[attr="class","samjermain"]Selecting an appropriate club was one of the most important steps to moving. Hoenn, as a tropical destination, was riddled with them; Lukan had a devoted team of PR reps and gophers that narrowed down the list and excluded those that were too cheap, too touristy, or associated with unsavory characters.

Lilycove’s Sutro was designed by a now-deceased millionaire who’d also planned and paid for the building of the posh, expensive neighborhood that sprung up around it. The Sutro boasted a Michelin-star restaurant, private beaches, golf courses, pickleball courts, an amphitheater for concerts and shows, and countless other luxuries limited to those with the money for the entrance deposit and the monthly patronage fee.

Its crowning achievement was the bath-- an undulating pool built into the cliff face, a merging of architecture that was half an oceanic, tidal pool, which, through a series of sluices and gates, slowly fed into seven different bodies of water, each at different temperatures and salt levels. It was all done up in marble and decorated with busts of gods and buxom individuals of a myriad of genders and appearances.

A suited footman would lead Luke’s guest-- one mint frost-- through the winding interior of the club to a teleport pad, and then off through arches of stone and gilded fountains, to where the businessman sat on a lounge chair in swim trunks, sunglasses on, julep in one hand, book in another. A short pebble beach dropped into the water and then dropped again into the sea proper, the undulating of the waves and the cry of seabirds a comforting symphony to what was to be a business venture-- half pomp and circumstance, half a genuine desire to deal.

The footman announced Mint and Luke sat up, bare feet coming to rest on the smoothed stone beneath his chair.

“Ah. Mister… Frost, right?” he asked, carefully making note of the page in his book before tucking it under one arm and offering that hand to shake. “Thank you for agreeing to meet.”

[attr="class","samjerpoke"]