SedentaryCobra
Outhouse Poet

The red lights district of New Arcadia.
Deep in the city, apart from the high skyscrapers of the city center, lay the red lights district. The district lay awash in the glow of neon, bathing the busy streets of people in hues of blue and red and green. Sidewalk vendors had taken over the walkways, leaving pedestrians walking on foot through the streets with the few cars foolish enough to try to drive through the hub of Arcadian night life. Cyclists zipped in and between passerbys with practiced dexterity, rushing to make deliveries from here to there.
Everyone moved fast, while the night dragged on. The red lights district was just another set of boarded up streets and run down, reclaimed tenements. But the night was where it blossomed. And the night waited for no one. Noise rang in a cacophonous drone, filling the air with the same liveliness of the streets.
Knock once, wait, then twice on the door to enter. The key's 4972. Punch it in and wait. Tell the man outside with the yellow sweater Pops sent you. He'll know. Illegal activities were as common as the legal ones under the red lights, and they had all sorts of methods to keep prying eyes from getting to them. It hid in plain sight, giving all the telltale signs, but never truly being seen. Every few blocks, an armed and wary officer would be walking, searching for the signs, but all he would grasp were shadows. Unless you were part of it, all you could grasp were straws.
On the streets lay the nightclub The Blue. A veneer of class and wealth covering the lair of a well known mob boss, Mark Mavers. A leader of his own syndicate, he stands a well connected figure in the criminal underworld. Today, however, his nightclub may receive a few visitors he may regret allowing in...
Past two set of metal doors and pair of bouncers, the lowly lit interior of The Blue bubbled with the murmurs of rumors and gossip. An electric dance music beat in the background, dark and soft, just loud enough to cover the distinct words of a conversation. Slick black floors reflected the pale blue lighting back up, setting the patrons in an almost ghostly glow. The colors shifted, red, yellow, green, blue again. A long bar stretched across the establishment, lined with chairs few used. Alcoves in the walls, a table surrounded by a round bench were where most patrons sat, conversations hushed by them, and the lighting kept dark enough to conceal a face. No one came to The Blue for the drinks. They came for the anonymity. A rich kid out on the town, a girl in his lap, whispering sweet nothings into her ears. No one could recognize him here. Here he was just another patron. Several lines of cocaine and a few pills in exchange for a fistful of money. All veiled in the secrecy of The Blue.
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