Now what would a Killer Moth sheet and story look like?
Roman Member
King of Dirt
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- Roman 12 yrs ago
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Antlers,
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Bio
Watch out.
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW, WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED
Most Recent Posts
We're one week from launch! Loved everybody's intro so far, and keen to see more. Just a quick reminder that posting guidelines are 14 days from the last GM post, or 21 days from your last IC post, whichever is longer. Looking forward to getting everyone on the board!
If anyone would like to utilize Tremayne or Josie for their own purposes do just give us a shout - particularly Josie who has a, let's say........limited window.
If anyone would like to utilize Tremayne or Josie for their own purposes do just give us a shout - particularly Josie who has a, let's say........limited window.
Shoutout to my thesaurus. And ohhhh it's a girl. (unless it was always meant to be like...Josie and I'm just slow af)
Edit: Also have to thank you Roman for indirectly introducing me to the Bloody Beetroots. That song haddd to be used in my banner :P
It is meant to be Josie yes - so everyone make sure you take advantage while there’s still time.
More than happy to welcome someone else into Sir Bob’s fold. I did think ‘omg does Qia know ball or just inspired by my music choices thus far ’ but didn’t want to assume!
Loving everyone's posts so far, the characterization has been really strong across the board. Also love a post that makes me google a word - happy to add 'vertiginous' and 'febrile' to my vocabulary thanks to @Qia.
You'll all be pleased to know our first victim's murder has already been written and ready to drop when the moment is right so make sure you get the time in with her that you want..................before it's too late.............
You'll all be pleased to know our first victim's murder has already been written and ready to drop when the moment is right so make sure you get the time in with her that you want..................before it's too late.............
I couldn't sleep, so... yeah, sorry if there's any typos sprinkled in there. I can only re-read my stuff so many times before the urge to delete it all and start over wins. If there's any formatting issues, let me know, please! First time using the image hosting on the site instead of imgur or ibb, and I am never confident in my ability to not screw something simple up. 😅
FWIW, IBB is fine, it's just Imgur to be avoided, otherwise I get this instead of seeing what you actually hosted:
Fun!
My brain when my RP gets its first proper post:
I'll update it today, it's great. Totally worth the wait. But I pre-coded it in a certain order, why, I don't know, it's Roman's fault somehow. And everyone posted out of order so I'm changing it. Again.
Anyways.
If you guys want pretty things like the banner/header thing I made for Bobby. Lemme know! Send me stuff.
Looking forward to seeing everyone's introductions! Josie's a free agent NPC for use as required - if anyone needs any additional info or any character pointers just give me a shout. We'll have the official roster updated soon but don't forget to put accepted sheets in the Character tab!
LOCATION. New York City - Marquee Skydeck
002. The DJ
INTERACTIONS . N/A
The music was all-encompassing, loud and brash and in-your-face, vibrant and high-tempo. Energy was high and rhythms pulsed through every action and movement; people danced, drank, ate. Waiters flowed through the proceedings like water snaking through the gaps between stones, seeing routes no one else could, performing their own dance unto themselves. Those who were uninterested in amuse-bouchées and prosecco instead crowded the bar, shouting orders and pointing at cocktail menus, the beleaguered bar staff behind the counters working diligently to sling spirits and mixers and bottles of beer to their demanding audience, the activity there a constant buzz, drinkers like worker bees buzzing in and out of the hive in reverse, arriving dry and parched, leaving with nectar. Ephraim stood in a quiet corner, eyes closed, head swaying back and forth as he silently judged the music, each new mix and track choice tallied and marked and filed. Lots of classics, lots of crowd-pleasers; tracks people would recognize and cheer at and pull friends to the dancefloor because 'oh my god this is my song! Let's go!' - perfectly serviceable, but all Ephraim could think was 'where's the edge?'. He had no sense of the DJ's personality - no idea what kind of music they liked to play, only what they thought the audience wanted to hear. That was the first mistake. The audience never knew what they wanted to hear, and whatever notions they clung to were inevitably incorrect.
He pushed off the wall, finishing his drink and making his way to the venue entrance; guests continued to filter in, somehow endless yet the club felt to have reached a capacity plateau, an upper-limit on 'packed' that it quietly maintained without seeming to get any more or less busy, as if the dancefloor itself just expanded another couple square-inches for every new pair of legs through the door. Ephraim pushed against the flow, fighting the current to leave; and then he was out, breathing cool air and seizing an elevator all to himself as another batch of party-goers got out and left the lift behind them empty. He jumped in and hit the button for the ground floor lobby, a moment of peaceful meditation as he descended and watched the lights blink on and off through the levels; eventually, he reached the bottom, and stepped out quickly, inviting in another group of dressed-up men and women eager to make their way upstairs to the celebrations.
