He was pretty sure it was a test. After all, he was new in town. This was a job. In his career, you didn't really give references, and there was no resume. Criminals rarely keep all of that information on paper. Unless someone vouched for you in-person, the best you had was your word and your results. Actions speak louder, et cetera, et cetera. Since he was unlikely to get someone to vouch for him from Washington DC in person, and even less likely to get them to say it over the phone, they'd given him a job, and it was clearly a test. He nodded to himself in his smartness and rationalization. A test for a new-guy runner. A delivery test to see if he was better than your basic pizza delivery boy. To see if he was a Delivery Man. 

You see, here's the basic summary. In Running, you have something. It's usually something illegal. An interested party contacts you with a request to deliver or acquire said item, and deliver it to a specific location. You do it quickly, you do it quietly, and you avoid all police suspicions. The results are what matter. How you get from point A to point B doesn't have to be running. The important thing is that you get there with your parcel in good time, and do it with the utmost discretion. For example, say you were given a box. It is a small box. You don't know what is in it. It could be money. It could be jewels. It could be something somebody made in a lab. Hell, it could even be that human heart that one medical company created in a lab in New York... -dragon something... though that one would probably require some sort of cooler and loads of ice, and tons of background on why it is important the organ is delivered fast to prevent organ decay. You do not open the box. You deliver the box. You verify that it was delivered to the appropriate party, and then you get paid.

Elliott had a tiny box. The delivery point was in the night club, Chrysalis. He was to deliver it to a specific person, and he was to dress the part. He was not to look inside the box, though nobody had told him as much. Fog of war is a great test for would-be runners. You have to know if you'll be able to trust them to keep their yam-hole crammed shut. Elliott loathed yams. He was dressed in a white silk shirt and white leather pants, with a pair of sweet shoes that went perfectly with the outfit. The only thing he was missing was flowing black hair and a sexy Jaguar sports car. Instead, he had black antennae and was green. This was gonna be good!


Elliott approached the club. There was a line. He waited. The box was tucked neatly under one arm. it was very tiny, if you had not already noticed. Only about the size of a human heart. 

Another night, another shift. People were filtering through the doors and into the dimly-lit club. Music was pulsing, the bodies of club patrons thrumming rhythmically beneath strobe lights. The air was already hot with the mingling scents of sweat and alcohol. It was, after all, a busy night. Jack stood to one side of the room, towards the dance floor, with her back pressed against the wall. She donned the typical mens' uniform at her place of business-- dress shirt, necktie, black slacks, and a tailored vest. Everything was orderly, except for the sleeves, which were gathered at at her elbows.

Jack rand a hand over the drown of her head, sighing. Tonight, she was mostly just tired. After the shenanigans with Victor, she ready for an uneventful evening. Sadly, she still had many nights of work until her next night-off. Nights at Chrysalis were never dull.

"'eeeeey, Chief," the raspy greeting shook Jack from her thoughts. She redirected her attention from the dance floor, surveying the familiar face of another bouncer at the club. She, as well as some of the regular patrons, affectionately called him "Mouth", because he was an especially chatty fellow, with rows of shark-like fangs instead of normal human teeth. Typically, when Mouth asked someone to leave, they listened.

"Hey," Chief greeted.

"I'm gonna go for my smoke break, will you cover the patio for me?"

Chief gave a curt nod, and began to make her way around the edge of the dance floor. Any excuse to get off of the steamy dancefloor. The prawn made her way around the back edge, scooting towards one of many exits, and finally stepped outside. Cold air hit her like a wave.

It was drastically quieter outside, with clumps of generously-cushioned patio seats and the occasional lamp-shaped heater to keep their patrons warm.

"Heeeey, Chief!" one of the regulars greeted, waving. Chief gave a wave of acknowledgement, but given how busy the night was, found a spot on the far wall, where she could survey the patio adequately.

