ArchivedLogs:Keys

Keys
Dramatis Personae Cage, Alison, Elliott, Jackson, Micah, Mirror, Iolaus, Lucien, Regan, Rasheed, Senator Carruthers, Marc Hines	24 March 2014 Awards Ceremony. No one explodes!
Location <NYC> City Hall
A stately building, white and pillared and with a generous expanse of windows and appropriately patriotic flags posted atop it. It looks like a City Hall. If you saw this building, you would think, I can probably find me some Mayor there. The chairs that normally line the floor of the Blue Room for press conferences have been removed and replaced by a scattering of neatly arranged circular tables, with full places set out with perfect delicacy. On top of each folded cloth napkin is a name card, each hand calligraphed. The award winners and their respective plus-ones are all at a single table near the front, and one table over is for senior City officials; by the name tags, the Public Advocate, the Comptroller, the Police Commissioner, the Fire Commissioner, and a few other senior members of the city -- and even one from the state, as U.S. Senator Carruthers is apparently present as well. The room is carefully furnished today, with a few television cameras lining the wall along with taped off boxes for the camerapeople to stand in. A larger section just off of the stage is taped off as well, music stands and chairs set up - though the only instrument present is a single golden harp sitting towards the back. Small microphones are set up as well, there, though they sit hanging on the chair backs. At the front of the room, the podium sits where it normally does, though the battening around it is new. The Seal of the City of New York has been polished to a bright hue, and the microphones from the various news agencies that normally sit on it have been pruned down to a single one. Behind the podium, as they always are, stand the United States flag, the flag of the State of New York, and the flag of the City. A few minutes before people are let into the room to go find their seats, the musicians - all in tuxedos and polished shoes - file in to take their seats. Two violins, a cello, a flute, and the harp make up the little orchestra. The more astute of the audience might recognize several of them from the Philharmonic; the cellist is the first chair. It is, strikingly enough for a government-run event, right on time when the doors open to let people begin filing into the room from where they may have been milling about outside in the rest of the newly /refurbished/ City Hall, guests all elegantly coiffed in black-tie attire as they head inside. Luke and Alison arrive in a rented limo that looks like every other limo today. Luke gets out sporting a brand new, hand-tailored tuxedo in blue with black trim, a white and a blue bow tie to match. For those who can mark the subtle expression, he looks pleased to be here, but has a permanent half-smile, as if he's still waiting for the other shoe to drop. This all seems pretty unreal for him. Once out of the car, he turns to hold the door open for Alison. Alison seems right at home at this sort of event, gliding past Luke at the door with just a lift of her hand to press against his cheek. Dressed in a floor-length pale blue gown with icy rhinestones dotted along the right hip that stretch down to meet the slit just above her knee. Her hair is styled appropriately, a pile of curls that also seems to sparkle in the light. She smiles to the guest entering next to her, and indicates Luke. "Isn't he just the sweetest?" When Luke joins her, she loops her hand through his elbow, gently steering him towards the table up front. She works the room well, nodding and smiling to those she knows and those she doesn't equally. The couple pause for a few pictures, Luke obviously coached by the more experienced Alison, and then the head on in to the party. Elliott has eschewed evening gown and is in dress blues, today, uniform crisply polished up from head to toe. Slacks and coat and black shoes and white gloves, necktie, dress shirt, neat black shoes that /gleam/. She makes her way up towards the front though /she/ stops first at the table full of the Official Government People, greeting Senator Carruthers with a hug and a kiss on the cheek and a warm, "Hi, Ma," in Spanish before greeting the others as well with less /intimacy/ but not much less familiarity. "Dinner /and/ entertainment," she seems pleased by the presence of the musicians, before heading over to find her seat at the GUEST table. Sneaking a surreptitious glance at the other names around the table before she takes her own. Carruthers. Hmm hmm. Between Cage and Holland-Zedner. A very faint smile flicks across her lips, and then fades. Jackson -- possibly may have wanted to come in evening gown. Possibly /right/ up until the moment he arrived he had been considering it. But he seems to be in a tuxedo when he steps through the door (he didn't come in a limo. Just in Micah's trusty racing-gorilla-wheelchair-emblazoned TARDIS-blue cargo van). A faintly /sheeny/ notched-lapel tux, deep midnight blue with a faint brocade patterning to its jacket, matching cummerbund, bowtie. His smooth-shaved head bears its usual vibrant-bright chimaera tattoo, though all his usual complement of piercings are gone save for a very intricate pair of plugs in his wide-gauged earlobes. The eyepatch on his eye matches his tux in slightly-sheeny-black-brocade. He is, at the moment, sticking close to his husband, a small bounce in his step as he heads inside. "Ali! Luke! /Hi/!" His /bright/-warm exuberance is maybe not quite at home in the classy setting but he is not good at toning it down, bouncing on toe toes of his dress shoes with an eager wave of one missing-fingered hand. "Ohgosh I had no /idea/ who'd be here!" Micah is dressed in a (borrowed) classic black tuxedo that fits him surprisingly well. It is simple: black bowtie, black vest, satin