ArchivedLogs:Conventionally Speaking

Conventionally Speaking
Dramatis Personae B, Dusk, Flicker, Hive, Isra, Jax, Shane, Tag, Tony Stark, Daiki, Joshua, Ryan, Spencer
In Absentia	Labor Day Weekend, and the leadup to it. So say we all.
Location Dragon*Con! And elsewhere.
<NYC> Tony's Penthouse - Stark Tower - Midtown East B's tiny blue face is nearly lost behind a huge glowing projection, the current readout scrolling by as their black eyes scan the numbers with a small crease. "It would be such a huge hit with the transhumanist crowd, though, come /on/." Their head pokes around from behind the display to turn huge pleading eyes on Tony. The masked face that stares back at the small sharky one looks even /more/ unmoved given the gleaming blank eyes that meet B's. "Kid." The output in front of B changes rapidly -- as Tony moves, as Tony speaks. Even as he does nothing, monitoring vital signs, brain signals, just as much as movement. "If I wanted to get mobbed at some kind of nerd convention, I'd run my own." B's nose wrinkles up. Her fingers dance rapidly across the holographic interface. Marking down something here, noting a change there. "In the suit nobody would even have to /know/ it was you," she tempts, hopeful, sing-song. The gleaming silver hands turn outward. "Yeah? And then where's the point of /that/?" B's eyes roll. Ze stifles a giggle. "I'm telling you, it's /fun/." The head turns, faintly glowing eyes (only incidentally, of course) turned now in the direction of the bar that stands to one side of the workshop. "You and I, we have real different definitions of that word." <NYC> {Geekhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side Jax looks just a little bit frazzled as he comes through the door between Geekhaus and Lighthaus. Teeth clicking rapidly against his lipring, his fingers gripping the handle of the bright orange wheeling carry-on size suitcase he carries way too tight. His mind is roiling -- though with /what/ thoughts, is inspecific, a painful-bright haze of searing colourful light obscuring the actual scape beneath. "Ohmygosh, 'pologies, it took forever t'convince him t'narrow it down to /which/ robots t' bring an' which t'leave behind I told him he had t'leave room for actual clothes, for /serious/. Are -- are y'all sure this is -- gonna be okay? I mean -- I mean --" His brows furrow, teeth digging harder at his lip. Hive is packed. Just a duffel bag, small and black, set neatly by the door next to Flicker's much larger luggage. He's currently dressed in jeans, his brown blue-painted hedgehog tee, a sleepily half-lidded expression. He's draped across the couch in the conversation pit in the living room; kind of half looks up with a wordless << ? >> nudged out to the room when Jax and his /fretting/ come in. "You could still come, y'know. Surely still train tickets." Perched on a beanbag with her legs folded neatly beneath her, wings stretched out to about half their full span--taking up quite a lot of real estate in the living room--Isra hardly moves at all when Jax enters. Only her eyes and ears move to track him. She wears a cropped silver wrap tunic and matching wrap miniskirt, neither of which leaves a great deal to the imagination. Her skin runs from deep blue to night black, contoured in a dusting of shimmering silver that recalls the Milky Way on a clear night. Billowing emission nebulae in a rainbow of luminous hues decorate the membranes of her wings, and her horns and talons gleam bright silver. Even her luggage, a single smallish wheeling suitcase standing near those of her housemates, sports stars and galaxies on a nearly black backdrop. "If we find, upon arrival, that he has forgotten anything vital, we can acquire it for him in Atlanta." This equably, matter of fact. One of her eyebrows lifts fractionally. "Provided he does not just teleport home for it first." Tag is pacing behind Isra's wings, occasionally taking a fold of the membrane in his hands, stretching it out so he can examine it. The artist himself is dressed in a black t-shirt splattered with a rainbow of paint (or not-paint), buttercup yellow skirt with red and orange flame motif along the hem, and heavy, stompy black boots with many buckles. His bright blue hair, shot through with electric purple, covers half of his face. "Hey!" he pipes up brightly at Jax. "No worries, it gives me extra time to tweak." The starry backdrop of Isra's wings shifts almost imperceptibly. "I mean, there's gonna be tons of astronomy geeks staring at this, I gotta get it right." Keeping hold of the wing in his hand as casually as he might keep his page in a book, he twists around to scrutinize the corresponding area on Dusk's wing. The pattern of stars there shifts, as well, where it peeks through a mesmerizing lattice