meadowlarklogs | one night of magic rush

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one night of magic rush

WHO: Cain, Prompto, Hideki Maeda, and you!
WHERE: The popular Asylum club.
WHEN: Night of October 26.
WHAT: Cain and Prompto's joint birthdays!
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Beyond drinking/smoking, general wild party behavior, and fake friendship, there shouldn't be much. Will update as needed.

[Set deep in the downtown of New Amsterdam's entertainment district is Asylum, arguably the most popular club in the city. The exterior is cool steel beams and tasteful futuristic architecture with a long line down the corridor, suited bouncers posed at the entrance all armed with a virtual guest list. Its interior is fashioned with bright, colorful lighting dynamic to the music of the infamous DJ Semicolon, high ceilings and acoustic sounds to lend that feeling of a constant full-body hum. Any partygoers on the guest list for this event will be funneled toward the VIP section. They will have received an invitation a few days prior via their Cooltalk profiles. Jason is specifically blacklisted, sorry buddy.

DANCE YOUR HEART OUT. Nearly impossible to book without deep pockets or wide-reaching connections, Semicolon is at the top of their game mixing popular contemporary hits with Whitney Houston's classics. From song to song, Semicolon provides a unique and talented contrast of the slow to the energetic, so no matter your dancing style, you'll find something to move you on the dance floor.

DROWN YOUR... LIVER. Courtesy of the party's host, Hideki Maeda, the VIP section's private bar will provide an ever-flowing river of your favorite expensive high-proof alcohol. Pick your poison.

CHILL OUT. Tired on your feet from too much dancing, or just need a break from the packed atmosphere? There are plenty of comfortable areas where you can relax and take it easy until you're ready to get back out there. The lights around this area cycle through different colors in reflection of Semicolon's performance set, so a slower song might lend toward romantic shades of red while a faster-paced song is brighter blue.

SMOKE, EAT & MINGLE. Asylum will be serving real, fresh meat at this party, so enjoy that luxury while it lasts. There is also an outdoor area with a beautiful view over the city itself if you want to take your vape pen out there for a smoke, just get some air, or see who's around for a chat.]

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[ This time the surprise does ripple across her face. For all that they've gone to hell and back with and for each other, Peggy doesn't know too much about Cain — just as he doesn't know much about her. It hasn't impeded their friendship any; she would still dive deeper into the unknown hell of a dreamscape and pull him back out, would still fight at his side. Combat forms bonds, it's the oldest kind of friendship she's known.

But it's nice, she thinks, to get a glimpse of a life off the field. ]

I didn't realise there was much call for ballroom dancing on Mars.

[ It's teasingly said. Her smile softens some as she remembers, with a dull pang, another man entrenched in war who asked her for a dance lesson. Different time, different circumstances. The sentiment remains; it's a sweet thing to know how to do — for yourself and others, too. ]

I'd be happy to show you a few steps. What sort of dancing did your grandmother like to do?

Not that, no.

[No ballroom dancing as Peggy likely understands it. With a grimace he leans away from the railing, both hands still braced atop it. The memory isn't a poor one — far from it, in fact, the nostalgia is a sharp pang of comfort and longing — but it does carry some measure of embarrassment. That he decides to share at all is testament of his trust in Peggy, and because he wants to.

He's never spoken much of his family to others. Those earliest memories of companionship and belonging that he's kept sheltered from the harsh turn of his life in those later years, where everything he did was wrong but he was backed into a corner with no seeming choice.]

Folk dancing. [Cain looks out over the city to give himself a distant point to focus his attention.] Russian. [His heritage isn't too obvious at first glance, he knows.] It was a big deal for her. Kept the tradition alive, or something. I was really young so I've forgotten most of it. [A lie. So sue him.]

[ She lets him take his time; doesn't press, doesn't rush. People seem to have the assumption that one must always be ready to do such things as an intelligence operative, but Peggy doesn't treat her friends like marks. She recognises the value of being confided in like this, just as Fitz had done with her a few days prior — and just as she'd listened without judgement then, so does she here.

Trust is a hard thing for people like them, the lives they've lived, the worlds they've come from. But when all they have is each other in this world, you learn to open up a little more to survive. She's still learning. ]

I'm sure you remember more than you think. All it takes is a little music jog the reflexes. [ It's been years since she's done more than sway in a slow circle to some torch song. There's a stretch of silence and she adds, voice softer, ] I've spent some time in Russia. It wasn't really the time or place to soak in the culture, though. Beyond the language.

