annie! - LOG: 001 Kitty

Club Diablo wouldn't seem like the place to be on a Monday evening. But since it is the summer, it is crowded. People sway and dance to their favorite beats as the house DJ is spinning records of the techno and trance variety. Some customers are sitting at tables and enjoying their drinks, watching the colored lights of the club move with the beat of the music. One said customer is Emma Frost. She's currently on the dance floor, swaying to the beat of the music. She is currently wearing a white leather corset and pants with heeled white boots, her typical clubwear - accent her features, but while not displaying too much.

And Emma Frost's not alone, obviously. In the very midst of the swaying and undulating entity that is Club Diablo's faithful dancers is Kitty Pryde, too. A brunette, and a small thing at that. But enthusiasm and confidence on the floor is hard-pressed to be found in greater quantities than in this petite raver. And tonight, she's dressed to draw more attention than the usual indie-chique attire. Layers are Kitty's preferred style - but cute and trendish, not Mormon or Amish. A baby blue tank with spaghetti straps, keeping the collarbones and hipbones - and Star of David necklace - on display. Low-slung pink skirt, pleated. But cotton stockings, striped in matching pink and blue, to better preserve some sense of modesty. And of course, three-inch Mary Jane pumps to boost her five-four figure on the floor. The look is complete with hastily tied-off pigtails, numerous bracelets up and down the forearms, and one of those ridiculous pacifiers. But all the grinding and twisting is getting wearisome, especially given the hour. So with an eye towards the bar, Kitty begins the tricky process of crowd-navigation. Thirsty!
ooc :apologizes for the delay and the wordiness. Had to work out what she might wear.

Emma is rather enjoying herself. While she may not be thrashing as hard or raving as fast as some others - they must be on E - she is at least moving well along with the beat of the music. She's rather content to be on that dance floor, but that attire of hers doesn't leave much to the imagination - nor allow for many tongues to remain in the mouths of drunken dancing males. One such male approaches Emma, thinking that the appropriate way to greet a woman is by making his way near her and grinding his hips beside her on the dance floor... Amazingly, that doesn't bode well. But, rather than start a scene, Emma simply wrinkles her nose at the man in disgust, makes an off color remark, and makes her way to the bar for a drink - non alcoholic for a change.

Great minds, right? Something like that. In all right, Kitty should be having a much more difficult time wriggling through the crowd. Despite any kittenish allure, the poor thing lacks the size to bully through the throbbing mass. But curiously, Kitty seems rather unhindered. She makes a half-hearted show of wiggling her hips and raising her arms high, doing her damn best to ignore the rogue grope of feminine curves. But here and there, Kitty takes full advantage of what Nature blessed her with - the ability to slip through the most obtrusive of obstacles. Nothing obvious, just a shimmer of an elbow or an ankle as she passes through the tangled mess of limbs. And truthfully, most everyone here is under the influence of something - so she's safe, right? Freedom is close. Just a few more persons to wriggle through. And as luck would have it, one of those remaining is wearing a white corset. Kitty pays no mind, phasing straight through one of Emma's crooked elbows. There's no shiver or shudder, but a close eye might catch the incident. Whatever the outcome, Kitty soon slams up against the bar, waving down the attentions of the busied bartenders. "Hey! Just a water? Ice, please!" Shouting over the noise, of course.

Typically movement amongst the crowd wouldn't draw any sort of attention, aside from the occasional snippy glance if someone were to touch her the wrong way. Kitty would have gone unnoticed... It wasn't even the strange way she seemed to glide amongst the mass of bodies at the dance floor which caught the attention of Emma, but her clothing. The pink and blue motif coming off as nothing short of tacky, even at a rave like this. A pleated skirt - hello back in 1980! With her attention drawn to the girl, the blonde in white has the time to notice how she seemed to move /through/ her arm. There was no strange sensation or the like, but it did cause the woman to halt on the floor and study the girl further, which only confirms what she just saw. A curious look appears on Emma's face as she changes direction and makes her way to the bar, situating herself beside the girl.

