Faction Bad Decisions, Better Suits: Connections in the Highlife

[Mr Black]

Echelon: The Outer Rim
Neo-Echelon: Capital City
District 30: Highlife Heights
The Echane

If you wanted luxury accommodation, you came to Highlife Heights, assuming you could afford the entry surcharge, or your executive pass scanned green on the first try. Weather was tailored to perfection: a soft twilight glow, temperature locked somewhere at expensively comfortable, with an artificial breeze just strong enough to stir coats and dresses for those paying attention. Every walkway gleamed. Every view was lethal to look at twice. Accommodations were exclusive and availability was barely a rumor.

Tonight's venue was The Echane​

Every invited guest entered free of charge. Mission runners brushed shoulders with corporate executives, and many of the sharpest suits in Echelon belonged to the cityworld's most successful criminals. The dress code was enforced; questions about your profession were not. Tonight was about who you could meet, and who you absolutely shouldn't underestimate.

Hoverlimos pulled into place. Corporate shuttles descended on controlled gravway columns, insignias marked against polished hulls. Luxury speeders came off the speederways into secure automated bays, parked twenty levels deep. Human-looking HRD valets, smiling just too perfectly, took control of vehicles worth more than some districts' annual budgets.

Inside, the lobby unfolded like a statement piece. The welcoming desk was curved around in obsidian glass, marked with gold-lit circuitry; its clerks had subtle high-tier augments. Soft holo-patterns carried through the air, data mood motifs pretending to be art, while discreet dark-grey security doors slid open and shut, guiding guests deeper inside.

Past them lay the main lounge.

The room was vast without feeling empty, strangely intimate without crowding. Multi-level balconies and sculpted platforms overlooked a central floor where conversation flowed as freely tonight as the drinks. Corporate power brokers occupied dim alcoves upholstered in smart-fabric seating that adjusted to posture and mood. Mission runners leaned against durachrome railings, armor hidden beneath tailored coats, their eyes always moving.

Above, a slow-rotating holo-ceiling displayed Neo-Echelon's skyline at night, with artificial stars dispensing data and information feeds downward for fresh refils. Decor balanced warmth and opulence: dark woods inset with defining circuitry, genetically tuned indoor plants, and kinetic art moved subtly as people passed it.

Service was flawless and nearly omnipresent. HRD attendants moved through the crowd with crystal glasses and cut synth-ice to exacting time. The bar stretched along one wall like a shrine to corporatism, backlit rare spirits, cybernetic mixology dispensers, and a bartender whose implants read biometric tells before you ordered. Drinks arrived before you realized you wanted them. It all felt a little too good. At the far end, a live band played smooth synth-jazz layered with industrial eche-bass, filling silence without distracting attention.

Armorweave suit immaculate, two decisive HRD escorts flanking him, Balen Var Black moved through the room with a steady ease, shaking hands, exchanging names, making connections. His job tonight was to meet as many people as possible and remember each one.

"How am I doing?" he asked quietly.

"Optimal," a HRD replied. "Approval metrics adequate. Charisma expenditure within acceptable limits. You may continue being… yourself."

Black smirked. When the moment felt right, he stepped beside the band and tapped the holomic. Sound dampening increased and the room hushed.

"Alright, hey. Hi. Yes, that's me," he said, grinning under the light. "If you're holding a drink, don't stop. If you're not, that's on us, and we'll fix it." Laughter rippled. "Welcome to Highlife Heights. More importantly, welcome to the first function we are doing together like this. Not my first event," he added, gesturing at the extravagance, "but ours. Tonight isn't about hierarchy, job titles, or which morally questionable contract you signed yestreday."

He spread his hands. "It's about introductions. About seeing who's in the room. Realizing the person next to you might be a future ally, rival, employer, or the reason your next job goes sideways."

"So talk. mingle and make connections. Enjoy the music, your drinks, and the view you definitely didn't pay for. This cityworld runs on people willing to show up and build something together, and you're all here."

He lifted his glass.