At the lobby coat-check Ephraim retrieved the rucksack he'd checked at the beginning of the night and thanked the clerk before slipping him a generous tip. Without a word shared between them, Ephraim was beckoned by the young attendant to slink into the staff-only corridor behind the cloakroom; it ran around the outside of the lobby and held an express employee elevator shaft for quick movement up and down the skyscraper, leading to similar restricted-access areas the length of the tower, and it was in this elevator that Ephraim's elegant-yet-subtle shirt and dress pants were swapped for patchwork denim, distressed cotton, rough leather. On the ground floor, Ephraim stepped into the lift with a rucksack, and back up at the Skydeck, Bobby Rifo stepped out, Ephraim's face replaced with the mask. The rucksack hung, invisible in plain sight, amongst scores of identical bags hung across staff lockers.
When Rifo emerged from the server's double-doors he'd already caused a stir in the staff who were quick to snap photos and try for selfies and whisper excitedly to each other; as he made his way to the dancefloor the response from the guests was more mixed - many recognised him and clamoured accordingly, whooping and cheering as Bobby waded steadily toward the DJ booth, but many others didn't, all levels of society represented here; the industry magnates and modern Manhattan aristocracy tended not to keep up with the EDM scene, or music much in general. Still, as more saw that mask cutting through the crowd the people began to part before him, his intention very clear: here's Bobby Rifo, gracing the celebrations ready to play a surprise set, and absolutely nobody in the building was about to stop him. Some wondered if he'd gate-crashed, having used the staff door; others knew that no, this was exactly his style, a rock'n'roll entrance to make waves and build hype before even touching a deck, and Bill Tremayne clearly had his finger on the pulse more than most gave him credit for. Whatever anyone thought about Bobby Rifo's appearance, everyone knew one thing: they wanted to hear what he wanted to play.
When the performance was over, Rifo basked in the afterglow as he once more crossed the dancefloor, pushing through the praise and clamouring hands of his erstwhile audience toward the bar. He met no resistance there; not even a charge, just the requested cocktail in a lowball glass and a couple of beers slid emphatically toward him with reverence in the bartender's eyes and a wave of the hand when Bobby pulled the wallet from his jacket pocket. No one could tell through the mask, but he'd smirked, having expected to get comped, and then in another show he'd left a twenty-dollar bill on the bar-top anyway. It was less than what he'd have been charged for the drinks - but just the show of it was enough, and no one was doing the maths anyway. The necks of the beer bottles fit snug between his fingers, and he gently rocked the cocktail side to side in the other hand as he turned from the bar, pausing for a selfie with a bold fan, and then pushed his way across the venue and out onto the Skydeck proper, enjoying the relief of the cool night air on his face through the mask.
He found a corner quieter than the rest, although still far from abandoned, and pulled a side-table close to set his drinks on and site an ashtray nearby before rolling his mask up past his mouth, resting it just beneath his nose as he rolled a cigarette and fished a lighter from his pocket. The gentle orange of the flame flickered in the breeze, eclipsed by the million lights of Manhattan stretching out before him across the city, New Year's celebrations underway across New York. Somewhere vaguely nearby was Times Square, and the crush of people could be seen from here even around the corners of the streets below; everywhere he looked, tiny pedestrians flocked like ants along the lines of the streets and alleyways, coming and going, never-ceasing. Rifo took a long pull of his drink - a Boulevardier, made strong - and polished it off in one, setting the glass back down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, taking a drag from the cigarette as his hand fished for a beer. People murmured in his vicinity, and he knew his brief respite lived on borrowed time; he couldn't decide if tonight should be an early exit for Rifo, or if it should be one of Bobby's famed blotto nights, a raucous evening of booze and debauchery that suited Rifo's image. He'd not had one in a while; the hangovers were rarely worth the PR. But standing there looking out over the city, cigarette smoke burning in his lungs and the bittersweet combination of the cocktail lingering in his throat, there was an essence to the air; the feeling that a good solid drinking session was the best way of surviving the night. And it was New Year's Eve, after all.
He was proven right about being interrupted when a brunette figure in a black dress sidled up next to him; Bobby was no stranger to flings and lovers, but Ephraim wasn't sure he was in the mood. Either way, with two drinks down and a third getting started, he'd just gotten comfortable as the cold of the night settled in around him, and he was loathe to give it up quite so easily. He passed his cigarette wordlessly, but the girl declined with a flat palm and short shake of her head. He didn't look at her, but he noticed her careful body language, the deliberate movements to come close but not too close, a way of standing to accentuate distractions instead of facilitate conversation. Ephraim also noticed she did not possess a drink, and that got his guard up.
"Nice night for it. Happy New Year's Eve."
