I know you’ll take care of all my needs

[idesof]

WHO: A bunch of jerks
WHERE: Hotel Castile
WHEN: Friday evening
WHAT: A gathering of jerks...needs a plural form.
WARNINGS: Uh pretty much everything in their respective canons, will update if anything gets off the rails. Murder is definitely getting a shout out or forty though.



The Castile's atmosphere is somewhat different tonight. There isn't a single sign of a celebration to be seen past the fact that the little restaurant off to the side on the first floor has a RESERVED note hanging next to it. No staff runs around wildly, trying to prepare for the big evening. Actually, from the looks of it, there are less staff on board than usual. Arriving guests will be treated with considerable respect from the person at the front desk, who will go so far as to walk them to their destination despite it not being all that far off. One doesn't have to be too observant to pick up on a bit of awe in that respect, too. Or fear. Depends on the perspective.

Their room for this evening is lit lowly, lights dimmed and the bar lined with candles, at the counter top and in the selections behind it. More of a muted celebration this time around, as though a party sending off someone finally retiring instead of a full blown joyous bash. This space has been cleared except for a long, thin table in the middle. It holds an absinthe fountain, trays of finger foods, trays of small sweet treats, and one area has an array for anyone inclined to make themselves a salad, vegetables only or with thinly sliced chicken sitting on a heated plate. Hungrier than that? Express it to the staff. Or complain loudly enough they can hear it. Meals of any make will be offered. A favored bellboy is helping out as staff this evening, server and waiter instead of bellboy. But he's in his bellboy uniform just the same and a little idle chit chat proves he's got a foul mouth and cutting sarcasm he doesn't care to hide. He's a smarmy little shit for someone in his position and doesn't seem to have a single fear his mouthy nature will get him written up or canned. Anyone who dares fire back (as they should) will find that returned, and the easiest way to enjoy a companionable conversation is by standing up for oneself or spitting right back; then he's a fine chatty fellow indeed. Still drops obscene words quite often, but nobody's perfect. His name tag holds no name. If asked, he will give one. And the next person to ask will get a different name. Nelson to one, Martin to the next, Cornelius when he's drinking, Mister Jackson if you're nasty.

A small jazzy band plays covers from all eras in one corner (like so), loud enough without being overwhelming. All members are middle aged, most with additional wrinkles. They have that look of a rough sort of life. The music never falters, voices never drop out, but anyone paying them a lot of attention may spot at least the drummer throwing back liquor while they're on stage. Or sniffing something from his sleeve. Play time and work time are not mutually exclusive.

In a booth across from this band sits a lone clown in full costume. His make up was of the frowning variety but has since been smeared. It creates a very warped sort of sadness, perhaps more so since he's been given a bottle of bourbon. He has no tumbler or shot glass. He drinks right out of the bottle itself, the rim a mix of blue and white and red face paint. His focus is only ever on the band, the bottle, Sally, or his hands on the table in front of him. If approached, he will not speak. He smiles and stares but answers no one he doesn't recognize. He'll go so far as to watch the band and completely ignore newcomers if that's what it takes. The bellboy occasionally drops by with napkins or some small plate of food, gripping the clown's shoulder or patting his back as though he understands this behavior and feeling completely. A show of solidarity.

Sally is behind the bar, of course, in her finest vintage '90s wear. Tristan isn't far off either, wearing a shirt so low cut it would be obscene on a woman and dark pants that might as well have been sprayed on. March isn't anywhere in this room. Ask those who seem to be in the know, and answers will vary, but no one can explain where he is and why he isn't here. Why it's time for his little celebration and he hasn't made an appearance yet. But why worry after him? There's food, and drink, vices, and plenty of other folks to talk to. Music, even. There's something more interesting than that old bastard to be found. Tick tock. There isn't a clock in the room but watches aren't difficult to come by.

When the last late guest arrives, it's quickly after that March strides in, all impeccable shiny tailcoat, top hat, and cane. He stops to lift the thin golden chain from one side of the doorway in order to clip it at the other. It's won't keep anyone out (or in) who is very intent on getting out (or in). It's for show and part of the theatrics just the same. Only after he's done that does he pass off his cane to the bellboy, bearing the largest, most pleased grin he possibly can. The band tapers off their song and he places his top hat, upside down, on the edge of the table. He unbuttons his coat so when he puts his hands on his hips, it pulls back rather than bunching up and strangling him.