notch lapels, but with the look of being well outside of his price range. His auburn hair looks like it may recently have been /trimmed/ and has been coaxed into a semblance of order for the occasion. He quite willingly lets his more colourful husband take the brunt of the attention aimed their direction, a baseline of faint shell-pink blush setting up in his cheeks unlikely to fade for the rest of the evening. Otherwise, he manages to keep the worst of his out-of-place nervousness from showing too badly. He even has a warm smile to offer Elliott, Cage, and Alison as they move closer to the table. Off in the back of the room there is one reporter watching /some/ of the arriving guests with /particular/ interest. Tall, dark-skinned, somewhat androgynous in build but elegantly gowned in attire, her eyes flick from Cage to Alison to Micah to Jackson to Elliott, quick and thoughtful. Mirror taps at hir tablet, and murmurs quietly to the cameraman beside hir. Hmm hmm. By the time Iolaus gets to the room, the doors are already open. A bit out of his element, perhaps, his arrival isn't late so much as it's /fashionable/. At least, that's what he keeps telling himself. Dressed in a matte black tuxedo and vest with a frilled shirt underneath and a silk bowtie neatly folded - after Lucien redid it - Iolaus is fiddling idly with one of the buttons on his jacket as he steps into the room, smoothing the fabric out. A warm smile is on his face as he looks around curiously. People push past him as he slows down a little bit too much, flowing around him and milling about the tables to find their seats. For his part, Iolaus takes his time heading over to the front of the room, smiling and nodding at people as he passes, even saying hello to a few people who he recognizes. When he sees the Commissioner of Health and Mental Hygiene, though, his smile widens and he darts through the crowd to corner the good doctor against a table and someone pulling out their chair. "Commissioner, it's /so/ good to see you," he says, brightly. "I'm afraid to tell you that your secretary isn't doing her job so well. She hasn't passed along any of the messages I've sent you, or I'm sure we would have gotten a chance to speak before now." Lucien, at Iolaus's arm, doesn't seem out of his element at all. His tuxedo is black, as so many are, shawl-collared with its lapels faced in grosgrain; not a rented or borrowed tuxedo but one that has been tailored just for him. His fingers slip into the crook of Iolaus's arm, his smile quick and small with a quiet note of warmth in it as he (gently) (firmly) steers Iolaus towards /their/ table. "Commissioner. Delighted. This whole event looks marvelous, non? -- I'm sure you've been quite as busy as we all have. -- Oh, goodness, Doctor Toure." A small press of fingers to the small of Iolaus's back nudges the other man towards his /own/ seat. "How have you been?" His brilliant green eyes flick over the gathering crowd in quiet. Regan, for her part, is quiet as she arrives. The media doesn't seem to pay her a /whole/ lot of attention; she makes her way in relative peace over to the front. She's in a deep teal sheath of a gown, cap-sleeves, a modest dip of a v-neckline, subtly metallic lace and draped in chiffon. Unobtrusive as her entrance is it might almost be a surprise when she is quietly just /setting/ her small clutch-purse down beside her place, resting manicured nails on the back of her chair. "Goodness." Her eyes sweep the table with a very small, very /wry/ smile on her lips. "This /is/ quite the guest list, isn't it." Rasheed has an elegant classic black tuxedo; simple, no frills, exceedingly well tailored to his lanky-lean frame, and despite its clearly impeccable handicrafting he manages to look somewhat rumpled in it; but then, his perma-slouch and perpetually somewhat /underslept/ look makes him look somewhat rumpled no matter /where/ he is. Money -- can't really help with that. He manages a brief smile for the fluttering clicks of cameras that greet entrants to the room but is hurrying away from them with a stoop-shouldered shuffle that seems almost furtive despite the fact that he's walking straight through the middle of the room. "Hello." He drops his hand onto the back of his seat. /Claiming/ it. Though his nametag's already done that. "Lieutenant Commander." His head inclines politely. "And Mr. Cage." He offers Luke a quicker smile, warmer, his eyes shifting to Alison next in curiosity. His smile fades though the warmth in his voice does not. "And --" Dart, dart, dart, his eyes skip to Lucien, to Iolaus, to Jackson, to Micah, to Regan. "Everyone. Wow. It's kind of like the reunion from hell." Luke leads the way through the dining room, thankful for Alison's coaching, and the fact that she's letting him /appear/ to take the lead. He finds the table and their names, noting Elliot with a nod. "Evening, Lieutenant Commander. Alison, I'm sure you know Ms. Carruthers?" Luke blinks then, caught half into the introduction by Jax and Micah's arrival. He turns and smiles broadly at the young men, moving to greet each with a hand clasp, which is then pulled into a bro-hug (with new and improved back pat!). Luke is gentle with both men, all things considered, and says quietly to each, "I'm glad to see you both up and about." After the hugs Luke looks down and frowns. It looks like the double-helix ribbon he had pinned to his lapel has dropped into his breast pocket. He fishes it out and pins it back on, apparently unaware that most people don't use their finger tip as a backstop for pushing pins through cloth. Looking around at the final arrivals, Luke has smiles, handshakes and polite nods all around. Alison smiles when Luke introduces her, her attention first on someone passing that speaks to her softly. She's laughing just as softly when she turns back to offer her hand to