of circular and oval nebulosity. The patterns ripple out from blazing blue-white at the base of his wings (the source lies between his shoulder blades, invisible) to reddish pink at the tips of his long index phalanges. "You know, the chances of you getting actually /caught/ leaving the state are like -- slim to fucking none, right?" Dusk's head is tipped down to watch Tag work, though he glances back up with a crooked and not at all sheepish grin over at Jax. "/I'm/ certainly not planning on going to jail. Just to the con. Seriously, who's going to report us, you can look like gorram anyone. -- But." The wing that Tag /isn't/ holding hitches upward. "S'cool, stop fretting. We'll make sure they eat and shit." Jax's teeth continue to worry at his lip ring. His weight shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "I just -- I mean. I don't. Want to miss y'all's presentations -- or Ryan's -- an' /you/ can do what you want --" There's no censure in his voice, really, but there /is/ worry there as he glances to Dusk, "but I can't end up in --" He exhales sharply, fingers dragging through his hair. He glances down to the suitcase, back up at the others. "It's just, it's /all/ the kids. An' there's so /many/ people an' -- are y'all /sure/ you're gonna be okay lookin' after /all/ of them? Are you -- gonna be able t'keep an' eye on 'em through alla that?" Hive raises his brows. He glances over at Dusk and Isra, then slumps back further into the couch. "... you've /met/ your kids, right?" His eyes close again. "You know Spence's already taken off. S'not even home /now/." His voice has settled back into a gruff sort of grumble. "Sixty thousand gorram people, 'course we're fucking not." "I do not imagine that we /can/ keep an eye on them at all times." Isra, not too much more reassuring than Hive. "Mind you, the pups can look after themselves, as can Daiki, and all of them will look after Spencer, who is more likely to stick with them than with us. I will check in with them regularly, of course." Her ears press flat against her skull, and her tail starts swishing--then stops just as suddenly when it smacks Tag in one calf. She elects not to voice, << ...and anyone who should harass them will need to answer to me. >> "I'd gladly hang out with Spence any time, but I'm also sure he wouldn't want to sit around the dealer hall all day watching me paint people." Tag shrugs, looking from Dusk's wing back to Isra's. "Okay, I think we're good to go, though obvs I can touch it up again when-aya!" He hops on one foot a few times, rubbing the leg that Isra's tail struck. "I don't even want to know what that feels like when you're *trying* to attack someone with it." Backing up, he studies his handiwork again and nods. "Yep, good to go." Hobbling over to Jax, he stretches out his arms for a hug. "No point asking you not to worry, but there's a lot of us gonna be around. And in all likelihood they won't need us, but if they do? We'll be there." "You're joking, right? Dude, you can't keep track of Spence with a leash. You can barely keep track of Spence with a GPS." Dusk's thumbclaw flicks towards Tag. "We'll all be there if they need us." His fangy grin grows even fangier. "Or if anyone tries to fuck with them," he adds, in unconscious mirror of Isra's sentiment. "Plus, you know, be there to spoil them rotten in the vendor hall. We're gonna come back with so much swag." All of this -- unsurprisingly doesn't seem to be /easing/ Jax's current state of /fret/. The bright chaotic churn of his mind only flares brighter, his eye darting from one person to the next to the next. His hand scrubs against his chin, rubbing against his multicoloured scruff of goatee restlessly. There's a stark widening of his eye as he looks over at Hive. "Wait -- he's /gone/, he ain't even -- but y'all are s'posed to catch a train so -- oh /gosh/, he's -- hnnnngh." His hand is still scrubbing across his face as he leaves Spencer's luggage with the accumulated pile of Geekhaus bags, turning to rush back to his own house in search of his phone. <ATL> Space Track: Star Formation Panel - Hilton 309 The long, windowless conference room did not start out packed, but people have filtered in continually over the course of the hour-long presentation. By the half-hour mark, the room has filled to capacity, the space in the back filled up with standing spectators. So specific a topic in astronomy, addressed by a sole presenter would not usually draw this much of a crowd, but anyone who spared a few minutes to listen to the audience whisper might gather why. Or, for that matter, they might look to the presenter and her assistant up front. Isra's body does not fit well into the chair provided her, and she has turned it sidewise so that she might sit and face the