01-19-2015, 03:26 PM
Every gleaming society had its darknesses, and often, the brighter shone the elite, the deeper the colour of the shadows.
The Almaz was a club bolted into the Underground, but claimed exclusively by the favour of the obscenely rich. Cash or favour granted admittance - often both were required to get a foot through the door - but it did not hold the prestige of somewhere like Manifesto. It was not the sort of place one openly admitted to attending, nor a name that found its way into polite conversation or the sparkle of the tabloids. No paparazzi paved the way to its doors. On the contrary. Recording devices were prohibited within, and security took the rule seriously enough to break fingers and worse for transgression.
The clientèle was mixed; the golden elite getting their dark kicks alongside the cream of local gang life, though you might only tell by the absence or proliferation of tattoos amongst the formal dress-code. Big money was won and lost on the fights, that being the Almaz's bead and butter. Allies forged and shattered in its walls, deals soaked in loyalty of blood. Upside leather and velvet decorated a lavish bar area, filtering down into the pits below, where the real entertainment happened. Down there rings and cages separated the various fights, couched by plush ringside tables. This was not sportsmanship; it was brutality.
For now Ori lingered upstairs, by the bar, indulging in the hum of conversation beneath the drum of industrial style music. She was known here, but not a regular face; Luka came here too, albeit not as a customer, and it had sucked some of the lustre easily recovered elsewhere. Intention had pulled her here tonight, though. The promised heat of violence below stirred passion and ferocity in those around her, and it was whispered rumours of a particular fight tonight that had bent Ori's ear.
Some time earlier that afternoon she'd sent Giovanni a message to meet her at the club, though the details had been vague. She trusted he'd come running. In any case, he was her delay; his name was cleared at the door - supposing he wasn't foolish enough to try and spin an alias, though he would still be searched before the bouncers allowed him in. If he didn't show it changed nothing of her plans, but he would be missing a fuckload of fun.
The Almaz was a club bolted into the Underground, but claimed exclusively by the favour of the obscenely rich. Cash or favour granted admittance - often both were required to get a foot through the door - but it did not hold the prestige of somewhere like Manifesto. It was not the sort of place one openly admitted to attending, nor a name that found its way into polite conversation or the sparkle of the tabloids. No paparazzi paved the way to its doors. On the contrary. Recording devices were prohibited within, and security took the rule seriously enough to break fingers and worse for transgression.
The clientèle was mixed; the golden elite getting their dark kicks alongside the cream of local gang life, though you might only tell by the absence or proliferation of tattoos amongst the formal dress-code. Big money was won and lost on the fights, that being the Almaz's bead and butter. Allies forged and shattered in its walls, deals soaked in loyalty of blood. Upside leather and velvet decorated a lavish bar area, filtering down into the pits below, where the real entertainment happened. Down there rings and cages separated the various fights, couched by plush ringside tables. This was not sportsmanship; it was brutality.
For now Ori lingered upstairs, by the bar, indulging in the hum of conversation beneath the drum of industrial style music. She was known here, but not a regular face; Luka came here too, albeit not as a customer, and it had sucked some of the lustre easily recovered elsewhere. Intention had pulled her here tonight, though. The promised heat of violence below stirred passion and ferocity in those around her, and it was whispered rumours of a particular fight tonight that had bent Ori's ear.
Some time earlier that afternoon she'd sent Giovanni a message to meet her at the club, though the details had been vague. She trusted he'd come running. In any case, he was her delay; his name was cleared at the door - supposing he wasn't foolish enough to try and spin an alias, though he would still be searched before the bouncers allowed him in. If he didn't show it changed nothing of her plans, but he would be missing a fuckload of fun.
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