This idea actually came to me months ago, and I've had this chapter written out for ages. At one point, I did publish this story, but because I already had so many fanfics going on at once, I decided I needed a little breathing room and unpublished it for the time being.

Anyway, this is an AU where all my lovely little OCs are sent to play~ Hope you enjoy!

((Also, I'm kinda borrowing this idea for a "collection of teaser-chapters" book from UnchainedHeart so I want to say thank you for doing it first!))

Raya's POV

It's becoming abundantly clear that I'm standing out - again.

I'm able to tune out the whispers (a pitch too high to be considered stealthy) and the not-so-subtle glances over glasses of what they're trying to make me believe is sparkling cider (the tipsy leering turned my way says otherwise).

It's not as though this is new or unexpected, I was only hoping the occasion might coerce some people into behaving like legitimate adults.

Letting out a soft, irritated huff, I lean back against the straight marble pillar - one of many grand supports in this great hall - narrowing my eyes against the glare of the twinkling chandelier hovering above this madness like a judgmental specter. A slight, irrepressible scowl tugs at my lips. I'm debating whether or not to rip this uncomfortable mask from my face; since the moment my dad secured it over my eyes it hasn't stopped itching and I want nothing more than to roast it in the crackling fireplace.

But I can't, because Dad bought it, because it's only his excitement that has me here in the first place. As much as I loathe being forced into this ridiculous, glittering dress and this stuffy, gilded mask, I want to make him happy - and apparently, only my own "happiness" will do the trick.

The noxious scent of champagne is everywhere; my nose keeps twitching irritably, the alcoholic fumes curling about my nostrils like they have a homing device for unpleasant redheads. It's nothing compared to the dazzling, fluorescent lighting, though, which is enough to make me grateful my mask provides a bit of shading when my head is tilted down.

A social gathering like this... I was expecting the pollution - both of the noisy and the toxic varieties - but this lifestyle never ceases to piss me off. Dad's always telling me I'll get used to it, just stick it out until I'm eighteen and I can disappear. But his smile is forced when we talk about the prospect of my leaving, and I can never bring myself to make any promised.

My eyes flutter closed, thin protection against the glaring chandelier. Only a few more hours, I sigh inwardly, then I can find Zoro and head over to the dojo for a little midnight mayhem. My lips twitch faintly into a gleeful smirk. Heh. I'll kick his ass this time, he won't even know what hit 'em...

With my eyes closed, I find the subtle sounds of the ball to be more pronounced. The aimless chatting dribbling from mouths like unrelenting sewage, the chinks and clatter of glasses leaving polished silver trays, the swish and rustle of fabric - just noise, noise, noise everywhere. Quiet is really such an underrated luxury at these things.

I'm actually getting somewhat hooked on a whispered conversation off to my left (seems like some guy cheated on his wife, divorced her, then cheated on the girl he left his wife for with his ex-wife) when I feel someone rush past me, jostling me away from the pillar and into a frenzied twirl before I'm able to right myself, both feet planted firmly on the ground again.

Ok. I've spared these people my real feelings for most of the night. Time to kill someone.

I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, forcing back a nausea-induced headache from my unprompted ballet, then lift my head, pushing up on my tiptoes to see above the crowds - and there's the culprit, a blonde head weaving through placid bodies in such a buzzed state I probably could kill someone right under their noses and they wouldn't bat an eye.

I start off in pursuit of the blonde, wanting to express my sincerest thoughts on how she could improve her damn manners. It's slow-goings; the throng of people in her wake are packed so tightly together I only just manage to slip through the cracks and stumble out onto the moonlit terrace (how the girl - who was clearly taller than I was - managed the endeavor is beyond me).

Framed in soft, silvery light, the sprawling gardens below seem to glow, the buds glittering with dewdrops. The scent of aromatic flowers (roses, maybe, but I'd bank on something a little more exotic) tickles my nose, clings not all together unpleasantly to the roof of my mouth; it's a welcome change from the stuffy air I've left behind, at least.

The blonde doesn't turn at my approach; in fact she gives no sign at all that she's noticed me following her. She's practically pitched over the railing, hers fingers curled around the thin wrought-iron bars fencing us in. Her tongue pokes conspicuously out over her upper lip, accompanying her furrowd brow nicely for a well-rounded look of concentration.

And then she's swearing under her breath, slamming a palm down inches from the plant box dangling on the outer edge of the railing, and twisting on her heel so that her lower back crashes into the railing with such force that I'm afraid for a moment it'll give way. But all concern's forgotten as she looks up, and, catching sight of me, raises a brow almost incredulously, as though she can't fathom why is it I'm bothering her.

My limp hands curl themselves into tight fists. "Oi, are you gonna apologize or what?"

She blinks and slowly unfolds her arms, placing her hands surreptitiously at her hips. "For what?" she asks simply, but behind her words is the message "What the hell did I ever do to you?"

Finally, someone who cares about as much for polite niceties as I do.

"You knocked into me awhile back," I say. Dulled anger tugs moodily at my mouth, wanting to stretch into a scowl I don't consider very fitting for a first meeting; she hasn't done anything that bad, not yet.

"Oh, did I? Heh, sorry, I guess. In a rush. Couldn't find my sister." She rolls her eyes with the look of someone snapping their last thread of patience - possibly with a chainsaw. "But I just did, and I should have been expecting this, but no, I thought Winter, she'll behave this time. I mean, it's not like she has a boyfriend or anything." She snorts, adding something under her breath too soft and too hoarse for me to hear. "Her and her damn obsession with her so-called sex appeal. Honestly, she's always complaining about having guys come onto her, but when she's flaunting her assets the way she does, you can hardly blame them for getting excited--"

I hold up my hand, and she pauses, caught mid-sentence and halfway through the motions of throttling the air - I'm guessing as a substitute for her sister? "Uh, no offense, but you realize I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, right?"

The girl looks at me a moment, her expression incredulous, before realization steals over her features and she lets out an oddly charming overly-loud laugh that seems the fill the immobile night air.

"Right, right, my bad." She waves an apologetic hand, the other consciously held to the back of her neck. The sheepish gesture couldn't be more out of place; even looking uncomfortable in her intoxicatingly white dress and behind the snow-featured mask, this girl radiates confidence. "Got a little worked up; Lucy does that to me. A lot, actually, but" - I jump as her hands come together in a tremendous clap, as though warding off dangerous topics - "that's not important right now."

The urge to scowl has vanished, blown away by this girl (Winter, she said?) and her vivacious personality, and I hardly fight the smile that twitches at the edges of my mouth. "What is important, then?"

"Getting drunk," she answers slyly.

Not exactly what I was expecting but... I can get on board with this. "Mind if I join you?" I ask. To her raised eyebrow, I add wryly, "The air of egoism in there isn't quite giving me the buzz I was expecting."

And I can tell she's pleased with the comment, because her grin turns ferocious as she offers her arm, beckoning me to accompany her back inside. I'm letting loose my own matching smile, looping when my arm with hers and dragging her forward, when the bubble of pompous contentment suddenly bursts in the wake of an ear-splitting scream that cuts cleanly across Bastille's Sleepsong:

"DAIRE! DAIRE IS DEAD!"