[ACE - What Must Be Done] Team EDM
Ace of Spades Casino
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Marick checked the chromium chrono on his wrist and watched the second hand advance beat by beat.
He could somehow hear the clicking of the gears over the ambient elecontic thrum that oozed out of the overhead speakers. The music had, somehow, transformed the the gathering of so called entrepreneurs and investors into a bunch of delinquent teenagers. Mixed sets of claws, fangs and hands wove together between flesh, scale, fur, and feather. The sleeves to their tailored suits were rolled up or discarded entirely. Dresses were tied back, or up, or in ways that Marick honestly was not sure of how to describe.
Had there been something in the punch? Marick wouldn’t have known, as his body tended to filter out most common toxins on its own. His own clothes remained unchanged for the most part. The tailored dress shirt and pants complimented him nicely without being ostentatious, and his disguised visage let him blend in well with the rest of the crowd.
The same could not be said of his fellow Councilor, who had apparently decided it was best to take his shirt off. Marick would have said something, but his focus was on the task at hand. Everything
Time seemed to slow as his eyes moved from one occupant to the next. Waiting.
“Dracaryis, it’s almost time!” Marick called out.
“Hammer time!?” Dracaryis hollered back. Their voices carried over the resonance of the music, but only barely.
“No, mission time!” Marick shouted, a rare thing for the usually soft spoken half-Hapan. “When the ‘bass drops we’re on the clock! Follow the informant and find out where his ship is parked!”
On the forty-fifth second, the trancelike swell of the music reached its crescendo.
And then the bass dropped.
The heavy pounding of the bass-powered beat dropped like a hammer. Electronic screeches and vinyl scratches followed. The crowd threw their hands into the air, as if they did not care, and began to move like a violent sea of sweat and vigor.
And then the sonic screech of blaster fire pierced through the frantic beat of the music. People began to scream and panic.
Marick hated to admit it, but it was just as Evant’s crazy gypsy droid had predicted.
…Seven hours earlier
Minstrel-class Space Yacht: Exeter
““Would you care for a cold drink, Master Fist?”
~Pffftt…is…no one going to touch that one? No one?~
“I’m good, thank you, Ciri,” Dracaryis replied through grit teeth. The BD-3000 Luxury Droid bowed her head and returned back towards the refresher.
Well, hello there, gorgeous…”
“She’s a droid, Bob,” Dracaryis growled out of the corner of his mouth.
“Well, as much as I’d love to explain the basics of precaution to you, Steve—”
What could be more pressing than getting more familiar with a girl with legs like—
The Fist of the Brotherhood realized that Bob and Steve tended to be less obtrusive when he was around his fellow Dark Councilor’s. So, despite knowing that drawing Marick into a fun conversation was like squeezing water from a stone, Dracaryis made his way towards the Voice and peaked over his shoulder.
“So, remind me again how Evant talked us into this?”
Marick didn’t look up from his datapad. “I lost a bet. You lost to him in bingo last week.”
“Man, I really thought we were over comparing and complaining about Pin Numbers at this point,” Dracaryius muttered.
Marick had, by this point, grown accustomed to the Fist’s odd comments. They had worked together long enough where he simply either ignored them, or politely steered them in a different direction.
“Either way, have you put any thought into our disguises for the event? I think it would look bad if the head if two Dark Councilors showed up instead of the Regent.
“Of course I did!” a voice interrupted from the other side of the room. Wyndell Tyris came out of the closet-turned-dressing room carrying a few sets of garments over on arm. “Man, this Regent guy really does have it all on this ship. I wouldn’t have expected to find a shirt with a collar like this out of season?”
Dracaryis regarded the other Tyris with a half-grin. While Marick might have been a drag, his half-brother seemed to know how to keep things interesting, at least. “I think getting Mr. Serious-face here to get into a costume will be the hardest—”
As if on queue, Marick’s raven hair and full beard shifted to a shade of platinum blonde. His nose morphed it’s shape to be somewhat flatter. The dark lines under his eyes faded, his ears became more angular and pointed, his pale skin shifted to a shade of light pink.
“Shadow disciplines are so OP,” Dracaryis grumbled.
Marick didn’t grin, but his eyes glinted knowingly with an air of smug satisfaction. The disguised Voice of the Brotherhood turned back to his datapad to study the mission parameters.