Logs:Personal Appearance Code
|Personal Appearance Code|
"Hmm, what's that? I didn't catch what you said?"
<NYC> Pier Sixty - Chelsea
In the early 20th century, the Chelsea piers were highly fashionable, providing berths for luxury liners like the Lusitania and Titanic. They have become fashionable once again as a series of parks, businesses, and assorted attractions. Sandwiched between the driving range at pier 59 and the indoor ice rink at pier 61, this event venue is spacious and lined with immense windows that look out on the Hudson.
Tonight, Pier Sixty is tastefully decked out for the Hope Gala to benefit childhood cancer research. The rich and famous of New York City and beyond have turned up to be seen, and so the paparazzi have turned up to see them. Those who have actually arrived on time are enjoying cocktails on the patio while a jazz band plays, but most are still trickling in, a cavalcade of pomp and glamour.
The security on duty are, like the rest of the event staff, sharply dressed and impeccably polite to the quality passing between them. One is tall and black, the other broad and white, both wearing pleasantly neutral smiles. Though neither addresses the other they share a knowing glance when the next party approaches them.
Alma is also sharply dressed, in a black suit tailored to flatter rather than flatten her curves, her long box braids bound back in a black velvet band, with a silver satin kippah clipped at the crown of her head. She is not wearing any kind of smile as she ushers her charges away from the flashing cameras and toward the entrance, her eyes scanning their surroundings ceaselessly.
Marinov does not particularly seem to notice Alma's alertness, their excitement over attending the event overriding their attention, wide-eyed and their tail and ears agitated by the barely contained energy. They wear a skirt in a tangerine coloured skirt that is designed to look reminiscent of the bottom half of a trenchcoat, two rows of two buttons across the front. Their top is a structured pastel purple cold-shoulder top, with the fur along their neck and shoulders retouched to keep a pattern that looks more striking where it is exposed. There are straps tied around their lifted ankles in very custom looking pair of sandals. "Holy shit," they say softly, so only their companions can hear, "All kinds've fancy famous people here."
Even in the stream of Society People there are few who draw more of those paparazzi than the current arrival. Ryan has definitely not arrived on time, and the stream of camera-flashes and shouted questions hold him up just a touch. Bright among the stream of black suits he stands out, tonight in a tuxedo jacket of lavender and silver satin in a pattern of roiling clouds, its lapels a rich deep purple that matches his trousers, his black velvet slippers accented with silver satin spats that match his pocket square and bow tie. "You outfancy most of 'em," he's telling Marinov brightly as they approach the entrance. "Give it a bit and it'll be two for two." He isn't really bothering to pause much on his way in -- just a polite smile-and-nod to the pair at the door as he breezes past.
The broad and white doorman holds out a meaty hand to stop Marinov right as they are about the cross the threshold with Ryan. "Sorry M-miss," he says, managing to keep rolling despite his trip-up over the honorific. "I'm afraid we can't let you in."
Alma is suddenly at Marinov's side, her expression stony and unimpressed. The doorman does not back away, but he does lower the hand that never quite touched Marinov's shoulder. Though Alma says nothing, the fractional narrowing of her eyes prompts him to add, somewhat sheepishly, "There's a dress and personal appearance code."
Marinov perks up at Ryan's comment and nods in acknowledgement, their mouth opening to respond. They stop suddenly when an arm is placed in their path, interrupting both their movement and thought. Their eyes widen in a momentary bewilderment at such a barrier, but upon following the limb up to the face of the owner with their eyes, their expression returns to neutrality. However, their eyes flick to Alma quickly just to check for her presence before answering. "I assure you that I considered the dress code." They flip their hand palm up in a shoulderless shrug. "Or do you feel qualified to critique my choices?"
Already through the door, Ryan has to stop short on a heel, pivot back, his brows hiked way up. "Personal appearance code?" His camera-practiced smile has significantly dimmed, though his tone is still polite. "Seems like the kind of thing that ought to be mentioned on the invite. Spelled out real clear up front."
The tall and black doorman pipes up in support of his compatriot. "I'm sorry, Mister Black. It's just what we've been told -- we don't send out the invitations."
The holdup at the door is starting to draw attention, both from the paparazzi and the other guests arriving. Peeling himself away from the press as if magnetically drawn is one Perez Hilton, tastelessly eye-catching in a leopard print tux, his hair slicked to one side with gel and his new beard still a bit thin in spots. He starts slow-clapping as he approaches Ryan. "You're so desperate for attention you're resorting to bestiality now." Then he turns his crooked beard on Marinov. "Bad luck, sweety. No pets allowed!"
Alma's lips draw into a thin line. She pivots to lay one hand on Ryan's shoulder, but her dark eyes are fixed on the encroaching camera flashes. "Gentlemen, I recommend you call for backup." She darts a quick glance at the black doorman. "And someone who can answer for the invitations."
Marinov huffs at the continued protesting from the doormen, and they place their hands on their hips, the tip of their tail twitches Their ears swivel back towards Perez Hilton, and they turn their body to meet them only a moment after. Coldly, "Firstly, if no pets are allowed, what is..." They gesture their hand vaguely around towards Hilton's face, "This mess. And secondly-" Then, with more heat and force behind their voice: "I'm nobody's pet, so walk that bigoted shit back or else I'll push it back."
"Sure, right, just following orders." Ryan's shoulder is tense under Alma's hand. "I'm sure you don't mind if we talk to the people giving --" He cuts off with a sharp narrowing of his eyes; the mood around them seems to grow a few degrees chillier. "And yet somehow the cat managed to drag you in all the same." The smile drops from his face at Hilton's second comment, and Alma (and the crowd of paparazzi) notwithstanding, he's pulling forward in the next minute, fist coming up in a solid right hook toward the gossip columnist's jaw.
The two doormen exchange another look, somewhat more exasperated than before. And then, again without discussing aloud, tall and black speaks into his radio quietly. Broad and white, meanwhile, is now holding up his hand toward the advancing paparazzi.
Hilton purses his lips and and strokes his beard. "Ooh, what are you gonna do, Pussy Cat?" He makes a claw-hand and mimes a swipe in Marinov's general direction. "Don't even get my started on your out --" He never gets around to his opinion of -- presumably -- Marinov's couture, as Ryan's fist connects squarely and he stumbles back, gurgling and clutching his jaw.
There's a sudden outcry from the gathered quality and the press beyond. Tall and black lunges for Ryan much too late, but somehow he turns aside at the last moment and grabs only air. Alma is stepping between him and Ryan. "I've got this," she tells him coolly, though there's a distinct note of warning in her voice. To her employer, more quietly, her worry audible only to him, "Ryan. You've made your point. Might be best to get out of here."
Hilton is protesting his treatment loudly. "Did you all see that? The mutant menace is trying to silence me with violence!" The flashing cameras are pressing ever closer.
Marinov's hackles raise when Hilton starts to reply, but after Ryan's fist sends Hilton reeling, they put their hand cupped behind their ear, mockingly, "Hmm, what's that? I didn't catch what you said?" They lower their hand, then extend and retract their claws twice. Their eyes and ears quickly scan the surrounding paparazzi and security. "Don't whine when you talk shit and then get what you were asking for! I'm a fucking person, asshole."
Ryan takes half a step forward when Hilton stumbles back, stopping only when Alma moves between them. "If I was trying to silence your violent vulture ass --" In the middle of his words the yelling from Hilton shuts off as neatly as if someone just hit mute. "Actually, now that you mention it, huge improvement. -- don't think this crowd is really our scene after all," his hand is flexing at the end of his wrist as he steps back toward Marinov, "but fuck these people, there's way better parties out there tonight."