((ooc, I wasn't sure if the patio was on the second floor or not, going by what we talked of in the chat. Let me know if i need to edit any thing. ))

He waited a good long ten minutes before he started getting impatient. The line didn't seem to be getting any shorter. In fact, it had actually gotten longer. What the hell?! Elliott stared. Then he saw the reason. A group of mutant patrons had been saving a place for their friends... and one of them had bumped into another, and split into four of himself. Dammit. Elliott started looking for alternate ways in.

The thing about nightclubs is that they're picky about the image they protect. Let in too many ugly patrons and some club members complain. And then they take their business elsewhere. He had a feeling that while he was an attractive alien man, someone might not think he was an attractive mutant, or dare he say it, person. Even starting in line and sticking through the long wait, there was no guarantee he would get in. And he hated keeping a customer waiting. Bad for business. So while the front door was a great option for an alien dressed to the nines, so was any other entrance. And it cost no money to sneak in.

Elliott left the line to survey the club. It was a good sized club. There were certain to be back exits that were guarded or locked, and alley trashcan platforms one could put to good use. That was great, but it was also dramatic, and kicking down doors and fighting guards was just too flashy. It wouldn't do. That said, there was a sort of deck on the second story. People that hung out there were unlikely to raise hell over one man. They might even be too drunk to care. Carefully, Elliott moved around to stand underneath the patio. He tensed his leg muscles, and leaped ten feet into the air. As he jumped, he brought his hands forward. The scar lines on each palm split and opened, revealing lips. Then, mouths. Two tongues shot out of the mouths on his palms like grappling hooks to bridge the final gap. Gaining hold, he hauled himself up the rest of the way. Shoes hit the ground with a clip as he hopped off the edge of the patio wall, onto the patio itself.

Jack could feel her attention drifting. The dance floor was busy, there was always something or someone to look at, even if there was nothing illicit going on. Jack would walk the perimeter of the floor, even occasionally venturing into the fray. The patio was much calmer. Even the music was muffled by the thick walls and closed doors. Jack could feel the lull tugging at her, urging her to close her eyes... no, no, no. No shut-eye on the job. She sighed and continued her watch.

A flick of motion from the high walls to the ground caught her attention. Did someone... really just jump off of the walls? Those walls were at least twelve feet tall, and they were already a story off the ground. What the actual-- When the jumper arose, the most obvious traits were his green skin and cueball of a head. Hm. Jack undid her vest and fanned it, as if she had just stepped off the dance floor and was trying to cool off. In doing so, she was hiding the nametag which would clearly single her out as security. Of course she was going to go after the guy, but she was curious to see what was so important that he had to hop a wall for.

Feigning exhaustion, she lifted her head and sighed, squinting her eyes as she continued fanning. Through the slits of her eyes, she watched Cueball very closely, waiting for him to make a move. As soon as the green man began to cross the threshold, Jack rose from her spot on the wall, following him inside at a reasonable distance. She kept her vest unbuttoned, continuing to hide the nametag.

[OOC: Hope it's cool that I suggested that Elliot went in, before you wrote it, Shinbo? If not I can jsut erase that paragraph. ]

Before he looked around, Elliott turned. His eyes dropped down to a trash can several feet below the patio wall, where the package he'd been carrying had been set. A hand dropped. A hand tongue snaked down to nab the box. It only took a moment or two to reel it in. He stuffed the package back under his arm, turned. That was when he noticed his company.

As a rule, you generally want to check your surroundings before exposing your back to them when you're doing something you shouldn't be doing. Maybe there was something about the atmosphere of the club that had put him off his game. Something in the air. Or maybe not. He could hear the steady beat of the music from within. Within was where he wanted to be. He didn't want to be up on the patio with the person he was. For starters, they looked like they'd fought a losing battle with a rainbow. There was an overwhelming sense of teal that reminded him of modern movie posters. The spikes didn't remind him of any one thing in particular. He noted that were were several of them. Some were on the creature's jaw. Mutant, then, and not human. Alien was a good option, but if they were, he felt like he'd have been able to tell. Despite the alien appearance, his gut instinct said mutant. It also said 'Nothing to see here. Move along.' His gut instinct pulled an Obi Wan on him, and he went with the flow. Elliott moved along.

