#lfl.starter

Val's never felt so fortunate as they are, sitting comfortably at the bar-top with a little grin. Pale eyes only see blurs around them so they turn to the shifting shapes that spell out a person by their side. "So I scored a free drink because both bartenders made the same order by accident... I dunno, y'think I can continue my stroke of good luck? Anyone else out there who looks like they would pay for a lovely psychologist's next fruity cocktail?"

Yelena wasn't great at this sorta thing. At caring.

Crowds and music and flashy wealth never sat right with her. It was all a bit much. A bit too in her face. A bit too chastising. She thought back to the fucking disaster of an apartment she grew up in, how wires hung loose from the ceiling like big bright snakes. How they couldn't use the freezer because rats had built a nest in it. How Oksana hadn't bothered to fix any of it.

Yelena glanced across to the long tables over laden with food, lobster tails and caviar on silly little crackers, and thought explicitly, of burning the whole Hippodrome to the fucking ground.

She made a noise then, a deep grumble of disapproval in her throat and then, stalked away from her little vantage point over the main floor. She was handed a glass of wine by a waiter, and upon a closer inspecting sniff, Yelena decided it was no better than dog piss in a nice glass.

She promptly dumped it on the floor and wondered if she hung around long enough, would she see some snotty old-money bat slip, trip and crack a hip on it.

"Get lost-" Yelena said suddenly, aware of the presence at her side. She was still holding the empty glass, her grip tight around the slim stem. She didn't bother looking, didn't bother doing much other than stare at the puddle on the floor and pick absently at the scab on her eyebrow, a pretty little souvenir from her last gig.

Admiring the newly updated sign on the front of the truck, Eira smiled enthusiastically at the person who approached, waving as she did. Despite the late hour, she remained canty and greeted them cheerfully, "Hi there! Welcome to What the Truck Vegan Tex-Mex! What have you been up to tonight? What can I get for you? Whatever you choose, I highly recommend the Mexican hot chocolate-- it's delicious."

When: March 2024

Where: Liddell Hippodrome

If you had asked him a week or two ago, Ansel would have excitedly said there were few things he loved more than a masquerade theme and launched into a rant about how he was developing looks any of the other Jolly Rogers who didn't have the time or the stylistic eye to put something together that would be up to par but still blend in- a complex mix of thrifting, hand tailoring and shopping for strategic pieces that had taken up nearly all of his studio space and practically had Ansel wagging his tail like a proud puppy.

The day of, however, hurriedly checking people over in the vestibule of a mostly-ignored back entrance with a shorted out security camera was a very different story. "I had to hand cut this whole suit to fit you properly and learned couture-passible leather working in a fucking month to make the mask you wanted." He leans in, smoothing the jacket over their shoulders and whispering in their ear. "If they get ripped, scratched or stained in any unplanned way I'll kill you myself. If you're lucky, I'll take the time to make it look like Liddells did it, and you won't you won't have a heart cut into your forehead. Are we clear?"

It wouldn’t be entirely accurate to say that the day’s festivities aren’t up Max’s street. On the contrary, if the horse racing had taken place at a different venue (ideally one without his family name attached), he’d be carousing with the best of them, his seemingly-endless supply of money transforming miraculously into champagne and betting slips.

Not so, tonight. Following his recent conversation with his older brother and the unpleasant reminder that his supply of money is not, in fact, endless, Max is on his best behaviour, and disturbingly sober for an event where he’s at constant risk of bumping into one of his siblings.

He winds up at the bar in spite of himself, irretrievably caught in the gravitational pull of the one thing that promises to salve the wound of his being here - but one drink couldn’t hurt, surely?

His mind made up, Max signals to the bartender for a finger of whiskey, then turns his attention to the person standing beside him, the warmth of his smile clearly visible beneath his half-mask (which is admittedly doing precious little to preserve his anonymity). “So, are we celebrating a victory, or drowning our sorrows?”

Lukesh hated being included in something when they weren't on the job. When their face was recognised or when they felt that annoying itch that they had to participate, which is what they did. And after they always regretted it. They weren't dressed to deal with it, their shirt was ripped and their lip bleeding.

But a few of the fighters had been arrested and they were free to continue their night. As if that was such an easy thing to get back from. Lukesh licked their lip and hissed at the pain. "Fuckers and alcohol, I swear, almost makes me want to take up drinking myself."

It wasn't that a masquerade party was really that much more dangerous than any other formal event--from a security perspective, people's hands were more telling than their faces--but considering everything else that was going on, Ender didn't like being surrounded by so much anonymity. And even though Hector could have had a bit of privacy, too, the Prime Minister had refused to wear a mask. So now everyone knew who he was without having to reveal their own faces, and Ender didn't like that at all.

Ender wasn't wearing a mask, either, which meant anyone familiar with Hector's public appearances could have recognized him, but in a plain dark suit at least he wasn’t dressed like a cop. He hoped that would help him figure out what was going on. All of today’s complications—the protest, every fiasco at the racetrack—seemed like more than just coincidence…and yet, his team hadn’t been able to draw any conclusions. So, after leaving Hector in the care of a few trusted officers, Ender had decided to take a short break from his post. If he had any luck, he’d find some clues about what was happening—and at the very least, he wouldn’t be starving anymore.

The buffet table was filled with hors d’oeuvres and desserts of every kind, and as he chose a selection, Ender turned to the person behind him. “It’s crazy out there, isn’t it?” Every time the music stopped or conversation lulled, the protestors’ muffled chanting would fill the silence. “Did you have a hard time getting inside?”

He's never put a lot of stock into what's fated or written in the stars, but the one thing horoscopes can reliably get right about Sefa is that rituals are sacred and not to be disturbed without a good reason. Especially if they're one of his few indulgences. For example, he only drinks decaf exactly once a week: once the office closes Friday evening, and he can go out of his way to the slightly more obscure coffeeshop for a decaf caramel latte, a couple teacakes, and some delicious peace and quiet.

People who know him know exactly where he is, and usually avoid it.

There's a low rumble of conversations scattered through the mostly empty shop and some softly crackling jazz in the background, and periodically one of the baristas has to go over and futz with the record player if it starts to skip. Sefa lets himself close his eyes and breathe out.