Melanie decided that she definitely liked this club-- "Empire", it was called. Located in a somewhat revitalized part of the city, the decor was classy, the drinks were expensive ... and everybody was dressed to the nines. Very chic.

In addition, this DJ was pretty good, but she wanted to hear something closer to heart. She wandered over towards his booth while a dance mix of some Eighties tune was spinning.

He sat amidst a tangle of wires, a microphone, and a laptop computer. Hispanic, goateed, and decent-looking, he smiled as she arrived in front of him.

"What would you like to hear?"

"Do you have anything by Finicky Trope?"

"Yeah, I've got both of their albums. Who should I dedicate it to?"

"Me."

He laughed. "Could you be more specific?"

She grinned back and said, "Melanie."

"Will do, Melanie." He typed up her name on his screen next to "Fcky Tr", and she walked back to the bar.

Sweat-Guy was back, and he'd ordered her another kamikaze. She was tempted, but she didn't want him to think she was interested, so she told him that she was taking it slow tonight. He looked disappointed, but he shrugged it off and knocked the drink back before smiling at her and returning to the dance floor. Now where is Paul-With-The-Moustache? she thought.

There he was: taken by a petite blonde who was obviously surgically-enhanced. Dammit. Men are such idiots. Enhanced-Blonde was smiling and nodding, her vapid eyes giving away the fact that Moustache-Paul was lost to Melanie for the night. She signaled for another kamikaze, and started drinking it slowly when it arrived.

Well-Dressed-Guy was back now, and his redhead was nowhere to be seen. He pulled up a stool next to her and lit up a cigarette. "Hi again," he said, holding out his cash to catch the bartender's attention. "How was dancing?"

"Fun," she replied, giving him the look that implied that more questions would be welcome.

"So what's your name?"

"Melanie. And yours?"

"Robert. Can I get you another one of those?"

Well what do you know? She was almost done with it! "Sure," she said, "It's a kamikaze."

"Gotcha." He handed the bartender a twenty and placed his order. "And who are you here with, tonight, Melanie?"

She mock-scowled in response. "No one. I was stood up."

"The man's an idiot, whoever he is." He took the opportunity to glance up and down her figure. "A real idiot."

Heh. You're the most transparent guy I've ever met, she thought. Of course, you're also reasonably good-looking, so I'll overlook it. Just this once. "Nah, you've got the wrong idea. My friends were supposed to go out with me tonight, but they all flaked on me and so now I'm

stuck dancing alone." Come on, guy, that's an opening and a half...

Her next kami' arrived, but at the same time came the pulsing bass of "Violation", from Finicky Trope's first album. She really wanted to dance to it, but she was kind of interested in finding out more about Well-Dressed-Robert. She stood up. "Ooohh. I love this song!"

"I'll watch," he replied. "I don't dance."

"Come on," she coaxed, "You wouldn't leave me out there all alone, would you?"

"There's little danger of that," he said, indicating the quickly-filling dance floor.

Damn. Well, he'd had his chance. "Okay, Robert," she slapped him on the shoulder. "I'll see you later. Maybe." With that, she shot back her new kamikaze and strutted off to join the throng, swaying her hips a bit to let him know what he was missing. The bozo.

She was dancing almost before she hit the floor, as the song's rhythm was inescapable. She pushed through the mounds of people to a less crowded area over in the corner by the unused stage, where she could dance without being danced on. The pulsing bass-line soon had her moving in sync, and slowly but surely a group of men assembled to watch and (at least attempt to) participate. She grinned to herself at this behavior, and kept moving her shapely limbs in ways meant to entice.

The lights were even wilder than before, with the disco-balls actively sparkling in multi-colored splendor. A couple of lasers shone down on the wall nearby Melanie, and she was amused to see they, too, were in sync with the music. They pulsed with a blossoming effect every time the deep synth notes did, and they even moved around in circles slightly as the bass pattern repeated. It made her want to dance even more, and her movements grew ever more in tune with the sound and the lights.

This is it, she thought. This is why I came out tonight. To feel like this. To feel at one with something wonderful. She smiled broadly as the beat intensified, and watched the laser patterns on the walls change slightly in response. The patterns were really, really neat to

watch. They expanded and contracted, and seemed to spin around in a complex, beautiful way. One red, one green, both amazing. She moved her body ecstatically, her eyes fixed on the patterns.

The song was reaching a peak, now, and she felt an incredible excitement overwhelm her as the green pattern slid across the wall, closely followed by the red, drawing Melanie's gaze along with it like a string. Then the music grew louder, and the patterns moved away from the wall, vanishing for instants as they bounced from person to person, body to body and finally came to rest on

The Woman.

