TokyoPewPew
BleedingLoverClub 76
'Club 76' was a fancy-schmancy upper-class place, no doubt about that. Drinks to die for, a view to kill for, and a whole room full of gang members from The Vanguard. Surveying the room as her fingers stroked the glass (thankfully devoid of any attached traumatic memories), Jenna James Bartlett wondered if she was the only one there who was just... normal, for a meta-human at least. There were probably people nearby who could crush her head like a walnut in the seconds it would take her to say, 'Wait, I'm a friend.'
Then again, she was born and raised in East Mendel. Maybe being born with a silver spoon in your mouth made you automatically a more moral person than The Skulls? Less violent? Whatever. She wouldn't stop painting them with the same brutal brush unless she saw proof otherwise. Sugar skulls and crossed keys were little more than different sides of a single coin.
Taking another sip from her drink, Jenna James was once gain struck by how out of place she felt in the club – not just in terms of gangs and civilians but rather in wealth. It all came down to that, didn't it? She felt that her blouse and skirt combo was too tame. She felt that her hoop earrings (larger than her hand!) were too poor. Her table in the shadowed corner of the room, almost too far away from the music to take any enjoyment from it, was a table of poverty. It exuded a, 'Oh god, don't go near there,' vibe.
When her phone started buzzing, a welcome distraction from the waves of bitterness pouring out of her, she quickly dug it out of her handbag. Caller I.D? Malcolm. The very man of her dreams who just so happened to suggest she take a night off from their 'work' and conveniently go to a particular establishment where The Vanguard were. "Y'llo?" she greeted. "What's up, hun?"
The other end of the line crackled with the rustling of a cold wind. "Just... aah... checking in... Havin' a good time so far?" Malcolm sounded distinctly out of breath as if he'd been running or labouring for hours outside; however, physical work just didn't seem like her boyfriend's forte.
Jenna James rolled her eyes, vision obscured for just a split second with her long fake eyelashes. It brought a slightly more confident smile to her face. "Oh, absolutely. I've been partying aaaaall this time. The music is–" she peered up at the live guitarist disinterestedly, "–splendid and the company even more so." She knew her sarcastic drawl was so thick it couldn't be cut with a bloody samurai sword, but it prompted a static-muffled chuckle from Malcolm.
"Yeah, I figured... So long as you pass her the business card, it's all good..." Malcolm's speech was punctuated with the unmistakable sound of a shovel digging into loose dirt. "I got some goodies for you to read once you get back– you are coming to my place after, right?"
"'Course," she said, as if it was a stupid question. The psychometrer sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Though, Mal, I swear to God, if you're out there gravedigging all by yourself because you thought I'd be squeamish, I can and will post embarrassing things on each and every form of social media you use." The volume in her voice rose slightly, out of exasperation more than irritation, but she reined it back in. "Is it at least something good?"
"I have the bashed in skull of our victim and a plastic flower right here for you, darlin'. Wounds are post-mortem and post-burial, 'cause there's nothing like them in the police report," he said proudly. Jenna James could imagine him spinning the skull around in his hands like a football and then she felt a spike of anticipation of all things. If she worked her magic on those, she'd more than likely get a memory straight from the head of the mysterious murderer– and those were juicy. Of course her boyfriend had to continue with, "But to touch it you need to do the Thing I talked to you about. Get us in with The Vanguard, 'kay? Love you!"
Click. Jenna James rubbed at her forehead. She couldn't just walk up to Whisper as she was staring out at the city; she was sure that there would be some sort of rule to get her kicked out for that. Maybe the other one would be better, the athletic man – Hispanic, maybe Mexican – who deferred to her. Picking up the business card on the table, black-on-white text looking distinctly unprofessional, she re-read it:
Meta-Human Private Investigators
On the other side was Malcolm's phone number, acting as their business front for the time being. It could only be worse if it was written in goddamn Comic Sans. Jenna James rolled her sleeves up to her elbows, pulled on her gloves – God only knew what sort of memories she could pick up from The Vanguard's members – and timidly wandered over to the bar where the Hispanic man (whose nickname she swore was something about a snake) sat. "Uh... sorry to bother you but... could you pass this on to Whisper? I didn't want to bother her and you look like you're friends and... Just if you could tell her our services are available if she ever wants or needs them...."
She reached over and slipped the card onto the bar, shifting nervously from side to side and feeling particularly mouse-like.