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Description
Sunglasses at Night

              The silence of my lab is broken only by the jerky Morse code of my typing and the soft buzzing of the fluorescent lights. I am transcribing a record of my most recent experiment at Whispering Rock: an analysis of the effect of the neurotransmitter dopamine on the so-called "marksmanship" ability. The quality of my experiments has drastically improved since Sheegor signed on as my lab assistant; the increased output is well worth the occasional high-pitched "OOOHH, MEESTER POKEYLOPE," even if I have had to increase my cigarette consumption slightly to deal with the grating on my nerves. I have been attempting to teach Sheegor to use instant messaging, as she has expressed interest in attempting experiments of her own and it would be too much of a drain on my time to constantly supervise her. Her first IM, sent this morning, read "HoW do i 2ork t9hs thing Mistre Nein WAIT NO DELTE," but we remain optimistic.

               A knock at the lab door breaks my concentration. I would ask who it is, but the touch of her mind is unmistakable. "Come in."

               She enters. Though she doubtlessly is wearing high heeled boots as always, there is no sound of footsteps: she loves being able to simultaneously show off and act her true self, powers and all, so she is rarely found not levitating here at HQ. I look up from my computer to find her leaning over my chair, all bright smile and long brown hair. "Hi, baby," she says.

               This is my girlfriend.

               My girlfriend. That in itself is bizarre. I honestly never thought that I would be able to say that. Although she is not the first woman I have ever been attracted to, she is the first I regarded as my equal, the first I considered letting disrupt my ordered life, the first I was brave enough to admit my feelings to (well, she admitted hers first, but it was hard enough for me to confess as it is without the pressure of leading off). Despite the fact that we have been together as a couple since a few months after the "Oleander Incident," our relationship is still a strange novelty to me in many ways.

               I lean back and look at her fully. My eyes open a fraction wider as I take in what she is wearing: a dress so deep red it's almost black (yes! No tacky bright colors! Rich colors flatter her more anyway), cut just revealing enough to showcase her curves without making her look cheap. (Yes, I have a healthy appreciation for her physical beauty. I defy you to find a heterosexual man that wouldn't. I have finally faced up to the fact that this doesn't make me shallow.) She notices me staring and turns her smile up a notch.

               "Erk." All right, let's back up and try again. "You weren't wearing that dress this morning." Smooth, Sasha, very smooth.

               Milla laughs lightly. "Is that all you notice about it, darling?" She correctly interprets the look on my face as Far from it!

               "What's the occasion?"

               She blinks, taken aback. I have a split second of oh no, this is something I was supposed to remember panic before she smiles again. "You don't remember, Sasha? We're taking Raz and Lilli out to the Cerebellum tonight."

               Oh joy.

                The Cerebellum is the local haunt for Psychonauts with more energy than decorum. It's as bright and musical as Milla's mindscape, but instead of her warm mental presence, it boasts dizzying strobe lights and far too many people, a large number embarrassingly inebriated. For some benighted reason, Lilli and Milla love it (as does Razputin, even though he grumbles about it every time we go), whereas I am hard-pressed to endure it. It is a testament to how much of a loving boyfriend to (read: sucker for) Milla I am that I attend these "date nights" at all, the pleasure of spending time with my young friends outside of work  notwithstanding.

                I open my mouth to make my excuses, but Milla anticipates my tactic and counters with her feared "disappointment pout." Checkmate. I lock up the lab and offer her my arm as we walk up the stairs to the ground floor of HQ.

                The walk to Cerebellum, located a few blocks from Headquarters, is pleasant. Milla rhapsodizes about her "fabulous" day and dissolves into giggles as I relate Sheegor's battle with Instant Messenger. I am more quiet, part of my mind still working on the problem I left in the lab and most of the rest simply watching her walk.

                The beat of the music throbs under our feet even before we see the neon sign over the doorway. Milla pulls the double doors open and pays the cover charge, and we enter Where Tacky and Loud Go To Die. My vision is filled with a mad kaleidoscope of colors, and the bass plays a tattoo on my skull. Milla, on the other hand, is in seventh heaven. She is itching to dance, but we wait for Razputin and Lilli to arrive.

                The pair enter after a few minutes. Milla's bright expression has a twin on Lilli's face, while Razputin and I wear nearly identical squinting grimaces. We say our greetings, and the women sweep themselves off into the crowd. I head straight for the bar, ignoring Raz's small what are you doing, don't get drunk, Sasha look. I know my limits, and I wouldn't be caught dead getting drunk in a place like this.