audience. As if her night-black skin, horns, and claws did not look striking enough, her wings, loosely mantled at her sides, depict the same kind of star-forming nebula shown in her presentation. She wears a crisp white linen wrap dress and--more unusual for her--a silver eight-rayed star pendant. "...and that more or less encapsulates the quantum disruption theory of spontaneous triggered star formation cascades," she concludes, ending on a lovely reddish Hubble Space Telescope image of NGC 1569. "I will now field any questions you might have on this topic, along with any critiques of the theory in broad strokes--or narrow ones, for those of you who have read the thesis." This last with a small, polite smile and eye contact with a select few members of the audience. Almost a dozen hands shoot up. Isra's bright green eyes blink rapidly, darting from one to the next. She settles on one, gesturing toward the man--in a red t-shirt with the word 'Expendable' printed across the chest in black--with a sweep of her open hand. He does not wait for the microphone to arrive, but shouts out his question, "Does your condition make it difficult to work as an astronomer?" Isra's smile, already thin, fades. "I do not think that my 'condition' has much relevance to how stars come to exist," she says, slowly and carefully. "Next question." Up by the front of the room where he mans the computer equipment for Isra's presentation. Dusk's claws twitch. The tip of his wing -- painted up to resemble the destruction of a star in counterpoint to the formation shown on Isra's -- rubs slowly against his eyes. He refrains from groaning. Another hand in the audience goes up, though this time the person does not even wait to be called on before speaking up. "But seriously, there's some delicate instruments -- can you even operate them with those --" His words cut off somewhat abruptly, fingers lifting to rub hard against his eye with a sudden wince, a small shake of his head. His, "-- sorry, lost my train of --" is kind of mumbled. Next to Flicker in the second row, Hive is looking half-asleep, as usual. His nostrils flare on a very small snort. Up in the front row, Spence has been having a moderately hard time sitting /still/. Mostly fidgeting with the large crook that he's brought along as part of his Jack Frost cosplay, occasionally hooking it out towards Dusk's wingclaw. Hookhookhook. He speaks up now, too, though (also without raising his hand -- at least not /before/ speaking, though he does so as an afterthought, /while/ asking his question): "But if some galaxies are blue... shift and some are red-shift what --" There's a moment here when he pauses uncertainly, stopping to confer with B beside him before he sorts out the actual /question/ part of his question. "I mean does something happen? When they're born? That decides that?" Isra cocks her head at the half-question about delicate instruments, eyes darting to Hive for a moment, then turns her attention to Spencer. Her smile returns, with only a touch more fang than before. "For the majority of observable galaxies, their distance from us at formation determines their doppler shift--and most exhibit doppler red-shift, because the universe is expanding. Usually only local objects show doppler blue-shift, such as our neighbor..." She waves one hand to catch Dusk's attention, then signs, 'Show picture M31 Hubble 2015 please.' "...the Andromeda Galaxy. However, some galaxies do exhibit a /gravitational/ blue-shift, namely those with an active galactic nucleus--which we believe indicates the presence of a supermassive black hole. In fact, studying the degree of blue-shift in particular bands can tell us a great deal about how a galaxy formed, its age, and what goes on inside of it." <ATL> Hyatt Regency - Ballroom Level "OH my GOD." The young woman is in a stunningly well-crafted Peridot cosplay, blond hair spiked into a surprisingly pointy diamond around her head and arms and legs sheathed in green and black -- a bit clunky in movement as she runs to navigate the thickly crowded space and catch up to Shane. "Wait wait wait, I'm sorry, are you in a hurry? Can I get your picture, that's just -- /so/ fantastic, how long did that costume /take/? You make /such/ an amazing freak." Shane pauses in the midst of hurrying towards one of the ballroom doors, violin case in hand. When he turns to face the Peridot, his smile is very wide. Veeery toothy. "I'm goddamn fantastic, I know. You make a pretty fucking great bigot, too, but I've got a show to play so I'mm'a let it slide." The smile grows. Manages to bare a few more of those sharp teeth. "Now get out my damn face. I'm in a hurry." <ATL> Hyatt Centennial Ballroom 'So say we all.' Just to the front of the stage Dusk's hands echo the chant