It's true, the pleats are inspired by a decade years before Kitty was even born, and the palette is something basic yanked from a broad spectrum of available colors and patterns. She's feeling pink and blue enough tonight - and it garners her the occassional swap of saliva on the floor, when she's feeling so enthused. Even so, given the nature of Kitty's abilities, the truth is the entire get-up is likely 'borrowed' for the evening. She's very cavalier with her power. As for the present, well, Kitty remains rather ignorant, and blissfully so, of Emma's piqued curiosity. She doesn't suspect the blonde might have witnessed anything. Tapping the counter in rhythm to the music, the brunette debates the merits of seizing the stool before her, rather than teetering on tip-toe as she is now. A quick glance to either side, including one in Emma's direction - matched with a flash of a grin. And then, the water arrives. She grasps it greedily with both hands, taking to it with a strange juvenile enthusiasm. Gulping, quite clearly. Hey, dancing dehydrates.

Emma's suddenly lost interest in a drink. So, as she arrives at the bar, the bartender is ignored. She turns, twisting her body to face the crowd, making it appear as though she is simply resting from dancing rather than studying the girl beside her. Yet, she offers the occasional sidelong glance, and even catches that grin. A smirk is returned before Emma offers, directing it towards the girl, "You don't look like you come here often..."

It would almost appear as if Kitty doesn't immediately take responsibility for being the intended recipient of Emma's comment. She continues taking to that water like a champ, uncaring as to the trickle of water that snakes from one corner of her mouth. Only when the ice cubes bump against her nose does she draw back with a heavy exhalation. And then, Kitty reaches down and tugs a card from the waistband of her skirt. She flashes this for Emma's sake, a clear indication that she, indeed, caught the blonde's words. The card is a driver's license, of course, that clearly marks the brunette as twenty-one. "That's 'cause I just got this," Kitty beams, mouthing the words in an over-exaggerated manner once she turns to regard the older woman. Twenty-one, really? No, more likely a fake. Thirst abated, she follows suit with a break, finally pulling up onto the stool. She hooks her heels into its closest rung, quirking her head to one side, followed by an impish grin. "You look like you -do- come here often."

"I may," Emma starts as she looks down at that ID card. An eyebrow arches upwards as she looks at the image and details of the card, then back at Kitty. "Twenty one, hm?" In a pretentious manner, Emma shakes her head. "No, I don't think so." Thankfully for Kitty, she's low enough to not make a scene. "You look more like you're sixteen, especially with those," her eyes roam along Kitty's form in a snide manner, "colors." Kitty certainly didn't read as an adult, but more of a kid that didn't grow up.

Snide, and perhaps rightfully so - but Kitty is undaunted. Her perkiness bubbles up again, something that is apparently a core trait, as she doesn't appear to be under the influence of something mood-bolstering. No, she's just a bright'n'bouncy thing, all wide smiles and big, brown eyes. "You're, like, so right about that - well." She pauses, taking a beat to make a minor correction. "Eighteen, swear. But close enough. Hey, you're not a narc or anything, mm?" Something about Emma, even with the strength of character that seems to exude from her - confidence, a bolder variety than Kitty's own - doesn't strike Kitty as an officer. So she isn't worried. She tugs absently on a pigtailed bunch of brown curls, tightening and adjusting. "Killer place, though. Wish they'd play less Tiesto and more Van Buuren."

"Tiesto is completely overplayed anywhere you go, darling. DJ Airwave and Timo Maas are the hard ones to find unless you go out of country, and they're really talented," Emma shrugs conversationally. As to Kitty's question, she allows it to linger there for a moment while offering the girl a sidelong glance. "You're not drinking, so I doubt that ID was necessary. Although they do give you that annoying handstamp if you can't drink."

Kitty brightens further. Conversation! She fidgets ceaselessly on the stool, an endless font of restless energy. And whilst Emma remains the proposed dialogue partner, she doesn't stare. The brunette's eyes roam the still-bumping crowd, selective about just who and who not to make eye contact with. For someone so upbeat and energetic, Club Diablo is addictive in its appeal. But despite a growing infatuation, throbbing ankles keep Kitty grounded in place for at least another few minutes. "Not drinking now, nope," she agrees, toying now with the Hebrew icon around her neck. "But the night's so, so, sooo young!" She grins again, wriggling on her seat. "I don't know. I don't mind 'Motorcycle', you know - 'As The Rush Comes' or whatev." She stores the names 'Airwave' and 'Timo Maas' away, though.

