<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;"><strong>Heroic Audio:</strong> Nightclub Superheroes (http://youtu.be/O6MrBt3TAuE)<br/><strong>Villainous Audio:</strong> Super Villain (http://youtu.be/bwaoRYnHG8A)</span><br/><br/><div align="center">(http://i62.tinypic.com/o58fub.gif)</div><div align="center"><strong>=Dum Viviumus Vivamus -The Alter Ego- <strong>Si Vis Amari Ama=</strong></strong></div><br/><hr/><br/>The place is known only to a select crowd. Without an invitation it is impossible to find. Even<em>with</em>an invitation the place is not easy to find. Members never know they're being screened for entry, the agents behind the club have ways of getting information without being noticed. The invitation comes in the form of a small business card left somewhere the member in question will be sure to discover it and once the card passes through the electromagnetic field every living being generates, it begins to degrade. Within less than a minute, it turns into a fine powder. More than enough time for the member to see the words 'You are invited. 612 Wharf Ave.' on the front in simple print, with a logo of an eagle and the letters 'AE' poised above.<br/><br/>Even within the maze-like docks district, 612 Wharf Avenue is considered out of the way. The dockside warehouse is ratty and run-down and it looks like no one has been inside for nearly a decade. The brickwork is falling apart, every window is shattered and doors rust on old hinges. The only clue that something is out of place is the graffiti. Or, more accurately, the lack of it. Every building for a mile around is covered with gang signs and pictures. This one is not. It has but one spray on it; red letters scrawled that read 'LIVE YOUR LIFE', the 'v' replaced by an eagle. The doors do not open. Despite looking old and rusty enough to dissolve into fine flakes of powder at the slightest breeze, the aged look appears to be manufactured. They do not budge, even against super strength. The only way in is via one of the high shattered windows.<br/><br/>Inside, one finds absolutely nothing besides a floor sprinkled with debris and a set of stairs leading downward. By the stairs sits the same tag from outside, scrawled on the floor this time. The stairs lead to another door, equally rusty as it's brethren. This one will only open when hidden electronic scanners in the walls detect that the person in front of the door has received an invitation. It does this by not only using hidden video cameras to match appearance with on-file images, but it also detects the presence of residue from the invitation that was given out.<br/><br/>After every check is passed, the door opens with a hiss, exposing the gleaming and perfectly clean interior of a modern elevator. The elevator zips straight downward, traveling at least three stories. It opens into a grand entry, like the main entrance to some kind of futuristic underground mall; polished metal and glass used in copious amounts to frame a wide entryway. Past glass doors that automatically slide open in silence, one moves down a hall to a security checkpoint where guards in black suits confiscate any weaponry. They explain club rules to new members with stern looks on their faces and the telltale bulges in their jackets let visitors both new and old know that the security team is ready to enforce those rules.<br/><br/>Through another door, guests move into the club proper.<br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://i60.tinypic.com/2ujs5e1.jpg)</div><br/>Music assaults the ears, providing a steady background noise. Everything that can be polished is to a mirror shine. Everything else is spotless. The main club is a sprawling two floor affair, with a massive bar on the first floor. The first floor is home to smaller tables, little two seat affairs for casual chatting and drinking - though a section of booths do provide more room for larger parties. Up one of the stair cases at either side is the second floor, a much more relaxed setting. While it is still suffused with music from below, it is not as loud up here. The second floor sports only large tables and booths, providing a nice place to sit with friends and perhaps eat a meal.<br/><br/>Halls on both floor direct members to other facilities. One entire wing seems to be devoted to relaxation; a roman bath, a massage parlor, numerous hot tubs, a fully equipped gym (with modified gear for those sporting super strength as well), and a sauna are highlights. This wing also leads to the private suites; rooms which would rival even a five-star hotel that can be used by members for days at a time. The other wing of the club is dedicated to another brand of luxury; food. Three restaurants covering a wide variety of tastes happily serve patrons exquisite food and beverages. None of them have names, they only boast a menu that stands outside and shows what is being served.<br/><br/>Everything in the entire club is high luxury, yet not a single cent is charged to guests. How the place stays afloat makes one wonder. It must have a backer (or backers) of significant wealth. Attempting to find out who runs it leads only to an endless maze of shell companies, parent companies of parent companies, and false fronts. It could be a single man, a group, or perhaps even the government itself. Searches never last too long, though. Who wants to disturb paradise?<br/>