that goes up soundly from around the crowd in the room. His vividly painted wings are folded tightly behind his back, tucked away as unobtrusively as it is possible to /make/ them; his clothing is drab (and matches a good deal of the people in the audience, right now; brown tank top worn over a grey undershirt, green fatigue pants, heavy black boots.) The lanyard holding his badge around his neck reads VOLUNTEER 2015. Behind him, the actors start to filter off the stage; the crowd is beginning to shuffle out, too, slowly, a bit of a traffic jam to the doors. With a wait to leave /anyway/ there are a few people lingering, casting him stray uncertain glances he does not pay too much attention to. A few people in the front who had been paying attention to his interpretation stop to give him somewhat desultory thanks before hurrying off. One young woman has been leaving but turns back, hesitant, staring long and hard at the sharp talons that spike high over Dusk's head. Her brows are lifted, head tilted forward as she finally points at the wings. 'Yes, they're real,' Dusk answers, reflexively. The woman shakes her head. 'Were they black? Before?' Now his brows lift, in surprise. Just a quick nod. Less hesitant: 'You're Ryan?' Spelled first, then a name sign, hands lifting as though climbing a tree. Dusk leans back, slightly, sinking back against the edge of the stage. His cheek puffs out to the side. 'Haven't seen that name in years. But yeah. I'm sorry, do I know you?' The woman shakes her head. 'Mira. I -- was in your sister's class at MSD. She talks about you all the time, I figured there couldn't really be that many people around with --' Dusk is leaning harder against the stage, his hand rubbing slowly against his face. Around them the room is being cleared for the next session; he shakes his head, refocuses. '...you know Lita? Do you have a panel next? Let me take you to lunch. Please.' <ATL> AmericasMart - Dealer Hall Tucked between a corset vendor and a chainmaille jewelry maker, this table is covered with colorful wigs on colorful wig stands. A large banner above is divided in rough yin-yang fashion. The left side, white, advertises 'Melissa's Custom Cosplay Wigs' in bubbly hot pink letters; the right side, black, reads 'Neon & Chrome Color Services' in flowing rainbow script. Most of the table is covered with colorful wigs on colorful stands, and two large collages show various costumed con-goers modeling wigs of various styles as well as body art ranging from solid colors to intricate three-dimensional-looking designs. Behind the table are three chairs, two full-length mirrors, and a small curtained-off privacy area in a frame of PVC pipes. The small, androgynous man sitting beneath the black side of the banner wears a vaguely Chinese-inspired tunic in metallic violet and black that reaches all the way to his knees. He has watery blue skin and shoulder-length hair that scintillates between purple, blue, green, and yellow depending on the angle of the light; the cabochon set just below his jugular notch and nestled in the v of his overlapping lapels looks like a real (and very strongly colored) labradorite. His attention is focused on the occupant of a chair beside the table: a tall, slender, and even more androgynous person in a white dress shirt, purple paisley tie, and black pinstripe vest with matching trousers. He has both sleeves rolled up and one forearm resting on the end of the table left free. The blue man is bent over said arm, staring at it intently; as he does so, abstract tentacle designs appear on the exposed skin in inky deep purple, coiling, writhing, and finally settling into graceful organic patterns. The customer's other arm has a matching design that reaches all the way down onto the hand, and an eye motif in the same purple decorates their forehead. Within minutes, the decorating of the arm is complete. The artist sits back, stretching his shoulders and admiring his handiwork. The customer holds up both arms, turning them slowly and nodding his approval. "Wow, that was *fast!* So I just come back Monday and you'll take it off for me?" "Yep! Unless you want to leave it, then it'll last anywhere from two weeks to a month, depending how hard you scrub." The artist flashes a grin, fishing out his smartphone. "Mind if I take a picture for my portfolio?" "Sure, go ahead." The newly bedecked costumer stands, hands akimbo and smiles a roguish smile for the photos. Then, shaking hands, they slips a ten dollar bill into the artist's palm and disappears into the crowd with a spring in their step. While the artist is still flipping through the pictures he just took, a young woman approaches the booth, dressed in a black Battlestar Galactica t-shirt and blue jeans, dark mirrored sunglasses covering her eyes. *Her* skin is an even, rich lavender color, with triangular markings in darker purple on her forehead and cheeks. Her wavy black hair is trimmed to a spiky pixie bob that doesn't quite conceal pointed ears. She hesitates, looking down at a business card clutched in her hands, then up at the banner above the table. Ducking her head, she finally asks, "Hi. Are you Tag?" Labradorite looks up from his phone and raises his hand with a quick and crooked smile. "That's me! What can I do for you?" "I got your card from this lady with wings, um..." The girl fidgets with the card in question. "I want to get body art done." "All right! I can do that." Tag puts away his phone. "Well, *probably.