WELCOME TO THE AUCTION [ OPEN LOG FOR ALL ]

[zauneyete]

WELCOME TO THE REDD ROOM

Neo Tokyo is a glittering and shining city that still prospers despite continuous kaiju attacks and natural disasters that plague it. However, there's more to Neo Tokyo than what meets the eye. Below its sparkling surface, there is another world that also flourishes out of sight for most. The people who live in this version of the city meet in the shadows and deal under the table, using cunning and power to secure their means. Instead of papers and feeds, this world receives news in the form of whispers and connections.

Rumors have been flying for months. They talk about long lost masterpieces, valuable information, and a certain recently discovered sword. The shadows whisper and share their opinions, making it known if they believe there's any credibility to the stories and if there's really anything to gain. While plenty is still unknown, what is known is that these rumors are beginning to converge and soon a name, a place, and a date will be chosen.

Those with enough money to live well in Neo-Tokyo rarely earn it honestly, and those with strong personalities all know who is the best broker of deals: Madame Redd. A divorcee who’s always found wearing a red-fox stole, she’s a wealthy arts dealer known for her keen eye, and propensity to occasionally sell fraudulent paintings to the unobservant client. She’s a sharp, witty woman who always seems to have a scheme up her sleeve, and hosting an event like this truly is where she’s at her most comfortable.

In a world where everything is done with technology, Redd opts for something more traditional. Securing an invitation means obtaining a simple, nondescript red card. With no name, address, or information on it, it's clear that having an invitation doesn't mean you'll be able to find the venue. However, by scanning the card with the right settings, a microchip embedded in the card will provide them with the information they need before wiping itself clean. Arrive to the venue, show your card, and pay your entrance fee.

To enter the gala, you need to pay a fee that proves you're serious. After all, this isn't a child's game. This is where the adults come to have fun and spend their hard won earnings. You will be prompted to scan your eye so they can read your implant and extract precious personal information. After uploading and submitting your identity as collateral, you'll finally be let in.

You are formally invited to the auction.

The gala

The Entertainment
Upon entering the venue, the invited will find themselves in a large, dimly lit room. The lights are low, obscuring corners and leaving plenty of areas out of sight. There's a veil of smoke in the air that occasionally flickers as lines of holographic light activate, displaying hologram menus and programs for the guests to peruse. There's plenty of plush and comfortable seating, chairs, and even private alcoves and rooms for any attendee to make their way into. Madame Redd runs a high-class establishment, that's catered toward any taste one can imagine.

At the front and center is a stage where a virtual singer with teal hair sings original songs and takes requests, providing vintage and modern tunes. As she sings, she dedicates her music to her fans and it's almost like her likeness shifts. She's the perfect idol, able to become the exact person you admire and love down to their appearance and voice. Even their mannerisms are the same and their songs draw you in, like a siren, making you want to devote yourself to your idol.

The Libations
The Bar is one of the few places that is brightly lit. Spotlights shine on the liquor shelves, showing off a wide array of spirits ranging from common and popular favorites to rare bottles that probably cost more than what the average salary is in the city. Be careful, but feel free to peruse the menu.

— Menu —

SONIC BOOM. Makes your hearing better, like you could hear secrets shared across the room. A fat-washed bourbon old-fashioned

THIRD RAIL. An electric lemonade that fills the drinker with the feeling that they need to yammer on incessantly. Like lightning on the tongue

LET'S DO THE MIND WARP AGAIN. A spicy tequila drink, it makes you more perceptive of the emotions of others to the point that you can get a sense of them empathically.

FATHER WINTER. Makes the area around you drop several degrees, to the point that glasses are frosted. A boozy mint hot chocolate.

VAMPIRE'S KISS. Makes consumers want to drink blood, and tastes of red fruit juices (and alcohol) (real fangs not included, but the drink comes with a pair of plastic fangs)

MOTHER EARTH. A red sangria that makes you feel like you're basking in a too-warm summer's sun.. It also makes you feel more impulsive and violent. Oops!

BURN DOWN FOR WHAT. Like having a redbull and a Celsius at once. Hyper enough that you might feel like you're moving faster than everyone else — and you might be! Several liquors topped off with LILITH-brand energy drink, served on fire with a high-proof float.

