#ft.klaus

the whole affair is decidedly more ‘refined’ than the entirety of one klaus hargreeves… however - he’s not one to miss out on a party.  any party.  he could give two shades of a shit for propriety.  and for the most part - people are managing to avoid the slender seance - dressed in a smart tuxedo jacket - no shirt, a leather kilt type skirt and a neon pink feather boa.  his appearance likely far too – tragically common and wholly abrasive – for those of seemingly more lofty classes to rub shoulders with.  most giving him a rather wide berth.

eh, fuck ‘em.

he’s chemically enhanced enough to have drowned out any and all voices of the dead - no fun going to a party when you have a gaggle of spirits shrieking about their unfinished business for 24 hours - and the pills and potions have left him lax and mellow.

“what’s a guy got to do to find a decent vermouth around here?”

attempting to orient to the closest bar.  because hell, when people are disappearing off the streets and the bodies are piling up, what better distraction than a shindig - during which people can probably do at least one thing they regret... preferably two...

[tw: alcohol, tw: drug useage mention]

“it’s called a hangover, darling.”

or a comedown.  or an unhealthy slice of both.with the dead unsettled the shrieking in his mind had been somewhat incessant enough at one point to cause him to utter a scream of his own - grabbing with trembling hands at the last thread of his sanity.  and - while he should probably be ‘on his guard’ or whatever it was that people did when murderers and kidnappers and whatever else were prowling the streets – klaus had foregone that caution in favour of becoming absolutely numb from the toes up.

“and this, atypically, is referred to as ‘hair of the dog’.”  

raising a glass with some manner of amber liquid… possibly brandy this time…

“sobriety is vastly overrated.”