"I am" one hand goes over his heart "filled with joy to see you all here tonight. I'd like to welcome you all, each of you, to the Hotel Castile! It is my hope that after tonight, we'll continue to gather, and our gatherings will become much more than they are this evening."

He's absolutely genuine, endeared to the point his eyes give off a misty, so-happy-he-could-cry appearance.

"You've all met Sally, I know." He gestures to Sally, smile fond. That hand turns to point out Tristan. "This is Tristan. We've all come here from the same Los Angeles. We were all together at my last hotel, the Hotel Cortez. We have our differences of views, opinions, likes and dislikes, but there is one thing the three of us have in common. The most important thing any group of people can share, in my opinion. When made known and properly nurtured, this one thing can bind us together. Far beyond shared hobbies or interests! This one common denominator is something I have seen in each and every one of you as well. That is why this evening came to pass. That is why I have called you all here tonight, so you could see for yourselves. So you could come to the answer I have."

Abruptly, the clown in the booth speaks, waving his bottle. His words are too slurred, too guttural, too warped to be understand. It's not even clear if he's speaking English, but he's captured March's attention. When he finishes whatever it is he's saying, March points to him, laughs briefly, and nods.

"Absolutely, darling! You're not playing this evening; you already know the answer!" Oh, those clowns. That ends the interruption, and March turns his focus back to his imPort visitors. "I'm no fool; I am aware many of you have been here far longer than I. You've had opportunities to meet before. To know each other. Opportunities I have not yet had, though would like to remedy in the future. Some of you mightn't get along! I understand that as well. So I shall be clear that this evening: these meetings are to be civil. If you cannot remain civil, then tolerate. Keep anything past heated debates for outside that door. Within these walls," his arms encompass ceiling, walls, floor, "we strive for an acceptance of each other. That was one of my many reasons for moving so quickly to have the Castile properly renovated and in my name."

The bellboy appears at his side with a glass container, something commonly seen holding mints. This one holds small scraps of paper. March takes it with a muttered thank you, my dear, moving to place it in front of the absinthe fountain.

"Tonight, I'd like for us all to get to know each other. For those of you who already do know one another, splendid! The challenge is to find another and learn about them. Let them learn about you." He pulls off the top of that container and sets it neatly to the side. "Should you have difficulty making conversation, the staff has put together a collection of questions you may pull from."

Said questions are a wild variety. From simple moral choices like You find a box of abandoned newborn puppies in need of food, what do you do? to the braver like You're a combat doctor. You realize the man bleeding on your table is the man who took the life of someone you held dear years before. Do you treat him to the best of your abilities or work to see him dead in a way that looks accidental? Or leave him to die? to the questionable such as If there were two guys on the moon and one killed the other with a rock would that be fucked up or what? It's possible March didn't check all of these out. Or some were sneaked in. What a trusting fellow.

"Once you come to a decision of what this common factor we all share is, I'd like for you to write it down on a slip of paper and deposit them here." He's walked as he speaks, and now taps at the brim of his top hat on the table. "And that's it! I hope this evening is one of learning and understanding, and one that will lead us all to a much brighter future."

Still so genuine, so joyous about everything despite the slight unsettling factors in the room. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, even, smile somehow growing even bigger when the band kicks in a song he recognizes from his youth.

So go wild, friends. Be honest. Be amused. Be liars. Be deceitful. Be yourselves, that's really all he asks. Of course March will be playing this evening, too. He's so eager to learn about everyone in this room it's practically palpable. But where oh where to start?

Comments

OTA

[fullofrage]

Well, Tristan certainly felt like the belle of the ball tonight. He knew March. He got a special introduction. He knew what this gathering was about. And, most importantly, he knew the secret, which he was endlessly pleased about as demonstrated by the stupid grin he was wearing. It wasn't often that he knew something everyone else had yet to figure out.

He wasn't telling, though. He wanted to see what conclusions everyone else would come to on their own. It was no fun to spoil it. He was just here to mingle with his potential peers and see if there was anyone he could see himself having a good bit of fun with.

He'll be wandering around, carrying a glass of wine (with his entire hand wrapped around the stem instead of holding it like a proper classy gentleman, just in case anyone had the mistaken idea that being classy was what they all had in common), occasionally pouring a bit of blood into it from a flask he kept on the bar counter-top.

[brushoff]

Dorian mistakes the flask for booze. As such, he's a bit judgmental of Tristan's choices because seriously, you're spiking the wine. He can't help but lean in, as if telling a secret, before cattily remarking, "You don't mix wine, especially if it's a vintage like this."

