01-19-2015, 05:30 PM
The deep thrum of bass could be heard through the door as Marcus handed the folded bills to the door man. He gave his name in a quiet voice, which the massive man quickly looked up in his tablet.
Malik dismissed him from his thoughts. He had no doubt he would be admitted. A chance meeting with Anatoly Yushakov, Director of Media Affairs at the Consulate of Communication, at one of the palace's gyms, had led to an enjoyable evening at Manifesto in his private booth. It was there that he first heard of Almaz.
The bouncer opened the door and nodded him through before ceasing to exist as Malik descended carpeted stairs into this dark world. The deep bass of industrial music thrummed in his chest, the smell of smoke- cigar and other- swirled with that of leather and designer perfumes. The sounds of conversation and clinking of glasses added to the cacophony. The people that milled about- some sitting in leather booths or at the bar, others at tables- varied from older men and women who reeked of money and power, mistresses and purchased companions for the night on their arms, to what could only be the more successful of the local gangs. They all rubbed shoulders down here in this Stygian realm. Kill or be killed one of the two basic drives of all living things, though Anatoly had said that actual death was rare and usually an accident. Or at least made to look that way.
He kept walking inexorably toward the sounds of cheering from down below. A ring of waist high tables surrounded a scattering of pits. Down below, he saw two man fighting. Dried blood stained the mats, testimony to previous matches. The crowd surrounding the caged ring cheered and screamed in delight or frustration.
His nostrils flared. He could almost smell the blood, even up here. Life at its most basic. One of the men was smaller than the other but he fought with a ferocity that belied his smaller size. His shorn scalp showed blood on the back of his head, the bloody crumpled nose on the other man making it clear what had happened.
He smiled contentedly, as if he were at home. Tonight he was Darth Malik. He embraced the darkness within, the blackness that permeated the air. A serving girl came to him with a professional smile. Her dress was tight and short, though with a formal cut to it. Pretty. "Can I get you something?"
He gave her a slight smile. "Vodka on platinum ice-cubes."
It would not do for it to be diluted. She returned quickly with the drink. The glass perspired, the mix of bodies ensuring moisture in the cooled air. As he brought the glass to his lips, the vodka sloshed with the density that indicated it had come from a deep freezer and it burned like fiery ice as it slid down his throat.
Drink in hand, he continued to watch the fight.
Malik dismissed him from his thoughts. He had no doubt he would be admitted. A chance meeting with Anatoly Yushakov, Director of Media Affairs at the Consulate of Communication, at one of the palace's gyms, had led to an enjoyable evening at Manifesto in his private booth. It was there that he first heard of Almaz.
The bouncer opened the door and nodded him through before ceasing to exist as Malik descended carpeted stairs into this dark world. The deep bass of industrial music thrummed in his chest, the smell of smoke- cigar and other- swirled with that of leather and designer perfumes. The sounds of conversation and clinking of glasses added to the cacophony. The people that milled about- some sitting in leather booths or at the bar, others at tables- varied from older men and women who reeked of money and power, mistresses and purchased companions for the night on their arms, to what could only be the more successful of the local gangs. They all rubbed shoulders down here in this Stygian realm. Kill or be killed one of the two basic drives of all living things, though Anatoly had said that actual death was rare and usually an accident. Or at least made to look that way.
He kept walking inexorably toward the sounds of cheering from down below. A ring of waist high tables surrounded a scattering of pits. Down below, he saw two man fighting. Dried blood stained the mats, testimony to previous matches. The crowd surrounding the caged ring cheered and screamed in delight or frustration.
His nostrils flared. He could almost smell the blood, even up here. Life at its most basic. One of the men was smaller than the other but he fought with a ferocity that belied his smaller size. His shorn scalp showed blood on the back of his head, the bloody crumpled nose on the other man making it clear what had happened.
He smiled contentedly, as if he were at home. Tonight he was Darth Malik. He embraced the darkness within, the blackness that permeated the air. A serving girl came to him with a professional smile. Her dress was tight and short, though with a formal cut to it. Pretty. "Can I get you something?"
He gave her a slight smile. "Vodka on platinum ice-cubes."
It would not do for it to be diluted. She returned quickly with the drink. The glass perspired, the mix of bodies ensuring moisture in the cooled air. As he brought the glass to his lips, the vodka sloshed with the density that indicated it had come from a deep freezer and it burned like fiery ice as it slid down his throat.
Drink in hand, he continued to watch the fight.