Walking into the top floor of the nightclub felt like entering a space almost sacred in its exclusivity. Panoramic windows served as its walls, blurring where the inside ended and the outside began.
If the adrenaline struck you just right, you might be tempted to sprint toward the glass. But that thick, transparent barrier wouldn't do much to stop you from taking a wild plunge - down you'd go, plummeting like a stone.
The tangy atmosphere was filled with the scent of verbena, mixed with marijuana and the rich smell of pricey liquor. It thickened this luxurious showroom of vanity and underlying tension, where the floor was a slick, cold marble, glistening under the soft lighting of halo orbs in the room.
This was the Verified Very Important Patron Lounge #001.
The decor was nothing like the typical neon-lit Hexoset style one might expect. Instead, the lounge had lofty ceilings supported by beautifully carved beams, and ornate walls lit up by halo orbs in elegant glass sconces.
The lighting cast a dreamy glow over the plush noir velvet furniture and bioluminescent steel table. It was an enchanting sight, giving the impression that the room itself was suspended in a vast mirrored universe.
An entirety of glam and gloss immersed the young, affluent patrons in a meticulously curated den governed by wealth and status. All of which did little to mask the unmistakable musk of indolence and illicit power oozing from the figure sitting across the table.
Outside those expansive windows, the skyline of Argona stretched out in all its glory. Vast, indifferent, with towering spires of cylindrical buildings reaching upwards into a protective force field.
A thin crescent moon hung in the sky, casting a silvery sheen over the city's artificial lights.
Moonlight poured in through the narrow slits in the curtains, spilling tidy rectangles on the shiny floor. The only detail that seemed out of place in this serenity was the pixelated dancers, gracefully moving up and down the poles in the room's corners.
Clad in tiny V-strings and bras embellished with rhinestones, they wiggled their hips, flicked their hair, and twisted their digital bodies in provocative animations.
It was hard to say whether or not these virtual vixens were trying to seduce the occupants gathered here or if they were simply part of the extravagant setting of this affair.
Then there was Broco Aqqa, a stout Monger in his fifties.
You could easily tell that this guy was a sleazy piece of shit. Even during introductions, he had that undeniable presence, magnified by black eyes that sparkled with a hint of greed.
Naturally, he assessed everyone around him, deciding who would be easy pickings for his next deal. Ah, you know his type - the ones who saw potential clients as nothing more than fodder for their schemes.
Broco was completely bald, save for the walrus-like moustache drooping down his chin, giving him a somewhat comical yet intimidating appearance. Sprawled out in a tall armchair, and by the looks of the deep imprint left behind from countless hours of lounging in that very spot, it was clear he was a man who enjoyed his comforts.
The velvet seemed to snuggle his buttocks, as if it knew it had a job to safeguard a kingpin.
A dark maroon suit clung to his round physique in a way that suggested expensive tailoring. His left hand casually rested on the armrest, where plumes of smoke curled lazily in the air from a joint tucked between his heavily ringed fingers. Obviously, he had a thing for bling too, and the glint of oversized ruby, onyx and emerald only added to his menacing demeanour.
Flanking the Monger were two armed Peculiars who looked as tough as nails.
Styx, a humanoid body with bovine features - broad shoulders, thick arms, and an imposing presence. Large, curved bull horns swept backwards from both sides of his head, where thick, dark dreadlocks adorned with gold beads flowed down his back.
There was something brutishly charming about the way his bovine ears were slightly floppy at the tips, pierced with gold hoop earrings.
On the right was lanky Mhode, light-skinned, wearing a purple coat with wide lapels. He wore a faint, self-assured smirk despite the disfigurement on his face where long, pointed ears framed his slicked-back blond hair with an undercut.
Both lapdogs had their eyes on their master, instinctively aware that his every decision was theirs to enforce.
There was a fresh, gnarly scar snaking from above Mhode's eyebrow down to his square jaw, giving some character to his otherwise rugged look. The skin around it was taut and pale, with some puckered areas where it hadn't healed properly.
Thick staples bit into the flesh, barely holding the torn skin together.
There was a third Merc around, but she'd been sent downstairs to fetch the runners bringing in the precious mana stones.