"And to you." He replied, not looking at her as he worked on the second beer.
"Impressive set."
"Yes, I thought so. Got things moving in the right direction."
Josie turned to look back through the glass panel wall to the dancefloor, where things certainly had turned up a notch; the picks now were less 'safe' and kept the tempo Bobby had set, keeping people entranced in a well-crafted rhythm rather than relying on familiarity to move feet.
"Bobby Rifo's Secret New Year's Eve Set. Mr. Tremayne can certainly make things happen in this city."
"I played because I wanted to, not because I was asked." Ephraim said, his hackles rising slightly at the inference it'd been someone else's idea.
"Certainly." Josie answered, letting the matter lie.
There was a lull. Rifo clearly wasn't biting, and it seemed Josie had already gotten his goat inadvertently, so she decided to drop pretence and bite the bullet. She didn't envision the conversation going very far, but she wasn't about to waste an opportunity.
"Josie Tatl, Tatl-Tales." She said, introducing herself properly, at the same time fishing the recorder out of her clutch. She was many things, but dishonest was not one of them; in her line of work, she'd often found being forthcoming provided better results than trying the underhanded tactics employed by many of her competitors. Honey, vinegar, flies - something along those lines, she reasoned. If it got results, who was she to question the method?
"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" She gestured with her head at the recorder held in her palm, thumb hovering above the Record button.
Ephraim didn't give any indication of consent one way or the other, but he did pull the last drag from his cigarette and flick the stub over the railing, watching the last embers tumble into the night air. Before he turned, he finished his beer too and, for a moment, seemed poised to toss that over the edge as well; instead, he set it down on the table next to the other empties and pulled his mask back down over his chin, and then breathed the smoke out into it, wreathing his head in dissipating plume. It was quite the effect, though like many other posturings she'd witnessed from men trying to be impressive or mysterious, Josie remained unaffected.
He finally looked her head-on, his gaze lingering over her features for a short while, trying to think where he recognised her face from, before slotting the pieces together. Some independent blog/vlog thing. Couple viral video articles on YouTube. An enterprising young journalist to be sure, but still a journalist, and therefore not to be trusted nor trifled with.
"Oh. I know you. Tatl's a bit on-the-nose." He said, a response Josie didn't quite know what to do with.
"Excuse me?"
"Well, I don't go around calling myself Bobby Playmusic, do I?"
Josie cocked an eyebrow, aware she was being mocked, but unmoved. It was nothing she hadn't heard before, on the playground at school or in her chosen career path. She'd even named her platform accordingly - leaning into the skid, so to speak. Did Rifo really think some recess-level mockery was enough to deter her away?
"What do you call yourself under there, Mr. Rifo?" She challenged back, putting a pointed emphasis on 'Mr. Rifo'. Ephraim found himself suddenly and sharply bored of this still-brief interaction. As much as Josie had dealt with riffs on her name, he'd dealt with prying fingers trying to peel back Rifo and the mask, and he strongly suspected each of them were as fed up with their individual trials as the other.
"Buzz off. Security'll throw you out if you're a pain in the ass, and you're being one." He turned away, standing up from his lean against the railing entirely and making for the bar, thinking - accurately - that he could lose her in the crowd, and she could pester someone else. She followed him anyway, persistant. You had to be in this industry. Ephraim heard the 'click' of the Record button as she lingered at his heels, irritatingly close.
"Mr. Rifo, care to comment on rumours your vocal anti-AI stance is a conscious U-turn to cover for your work up to this point not being as authentically 'Bobby' as you might like your audience to believe? 'The DJ doth protest too much', perhaps?"
Bobby stopped and pivoted.
"I'd rather kill myself."
"Than comment?"
"Than use AI, or ghost writers, or try stealing other people's work, or anything else they're saying just because they're jealous I can do it and they can't." He'd leant into the recorder mic, making sure his voice was clear and lucid. "There's your quote."
He leant back up, pressing the Stop button on the device for Josie before saying "Now fuck off," and then, deftly, hitting the bottom of it and sending it flying up into the air out of her grip. She fumbled for it, juggling it a couple times before securing the catch and holding it tightly to her chest; when she looked up, Bobby Rifo was already gone, the back of his black mask difficult to spot amongst the crowd in the low-light.
He pushed off the wall, finishing his drink and making his way to the venue entrance; guests continued to filter in, somehow endless yet the club felt to have reached a capacity plateau, an upper-limit on 'packed' that it quietly maintained without seeming to get any more or less busy, as if the dancefloor itself just expanded another couple square-inches for every new pair of legs through the door. Ephraim pushed against the flow, fighting the current to leave; and then he was out, breathing cool air and seizing an elevator all to himself as another batch of party-goers got out and left the lift behind them empty. He jumped in and hit the button for the ground floor lobby, a moment of peaceful meditation as he descended and watched the lights blink on and off through the levels; eventually, he reached the bottom, and stepped out quickly, inviting in another group of dressed-up men and women eager to make their way upstairs to the celebrations.