"Sweetheart, unless you're looking for trouble if the wrong variety, I'd not bother with drinking, especially in those heels of yours," Emma points down to the girl's pumps. The blonde woman then leans in a bit closer to the girl, so that her next words are only shared between the two of them. "Why do I get a feeling that walking /through/ people and drinking might be a bad idea." Yup, she noticed.

Heh. Well, now how's an eighteen year-old supposed to take being 'outed' gracefully? Even if is a discrete outing, Kitty still tenses. So paused, she now stares into that crowd of clubbers and ravers, unseeing. The mental cogs turn, spin, chug away - and then, she turns her browns on the blonde. Her expression is not dark or somber, but marked again with a smile - this one significantly more reserved, though, not the same toothy grin. "Was I that careless? Huhn. Perceptive. You really, really better not be a narc. 'Cause the heels aren't much good for ass-kicking, either." She allows that smile to twist at the end, becoming something more of a familiar grin - teasing, joking, possibly diffusing any initial tension. Or just probing, trying to get Emma to keep talking while she figures out what to do next.

A brow arches once more and a smirk makes its way to Emma's face when she sees Kitty tense up instinctively. Even as the girl tries to talk her way out of this nonchalantly, it doesn't take the suspicious look off of the woman's face. Why? Because why the fuck should she be outted so gracefully when Emma had a year of hell to deal with from her own outting? But, that's simply the cold heart that is Emma Frost. "Maybe I really am? You never know what sort of drugs are being peddled in places like this. Tons of illegal activity - like yours," she adds, the smirk fading from sight as she takes on an all-too-serious appearance. As Emma talks though, she pushes to seek out Kitty's mind and establish a telepathic link. She's relieves when she finds that there are no noticeable barriers or resistances to push through. So, Emma does what she knows to do best - fuck with the girl's head. Slowly, Kitty may start to believe that she is hearing whispers amongst others in the crowd, nothing noticeable aside from the word 'mutant'. Are those eyes upon her? Was she going to be under attack by a group of humans? Why were those people standing by the doors - were they blocking her exit, waiting for her to make a move?

It is curious, Kitty's calm. She doesn't panic, doesn't hyperventilate or bolt. She doesn't even snap to the defensive, with frowns and a sharp tongue. No, the brunette seems - well, nonchalant. This may not be the first time she's slipped up, maybe she's wriggled out of such sticky situations before. Or maybe she's just a stone-cold optimist, presuming the best out of this forthright stranger. Whatever it is, Kitty manages a loose shrug of one shoulder, smile warmed. No, no - Emma doesn't appear to reek of anti-mutant philosophy. Maybe she's a sympathizer? "Yeah? But c'mon, think about it - even if you were, you'd never catch me." Light-hearted banter seems the best course of action. But if Kitty was intent on continuing, something dissuades her. It begins like a trickle, subtle and insinuating. A paranoia that creeps upon the poor, unsuspecting thing - a paranoia she's not entirely unfamiliar with. Perhaps, Emma is actually strengthening repressed worries? Whatever it is, Emma is not the immediate suspect. Kitty's warm expression falters, cracks, then melts away completely. Her brown eyes flick away from Emma - this way, that way. Then down at the floor, fingers raised to brush the rim of an ear. An ear that is hearing whispered words, murmured accusations, quiet curses. Is she fidgeting more - or quivering on the spot, suddenly? Kitty shoots another furtive glance across the room, the paranoia throbbing to the point where she nearly forgets Emma's proximity. ".. Uhm, so. Like, I - sorry, what were you, uhm, saying?" Uh-oh, there goes the cool and collected confidence.

"What's wrong?" Emma asks as a smile suddenly appears upon her face, ear-to-ear, like a Cheshire Cat's. "Don't tell me that /you're/ high on something right now." She shifts so that she is able to stare the girl down a bit more, crossing her arms in front of her chest. To any onlookers, it much look like Kitty is about to be bullied on, but Emma doesn't make any further physical movements. Mentally though, she lessens on the paranoid suggestions - not wanting the girl to bolt out the door or start screaming on the spot, but just enough to make her uncomfortable and questioning of her surroundings, possibly her safety. "Why so scared?" The woman pushes on. "Got something more than a fake ID on you?" Lucky for Kitty that Emma really isn't in the mood for a scene, her words are kept low and as private as possible against the blaring music. Oh, this was simply too much fun... Possibly the most fun she's had in a long time.

