[center][b][h1][color=#44F03E]𝔽[/color][color=#42E93C]𝕦[/color][color=#40E33A]𝕥[/color][color=#3EDD39]𝕚[/color][color=#3DD737]𝕝[/color][color=#3BD136]𝕚[/color][color=#39CB34]𝕥[/color][color=#38C532]𝕪[/color][color=#36BF31]:[/color] [color=#32B32E]𝕋[/color][color=#31AD2C]𝕙[/color][color=#2FA62A]𝕖[/color] [color=#2C9A27]𝔾[/color][color=#2A9426]𝕣[/color][color=#288E24]𝕖[/color][color=#268823]𝕒[/color][color=#258221]t[/color] [color=#21761E]𝔾[/color][color=#20701C]𝕒[/color][color=#1E6A1B]𝕞[/color][color=#1C6419]𝕖[/color][/h1][/b][/center] [center][hider=Dance Dance Dance][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UelSFT5BL-s[/youtube] [youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6jmvjJ79NWw[/youtube][/hider][/center] [color=#00e6e6][i]Dance… Dance Cybergirl… Dance Fiend… Dance… Dance in [s]𓇽Duat𓇽[/s]Duet. Dance is just another name these days. Another name for a Duel.[/i] Snowflakes often dance to the ground, though there’s no snow in the Reclaim zone. There was no snow in space either. Really, it’s just an abstraction, a construct on a digital screen. Dancing, dancing—like a dream—dancing to the ground in place of the acid rain. [i]Dust[/i] dances in clouds. Massive packs of particulate matter, say—when thrown in the face of an unsuspecting victim—[i][s]Spiked[/s][/i]—interact with one another in seemingly random patterns en masse. A dance. Each little piece of the barely perceptible cloud moves independently, with its own goals in mind. Where were you going little particle? What was your motive? With which rhythm did you two-step in between your brothers and sisters? Was it sinister? Insidious? In combat, They™ often say that warriors dance. Between carefully placed footfalls, with grace, cautious footpads meet face-to-face. Rapier tip to rapier tip. Blade to blade. It’s just like a game. They push and pull. Attack. React. Counterattack. Dance. And there’s one other place. One other interpretation. For, see, you’ll often find players pacing, box-stepping, dancing in conversation. Verbal jabs take the place of physical initiations, but the danger remains. Don’t mistake the charismat’s acrobatics as passive. Information is traded with haste. In fact, its in this sort of interfacing that the most dangerous[/color] [color=green][b]𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖[/b][/color] [color=#00e6e6]is often played. [i]Dance… Dance… Locked in a trance-like state— Leave them in amazement. Dance… [center]𝔸𝕨𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕟.[/center][/i][/color] [color=purple][h3]𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕃𝕚𝕞𝕓𝕠 ℂ𝕝𝕦𝕓[/h3][/color] [color=008000][b]ℍ𝕚𝕘𝕙 𝕆𝕣𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝔸𝕝𝕖𝕩𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕣𝕚𝕒[/b] [b]∞∞∞, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝[/b][/color] [b]“Stell, put the needle away. Alexandria Investigators are scheduled to come through any minute and Boss wants us to look like we’re not catering to the clients’ exotic tastes.”[/b] [color=#00e6e6][b]“What?”[/b][/color] [b]“You can admire the new arms later, sweetie. I promise they’ve got all sorts of hidden functions that will fulfill your wildest dreams. Now, though, back out onto the dancefloor!”[/b][hr][hr] [color=gold][h3]𓇽𝔻𝕦𝕒𝕥𓇽, 𝕃𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕕[/h3][/color] [color=008000][b]ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝[/b] [b]𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟙𝕤𝕥, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 𝟙𝟠:𝟙𝟘[/b] [b] [𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝔾𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕤], 𝕀𝕟𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘...[/b][/color] [color=#00e6e6][b] “Stella’s log, entry number twenty seventy-seven.”[/b][/color] She spoke openly into the dictaphone. It was a clunky piece of tech Stella found among a pile of completely random gadgets spread out on the blanket of one of those strange Reclaim Zone monks that posted up on street corners sometimes.[color=#00e6e6][b] “Bad drinking habit number—”[/b][/color] She paused, sort of, letting the final ‘R’ sound of her words drag out as she pondered.