At the lobby coat-check Ephraim retrieved the rucksack he'd checked at the beginning of the night and thanked the clerk before slipping him a generous tip. Without a word shared between them, Ephraim was beckoned by the young attendant to slink into the staff-only corridor behind the cloakroom; it ran around the outside of the lobby and held an express employee elevator shaft for quick movement up and down the skyscraper, leading to similar restricted-access areas the length of the tower, and it was in this elevator that Ephraim's elegant-yet-subtle shirt and dress pants were swapped for patchwork denim, distressed cotton, rough leather. On the ground floor, Ephraim stepped into the lift with a rucksack, and back up at the Skydeck, Bobby Rifo stepped out, Ephraim's face replaced with the mask. The rucksack hung, invisible in plain sight, amongst scores of identical bags hung across staff lockers.
When Rifo emerged from the server's double-doors he'd already caused a stir in the staff who were quick to snap photos and try for selfies and whisper excitedly to each other; as he made his way to the dancefloor the response from the guests was more mixed - many recognised him and clamoured accordingly, whooping and cheering as Bobby waded steadily toward the DJ booth, but many others didn't, all levels of society represented here; the industry magnates and modern Manhattan aristocracy tended not to keep up with the EDM scene, or music much in general. Still, as more saw that mask cutting through the crowd the people began to part before him, his intention very clear: here's Bobby Rifo, gracing the celebrations ready to play a surprise set, and absolutely nobody in the building was about to stop him. Some wondered if he'd gate-crashed, having used the staff door; others knew that no, this was exactly his style, a rock'n'roll entrance to make waves and build hype before even touching a deck, and Bill Tremayne clearly had his finger on the pulse more than most gave him credit for. Whatever anyone thought about Bobby Rifo's appearance, everyone knew one thing: they wanted to hear what he wanted to play.
When the performance was over, Rifo basked in the afterglow as he once more crossed the dancefloor, pushing through the praise and clamouring hands of his erstwhile audience toward the bar. He met no resistance there; not even a charge, just the requested cocktail in a lowball glass and a couple of beers slid emphatically toward him with reverence in the bartender's eyes and a wave of the hand when Bobby pulled the wallet from his jacket pocket. No one could tell through the mask, but he'd smirked, having expected to get comped, and then in another show he'd left a twenty-dollar bill on the bar-top anyway. It was less than what he'd have been charged for the drinks - but just the show of it was enough, and no one was doing the maths anyway. The necks of the beer bottles fit snug between his fingers, and he gently rocked the cocktail side to side in the other hand as he turned from the bar, pausing for a selfie with a bold fan, and then pushed his way across the venue and out onto the Skydeck proper, enjoying the relief of the cool night air on his face through the mask.
He found a corner quieter than the rest, although still far from abandoned, and pulled a side-table close to set his drinks on and site an ashtray nearby before rolling his mask up past his mouth, resting it just beneath his nose as he rolled a cigarette and fished a lighter from his pocket. The gentle orange of the flame flickered in the breeze, eclipsed by the million lights of Manhattan stretching out before him across the city, New Year's celebrations underway across New York. Somewhere vaguely nearby was Times Square, and the crush of people could be seen from here even around the corners of the streets below; everywhere he looked, tiny pedestrians flocked like ants along the lines of the streets and alleyways, coming and going, never-ceasing. Rifo took a long pull of his drink - a Boulevardier, made strong - and polished it off in one, setting the glass back down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, taking a drag from the cigarette as his hand fished for a beer. People murmured in his vicinity, and he knew his brief respite lived on borrowed time; he couldn't decide if tonight should be an early exit for Rifo, or if it should be one of Bobby's famed blotto nights, a raucous evening of booze and debauchery that suited Rifo's image. He'd not had one in a while; the hangovers were rarely worth the PR. But standing there looking out over the city, cigarette smoke burning in his lungs and the bittersweet combination of the cocktail lingering in his throat, there was an essence to the air; the feeling that a good solid drinking session was the best way of surviving the night. And it was New Year's Eve, after all.
He was proven right about being interrupted when a brunette figure in a black dress sidled up next to him; Bobby was no stranger to flings and lovers, but Ephraim wasn't sure he was in the mood. Either way, with two drinks down and a third getting started, he'd just gotten comfortable as the cold of the night settled in around him, and he was loathe to give it up quite so easily. He passed his cigarette wordlessly, but the girl declined with a flat palm and short shake of her head. He didn't look at her, but he noticed her careful body language, the deliberate movements to come close but not too close, a way of standing to accentuate distractions instead of facilitate conversation. Ephraim also noticed she did not possess a drink, and that got his guard up.