RIFT CORRUPTION. they SAY drinking could affect you in any number of random ways – truly dangerous! Really, it’s a virgin mocktail.

BEE POSITIVE. Will be able to communicate telepathically with other people who'd drank the same drink, a honey and gin concoction.

PLANTS DOWN. The aphro one, made with smuggled pollen. It’s a sweet and fruity drink that makes you think about lying down and having fun on the beach.

GILTTER. A drink with iridescent shades of purple, blue, and green. The bartender may challenge you to a round of dice to pay for drinks for everyone at the bar before serving.

coding

The menu contains some surprises

High Stakes Games
At some of the tables, you can put down your bets and play a round of cards or throw some dice. The stakes vary at each table, with some betting cash fortunes and others are more creative. At certain tables, people play for the thrill. They make dares that losers have to carry out and invite everyone to take a bit of risk. Some of these tables have clear shots lined up in simple glasses. After each loss, losers have to take shots, and while this might seem like a mere drinking game, it's more complicated. The shots have a sharp, tingly taste and a strong burn when it goes down. Not long after consumption, the loser will temporarily lose a sense.

However, it is not limited to the traditional five senses. You might also lose more metaphorical senses. You're playing a drink roulette and there's no telling what you might lose.

• Traditional senses: Touch, taste, sight, hearing, smell
• Perceptual senses: Balance, pain, space (spatial awareness), time
• Abstract senses: Humor, justice, duty, honor, belonging, purpose, urgency, direction, judgment (common sense)

Effects can stack, so playing too long could be disastrous. Fortunately, the effects are also temporary and will usually wear off after a short amount of time. Every person is different so it depends on each person. Still, a lot can happen in a short period of time, and this is a dangerous environment to be vulnerable in, so it's best to drink responsibly.

The Back of the House
In contrast to the shiny, chromed-out and minimalist curves and neon lights up in the club and VIP section, the back of house or the alleyway and loading docks behind Madame Red’s club is darker, betraying the seedier underbelly of her establishment. Outsiders who feel uncomfortable in their skin on the best of days, and even worse when asked to polish up for an event can still make it in.

However, if Outsiders go that route, they will be informed that they’ll also need to keep their eyes and ears peeled in case of danger. Madame Redd has been helping with the rumors of this legendary missing Muramasa for months, and people are very interested in it. She’s not certain that there might be an attempt to steal it, but she is concerned, so Outsiders will need to listen in on conversations as they serve or act as security. However, if you’re acting as security, you’ll be required to wear a fox mask, to remain anonymous to everyone.

And in fact, while some members of the party are busy playing the game on the floor, the Outsiders helping out with the back of house will start to hear rumors from some of the rougher-looking staff members. From the rumors, they’ll discover that some of the staff corridors are being used by certain entities to get closer to the treasure being auctioned off tonight. After all, some elements want to keep the mystique, and what’s more exciting than a recently recovered ancient sword, than if it goes disappearing. So several of Neo-Tokyo’s crime syndicates are vying to steal it. Outsiders can choose to pit them against one another, redirect them using their positions as staff, coordinate with their fellow outsiders in the party proper, or even just straight up fight them! Anything goes, but Madame Redd’s directive was clear: This should not impact the Auction itself. No bringing the fight to the main floor!

THE AUCTION

The Auction
And what a main floor! The organizers clearly have gone all out for this special art auction – there’s holographic displays of everything from paintings to jewelry to the swords themselves, each identifiable with an ocular implant stating the object name, providence, and current bid. Much of the bidding is happening anonymously, but there are signs amongst the crowds on the floor of who might be attempting to outbid who. Outsiders are, of course, welcome to bet their Kryptos on just about anything under the sun, though the rarer and finer the object the more likely they are to be outbid. But there are some small art pieces that are feasible for Outsiders to win, should they choose to try.

• Finely crafted silver bracelet with a heart charm from maker “Theophania”
• A corner of Van Gogh’s “Scream” - something’s off about that
• A certificate of ownership for a digital png of… you’re not sure, a monkey? Or is it a grape with a bored expression? Someone tells you that you can use it as an ‘icon’. (People have not used digital icons in at least 100 years)
• “Girl with A Pearl Earring” – closer inspection reveals that the pearl is a red and white orb from a popular children’s cartoon from the beginning of the millennium, but did you look that closely at it before you won?
• Colorful folder with a wild cat design, comes with a set of matching stickers
• A hand crafted statue of a woman in a compromising pose and very little clothing. She looks heavily stylized and more like an animated piece
• A glass rose
• A nice lacquered box with a real pearl inlay of a nice ocean-related design
• A pair of thick plastic shoes in something called ‘sport mode’
• A painting with rectangles of color
• Three smaller tantos (one listing for each)

Time for a Bidding War!

