[Fiction] Babylon Reborn: Lower Level

[Velvet]

After traversing a set of winding stairs that twist and descend deep beneath the club, a pair of thickly-upholstered doors swings wide for the adventurous patron and reveals the most popular attraction at Club Babylon: the dancers.

On three stages in a room easily the size of the entire main floor, some of the most beautiful and physically skilled performers that Chicago has to offer can be found writhing, gyrating, and dancing to satisfy the whims of the crowd and (with any luck) lighten their wallets. The decor is plush, opulent, and faintly reminiscent of the old theatre palaces and opera houses that once graced America's major cities, with thick velvet draperies lining the walls and sultry, atmospheric lighting that casts a dim golden haze over everything it touches.

Tables and chairs fill the center of the floor, with small bars standing off to either side of the main stage. On each side of the room, dark wooden pocket doors are half-concealed by gilded screens and lush flowering plants; only the entrance to the adjacent lounge seems to be unattended by security.

[Trooper]

Trooper sat, pissed off and looking to get a little drunker. He took a chair and table and moved it into a corner so he could hammer back drink after drink as he looked over the summons.

"Dammit, why the fuck did that Janissarie bastard have to leave so soon. I bet wrapping his guts around a dance pole would make me feel better. Stupid lawsuit."

He looked at the name, over and over again.

Dr. Harlan O'Hearne

"Doctors should be in hospitals. Doctors should wear doctor clothes. Doctors should do something to show that they're doctors. And they certainly shouldn't pull a gun on a soldier and tell him to get out of a room and expect to remain vertical. Bastard. Bastard, zealot, pain-in-the-ass corpse."

Money and good times are great, but sometimes being an Elite had a downside.