The club was roaring. The waves of people throbbing to the music, and rolling as though in deep waves. It was as difficult to get from one end of the Rose Garden, as it would be for a person to swim through drying cement. And yet, the small elf who timidly squirmed through the crowd kept his pace, even when he had to duck under a flying elbow, or momentarily join a thrashing collective. He finally managed to reach the entrance to the VIP section, and surprised the guard there by giving the correct password, despite his relatively inconspicuous appearance.
He quickly dashed up the stairs, out onto the sleek floor where the people were far more calmly drinking, chatting, and enjoying the relaxation only Madam Tarvona's club could provide. The elf made his way over to the entrance to the Madam's office, and knocked on the door. He had to meet the Madam, and the business he had to meet for was most urgent indeed. Despite the almost uncanny amount of average drabness the elf possessed, there was a hint of defiance in his bearing, as though he were the one who ought to be having lowly minions knocking on his door. Not that anybody would notice this, as it was awfully well-concealed.
A few hours earlier...Yethel of the Steel Lance glowered as he listened in to the mic that his underling was wearing. He continued to frown deeply as he heard the sorts of things this upstart was saying behind the Founder's back. Some of which bordered on treasonous. The high elf sat back in the luxe leather seats in his limo, as his chauffeur drove them around the city in a semi-regular patrol pattern. An array of screens had emerged from the floor and ceiling and were reading out lists of datapoints for Yethel's perusal, but he wasn't heavily focused on the stats concerning the stock prices on Steel Lance-owned appliance companies, or how well the reception to the latest line of Steel Lance-backed fashion was.
Rather, Yethel was listening intently to the conversation transmitted wirelessly to him via an earpiece connected to a microphone that all of his men wore. He told none of them about it, naturally. Not even his high-ranking officers, especially not them. That would destroy their illusion of privacy, their ability to let their guard down and unknowingly tell Yethel how they really felt. And normally, the founder of the gang ignored the common gripes and complaints of his crew. After all, that was what it meant to work under an authority, to feel the oppressive weight of someone's will pressing on your own. However, the things that this particular officer were saying were actually causing Yethel to weigh whether he should hire out a hit on the elf. Totally un-connected to him of course, it would merely be an unfortunate accident. With propitious rewards for a very ambitious killer for hire. Namely, he'd "track" this goon down and kill him himself, destroying all evidence of any foul play. Though indeed, foul play in the criminal underworld was practically kosher.
However before he could pull up one of his burner cell-phones and arrange for a killer to receive a target, he heard a commotion over the com-line. After barely three minutes, there was nothing but silence, and the sound of boots crunching faintly on broken glass. Yethel sat, bemused that fate could bow to his whims so quickly. No, that wasn't the case. Although by no means a grave concern, somebody had laid a hit on his men. The Steel Lance had an enemy, who thought it stood a chance at bringing them to their knees.
"We'll see about that," Yethel murmured,
"Driver! Take me to this address!"
Yethel stood across the street, leaning against his limo, the driver patiently waiting in the parked car. He was completely invisible, as was his custom. As long as he maintained a reasonable amount of stillness, as when standing idle, he was completely see-through. Make a deliberate motion that disturbed the air, or take much more than a step in any direction, and his cloak of non-visibility evaporated. Of course, he kept the cloak up by force of habit, as much as due to the concern that he might be spotted. The limo would be a dead giveaway to anybody with half a brain in their skull that somebody important was dipping their fingers into this incident. That said, from what Yethel saw, the police were doing a fine job of mucking up the evidence, and generally obscuring any trail the killer might have left. If he didn't know better, and yet he did, he would conclude they were trying to sabotage the investigation.
No, the police were just that incompetent. Greedy too, considering a substantial percentage of his gross income was immediately set aside as dividends for the bastards. A secondary, even more substantial portion beyond the regular hush money was maintained in order to have hired men in the office itself, who could keep the other less malleable members in line. It hadn't taken long to slip his fingers into the police, but Yethel had certainly had his share of headaches keeping his grip on them. When the high elf felt he'd seen enough, he slipped back into the limo, and began conjuring a plan.
"Take me to the The Rose Garden."@TheDarkTemplar @Spriggs27