When someone wins an object (ten minutes go by without any bids), the staff will bring the individual into the back room where the real items are – proudly displayed and very securely guarded. No one is taking any chances. Well, there is one object that seems to be gaining a lot of attention, including significant press in the lead-up to the auction itself.

The one item not tucked away is the one that several Outsiders have been checking in on: Muramasa, Aventurine, and Silco, namely. It’s in the center of the main auction area, with appropriate mood lighting giving the blade a dangerous glow. A pressure-sensitive railing surrounds it, and if any Outsider so much as touches it, they and anyone around them will be ushered into a small room to be grilled by security. Yes, even if you accidentally did it. Getting out of questioning proves to be a time-intensive process, especially if you’ve indulged in any of the unsavory options of the evening.

Good luck!

The Heist Begins! (And where did Asaboo go??)
The highlight of the night is the betting war over the star of the show – the genuine “reclaimed” Muramasa sword, perfect and pristine. Madame Redd stands next to it as she tells the story of how it was found and brought to her by a secret faction within LILITH, as evidenced by Asaboo guarding it as well. She adjusts her fox-fur stole and expresses that it’s a great honor for her to present it tonight to auction to the highest bidder, someone who truly appreciates art, and history. The bidding commences, with several clearly Yakuza types offering increasingly large sums for the item.

That is, until a woman stands and offers an exorbitant amount, with a striped stole around her neck, her tone is laid back and belligerent. Madame Redd hisses out a soft oath to any outsiders who are nearby, but the woman laughs when one of the bidders folds, and she offers him a loan to keep going, if he’d like. A few escalations later, however, and the sword is indeed taken by the notoriously wealthy loan shark and arts dealer (and Madame Redd’s ex) Tammy Nook.

As the auction concludes, it’s time to indulge in the rest of the night's festivities – except the power flickers – and as the lights lift again, the sword is missing – along with Asaboo, who wouldn’t let go of it. Everyone will have to track down the thieves, since they can’t have gotten far, right? As Outsiders start spreading out to find the thieves, they’ll encounter new security that hadn’t been there before: humanoid machines that shift and jerk...until they project holograms of other Outsiders over their bodies. They’ll have to determine friend from foe, as those uploaded identities are now a danger, and they’ll have to fight their way through these false outsiders to try and keep chasing after the thieves! Someone had better save the sword (and Asaboo!) so it's time to fight your way through!

CODING BY

Comments

[misclassed]

[ Yuta didn't try to bite him when he stuck his fingers in his mouth, so... yes. He trusts Yuta implicitly, and the modicum of self control Yuta's exhibited so far (waiting for "permission," such as it was) is enough to tip Muramasa's common sense into erring on the side of stupid. Because it kind of does make sense. A sorcerer is like a mage, or near enough. His blood had helped Choso recover from his injuries, helping bring him back from the point of death... so it should be able to help Yuta as well. ]

Okay, good. [ Yuta's unsteady gait is hidden by the arm that Muramasa loops around his waist, half lifting, half pulling his wayward apprentice towards the shadowy hallway and the safety of privacy. ] I don't need someone else giving me shit about this on top of everything else tonight.

[copy]

[ No doubt trusting a drunk person's judgement will go well. In Yuta's later defense, he does fully believe what he's saying. The logic is there, just maybe not applied very soundly. Really, just drinking some more water would be the better solution and the one he might have arrived at himself if the longing for the taste of blood wasn't so intense. Just because he's been so good about getting permission first doesn't mean it isn't a driving factor in his current decision-making skills.

Through momentum and the two anchor points of their holds on each other, Yuta finds steadier footing, steps gaining more surety with each one taken. Although it doesn't do much to dissuade Yuta from leaning into Muramasa, only barely refraining from giving in to the desire to bury himself against the heat of his master even though he's feeling plenty warmed from within for a change thanks to the alcohol already. That Muramasa seems willing to give him more blood and no longer appears to be angry with him is cause enough for the bubbly joy and affection to return.

