Sweet little nothings (attn Issie!)

>> "Hello, Calley. Decided to stop by for a visit, have you?"

The youth in question straightened up quite nobly, before cutting into a regal bow that nearly put his upper body parallel to the floor. Drama. Drama was distracting; distractions distracted from the pre-mediation of any stabbings. His plan this evening was to keep his Ribboned Lady thoroughly distracted. The fact that she was feigning disinterest right now seemed to be a good sign. If it was him, he wouldn't do that unless he actually somewhat cared.

He straightened out of his bow, with a smile that leaned mischievously off to one side, and blue eyes that twinkled in a distinctly non-innocent manner. "Isabel," he began in all seriousness; "I challenge you to a date. Do you accept?"

There was no hint of apology about him. No apology, and no explanation for his absence. They might get to all that later. First, however: his challenge stood. She may have had trouble recognizing him at first; intend, he had changed. Quite a bit. But it was clear that the constantly twitching seventeen year old who'd challenged her to that footrace from a scene of a crime was still there, in an eighteen year old whose crown glittered in the Sanctuary's lights as he waited on her reply with an easily relaxed set to his shoulders.

Hark, the eyebrow quirk! Gather now, children, and listen closely: in that Autumn silence, where the flame leaves fell from the trees outside and were reflected in the golden doors; under that innocuous building's roof, where the floor was polished to a perfection nearly as complete as that receptionist's desk, that sole movement was speaking loudly. Its voice carried undercurrents of anger in a riverbed of sulk, with a rising tide of outrage that swelled and overflowed the banks of That's Right, Issie, You Got Challenged. Challenged, indeed. There was nothing normal about Isabel Duskmoor: therefore, it simply would not have done for him to ask her on a normal date in a normal fashion.

>> "Challenges are usually issued by knights, not princes, aren't they?"

Calley reached up a lone finger, and gave his crown a push of readjustment that it did not need. Hair clips: surprisingly useful creations for keeping all your princely accessories in place. And they could be quite cleverly concealed under the rest of your hair, as well. And they had rabbits on them! He almost went for the cat clips, but the cats had looked mildly lobotomized, whereas the rabbits had sparkle-glitter worked into their plastic. ...He had mentioned that he'd made a point of making sure aforementioned sparkle-glitter rabbit clips were hidden, right? Right.

As to her actual comment: he lowered his arm again, with a smile but without a word. He'd almost gone for Knight. But Knights tended to have Lords that bossed them around; Princes, on the other hand, where in the habit of offing their old men for a chance at sitting on that throne a few years sooner.

>> "Fine then, I'll accept."

And Knights won battles, whereas Princes won wars. His victory had passed its first test.

>> "What are the terms and conditions of this challenge?"

With a half-bow, Calley extended the flowers to Isabel, followed shortly by the pumpkin box of chocolate. Bowing he might be, but his blue eyes stayed mischievously on her face. "The challenge has but two terms, my Lady. And," his grin turned distinctly Cheshire, "one condition. The first rule: until Midnight, you may ask no questions of me."

Still in his bow, he offered out the little orange box to her. "The condition: you must wear this." Inside, she would find a simple crown, quite like the ones little girls wore on Halloween to turn into princesses: it was in the shape of a spiraling cone, about a hand high, with a thin veil that would hang down the back of her hair. Unlike those pink and gold little creations that were so popular, however, this one was an understated black with silver highlights. The veil was that tastefully dark red of fresh blood, beginning now to dry.

He straightened up, fluidly extending a hand out to her palm-first in the same motion. "The final rule: come with me." He quirked his own eyebrow her way, his hand holding steady. "Lady Isabel of the Sanctuary, I ask you plainly--dare you accept?"

Dare she, indeed.

There were three pieces of unfiled paper work on Lisa's desk. She opened a drawer and removed a red stamp, bearing her signature at the day's date. Slam slam SLAM! ...Those papers considered themselves signed. Two more drawers opened; one hand returned the stamp to its proper location, and the other--without looking, mind you--sent the three papers into three different hanging manila folders.

"So... new hair cut?" Calley asked lightly.