Though, Dorian does appreciate the shirt. He takes a moment to ogle the eye candy, more out of respect and acknowledgement that it's a good shirt over anything else. After all, he's practically married—and is definitely wearing his engagement ring.

[fullofrage]

"Huh?" Tristan says, not knowing much about vintages and the like, "I like it better with a little blood, that's all."

Tristan doesn't mind being ogled, he knows he's hot stuff even though he's at the "practically married" level of commitment himself.

[restingstitchface]

Ridiculous.

What is he doing, holding his glass like that? The young man has no manners nor class. He disengages himself from the crowd and follows Tristan to a quiet corner. Any impression he's gotten of this resident is washed away by seeing the display of a crude, common powerless man. There's no intelligence in misusing social protocol. This is the wrong occasion for it - but why should he correct the fellow? The corners of his younger self's mouth turn up into a light, gentle smile.

They haven't talked properly, have they?

"Well, it's good to see you out and about in broad daylight, Mr. Duffy."

[fullofrage]

"Oh, hey, Mr...Crane, right?" he says, "Yeah, I'm usually up at nights. Sunshine's not my friend."

He takes another drink, still holding his glass like that. He did choose to stay in room 69, so his lack of class has already shown itself.

[idesof]

Belle of the ball indeed. March, of course, notices Tristan's, uh, particular method of holding a wine glass early on. But he wouldn't change that little habit of his for the world, not at all. Certainly not in front of other people. That would just be downright cruel for one of his only connections back to the Cortez. Perhaps it would be enough for Liz to bust in and make A Face. Wishful thinking.

A hand reaches out, gingerly plucking the glass from Tristan. In its place is something closer to a goblet, not quite as classy due to its dull copper color. Tristan should recognize the special drink inside, however. Liz had been the one to master its recipe and despite following that to a T, March is sure it was still missing the little something something Liz had a way of putting in everything she made.

"There you are, dear," muttered approval followed by patting his back, the wine glass quickly taken away. "It's no Devil's Night as of now, but we have to start somewhere, don't we? Find the potential. Have you found any to speak of?"

Aw yeah. That super elite Devil's Night invitation casually just dropped in Tristan's lap.

[fullofrage]

Missing a little something, yes, but in Tristan's opinion, anything Liz did had a little something that no one else could match. He takes a drink, and it still tastes fine.

"That Dooku guy makes really great posters," Tristan says, because he still had a poster from the campaign hanging in his room for...some reason, even though he barely cares about politics.

"Dorian seems like my type of guy," he says, "And I think Dr. Crane's definitely got some dark shit going on, although I think that about pretty much every doctor."

Because they went to college for 9 years and they work really hard and that's weird and with all that work you probably need a good murder or two to blow off some steam.

Frederick Chilton | ota

[slightlyoffchilt]

Chilton lingered in an orbit between the bar and the jazz band, cycling between line an overboard sailor caught in a whirlpool. The congenial fire in his belly had warmed at March's speech, but now the embers were left to his own devices; social swirling was all he had now. The doctor kept a keen eye out for Mr. March himself, of course, as that fellow was the bright star of the evening, and Chilton suffered no inclination to forget it. The Castile practically reeked of prestige. He was going to latch onto every single scent made to whiff.

While at the bar (perhaps his third round now), Chilton sought some bourbon on the rocks, thinking it seemed classy enough a drink to appear with. All the better to make good impact on enduring impressions, after all.

"Inspiring atmosphere, don't you think?"

[flowerette]

"You're the inspiring one in this atmosphere..." Raina chirped at him, finding her way to Chilton's side, wearing a sexy red number. "The clown unsettles me a bit." Her eyes drifted toward the man and quickly flickered away when there was the slightest chance he would make eye contact. There were lots of things Raina was cool with and clowns were not one of them.

"I might guess the theme of this party is people in need of your psychiatric care." Raina leaned against him shoulder to shoulder, taking a sip of her drink. "Should I write that down? Or are you planning on using that one?"

[slightlyoffchilt]

"You are a marvel," he said, gliding into her eloquent enunciated swagger. "An instinct for opportunity like no other, Raina, what would I do without you?"

Rhetorical, as they both knew. There had been palpable proof of the outcome, thanks to Billy Kaplan's little magical hiccup. Chilton snaked an arm around her waist, giving her a warm squeeze -- nothing too frantic, he wasn't eager to spill her drink. Or his own.