Not that anything less was expected from Broco, but his security detail looked more like a pair of street thugs and less like seasoned professionals.
These vicious kinds of tough were the type you'd cross the street to avoid.
Styx was especially imposing with the way he adjusted his grip on the hefty machete slung over his shoulder.
Meanwhile, Broco remained unfazed in his cushy seat, only glancing over at the affluent Peculiars sitting across from him. It was an attempt at power play, a game of patience, of control, and he clearly assumed he had the upper hand.
That amused Traore, the handsome young patron with eyes the colour of amethysts. He lounged comfortably on the left side of a plush velvet couch, adorned in a chic, matte sleeveless top with a high neckline and wide-legged pants, exuding an effortless charm.
Smooth oval formed the shape of his face, perfectly framed by a tidy crop of short, jet-black hair that accentuated his sharp cheekbones.
As the soft lighting in the room hit him just right, the streaks of purple tattoos on his fair complexion shimmered, drawing attention to the muscular yet gentle arm casually resting around the shoulders of the woman next to him.
It was a tender, almost protective gesture - not too tight, but enough to imply an intimate bond between them. With his legs slightly apart in a surprisingly relaxed posture, he seemed entirely at home in the lavish surroundings.
Nestled close to him was Cleome, her flowing auburn hair beautifully braided with gold threads. She rested it on his shoulder, completing the intimate scene they painted together. Her silk dress draped elegantly over her lap and spilled over Traore's legs.
She was nothing short of breathtaking, possessing the soft, unlined features of youth - smooth fair skin, a cute little button nose, and almond-shaped turquoise eyes. The symmetry of her features was almost unnervingly perfect.
Broco watched this tableau of intense beauty and obvious affection before him with a nasty squint, and he could hardly suppress the disgust that shuddered through him at the sight of his new clients.
It rose in his throat like venom.
As he observed them, his lips curled into a tight, displeased line, and he crinkled his nose as if he had just caught a whiff of something rancid.
To him, they appeared like exotic birds that had foolishly escaped from a petting zoo and landed smack in the middle of his establishment. Their audacity in displaying an absence of fear in his domain, where everyone else was armed and itching for violence, was truly astounding.
There was no trace of the nervousness he was used to seeing from his regular patrons.
Yet, it was impossible to overlook one undeniable detail: these Peculiars were wealthy, and their fortune allowed them this kind of privacy.
As the owner of the clandestine establishment that is Hexoset, Broco had long since learned not to question the identities of those who darkened his doorstep. No matter how unusual they appeared, Peculiar or Normie, his job was to indulge their whims and surpass their expectations.
However, when random clients like these suddenly show up asking for rare mana stones, backed by seemingly limitless Creds, even the most seasoned Monger was bound to get suspicious.
It was a troubling thought, especially since Traore and Cleome looked young enough to be his own kids. The very idea of them waltzing in and casually throwing around Creds for such precious items was downright alarming!
Broco couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right, and in this line of work, instincts like that were often proven right.
"Feelin' a little too relaxed, are we?" Broco rasped, finally putting the half-burned joint down with a thick, yellowed finger. His voice rolled out like gravel, deep and rough, almost like sandpaper against dry wood.
It grated on the ears, making it clear he wasn't in the mood for pleasantries.
He took another moment to scrutinise the couple, looking for chinks in their armour.
"Ya call me up, askin' fer five fuckin' Luminites and then stroll in here like yer both on a romantic date?"
The words slithered from his chapped lips like a curse, a hiss, an incantation meant to drive out darkness.
Traore, on the other hand, barely flinched; instead, he gave a lazy little grin that didn't quite match the intensity of his extraordinary eyes. Calm and collected, he dodged Broco's aggression without even bothering to meet his gaze as he spoke in a pleasant baritone,
"Now, denying my beloved her comfort is certainly not how I envision kicking off our little rendezvous, Monger."
He tilted his head toward Cleome, who shot him an appreciative look before turning to size up Broco.
"And considering we're on the cusp of securing an asset that's worth infinitely more than the trinkets you've got littering this place, I strongly advise you take a hit of that thing," he said, casually pointing at the joint dangling from Broco's fingers, "and maybe chill out a little. We're not here to waste your time."