[color=#00e6e6][b] “Six,”[/b][/color] she decided. [color=#00e6e6][b] “I find myself too often choosing drinks with straws. I don’t know what the allure of it is. Maybe it’s the specificity, the efficiency. Every sip—”[/b][/color] She paused, sipped.[color=#00e6e6][b] “Calculating 1⁄8[sub].5[/sub] multiplied by optimal suction force to achieve the desired amount of liquid (of course, taking into account desired amount of alcohol as well) measured in inches, then multiplied by air flow in cubic feet per minute. [i]Then[/i] convert air watts to a more apt unit for understanding in terms of Stella’s (me) biological limitations.”[/b][/color] She sucked in a breath to fill her empty lungs, checked to make sure the dictaphone was on and recording. She did a quick survey of 𓇽Duat𓇽’s interior to account for the number of stares now directed her way. [color=#00e6e6][b] “Okay. End note.”[/b][/color] Stella’s eyes lazily traced patterns on the ceiling. The ancient piece of tech was a mystery. She had no idea if it was capable of the smart recognition of voice commands, let alone the sorting of various notes for her later retrieval. In fact, she had no idea if the thing even worked. The screen was lit up and the light on the side was blinking. Wasn’t that enough? [color=#00e6e6][b] “New note,”[/b][/color] she said after giving the device a few seconds to calibrate and adapt to her commands. [color=#00e6e6][b] “Stella’s diary, entry number thirteen thirty-seven. After that brooding psychiatrist came through and started psychoanalyzing, I couldn’t help but take his advice. I don’t think I have a drinking problem, but I started keeping a log of observations regarding my drinking habits like he recommended. Doctor Stella diagnosed him a killjoy and prescribed approximately 354.88 CCs of double White Russian, stat.”[/b][/color] The door opened as it always does in the 𓇽Duat𓇽, [i]dramatically[/i]. Stella clicked her dictaphone off. At least, she thought it was off. Really, she just hit the biggest button on the side and assumed from there. It was the delivery boy she dosed that one time. [i]Strange[/i]. She could have sworn he was already in 𓇽Duat𓇽 brooding alone in his usual spot. Stella looked over, and there he was, brooding alone in his usual spot. Eyes flicked back to the newest customer. He was worming his way through the dance floor, which was as it usually was in the 𓇽Duat𓇽, a place for zombies. The slow jazz noir rhythm was one that attracted hordes of people who’d lost their mind. The dance floor at 𓇽Duat𓇽 was more like a place for meditation. Forget your worries. Forget everything. Forget your body. [i]Unleash yourself into the ether. Enter the Land of the Dead.[/i] They fit right in, like they were part of the establishment, pillars that help [i]up[/i] the building while they got [i]down[/i] to the beat. He appeared to be delivering sushi to himself. [i]Strange[/i]. Strange was normal in the Land of the Dead. He fit right in. Stella fit right in. Like pillars, or something. The helmet boys looked tense, or felt tense at least. They [i]looked[/i] like robots. Stella’s sense of duty kicked in. [i]The duty to keep the vibe Not Killed™[/i]. She started to head their way, but got caught in the melancholic slow BPM of the 𓇽Duat𓇽’s constant droning melodies. With one step taken on each beat, she half-danced her way over. Gyroscopes in her Ultrabartender arms kicked in and kept the two glasses in her hands uncannily stable. [color=#00e6e6][b] “Your usual, boys.”[/b][/color] She set down two glasses with an exaggerated bow, both almost glowing with an electric yellow color in the hazy neon mood lighting, both [i]exactly equal[/i] pours. Spiked lemonade of an indeterminate ratio of vodka and hyper-sugary lemonade. It was a perfect image of what Stella imagined Speed Racer Turbo Nitro Fuel looked like, and perhaps what she thought car juice was made of too. She stepped back quick, sensing they had a dance to take care of. Her customer senses tingled again as the Dramatic Doors parted way, providing a portal from the land of the living into the interim. This time it was two Goons in crisp black suits. [i]Crisp[/i]. Too crisp. 