Until Muramasa's last statement about someone giving him shit sinks in after a slight delay, that is. ]

Who is giving you trouble?

[ Does Yuta need to fight someone? He'll fight someone for him. ]

[misclassed]

Aventurine, who else? I'm gonna give him an earful next time I see him, I promise you that much.

[ He knows Aventurine is gone. Gone and checked himself when the oculars stopped showing him on the network, and when he hadn't been able to find the glimmer of shattered and rebuilt divinity cast into stone, accepted this intervention as one truly divine. He knows Aventurine hated to feel chained, to be stuck on this planet; he will not begrudge him the freedom from it that he so clearly chafes for, but couldn't the guy have waited until after the night was over to disappear? It's damn ridiculous.

They slip through one of the shadowy gaps in the curtains, finding their way into the hall that leads to the back of the venue, to the catering and the small "private" sections that Redd reserved for deals she didn't want anyone else witnessing besides her own security cameras. Of course Aventurine had charmed his way into a small personal office — the door lies just ahead, the pneumatics sliding open with a hiss at the briefest signal from Muramasa's oculars.

It's quiet back here, there is no sounds save their feet on the floor and the rustle of their jackets. The lounge, with its low couch and glossy table muffles the sounds of the rest of the building eerily, but it's private, at least. Once inside, Muramasa deposits Yuta on the couch unceremoniously, and busies humself with pulling the bolt that physics locks the door. Old fashioned indeed. ]

[copy]

[ The defensive heat mellows out at that particular name drop, known element and former fixture of the forge as Aventurine is, though a disapproving frown remains. ]

Oh, is he saying things again? That's no good...

[ Yuta will have to talk to him and, unaware of Aventurine's disappearance from this world as he is, he resolves as much. Perhaps a polite request from him will do more good to avoid further aggravations and spilling of private information than whatever earful Muramasa's planning to give him. Yuta protects Muramasa's peace at the forge whenever he can, he can let it extend into this. Easy. He can ask whenever he sees Aventurine next.

He lets himself be guided past the curtains, into the hall, kept pliant by the familiar warmth pressed along his side and the promise of another taste despite how their close proximity and the tantalizing scent of blood coming from Muramasa is bringing back the urge to sink his teeth into flesh again. Yuta can be good and wait. He's managed thus far. So he moves with Muramasa, obedient and without question as to where they're going.

After an evening of nothing but noise and chaos, the silence of the office comes as a welcome relief at least. Yuta goes with all the grace of a dropped sack of potatoes when Muramasa dumps him on the couch, but he goes gladly. Even if the rush of abrupt motion leaves him having to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, riding out the little wave of dizziness. By the time Muramasa has gone and bolted the door, Yuta's already recovered enough to be watching him through the heavy droop of his lashes, a hint of something keen and expectant in his eyes where he waits patiently sat on the couch. ]

[misclassed]

Mn. I'll handle it after we take care of this.

[ In the privacy of the closed office, Muramasa is free to let that businesslike front finally drop. He lets out a long, slow breath, shoulders sinking under a slouch and when he turns back to Yuta, he fails to notice the expectant look entirely; instead, he's massaging at the headache that's been growing behind his eyes. Not nerves, or even stress, just the weight of looking at a room full of people who are willing to step over and on each other to get what they want. A veritable sea of ill intentions and bad karma, for an entire evening. And that's not counting his disappearing charge or the robots.

He wants to go back to Kyoto, to his forge, where he belongs.

Muramasa steps over Yuta's feet and takes his seat a (hopefully) safe distance away on the low table stretching the length of the long L-shaped couch. Like this, Yuta's legs are hemmed in on each side by Muramasa's own, and it should be easier to control the situation at a distance, rather than sitting up close and personal with him.