She wore a shimmering, silvery, silken dress, almost liquid in its motion. Her body moved to the rhythm in the most natural of ways, Her dress rippling with the wind of Her undulations. The patterns struck Her, and gleamed like jewels, still engaged in their own dance.

Melanie was lost.

The Woman was standing atop a platform, alone, and She was looking directly at Melanie.

The music was like a voice in her head, now. Melanie, it said, you are the Dancer. You must follow the Dance.

And the Patterns were the Dance; they were the pulse of the beat and the beauty of the melody. And she could not look away from the green and red swirls, and their silvery background.

Come, Melanie, the Patterns said, the pulses said, Dance with me. Now.

The song was over, now, but a new one took its place. The rhythm was similar, but contained new subtleties and more harmonic elements. The laser Patterns followed suit, and as more tones were added to the song, so were more voices added to Melanie's mind. Most of them, however, were murmurs on the edge of comprehension.

One spoke with the voice of Command.

Melanie, it called, approach Us.

Volition didn't even enter into the equation. Her body was marionette to the strings of the red and green colors projected onto the Woman's body. And her legs moved stridently toward the platform, her eyes never leaving the Patterns or the Woman that bore them on Her dress, Her shoes striking the floor in rhythm with the Dance.

She brushed past the men who had been watching her perform as if they didn't exist. A sweat-covered man called out to her in recognition, but her thoughts slid off him as if he were glass; a weakly-smiling man (who something inside her insisted was "Robert", and who shouldn't be here) reached out to touch her arm and received no attention whatsoever. They were nothing in the realm of the Patterns, the Dance, the Woman.

Now she approached the platform, and the Patterns blazed in emerald and ruby ecstasy up and down the Woman, grazing Her legs at the hem of the short dress, and sliding round to caress Her breasts and stomach as the fabric swirled around Her. Melanie stood transfixed before Her, eyes

even with Her knees, and the Commanding voice inside her skull instructed her to ascend to the Dance.

While she clambered atop the wooden dais, an audience began to gather around the two, all of them wondering what was going on. They saw an attractive woman climbing to join another atop Empire's central dance riser; the new arrival was oblivious to her surroundings, and her gaze

was locked on her predecessor, whose face was inquisitive, though unsmiling. The women closed, and the riser's original occupant turned slowly in place, presenting the newcomer with her back side.

Melanie was confused as the Woman turned away-- the patterns were out of view, with only the pulsing voices in the music to reassure her. What am I doing up here? she started to think. Who is this W-woman?

Look into the mirror! To your left! shouted the voice of Command, but she resisted. What the hell is going on?!? She looked around her, at the faces below the platform, seeing them stare back. She was losing the rhythm, now, and felt awkward up here, and wanted to get out of here and figure out what had hap--

The Patterns were back, on the Woman's back now, rotating in unison with the pulses that communicated Melanie's needs to her. And she was lost again.

Melanie approached the Woman now, her eyes raptly fixed on Red and Green. Suddenly, Red slid away, but she was Commanded not to fret, and to look into the mirror instead, to look at the Woman in the mirror. Gazing there, she saw Red moving up and down the front of the Woman's

billowing silvery dress. The other Pattern joined it, and the voice in her head made her move forward again.

She almost didn't notice when her hands brushed the silken fringes of the dress fabric, but she continued to sink her hands into its luxurious shimmer. She slid her hands around the Woman's waist, resting them on Her hips in a firm-- even possessive-- grip. The Patterns went wild at this, reassuring her and exciting her at the same time.

In the mirror, the Woman smiled.

As the Woman leaned backwards, Melanie felt Her backside pressed up against her. The voices encouraged her to savor the feeling of thigh against thigh, breast against shoulder, groin against buttock. She sighed as the Woman ground Her tight ass hard into Melanie's crotch to the rhythm of the Dance, and she savored the hot, satiny slickness of the Woman's dress as she moved her hands from Her hips down to legs, and back up again to the Woman's breasts.

The Woman's expression changed from a smile to a lascivious grin.

The Patterns gyrated triumphantly. Melanie's locked gaze followed them upward, past the Woman's stomach, past her hands, and up until the Patterns reached the Woman's eyes. As one eye went Red and the other Green, the voices chorused in unison, Command loudest of all, This is the Dance. The Patterns are the Dance, and they are in Her eyes. Your will is the Dance. Obey the Dance.