Authority
It was called the Red Party. Everybody thought that was a good laugh, because Kai, Russian, Communism… They filed up to the dingy, darkened rave doors, laughing gleefully, to be inspected by the gigantic doorman. He stared in grim appraisal at the boys, who'd had their growth spurts and dressed to look the part (and in Maxie's case, sounded it, with his amusingly low voice), but rather doubtfully at Hilary, still petite and girlish, with the wide-eyed, nervous body-language of youth and inexperience. She glared back.
"Hey, she's with us," Tyson haughtily said, hugging the female's slim shoulders. The doorman nevertheless crossed his arms and frowned, silent, but obviously denying them entry on the basis of the company they kept.
Just then Kai emerged from the back of the hoard in all his black-studded, mature-looking, solemn glory. "And they're with me," he growled, to which their obstacle immediately withered, bowing out of the way apologetically, again on the basis of the company they kept.
"Do you know that guy? Huh, Kai?" Tyson asked as he followed, pouting and not a little resentful.
"No," the older 'blader grunted, stalking along ahead in case anybody else might take issue with his friends.
Author's Notes: We actually have a "Red Party," hereabouts. And it is, truthfully, a Communist rave. The possibilities are endless.