Elliot. "I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Carruthers, no," she admits. "Alison Blaire. It's very good to meet you. Thank you for your service." She looks as if she might have /more/ to say, but then Jackson is greeting her, and she's turning away with a bright (almost too-bright) smile. "Jackson!" she moves away from Luke to hold out her arms to the younger man for hugging. "Oh, my gosh, I've been so worried about you -- but you look all right! /Are/ you all right?" She looks him over critically, tugging a lapel gently back into place. "You look so handsome," she says, and then turns her smile on Micah. "/You/ must be Micah," she says. "I have heard exactly very little about you, so you should totally switch seats with someone so I can bend your ear while they blow glitter up our men's pants." "Doctor." Elliott smiles bright and warm, giving Rasheed a tip of her head in a nod. "Micah! I was going to say it's a lovely surprise seeing /you/ here but I guess it really shouldn't be, what with -- the whole /theme/ of this night it really makes sense for --" Her smile skews a little crooked as she steps forward to offer Micah a hug. "-- the reunion from hell." She reaches over to accept Alison's handshake quick and firm after Hug has been offered, eyes crinkling up a little. "Oh, thank you. Though, tonight, really? I think it's kind of everyone here who deserves that thanks just as much." Iolaus looks over at Lucien as the other man directs him gently (read: drags) away from the Commissioner. "I-I'll talk to you later this evening, Commissioner." He turns his gaze onto Lucien as he steps away, raising an eyebrow. "It was the perfect opportunity, Lucien. Do you know how long I've been trying to get hold of her?" he murmurs, sotto voce, as they approach the table. The other people at the award table do manage to distract him, smiling around. "Well, well. We haven't had this gathering together for a long time indeed." Iolaus' voice is almost teasing as he gives a wink at Rasheed. A moment later, he is turning his smile onto Elliott. "Forgive me, Commander. The last time I saw all of these faces at the same table, it was a far less pleasant occasion." A pause, and his smile widens. "In fact, I believe I am far less damp than the last time I saw you, too. It's good to see you again, Elliott. And you as well, Luke. May I introduce Lucien Tessier?" The doctor says, facing Luke and gesturing to Lucien. Micah's return of Cage's hug is less bro-hug and more just...actual hug of shorter arms around very broad torso. Being around Cage tends to make the slim, average-height young man look /tiny/. He returns Alison's smile with a handshake and...an attempt at holding back a sort of schoolboy titter at the entirely more literal than intended image that her comment brings to mind. This is glitter and Jax she's talking about, after all. Elliott steals his attention as she steps in, and he takes her up on the offer of hug with a friendly-tight squeeze. "Elliott! How've y'been? You're lookin' razor-sharp this evenin'." He chuckles at Rasheed's reunion characterisation. "Surely it's not as bad as all that, Rasheed. We can enjoy each other's company in...much more favourable circumstances tonight, at least, right?" Iolaus speaking distracts Micah once more. "Io, evenin'." His head tilts curiously as Lucien's name is mentioned, neck turning further to regard the other man there. "Hello, again, Lucien...y'didn't mention y'were comin', too. Good t'see you. An' thanks again." His thumb slides under the lapel of the tuxedo jacket slightly to indicate the purpose behind the thanks. Jackson dispenses hugs with /wanton/ abandon, and for whatever news there may have been about his recent EXPLOSION and near death he seems very /exuberant/ about his /fierce/-tight huggery; it comes with a fierce-/warm/ radiant heat a few degrees higher even than his usual standard already-elevated body temperature. Hug for Luke! Hug for Alison! Hug for Io! Hug for Lucien? Hug for Rasheed ...Hug for Elliott? These last are more /offers/ than just hug-/attacks/, at least. "Oh/goodness/ Ali you look /stunnin'/ an' I'm -- we're -- kinda? Yeah? I mean I got kinda /exploded/ to death but we know some good, um, Io's clinic is magic and mutants are magic and 'tween the lot of everyone I'm back to a hundred /ten/ percent, how are /you/ both -- all -- oh gosh how's /everyone/ doing?" Alison's adjusting fingers may notice a bit of /discrepancy/ in the impeccable-neat-tailoring of Jackson's admittedly kind-of-flashy but /evidently/ high-class tuxedo and the -- cheap polyester? of the fabric that her fingers actually /encounter/. But, well, illusion can't cover /all/ bases. He takes his seat, just as undignified when he tucks himself down into it with one knee hooked up beneath himself, somewhat bouncy-energetic where he sits. His glittery makeup has shifted colours, from dark blue to a rich purple. "Oh I don't know I mean I think it's kinda cool. Not the part with the terrible plague or anythin' just." He shrugs, the purple of his nails lightening a few shades. "It ain't like none of us expect no /praise/ for work we done but how often does anyone official-like actually thank mutants for nothin'? Woulda been /right/ easy'a them to have left Luke an' me off the list, y'know? An' Io don't exactly win a lotta government friends neither." "At least those getting the awards," Alison teases Elliot gently, her eyes dancing as she eases closer to Jackson, "But the sentiment remains." She gives Jax's shoulder a soft squeeze as he seats himself. "I'm glad to hear it," she says sincerely, and dips her torso to murmur in his ear. "The company /does/ seem to be a bit rarified," Alison agrees with Iolaus, offering a nod that morphs into a quick scan of the room before she's heading for her own seat. "If I were still on the air, I would be handing out so many cards right now." "Good to see you doctor. Hey