                Yes, thank you, bartender, I would like a martini. (Just because I'm German doesn't mean I like beer, especially not American beer, which, for some stupid reason, is all they serve here. Something about keeping costs down, I believe.) I sip my drink slowly and watch Milla dance.

                Around twenty minutes pass and I am mesmerized. Then, the music switches to a drum-machine instrumental. I hate drum machines. They are the wrong kind of dispassionate: inhuman rather than just controlled. Razputin and I have discussed how psychics interpret music. It's sort of an involuntary clairvoyance. We can pick up psychic impressions as if the musicians were performing within thought range, even if the recording is decades old. The beat of a drum machine, while more precise than any human could ever hope to be, leaves no psychic impression. There's a disconcerting "blank space" effect. (Technopaths may read this differently, but I tend to avoid socializing with them. Those people make me look positively warm and emotional.)

                But wait, there's something more disconcerting afoot—Milla is striding towards me, and I can tell that she wants me to dance with her. I protest, both verbally and mentally, but it is all for naught. She grabs my arm in a telekinetically-reinforced grip and drags me onto the dance floor. I stand frozen.

                Dance, darling! mindcalls Milla.

                The back of my neck heats up in embarrassment as I make my sad attempt at a coherent dance, even though it's unlikely anyone is looking at me. I couldn't be farther out of my element, but Milla gives me an encouraging smile. Is that the Robot, Sasha?

                It's not meant to be…

                Milla looks like she's about to say something else, but the abrupt song change cuts her off.

                Everybody dance now!

                At least it's a song I know. I take a few awkward steps before Milla takes pity on me and sends me a "step chart." A few bars later, I have it memorized and am ready to join her.

And I'm here to combine beats and lyrics
To make you shake your pants, take a chance
Come on and dance, guys grab a girl, don't wait make the twirl

                The beat carries me along. I know I still look unfortunately robotic, but at least I have a "program." I'm close to looking like an organic human being, hurrah!

It's your world and I'm just a squirrel
Trying to get a nut, to move your butt to the dance floor
So yo what's up, hands in the air, come on say yeah
Everybody over here, everybody over there
The crowd is live enough as I pursue this groove
Party people in the house, MOVE.

               Milla, on the other hand, is all sass, flipping her hair and improvising freely. As we circle each other, I feel myself loosening up the tiniest bit.

               Move your hips, darling.

               I barely have hips, I reply, and I hear her laugh. I try it nevertheless.

               That's it! Go, baby, go!

               A rich, rough guitar calls out as the song changes.

               You got a reaction…

               Milla slows down and her energy changes from pure hyperactivity to something deeper and darker. Every line of her body flows with the pulse of the bass. I don't realize that I've stopped moving until she places her hands on my waist.

               What—

               Shh. Move with me.

                The song flows through us both and I find myself twisting with her. She tries to remove her hands as I pick up on the beat, but I don't let that happen.

               Something better than nothing…
Something better than nothing, it's giving up…

                My hands are at her waist now, and she's moving closer. We're breathing each other's air as we sway. She's close enough to kiss, but I resist: this is almost more intimate than a kiss, touching but not touching, vibration and resonance, dancing to that heartbeat bass.

                You took a white orchid…
You took a white orchid turned it blue...

                The song ends and I breathe deep. I have a split-second to recover before the next song starts.  It starts out as a slow fifties-esqe song, but it quickly speeds up and takes off.

                Well, I met you in the third grade
I didn't know that you liked lemonade
I met you another year later
You wore a red sweater with an alligator

               This song is all Razputin. I glimpse him lip-synching it to Lilli. It suits them.

               Milla is practically jumping, and her energy picks me up and fills me. I push analysis and anxiety to the background and focus on the innocent joy in the beat. My sunglasses slide down my nose and I can feel my shirt getting untucked, but I couldn't care less. I had no idea I could let myself go like this. Leave it to Milla to get me to let my hair down, so to speak.

               And this whole time
It blows my mind
Oh well whatever
We're so good together
When you marry me
You'll be my wife

               I grab her hand and she spins under my arm. We're dancing a few inches off the ground, but it's nothing anyone in this club hasn't seen before. I pick her up by the waist and twirl her around on the last chorus. Her delighted laugh rings in my ears.

               We touch down to the dance floor when the song ends, but I don't let go of her… that is, until the country-rock riff plays and I drop my arms in a spasm of disgust.