Picking up a long-stemmed wineglass from the polished table in front of him, Traore cradled it with an effortless elegance. "Unless, of course, your little display of friendliness on the way here was merely playing the part for your patrons?"
He took a slow sip of the golden wine, letting the moment linger as he finally made eye contact with Broco, who wore a furious scowl.
The calm demeanour of this creature was a physical irritant to Broco, making his piggish eyes twitch. He took a deep drag from the joint, its glowing end flaring bright orange before he expelled a thick cloud of poisonous smoke, momentarily blocking Traore's face from view.
"Friendliness," Broco echoed, relishing the unpleasant word.
"Ah, yes, suttin yer might call a ruse…a necessary act fer the clientele, if yer will. Kinda like that…costume yer flauntin'," he said, waving his joint dismissively in Traore's direction, as if swatting at a fly.
Cleome remained rigid in her seat, but the slight smirk on her lips hinted that she found the verbal sparring entertaining. She seemed almost bored, like a predator watching a pesky little critter just within reach.
But at the Monger's jab, the glow in her eyes grew bolder. Malicious. A subtle grimace followed. Given that she'd chosen Traore's outfit herself, her reaction was understandable. It didn't go unnoticed by the Monger, though.
Broco's mouth curled into a crooked smile. His eyes glinted, as though he were feeding off her anger. He leaned back in the armchair, which protested painfully under his weight.
"There's no virtue in good looks if you don't know how to use them," Traore countered smoothly, gesturing to his outfit, from his impeccably tailored garment to his glossy black loafers.
"This here is just a tool. And when tools are used the right way, they bring in the coin. Which, let's be honest, is the only language that matters in a dog-eat-dog place like this."
He let that statement sink in, smiling in such a fake manner that his teeth practically gleamed. Somehow, the already thick air, filled with pricey booze and antagonism, seemed to drop a few degrees as silence stretched on.
Still, it hung heavy and awkward.
Broco narrowed his eyes, and the satisfaction he had was quickly replaced by a hint of indignation that he tried to suppress as he reached for a bottle, pouring himself a generous glass of whiskey.
"The only true language, huh? Aye, perhaps yer onto suttin there, Traore," he said, letting the name linger, heavy with implied threat.
A subtle nod from the Monger made Mhode a step forward slightly, clarifying the implication clearly without needing to utter a word.
The Merc cracked his knuckles slowly, deliberately, as if gearing up for a fight.
"But we're past the welcome party, aren't we? It's time to dive into the meat of things. The price is set, the deal is made. But know this: Broco does no business with kids. Only grown-ups."
With a forceful WHAM, Broco slammed his hand on the table, enough to make the chipped ashtray jump but not enough to spill his whiskey. The amber liquid sloshed a bit against the rim.
"Five fuckin' Luminites! That's half a million credits yer lookin' at right there on the open market," he shouted.
"I could have that much in my vault by midnight if I chose to flip 'em to the Kansurs instead of messin' around with yer fancy startup operation!"
Traore didn't seem thrown off by Broco's outburst in the slightest. In fact, he looked like he was expecting it. After all, the Monger was well known for his volatile temper. He set his wineglass down on the table with a delicate clink.
The golden liquid sat calmly, undisturbed.
Broco carried on with his sharp squawking voice before it was replaced by Traore's low, silky tone. It carried an undeniable undercurrent of authority as it reverberated through the room.
"You should be aware, Broco, that you're negotiating with an Exonite. We're not like the Kansurs, who'd just send a band of mercenaries to forcefully take what they believe is rightfully theirs, leaving you with nothing but a heap of scrap."
He leaned forward slightly, his luminous purple eyes locking onto Broco's. They were so vibrant, almost hypnotic, that Broco felt a slight dizziness.
Perhaps this creature was trying to control his mind?
"We're not barbarians here, Monger. We aim to trade. Your treasures for our Creds."
Oh, how disgusting was the confidence rolling off this child's tongue.
"Let's skip the chatter about inferiorities or age; half a million credits don't mean much when the asset you hold is crucial to EXON. If you're just after credits, we can offer you a sum that would eclipse your vault. But first…"
Traore leaned in closer, lowering his voice even more, "We need proof, Monger."