Lucien, nice to meet you," Luke says, pronouncing it 'Loo-shun'. French is a bit beyond this man. When it looks like introductions have been made all around, Luke waits to figure out where Alison is finally going to sit, holds the chair out for her, and then takes his own. This makes it Elliot - Cage - Alison - Micah - Jax unless this writer has completely flubbed it. "I was not coming. Until -- about ten thirty last night," Lucien answers Micah with a small chuckle and a brief squeeze of Iolaus's arm. "Timeliness and Iolaus are only nodding acquaintances. I think /Sebastian/ may have had a bit of a scramble to notify the proper officials about the additional guest." He offers his hand towards Luke with the introduction, a small pleasant smile on his lips. "Mr. Cage. We have met -- though only briefly. And the last time in /far/ less elegant circumstance. I am rather delighted to get to see you again on better terms. Enchante." If taken, the handshake comes with a very /subtle/ barely-noticeable whisper of warmth, quiet-happy trickle to provide /just/ the softest boost to Luke's mood. He offers his hand (and that same whisper-quiet warmth) to Alison, next. "-- And Ms. Blaire. I would recognize that brilliant smile anywhere. Lucien Tessier. I do not believe I have ever had the pleasure." "I admit there was a brief moment," Regan admits, smoothing her dress into place as she slips into her seat, "looking around at gathered company, where I -- had a very small suspicion there may be some kind of trap." But she sounds /amused/ as she says it, not actually particularly concerned. "Do you think they'd be upset if I asked the Public Advocate to taste Mr. Cage's food for him first?" "Oh, good. Busy. How have /you/ been, I heard -- on the news, that was /your/ building, wasn't it?" Elliott's eyes dance between Jackson and Micah, concerned. She moves to take her seat -- or starts to, pausing with a start and a /puzzled/ frown when she finds it already /occupied/. There's a long stretch of distinct awkwardness as she looks over the name tags at the table, clearing her throat once and then -- uncomfortably moving with a deeper frown to her /displaced/ seat, though she doesn't entirely look happy about it. It takes a quick moment for her to recover her pleasant smile. "Upset? I think -- maybe a little confused." "I have t'admit, I'm pretty impressed by who they chose t'invite," Micah echoes Jax's sentiment, settling into his own seat next to his husband's to avoid that hovering-over-people feeling that comes with some folks sitting and others standing. A small wince is timed...a little too closely with Regan mentioning thinking there was a trap involved. "Guess it's a good thing you've got the /fancy/ on hand at a moment's notice, then." His smile dips into more of a lopsided grin in Lucien's direction. "They say if a doctor's on time he hasn't got enough t'do, so I think that's easily enough forgiven." "Good's excellent news. An' busy's often a better way t'be, too." Micah nods in answer to Elliott's question. "It was. Jax an' all the boys were in...when it happened. I was still across the street gettin' home from work. All four of 'em are well on the mend now, though, thank goodness." His teeth pull at his lower lip a little at Elliott's frown and whatever confusion seems to be occurring in the seating arrangement. He's far from having the social graces to know what to do about it. "Monsieur Tessier," Alison says, lifting her hand to rest it lightly atop Lucien's fingers. "I'm certain I would remember meeting /you/. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." She offers a bright smile, her earrings catching the light to add to the sparkle seemingly in response to that surge of warmth. She seems unfazed by Elliot's temporary distress, although she does look sideways at the veteran before turning her attention to the table at large. "You should talk to Luke about last-minute," she says, with a mock pout for the big man. "He sprang this on me yesterday. I almost had to come in my pajamas." Which may or may not be true, as she skips right over to Regan. "Oh, I don't think they'd go so far as to try and poison any of us tonight," she says with a small smile. "They'd have to do in the entire room, and there's no spinning /that/ with food poisoning stories." She offers a tinkling laugh, and closes one eye in mock conspiracy. "But I like the way you think." The conversation around the room quiets down, as the lights just /faintly/ dim, enough to spotlight the podium at the front of the room. The also neatly-tuxedo'd man who approaches is -- not actually all /that/ famous a face; he's been acting as Mayor since the plague but. Well. It's been a hectic time. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. As I'm sure many of you don't know, my name is Marc Hines, and I have the honor of serving this city and you all as your public advocate." The politician stops and pauses with a smile as laughter quietly ripples through the room. "We are gathered here today to honor some of those among us who stepped forward as heroes during the Rising Plague that affected this great City and the whole world. It was thanks to their efforts that we are able to stand here today in such good company." Marc looks around the room, falling quiet for a moment, as the smile fades off of his face. "This City has attracted too much death and destruction in the last few years. With the Trade Center bombings back in '93, the horrors of 9/11, and now the Rising Plague which took our City almost to our knees, we New Yorkers have seen much. Even the very fact that it has fallen to me to stand here, in front of you, is an indication of just how much this City has suffered." "But through these trials, we have shown our strength. Those we honor tonight, as well as countless others, risked their lives to protect us. Scientists and soldiers, artists and activists, these men and women rose to the task at hand. Protecting those who remained safe from that terrible disease, refusing to abandon their posts even when they began to fall sick to the disease themselves, these men and women did not flinch from the heavy responsibilities that fell on their shoulders." "And they triumphed. It is thanks to them, and to many others, that we are able to go home to our families tonight. In honor of the sweat and blood that they spilled for us, it is my pleasure to award each of them with a Key to the City. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Heroes of the Rising Plague." There is an appropriate pause for applause. The awards, it seems, are being distributed in alphabetical order, because after the initial swell of applause has died down it is Luke Cage's name first called, the Public Advocate waiting on stage with an elegantly carved heavy wooden box with Cage's name on an engraved plate on its front -- the box's hinged lid open to show the ornate overlarge ceremonial key nestled into the velvet setting inside. "I have to confess, I may have forgotten about the event until earlier this morning when Sebastian sent me an email reminding me." Iolaus says, with a laugh. "And my head of security gave some dire predictions about the threat of the gathering of so many people in the same area. I think she's outside in the hall somewhere, grilling passers-by, no doubt, in full dress uniform. I wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't end up deciding that there's too much of a threat and crashing the party." he says, wryly. He turns as the room quiets and the lights fade, listening to the public advocate's speech. When Cage's name is called, he claps a little louder than might be proper, grinning at the other man. Luke chuckles at the notion of poisoned food and shakes his head. "Nah, Carruthers, I doubt they'd try here," He shrugs and sits, taking a moment to check his phone, and the twitter app his staff has been diligently training him on, probably to see how people are responding to the double-helix ribbon campaign. So it catches him a little off guard when the lights dim. He blinks and looks up at the stage, eyebrows raising as events actually unfold as advertised. He sits a little stunned when they call his name specifically, and then he finally gets that he's supposed to be on stage. Reaching the stage, he accepts the key with the most grace he can muster and then steps up to the mic, where he clears his throat a little too close to it, causing just the briefest twinge of microphone feedback. He frowns slightly, and his preferred method of solving the situation flickers behind his eyes: smash the mic. But finally he pulls his face into a smile through sheer effort of will and speaks. "Uh, hey. You all know I'm not a great um... 'off-the-cuff' guy. My videos? I gotta read those off a card." He chuckles softly, even if he's the only one who finds that amusing. "But anyway, I wanna thank the mayor for this recognition. It woulda been easy to sweep all that happened under the rug. But they didn't. I respect that." He plucks the ribbon off his lapel and holds it up briefly. "But we got a long way to go before mutants are treated equally in New York. Registered or not, pick up your ribbon to show your support. We're all in this together." Luke has a second there where he's not sure if he has more to say, and then just flashes his million-watt smile, holding the key up triumphantly, before making his way off stage and back to the table. There's a bright showering flurry of glittering sparks from Jackson's section of the table, multicoloured and bright before they skitter up towards the ceiling -- twining into the shapes of blue-and-yellow double-helix ribbons -- and fade away. They come with a cheerful echo of applause, and he wriggles in his seat, setting his hands down on the table as his colourful SEND-OFF to Cage fades away. "Ohgoshohgosh," he's stage-whispering towards Cage as the other man sits down, "thank /goodness/ you went first /I/ didn't know I had to say /words/ Micah they're gonna make me say /words/ we should sneak out /right now/." "You /can/ turn invisible, you know," Lucien murmurs, from Jackson's other side. The room is applauding, some merely polite but a /good/ many genuinely warm for Cage's speech; there's a /myriad/ of camera flashes as the big man is on stage accepting his key, filling the room. FLASH FLASH FLASH. His Twitter feed is probably also blowing the heck up. After a great deal of applause at the appropriate moments, Micah reaches over to wrap an arm around Jax's shoulders and give him a squeeze. When he speaks, it is in hushed tones. “Honey, y'might wanna take it easy on the /sparks/, somebody's gonna get twitchy an' think there's an attack or somethin'. S'an awful lotta security standin' about here.” He gives another squeeze, leaning in to kiss Jax on the cheek. “You got this, honey. Just say thank you an' then...it's all 'bout the kinda things you're workin' for, there, activist. Tellin' people what y'care about's what y'do, ain't it? I know you've got this.” Alison applauds cheerily, oohing at Jackson's addition to the flashing of the cameras. She's smiling widely as he makes his way back to the table, but Jackson's panic brings her attention that way, and she leans over the table. "You'll be fine," she says earnestly. "Just speak from your heart." On-stage, Marc Hines does the appropriate shaking-hands and delivering-key with Cage (the oversized box probably actually looks /normal/ in Cage's hand), his smile poised and polished for the flashing-bright cameras. As Cage takes his leave his smile grows a little more deer-in-headlights fixed for /just/ a moment at the light-show just off to the side; to his credit, he doesn't really skip a beat as he moves back to the microphone. The /rest/ of the room is in a sudden murmur but -- by /god/ he is going to /plug/ on ahead with: "Lieutenant Commander Elliott Carruthers." And then it's /her/ name being called, and she smoothes down her slacks as she rises. She crosses over to the stage, makes her way up onto it for the appropriate handshake, stop with a proper pose-smile, take the key-box. No hesitation, really, except the appropriately timed applause-wait, no filler-words for thought; there are some small benefits to being a politician's child and one of them is not being thrown off by the cameras and audience. "Thank you," she says with a quick smile. "I'm quite honoured -- by the company I'm in here tonight, really. In some ways I feel like I belong here less than any of them. Through the trial New York went through I was only doing my duty. The other truly /exceptional/ men and women here saw people in need and they rose to fill that. And I'm proud to be here with them tonight. I can't say I /hope/ I will be again in the future, but I can say if we face similar struggles, I know there's people we can all count on to rise to them." She tucks her box beneath her arm, turning to make her way back to her seat. Rasheed's hand lifts to cup at the side of his face; he claps at the appropriate intervals, lips curling up in a small smile at Elliott's speech. "Oh, God. Can you imagine what New York would look like," he comments, "if we had cause to be at a gathering like this /every/ year?" Luke applauds with everyone else when Elliot finishes. He nods at Rasheed, and says, "Yeah, but hopefully for a different reason, each time, Doc." Luke sits back grinning, squeezing Alison's hand affectionately. "Next year," Regan agrees lightly, "it might be alien invasion." Micah's applause is interrupted to /knock/ on the table (presuming it's made of wood) after Rasheed's mention of New York having enough mass emergencies for annual emergency-hero ceremonies. “Oh gosh, I just...hope not. I wouldn't argue with the whole of New York takin' a vacation...year. However long. Long as it can /manage/.” "I think," Alison says when the applause dies down, "that coming together each year to honor New York's best is a wonderful idea. However, I'm fairly certain that the crowd would definitely get smaller over time if we relied on similar causes to facilitate it." Hopefully Jackson is ready for WORDS, because after Elliott, the alphabet has doomed him next. "Mr. Jackson Holland-Zedner." Marc Hines sounds so very /pleased/ to be saying this. Really. Ignore the slightly /fixed/ quality of his smile. "If they was worried about a little bit'a sparkle," Jackson tells Micah with a little bit of a /giggle/ at the /awkwardmurmur/ his sparkling causes, "they shoulda knowed better than to invite me. Ohmygosh!" He suddenly sounds excited. "We're /so/ on municipal property, you think they're gonna ticket me?" Elliott's speech is met with a similar lightshow, bright-sparkly that flutters up into the shape of her rank insignia near the ceiling and, similarly, fades. But then it's /his/ name being called and for a moment a tiny /eep/ sound catches in his throat. His makeup darkens to /black/ though hardly very goth-y with its brightly /glittery/ highlights in bright bright pink, and he wriggles his way out of his chair to skitter-bounce his way over towards the stairs, pulling himself into a sliiightly (slightly!) more sedate walk to make it up to the podium. A little awkward arm-crossing when he tries to take the box first and /then/ shake hands /oops/. But then he gets it right! Onstage his smile is bright! Cheerful. And the sheen in his suit tones itself down to be more camera-friendly. He /does/ have a moment of uncertain hesitation at the microphone, a fierce blush darkening his cheeks. "Hi Gosh. Wow. I gotta say this was unexpected. I mean, it's kinda pretty obvious to everyone everywhere that I'm," he says with a small bounce on his toes; the trim of his tuxedo shifts and tints itself pink to match the highlights in his makeup and he continues in his /thick/ Southern drawl, "-- not a New Yorker. Um. I mean. Well not -- not natively, 'leastways." His smile is sheepish for this rather self-directed humour, and it takes him a moment of unsteady breathing before he continues. "But this place /is/ my home. S'home to a whole lotta us an' -- an' I'm /always/ gonna fight for it. An' that don't jus' mean battling zombies in the streets. Means doin' everything I can to make sure New York /stays/ a safe home for /all/ New Yorkers. An' encouragin' other people to fight with me. 'cuz --" He waves his box out towards the table he came from. "'cuz /man/, when we're workin' together, I seen some /amazin'/ things." His blush turns a little deeper, and he dips his head in a quick nod. "Um. Thank you." Elliott's applause is brief-quiet and polite, but her chuckle is warm. "And he was worried," she murmurs under her breath, watching the man on stage with a /curious/ sort of intrigue. Iolaus' applause for Jax is loud and his smile is bright as he reaches out a hand towards Jax as the other man makes his way back towards the table. "You did great, Jax." he says, eyes twinkling warmly. "You've got a key to the city now - I think that officially means you're a Yankee now." he says, winking once at the colorful man. There's a soft cheer from Alison when Jackson takes the stage, although her applause a bit louder than is appropriate. She folds her hands against each other as she watches the younger man make his speech. When he finishes, there's more hearty applause, and the air around the former pop star erupts in /more/ glittery confetti that sails upwards and erupts into stiff-moving dragonflies in helix ribbon colors that circle Jackson before they disappear into the popping lights of the cameras. Alison relaxes visibly when they do, and uses her napkin to wipe daintily at the moisture on her upper lip. "Moving images are hard," she murmurs to Luke, leaning