Game Opening: May Ball

[undergroundmods]

LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTED.

"" (Watch on YouTube)

It had to be done.

Welcome all to the Redbright Institute's May Ball! This evening is a celebration of the Institute's achievements over the past year. Students aged 16 and above can attend on their own, while younger students must be accompanied by a parent or guardian. Meanwhile, friends and guests of the Institute are invited as a gesture of friendship and harmony between the various factions.

Rules and etiquette
• This is a black tie event. Formal attire is required.
• No weapons. This is a school, there are children present. Any weapons or objects that could be used as weapons will be confiscated.
• No drugs or alcohol. Obviously. Don't try to sneak any in.
• No violence.

There is security within the school and present at the event. (In fact, if your character is a member of the Redbright Institute, you could have them acting as security if you want.) They will respond to and put a stop to any trouble.

Places to go
The main action takes place in the large Assembly Hall. This is where the Chancellor Sylvia Redbright will give her address. It's also where you can party later on. The disco is family-friendly – not exactly a rave, but the kids will love it.

Drinks and snacks are available in the dining hall. The drinks are non-alcoholic. Vampires, no need to worry about your cravings: blood cocktails are provided! They're given in good faith on the assumption that you won't be snacking on anyone else tonight.

Just off the dining hall, one of the classrooms has been converted into a chill-out area. The lights are off, the desks and chairs have been replaced by beanbags and there's a table in the corner with a chocolate fountain, marshmallows and strawberries. A video of young witches taking part in various night-time rituals (they mostly seem to involve chanting and bonfires) plays silently on the screen.

One of the lecture theatres has been opened up to showcase students' work from the past year. On the screen you can watch a slideshow of notable events and achievements. Strangely enough there aren't many people in this room.

Outside, there is a giant chessboard on the lawn. The pieces are made of plastic and can easily be moved around. Why, you ask? Why not, is the answer.

Finally, a large marquee has been set up in the quad. This is the adults-only area, with wine and cocktails served at the bar, nibbles available at a few high tables dotted around and a sophisticated atmosphere. No children under 18 allowed. (Note that the legal drinking age is 18.)

Timeline of events
20:00 – Doors open.
20:57 – Sunset.
21:15 – Sylvia Redbright makes her address in the Assembly Hall.
22:00 – Disco in the Assembly Hall. The DJ has atrocious taste.
01:00 – Disco stops. The event officially ends.

Comments

[alethiological]

And there's the exact moment he messed up, right around when 'them' comes out, because the anger immediately reigns back to total apathy. There's just a number of small changes that set off any fight-or-flight reflex Stiles has left. There's a faint change where the eyes staring at him switch from a faded gold to an almost-flowing yellow, the voice drops just enough to get an inhuman growl underlaying it, something in the air around them switches to something very cold and brittle and dead and even the bartender finds a better spot to be on the complete other side.

Or, you know, crushing the glass in his hand and not making any physical reaction that he felt it. But that's the most minor of the issues here.

"Care to repeat that?"

[mensrea]

The fact of the matter is, Stiles does not care to repeat it. Or perhaps more accurately, he is in no frame of mind to repeat it. Between everything that just happened within the span of half a minute—the irises shifting colors, the reverberance of the growl, the shattered glass—Stiles can do nothing more than make fish-gaping faces. Congratulations Stiles, you have found someone more terrifying than Derek Hale.

"Holy god, if you're going to kill me, can you do it after the party or something? I totally told my date I wasn't going to die and I need to return this tux. It's a rental!"

Stiles doesn't even understand what the hell set off Will, only that he is contemplating joining the bartender by the North Pole.

[alethiological]

Stiles wanted to get involved in the Underground, so he should be celebrating! Maybe. Or attempting to run, but it's a bit too late since a hand grabs out and shoots around his collar. Rental tux? The tux is now being used as a means to drag the obnoxious child clear out of the marquee. Everyone else is wise enough to get out of the way.

It's tempting to respond - don't worry, he'll return the tuxedo - because he knows the kid is. Well. Stupid. But to make Stiles panic properly, it's far more effective to stay stonewalled and silent as he's removed to a place completely devoid of anyone who could possibly save him, who could even hear his screams if he tried, Will's already wearing gloves there'd be no proof--

And then he gets shoved in a closet.

"Honestly, who walks up to someone and calls them out on being inhuman?" Honestly. The voice is still that enraged undertone, but it's easy to keep the door closed. Stiles does not get to see how casually he's leaning on it. Ugh, picking out glass shards, how annoying. "I'm more surprised no one else killed you first."