Lisa looked up at him. She looked, as one hand opened another drawer. A spray bottle and an immaculate white rag came out. Lisa looked at him. Gave the desk a spray. Began polishing its perfect surface with the rag. Her gaze never left his. This time, Calley could see her unblinking stare and his own habitual smile reflected in the surface of her base of power. The drawer opened, and the rag and bottle disappeared. Then it was just him, and Lisa, and a stare he didn't feel comfortable breaking without an excuse.

"No," she answered his question, long after he'd forgotten what it was. "It's not."

Calley gulped.

Ye, it twas the sound of footsteps that saved him from the Receptionator. Calley was given his excuse to look away. Lo, did he take it.

>> "Now, where exactly is it we are going? Am I going to end up finding that you've brought a noble steed with you as well, or are we taking the more common route and walking to wherever it is we're going?"

"Heh." The sound left Calley's lips as they curved into another Cheshire grin. He took her hand and--sweeping it upwards, while he bowed down to meet it--sought to give it the faintest brush of his lips. When he straightened up, it was with a blush on his face. But there was a lot to say for staying in character. And maybe, just maybe, he'd get a blush out of her, too. "That was two questions, my lady. Come, come--you'll see."

Keeping her hand quite captive, Calley attempted to guide it to a spot on his offered elbow. Then, with a great air of regal dignity, he escorted the fair Lady of the Gleeful Bloodshed out of the golden doors, and into a New York City evening. The traffic blared and honked its horns, screeched and slammed its brakes, and generally did everything in its power to run down any sense of magic in the coming twilight. Naturally, it was a Prince's job to fix such matters.

With a sly No Questions glance over at his princess, Calley stretched out his hand, as if to tell something unseen to stop in its tracks. And then, quite suddenly, there was something there to be stopped: a white horse, with the barest dapples of gray along its flanks. He'd stolen this form from a petting zoo, but Issie reeeally didn't need to know that. It might somehow make the scene less dramatic. Because dramatic it was, or at least, that's what he was going for: the horse pranced in place with a toss of its head, coming to a full stop that radiated energy, its chest pressed against Calley's outstretched palm. The horse at the petting zoo hadn't been nearly as spirited. That was its new mindset, showing through.

Calley ran his hand along the horse's side, leading Isabel as he went, if she would allow him the honor. The horse had no saddle or bridle. Suffice it to say, he wouldn't be needing them. He finally released Isabel's hand, so that he could wrap it into the base of the horse's mane: a quick kick upwards and he was mounted, with a hand reaching back down to offer Isabel an aid in joining him. "You mentioned something about a noble steed?" He asked coyly. That was all the explanation she was going to get. This date... was much more 'show' than it was 'tell'. And since he'd already shown this much, there was no turning back now. The horse gave a snort, breaking the normal noises of the New York City evening, and quite enjoying doing so.

"I guess I did," his Isabel said, with an enthusiasm for their mode of transport somewhat lacking. Or somewhat mistrusting, perchance. But now now, really, what cause was there to distrust an unbridled horse that appeared from thin air? The horse itself gave just a little kick of one rear leg as Isabel mounted, its head slanted the slightest bit to the side to gauge her reaction. Not that it was trying to upset her balance. Just that... it was really too tempting to not do otherwise. And while Isabel's Prince might have his royal gaze directed forwards, the horse quite nicely noted the darkening of the Princess' cheeks. Heh. Twice in one night. He'd have to see how many of those he could get.

>> "I don't suppose you'll tell me now where we're going."

"I don't suppose I will," Calley said, with a grin. He clucked his tongue; the horse started forwards at a walk. A brisk walk, that clopped out a good pace against the New York sidewalk. Suffice it to say that many a pedestrian moved out of their way. He was almost tempted to bring them out into the street traffic, but honestly, they'd probably move faster if they stuck to the sidewalks. The streets were rather clogged with people commuting home from work. And New York cabbies were both unfazed by things like horses, and insane. Calley knew who to mess with, and who not to, sometimes.

He probably shouldn't be messing with Isabel. But it was so fun.

The horse turned at a corner here and there, but it soon became apparent that they were moving to the outskirts of the city.

