Mes Envies S'envol [Yaksha/Mana]

"Alright. We're all in agreement, aye? This moment is important, so let's make sure we're all prepared. Because there won't be a second chance, and if we don't pull it off perfectly, we're all going to die."

The speaker was dressed in a pinstripe suit, something so timeless and classic that it almost looked like he'd stepped straight out of the late 1900s; he held one hand in his pocket, thumb gently tracing circles against the outside of the fabric, as he smiled gently, easily at the others present. He had spent a good few months picking these individuals carefully, on a variety of factors. Each of them were the best that money could buy, and they were armed to the teeth; knives, guns, bombs, and even a few whirring gadgets that he hadn't cared to test idly. All he knew was that they'd need some real shock and awe if they were going to get away with this.

He rose his other hand slowly, looking at it with an almost curious expression; he flexed the fingers one at a time, watching the gentle play of muscles and veins underneath, each motion automatic and perfect. His mouth opened ever so slightly, making him almost look like he was lost in the beauty of a moment, before he touched a hand to his throat. As he did, he subvocalized; words spilled out too quietly to actually hear, the vibrations entering his mouth but never passing his lips. He had trained these men all well for this moment, but at this point it was out of his hands.

"Lights."

A faint, gentle snipping sound behind him, followed by quite a few sounds of burning and hissing, as blowtorches, laser arrays, and even EMPs were all employed. It took perhaps ten seconds, but it was downright nerve-wracking as it happened. Still, the man stood examining his own hand, teeth bared in a grin of purely eager delight, as he waited for anyone to come investigating, or for the lights to finally-

There they went. It was sudden and precise, cutting off every light to the building. They had backup generators, and emergency lights, of course; no building in Vegas would let themselves be that easily deprived of their valuable resources. But the stage had been set, and now it was time for their instruments to make their appearance. He touched a hand to the cufflink in his pocket this time, speaking just a bit louder. Still the faintest whisper, but now he sounded downright...thrilled.

"Get me onto the intercom."

A few more moments of hissing and popping, followed moments later by screams. Many of the others present began to twitch and jerk, searching all around themselves, looking into the dark nearby. They clearly weren't trained for this, and had expected it to go a lot simpler; if Yaksha was being entirely honest with himself, he did feel a little bad about this part of things. He had wanted authenticity after all, and that meant his men were necessarily kept in the dark. Hitting a party in Vegas was no big deal. Hitting one in a rush? That was a bit trickier.

Hitting one Mana Asthavan was hosting, personally? That was suicide, plain and simple. But each and every one of them had their own reasons for thinking that this was a good idea; Yaksha found that applying pressure to people wasn't nearly as hard in this new form than it had been before. After all, people were so easily swayed by a pretty face, and his was about as comely as they came.

Finally one of them spoke, in a soft, hoarse croak.

"We're in. There's a lot of-"

"I've got that covered. You know your jobs. Get in there, and make sure you give the performance of your lifetime."

"Performance? We're not-"

His hand slapped on their shoulder, eyebrows raising, drowning out the protest immediately. His fingers were a little too slender, a little too long, and the strength behind his knuckles was far too much for his lithe form.

"You're professionals! Do your profession! You know this part better than I do, so just...do what feels natural! And I'll do what comes naturally to me. Sound alright?"

Finally, he touched a hand to his throat, shouting out loud this time. The words were rich, melodic, mellifluous, and absolutely bubbling over with laughter; it was the voice of a man who had no qualms with the subterfuge necessary for this little performance to go off without a hitch. He tapped a finger to his throat, once, twice, and then cleared his throat.

"You know, I've always loved a little street theater. Bear with me ladies and gents. This won't take long at all."

He finally began to walk down the walkway towards the party, his movements precise, slow, measured. His men surged forward, armed to the teeth, prepared to blow the doors. And as they did, Yaksha finally pulled out the item he had kept so expertly hidden in his pocket this time. In 400 years, there were so many things that had changed and evolved. The world had shrunk to fit into the palm of man's hand.

Yaksha could only hope Mana loved the classics as much as he did, as he pressed the play button, familiar strains of pop music filling the area as he stepped inside, pushing down the brim of his hat. He simply stood before the doorway, tapping his feet, gently shaking his free hand, as if he were trying to bring life back into it. He seemed completely deaf to what was going on around him, as he waited for the opening strains to fade, and for his own moment to begin.

"As he came into the window, it was the sound of a crescendo."

As Yaksha lifted the brim of his hat, staring at everyone present, he allowed himself a flash of pride. He did do an impeccable Michael, if he was willing to be honest with himself for just a moment. And this was only going to get more fun.