𓇽Duat𓇽’s suit-wearing patrons were never quite picturesque corpo-types. [i]Strange[/i]. Strange in the sense that they didn’t fit into 𓇽Duat𓇽. They weren’t strange, not Reclaim strange. Not [i]Strange[/i], but that made them strange. [i]Strange[/i]. They fit right in. The goons seemed disgruntled when they realized the two seats to the far-left of the bar were taken. Those were the brooding business seats, and they were brooding business types. They came to do brooding business. They came to [i]dance[/i]. Stella skid across the floor and came to a halt centered directly between the two of them. [color=#00e6e6][b] “Gentlemen. Welcome to the Interim. Are you alive or dead?”[/b][/color] Again, the Ultrabartender already seemed to have two drinks prepared in some esoteric process that involved an unending array of spouts and chemicals and mixers and tumblers just beyond the customers’ sightline below the counter. [i]Vodka, water[/i]. [b] “What?[/b] Goon #1 looked towards his colleague. They both wore the sort of operator shades that made you wonder whether they were perpetually angry or just wanted to appear that way for brooding business reasons. [color=DCDCDC][b] “You’re Mary?”[/b][/color] [color=#00e6e6][b] “Oh you can just call me Stell—”[/b][/color] Her eyebrows shot up cartoonishly, and her facade melted away to reveal a complete, utter, irrefutable, clouded, destructive, entropic state of [color=green][b][s]𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪[/s][/b][/color]confusion that lurked beneath. Then, just like that, she was back. A facade. Suave, composed, charismatic. Ready to dance. [color=#00e6e6][b] “Ahhh, that’s what the nametag says, yes.”[/b][/color] Stella let herself collapse into a ‘cute and mysterious’ pose with her elbows on the counter and her chin cradled in her upturned hand. Goon #1 stuck something that looked like an old world glue gun into his drink. It beeped a few times. [b] “Oh point oh, oh, one-three percent offworld Dust dust of some kind.”[/b] Stella needed to recalibrate her eyes. [color=DCDCDC][b] “Safe?”[/b][/color] Goon #2 asked. [b] “Safe.”[/b] [color=DCDCDC][b] “Well it’s definitely her.”[/b][/color] Stella cocked her head fifteen degrees to the right and brought a hand up to her face as if it would block the audio waves from traveling around the bar. No one was paying attention anyways. Not in the Land of the Dead. [color=#00e6e6][b] “You’re the goons I’m waiting for?”[/b][/color] [color=DCDCDC][b] “You’re the bartender...”[/b][/color] Goon #2 trailed off, flicking a hand into the air. His glasses lit up and he briefly scrolled through his projected Heads-Up-Display. [color=DCDCDC][b] “Who knows her way around a fair share of substances. A void kid from Alexandria.”[/b][/color] [color=#00e6e6][b] “Everything’s so heavy down here.”[/b][/color] Stella was back to sipping from a straw. It was diagonally striped black and yellow and glowed in the dark when she cupped her hands around it. Goon #1 took the first sip of his drink and grimaced. Stella didn’t notice. His face rested in grimace-mode. [b] “She’s the specialist…”[/b] Goon #1 said, half as a question and half to reassure himself that pleasing his boss was worth the errand. [color=#00e6e6][b] “I mostly just serve drinks, but I think I’ve got the hang of things down here now. I can interfere in the election if you need me to. I’ve been practicing my moves.”[/b][/color] Stella dropped her glass from a height that would have most certainly cracked it if it were only millimeters higher. She hopped back, exhibiting her floating-like-a-butterfly and stinging-like-a-bee for her assumed employers with accompanied ‘popping’ sound effects timed with each punch. Grimaces. They could have been looks of awe for all she knew. [color=#00e6e6][b] “No, Mary, you’re not going to interfere in the election. You—”[/b][/color] [color=#00e6e6][b] “Great. Nothing too shady then.”[/b][/color] [i]Interrupted. Countered. Quick Parry. She took the first step, determined to lead. ‘Let me have this dance.’[/i] Another mask pulled over her visage. Those absent, distant, wistful eyes remained; but the surrounding expression wasn’t the happy-go-lucky twisted victim of the devil’s [i]Dust.