Oh. Right. "And if you accuse me of consorting with witches again, I'll kill ya."

[mensrea]

“Wha—h-hey!”

Scrambling not to be choked by the unforgiving pressure yanking him by the neck, he trots nervously alongside Will and thinks, uselessly, of Scott. If only his best friend were here. Scott would…beat Will up! Maybe growl back, or something. Piss a circle around Stiles to mark his wolfy territory. Wow, actually, forget that last bit. Stiles is pretty sure he’d rather be murdered. Which is what is probably going to happen. Will is just radiating serial killer vibes right now. God, he never even got to kiss Lydia Martin. Life is so unfair.

“Oomph!” Smacking into the back of the closet, he instinctively throws his arms out to the sides and places them against the small confined walls. There’s a coat hanger stabbing him in the head, but he ignores it.

“Wh-what!?”

Seriously!? With a sudden scowl, he tries to open the door; it doesn’t even budge. He can see Will’s shadow leaking through the slit at the bottom, and stamps a foot on it like a child.

“Witches aren’t inhuman,” he snaps, tone brittle, “and I don’t get what your problem is, dude. If you have such a witch complex, what the hell are you doing at one of their parties, huh?”

[alethiological]

The stamping is ignored and the struggles are totally ineffectual. It's an easy way to keep him in here while getting answers out, and much better than the alternative methods. Everything else is fine, but against humans it's always... distasteful.

"They're abominations. Not just witches, either. All of us are. The world would be a better place without us in it." The voice is entirely bland, listless and uncaring and the only other noise in Stiles' darkness is the clinking sounds of glass shards tapping together. There is nothing concerning or horrifying in this situation whatsoever.

Look on the bright side! Good news, Stiles found a line to the underground he's been hunting for! Bad news, he's trapped in a closet with an implied hunter standing outside it. Win some lose some.

"I'm here observing a threat. What I don't understand is why you're here. Getting involved is beyond suicidal. That's ignoring how you're trying to go about it."

[mensrea]

A chill begins to wind through his limbs, chasing away the alcohol’s tepid warmth. Arms falling back to his sides, he abruptly desists in any attempt to escape from the closet and instead plasters himself against the wall. His smartphone is in his hand before he’s even aware of it, and then he’s sending out a text to Scott—call me in 15 minutes and if I don’t pick up get my dad to contact London police. But there seems to be some kind of interference; the text doesn’t go through. Naturally.

Skull thumping against the inside paneling of the closet, he tries to gather his nerves. It isn’t easy.

“Abominations? Yeah, okay Hitler. You need some serious counseling.”

Okay, maybe he gathered the wrong kind of nerves. Let’s not piss off the magical hunter any more than you already have, Stiles.

“Whether or not I’m here, I’m already involved. This world—the one you think needs a few less witches and stuff? That’s my world, and theirs. It’s the same, which means everyone belongs on it.”

Stiles thinks about Scott, thinks about a world without him. He’s sick to his stomach.

"Do I seriously need to go all Mr. Rogers on you about this?"

[alethiological]

Wow, that's a particularly crude name to be throwing about. And how very, very incorrect. Sympathetic humans are rare, but it just means they've already been corrupted. Everything said is immediately twist, incorrect, wrong.

"If that's your world, then perhaps you should be removed with it."

It's the same voice, but the tone is completely different. A brittle frozen caricature of life, an unfathomable monster now standing on the opposite side of Stiles' sad closet door. Such a brittle defense it is. It should be no difficulty at all to just fix another problem here before anyone notices-

Wait, no. That's not right. He's just a dumb kid. There's no reason to hurt him. But he's the wrong one here, so very wrong, trying to corrupt other thoughts with his own sinful mindset. Nothing about your logic is faulty here, so just dispose of it. He sounds logical, but he's not, but the incessant ringing will help to ignore the discrepancy. No, even better, just forget it. So easily sweeping away such irrelevant concerns to us, just like



this







And right around the end of Stiles' short speech is when that weird presence seems to flicker and die off. Inhale, exhale, no errors in the system, resume. Were there errors in the first place? Why is he in front of a closet? Why is he being threatened with Mr. Rodgers by some dude in a closet? Why is there some dude in a closet?

Wait, no, forget that last part, the being threatened with feel-good musicals is the heresy here.