"To new faces. New stories. And whatever comes next. We all start somewhere."

The band eased back in as the room came alive, brighter and louder than before.

 

[Ironwraith]

Ironwraith entered Highlife Heights with the quiet certainty of someone who did not need to announce himself.

His dress blues were immaculate — Republic-cut, tailored to precision, the deep navy fabric broken only by crisp silver trim and service ribbons that spoke of campaigns most people here only knew through filtered holoreels. His dress cap was tucked neatly beneath his left arm, posture straight without being rigid, shoulders squared like habit rather than performance.

The contrast was deliberate.

Around him, tailored excess and corporate vanity filled the space. Around him, people subtly adjusted their distance — not out of fear, but instinct. This was a man who looked like he belonged somewhere else, and survived long enough to be invited here.

He paused just inside, eyes sweeping the room in a practiced arc before settling briefly on Mr. Black. No salute. No nod that would draw attention. Just a fraction of acknowledgment — employer to asset, understood.

Only then did Ironwraith move toward the bar.

He set the cap carefully against the polished surface, fingers releasing it with the same care one might give a loaded weapon, and signaled for a drink. As the glass was slid toward him, he lifted it, inspecting the contents with faint suspicion.

"Fancy venue," he remarked dryly, voice low but not unfriendly.
A corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile.

"Back home, if the drink glows, it's usually trying to kill you."

He took a measured sip, exhaled once through his nose, and let his gaze drift back across the room — watching, cataloging, already working even as the music and chatter swelled around him.

Ironwraith remained where he was:
cap under arm, drink in hand,
a soldier in a room full of suits —
and entirely comfortable standing between both worlds.

Mr Black
@Open

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana arrived without spectacle, which in a place like Highlife Heights was its own kind of statement.

The grav-lift doors parted to admit her into The Echane's upper lobby, and for a brief moment the tailored twilight caught on the lines of her silhouette before she stepped fully inside. She was dressed formally, but with restraint — a long, structured coat in deep graphite-blue layered over a fitted ensemble of matte black and muted metallic accents. The fabric was high-grade and adaptive, falling cleanly when she stood still and flowing subtly when she moved. No visible weapons. No ostentatious augment display. Just refinement sharpened by intent.

Her hair was styled back from her face in a controlled, elegant sweep, leaving her brown eyes unobstructed as they took in the room. Jewelry was minimal: a slim wrist band, a single, understated earpiece disguised as ornamentation. Nothing that flashed wealth. Everything that suggested deliberation.

She cleared the entry scan on the first pass.

Inside, The Echane unfolded in layers—sound, light, influence—braided together so seamlessly that most guests stopped noticing where one ended, and the next began. Ana noticed immediately. She read the flow of bodies the way others read markets: who lingered, who moved with purpose, who spoke too much, and who let silence do the work for them. Corporate executives, mission runners, criminal powerbrokers dressed as philanthropists — the room was an ecosystem, and tonight it was feeding.

Her gaze found Black without effort.

Balen Var Black moved through the crowd with practiced ease, his presence subtly shaping conversations around him. Ana didn't approach at once. She watched, letting the cadence of the room settle, letting his words ripple outward and dissolve back into music and chatter. When he lifted his glass and the band resumed, she allowed herself a measured breath—not anticipation, not relief. Readiness.

Then something else drew her attention.

At the bar stood a man who did not blend in — not because he demanded notice, but because he did not attempt to. Dress blues amid tailored excess. Posture precise without being rigid. A bearing that suggested habit rather than performance. People unconsciously adjusted their spacing around him, not out of fear, but recognition. This was someone who belonged to structures most people here only brushed against.

Ana observed him without staring, cataloging details the way she always did. Soldier, likely. Experienced. Comfortable being out of place. Not here to impress anyone.

Interesting.

She moved at last, not toward the bar and not directly toward Black, but into the current between them. An HRD attendant appeared at her side as if summoned by probability alone, offering a crystal glass before she'd asked. Ana accepted it with a quiet nod, fingers resting lightly against the stem as the ambient hum of the room folded back in.

