Dark Beats flowing like a river. Out the door, lost in the night the voice, that small voice, girls voice. Sounds innocently weaving, intertwining. Just: moving on, middle of the night. Moving onto morning. Bodies... twisting in the shadows. Dancing here. Drugs. Sex. Rock'n'roll is missing. For that we have Techno. Dark Techno. A twisting thing. Like the bodies. Like the voices. Welcome to Oblivion.

Oh it's literal. But also figuratively spoken. The location, one of the hottest of the season, is called Oblivion. An underground something between a club and... other things. It's fairly unknown yet, outside the Right Circles. It's fairly common for those inside. It's new. It's inside an old factory. Steel likes openly in the walls. Old machines are still there between the dark industrial decor. Cages of metal dangle from the ceiling on chains. Women inside them twist and turn. Sometimes even to the beat of the music. Ultraviolet lights are there for those that need them. Stroboscopes are there, too. For the Epileptics that don't need them. (Those people aren't needed here.) DJ's whose names have not yet risen to prominence but shall do so in the following season. Young people here are drinking beers that have ribbons in their names. Self-consciously with their shaggy beards hanging down their artfully disheveled shirts. Between them the hardcore-subculturalists stand out like thumbs too sore. It is an eclectic mix here. Nothing right... nothing wrong.

Did I say forgettable?

No one from the Circles is excluded. Everyone can come to forget themselves in an utterly forgettable environ that tries to be anything but. In a ways it is hurtful here. People try to be alternatively alternative. Everyone different. Only that everyone’s the same. Except the subculture-people. They are here for decoration, too. Nobody from the Circles talks to them. They build small blisters that dance themselves away from here to there. Inside their minds things are probably better. (That's what their drugs are for, after all. For making Impressions. It's all inside your head.)

We are inside a kind of Hell here. A kind that needs an invitation from a member. A kind that the people coming here would describe as heaven. It is a heaven to them. A place to rest and not. A place to drink and drug. A place to sober up. A place to be young – away from the old.

The woman who calls herself Gretchen finds this more than slightly amusing. She had no invitation to come here. She just came. And, of course, nobody asked to see anything from her. She showed them some things anyways. She wears a corset that is utterly out-of-place here, stays in its own time. A thing that molds to her body in round curving shapes, that clings and presses until mens' eyes seem to have trouble finding spots not to wander to. Her long hair is done up in a curling fashion that hints at hours in front of a mirror, yet looks almost effortless. It is bound with red ribbon. (Because what other color goes well with black lace?)

The skirt is a thing from dreams of lace and death. It flows out and about and makes people step back by sheer volume of fabric. As the top is shameless in its obviousness this is playful in its hints. Lace so wide that sometimes you thought you saw a hint of flesh beneath. So much lace you can never be sure you did. Why, woman ask themselves upon her passing, is she here? She falls out of the crowd. Out of time. Is here and not, quite obviously. Men, generally speaking, do not thing much when they see her. They just tend to stare. A few stumble.

Yes, she is that kind of Woman. And she is here for her own reasons. Bloodred lipstick emphasizes a smile that has too much evil lurking behind the surface for the patrons of this place. They forget they saw it and look for other things instead. Twisting, twisting music, bodies, minds...

Welcome... the sign over the door says... welcome to Oblivion.

Her breasts, they are explosive things wrapped in nice foam that fills out that bosom. She is a he underneath. And a killer, too. Who does not want to tote around explosives on your chest? Especially if men stare at them so much. It is a simple joke that she plays on the Y-Chromosome. One that could be almost called ironic.

Other weapons are there too. Hidden beneath the obvious veneer behind the other one, too. Because layers are what makes a man, woman in this case. Killing for a living -- nice job, none that can be found in those pamphlets handed out to children. But possibly on creigslist. Everything is there, plainly advertised and gone too soon for all but few to see. (Millions upon millions, but who cares?)

There is a nice man in a corner watching over an entrance that is not labelled and announces its purpose in perfect clarity. VIPs go here. Up a shadowed walkway made from steel lies the glorofied land that even here only few may access. Yes, her steps lead there. You can see the first men failing, their dreams falling. She is here for the important people. Of course she is.

Her smile says so.

On the line


Dark music, pulsing like a heartbeat I said.

I guess I lied.

This is dark, yes, but so much darker than what hides within your chest. Beyond your grasp – and just within your heart. This is... driving forward with a perfect 120 bpm. Nothing you can ever comprehend alone. People standing, dancing, hopping, drugging. All at 120 bpm, the blood-red line connecting them. Chest to chest, heart to heart. Moving as one, at once. Jump!, Jump!... bumping into bodies. Minds are flying everywhere. Male ones are mostly preoccupied with the explosives I have strapped to my chest.

So much for cleavage.

If only heartbeats counted. But everything left here is external, those infernal drums beating. To war. Onto destruction. I recall a song, darkly, just a few lines: Everybody's gone to war... the rest is lost in steady beatings. My heart, it flutters lightly in the unseen breeze that is left behind by all the music, left behind by the ice I summon. (Can you feel the void growing? Inside... there is... silence?) I divorce myself from this line, from any other; divorce might be a bit much... it is just a recognition now – was different once, but now it comes quite naturally I assure you – of the fact that I stand outside of them.

The dying. Mortals.

Come with me, the ice whispers now, seductive clarity embracing, bracing me, just like the bit of steel in my hand. My knife still sits where I left it, cool warmness against the lace of a leg.

I'm heading to the vip section, where the room is made, the dream is broken, people are. Not the masses (at least where they do not believe themselves to reside). Illusions sometimes shatter when I touch them. All through time.

A big man stands at the entrance, guarding the red rope like it is the most important thing in his world. (It is!) Stares at me, my small frame, the shoulders only so exposed. My hand tightens on the metal spike that was supposed, before I sharpened all the edges, to hold hair.

I note that the black metal looks nicely aesthetic as I stick it into his neck. My gloved hand lightly touches his face. Says: Goodbye my love, just as he falls behind the times. Just as I divorce myself again, this time from time.

No holds barred, my eyes they change I know. Just on the other side of that door the mark sits drinking. Having fun. At 120 bpm he is not jumping. Only his heart is. Was. With a last beat.
One
last
beat.

Boom?

An explosion can be surprisingly silent in a disco I note. My hair is in slight disarray. The bathroom next, to fix things up. Then? MY employer wanted to talk to me. Email. The thing of the century. I leave the beats behind. Water on my hands, my face, my hair. Looking in the mirror, I decide to stay a short while more while some young girl pukes inside the toilet stall. Too many drugs maybe. Maybe too much alcohol. Those people they have dreams – at least shattered ones I think within the ice. Maybe the thought is melancholy as it drifts past me. I do not know. My dreams, they are not human any more, are they?

I dream of crystal towers sometimes. And of blood.