"I was quite impressed with the invitation delivery. I recognize the woman, the bartender. This would be the second time she and I have met, technically."

[hypodermicgurl]

The girl that delivered the invitation, now standing behind the bar and pouring those drinks, wasn't the classiest thing in the room by half. The leopard print coat was still in place, make-up that gave the appearance of recent weeping a bit crusty after being applied so many hours ago. But the blood red lipstick and smirk were the same as she poured.

"Oh, it's to die for."

[slightlyoffchilt]

Chilton paused before responding, his eyebrow quirked a little higher than usual. Probably not the term of phrase he would have indulged -- bit morbid, wasn't it? -- but perhaps it was pretentious to evaluate turns of phrases used in polite company.

He warmed, eventually, with a cautious smile.

"Hello," he said, always armed with an icebreaker. "Glad we have a chance to speak."

An unusual sentiment coming from Doctor Frederick Chilton when directed to his bartender, but Sally had made an unusual impression.

"So you... Work for Mr. March?"

[idesof]

Ah, yes. His pet project. Of course he didn't think in such crass terms, though perhaps the fact that when asked to what purpose, to what end, his answer had really boiled down to because it's what I'm good at, because I can, and because I want to see what happens, verbalized or not, was crass enough on its own. Fancying the language up in his head was one of those rose by any other name situations. But no matter, no one else had knowledge of such plans just yet. And so it must stay that way. For now. Which means a bit of distance is required; he mustn't be too readily available, mustn't malign any other guests, mustn't dart straight away for a single person from the group. He makes a few rounds. If he catches Chilton's eye, he's sure to smile and nod, but he won't break away from anyone else to scoot on over. Not with that much being so obvious.

Time passes. Eventually, when neither are immediately occupied, Chilton will find that the empty bourbon on the rocks in his hand is being taken away and replaced with a fresh one. Not by the bellboy, as he might expect, but the host himself. The same trick he'd used on Raina at the initial celebration? Damn right.

Of course that means the bellboy is right behind him shortly, plucking the empty glass from March's hand to take away. March passes it without taking his eyes off Chilton. A practiced gesture that screams his familiarity with wealth, with having people around to pick up what he drops without ever worrying they won't be there.

"Here you are, Doctor!" His tone carries respect, even if he hadn't used the proper title. That out of the way, his full attention is on said doctor; not in a weird, invasive, scrutinizing way. In the much better, you interest me and I want to be besties way. Much better if not for his intentions, at least. Whoops. "So glad you could make it this evening. I know the invitation was somewhat, hmm," he pulls a face, thinking "unconventional and without much detail, always a risk. But here you are! Tell me, how is your practice faring?"

He wants the next book on pre-order. He doesn't even know what pre-order means. But he wants it. Or an advanced copy.

[slightlyoffchilt]

"Mr. March," said Chilton -- and only after a moment of hesitation. He was always torn between the formal, thus respectful, address and the more intimate, congenial one. But he was in the role of host, and Chilton opted for surrendering a little implied prestige.

"Extraordinary affair, you really have outstripped any competition's hope." Laying it a bit thickly, perhaps, but Chilton would spare no verbal cost. "I thought your method of invitation was quite... Exotic. Who doesn't like a touch of intrigue?"

And Sally had some mystique about her, Chilton thought that indisputable. Her whole nostalgic ninteen-nineties aura was something of a callback; Chilton himself was only a young man at the time, and that alone could provoke a weird sensation within his bones.

"As for my practice, actually, I'm thinking of moving it. To Maurtia Falls. You know Ambassador Baelish, don't you?"

That was the sort of professional relationship that Chilton would assume. Both March and Baelish had that specific entrepreneurial spirit, similar peas in cultivated pods.

OTA

[dun_moch]

Count Dooku is having a genuinely good time, which has been fairly rare for him on this planet. There is an atmosphere to the Hotel Castile that agrees with him, an intangible scent of darkness and corruption that suggests powerful things writhing beneath its classy surfaces. When the Count smiles at the other guests, it is somewhat less feigned than usual, and his appreciation for the fine food and wine on hand is quite heartfelt.

March himself is a charming, well-spoken host, and his speech makes the intended impression upon Dooku. And he has constructed an intriguing game to spark the evening: many of the questions the Count encounters have the same flavour as the hotel itself, and promise intriguing revelations regarding his fellow partygoers. For example:

"You have obtained evidence of corruption practiced by a public official. Do you turn it over to the law, to the media, or use it to convince the official to do you certain favours?"