Muramasa's demeanor is brisk, if not properly energetic, ready to see things through as much as necessary. Once Yuta is sorted out, things will be simpler, and they can finish the night and go home. He allows himself one last scrub at his face with his hand, pushing the unruly mop of hair up out of his face for a moment in a familiar gesture of attempted self-calm, then dragging his hand back until he can pinch at the tightness and stress that have built up at the back of his neck. If might have even worked, had he not forgotten (already) about the slowly bleeding wound and accidentally smeared fresh red blood across his clean hand when pulling away. Not helpful. ]

Tsk. [ Fine, so he won't be drawing his sword with that hand, and save himself the trouble of having to replace the ito. It's just another delay, after the other delays, and he is hardly aware of any growing impatience on Yuta's part as he shifts his hand down to the saya of his sword and starts to draw the entire thing out of its strangely modern sageo. ] Let's get you fixed up... then...

[ His intention had been to draw his sword and make a fresh wound on somewhere more accessible than his throat, but he is distracted by a new barrage of ocular notifications flowing in from people trying to reach Aventurine. Instead, Muramasa freezes only mostly done pulling his sheathed sword free of the sageo, turning his head just enough to frame the ocular's HUD over the floor rather than Yuta's waiting bloodied face, and trying to close the messages out again without responding once more. ]

[copy]

[ Muramasa looks so tired and Yuta's heart goes out to him. He feels it too, even beyond the drowsiness incurred by his accidental imbibition. It's been a long evening of dealing with unsavory people and doing work neither of them are particularly keen on. It has to be even worse for his poor master with his karmic perception of the world and who prefers to stick to the solitude of his forge as much as possible. Watching him sigh so heavily and try to ease what's no doubt a headache, Yuta's hands itch to reach out and offer the succor of his reverse cursed technique.

But not yet.

Doing so would close the wound his bite has left and require a new one to be made which would just hurt Muramasa more. He doesn't want to do that. So instead he keeps his hands to himself when Muramasa gets within reach, staying seated prim and proper and waiting oh so patiently as his gaze avidly tracks every movement Muramasa makes as he takes a seat in front of him, anticipation swelling. His mouth feels dry and the dull ache in his teeth is back when his eyes catch on the crimson stain left on Muramasa's neck all over again, having followed the path Muramasa's thoughtless hand took. His gaze remains fixed there even when the reddened hand pulls away, all focus narrowing on that singular spot and what he covets most with sharply growing impatience. Everything else gets ignored, Yuta doesn't even notice when Muramasa begins to draw his sword. He's so singularly focused on what he wants, utterly still in the intensity of it.

Muramasa says something about getting him fixed up and then turns his head, baring his throat, and that feels like a permissive signal enough to spur Yuta into motion. It's not quite a lunge, but it's also not not a lunge. Just something gentler albeit with more weight thrown behind it in his drunken clumsiness than he intended. It means he sends them both toppling in his haste to climb into Muramasa's lap and get at his neck. ]

Ehe, sorry...

[ It's said with a guilty giggle yet no time is wasted before his mouth finds its target and latches right back on. ]

[misclassed]

[ The string of messages are all rapid fire, one after another after another; he'd only paused the influx earlier in whatever setting he'd chosen, and now the dam has broken, flooding his vision. The issue with the oculars is that they so easily translate thoughts to messages. His speech too. He has to find that careful balance of control over his actions and the things he verbalizes in his mind as he tries to navigates through the onrushing pop ups — it's easier to just freeze and sort through them one by one to find the settings...

Except Yuta's made his move, lunging onto him in the exact sort of situation that Muramasa was trying to avoid. He can't say anything, can't even try to stop him lest it get translated to the oculars, and what's worse, he has to make sure that his half unsheathed blade doesn't get involved either. It's simpler just to go half-limp under Yuta as the momentum carries them down onto the tabletop, to ignore uncomfortable thud of his skull colliding with faux marble, and to then finish sorting through the ocular until he can shut the whole thing up permanently for the rest of the night.

The end result is... almost the same, even if it's not how he wanted to get here — and they're at least in somewhere private this time. Gingerly, Muramasa lets his sword fall to the floor, out of the way, and then pats Yuta's side, both to orient himself, and to make sure Yuta's wakizashi is still safely sheathed at his side. ]

[copy]

[ His mouth closes over the wound—unerringly found in spite of any wooziness his sudden burst of motion incurred—and as he presses his tongue down, it floods his senses with the taste of that sweet voltaic tang of iron, easing the craving and itch in his teeth again immediately. Yuta makes a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a hum, meant as something grateful while his mouth is too preoccupied for speaking, but really just coming out as a vocalization of his relief. The lack of protest and the patting of a hand on his side is taken as further permission and invitation to get comfortable and so Yuta does exactly that.