against him just a bit. Jax gets a bright smile, though, when he returns to the table. "You were awesome." Rasheed's clapping is dutiful, and he blinks a little owlishly at Jackson when he sits back down. "You're not from here?" He is deadpan-innocent with this question. The deadpan is broken in a startled widening of eyes at the burst of confetti-glitter from Alison, dark gaze drawn to her in clear surprise. "He's always worried," Micah informs Elliott softly with a fond smile, his applause coming almost the moment Jax stops speaking, hopefully offering some reassurance as his husband makes his way down from the microphone. "Oh, honey, don't never tell a Southerner /that/." The comment comes with giggles directed at Io. Once Jax is within reach, he stands to wrap him in a hug before helping him back to his seat. Luke claps long and loud for Jax, but shakes his head when Iolaus calls Jax a Yankee. "Nah nah, Jax, you want the /Mets/. Now there's a team." He grins and winks, acknowledging he doesn't really think Io meant /those/ yankees. Onstage, the next name is -- preparing to be read when that burst comes from Alison. This time, Marc Hines is not quite so composed. He freezes en route to the microphone, but /thankfully/ all cameras in the room are very /suddenly/ focused towards Alison in a frenzied burst of snapping and flashing and recording. The swell of murmuring and gasps takes a /while/ to die down. It has, at least, given the startled Public Advocate recovery time to compose himself before he reads out: "Doctor Iolaus Saavedro." Lucien doesn't, actually, clap for Jackson, just gives a very small smile as he sips at his water. His brows do lift at the lightshow from Alison, though. "/Well/, now. The reports on /this/ evening just got that much more interesting," he murmurs with deep amusement in his voice. "Those dragonflies were spectacular, mademoiselle." When Iolaus's name is read, he -- doesn't /quite/ tense, exactly, but his eyes do watch the podium rather /keenly/. Iolaus' eyes widen as Alison's dragonflies burst colorfully into the air. His mouth opens, then closes, and a bright smile spreads on his face. "Beautiful," he agrees, nodding once. As his name is called, Iolaus stands and steps confidently up to the podium. He shakes the politician's hand, smiling, then takes the key. He pauses for a second, smiling out at the audience for the photographers, before he steps over to the microphone. Looking out over the crowd, he smiles and nods his head once. "Thank you, Advocate Hines, for this great honor." Iolaus' voice has that particular tone of a professor, as if it was bouncing not through a speaker system but rather off of a blackboard. "Looking around at some of my friends in this room, I can't help but think back to the weeks that we spent during the Rising, locked in the basement of the Mendel Clinic as we struggled to come up with some treatment, something that we could do to halt the spread of that plague." Iolaus pauses as he looks over the table in front of him, then over at the rest of the room. "There was a particular kind of desperation there, with little resources and little time. It is only by the skin of our teeth that we were able to come up with the cure that we did. Desperation forces you to try, and to try again, or watch those counting on you die. Not a motivator I would recommend, but one nonetheless." The doctor looks over the room and his smile fades slightly. "When I founded the Mendel Clinic, it was for one goal: to make sure that everyone could access medical care when they were in need, mutant or not. To be a place for doctors and nurses to come together to give mutants access to primary care. Since its founding, though, it has been a place for things I would not have imagined. The great success of the Rising cure is the most notable, yes, but there have been smaller surprises, too, and smaller acts of desperation." "I am not a surgeon, and the Mendel Clinic has neither emergency nor operating room. But when the hospitals of this city turn patients away, bleeding and burned from a terrorist's explosion in an apartment building, desperation forces you to try once more. Our cafeteria, it turns out, can be a trauma center. The EMTs who brought the patients to us can be surgical nurses; our doctors can become emergency physicians and surgeons." "Yes, when desperate times call, you will make do with what you have. This is not the time of the Rising, any more, and the clock has moved on from that dark hour, for most of us - but not for all of us. Every time a mutant is turned away from a hospital, is fired from their job, or thrown out of their home, we are all injured. All of us are harmed. And though they, and we, will do what must be done in desperate times, we all deserve better. The Rising cure would never have been found if it were not for the help of mutants like Mister Cage and Mister Holland-Zedner who assisted my colleagues and I, committing their abilities and their lives just as we did - fully, and completely. They deserve better from all of us than surgery on a cafeteria table." With that, Iolaus looks around the room once more, and steps down from the microphone. It -- admittedly takes a moment for the cameras to retrain on Iolaus; many of them are still flashing madly away at Alison after the talk show host's surprise display of mutant powers. But /eventually/ the uproar in the room -- kind of -- dies down, long enough for his speech to be received and applause to start back /up/. Slightly more awkwardly c'mon that speech was /depressing/. Hesitant applause? It takes a bit for it to build /momentum/ but finally it manages. Lucien is covering his smile slightly with his hand as Iolaus heads back to the table. He squeezes the other man's hand gently with a quiet flutter of soothing-warmth, as somewhere on stage Marc Hines is reading: "Doctor Rasheed Toure." Jax's