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For Jet <3184.148.13.238Posted On October 22, 2014 at 6:59 PM by Megs

Regan glances down at the invitation nestled in her hands. The scroll an elegant form of calligraphy. You are cordially invited... Her eyes roam over the letters, her lips settling into a firm, displeased line. She thought moving half way across the world would set her free of these stupid, useless forms of propriety. Now, here she was, seemingly back where she started. Being forced into doing something she had no interest or business doing. Fuck. With a giant sigh, she drops the invitation and watches as it flutters to land at her feet. A glaring reminder of her social obligations. Being new in town officially sucked ass.

Regan procrastinated. Then she procrastinated some more. She knew she needed to get ready, having spent the better part of 4 hours locating all the essentials she was going to need. Regan was a minimalist. Aside from the plethora of weapons stashed around her small apartment, she cared little for worldly possessions. Yet here she was, standing among a violent eruption of girlie crap. Make-up lined her bathroom counter, shoes strewn across the floor. Her dress and mask lying haphazardly over the edge of her bed. With hands on her hips, she glared at it all scathingly. Whoever's grand idea this whole thing was, deserved a special place in hell...and Regan was more then willing to help them on their way. Her hands rise and the heels of her palms press against her eyes. A silent, weary groan escaping her parted lips. The time had come.

Over the next hour Regan made herself presentable. Her make-up was light, almost non-existent. Her lips a soft red with her eyes lined in the darkest of blacks. Her hair, the truly arduous task, had been tamed, pleated, and woven into a intricate hairstyle that she topped with a gold Venetian headband composed of leaf work. Her hands stroke the soft fabric of her Grecian inspired dress, one that Regan knew did not suit her. Not truly. It was the palest of pinks, almost a cream. The fabric loose and filled with movement. It was a dress for a young girl. One who had not yet witnessed so much of the darkness in this world. Yet, there was a part of Regan who wanted to remember a time when she hadn't been so world weary. A time when nothing mattered but the love of family. A family that had... Nevermind. She slips into the dress carefully, her movements gentle all the while her mind is screaming in turmoil. She already knows this is going to be a colossal mistake. Had known it from the moment that invitation appeared on her stoop. Well, fuck it. Too late now. Regan slides her feet into the heels, adding about 4 inches to her 5'1" frame. With a barely restrained sigh, Regan places the mask against her face. Her fingers dexterously securing it in place. Ready or not, here she comes.

The drive is quick, but it feels like hours. Within seconds of pulling up, Regan's skin begins to crawl. She can sense the heaviness of everything that is 'other' brushing against her. The amethyst of her eyes glowing inhumanly in the darkness of the car. She opens the car door, and slips from it's interior. She takes a breath, her senses taking it all in. When she is satisfied there is no immediate danger, she begins walking to the entrance. Even in heels, Regan is silent, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet. The heel barely brushing the ground before she is moving again. There is something decidedly feline about the way Regan moves. It's smooth, powerful and slightly seductive without meaning to be. There's just something about power and danger that has always been so alluring to the human race. Perhaps it is the feeling of brushing against death and then walking away to live another day. The doorman has the door open before Regan can even reach for the handle. Her eyes narrowing ever so slightly at the man. He's only doing his job and already she is annoyed. Hell, who was she kidding. She was annoyed before she even left.

Regan descends into the foyer, the light from the overhanging chandelier casting a pale shimmer upon her scars. Regan walks past a man sitting languidly in a chair, the hair on the back of her beck rising. She turns her gaze to his, purple eyes meeting golden for a brief moment. Hunter. The word blazes inside her mind, a warning. Her eyes flash, the purple intensifying for a moment before she forces her gaze away from his and in turn quelling the rising tide of her tiger. She just keeps walking, her heels making a barely perceptible click on the floor.

There she is. Standing within a sea of faces, utterly alone. She feels no desire to branch out, meet others. Her gaze flickers from one face to the next, her small frame getting lost in the endless tide of strangers.

Emerence Hux


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