The Count likes that one especially.

[flowerette]

Ah, Dooku. Raina hadn't gotten to express how much his loss had pissed her off. But considering that the actual Maurtia Falls ambassador was in attendance and March did say they had to try and get along, she bit her tongue for now, opting to answer his question.

"Blackmail, quite obviously." Raina said with a charming grin. There was nothing she enjoyed more than having leverage over someone.

"It seems as though James picked quite an interesting group of people to gather today." Like-minded people. The ambience left a little to be desired. (What was up with that clown?) But March himself was charismatic enough to make up the difference. "It's a shame, though, that the Countess has left this world. Had you met her? She was truly radiant."

A sip of her drink in the Countess's honor.

[sleight_of_hand]

Adachi gave Dooku the blandest expression he could manage at the question, looking like he would rip off his tie and choke him with it if said tie wasn't something that mattered to him. He had at least cleaned up a little at the Count's request, going so far as to actually comb his hair though a comb was as far as he was willing to go, but he looked insanely awkward and out of place. If given the chance, he'd probably run off and hide in a corner with all the alcohol and not think about the kind of people he was surrounded by.

"I have a better question: why the hell did you invite me to this?" he responded, making no effort to hide the bitterness in his voice.

Dorian Gray | ota!

[brushoff]

Dorian arrives after sundown—one of the later guests but not the latest. God forbid he arrive to something on time, even if it is Mister March's soiree! He spends most of the early part of the evening milling around, making small talk, laughing at jokes that are supposed to be laughed at, inserting himself into conversations with the skillful tactics of someone who's spent way too long at these sorts of social gatherings. He spends most of the evening with a glass of red wine—the absinthe would come later, once everybody else is a little more drunk. Dorian certainly wasn't going to be the first person to get plastered.

He resists taking a slip of paper for a while, so confident he is about his ability to actually talk to people. However, curiosity wins Dorian over. Eventually, he decides to play the game, drawing a slip of paper of his own. Unfortunately, Dorian gets one that he's heard before. He can't help but groan out loud, a bit theatrically, before walking over to someone else. Offering the paper to someone, he gives a bit of a drama queen sigh before continuing, as normal,

"I'll swap you. I got the damn Trolley problem."

[idesof]

It's later in the evening when March makes his way over to Dorian. Again, wouldn't do to obviously play favorites. He has so many, really, it's an issue not to seem like he favors one or the other until they know him a bit better. But he has heard the dramatic sigh about a trolley problem. He's not sure what it means so he spends a moment going through the slips of paper when no one seems to be paying attention. Research is research, okay?

He sidles up to Dorian with a fresh glass of absinthe held out for him. Always ready to help a fella get more intoxicated, oh that rascal.

"I saw your Trolley problem." He doesn't sigh, but there is a longsuffering sort of tone to his voice that does the trick just the same. Morality can be such a drag. "You've heard it before, have you got an immediate answer to the situation?"

Haen Hithiel | OTA

[alcheregis]

Haen is attending as Petyr Baelish's accompanying guest this evening (and the observant may note that this is not the first time she's been his plus-one lately) and looks almost out of place in a delicate lavender and lace, backless dress. She has a glass filled from the absinthe fountain, half empty; each time she takes a sip, there's an almost wonderment at the taste (or the effects of).

When March appears and announces his game, she's delighted. The opportunity to think, and talk, and really know people couldn't have made her happier, and she's quick to take a few of the slips of paper when the bowl comes around.

"Let's see, shall we? Here's the first one... 'If someone offered you $500 for a necklace that you had bought for $50 would you accept?'"

[dun_moch]

"Certainly I would," Dooku responds without hesitation. "Who am I to question the purchasing decisions of this person? Perhaps they simply have a different appreciation for the value of the necklace."

It's refreshing to be more candid about questions like this. Ordinarily the demands of politics and public appearances would compel the Count to give a more upstanding response, but March has made it clear that this party is a place where people like Dooku can reveal a little more of their true selves... which means that Ambassador Baelish's elegant companion is certainly someone Dooku would like to know better.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure before, m'lady," he says in deep, courteous tones, bowing his head. "Although I have seen you on the Network. You used your talents to great effect against the Soviets, as I recall."