* Can you tell me a bit about what you have in mind? I mean, I have a list of services, if you'd prefer to look that over, but it's pretty general." "I don't think I need anything that complicated," the girl says. "I looked at your website. It says your skin art can last a month, or more?" "Well..." Tag runs a hand through his strikingly labradorescent hair. "It'll only look *good* up to a month, and it does take me more time and effort to make it last that long. There's a lot of factors, actually. So, if have something specific..." "I want you to make me normal," the prospective customer blurts, then looks down. "My skin, it should be...I have pictures of my parents. You can make me look like them. Not..." She holds up her lavender hand. "Not like this." "Oh." Somehow the colors all over Tag seem to dull, as if someone has nudged a dimmer switch that affects him alone. "I… " <NYC> {Lighthaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side Jax should be working, probably. Maybe at some point he was, but /now/ he's been staring at his canvas for a looong time without touching it. The room around him roils with half-formed images; in his mind they're much more vivid. Joshua is quiet when he arrives. Doesn't use the door, really. Just is /there/, suddenly, leaning against the side of Jax's studio wall, tucked somewhere among the ghosts and shadows, and with his mind inscrutable to a non-psionic if the photokinetic is distracted enough maybe it's a while before he is noticed. "I could have you down there in half a second, you know." The sudden tightening of fingers around paintbrush is Jax's only external sign of surprise. "I'm not allowed to leave the state." "Yeeeah and the government is totally keeping tabs on travel by teleportation. Sometimes, you know," Joshua prompts with a small snort, "you /are/ allowed to live a little." He turns a hand up. Holds it out to Jax. "I promise," he says dryly, "to have you home by curfew." A small sliver of smile crosses his lips. "Look, if anyone recognizes you, just say you're cosplaying Jackson Holland." There's been noticeable temptation in Jax's expression as he eyes Joshua's outstretched hand. There's a small splutter-/cough/ at this last line, though, as he slides off his stool. <ATL> Hilton - Lobby "Oh shit, dude!" The two men have been lounging on chairs near the escalators, drinking, but one leaps up at the sight of Isra, bapping his companion on the shoulder to get him to look, too. They could both be mostly anyone here; jean shorts, sneakers; one in a grey t-shirt with white Aperture Science logo, one in a black tee with a stick figure and the words 'Stand back, I'm going to try SCIENCE'. One is still holding his beer as they jog over to Isra. The other is holding a fist out, as for KNUCKLETAPPING. "That -- that is fucking /awesome/." "I mean /badass/." "I mean how long did that /take/ that's one of the best cosplays I've seen all con!" "And /shit/, like, I've seen a /lot/ of muties here." "Yeah, but you look goddamn scary enough to be like the real fucking /thing holy crap." Isra does not tap the proffered fist, staring at it with an expression that one might interpret as either disdain or perplexity. The silver talons tipping her long fingers dig into the neoprene sleeve of the tablet she carries against her chest. "You are not wholly mistaken," she replies at last, engaging both sets of vocal chords to superbly eerie effect, sounding like an alto and a bass speaking in near-but-not-quite-unison. Her inscrutable mien suddenly dissolves into a broad, sharp-toothed grin. "I /am/ more than scary enough to be the real thing." <ATL> Robotics and Maker Track: Evolutionary Robotics Workshop - Sheraton Savannah 1-3 The room has been humming with activity -- more or less literally; many of the flying robots especially have a certain /buzz/ to them as they navigate the room. B's presentation has been animated, both in the very interactive holographic displays that accompany the (also interactive) robots that circulate the room and as well in hir brightly enthusiastic