pistachio and chocolate with sprinkles
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Blare
Rating: G
Challenge: Chocolate #11: confusion, Pistachio #10: lost
Toppings/Extras: sprinkles
Wordcount: 1,105
Summary: The black ops team have a small mission in the XL nightclub.
Notes: Moar Victor!
XL was a nightclub on the ninety-fifth floor of a skyscraper called Monmouth Peak. It was fairly run-of-the-mill, if not a little grimy, taking up two floors and with one dance-floor embedded beneath the bar at one side. Cosy booths of plastic-lined seating reflected the dim lights and thin puddles of alcohol were spattered across the floor, scarcely visible through the throngs of people.
Club favourites were pounding from the speakers, sending almost visible waves of noise jarring through the air. The one playing just then was ‘Heartstruck’ by Cardigan Arrest, a song heavily based on a thumping bass beat that meant most of the crowd were engaging in wild thrashing movements. It was a popular song and there was a mass migration of revellers from the bars and seats to the dance-floor. Dry ice hissed over the crowd.
Eyebrows raised, Robyn Walshe looked down over a banister into the lowered section of the dance floor. She had never been much of a clubber-she used to do it when she was younger, but only to annoy her parents.
One thing she could say for her job in Newson’s black ops team was that the work was varied-and variety was something she could always appreciate. It wasn’t even a difficult mission, simply surveillance that night. A walk in the park. Robyn sighed and drummed her fingers on the bar of the banister, unable to help but notice that every single other person crowded around the dance floor were men-gawping down at the dancers below, most particularly the inebriated, skimpily-dressed girls.
She tried not to read anything too misogynistic into it.
When she felt a tug on the back of her vest she was ready to shove whatever drunken miscreant had grabbed her for the umpteenth time-the fact she was six feet tall tended to put men off, but seemingly not in XL-but she turned and found Taisy there. The girl smiled tentatively.
“Aren’t you meant to be by the upstairs bar?” Robyn shouted over the music. Taisy nodded shortly and then moved her face close to her ear.
“I think you should go and see Victor,” she called. Robyn frowned.
“What…?”
“The green floor,” she responded and then pushed her way off through the crowds back towards her post, ignoring the male attention she garnered. She was small and kittenish and looked very harmless but Robyn knew that she was more than capable of looking after herself.
The green floor?
Robyn remembered that there were several small sections for dancing in, each one with a different coloured floor; pink, orange, yellow and green. After casting her eye over the dance floor one last time, she pulled away from the banister and made her way towards the green floor. It was in the centre of the club, a circle of glowing green tile set down into the floor somewhat.
It was filled with more revellers, dancing with their drinks held high.
Oh, and Victor, with his head down and his hands in front of his face, looking as though he were praying. Except Blackledges were conditioned to have no concept of religion from birth.
Her heart, which previously had been juddering to the brash beats thundering through the air around her, gave a sudden skip and she squeezed her hands into fists momentarily. Don’t let it be a bad one this time, a voice at the back of her mind pleaded, and then she swung herself into what could only be called a dancing pit and pushed her way over to him.
After a moment, she leaned forwards and shouted next to his ear:
“Victor! Victor, are you OK?”
Slowly, his hands moved away from her face and he blinked at her blearily. Then he gave a tight, awkward smile and a brief nod.
Robyn found it strange how much her heart had softened in the face of one look from his big, hopeless grey eyes. Usually she had no sympathy whatsoever for ‘delicate’ types; wimpy, pathetic whingers the lot of them. Despite the fact it was terribly easy to overwhelm Victor, however, nothing in the world could make her look into his narrow, solemn face and tell him to man the fuck up.
Nothing.
“Come on,” she said-mouthed it, really, because she knew that there was no point in shouting any more. Shouldering her way through the crowd, Robyn made sure that a path was cleaved for her friend.
With Victor, what she tried to keep in mind was how difficult the Remembering was. In a nightclub she knew that the world was a warping, tunnelling mess of sensation to him; that song lyrics from the present and the past were mixing, twisting, slowing down into grunts and moans and speeding up into irritating squiggles of sound. She tried to imagine what the strobe lighting must have done to his modified Blackledge brain; the whirling press of people around him…
She dragged him out into the club entrance, which was down a flight of stairs. The floor was glitter-set stone and the walls were cheaply wallpapered; a couple of squashy sofas had been thrown in and the sliding door to the outside world lay ahead of them. Behind them, the door closed and muffled the music to a waning beat.
Victor blinked at her and said nothing.
“Sit down,” Robyn ordered him. He did so. “Are you sure you’re OK?”
The girl running the cloakroom was dangling over the stable door, tapping something into her phone, but aside from that the place was empty. Victor took a deep breath and attempted a smile again. He’d never quite got the hang of those; they were startling, hurried little affairs.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Do you want to go?” she asked. She flicked her long tail of blonde hair over one shoulder and folded her arms, before wondering if that looked slightly confrontational and sliding them back to her sides. “I don’t mind. We’ve got this wrapped up.”
“No,” he said, sounding panicky at the thought of letting them down.
“I don’t mind…”
“No,” he repeated, and scrambled to his feet. Then he just carried on giving her that mournful, doe-eyed look that made her want to zip him up in her coat pocket and make sure nothing ever got to him. “Sorry,” he added in scarcely a murmur.
Goddamn it, Victor, Robyn thought helplessly.
“You’re OK,” she said instead-she wasn’t sure how much sense it made but somehow it seemed the right thing to say-and then she turned and walked back through the doors into the blaring heart of the nightclub.
