Clarity [Manifesto]

[Elend]

Walking in to Manifesto on a cold winter's night was an exercise in contrast. The darkness of the outside changed to vibrant colors; the frigid winter air changed to the warmth of heat and bodies pressed together. The biggest change for Elend, however, was the change in sound. Outside the building was quiet. People waiting for their cabs or those just passing by had quiet conversations, while the slight sound of booming bass from the inside tried to permeate the building's walls. The conversations disappeared upon entering the club. The volume increased as you approached the club proper, and upon entering the main area with the dance floor, the music was deafening. It was a place in which Elend felt at home.

Elend worked his way through the crowd. He had just arrived, and although he had arrived alone, he was hoping to not leave that way tonight. Still there was a time for that. Right now, he was in the mood for a drink. Crossing the dance floor took some time.  It was a busy night and dancing was almost standing room only. It took time to make his way to the vodka bar.  Elend was recognized. He was a fairly regular customer here.  He got his drink and moved to the side.

Elend's face turned to the crowd and he began to look. In one hand he held his glass, bringing it to his lips to take a slow drag off of the liquid. Elend, well dressed in a fine suit, ran his free hand through his hair as leaned against the wall.  Although his gaze moved through the crowd, his mind began to wander, thinking about his research.  The Fountain of Youth and the Tree of Life had to be out there somewhere, but his research had revealed little. Elend was certain the Ascendancy knew something. His ageless face at the very least meant something. Maybe his cult of worshippers did as well. 

Elend blinked the thoughts away.  That's not why he was here.  He had been searching too much, and his mind was no longer clear.  What he needed was a distraction - a way to clear his head.  He'd find someone here, he was sure of it. His gaze went back to the crowd, scanning for familiar faces - or those who would just be in the mood for some mingling. 

Elend's eyes would linger at times at the DJ's podium, where it was likely Ozy was stationed.  The man was the face of the club, and a beautiful face it was. Here, the man was a god, worshiped not for his ability to use the power (as far as Elend knew he couldn't), but for his skills as a DJ. Devotion to him was certainly merited.  The thought brought Elend back to thoughts of immortality. A man like that - well - agelessness would be a good fit for him. There were rumors that Ozy was actually going to be leaving Manifesto - that he had found something else. That was certainly interesting gossip. It made Elend wonder if the crowd size here would decrease in his absence. 

Elend took another pull off his drink and sighed contentedly. It was a good night to be out. It was a good night to clear his head. Tonight, he'd find his good time. Tomorrow, he'd be back to the grind. Several options were available to him. He could continue his research. That could take him to the Sanctuary of the Ascendant Flame.  Regardless of if it would help, Elend was curious to meet this "Luminar." Forming a cult required a particular personality. He could do work for Arc too.  Cadence Mathis was recording in one of his studios. He also heard Ezvin was working with her. Ezvin was talented, and Elend really wished he could get Ezvin to join his staff full time. The man seemed to like the freelancing life though. It would probably be a good idea to make an appearance with Cadence for professional reasons. Elend chuckled.  Once again, his mind was roaming.  Tonight was about clarity.

[Ozymandias Kassim]

From above, the crowd was a low tide of sequins, skin and sweat.

The great Ozy stood behind the decks, one hand adjusting the filter on a looped bassline, the other wrapped loosely around the stem of a cut crystal glass. A vodka he didn’t order, that he wouldn’t finish. The drink wasn’t the point. The gesture was. The glint of glass, the practiced grip, the languid ease of his wrist. It all played its part.

He wasn’t mixing for them, not really. The crowd pulsed and surged like obedient plankton, faces lit intermittently by the stuttering strobes. He could feel their hunger, their need. They thought they were dancing because they felt free. Sweet. But Ozy knew better.

They were dancing because he told them to.

The booth had been elevated by design. Manifesto's architect, a shriveled Russian with too much taste and not enough imagination, had proposed something “discreet and minimalistic.” Ozy vetoed it immediately. “If I’m going to command the room,” he had said at the time, “then I need to be seen.” It wasn’t ego. It was logistics.

He turned a dial. The beat stuttered, paused, then dropped again. Half-time, half-grime. Just enough tension to make the bodies below him lose their minds. He didn’t need to see them to know. He felt it. He always did. The air changed. The temperature. The way mouths opened and closed. The involuntary thrust of hips.

There was power in knowing exactly when to withhold. And precisely when to give.

Ozymandias allowed himself a faint smile. Not for the crowd. For himself. For the symmetry of it all. This place was his temple, and it was almost perfect tonight. The energy was dialed in. His appearance, effortless. The lighting had been corrected since last week, when the stage left LEDs had cast an unforgivable green across his jawline. Heads had rolled. Not literally, but only just.

He scanned the sea of revelers below with the cool detachment of a monarch surveying commoners. Occasionally, a face would flicker across his vision. Someone beautiful, someone trying to be, someone with potential, maybe. But none of them had that particular magnetism that made him pause. Not tonight. Not yet.

In the periphery, he caught sight of one of the club’s staff hovering too close to the booth. A runner. New, maybe. Nervous. Sweating. Ozy gave him a single glance, frosted and final, and the man retreated like a kicked dog.

He turned back to his decks. The next track was an unreleased cut from a Berlin producer who begged him to play it. Ozy had made him wait three months. Now it would debut, not because it was the right night, but because Ozy had decided it was. He lined it up, faded it in with threaded grace, and exhaled slowly as the synths washed over the room like chloroform. The crowd roared. They didn’t know why they were euphoric. That was the point.

He tilted his head back, letting the light catch the shimmer of his cheekbone and the subtle flash of the silver crucifix at his neck. A piece he had never believed in, but wore anyway. Symbolism, after all, was a currency far older than fame.

Someone in the crowd was watching him with more than admiration. He could feel it. He didn’t need to look to know. Sometimes it was lust, sometimes envy. Sometimes, rarely, it was recognition of what he truly was: not a DJ. Not a performer. An apex.

And the rumors? Well, let them circulate. Let them whisper about Moscow, about the offers, about whatever was supposedly “next.” He didn’t need to confirm or deny. The uncertainty only sharpened the hunger. A god, after all, need not explain himself.

He raised his glass in an offhand salute to no one, and let the bass drop like the fall of judgment’s axe.

[Elend]

Elend had worked often with musicians, be they singers, instrumentalists, pop-stars, rockers, and even DJs. The ones that drew his attention were talented - filtered by lower employees before they made it to his desk for approval. All of them were good.

But they weren't Ozy.

Elend had watched the man at his craft before, but tonight...tonight was different. What Elend was seeing - what the crowd was seeing - was a master artist creating a masterpiece. He wove bass lines, tempos, dynamics, and melodies together with a masterful hand. And just when the crowd thought they had it figured out - he changed it - forcing the crowd to continue to follow him. And they ate it up. In their movements, they worshiped their god.

Elend finished his drink and debated ordering another, but the pulse of the club began to draw him in. Elend smiled at that. Most people here knew jack shit about music. They couldn't appreciate the subtleties of the craft, but Elend could. That's why he saw the tapestry of sound as a whole, and that's why he decided to join in. He placed his empty glass on the bar and moved forward. A woman in an electric blue dress looked his way, and the smile was all he needed to drag her out on the floor with him. She came willingly, but had she not, he could have made her do so anyways. They exchanged names, but it was unnecessary. They couldn't hear each other speak anyways. Elend would use her tonight and then forget about her tomorrow - maybe earlier if he found someone better. For now, they began to dance, bodies pressed close together.