explanations of the work that went into them. At the front of the room, the tiny blue sharkpup is perched atop the presenter's table rather than behind it, perhaps from a surplus of energy or perhaps just the better to be /seen/ given hir diminutive stature. A pair of tribbles purring in hir lap when ze opens the room to questions. The chatter around the room bubbles to life pretty much instantly. Though hands go up, voices raise long before B has a chance to call on anyone. "How did something like you get hired at /Stark/?" "Hey I saw you on YouTube, you were straight-up /eating/ a dude why aren't you in jail?" "Or your /dad/ isn't he a terrorist?" "Is it hard for your team working with you?" "Do they need, like, special safety precautions?" B's eyes are getting wider as the voices start to clamor over each other, hir gills fluttering faster. Hir claws curl down into the soft fur of one of the fluffy pink and lavender toys nestled into hir blue and silver skirt."I -- no, I -- that's -- not --" (Near the back of the room, Jax is -- totally not bright and colourful today. Just in jeans, a patchy grey-and-rainbow sweatshirt, a purple Matilda-the-musical tee. Tucked into a chair beside Joshua. His fingers curl into a fist, his mouth starting to open. Joshua, silent, settles a hand against Jax's knee. Huffing out a sharp breath, Jax slouches back down into his chair.) Tony's only slipped into the room some time after the presentation began. His version of Incognito is not trying very hard, admittedly. Sunglasses, baseball cap, jeans, a Braves sweatshirt; he's been fiddling with his phone in the back of the room while other people play with B's toys and gawk at the sharkpup talking to them. He doesn't look like he's paying considerably /more/ attention as the flurry of questions rises. His head doesn't lift; if he spares much of a glance from his phone for the flustered teenager at the front of the room, it's hard to tell behind the sunglasses. Much like the others, he doesn't lift a hand when he speaks. Even from the back of the room, it doesn't seem to take him much effort to make his voice carry over the general commotion. "I've run into some issues in my own line of automated vehicles with clashes in information priority -- can you explain a little more how you've determined to what extent your bots will let newly acquired information override old data?" The look of relief on B's face is immediate and immense -- matched only by the look of /surprise/ shot towards the back of the room. Hir cheeks flush dark -- but the sudden smile that blossoms across hir face is warm, and wide. "Of course. When I started out I used to use a constant learning rate for all my drones, but as my projects have developed..." As the confidence returns to B's voice and the tumult in the room dies back down, Tony slips his phone back into his pocket. And slips out of the back door. <ATL> AmericasMart - Dealer Hall Saturday is the busiest day of the con. Ridiculously packed enough that even the vendor hall has a /line/ down the block just to get in. Inside, the two enormous floors of stalls are muggy, overcrowded, noisy, loud; even with the AC on full frigid blast it's oppressively warm from the press of too many bodies in the space. Some of the more popular stalls -- selling a rainbow of gaming dice; fandom tee shirts; replica blades from various shows and video games; RPG sourcebooks; cosplay accessories -- these tend to surrounded by thick clusters of people trying to get close enough to look through all the wares. Mako, Inc is a new booth this year, not too big, tucked halfway down a row near the back of the top floor. Their display is not particularly flashy, and their selection of goods only a small range of robotic toys along with the stack of hoverboards they've brought along. An interesting novelty, certainly, and while Shane mans the booth through the first half of the day they do decent enough business, far more in the furry tribbles and small insectoid drones than in the pricier hoverboards. When Daiki shows up to join Shane behind the table halfway through the afternoon the line at the booth starts to grow. And grow. And grow. "{-- On the plus side,}" Shane has a small sharp grin as he gets up to head out -- back to the room to retrieve a new box of merch they had /thought/ would be overstock -- "{we won't have to worry about carting anything back to New York.