[ The war being what it was. ]

Do you speak it?

[It's a worthwhile point. He hasn't hunted down any traditional songs, assumed they wouldn't exist in this reality and this time period, but maybe there are still kernels of his culture somewhere within the internet's vast resources. Then again, would he truly want to revisit them?

At the question, he nods.] Yeah, I do. I'd show you if I could. [A faint smile curves his lips - it was frustrating to go without. Now he's used to it, although the occasional curse slips free and is automatically translated.] I'm not... from Russia, exactly. Never lived there or anything. Born and raised on Mars like my parents. That's just where our people came from, and the colonies always tried to keep that culture alive.

[Through dancing, cooking, the preservation of language. And yet he's begun to see pieces of it chip away with time, from generation to generation. A result of the military's influence, too, no doubt.]

What was it like when you went?

Edited 2019-05-30 07:11 (UTC)

[ She huffs out a breath at the comment about language. She's fluent in four, including English, and while she'd used most of them for blending in (with the French countryside during the occupation) or codebreaking (German, Russian) for work, it's still a loss she feels keenly. And Peggy nods at the rest; makes sense, holding on to the vestiges of home when you're so far from it. Societies have done that for centuries as the world grew larger. And now it's grown beyond the borders of Earth — both here and in Cain's world.

Strange, to think that the cities she called home no longer exist in 2511. Does that mean they need to keep those memories alive now too? Art, music, literature, film. Ancient history. Anachronistic, just like her style.

Peggy glances from Cain to the city beyond at his question. It's a hard thing to answer because he has no memory of a place his family called home and hers... isn't a pleasant one. But she wouldn't lie to him, either, so: ]

Cold. [ Stalingrad, 1945. She can still feel the bite of winter through her clothes, hear the gunfire echoing through a snowy forest (maybe because the memory had been dug back up in the dreams). ] A blizzard had trapped half our battalion in enemy territory and a blockade stood between us and them. We fought our way to our boys, in the end. Got them out. But it had been a harrowing few weeks.

[ She takes a sip of her drink, then sets it back down on the inner edge of the railing, perfectly balanced. Her lips press together in an apologetic smile and she looks back to Cain. ]

Probably not the story you wanted to hear.

Edited 2019-05-30 07:37 (UTC)

[Cold. In her description he sees an image of his own world, the small village of New Volga, beaten down and covered in a heavy white blanket of quiet snow. Maybe that's why his people have done so well in the frigid wasteland climate of Mars, maybe it's because they come from a place just as unforgiving on Earth itself. That is, assuming his Earth and Peggy's bear any resemblance to each other.

He still wants to hear it. Maybe he'll never see the country of his ancestors, but she offers some far-flung glimpse of another world, one bound to him by his heritage.]

Wasn't really expecting anything, to be honest. It's cold on Mars too. Snows all the time.

[An atmosphere terraformed as the UN colonies here hope to be, yet not one that has offered a lenient environment. Cain puts the vape to his lips, draws in another white cloud of vapor and breathes it out toward the sky.]

So, you ever do anything besides work and fight wars?

[ She isn't surprised to hear space is cold, but to hear it snows on Mars is a revelation. She doesn't know much about the terraforming efforts happening in 2511 but she's tried to keep up and she guesses that's part of it; that, and the atmosphere stabilisers that jut through the sky right here in New Amsterdam. Technology truly is a marvel.

Red lips quirk in a wry smile at the question and she studies his profile for a moment, the stream of vapour that curls into the night sky. ]

I do the odd crossword puzzle when I have a moment. Otherwise no, not particularly. [ She raises her brows, almost amused. ] I happen to enjoy my work, you know.

[ She takes a beat, thoughtful, before holding out a hand for the vape as if to say, May I? ]

Does it seem like I don't?

[Her answer earns a snort of amusement, lounging against the railing, bent forward with one boot kicked up and hooked into a metal rung.]

Crossword puzzles? [Cain's own expression is razor-sharp, mouth hooked into a sideways smile.] Look, not my place to judge what you find fun, obviously it's not this shit. [A gesture back toward the interior of the club, its sweaty tangle of bodies, everyone's sobriety saturated in alcohol and lost to the steady lead of music.] And not saying you don't enjoy work, either. 'Cause it's pretty obvious you do. And you're good at it.