An exhalation, hitching momentarily in the back of the throat. But then, the wave of paranoia softens, evens out. Oh, Kitty remains on edge, but she manages to at least regulate the gentle heaving of her chest. Her restless energy is manufactured into further fidgeting, twisting and wriggling under Emma's spotlight-like attention. She suddenly finds Emma much more authoritative under these unknown conditions, much more akin to an officer than she previously suspected. And the fact that she's technically a runaway out of Illinois with an open case file only adds to her unease. A mutant and a runaway, bad combination for such psychic discomfort. But despite Emma's harping, Kitty doesn't jump the gun. Couldn't be Emma, right? That's presumptuous. "I'm not scared," she insists, forcing another flicker of a smile. "I.. I just realized I may have left my door unlocked, back home." Someone who can walk through walls still uses a door? Seems like a fabricated excuse for such sudden nervousness, as she makes no attempt to rise from the stool. "And I'm not high. I - I swear, I'm not." A little added earnesty there, as if trying to convince the older blonde.

Whether or not Emma buys the excuse isn't upon her mind. It's what to do next, let the girl go and get a good laugh out of it, or... Dammit, as cold and heartless as Emma can be, she does have soft spots. She just needs to make a note to iron them out, and quickly. The telepathic link is opened a bit further, to allow the girl's surface thoughts to seep through, which allows Emma to pick up on the fact that she's a runaway, which surely only adds to the tension of the moment. She shifts again, turning away from the girl and setting her sights on the crowd on the dance floor once more, but her arms are still crossed. "Why did you run?" She asks, even though she could pick up the answers on her own. She's certain that the girl is really going to think that she's a narc at this point or that something else is wrong. Still, Emma lightened up the suggestions a bit more in this cat and mouse telepathic game of hers. A sidelong look is offered towards Kitty, "Afraid that someone would find out?"

Hee. Imagine, Kitty as a mouse, for once. What quaint imagery. Needless to say, the teen balks at Emma's apparent intuition. Her jaw drops open several centimeters, tongue-tied. And there's something else, almost a touch of awe or reverence. "You're a regular Sherlock Holmes," Kitty breathes, something of a gush. But then, with that lingering tingle of paranoia, she sobers. The brunette twists, nose scrunched in a wrinkle. "That's only part of it." Kitty takes a beat, and it almost appears as if that's all she's going to impart - though the word 'Westchester' does pop up amongst those swirling surface thoughts, a town she heard mentioned when eavesdropping on her parents. That was the night before she split with the now-missing Taylor, fellow deviant and sister-in-arms. "Doesn't matter. They were going to ship me off, anyway." Pause. Paranoia blip, which causes Kitty to narrow those baby browns of hers. "You are an awfully curious raver."

"I have my moments," Emma shrugs. Within Kitty's mind, through the link, she'd more than likely hear Emma's voice echo hollowly ::And my own talents:: So that's how she knew so much, hm? The blonde looks at the girl full on, but not in an accusatory or suspicious manner as she did previously. "You need to be careful, never know who can be watching you - and waiting for you to show how 'special' you are..."

"Wait, you have your - " Squint, a delicate knitting of that brow further. Yes, that's most definitely a soft furrow now - something rare for Kitty. She did just speak, right? No, no. It wasn't the same. A voice more intimate, more clear and undiluted by the rumble of the club's patrons. Kitty's a quick one, it takes only a few frozen moments to puzzle it through - a soft gasp marks her sudden comprehension. And then, the girl's uncertainty mellows. She sits up straighter, that brightness returning to her eyes and smile. "Better than Sherlock," she decides, although completely at a loss as to how to respond in the same telepathic vein. Pause. ".. Wait, waiting? Like who - and why?"

Emma almost makes a face but stops herself. "Believe me, not many are accepting of our kind... I've had my own run in many times before." Yes, she had gotten used to the camera flashes - and now strangely missed them. A hand outstretches in Kitty's direction. "Emma Frost - public mutant, I suppose would be my title." She turns back to the crowd briefly and adds, "There's nothing worse than a horrified mass of humans at the sight of a mutant using their abilities. It turns into a witch hunt quickly unless you're careful."