bright-spark-shower comes again with his applause for Iolaus too. This time, the rod of Asclepius-rising sun motif that is the logo of the Mendel Clinic, breaking and vanishing against the ceiling. "C'mon," he tells Iolaus with a giggle, "you totally surgerized me on a lobby couch." Others might be hesitant in their applause for Iolaus, but it is quite likely a different story at the guest table. At the very least, Micah nods emphatically with several of the points that the doctor makes and applauds enthusiastically as soon as he concludes. "Me, too... I think? I was a little unconscious at the time," he says softly, lopsided grin aimed at Io. "Oh, gosh," Alison says, blushing at Lucien's -- and then Iolaus' compliment. "Thank you. Jackson is much more skilled than I am, though." She frowns at the still-clicking cameras as Iolaus takes the stage and shakes her head. "You'd think my timing would be better, though." She turns her attention to the stage with a deep sigh. She claps heartily with the others, flashing a bright smile for the doctor as he rejoins the table. "That was very well-said," she affirms. "You're a very eloquent speaker, Doctor Saavedro." Rasheed takes a quick swallow of his water, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin as he makes his way up onto stage. He doesn't manage to look any /less/ stoop-shoulder-slouchy once he's up there, though, no stranger to award ceremonies, he does at least have the proper handshake-smile-receive award thing down right. "Thank you, Advocate Hines. The others are right. We wouldn't have accomplished any of what we did without the help of a whole lot of people. And the /insight/ of a whole lot of people. And, yes, even the mutant abilities of a whole lot of people. The cure wouldn't even have been discovered without that help. If there is," he says with a small curl of smile, "one thing my work has taught me through everything, it's that in all the rush of fear and panic and discrimination there are so few people stopping to really consider how very much we have to /learn/ from these abilities still. But I was fortunate enough to work with people who offered their time and talents and -- saved all of New York and really the world by doing so." He gives a small nod, curling his arm around his box and heading back to his seat. Flutter-shower-sparkle; Jackson's multicoloured array of glitter skitters out across the ceiling this time in a bendy-array of brainwave lines, crinkled up like the readings on an EEG. "See," he says to Micah with another small giggle and a tip of hand out to the podium, though his comment extends to Rasheed as the doctor returns to his seat. "Ain't so hard, y'just bother to /ask/ first an' sciencin' at us can save the /world/." Micah shakes his head at the ongoing fireworks displays, smiling and chuckling in amusement as he applauds Rasheed's speech. "Consent makes pretty much everythin' better. Shouldn't be no dif'rent when it comes t'medicine an' experimentin'. /Especially/ then, honestly." He reaches out a hand to rub briefly at Jax's back. "It's the most horrible kinda shame that people ain't figured that out /long/ before now." "I do find consent makes all my experimentation with others far more pleasant, yes," Lucien agrees with soft amusement. The last member of their table is soon to be called: "Ms. Regan Wyngarde," is by far the least publicly-familiar name yet on the list but Marc Hines reads it with no less warmth than the rest. Rasheed just offers Jackson a brief-small sympathetic smile at this, spindly-long fingers rubbing slow against his cheek. Regan makes her way up to the podium with a soft swish of tulle. Her handshake is firm, her smile is poised. She doesn't, actually, linger at the microphone. Just a tip of her head, a simple but warmly genuine: "Thank you," and she returns with her key to her seat. Evidently, not particularly interested in making her name any /more/ familiar. Though this too comes with a skitter-shower of sparkles -- no particularly elaborate designs, just flutter-dance-colours winging their way across the ceiling and vanishing -- Jackson turns his hands upwards in lieu of clapping, half put out and half amused. "-- Waitwhat, /I/ coulda done that?" Alison applauds lightly for Regan, and nods when she rejoins the table. "There /is/ something to be said for short and sweet." "I know, right?" Luke says, turning to agree with Jax. "Why didn't I think of that..." He applauds for her all the same though. Iolaus laughs and gives Regan an affectionate look. "Short, simple and sweet. Someone should have insisted that I do the same," he says, winking at Lucien. "But perhaps I like hearing the sound of my own voice too much." Micah pauses in his clapping to bap Jax playfully on the shoulder. “Y'said things that needed sayin' an' it was good that y'did. Not /everybody/ can go up an' say the same thing y'know. She had t'/follow/ all of y'all.” After this there are more names to be read, more brief speeches to be given -- a pair of Red Cross volunteers who worked all through the quarantine to keep the shelters resupplied, a man in Queens whose aeroponic farming project kept many people fed and away from starvation, a teenager who organized Spanish-language crash-courses and traveled the city to help stop the spread of the disease through the shelters and safehouses. POSSIBLY these people's last names all start with Z but they all get their turn at the podium. But after these speeches and some mercifully /brief/ closing remarks there is /food/ that comes out -- because, after all, this is a /dinner/, and quite lavishly prepared. With dietary considerations taken into account for each of the guests, even! As the servers start flooding out with trays of the initial salad course, conversation around the room swells back into a louder buzz and -- probably -- the papers tomorrow have /just/ something more to talk about.