[Everything about her is buttoned-up professionalism, in a way he's seen Abel at times, devoted to work enough to spend several hour chunks of time. With Abel, however, he's found ways to coax him from screens and encourage disconnection — reconnection in other realms. Relaxation.]

Just wondering if you ever really let your hair down, Agent Carter.

[ She rolls her eyes but it's obviously good-natured. She can't help but think of the time she and Mr Jarvis infiltrated the racetrack and he'd been appalled by her lack of Hollywood knowledge. What is it you do for relaxation, assemble rifles? She didn't have a retort then, nor does she now.

Truth of the matter is she hasn't had time — and she doesn't allow herself to find it. Work is familiar, comforting, exciting. It staves off the worst of being trapped here, feeling impossibly out of place. She hasn't had a day off since Pearl Harbour. (Maybe she doesn't know how to enjoy one after seven years of hard fighting.) She takes a breath, releases it in an easy laugh she doesn't quite feel in her bones. ]

I would, if this atrocious haircut grew any faster. [ It had brushed her jawline when they first arrived. Now her hair barely skims the tops of her shoulders, but she still curls it out of habit. She hasn't had it this short since the war. ] I'll have you know I went to the pictures with Fitz the other evening and did one of those ridiculous escape rooms with Markus at the festival.

[ All right, it was a little fun. ]

What else would you have me do?

[As if her comment's reminded him, Cain lifts a hand to drag through the length of his hair, flattening bangs across his browline. Still messy, still wild, but cropped much shorter than her own current length.]

Atrocious? I think it looks good on you. [Fancy, a little dated (as if he knows anything about vintage fashion except that Peggy's style is not identical to those who are native here), nothing like the soldiers he's so accustomed now. It reminds him a bit of civilian life.] And 'the pictures'? Seriously?

[Okay, so those examples aren't horrible. Team building. Maybe they'll have to figure out how to escape a closed-off room someday? But it's still a far cry from what he means.]

Teach me the foxtrot, and we'll do that.

Edited 2019-06-05 01:35 (UTC)

[ She shoots him a Look at the friendly dig about her dated slang. Yes, Cain, pictures, as in motion pictures. God, she recalls when they were called talkies and that wasn't even too long ago for her — a childhood a world and centuries away, yet not to her memory. Time is strange.

Fortunately, she masters her anachronisms at work and with the locals. With her fellow Displaced, she needn't work at the mask. (Oh, there's still a mask, but it's less of one here.) ]

You'd be my first dance partner in quite some time, you realise.

[ She doesn't mean it as a disservice to Dr Wilkes. But a few beats in the middle of a song felt more like a promise for more later than anything else; and they never got that later. Something of a pattern with her, as it happens. ]

I might be a little rusty.

[Easily digesting that look with a lazy, easy smile of his own, Cain takes another drag off the end of the vape pen to exhale its white cloud out over the city.]

You're rusty? I haven't even tried whatever this dance style is, not like I'm gonna notice.

[His own rustiness goes beyond time, as he can't remember the last time he did anything more formal and technical than the modern do-what-you-want manifestation of movement in practice at this moment on Asylum's dance floor.]

Trust me, I can handle it.

Edited 2019-06-09 03:49 (UTC)

I'm sure you can. We might even graduate to a jive if you manage not to step on my toes.

[ An old joke from an old life, that. Peggy watches the smoke curl into the air with mild interest and lets the silence settle comfortably between them for a few heartbeats. Strange, to think of something so normal as dancing the way they used to. Dance halls, big bands with big brass that never stopped playing even over the wail of air raid sirens. Maybe some things never change.

Peggy purses her lips thoughtfully for a moment then shifts her angle, leaning an elbow on the rail so she can face Cain — and she holds out a hand for the pen, fingers crooking twice. ]

Come on, then.

[A sharp laugh precedes him surrendering the device, sleek and black with a silver button that glows when engaged, heat filling the chamber attached to the cartridge of nicotine oil.]

I've got no fucking idea what a jive is, Agent Carter. Just a warning.

[He stands faced toward the railing, posture slanted slightly, one hand on a hip. He knows he'll need to head back in lest Hideki note an extended absence, but for this moment he'll enjoy the sincerity.]

