I ne woth whinder schal I

The Ghost Block is one of Robin's favorites. It's technically "Block 4", or something like that, but no one calls it that anymore. Centuries ago, when the Third End forced everyone to tunnel downwards, it was the first stop for everyone with money, everyone who could afford to shove and dig and stake out a place of their own. These politicians and actors and well-paid physicians had beautiful mansions carved out of the stone; they designed excessively intricate grounds to call their own.

Turns out they didn't dig far enough down, though. If the flooding and rockslides didn't get to them, the radiation leaks usually did. Their beautiful, overindulgent little world turned into a crumbling ghost town in a couple of decades. Though that's hardly the case any longer--most of the danger has long since been settled or drained away. Now these mansions are filled with the strangest collection of entrepreneurs and artists and businessmen living off the higher levels of the Underground. Gamblers, club owners, con artists; one of the most prestigious whorehouses in all of Skeleton City is here, as are the clubs that Up-Tops go to when they need to make a less-than-legal deal with someone who'll get them their money's worth. It's scum like the rest, but it's interesting scum. Painted reds and oranges, lit up with neon and old florescent strings dragged up from the Rat Pits. They're real fans of glow-in-the-dark things here, all sorts of surprises showing up greens and yellows in the darker parts of the caves.

Robin's here on business, technically. He's going to meet with someone very important for a polite lunch, and discuss the possibility of her putting down some roots closer to the King's Court, since she's been quietly chipping away at the chance for years. It's a shame that she's going to be coincidentally suspected and accused of running a crime syndicate on the lower levels. Any and all of her authority regarding weapons distribution will be revoked on account of its less-than-desirable acquirement in the first place. And they'll have to find someone else to fill the sudden power void. Hmm. He wonders who that will end up being? Surely, not the dashing young man who's in such a convenient position to take some of that trouble off their shoulders.

He's dressed the part today, too. It's the kind of careful bedgraggleness that only comes from the most devoted of the Underground clubgoers. Taken in to his size, a little messy. Straps and belts where they don't need to be, metal studs just to show that you're a good enough collector to have them. It's the little touches that make him legitimate company, though. He's got his good gloves on. Fitted, leather. You won't find those down here.

He's got his lightstick out too, hanging like a necklace. They're common down here--even the poorest family can scrape together for a couple--but his glows an uncommon red. The rod is a smooth, well-polished one, encased in quality glass. With metal clasps, it had to have cost him a small fortune (though he actually got this one off of some fuckhead drug-runner who stole it from some other dead guy about six years ago, long story). The red glow lights his way in the darker corners of the passages, reflects that spark at the back of his eyes.

So, he walks over cobbled paths and between what might have once been stone fences, down a mismatched flight of stairs, and around a corner into a dark-but-glowing hallway. He's on a mission, but since he put so much time into getting ready today... He's finding it hard not to take his time, looking at the busybodies and scurriers that pass him by. Between the "companions" and the untrustworthy, it's always an interesting place.

You never know what you'll bump into, you know?