"Nice night for it. Happy New Year's Eve."
"And to you." He replied, not looking at her as he worked on the second beer.
"Impressive set."
"Yes, I thought so. Got things moving in the right direction."
Josie turned to look back through the glass panel wall to the dancefloor, where things certainly had turned up a notch; the picks now were less 'safe' and kept the tempo Bobby had set, keeping people entranced in a well-crafted rhythm rather than relying on familiarity to move feet.
"Bobby Rifo's Secret New Year's Eve Set. Mr. Tremayne can certainly make things happen in this city."
"I played because I wanted to, not because I was asked." Ephraim said, his hackles rising slightly at the inference it'd been someone else's idea.
"Certainly." Josie answered, letting the matter lie.
There was a lull. Rifo clearly wasn't biting, and it seemed Josie had already gotten his goat inadvertently, so she decided to drop pretence and bite the bullet. She didn't envision the conversation going very far, but she wasn't about to waste an opportunity.
"Josie Tatl, Tatl-Tales." She said, introducing herself properly, at the same time fishing the recorder out of her clutch. She was many things, but dishonest was not one of them; in her line of work, she'd often found being forthcoming provided better results than trying the underhanded tactics employed by many of her competitors. Honey, vinegar, flies - something along those lines, she reasoned. If it got results, who was she to question the method?
"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" She gestured with her head at the recorder held in her palm, thumb hovering above the Record button.
Ephraim didn't give any indication of consent one way or the other, but he did pull the last drag from his cigarette and flick the stub over the railing, watching the last embers tumble into the night air. Before he turned, he finished his beer too and, for a moment, seemed poised to toss that over the edge as well; instead, he set it down on the table next to the other empties and pulled his mask back down over his chin, and then breathed the smoke out into it, wreathing his head in dissipating plume. It was quite the effect, though like many other posturings she'd witnessed from men trying to be impressive or mysterious, Josie remained unaffected.
He finally looked her head-on, his gaze lingering over her features for a short while, trying to think where he recognised her face from, before slotting the pieces together. Some independent blog/vlog thing. Couple viral video articles on YouTube. An enterprising young journalist to be sure, but still a journalist, and therefore not to be trusted nor trifled with.
"Oh. I know you. Tatl's a bit on-the-nose." He said, a response Josie didn't quite know what to do with.
"Excuse me?"
"Well, I don't go around calling myself Bobby Playmusic, do I?"
Josie cocked an eyebrow, aware she was being mocked, but unmoved. It was nothing she hadn't heard before, on the playground at school or in her chosen career path. She'd even named her platform accordingly - leaning into the skid, so to speak. Did Rifo really think some recess-level mockery was enough to deter her away?
"What do you call yourself under there, Mr. Rifo?" She challenged back, putting a pointed emphasis on 'Mr. Rifo'. Ephraim found himself suddenly and sharply bored of this still-brief interaction. As much as Josie had dealt with riffs on her name, he'd dealt with prying fingers trying to peel back Rifo and the mask, and he strongly suspected each of them were as fed up with their individual trials as the other.
"Buzz off. Security'll throw you out if you're a pain in the ass, and you're being one." He turned away, standing up from his lean against the railing entirely and making for the bar, thinking - accurately - that he could lose her in the crowd, and she could pester someone else. She followed him anyway, persistant. You had to be in this industry. Ephraim heard the 'click' of the Record button as she lingered at his heels, irritatingly close.
"Mr. Rifo, care to comment on rumours your vocal anti-AI stance is a conscious U-turn to cover for your work up to this point not being as authentically 'Bobby' as you might like your audience to believe? 'The DJ doth protest too much', perhaps?"
Bobby stopped and pivoted.
"I'd rather kill myself."
"Than comment?"
"Than use AI, or ghost writers, or try stealing other people's work, or anything else they're saying just because they're jealous I can do it and they can't." He'd leant into the recorder mic, making sure his voice was clear and lucid. "There's your quote."
He leant back up, pressing the Stop button on the device for Josie before saying "Now fuck off," and then, deftly, hitting the bottom of it and sending it flying up into the air out of her grip. She fumbled for it, juggling it a couple times before securing the catch and holding it tightly to her chest; when she looked up, Bobby Rifo was already gone, the back of his black mask difficult to spot amongst the crowd in the low-light.
