Post by Ana Rodinkova on May 8, 2022 6:47:38 GMT
Ana had chosen a different location, this time, but it was still a club. She liked them, so sue her. This time, though, she decided she wasn't going to sit around waiting for Mr. Paranoia; she had told him in her message that he'd find her on the dance floor.
She meant it, too. She downed two quick shots when she arrived, then joined the mass of people huddled near the speakers. The whole room was dark, save for thin neon lights that wound their way around the contours of the room and splatters of glow in the dark paint on the floor, making the room look like some kind of macabre computer simulation. The lights brightened ever so slightly in time with the bass as they cycled through various shades of blue, green, and purple.
She'd lost track of how long she'd been there, standing as close as she could tolerate to the speakers so that the bass line would rattle her bones the way she liked. She kind of liked that most of the people's idea of 'dancing' was just to jump around with their arms up, or to attempt some kind of interpretive dance--it meant she didn't feel self conscious just vaguely grooving to the music somewhere between a belly dance and just bopping along to the beat.
Whenever the agent decided to make his approach, he'd eventually find the young woman he knew as Scarlett_Letter dressed a bit more provocatively this time around: a fishnet top did little to hide the skin revealed by the lacy black bandeau top she'd paired with a stereotypical red plaid skirt accented with several studded black belts. The black knee socks she'd chosen made the curve of her legs between them and the hem of her skirt even more obvious. Perhaps the only part of her outfit that wasn't just an aesthetic choice were the black, steel toed boots. (Of course, that was if you weren't counting the knife concealed in one of her belt buckles.)
She'd surrendered to the tequila and the energy of the crowd, letting her eyes fall closed and her wrists cross just above her head as she swung her hips in time to the music.
She meant it, too. She downed two quick shots when she arrived, then joined the mass of people huddled near the speakers. The whole room was dark, save for thin neon lights that wound their way around the contours of the room and splatters of glow in the dark paint on the floor, making the room look like some kind of macabre computer simulation. The lights brightened ever so slightly in time with the bass as they cycled through various shades of blue, green, and purple.
She'd lost track of how long she'd been there, standing as close as she could tolerate to the speakers so that the bass line would rattle her bones the way she liked. She kind of liked that most of the people's idea of 'dancing' was just to jump around with their arms up, or to attempt some kind of interpretive dance--it meant she didn't feel self conscious just vaguely grooving to the music somewhere between a belly dance and just bopping along to the beat.
Whenever the agent decided to make his approach, he'd eventually find the young woman he knew as Scarlett_Letter dressed a bit more provocatively this time around: a fishnet top did little to hide the skin revealed by the lacy black bandeau top she'd paired with a stereotypical red plaid skirt accented with several studded black belts. The black knee socks she'd chosen made the curve of her legs between them and the hem of her skirt even more obvious. Perhaps the only part of her outfit that wasn't just an aesthetic choice were the black, steel toed boots. (Of course, that was if you weren't counting the knife concealed in one of her belt buckles.)
She'd surrendered to the tequila and the energy of the crowd, letting her eyes fall closed and her wrists cross just above her head as she swung her hips in time to the music.