As he crossed the threshold, Elliott smoothed back his black antennae self-consciously with one hand. He had no hair. They were the next best thing. Jumping in white leather pants had been hard. He'd done his best to keep the silk shirt spotless. The entire ensemble was meant to look professional, because appearances are important and he wanted to put his best foot forward.

Red eyes scanned the club. He'd gotten a description of the man he was looking for. They'd be 5'9", in an Italian suit that cost more than most peoples cars. Dark hair, with flecks of gray. And as a defining trait, they'd have a beautiful woman on each arm. As he glanced around, he noted that several such gentlemen existed in booths. What was the last thing they'd said about him? Oh yeah. He'd also have a gold tooth. Elliott caught no such glint from across the dance floor. Damn. That meant he'd have to casually make conversation with the three men and their ladies. Make them laugh or talk or something. That would help him determine his guy. This was going to be a pain. Sighing, Elliott walked around the corner of the dance floor, headed toward the first man at a booth.

Lavender eyes followed Cueball through the doorway. As the last flash of the leather pants vanished through the doorway, Jack arose. Practiced fingers re-buttoned the vest. The prawn smoothed the fabric flat with her palms, lingering just around the corner of the doorway. Cueball ran a hand over his head. Jack lightly touched the side of her head, pressing a button to trigger the ear-bone mic that she was required to where at all times.

“Dis is Jack, I gotta Goldilocks,” she radioed. This was code for someone who had let themselves into the house uninvited, “Alien lookin’ guy, exitin’ le’el two outdoor seating. Hot a wall to get in.”

Having made her report, Jack lowered her hand slipped inside. Cueball had already slipped somewhere into the crowd, so the prawn circled to the left, away from the DJ’ing booth, eyes skimming the floor for him. On the darkened dancefloor, it was hard to separate an individual from the crowd. Jack’s gaze swept high—he had been a taller fellow with a gleaming bald head. If lights glinted just right off of someone’s head, she might be able to spot him.

<<By the booths on the far wall,>> a response reverberated in Jack’s ear. The lady who security cameras. <<Keep an eye on him, Chief. We’re going to review the footage.>>

Jack gave a sharp nod, and went over to the bar, leaning against the counter. In doing so, she shielded the nametag and the ear bone mic from view. They kept a large drink dispenser of water at each bar, so Jack poured herself a glass, nodding to the bartender. The bartender wore an identical ear bone mic, so he ignored his fellow employee accordingly.

Jack glanced towards the booths, and spotted Cueball making his approach. He was approaching a booth where a middle-aged gentleman sat with each arm draped over a lady. Ugh, one of those. Jack didn’t watch for long. The cameras were trained on him now, they’d tell her if she had to make a move.
Jack took a long sip of water and sighed. Just another night on the job.

The first guy. What could he say to the first guy? Hello? No. A joke? Well... a blue skinned blonde on his arm broke the ice first.

"You," she noticed. "Are green."

That was his cue for a snappy comeback. "Actually, I've got an extreme version of that thing MJ had, except instead of being black and my skin getting light-"

"Ugh," she grimaced and looked around her man to the other woman. "Is he still talking?"

The other woman eyed her with extreme distaste. "If you had a head that had less in common with a can of hairspray, maybe you could figure that out for yourself."

"Ugh," the woman made a face. "You're still talking too."

"Very good!" Woman 2 clapped her hands.

The man between them laughed, haw haw haw, like this was the funniest thing in the world. And it became clear that he was not the guy. He had no teeth at all.

"I just thought you were some person i knew, but i was wrong. Ciao!"