Press the silver button so it turns red, then inhale. Pretty easy. Not like a real cigarette, but it does the trick.

It's more your speed than a foxtrot. That's all you need to know.

[ But one must start with the basics before breaking the rules and letting loose. Which is roughly how Peggy Carter seems to tackle friendships, too — she'd attended Fitz's birthday party barely a week after arriving and had kept mostly to herself. The same holds true now but the warmth is deeper, more sincere.

And after a cursory inspection of the device and Cain's instructions, she takes a drag or two. It's certainly smoother than the Cravens or Lucky Strikes passed around during the war. (And the less said about Dernier's Gauloises, the better.) But she passes it back with her lips curved in a slight smile. ]

No, it's not quite the same. Strange to think they've replaced almost everything with a machine in this day and age. Even us, a little.

[To her first comment, Cain elicits a small snort of laughter. He'll have to take her word for that, although it's yet to deter him from wanting to try it. The foxtrot. Since she's made the comment already, and it's clear dancing holds some value — in knowledge, familiarity, or otherwise — to Peggy. So he'll let it rest for now, but he won't forget to pester her later. Or at least do his own research into how it works.]

Even us. Fuckin' bizarre, I mean, I've flown in spaceships and been on space stations but never had something like this in my body. [He reaches up to tap the healed scar at the back of his here where the implant is tunneled inside.] Or the blue thing in our chests, whatever it is.

[He knows someone once tried to cut it out and was not successful. Whether it's a piece of scientific engineering or actual magic, he's not the person to ask.

From somewhere inside, he hears his name called. It soon builds into a drunken chant of Cooltalk invitees who have noticed his marked absence. Cain sighs, takes back the vape pen, and rubs his face.]

Should get back. Already feels like I need another drink.

[ She's never been operated on in her life. Sure, she's had bullets pulled out of her shoulder and been impaled, but that all seems relatively tame in comparison to technology being threaded through your mind. Peggy parts her lips to reply — not with such intimately morbid details, but to ask another question — when she's cut off by the crowd at the party.

Duty calls, her sympathetic smile seems to say. She knew their little respite together would be short-lived, but it was good to have, all the same. Peggy nods in understanding then catches his arm with a fleeting touch (barely enough to elicit the bond, but there is a flicker of warmth). ]

Before you go...

[ She polishes off the last slip of whiskey in her glass then sets it aside on spindly table. Hands now free, Peggy opens her evening bag and pulls out her gift: a single piece of chocolate. It's small — in her day, it would be one bonbon in a box of many — but that's not possible in this future. Still, she wonders if a young man brought up on Mars would have had chocolate at all. It's why she picked it. Chocolate was precious during the war, too. ]

It's not another drink, [ she's saying, as she holds it out to him. ] But happy birthday, Cain.

[Drawn to a halt, Cain swings back a step and drops eyes onto the small gift. At first, he isn't sure what he's looking at, but after a few moments the recognition dawns. He's seen enough imitation-chocolate in shop windows to match the difference. His own home had no hint of it, imports too highly priced even in the barest form and the soil too barren to support the cocoa bean's fragile life.

Immediately, he wonders how much she spent on it. Doesn't feel as though it's a gift he should take — assuming, knowing it's real chocolate.]

Better than a drink. [His fingers curl delicately around it.] You really shouldn't have. Thanks.

[Tempted to eat it now, he decides to wait until he can enjoy it.]

Still gonna get you back for that freebie punch you snuck in. [She'll know what he means.] Come meet me at the gym someday. Got it?

[ Her smile grows a quiet fraction and she shakes her head gently at the rejoinder — you shouldn't have. No, but she wanted to. It's a gift not unlike a fine bottle of wine or whiskey but not nearly as grand. It suits their friendship that way, she thinks, that it comes down to a single piece of chocolate and a quiet chat on the fringes of a wild party. ]

You're welcome, [ she manages to reply, before he slides in with his next remark. It elicits one of her rare laughs, no less warm for its brevity. ] And yes, got it. I don't expect you to make it so easy next time.

[ And she's looking forward to it. Peggy considers him for a moment, fond, then inclines her head towards the doors. ]

Go on with you, then. I'll talk to you later.

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one night of magic rush

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peggy!!!! clutches heart

she cares so much...