05-19-2014, 01:44 PM
White agreed to the meeting. A couple hours before midnight, right before the crowd's filled Manifesto's Blocks. The car laboured along the cobbled city streets, and Jaxen tucked his Wallet in his pocket as it pulled up in front of the club. The two famous Blocks were technically underground, and filled old government war bunkers that inspired their names, but at street level, the gothic Russian building was washed in bright uplighting, highlighting every nook and cranny of ominious architecture. Red carpet, dark and plush as a bloodied river, was unfurled from the mouth of club doors otherwise perched at a set of stairs leading into the gilded dungeons beneath the surface. Jaxen fucking loved it.
With a grin waxed on his face, slick as the points of his stylish hair, he emerged from a 2046 Koenigsegg Agera, a swedish sport car boasted an enormous 1,460 horse power engine on a V-8 block that cranked 100 km/hr in under 2.5 seconds. His fingertips lovingly trailed the edge of the driver's window as he revealed himself. There were always always paparazzi outside Manifesto just salivating over the chance to hit a story. This car, next year's model, retailed for $3 million CCD, and with its black kevlar body and custom "ghost light" interior lighting system, and green hood stripes diving up the hood of the car, wrapping around the frame and reaching inward like sickly sharp fangs, it was a story all on its own.
Jaxen soaked up the adoration and awe like he expected nothing less. Flashes pocketed white halos in his vision, but his pose remained the same. He another of the town's playboys, albeit a sickingly handsome one, who made sure everyone in the city knew exactly where he was tonight. Jaxen Marveet. Manifesto. If anything happened to him tonight, millions of witnesses were there to stand up for him.
After making the line of cars behind him wait an annoyingly long amount of time, he rounded the car like he was walking away from a lover. A valet passed him as he did, and Jaxen leaned to say a few words of caution. "Take care of her, or you'll have the director of the DVII Bilmodeller pound your ass for every dollar its worth."
The young man's brows lifted, and Jaxen pat him reassuringly on the shoulder. "That's three million ass poundings, kid. Remember that."
Never say Jaxen never warned the fellow, he also hated to think what would happen to him if that car disappeared under his loan.
One could say Jaxen fit right in surrounded by the chic beauty of Manifesto, but he would find the assessment offensive. He was so much better than these fuckers, and the crowd parted like they knew it also. The black of his hair was all the more sinister above an electric blue cashmere overcoat. The high collar was upturned stiff his neck, the front buttonless, and floated to knee-length. A fine white cashmere jumper shone bright beneath, sheer enough to make out the faint lines of the tattoo when his coat fluttered open on the air. The neck was cowled across his chest, and upon close inspection, was held there by a finely embroidered skull. He worse trousers in the same color and metallic-silver washed shoes with a similar skull design on the tab. The style of overcoat was something he picked up in Mumbai, and was still popular in the capital of DVIII. He had at least five variations of this same, $4,000 coat, and he loved them all.
"Mister Marveet!" He was greeted at the entrance to Block Two. The man who approached was a slender, older man with silver-tipped hair and bright blue eyes that were currently fixed on Jaxen's eyeliner blackened rims. The room beyond was echoing as the bunker in which it was constructed. The ceiling was original to the former fall-out shelter, but additional walls and architecture was overlaid in such a way as to filter and dampen the passage of sound through an otherwise cavernous hall. Alien blue and green lighting bathed his face as he peered in.
"My table?"
He asked and was immediately shown to one of the many niches curved into the periphery. They were just private enough to not worry about eavesdroppers, but not so private as to appear unwelcoming.
Of course, Jaxen did not make it there alone. Ten steps in and he was already laden by a woman on each arm.
They sat with a bottle of vodka and drank and laughed until White made himself known.
Edited by Jaxen Marveet, May 19 2014, 02:35 PM.
With a grin waxed on his face, slick as the points of his stylish hair, he emerged from a 2046 Koenigsegg Agera, a swedish sport car boasted an enormous 1,460 horse power engine on a V-8 block that cranked 100 km/hr in under 2.5 seconds. His fingertips lovingly trailed the edge of the driver's window as he revealed himself. There were always always paparazzi outside Manifesto just salivating over the chance to hit a story. This car, next year's model, retailed for $3 million CCD, and with its black kevlar body and custom "ghost light" interior lighting system, and green hood stripes diving up the hood of the car, wrapping around the frame and reaching inward like sickly sharp fangs, it was a story all on its own.
Jaxen soaked up the adoration and awe like he expected nothing less. Flashes pocketed white halos in his vision, but his pose remained the same. He another of the town's playboys, albeit a sickingly handsome one, who made sure everyone in the city knew exactly where he was tonight. Jaxen Marveet. Manifesto. If anything happened to him tonight, millions of witnesses were there to stand up for him.
After making the line of cars behind him wait an annoyingly long amount of time, he rounded the car like he was walking away from a lover. A valet passed him as he did, and Jaxen leaned to say a few words of caution. "Take care of her, or you'll have the director of the DVII Bilmodeller pound your ass for every dollar its worth."
The young man's brows lifted, and Jaxen pat him reassuringly on the shoulder. "That's three million ass poundings, kid. Remember that."
Never say Jaxen never warned the fellow, he also hated to think what would happen to him if that car disappeared under his loan.
One could say Jaxen fit right in surrounded by the chic beauty of Manifesto, but he would find the assessment offensive. He was so much better than these fuckers, and the crowd parted like they knew it also. The black of his hair was all the more sinister above an electric blue cashmere overcoat. The high collar was upturned stiff his neck, the front buttonless, and floated to knee-length. A fine white cashmere jumper shone bright beneath, sheer enough to make out the faint lines of the tattoo when his coat fluttered open on the air. The neck was cowled across his chest, and upon close inspection, was held there by a finely embroidered skull. He worse trousers in the same color and metallic-silver washed shoes with a similar skull design on the tab. The style of overcoat was something he picked up in Mumbai, and was still popular in the capital of DVIII. He had at least five variations of this same, $4,000 coat, and he loved them all.
"Mister Marveet!" He was greeted at the entrance to Block Two. The man who approached was a slender, older man with silver-tipped hair and bright blue eyes that were currently fixed on Jaxen's eyeliner blackened rims. The room beyond was echoing as the bunker in which it was constructed. The ceiling was original to the former fall-out shelter, but additional walls and architecture was overlaid in such a way as to filter and dampen the passage of sound through an otherwise cavernous hall. Alien blue and green lighting bathed his face as he peered in.
"My table?"
He asked and was immediately shown to one of the many niches curved into the periphery. They were just private enough to not worry about eavesdroppers, but not so private as to appear unwelcoming.
Of course, Jaxen did not make it there alone. Ten steps in and he was already laden by a woman on each arm.
They sat with a bottle of vodka and drank and laughed until White made himself known.
Edited by Jaxen Marveet, May 19 2014, 02:35 PM.