He shifts to crawl onto the table proper and get his legs tucked under him, straddling the warm weight of his benevolent master underneath him, one hand shooting out to adjust the angle of his blade (still safely sheathed thankfully) to keep it from awkwardly digging into his side. His mouth only very briefly leaves Muramasa's neck during the whole process and once he's comfortably settled, he's right back at it. One hand comes to rest on Muramasa's shoulder, the other reaches up to tug the fabric of his expensive shirt aside a bit so he can lap up the blood that's seeped down along his collar.

It's some vague, apologetic attempt at a clean-up before he returns his focus to the wound proper to lave it with gentle passes of his tongue, letting his eyes drift shut in the relishing of the soothing that the blood brings even if the taste itself isn't that particularly pleasant beyond the hint of sweetness. Like a cat given a bowl of cream, he's perfectly content right where he is. ]

[misclassed]

[ Very rarely does Muramasa feel like he has genuinely, truly has fucked up. He still hasn't (because he's terrible), but as it careens wildly out of control (no thanks to his own inability to keep a grip on things) he is starting to have a few... second thoughts about the decision. Maybe if he'd waited to make sure his oculars were fully offline once they'd made it into the private room, or if he'd found some kind of container to give Yuta a drink in first, he wouldn't be here like this with his drunken apprentice climbing all over him like a cheap harlot at an inn room in wartime.

Someone on the other end of the messaging system just gets a stream of consciousness list of the different types of hamon patterns and their formation methods, as the ocular does its best to interpret his sudden efforts to think about anything — anything besides the familiar weight of another person straddling him, the feeling of a warm mouth on his neck, or that way the air feels cold on his skin in the moments after Yuta's mouth moves on.

He hasn't actually fucked up, he's pretty sure. But this is a little fucked up, isn't it? He can only hope that the blood Yuta's lapping up like a cat will be enough to sober him up, soon, or that he'll be able to find the shut off function on his oculars before he manages to send anything else without trying to.

The only sign of Muramasa's struggle for composure is the way he shifts uncomfortably under Yuta, kicking one foot up against the edge of the couch so he can brace himself on it as he tries to finish closing his damn dms, permanently. ]

[copy]

[ Yuta is as happy as can be, lost in the blissful haze of satisfaction that's sweet on his tongue and so comfortingly warm and familiar beneath him. It keeps him docile and gentle right up until he feels Muramasa stir below him, sensing in the shifting of muscles under his thighs how he lifts one leg to prop it against his couch. The movement might be small, does nothing to dislodge Yuta, and yet it kicks some animal part of his brain into gear that perceives it as a potential prelude to an attempted escape. That won't do at all.

So, acting on the instinct without any inhibition to hold him back and make him think twice, the kitten licks stop in favor of biting down again.

It's not nearly as hard as the first time; more a warning nip of pressure than anything else, but it does serve to bring a fresh welling of blood to the surface for Yuta to sup on where the flow of it had started to slow which he does so greedily. His teeth stay clamped down to prevent any escape though, leaving him to suck on the wound.

Fortunately for Muramasa, he's spared having to endure that for longer than a scant few seconds before, abruptly, the blood loses its appealing hint of saccharinity entirely and Yuta's stomach gives a protesting little lurch. Heeding the nausea and the sudden 'bad, bad, bad' his brain is blaring at the (too) rich taste, he releases Muramasa's neck.

He has enough presence of mind left to know he can't leave the wound unattended like this and so he moves his hand from Muramasa's shoulder to his chest, fingers spreading as he pushes himself up a bit to squint down at Muramasa through the very heavy droop of his lashes. His brows knit together in concentration as he uses reverse cursed technique to heal the bite mark. Or rather, he tries to. Where normally the sensation is like the cool wash of a spring, it is now an unsteady trickle struggling to find its mark. Yuta manages, just barely, to close the wound before his drowsiness becomes too overwhelming for him to focus. His head goes down again, coming to rest under Muramasa's chin, before he can even catch sight of the blooming bruise left behind in the wake of his shoddy healing job. ]

Thanks... Shishou...

[ That sure is a very sleepy mumble for someone who should be sobering up. ]