In the city fringes, there was an old warehouse district that didn't see much activity. In that old warehouse district that didn't see much activity, there was a surprisingly well-maintained set of grey buildings. In between those surprisingly well-maintained set of grey buildings, there was a courtyard. Standing in that courtyard was a group of twenty-five or so people. Most notable among them were a handful of Final Fantasy VII cosplayers, several stereotypical college students (most of them looking like com sci majors), three men dressed as LARPers--a sorcerer, a paladin, and an elfin archer, to be specific--and a group of black-cowled warlocks who were talking quietly together in what might have been Latin. They might seem familiar to the ribboned girl, from a certain movie theatre a year ago.

A man in full-body camouflage--face paint and all--was attempting to call the group to order.

"Nice turnout we got here. Didn't know how many people would see the ad at the Black Lagoon Theatre, and didn't know how many people I wanted to see that ad on 4chan. So, welcome to the third off-campus gathering of the NYU Gamer's Society. Guests obviously welcome. I am your Overlord--" there was some hissing from the warlocks-- "okay, I'm your GM, Jeremy. We've got a few choices for games tonight... we can go with board games--" booing from the LARPers-- "we can boo me all evening--" general cheers "--thanks, guys. Or we can play Vampire Tag, Zombie Horde, or Pirates versus Ninjas. Or we can--sigh--Summon the Dark Lord." Latin incantations of dark praise from the warlocks. The camouflaged man rolled his eyes most dramatically.

During that little speech, Calley dismounted the horse--which hadn't seemed to raise many eyebrows from the assembled group as it clopped up, interestingly enough--and offered Isabel a hand down. As soon as she dismounted, their noble steed was doomed to disappear as suddenly as it had joined them.

Camo Man said one last thing, which explained a lot about why the horse had gone uncommented upon: "Of course, the mutants among us are free to use their powers in any game. Larry over there is a healer--" one of the com sci majors raised up a lanky arm in a wave-- "so just try to keep things non-fatal, people. Let's not have a repeat of the Assassins Game when there's not a time warper around to reverse the campus-wide nuclear explosions. Or... well, you catch my drift. So. Who's up for what?"

Calley offered his arm out to Isabel again, aiming to lead her over to the group. He wiggled his eyebrows. "I had to top our first date, somehow. And besides--the Powers of Darkness missed you."

The warlocks had caught sight of the ribboned girl. More than one of them was waving.

>> "It's, er... nice to see them again, too. So do you know the rest of these people?"

The way she said that made Calley snerk a little on the inside. What? Had she expected the horde of black-cloaked warlocks to forget her? It wasn't every day that they got to swarmingly defeat the Forces of Good. As his crowned Isabel clearly and indisputably was. Why, he couldn't think of one single officer of the law that would dispute that point for long.

"I know some of them," he answered, with a grin. "A lot of them saw the poster for this at the Black Lagoon Theatre, like I did. Others..." His eyes innocuously drifted over the three LARPers, who might or might not be on Mondragon Lab security during the day, and might or might not have been involved in the dramatic efforts to tame an errant vampireling a few months back. They kept on drifting, over the cosplayers and the college students and the camo man. "Nope, not so much."

>> "Hey Calley, do you know how those games that guy mentioned work? I've never played them before."

His grin developed into a refined smirk as his chin tilted slightly upwards, to be tapped by one finger. "Ah, how to explain... Vampire Tag and Zombie Horde are similar: though of course, in Zombie Horde, you nom your victim's head instead of biting their neck. You start out with two or three vamps or zombies, and the rest are humans... and the vamps or zombies try to convert everyone else. There is much running (or shuffling and groaning, with the zombies), and gleeful death, and turning on your former comrades at a second's notice as you are 'changed'... Though of course, in Vampire Tag, getting staked turns you back into human: in Zombie Horde, there's no way to get changed. Usually that ends with a group of survivors holed up on the roofs taking pot shots at the encroaching horde of hungry death. It begs the question: what's your zombie plan?" Calley narrowed his eyes mischievously at the red-crowned princess. She seemed like the kind of girl who would have a zombie plan. His own involved shifting to crow and enjoyin' the good eatin's as the rest of humanity died off, but in the game, he tended to favor the hole-up-on-the-roof-with-ammo method. The GM usually had machine guns stashed up there. Paint ball machine guns: the best use of a weaponmancing mutation ever. Second only to the paint ball bazooka.