LOCATION. New York City - Marquee Skydeck
001. The Life Of The Party
INTERACTIONS . N/A
Even above the rising hubbub of chatter and pounding musical swells, the rhythmic ringing of a crystal glass was as clear and clean as daylight, even if the sun itself had long since set; the music softened, the gossip stalled, and even as party-goers continued to filter in, they slunk into the growing crowd quietly and carefully, all eyes and ears now turned to the singular figure standing, glass in hand, at the top of the stairs overlooking the Skydeck. William Tremayne, well-known New York hotel magnate, and magnanimous host of the city’s most exclusive function, stood tall and proud and with a healthy glow and a beaming smile, his worked-on teeth shining in the low-lights, his stylishly-coiffed hairpiece with nary a strand askew, his fashionable and expensive suit bulging ever-so-slightly at the waistline. He held up his glass, waiting for the crowd to follow suit, and then lead them all in supping from their chosen tipple.
“Esteemed guests; let me be the first to thank you for your attendance this evening. Let it never be said that Bill Tremayne can’t throw a great party, eh?”
His opening remark was met with low cheer and applause, and he took a moment to bask in even that modicum of praise before continuing, passing his glass to the sharply-dressed assistant shadowing him close at his side.
“Everyone knows Tremayne Towers; we have a well-crafted and well-cared-for reputation for America’s most extravagant stays, and we know exactly how to carry that ethos through everything we do. How about a round of applause for the caterers and bartenders this evening, ladies and gentlemen?”
William swept his hands across and gestured to the bars manned by already-frazzled men and women, and the team of polite-looking waitstaff patiently standing by towers of trayed canapés and hors d'œuvre’s. They waved, wearing thin smiles across their faces, and accepted the obligatory clapping as it rippled through the crowd of attendees, before all attention was drawn back to William.
“It’s that same ethos that’s behind tonight’s festivities. 2025 was an incredible year for Tremayne Towers, and we wanted to share that goodwill back with the people. Now, I don’t want to take up too much time; we all know why we’re here – to have a damn good night! -” another smattering of cheers and accompanying whoops escaped into the evening air, and William smiled with those pearly-whites once more while waving a hand to calm the crowd, “but I’d still like to take a brief moment to announce what tonight is in aid of. Tremayne Towers in expanding in an entirely new direction, a direction I’ve personally overseen and, folks, I can’t tell you how excited I am by this new venture we’ll be undertaking.”
There was a deeper hush that fell across William’s audience, and the journalists among them – all shortlisted, invited, vetted, debriefed to a man – audibly leaned in, phones and notebooks and recorders in hand. Bill let the anticipation linger for a scant few moments, enjoying the tension of it.
“In 2026, I will be launching the Bill Tremayne Foundation, a charitable fund dedicated to scholarships, artistic grants, and cultural financing. We’ve already got a sizeable chunk to get started with straight away in January; re-investing profits, generous donations from myself and other like-minded philanthropists, the very proceeds from tonight! But, as my one and only ask this evening – aside from making sure you enjoy yourself! – please, consider your own charitable donation to the Foundation. Together, we can use it to change real people’s lives, and through them, the world, for the better. Ladies and gentlemen – thank you. Now let’s fire that music back up!”
With that, the crowd erupted, photos were taken, notes furiously scribbled, and the music came back full-swell as the party truly began. William took his drink back from his assistant and drained the glass, heading back up the stairs to the fleet of reporters and board members awaiting him to talk more about the Bill Tremayne Foundation, letting his party thrum and pound on the skydeck below.
Amidst the throng, staff weaved with a practiced elegance through twisting bodies and below pulsing neon light delivering food and drink and even substances traditionally more controlled to those who knew who and how to ask. Meanwhile, the bars ebbed and flowed with the steady rhythm of patrons coming and going, ordering beer, wine, spirits, cocktails; nothing was off-menu, everything was stocked. The DJ booth vibrated with its own activity, guest DJs and the VIPs of VIPs ducking beneath velvet ropes behind decks and laptops, while dancers writhed in front of speakers and requests were shouted, unheard, over throbbing, thudding beats. Amongst all of this, Josie was overwhelmed, likely to keel over from the uninhibited mania of it all; but Josie had a cool head and a steel temperament, and once she set her heart on a task, there was very little in the world that could sway her from her self-prescribed purpose. This had been the defining quality of Jose Tatl since a very early age, and would remain so for a handful more hours yet.
She ducked past a pair of more lively revellers and artfully spun her serving tray in one hand around errant limbs; it was significantly less laden than it had been when she'd left the prep room, a small cafeteria no less busy than the pounding dancefloor but still offering a small respite from the festivities. In there, the blaring music was only a faint din behind the swinging double doors, beats ebbing and flowing through the gaps as waitstaff came and went. Part of Josie longed to be rid of the entire building; if this was truly how the 'other half' lived, she was quite happy with a smaller function at the local dive bar with a couple close friends. All the same, her line of work had made her quite familiar with this extravagence, and she waded in as necessary without hesitation to do her job; as the party got well and truly underway, the time to get on with that job had arrived, and she could no longer avoid it.