Huhn. Emma Frost. The name is not an entirely unfamiliar one - in fact, it rings a bell. Television, maybe. Or just a hormone-crazed fellow runaway, passing off exaggerated fantasies as reality. Something Kitty would have rolled her eyes in response to. But this seems a genuine claim, one given without much boasting on Emma's part. So! Kitty is inclined to believe the blonde. She crosses her own right hand over to take Emma's in a shake. "Kitty Pryde, not-so-public," she beams, apparently not overly-concerned with dodging bullets. Maybe because she could phase right through such metaphorical bullets? "Mobs are so Mary Shelley. I mean, do people even -know- how to make a good torch anymore? And pitchforks. I don't even think Target sells pitchforks."

"No, they throw whatever they have now. Cans, bottles, rocks, even spit," Emma says in a clearly annoyed tone. "I'd rather deal with pitchforks than have to dodge and run from an angry crowd in Midtown." Okay, so maybe she didn't miss /that/ part about being public. "Seriously though, it's probably the last thing you want... Do your parents know yet?"

Cans and bottles, sticks and stones. Not enough to bring down the undeliable Kitty Pryde. She just rolls a shrug in return, adjusting her perch again to prop an elbow on the countertop. A riot sounds fun, actually - something that would really get the blood pumping. And Kitty being the adrenaline junkie she is, well. It's the government she'd rather not cross swords with - camps, programs, security and home invasion. Ick. "Well. Considering I fell right through the kitchen ceiling and landed in my pops' bowl of cereal? Yeah, yeah I figure they know."

The shrug causes a quick wrinkle of Emma's nose before she returns to her previous emotionless face. "Is that why you ran off?" Man she's an inquisitive one, huh? She then offers a half hearted shrug. "You don't have to answer anything if you don't want." She could simply try and get the answers out through the link if needed.

And she calls Emma out on that one. Twisting to eyeball Emma more completely, Kitty allows a twist of a smirkish grin. That same impish, knowing expression. "Would that even matter, Sherlock?" If Kitty noticed the crack in Emma's cool, she doesn't comment on it - the shrug wasn't intended to be disrespectful, so. Why sweat it? "Look, have you ever been to Deerfield, Illinois? You'd run away, too." A rather cavalier rationale given, but. Grandstanding about woe and anxiety and angst is so yesterday. "But New York - " She pauses for effect, casting a grin to the still-heated Club Diablo. " - I could, like, -never- get tired of this."

Now Emma laughs, not in amusement to Kitty's words, but in a boastful condescending manner. "You wouldn't survive more than a month here, darling, especially if you look like... /that/," again, she points out the clothing. "But, hey, sometimes you don't learn until you're put through the ringer." To that, Emma smiles widely before she finally turns to order a drink from the bartender, what she originally came over here to do.

Here, Kitty is paused again. The brunette tilts, bunched curls flopping - and in that moment, she bears an uncanny resemblance to a cocker spaniel rather than a more apropos feline. A gentle scrunching of her own nose, a momentary consideration marked by the delicate wrinkling of her brow. And then she flashes another smile - ever the tolerant, ever the boisterous one. No matter what scorn or derision encountered. It'll take more than that to darken this Kitty! "Mm? Oh, but it's been almost five years since I've seen Deerfield," Kitty comments lightly, turning in concert to the bar again. "So, there's that."

Emma offers a slight shrug. "You got lucky then." She orders herself a water as well from the bartender and then waits a few moments before receiving it. The woman falls quiet once more, finding a loss for words to add to the conversation. She simply turns and looks out at the thriving crowd once more, considering if she should venture back onto the dance floor or not.

Well, then. That could be a hint, there. "Lucky. Maybe." She doesn't combat the point further - perhaps because luck indeed played a large part in Kitty's NYC adventures so far. The brunette considers the silence a moment, before resigning her future to that dance floor again. Hopping off the stool with surprising agility, she spins on the dime to flash Emma another grin. After all, Kitty's thirst is considerably quenched - thirst for water, anyway. "Hey dude, nice chit-chat. For real, the whole cautionary pep-talk? Way helpful." Oddly enough, she sounds earnest - far from sarcastic or rude. And such genuine appreciation is difficult to fake. "So. Later, Miss Frost!" A raised hand, a wriggle of a few fingers, and away she goes - bouncing back into the warmth of Club Diablo with that same irrepressible spirit.