If looks could kill, Broco's would in a heartbeat. Though his expression screamed a realization that he was up against someone way slicker than he expected - these damn Exonites.
From what he knew, they were a relatively new operation with a focus that was incredibly niche: they specialized in growing artificial seeds called Folicules, bio-engineered to harness mana to create what they termed xenobotanical life.
They had a whole project around it known as EXON: Engineered Xenobotanical Organism Nexus.
In their peculiar way, those plants were alive. They grew, adapted, and bloomed, existing as a reality that was neither truly organic, magical, nor mechanical, but somehow a triad of all. The beauty of their creation lay in the fact that these plants didn't need soil or sunlight; they thrived purely on energy and design.
With enough mana, a single Folicule could live for over two decades.
But to Broco, it seemed like a pretty stupid project.
Who the fuck cares about immortal plants? Just grow some regular flowers for the sake of aesthetics and call it a day!
Still, as he watched Traore and his bitch Cleome, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was a lot more going on here. They were able to acquire five rare Luminites on short notice, which implied that they had serious backing from influential investors who actually took the project seriously.
See, that alone made him uneasy. If it were true, he was dealing with folks far above his status, and that could spell trouble he simply couldn't afford. He was merely a black market broker.
Skepticism gnawed at the Monger. Having learned to trust no one and nothing unless it jived with his own gut feeling and logic, right now, all of that was screaming that this whole situation was a precarious gamble.
First, his scavengers came across an anonymous Wing Quill with coordinates to mana stones just lying around in an old, abandoned area. He thought it was too good to be true, but then he saw the video feeds of those crystals with his own eyes!
Just as he was trying to wrap his head around this unexpected win, these "representatives" from the Exonites sent him a Wing Quill, eager to purchase the very Luminites he had unearthed.
Broco sank deeper into his plush velvet chair, feeling hesitant as he glanced between Traore and Cleome, frantically searching for a tell.
With a slight gesture, he raised two fingers, summoning Styx, who moved forward with a purpose that could only be described as familiar to him, and held out his hand.
Broco pressed his fingers onto Styx's exposed skin hard enough to leave a fresh burn mark. Styx didn't flinch, even with the sizzling and the acrid smell of burnt flesh. On his dark brown hide were other scars, old white circles marking the places where similar things had happened before.
Traore's expression shifted to one of obvious dislike; his narrowed gaze barely revealed his pupils behind his lowered eyelids.
Evidently, he was unimpressed.
This bastard saw Peculiars as an affront to the natural order in which he believed Peculiars should be desperate, exploitable, and beneath him.
Yet Traore kept quiet, so as not to give Broco a spark to light his fury. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white.
One wrong move could ruin everything they've done to get access to this place.
Cleome, on the other hand, was visibly disgusted by Broco's pathetic display to assert his dominance over his enforcers. It was perhaps also a warning to her and Traore as well, in case they dared to mess with him.
But fuck that, who did he think he was?
She quietly expelled a frustrated breath through her nose, her face hardening into a scowl. With her body tensed, Cleome was ready to leap across the table and claw at the Monger's face.
But just then, muffled sounds meandered through the room, getting louder by the second, and that piqued her interest. Thudding footsteps followed, accompanied by the quiet voices that sounded like they were…. arguing?
That caught everyone's attention at the last possible moment.
The affluent Peculiars exchanged quick, intrigued looks and instinctively turned toward the source of the sound.
Seizing the moment, Cleome discreetly pressed a hidden button on her HoloSmart. A little gadget disguised as a fly buzzed out of her open purse, flying through the air to scan the lounge inconspicuously.
It was a parting gift from Dret, made just for this event; whatever happened from here on out had to be caught on cam.
Then, the handle rattled, and the door swung open to show Vesir with the runners trailing close behind her, standing side by side. With sky-blue eyes and soft curls, the taller one had a couple of bags over one shoulder and a look of mild relief as he rubbed the back of his neck.
The shorter one was busy yanking her laces tight on her boots before standing up.
Her mussed black hair streaked with white cascaded down her shoulders, and she tilted her head to the side, much like a predatory bird. With a fierce glare aimed at Broco, she shouted,
"Broco! I swear, I'm just itching to bash your brains in right now, but you're still owing us for what we worked for!"