With an expert twist and a façade so well-crafted only the most sober and perceptible individual could have understood the perfectly-intentional stumble, Josie spun with the tray and came crashing straight into a guest. She'd tipped the tray up, tilting it toward herself on approach, and the result was that the collision sent the last remaining dish upon the tray crashing into her own chest. The guest suffered nothing more than an unplanned bump in a busy venue, but Josie herself was now covered in sauces and jus and the mess was quickly staining the white uniform shirt she wore. With practiced fevered apologies she collected the remains of the food and set them back upon the tray, now bee-lining for the prep room, leaving the guest behind to quickly forget her and be swallowed again by the music of the night.
"God, Amelia, look at the state of you." The maître d' reproached Josie as she pushed through the double doors and set her tray down. Josie did her best to look admonished, muttering out more sorrys as she was fussed over. "You can't well go back out looking like that. I'll have to take you off for the night. Christ, you've really fucked us over here Amelia."
Josie looked up and gave a small apologetic smile beneath the chiding, but quickly offered a solution.
"Actually, ma'am, I've got a spare shirt in my bag. I can change into something clean if I can just run to the bathroom."
The maître d' raised an eyebrow and uncrossed her arms.
"Well, aren't you forward-thinking?"
"I've had plenty spilled on me in this job, ma'am."
The maître d' was amused at this and cracked a smile, waving Josie off.
"Alright, Amelia. Ten minutes. Grab your bag, change, get back here. God knows we need every pair of hands tonight."
Josie nodded and offered quick thanks before dashing off down back corridors to her locker, retriving her bag and making her way to the ladies bathroom.
Secured in a cubicle, the rucksack was unzipped quickly, and the transformation began; off came false lashes and a blonde wig, a messy brunette bob shaken out from underneath. Her glasses were removed and stowed and replaced with a pair of carefully-applied contact lenses, and the tight-fitting shirt and skirt combo of the staff uniform went into the bag and out came a modest black party dress, fitting for the occasion but well below the average price-band of many outfits here. Still, it hugged her figure nicely, was enough to blend in with the attendees, and when combined with a pair of heels swapped for the work pumps she'd been hotfooting around in and just enough foundation to cover the blemishes while still leaving her natural freckles on display, Josie cut a fine form. The bag was stowed and in front of the mirrors she applied a change of lipstick, checked the recorder in her clutch was at full battery, and then paused to regard herself and take a quick selfie before exiting the bathroom, leaving Amelia behind in the hidden rucksack and leaving the maître d' wondering, twenty minutes hence, where the hell her staffmember had disappeared to.
“Esteemed guests; let me be the first to thank you for your attendance this evening. Let it never be said that Bill Tremayne can’t throw a great party, eh?”
His opening remark was met with low cheer and applause, and he took a moment to bask in even that modicum of praise before continuing, passing his glass to the sharply-dressed assistant shadowing him close at his side.
“Everyone knows Tremayne Towers; we have a well-crafted and well-cared-for reputation for America’s most extravagant stays, and we know exactly how to carry that ethos through everything we do. How about a round of applause for the caterers and bartenders this evening, ladies and gentlemen?”
William swept his hands across and gestured to the bars manned by already-frazzled men and women, and the team of polite-looking waitstaff patiently standing by towers of trayed canapés and hors d'œuvre’s. They waved, wearing thin smiles across their faces, and accepted the obligatory clapping as it rippled through the crowd of attendees, before all attention was drawn back to William.
“It’s that same ethos that’s behind tonight’s festivities. 2025 was an incredible year for Tremayne Towers, and we wanted to share that goodwill back with the people. Now, I don’t want to take up too much time; we all know why we’re here – to have a damn good night! -” another smattering of cheers and accompanying whoops escaped into the evening air, and William smiled with those pearly-whites once more while waving a hand to calm the crowd, “but I’d still like to take a brief moment to announce what tonight is in aid of. Tremayne Towers in expanding in an entirely new direction, a direction I’ve personally overseen and, folks, I can’t tell you how excited I am by this new venture we’ll be undertaking.”
There was a deeper hush that fell across William’s audience, and the journalists among them – all shortlisted, invited, vetted, debriefed to a man – audibly leaned in, phones and notebooks and recorders in hand. Bill let the anticipation linger for a scant few moments, enjoying the tension of it.
“In 2026, I will be launching the Bill Tremayne Foundation, a charitable fund dedicated to scholarships, artistic grants, and cultural financing. We’ve already got a sizeable chunk to get started with straight away in January; re-investing profits, generous donations from myself and other like-minded philanthropists, the very proceeds from tonight! But, as my one and only ask this evening – aside from making sure you enjoy yourself! – please, consider your own charitable donation to the Foundation. Together, we can use it to change real people’s lives, and through them, the world, for the better. Ladies and gentlemen – thank you. Now let’s fire that music back up!”