[idesof]

Well now, who is this intriguing little lady? That dress is a nice touch. Anyone who moves through a swarm of monsters looking like a beacon of light and goodness is going to get his attention. Especially when she's carrying absinthe; what an absolutely perfect picture. He's delighted his guests decided to bring friends. Always good to make more connections, always.

"Absolutely not!" Confidently spoken from behind her, never underestimate how important making an appearance is to March. He moves into view, face and body language animated. So animated he sets his own absinthe down on the table. No one will bother it, he's sure of that. This is a business question! He knows business. He knows shady business. "The trick in this situation is to profit financially and personally. Make a grand show of how important this transaction is, knock fifty off the initial offer, sell it for a solid $450 instead, and reap the benefits! Monetary and this person's sense of gratitude, both are more valuable than one on its own."

He smiles, all charm and enchantment following up that less than noble answer. The most gleeful manipulator, or just overjoyed to find a new face. Or both.

"I don't believe we've met! James Patrick March, I own this hotel." When he holds out his hand, he does so palm up, one of those fellas who prefers a kiss to the hand as greeting. But if she swivels it for a shake or ignores it entirely there won't be any pressure. "And you are?"

Tohru Adachi | OTA

[sleight_of_hand]

Why the hell was he here?

From the moment he walked into the place, he wanted to walk right back out. The atmosphere felt a bit stifling to him, and he would give anything to duck his head into the absinthe fountain and not come back out until he was good and drunk on his ass. Unfortunately, he knew he couldn't get away with that; Dooku had made a "special request" that he come looking his best and mind his manners. He could have just said no. He should have just said no. But saying no would be admitting that the little show at the tea shop had scared him more than he cared to admit, and there was no way his pride would allow that.

So he went the extra mile; he made sure his custom fitted suit was pressed, the coffee stain on his shirt was no where to be found, his shoes were immaculate, and he took extra care hand washing his tie (more than he usually did, anyway). He stopped at his hair, which only had a comb tossed through it and not much else; unfortunately for Dooku, there was no power on this earth that could make him keep it immaculately trimmed and tamed like he did when he worked in Iwatodai.

Everything in this place was a shade above ridiculous, however, and he was starting to wish he just took the coward's way out; pretended he was sick, anything. He steered as far away from the clown as he could, and the bellboy could go eat dirt as far as he was concerned. March himself was no better than anyone else there, and he struggled not to make a face at his speech. Find what they had in common? What, was everyone here batshit crazy?

...look, he was recovering from his crazy, okay?!

Adachi's wandering around after the speech, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible, even when he stops to talk to Count Dooku. It doesn't mean he won't converse, just that he's not going out of his way to strike up a conversation himself.

Klarion Bleak / OTA (and late to the party!)

[beneathbluerafters]

Klarion is probably the youngest person here, and as such, he's keeping well away from the alcohol. And the clown, for that matter, because while Klarion isn't easy to unnerve, something about that smeared makeup and blank stare set him on edge. He's dressed nicely, in one of the fancy shirts that Dorian had got him (or rather, that he'd stolen during their shopping trip) and a magicked blazer that's covered in orange fur, thanks to the cat perched on his shoulders.

As ever, the witchboy lingers near the snack food, munching on sweets himself and passing bits of chicken up to Teekl. He's holding a few of the conversational prompts in his free hand, and from the looks of things, isn't quite sure what to make of them.

"These are a bit all over the place, aren't they? Newborn puppies are one thing, but liars and betrayers are quite another. The dogs haven't even had a chance to do anything wrong yet." Is he talking to you, or the cat? Probably the cat, but he's not opposed to anyone else joining in the conversation.

[dun_moch]

Dooku has developed a bit of a habit for zeroing in on younger imPorts, especially youth that are 1) powerful, 2) passionate, 3) not overly concerned with the law and 4) prone to poor decision-making. The Count likes young people, in the same sense that a carpenter likes a favoured screwdriver which is particularly easy to use.

With those criteria in mind, it's probably inevitable that Dooku would take a moment to introduce himself to the strange-looking boy with the orange cat on his shoulders. Considering the kinds of people March has invited to this party, it's better-than-even odds that he's some kind of child serial killer, which suits Dooku's interests quite nicely.

"Perhaps the variety is part of Mr. March's game," he suggests in his deep, rich voice. "His riddle has many pieces to it, and may require examining from multiple perspectives. I don't suppose you have any guesses so far?"