}" <ATL> Westin Peachtree Plaza - 6th Floor The mazelike halls and stairways of the Westin are flooded -- it's hard to tell who is /coming/ and who is /going/, sometimes, sort of a cluster of people congregating somewhere between the Whedonverse and Stargate track rooms. Elaborate costumes don't make navigating the crowded space any easier; one girl with huge batwings sprouting from her latex-painted skin is having considerable difficulty slotting her way through the people. She shoots Dusk a crooked grin as she spots him and his painted wings. "Oh," her laugh is a little self-conscious as she takes a step closer to him. "I feel like I should take a picture with you but you really got this whole freak thing down so much better than I did it'd put me to shame. Those wings look so -- real." Dusk's wings are the bigger by far, but he is having an easier time of navigating. Long practice with them, partly; partly the neater way they fold up tight against his back as he squeezes through the crowd. One unfolds, though, as the girl approaches him. The smile he gives her in return is warm, easy, wide and fangy. His wing flexes in a lazy drape, unfurling smoothly to curl out around /her/ crafted ones, settle in to blanket her shoulders. The slow squeeze inward is a gentle thing, soft velvet fuzz and warm light touch, but it is assuredly /muscle/ there, supple skin and membrane and thin flexible bone. "I've had a lot of practice to get it just right." There's a low rumble buried underneath his voice that might be growl or might be purr, soft and low. "You want a real picture of this whole freak thing, my room's over at the Hyatt." <ATL> Marriott Atrium Ballroom The room is already packed. From behind the stage it's easy to feel the music, the thumping coming less from the cellist-singer opening musician herself and more from the combined thud of two thousand people dancing. It's quieter in between acts. Instruments being shuffled around, the room's noise quieted to a lower rush of conversation with the house lights up. It escalates into a roar when Ryan finally takes the stage. Given his notoriety, it probably /shouldn't/ be surprising when the lights come up on his band behind him, but there's still a ripple of quiet, a tensing, an unease nearly palpable in the room as Ryan gestures his brand-new violinist to the front of the stage with him. Shane keeps his eyes on Ryan, and not on the stares from the crowd. The faint tremor in his webbed hands eases away as he starts to play. Whatever unease had /been/ in the room before can't be found any longer once Ryan's voice hits the mic and the pound of thousands of dancing footfalls shakes the stage once more. <ATL> Marriott Marquis - Atrium "Oh, wow." A couple is pushing a stroller -- or /trying/ to, at least; as densely packed as the walkway outside the ballroom tends to be, they're not having much /luck/ fighting their way over towards the skywalk. Resigned, they give up and pause in the crowd, offering B a sympathetic 'guess-we're-in-this-together' smile. "You really pull that off wonderfully," says one of the pair, holding a toddler (dressed as a very tiny Darth Maul) in her arms. Her presumable partner nods his agreement. "We were thinking of going the mutant route for them," with a gesture towards the small child (the other, still in the stroller, is an equally tiny Yoda), "but we didn't have time to think of something /weird/ enough that was still --" A vague wave towards B finishes this sentence. "You look so /convincing/, though, that's," said with a warmly cheerful smile, "horrifying!" B's enormous eyes open even wider. The gills along the sides of hir neck flutter, and ze takes a half step back, tipping a slightly startled look up at the pair. "Oh -- oh." Hir gleaming blue cheeks flush a few shades darker. "I --" One webbed hand lifts, first pressing down at the gills and then rubbing at the back of hir neck. The smile she offers the pair is very tight, small and closed-lipped. "Th..." The word dies on hir lips. Just a very hesitant stilted tip of hir head before, unencumbered by a bulky stroller, ze ducks in between two Stormtroopers and scampers quickly away down the skybridge. <ATL> Hyatt Atrium The main lobby of the hotel receives a renewed influx of foot traffic just after 3AM, with the concert letting out below. Few of these revelers have come in elaborate costume, and most seem just about ready--if reluctant--to turn in, forming sleepy clots around the column of elevators and the skyway leading to the other hotels. Isra does not look particularly weary, following the twins up the stairs onto the atrium floor. She stands as straight and tall as ever, in a cropped black tank top connected to a short handkerchief hem skirt by non-load-bearing straps in two Xs, front and back. She carries a sleeping Spence in her arms, starry wings curled in close to shield him from jostling. She gives the elevator "queue" only a cursory look, one eyebrow slightly uplifted, before raising her eyes to the open space above them, bounded by rings of balconies leading all the way up to a massive skylight. She quirks the sharkpups half a