Title: Blare
Rating: G
Challenge: Chocolate #11: confusion, Pistachio #10: lost
Toppings/Extras: sprinkles
Wordcount: 1,105
Summary: The black ops team have a small mission in the XL nightclub.
Notes: Moar Victor!
XL was a nightclub on the ninety-fifth floor of a skyscraper called Monmouth Peak. It was fairly run-of-the-mill, if not a little grimy, taking up two floors and with one dance-floor embedded beneath the bar at one side. Cosy booths of plastic-lined seating reflected the dim lights and thin puddles of alcohol were spattered across the floor, scarcely visible through the throngs of people.
Club favourites were pounding from the speakers, sending almost visible waves of noise jarring through the air. The one playing just then was ‘Heartstruck’ by Cardigan Arrest, a song heavily based on a thumping bass beat that meant most of the crowd were engaging in wild thrashing movements. It was a popular song and there was a mass migration of revellers from the bars and seats to the dance-floor. Dry ice hissed over the crowd.
Eyebrows raised, Robyn Walshe looked down over a banister into the lowered section of the dance floor. She had never been much of a clubber-she used to do it when she was younger, but only to annoy her parents.
One thing she could say for her job in Newson’s black ops team was that the work was varied-and variety was something she could always appreciate. It wasn’t even a difficult mission, simply surveillance that night. A walk in the park. Robyn sighed and drummed her fingers on the bar of the banister, unable to help but notice that every single other person crowded around the dance floor were men-gawping down at the dancers below, most particularly the inebriated, skimpily-dressed girls.
She tried not to read anything too misogynistic into it.
When she felt a tug on the back of her vest she was ready to shove whatever drunken miscreant had grabbed her for the umpteenth time-the fact she was six feet tall tended to put men off, but seemingly not in XL-but she turned and found Taisy there. The girl smiled tentatively.
“Aren’t you meant to be by the upstairs bar?” Robyn shouted over the music. Taisy nodded shortly and then moved her face close to her ear.
“I think you should go and see Victor,” she called. Robyn frowned.
“What…?”
“The green floor,” she responded and then pushed her way off through the crowds back towards her post, ignoring the male attention she garnered. She was small and kittenish and looked very harmless but Robyn knew that she was more than capable of looking after herself.
The green floor?
Robyn remembered that there were several small sections for dancing in, each one with a different coloured floor; pink, orange, yellow and green. After casting her eye over the dance floor one last time, she pulled away from the banister and made her way towards the green floor. It was in the centre of the club, a circle of glowing green tile set down into the floor somewhat.
It was filled with more revellers, dancing with their drinks held high.
Oh, and Victor, with his head down and his hands in front of his face, looking as though he were praying. Except Blackledges were conditioned to have no concept of religion from birth.
Her heart, which previously had been juddering to the brash beats thundering through the air around her, gave a sudden skip and she squeezed her hands into fists momentarily. Don’t let it be a bad one this time, a voice at the back of her mind pleaded, and then she swung herself into what could only be called a dancing pit and pushed her way over to him.
After a moment, she leaned forwards and shouted next to his ear:
“Victor! Victor, are you OK?”
Slowly, his hands moved away from her face and he blinked at her blearily. Then he gave a tight, awkward smile and a brief nod.
Robyn found it strange how much her heart had softened in the face of one look from his big, hopeless grey eyes. Usually she had no sympathy whatsoever for ‘delicate’ types; wimpy, pathetic whingers the lot of them. Despite the fact it was terribly easy to overwhelm Victor, however, nothing in the world could make her look into his narrow, solemn face and tell him to man the fuck up.
Nothing.
“Come on,” she said-mouthed it, really, because she knew that there was no point in shouting any more. Shouldering her way through the crowd, Robyn made sure that a path was cleaved for her friend.
With Victor, what she tried to keep in mind was how difficult the Remembering was. In a nightclub she knew that the world was a warping, tunnelling mess of sensation to him; that song lyrics from the present and the past were mixing, twisting, slowing down into grunts and moans and speeding up into irritating squiggles of sound. She tried to imagine what the strobe lighting must have done to his modified Blackledge brain; the whirling press of people around him…
She dragged him out into the club entrance, which was down a flight of stairs. The floor was glitter-set stone and the walls were cheaply wallpapered; a couple of squashy sofas had been thrown in and the sliding door to the outside world lay ahead of them. Behind them, the door closed and muffled the music to a waning beat.
Victor blinked at her and said nothing.
“Sit down,” Robyn ordered him. He did so. “Are you sure you’re OK?”
The girl running the cloakroom was dangling over the stable door, tapping something into her phone, but aside from that the place was empty. Victor took a deep breath and attempted a smile again. He’d never quite got the hang of those; they were startling, hurried little affairs.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Do you want to go?” she asked. She flicked her long tail of blonde hair over one shoulder and folded her arms, before wondering if that looked slightly confrontational and sliding them back to her sides. “I don’t mind. We’ve got this wrapped up.”
“No,” he said, sounding panicky at the thought of letting them down.
“I don’t mind…”
“No,” he repeated, and scrambled to his feet. Then he just carried on giving her that mournful, doe-eyed look that made her want to zip him up in her coat pocket and make sure nothing ever got to him. “Sorry,” he added in scarcely a murmur.
Goddamn it, Victor, Robyn thought helplessly.
“You’re OK,” she said instead-she wasn’t sure how much sense it made but somehow it seemed the right thing to say-and then she turned and walked back through the doors into the blaring heart of the nightclub.