And the tone is back to the acceptable deadpan, like nothing ever even happened. Because it didn't. "Please don't."

[mensrea]

Wow, okay, Stiles is totally dead. This is it. He is going to die in a cheap rental tux, holed up in some godforsaken closet at a witch cult party. His life flashes before his eyes. A virgin, he’s gonna die a virgin. Not just a virgin, though—he’s never even gotten to second base. Life is so cruel. To add insult to injury, he won’t be able to beat Call of Duty: Black Ops III if he’s dead. That’s just the worst. That’s just sick. What has he done to deserve such a fate.

Reaching out with a trembling hand, he grasps the door handle, plants his feet, and puts all his frail strength into trying to keep the closet shut. If Will can’t get in, he’ll be okay. So what if the guy can probably rip the door right out of the frame? This is like Stiles’ last security blanket; a cold comfort to reassure him things will be alright, he’ll make it through this.

“Th-then you just shut up, yeah?” The quiver in his voice is not very threatening. “Or else I’m going to haunt you and talk about friendship and unconditional love and warm fuzzy feelings 24/7. Don't test me, dude. I'll...I'll do it.”

[alethiological]

Okay. That's... concerning. What's he so scared of? The only person here is Stiles and himself so, and that fear is so strong it completely mutes the rest of the world into ringing silence and dead greys. The sensation itself is not surprising - it's entirely familar as breathing, a fond memory and hated friend - but this is not the time or place for that kind of reverbration.

It's concerning for the exact amount it takes for you to stop being concerned, and the blank spots are disposed as commonplace.

Stiles doesn't get responded to immediately, and when he does the voice is with that idle daze that comes with sleeping too long or trying to remember something just outside of memory, with a few shades of Trash Boston Accent. Weird and distracting, but not much to be concerned over.

"Yeaaah, but I've enough salt t'handle that." That does not make the waves stop, and ending them the usual way isn't an option. Deep sigh, pack up the accent and put on the apathy, resume. "I'm not going to kill you. So you shut up."

[mensrea]

Unfortunately, Stiles’ good opinion of the man who kept him company that day by the storm drain has now—pun intended—been flushed down the toilet. He doesn’t miss the dramatic shift in Will’s presence, but doesn’t know what it means. The obvious conclusion is that the guy must be a werewolf; and if he is, then maybe that explains the temper. Licking his lips, Stiles doesn’t say anything for a near minute.

“This is a really bad joke,” he remarks lamely, laughing a bit. The sound is weak. “All I wanted was a drink. If I come out of the closet—” Ha. “—can you promise me you’re not gonna go all American Psycho on me?”

[alethiological]

That's a terrible pun and everyone who reads it should feel a bit less worthy of living. More importantly, a minute is a long time. If you sit and count the seconds, it has far more weight than people give it. He's been off the closet door for half of the minute, leaning on the opposite wall for the rest. Part wants to just leave while Stiles is silent. A smaller part wants to stay and make sure he doesn't tell anyone, the assignment is to observe and act if necessary, getting involved with Redbright or Sylvia or anyone of that level is a bad idea.

But the kid he spoke to was a bit scatterbrained, highly annoying, and not that terrible of a person. No one should have to experience that level of horror unless it's deserved, unless it ends just as quickly when equalized - irritating and mistake-prone does not make someone guilty. It takes mentally repeating that a few times to get it to stick, and even if he's the source of that fear, leaving Stiles alone might be worse.

He thinks. Sincerity is so difficult to manage sometimes, it should've been passed to someone better. Someone who could use it without winging it entirely on intuition and silent prayers.

"You're underage." A beat here, the joke about sexuality somewhat registered and immediately tossed as 'who cares'. Then the voice is a bit more flat, "And we both know that's not why you're here."

[mensrea]

“Uh, duh. I’m here because you tossed me in like a sack of potatoes!”

Stiles’ mouth so often lands him ass-deep in trouble, and he cringes at himself now as soon as the words are blurted out unthinkingly. Though he hates thinking about it, he needs to remember that Scott isn’t around to save his neck—a neck that this guy might break, if he keeps hedging through the conversation. Still, he’s uncomfortable with the implications. There’s no way Will could know the real reason he’s attended the party. Even Nancy, whom he has spoken the most to, can only take an educated guess. What if Will has been watching him? Stiles tries to remember if he ever gave out his age…and thinks he may have, so there’s that, at least.

“I was invited by a friend. And being underaged seriously means squat, dude.”