coat and pull his shirt up to his neck and held him there.
-- G L A M O R O U S --
There was a moment where her grip seemed to loosen, the word proudly displayed on his shoulders. Mephisto would almost be able to feel the grin on her face. An almost sadistic chuckle came from her, a nail traced the word across his skin, "So that's how it is..."
"So then." She started, still holding him at his neck, one hand reaching to drive into every pocket she could find, before finally happening across the two balisongs, pulling both of them out, and opening one to examine it. "What do I do with you now boy?" With a name like Mephisto, and a character who seemed out to impress, she wanted to see how he handled the situation. As far as Belle had been told, True Pairs tended to have extremely strong feelings towards each other, but it didn't necessarily have to be anything in particular.
After all, a Fighter who couldn't handle himself was a wasted effort. And a Fighter who wasn't loyal, a waste of time.
Breakfast was in shambles, that much was for certain. To hell with first impressions or apologetic omelets, then. As she held him down, examining him, testing him, Theo's eyes moved about rapidly -- not so much in panic as in frantic thought. This certainly wasn't how he'd imagined it... and he had yet to discern whether this course of things was truly worse, better, or simply otherwise.
He felt her search him. She was prudent, almost violently so. Actually, scratch almost -- the vague scent of spilled vodka and the texture of wood pressed against his face was certainly violent enough. If she was holding him down much stronger he would've started to choke; as it was, she had absolute control of him like this.
Not that she needed to hold him down.
"Whatever you choose." He grunted out. He was in her club, under her grasp, and disarmed. Even so, he could have done something... but he wouldn't. This close he could feel it between them, like a string drawn taut, that bond that had been forged between them before they'd even known each other existed. "You're the one in control here."
He didn't struggle, but he didn't quiver, quake, or beg either. If she wanted to see him defend himself she needed only give him a cue -- if she wanted to have him on his knees and use him as a footstool she could with a word. But...
"If... I may make a suggestion?" Theo did his best to turn his head and look at her. It didn't quite work -- partly because he had jacket tails flung up over his head -- but it was worth a go, he supposed. "A deal. If you are who I think you are, if you have the same Name that I do, then I'd like to make a deal with you, Lady Faustus."
" 'Terms of servitude', if you please." The young devil elaborated, awaiting her response.
He was...interesting to say the least. There was no fighting back, not real struggle. So she let him go. "What terms of service were you expecting?" Walking away and into the bar area, she pulled two small shot glasses. Putting her arms to either side, resting her hands on the surface, she sighed. Pressing a hand then again to her forehead, she poured herself another drink. Certainly, she did look fairly exhausted. Like she'd simply had enough for one day, eyes dark.
Lifting herself up again, raising the small glass towards the still-stranger she seemed to regain herself. "I'm not going to deny it. We share the same Name, whatever that really is. It was the whole reason I came to this place at all and to be frank, had all but forgotten." Maybe it was time to simply try and be agreeable. Technically he was the reason she even came to Selene in the first place, so she might as well try not to hurt him too much. "Just...pick up the bags and put them on a table. I'll get staff on it tomorrow."
Servitude. While she knew she would be the commanding Unit of their 'team' and was pretty used to depicting people, men, in such roles, this boy, barely her age, was right...there. She sighed again. "Have a drink. I'm to tired to be selling you any terms of service sober. Right now, the only term is that you not be a pain in my ass."
Instead of saying anything, Theo simply nodded his silent consent (after putting himself back together). She looked exhausted... and suddenly he felt really bad about what he must have put her through to get to this point. All her aggressiveness melted into more of a general faint disagreeableness, like a flowering cactus -- beautiful if you respected it, but it'd bleed you straightaway if you tried to get too close.
He quickly checked the contents as he put the bags on the nearest table. Half the eggs were shattered, but that was still better than he'd imagined. The orange juice was leaking a bit, as was the milk. Fortunately the scones were perfectly fine in their small bakery bag -- he plucked it out and brought it over with him, taking the offered shot with a nod of thanks. Whatever she was having was strong; he felt it burn and then warm him swiftly on the way down. Trying to be cordial he laid out the scones, cream, and jam on the bar within easy reach.
"Theo Wittenberg." He spoke after a stretch of silence. "My other name." She would understand what he meant by that, no doubt. He briefly considered telling her more up front -- she did deserve to know about his current employment, after all, but perhaps now wasn't the time. Instead he simply confided "I'm a big fan of your work, Lady Faustus."
Belle wasn't one for apologies, and not when she was tired. Though the placement of the small gifts made her conscious twinge in a way she wasn't entirely used to. She wasn't accustomed to remorse or sorrow of any kind, especially not towards another person. Let alone someone she'd just met. But, she supposed, he was a different sort of stranger, and her borderline violent output towards him was altogether inappropriate, to say the least. Normally one of cool, collected demeanor had lost her control to someone who would probably change the course of her life.
And his admitting of his admiration. She sighed a laugh, shaking her head slightly, grinning.
"Belle." She spoke it once, and pause, and then again. "Just Belle." He was just a kid after all. And he'd offered to make her breakfast, an offering of peace. Belle groaned ill contently at her less than charming performance. She was all about appearances and her tiredness had gotten the better of her. "I don't get many male admirers. Honestly, I don't know what I think of them. I do what I do in hopes to make them angry, so when a man calls himself a fan I think he's either missed the point or..." She paused.
A looked crossed her face that seemed like she'd hit a button, and then pleased. "... or they know what it's like." When she had near on assaulted him not a minute ago he didn't seemed to display any signs of having been...compromised in the past. But there were few things is life that truly drove an opposite to stand by the other.
Belle pushed the Balisongs towards him over the counter. Along with $20 note. "To cover the damaged items." It was probably way over, but Belle didn't simply say sorry to anyone. It wasn't in her nature to say sorry for the things she did. In a brief moment, she tapped her nails rhythmically before finally asking a question that she liked to call her favorite test. "Why my work? You called yourself Mephisto and I would be insulted if your attention to my work was simply because of my name." She took a moment, briefly deciding whether two was enough. "You should know that much. We already have one name by which we mean something to each other. And I think one is enough." She decided it was.