Only then did she close the distance to Black, unhurried and assured. When she spoke, it was pitched just for him—no projection, no performance.

"Impressive turnout," she said evenly, eyes sweeping the room once before returning to his. "You brought together people who don't usually share air—and got them to stay."

A brief pause. The faintest curve at the corner of her mouth—not for the room, just acknowledgment.

"And no one looks bored yet," she added. "That might be the real achievement."

She lifted her glass in a small, mirroring gesture to his, then let her attention drift outward again—analytical, alert, already working—as The Echane continued to pulse around them, unaware that one more sharp mind had quietly joined the gathering.

@open Ironwraith Mr Black

 

[Allie J.]

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[]

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Location: District 30: Highlife Heights
Tag: Mr Black .. Ironwraith .. Ana Rix

The doors of Highlife Heights parted with a velveted sigh, and Allie J. stepped within as though crossing a threshold between the known and the blasphemous. Neon sigils pulsed along the walls like bulbous veins, casting illuminating hues upon the assembled revelers whose laughter rang almost hollow, almost rehearsed.

She brushed past a bouncer clad in immaculate finery, his smile frozen in a way that suggested something learned rather than felt, and pressed a few credits into his waiting palm. The exchange was swift, precise, and unspoken; an offering made to ensure that the club's many eyes would forget her face as easily as they had learned it.

She briefly paused just beyond the entryway, granting allowance for the atmosphere to seep into her bones. Music throbbed in arrhythmic waves, a sound that seemed less composed than summoned, while some patrons clung to corners in defiance of the musical tones; only focused on their drinks and conversations. She took in the scene with a careful, measuring gaze.

Some patrons, moved by the semi-soothing tunes, took to dancing, moving as if guided by invisible strings. In private booths, others conversed in hush tones, where whispers carried more weight than words, the sense that something vast and indifferent lurked beneath their perpetrated voices.

Only after committing these impressions to memory did she venture deeper, each step forward feeling like a descent into a living organism that watched her with ancient, unblinking curiosity. She hated being observed.

Moving through the crowd with a scholar's precision, her mind began etching faces into memory as though they were forbidden glyphs scrawled upon a cyclopean wall. Each visage she passed seemed subtly wrong; smiles that lingered a heartbeat too long, eyes reflecting the club's lights with an almost aquatic sheen, expressions caught between indulgence and hunger.

She catalogued them all without pause: the perfumed aristocrat leaning too close to his companion, the woman whose laughter never reached her eyes, the silent patron who watched the room as if waiting for a sign from some unseen depth. These faces, once witnessed, felt less like people and more like masks worn by an unknowable will that pulsed beneath Highlife Heights' glittering shell.

At last she reached the massive bar, a gleaming monolith of polished metal and glass that throbbed with activity. Several bartenders worked in tireless unison, their movements swift and almost inhuman, as they poured, shook, and served with a fervor bordering on ritual devotion. Allie J. waited until one turned toward her, then calmly ordered a non-alcoholic drink, her request nearly falling into the blaring music like a quiet heresy.

She noted, with a faint inward satisfaction, the brief flicker of irritation it caused, an added burden upon an already strained system; as if by this small, deliberate act she could test whether the machinery of the club would falter, or merely adapt and continue its ceaseless, inscrutable labor.

A man, in his late forties and dressed to impress, stopped to check her out at the bar, his unwavering eyes examining her from head to toe. Allie J. turned her gaze upon him as one might regard a lesser, squirming thing and said, "Whatever you think you are offering me, be it your charm, a free drink, or your relevance, it means less to me than the dust beneath this bar."

Her smile was thin and cruel as she continued, "I am not interested in you, nor in whatever fragile illusion of importance you believe you can perform for my benefit."

She lifted a finger and pointed toward the world behind him, adding coldly, "Now leave, before you test my patience and discover how unpleasant my temper can become."

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