And off he went, hurrying to the next guy. He shifted his package under his arm as he rushed, and. He. Hit. A. Foot. He tripped. The package sailed. His mouth opened wide in A big "oh noooo" 'o'. So did the ladies by the next guy. So did the guy. Something gold glinted, bling bling bling. But wait. Time slowed. Why was the italian suit cut low at chest level and... showing a bit of decollotage? Was his man not a man? She had salt and pepper hair and matched all the descriptions except... gender. Well, it was America. Whatever, man. She could do whatever she wanted.

A hand materialized to catch the box in midair. "Hey there, sugah." She smiled. Her voice was lovely and deep.

He was supposed to have a counter phrase. Crap, what was it? Oh right. "Set phasers to fun. These are the droids youre looking for."

"Bingo," deep voice said. The gold tooth caught the light. He'd got it in two.

Jack sipped her water, waiting for her instructions. The club sometimes let people who snuck in stay, others they did not. It all depended on the ruling of the security staff. Most settled through climbing in the bathroom windows, though. Very few went to such lengths to leap over walls.

The ear-mic reverberated as someone spoke-up, this time a sharp tenor voice. Another member of the security staff.

<<He grabbed a box on the way in, and it seems to have fallen into the hands of another male patron.>>

<<Chief, intercept the green bean, now,>> a baritone voice commanded. The boss. Things could get dangerous, <<We'll intercept the receiver.>>

The camera-room woman began rattling off locale and details of appearance. Jack set down her cup. Showtime.

"How sar should I chase hin?" Jack paged over the bone mic, stepping away from the bar.

<<If he leaves the premises, you go after him,>> the boss declared, <<Something's up.>>

Jack was alreacy cutting across the dance floor, honing-in on the Cueball, who had the lights of the club skittering off of his reflective dome of a head. Already, the green guy and the man in the suit were parting ways, and as such, Jack wouldn't need to keep a low profile to intercept in.

In moments, Jack was before him, standing tall and shoulders back. Now, her badge was clear. She gave a brief wave with her right hand, expression smiling. Then, she pointed to the back of her left hand. Everyone in Chrysalis got their hand-stamped, after paying for admission at the door. Jack knew, for a fact, that this fine gentleman would have no such stamp, since she had seen him jump the wall firsthand. By tapping the back of her hand, she was asking to see his handstamp, his proof of having paid to enter the club.

Regardless of his response, Jack would give a humored yet patronizing bow of her head, and lightly place a hand behind Cueball's back (without touching him), gesturing towards a stairwell that would lead towards the offices. Hopefully this one wasn't interested in a fight.

Rainbow person gave a wave wave, like "Hey". All smiles on their chitinous face. Elliott saw the badge. He recognized the colors from his wall-hopping entrance. He understood the situation exactly, and also, he wasn't worried one bit. Rainbow held up her hand and tapped its back, where there was a stamp. Elliott smiled.

Let's flash back to a minute prior. After a quick exchanging of details, Gold tooth had explained the situation to him. She knew he probably hadn't gotten in normally, right? So, then, he'd missed getting some credentials and security was probably tailing him. Had anyone he'd seen been following him? Yeah, maybe? Good. He wasn't going to have one of those hand stamps, if they asked. And also, he wasn't going to cheat and get one of them stamps from her. That wouldn't quite be fair. But the security would most likely have questions, and it just wouldn't do to go leaving questions and loose ends. So!

"Yeah, hey." Elliott announced boldly. "I don't actually have one of those. I had to jump the wall back there because my boss lady forgot her medication and she was dying. Time critical. No time to wait for those twenty people up front to get into the club. Sure, you could drag me off to security and talk to me about it, but she's right over there and she can just answer your questions here and now and we can get this sorted, if you don't mind."

He hooked a thumb in salt and pepper hair's direction. He smiled his zipper-like smile. Cheating and cheap tricks were great, but backstory and alibis were even better. Who needed to fight when the client anticipated the situation, and wanted to avoid bad attentions like that? Do you know what fights are? The answer is. Bad. For. Business. Period. Said a Wise Man. End quote.