#spectrestart

the news was still so blatantly fresh he could hear the mumbled whispers as students passed, heads locked onto phone screens as they went. While he himself wasn’t too bothered over the fate of one Oberon Ashcroft (at all really, ) the reappearance of Octavia and the urgency and fright her words had caused left him unsettled, searching. And so he sat, on the bottom steps of the staircase that led to the corridor of the east wing. Alexandre somewhat avoided the location before this moment, content to skirt around it, find other paths that led anywhere but that tiled hall. His eyes couldn’t seem to waver from where she’d been found for long, the to go coffee held in between his hands losing its searing heat and dulling to a low warmth. It did nothing to quell the unheard roar of thoughts within his own mind. The one thing that could, was nowhere to be seen.

Talk to me! He wanted to shout, walking up and down those halls until she’d appear before him. What’s happening, what can you see that I can’t? I’m doing what I can but this was never meant to be my play. It was you, always you. The ones who believed in her ghost whispered of how vengeful she’d grown, that the bubbly girl he’d known her entire life was morphing into something more wicked than anything before. It scared something in him, and that alone was enough to dismiss himself from morning lectures. Use ME if you have to, O. I can take it. Please don’t go this way. Because that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Whatever Xandre had come to do, it wasn’t enough. Secrets were lodged so deep in every corner of this fucking school and where was he? Wasted in a bar to dull the roar in his thoughts. A heaviness weighted down every thought in his mind, every instinct screaming to reject, rebel, remove. Even now he could feel the urge within him to escape, find anywhere but this school and lose himself in just about anything else. Bodies, bottles, anything but THIS. Reaching into his coat pocket for the flask within, he popped open the lid of his cup and poured in a few swallows full to his americano. A different kind of warmth spreading down the male’s chest as he took a deep pull, huffing as he heard approaching steps across the stairs. 

“ --- IF it’s a lecture, save your breath.”

there was something about a festival in the face of past supernatural events that talbot could not pass up. well, that and the free food. but obviously, octavia had to have something planned. it was just her nature. he just hoped it didn’t have anything to do with the cherry pie he’d scooped up. among other things, t was aware he should keep up appearances at least as long as the imperium society needed reminding of who they had sacrificed to enjoy a cozy night full of bullshit.

“anyone happen to have a fork? they seem to have plenty of plastic knives around here, so at least we’ll be able to recycle them after we’re done stabbing people in the back, eh?”

christian, 04.01: you still awake?

christian, 04.01: i don't think i can sleep until we know what's happening

christian, 04.02: where are you

THE LAST PARTY SHE ATTENDED had been less than ideal in a number of ways. she’d done drugs in the bathroom, indulged in spiked punch, and mended a drunk girl’s broken shoe, effectively missing valuable time to lobby for a crown she’d ultimately been glad had not been hers at the end of the night. although -- of course -- she did not regret the latter. she’d not gotten to dance; to slink about as a luminescent wraith, a queenly wisp of blue silk; to cast off the shackles of the preconceived and entirely false notion that she’d return to school, sans best friend, anything less than herself. at the last party she attended, she had narrowly avoided disaster by instead creating another one -- she would be avoiding seances, ouija boards, and theresa at all costs, if only to avoid acknowledging the doubt that had made it so difficult to focus for days previous.

difficult to focus, too preoccupied for academics and social pleasantries. but never too preoccupied for a chance at an entrance.

and so she makes one, mask donned and ostentatious black gown sweeping along behind her. the clutch grasped in purple-painted fingers contains cabernet sauvignon, and not hard liquor. iskra gill learns from her mistakes. tonight, she intends to be entirely LUCID, to see everything. and so she wipes the remnants of her first indulgence from the corner of her lips, and descends into the fray, eyes set upon the sea of masks that awaits. 

“you could be anyone, couldn’t you?” she lilts, her voice light, playful, with forced nonchalance; too much hangs over their heads to feel any real levity here, “i love a good mystery.”

There’s a stark contrast between his and Lysander’s arrests. The most apparent being the Rolls-Royce that has sat on the curb outside Escalus House intermittently for the past two days. Signifying something Kit secretly dreads more than having to spend the night in a jail cell — his father is up to visit from Kent. Not out of kindness, his kindness had been spent on sending the family’s lawyer sharply after the arrest; this was about damage control. ‘Don’t worry, my dear boy, we shall ensure this all goes away’ without even questioning whether Kit was involved. Kit doesn’t doubt it either. Not with what he knows about the man. About their family. 

As his father enters the car, Kit wonders, for a brief moment, if he will even be able to show his face in his social justice seminar come Monday. So many words wasted about justice being served when Lysander had been imprisoned, yet the other boy hadn’t been afforded many of the same privileges. He cannot help but wonder if Lysander was privy to the fact that get out of jail free cards only came in the form of paying £1000 an hour to a solicitor. If he even had a chance. It’s fleeting though, far simpler to wash down with alcohol, but he’s just as capable of pressing it down to the recesses of his mind - where it will stay this time. 

Folding up her copy of The Chronicle with a deft smile, Larissa chuckled to herself; although her amusement was without any real humour. These days, she had to take scraps where she could find them - and if the next generation of journalists were focusing on winter formal shitshows instead of spreading slander about her family history, she’d take the break. Leaning back in her seat and tossing the newspaper across the table, she inclined her head towards it. “So,” Larissa began, unable and unwilling to prevent a sliver of bitter triumphalism from entering her tone. “Flies. That shit is practically Biblical. I guess someone must have done something really bad.”

ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE WITH A RED LIP AND A SHARP CAT EYE. This was what Octavia and Iskra had always maintained, and it was always the creed they turned to when times were tough -- or, rather, when they had someone or something to squash. Whenever something warranted tackling, the two would retreat to the bathrooms and do their makeup, wearing shades of lipstick they had picked out on vacation together, and checking each other’s eyeliner like valkyries checked their blades. And though they would never show weakness -- barely even to each other -- as it was ugly, unbecoming, and a waste of time, they knew all too well that it was a ritual based in just that: the need to squash a weakness. 

And so she hastened to the most public place she could think of. Rather than the solitude of the bathrooms, she desired to be seen applying her war paint, for whoever had pulled such a disgusting prank on them needed to know that Iskra Gill ate boys for breakfast, and washed girls down with Pinot Noir. She perched beside the fountain, legs crossed, and reached into her bag. From within, she produced a compact and a tube of Yves Saint Laurent Beauté in her color of choice: “Le Rouge”. She’d kissed many a cheek with this color, and stained many a crisp collar. 

But her hands shook. She could barely see her own reflection in the compact, for all she wanted to do was scream. The lipstick hovered, held tightly in her manicured grasp, before her lips. But there were no mistakes in the application of war paint -- and she could hardly do it properly if she could not see herself in her own compact. And there was no showing weakness, either; no one could see her hands tremble, and no one could see her waver. 

And so she’d use it. The ruse was a game, and the game was the mask.

“You!” she called, spotting a familiar face over the rim of her compact mirror, “Hold this for me, will you? I’ll owe you one.”