"As for Summoning the Dark Lord: the warlocks start setting up a summoning circle, and the rest of us try to stop them. Kind of a free-for-all. Which is harder than it sounds, even with them being outnumbered." One of the warlocks overheard this description. A cowled face turned their way, and a black-sleeved hand held itself up: in the downturned palm of the hand, a scimitar of white and blue flame briefly flared into life, with all the ease of flicking on a lighter. The cowl radiated smiles. Smiles of pwnage the likes of which the world had never seen. "Yeaaah..." Calley said; "pretty much, we beat them before they're done with the circle, or... actually, it's pretty cool if we don't beat them. They've got a couple of pyrillusionists, and they've had way too much fun designing that Dark Lord of theirs. Of course," he felt it necessary to add, "they're pretty much unbeatable once they summon it, so expect to be visiting Larry the Healer."

"Last but not least: Pirates versus Ninjas." Calley turned a carefully schooled face her way. "It's Pirates versus Ninjas. There are mandatory costumes, and any attack not preceded by 'Avast, ye pansy-cloaked shadow!' or 'Oshininattekudasaimasenka*!' is too lame to count. It's Pirates versus Ninjas... with mutant powers. There is never a winner. Only carnage." Glorious, glorious carnage.

Larry the Healer was sipping an energy drink as he watched the crowd shout its votes to the camo man. Conveniently enough, there was a four way tie between game choices: Isabel and Calley would have the deciding votes. Funny how these things work out.

((ooc: *Translation: "Wouldn't your exalted self, which is raised high above my own lowly position, please do me the supreme favor of becoming honorably dead?"--that's all one word. I <3 Japanese verb conjugation.))

And the Lady cast her vote: Zombie Horde.

Calley was struck with an almost irrational urge to vote for Pirates v. Ninjas, just to see what the camo man would do. Would there by a revote? Or--or---would they end up playing some glorious game of Zombie Pirates v. Ninjas? Avast, ye maties, he repressed the urge: Zombie Horde got his vote, too. Those paint ball machine guns were just too awesome. So awesome, not even Zombie Pirates could compete. As would probably have been proven, if they'd ended up playing that.

"The moaning death has it!" The GM declared, now that all votes were in. "Okay. Remember the rules, everyone: zombies can only shuffle, not run. Humans, if a zombie touches your head, you've been brain-nommed, and immediately become a zombie. Powers are fair game, on either side. Paint ball guns are stockpiled on the roof of Warehouse 14, and ammo is in the basement of Warehouse 3. Zombies, if you get hit in the chest or head with powers or paintball guns, you're dead. Count to sixty before you re-spawn. Don't worry about property damage--Garry is a housemancer; he'll fix everything after we're done."

"Unless you blow it up," a man dressed a Yuffie from FFVII spoke up. Garry, presumably.

"Unless you blow it up," the GM repeated, sternly. "Now everyone, come pick a card. Black cards start as human. Red cards--that's the ace of diamonds and the ace of hearts--start out as zombies. Once everyone's got a card, I blow the whistle. Once the whistle is blown, zombies may nom, and humans may run. Com'on, folks. Let's train for the zombie apocalypse."

They got into the shuffling, disorganized line; at the front, Calley drew a face-down card from the dwindling deck in the camo man's hand. He snuck a furtive peek at it before slipping it into the hand of Larry the Healer, who was standing next to the GM, collecting.

The Jack of Spades. Calley was human. He gave a toothy smile to Isabel. "So. Any bets on which of us will last longest?" That was, of course, assuming that his princess was a human at all. This waiting time was really the best, from a Psychology major's point of view: standing close to anyone, even your girlfriend or best friend or cousin, was a distinct hazard to your very humanity.

Once the last card was drawn, the whistle blew: the desperate battle to survive until the bitter end had began.