[/i] No. She was a player in a [color=green][b]𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖[/b][/color]. What was her piece? [color=#00e6e6][b] “I suppose you could tell me who you are then. You know my name after all. Maybe even Boss’s name. I could talk directly to her if you’d prefer.”[/b][/color] He laughed—right when she said ‘her’. [i]Boss was a guy.[/i] [color=DCDCDC][b] “Like I said,”[/b][/color] he sipped, [s]grimaced[/s] smiled (she could have sworn), swallowed hard the concoction. [color=DCDCDC][b] “You’re not going to interfere in any election. You’re just going to keep doing what you’re doing. You’re a bartender.”[/b][/color] [b] “You’ll serve drinks,”[/b] Goon #1 cut in. He wanted to feel like he was laying on the heat too. It was a two-on-one. Stella didn’t know any dances like that. [color=DCDCDC][b] “You’ll serve drinks. Just the same as you always do, even during the election. Mix cocktails, have fun. You give the right drinks to the right folks, the right substances to the right patrons. Just find your place. Learn to feel at home in this joint.”[/b][/color] [b] “Just like always.”[/b] It was clear Goon #2 had more tenure. By the time Stella finished her drink, her offhand was already pulling another up from below the counter. [i]Mystery liquid. A little too cloudy…[/i] She held the straw in her mouth and transferred it between glasses. The empty disappeared. [i]Home? In the Land of the Dead?[/i] Stella wasn’t sure what home was. Void kids always had that problem. [color=DCDCDC][b] “We even brought you a housewarming gift,”[/b][/color] he said, while reaching into his coat. That was always a bad move in 𓇽Duat𓇽, in the Reclaim, but nobody noticed. Nobody cared. The Two Dudes In Suits did start to draw eyes, though, from 𓇽Duat𓇽 regulars. [i]Maybe irregulars[/i]. A gadget transferred from his palm into her offhand, a bit bigger than Stella’s dictaphone, and similarly ambiguous in its function. It had a small screen, a few interface options, a few sealed chambers, and one red button on the bottom. The top had the eye of a camera, and the grid of holes on one side made Stella think speaker or microphone. She wasn’t sure which. [b] “Keep it on you. At all times. We’ll ring when we want to have a chat or have more presents.”[/b] Finally, Goon #1 got to contribute to the menacing. Stella suddenly felt strangely watched. [i]Tracked[/i]. This was a tough move to counter-attack. There was more to this dance, she realized. It was a whole group affair. A fourth party, maybe more, stepped to their own rhythm. Or maybe they beat the drum—mapped the rhythm to which the others tapped out their tango to. Stella brought the eye of the camera right up to her own, and met the fourth party eye-to-eye. Goon #1 stood up an inch or two in his seat, and his grimace twitched almost giving way to something other than a goon grimace, but quickly corrected by its wearer before revealing too much. He scanned the 𓇽Duat𓇽 for watchers. None of note. [color=#00e6e6][b] “I have a penchant for leaving things lying around the 𓇽Duat𓇽. I’ll do my best to keep your present safe, though. Nearby, at least. If I remember…”[/b][/color] [i]Chasse away from your invisible pursuers, like escaping some mythical faeries in a magical ballet. Pirouette.[/i] [color=DCDCDC][b] “You should really keep better track of your possessions, Mary. You never know how much pull they have over you—how much we depend on our vices. We’re nice and we like to play nice.”[/b][/color] Goon #2 had finished his drink. Goon #1 had barely made it halfway. [color=DCDCDC][b] “If you don’t keep track of your things, you never know when they’ll disappear. There are some things you can’t get down here on the planet after all. Don’t want to run out over some careless mistake… Losing track of something.”[/b][/color] [i]Club shuffle step forward, advancing on one’s partner.[/i] Stella didn’t know this dance. [i]How much Dust did she have left? Mounds of the stuff. It couldn’t run out, right?[/i] The Goons looked at each other. [b] “My friend, make sure you don’t forget your briefcase at the bar.”[/b] [color=DCDCDC][b] “Right. Right. I’m sure our friend at the bar would take care of it in my absence, but good thing you reminded me this time.”[/b][/color] They started to stand, but something caught their attention.