With that, the crowd erupted, photos were taken, notes furiously scribbled, and the music came back full-swell as the party truly began. William took his drink back from his assistant and drained the glass, heading back up the stairs to the fleet of reporters and board members awaiting him to talk more about the Bill Tremayne Foundation, letting his party thrum and pound on the skydeck below.
Amidst the throng, staff weaved with a practiced elegance through twisting bodies and below pulsing neon light delivering food and drink and even substances traditionally more controlled to those who knew who and how to ask. Meanwhile, the bars ebbed and flowed with the steady rhythm of patrons coming and going, ordering beer, wine, spirits, cocktails; nothing was off-menu, everything was stocked. The DJ booth vibrated with its own activity, guest DJs and the VIPs of VIPs ducking beneath velvet ropes behind decks and laptops, while dancers writhed in front of speakers and requests were shouted, unheard, over throbbing, thudding beats. Amongst all of this, Josie was overwhelmed, likely to keel over from the uninhibited mania of it all; but Josie had a cool head and a steel temperament, and once she set her heart on a task, there was very little in the world that could sway her from her self-prescribed purpose. This had been the defining quality of Jose Tatl since a very early age, and would remain so for a handful more hours yet.
She ducked past a pair of more lively revellers and artfully spun her serving tray in one hand around errant limbs; it was significantly less laden than it had been when she'd left the prep room, a small cafeteria no less busy than the pounding dancefloor but still offering a small respite from the festivities. In there, the blaring music was only a faint din behind the swinging double doors, beats ebbing and flowing through the gaps as waitstaff came and went. Part of Josie longed to be rid of the entire building; if this was truly how the 'other half' lived, she was quite happy with a smaller function at the local dive bar with a couple close friends. All the same, her line of work had made her quite familiar with this extravagence, and she waded in as necessary without hesitation to do her job; as the party got well and truly underway, the time to get on with that job had arrived, and she could no longer avoid it.
With an expert twist and a façade so well-crafted only the most sober and perceptible individual could have understood the perfectly-intentional stumble, Josie spun with the tray and came crashing straight into a guest. She'd tipped the tray up, tilting it toward herself on approach, and the result was that the collision sent the last remaining dish upon the tray crashing into her own chest. The guest suffered nothing more than an unplanned bump in a busy venue, but Josie herself was now covered in sauces and jus and the mess was quickly staining the white uniform shirt she wore. With practiced fevered apologies she collected the remains of the food and set them back upon the tray, now bee-lining for the prep room, leaving the guest behind to quickly forget her and be swallowed again by the music of the night.
"God, Amelia, look at the state of you." The maître d' reproached Josie as she pushed through the double doors and set her tray down. Josie did her best to look admonished, muttering out more sorrys as she was fussed over. "You can't well go back out looking like that. I'll have to take you off for the night. Christ, you've really fucked us over here Amelia."
Josie looked up and gave a small apologetic smile beneath the chiding, but quickly offered a solution.
"Actually, ma'am, I've got a spare shirt in my bag. I can change into something clean if I can just run to the bathroom."
The maître d' raised an eyebrow and uncrossed her arms.
"Well, aren't you forward-thinking?"
"I've had plenty spilled on me in this job, ma'am."
The maître d' was amused at this and cracked a smile, waving Josie off.
"Alright, Amelia. Ten minutes. Grab your bag, change, get back here. God knows we need every pair of hands tonight."
Josie nodded and offered quick thanks before dashing off down back corridors to her locker, retriving her bag and making her way to the ladies bathroom.
Secured in a cubicle, the rucksack was unzipped quickly, and the transformation began; off came false lashes and a blonde wig, a messy brunette bob shaken out from underneath. Her glasses were removed and stowed and replaced with a pair of carefully-applied contact lenses, and the tight-fitting shirt and skirt combo of the staff uniform went into the bag and out came a modest black party dress, fitting for the occasion but well below the average price-band of many outfits here. Still, it hugged her figure nicely, was enough to blend in with the attendees, and when combined with a pair of heels swapped for the work pumps she'd been hotfooting around in and just enough foundation to cover the blemishes while still leaving her natural freckles on display, Josie cut a fine form. The bag was stowed and in front of the mirrors she applied a change of lipstick, checked the recorder in her clutch was at full battery, and then paused to regard herself and take a quick selfie before exiting the bathroom, leaving Amelia behind in the hidden rucksack and leaving the maître d' wondering, twenty minutes hence, where the hell her staffmember had disappeared to.
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