Ice and Fire

Pandemonium

Each block of Agea is divided by a noiseBubble. Supposedly, this prevents a deafening cacophony of competing sound from driving the poor residents of this riotous city mad. Every nightclub is likewise segregated. And every floor of every nightclub is equipped with noiseDampeners, to stave off sensory overload for highColors and—I should think—instantaneous death for lows.

Such intensive measures should accomplish their goal. I should be able to recline here on this upholstered couch, basking in the medicinal warmth of... what now? Ten shots of flavored vodka? I've lost count. The raspberry and lemon ones are still mingling deliciously on my tongue—quite a harmonious pairing.

(I can't remember which one was last. Or were they together?)

As pleasantly numb as I am, I should not feel overstimulated by sound and light. At the very least, I should be able to hear my cousins as they complain about the clamor and infernal heat.

Alas, not so. Between the uproarious crowd, the blaring industryMetal that sounds like the broken record of a garbage compactor ad nauseam—something that Greens apparently favor now and, in the interests of interColor harmony, the rest of must tolerate—and the bedlam of the dancingFloor that is damnably close to our mezzanine, my ears will surely bleed before this night is done.

The Pandemonium Club was named after a city of demons—something from Milton, I think. The word has also come to be associated with savage chaos, devilish mayhem, aggressive rapture.

It was well–named.

Unlike most of Agea's nightclubs, Pandemonium is underground. It is not especially old, but the cavernous walls, seemingly carved from raw bedrock, replete with glistening stalagmites and stalactites and punishing humidity, make it feel ancient, like we have stumbled upon something primordial and, yes—hellish. Something about this atmosphere makes people devolve, too, into creatures less than human. Certainly, less than Gold.

I was hesitant about coming back here. I was nearly trampled to death after slipping in the stairwell a few months back. Of course, I'd taken so much blowfish poison that I didn't realize I was dying. It actually felt soothing, like one of Myrrh's deep–tissue massages, and left to my own devices, I would've begged them to stomp harder.

But we all picked a club. This was Selwyn's. Since Pandemonium's reputation precedes it, many of our party chose not to come, electing for another night at Temptation instead. And a large part of me wishes I'd gone with them. Because I would be reclined next to Ariadne now, relishing the feeling of her fingers buried deep into my curls, of her immaculately–manicured gelNails scratching marvelously against my scalp. And doubtless, there would be a supple Pink draped across my lap by now, mischievous lips already grazing the swell of my pulse, a wandering hand already stroking the inside of my thigh—

But I love Selwyn enough to endure this for him. He sits contently beside me, eyes closed, relishing the discordant music as if it's a somnolent melody, savoring the sweltering heat even as his skin glistens with perspiration, lost in the chaos of his own mind.

The rest of us look wretched, our lacquered golden curls matted to our foreheads and necks. This, despite the fact that my cousins and I are all but nude, audaciously indecent in our diaphanous crop–tanks and patented leather trousers, tastefully shredded to reveal as much of our muscular bodies as legally permissible, their impossible tightness akin to scarabSkins, leaving nothing to imagination—and why should they? We have everything to flaunt, nary an imperfection save our corded scars, pride of our martial upbringing. And why bother training to the point of exhaustion if you're going to hide the fruits of your labors? Clothes are for lesser creatures, surely.