fangy smile and hops up onto a railing, long, taloned toes gripping it birdlike. From there, she crouches and leaps into the air, massive wings unfurling in a leathery snap, startling the people below her. The child in her arms stirs, only to nestle his face in against her shoulder, away from the light. Her wings sweep down in long, powerful strokes, propelling them up the open central column in a fairly tight spiral. She alights on a balcony some ten storeys up and nonchalantly produces a keycard to enter the central suite joining their rooms. <ATL> X-Track: Trust the Corps - Psionics and the Law - Hilton 310 The mid-sized room at this track tends to fill to capacity far too early; Dusk and Hive come early for a seat. Dusk turns his chair backwards besides Hive's so that he'll be able to settle himself into it, leaves again to nab them both some water from out in the hall. When he returns, Hive is /side-eying/ the pair who has settled in beside them. One dressed in purplish boots, a cape, painted foam-rubber helmet over hair they've artificially whitened, makeup to age and line their face. The other has an eyepatch, glittery makeup, painted-on tattoos, their clothing a garish mismatch of neon green skirt, bright orange tank, pink jacket. Rainbow wig. Glowing EL wire lit up all over their outfit. Dusk’s brows lift as he hands Hive one of the cups, drops down into the chair, lifts his scruffy chin to the pair of cosplayer. "Huh. Who're you?" One of the men grins at Hive. "Oh, hey, sweet Nerri! -- Magneto. Jackson Holland." Hive knows the answers even before the man has pointed at each of them in turn. He doesn't smile back. He baps Dusk in the back of the head when Dusk snorts. "Eyepatch is on the wrong eye," Dusk points out, his smile just a little crooked. "Told you," says the Magneto, as the other one switches the eyepatch around to the left. <ATL> Hilton Grand Salon D The sound of a tenor saxophone stops Flicker in his tracks as he's heading out from a video gaming panel. The man playing -- dressed in dapper black suit, lavender dress shirt, black hair slicked back, has caught sight of him across the hall. /Aims/ the saxophone towards him as he strikes up a pose to play. Around them, people are already starting to grin. Flicker's long red coat swishes around his tall boots as he turns. Aims his mechanical arm at the Midvalley cosplayer. With a small flick of the fake revolver he holds, his entire arm begins to transform, telescoping longer, white and huge with feathered extensions on its ends. A number of the people who had stopped to watch break into applause. The Hornfreak cosplayer stops playing, grinning too wide anyway. As people stop to snap pictures, Flicker makes a mental note to hand out business cards for B. <ATL> Hyatt Centennial Ballroom "God knows that I am fighting still; each step defining who I am --" "-- And if I fall, give me the strength to rise unbroken. And where I stand, the courage and will to fight." "The purpose of one becomes the purpose of all; a phalanx made from what we believe --" "Hold tightly to the spark; though the darkness surrounds you, remember who you are." "And promise me they will never see the tears within our eyes; although we are men with mortal sins, angels never cry." "-- The future belongs to the brave." With the whole room singing along and the brightly strobing lights of the Cruxshadows' very flashy performance, it isn't immediate that people pay much attention to the dancing happening up /above/ the audience. Flicker's style of dancing strobes nearly as fast as the lights, jumping in between the beams of the ballroom's ceiling. The glowing green EL wire twined around his mechanical arm makes him easier to track in his movements as he spins and moves, nabbing his friends from the dancefloor to whirl them up high and take them for a spin. The twins manage to /stay/ aloft just fine on their own. No teleporting, just the thwp-thwp-thwp of rapid webslinging to turn dancing into aerial acrobatics. Spencer's teleporting isn't nearly as showy or rapid as Flicker's. More giddy than anything else, he blips after his siblings in an over-caffeinated way-up-past-bedtime buzz. Happily bopping stray balloons that float up over the crowd. Jax and Ryan are glad enough to blend into the crowd between whirls around the room. Not glowing, not eye-catching, not anything but -- Ryan is there to fold Jax back into his arms after one particularly dizzy spin during "Indivisible". Around them, people jump and sing; the lights flash bright. Jax just leans back into Ryan's arms, head tipping back against the other man's chest. Ryan's chin drops down against his hair. The music pounds, the crowd surges, but as their friends dance around them there's a calm that settles in all the same.