               Well, I walk into the room
Passing out hundred dollar bills
And it kills and it thrills like the horns on my Silverado grill

               Country. The epitome of tacky. My eye twitches. But then Milla grabs my hand, puts it on her waist, grabs my shoulder with her other hand, and begins some sort of hip-swishing two-step. Checkmate, again. I follow her lead, resolving to ignore the lyrics.

               Cause I saddle up my horse
and I ride into the city
I make a lot of noise
Cause the girls
They are so pretty

               Milla's sassy again, and her steps have just the right amount of funk. Razputin and Lilli are… square dancing? Whatever.

               Save a horse, ride a cowboy!

               Ja, I'm ignoring that.

               Finally, the song winds down. I silently plead for anything but another one like that one. It's a pleasant surprise when I hear the slow rock guitar. This, I know how to react to.

               In my eyes, indisposed
In disguise as no one knows
Hides the face, lies the snake
The sun in my disgrace…

               Not very romantic lyrics, but oh well. I open my arms and Milla links her hands behind my neck. We sway and turn slowly, my arms around her waist, her head on my shoulder.

               Black hole sun, won't you come
And wash away the rain
Black hole sun, won't you come
Won't you come…

                She's so beautiful, almost too amazing to be touched.  I feel her breath on my neck and her warmth around the edges of my mind. She's glowing, and it's not just the lights of the club reflecting off the sparkles in her dress. Her deep, intelligent eyes are half-closed, and it is this that makes me realize just how bone-tired I am.

                Hang my head, drown my fear
'Till you all just disappear…

                I lean forward and kiss the top of her head. This is heaven. This (in her arms, not in this club) is where I belong. Most of me never wants this to end, but part of me realizes that if I don't get home soon, I may fall asleep on my feet.

               Sasha? She whispers mentally.

               Yes?

               I love you.

               I love you too.

I can feel it, all of it, as she smiles.

                                                            ~FIN~

Description
Sunglasses at Night

              The silence of my lab is broken only by the jerky Morse code of my typing and the soft buzzing of the fluorescent lights. I am transcribing a record of my most recent experiment at Whispering Rock: an analysis of the effect of the neurotransmitter dopamine on the so-called "marksmanship" ability. The quality of my experiments has drastically improved since Sheegor signed on as my lab assistant; the increased output is well worth the occasional high-pitched "OOOHH, MEESTER POKEYLOPE," even if I have had to increase my cigarette consumption slightly to deal with the grating on my nerves. I have been attempting to teach Sheegor to use instant messaging, as she has expressed interest in attempting experiments of her own and it would be too much of a drain on my time to constantly supervise her. Her first IM, sent this morning, read "HoW do i 2ork t9hs thing Mistre Nein WAIT NO DELTE," but we remain optimistic.

               A knock at the lab door breaks my concentration. I would ask who it is, but the touch of her mind is unmistakable. "Come in."

               She enters. Though she doubtlessly is wearing high heeled boots as always, there is no sound of footsteps: she loves being able to simultaneously show off and act her true self, powers and all, so she is rarely found not levitating here at HQ. I look up from my computer to find her leaning over my chair, all bright smile and long brown hair. "Hi, baby," she says.

               This is my girlfriend.

               My girlfriend. That in itself is bizarre. I honestly never thought that I would be able to say that. Although she is not the first woman I have ever been attracted to, she is the first I regarded as my equal, the first I considered letting disrupt my ordered life, the first I was brave enough to admit my feelings to (well, she admitted hers first, but it was hard enough for me to confess as it is without the pressure of leading off). Despite the fact that we have been together as a couple since a few months after the "Oleander Incident," our relationship is still a strange novelty to me in many ways.

               I lean back and look at her fully. My eyes open a fraction wider as I take in what she is wearing: a dress so deep red it's almost black (yes! No tacky bright colors! Rich colors flatter her more anyway), cut just revealing enough to showcase her curves without making her look cheap. (Yes, I have a healthy appreciation for her physical beauty. I defy you to find a heterosexual man that wouldn't. I have finally faced up to the fact that this doesn't make me shallow.) She notices me staring and turns her smile up a notch.

               "Erk." All right, let's back up and try again. "You weren't wearing that dress this morning." Smooth, Sasha, very smooth.

               Milla laughs lightly. "Is that all you notice about it, darling?" She correctly interprets the look on my face as Far from it!

               "What's the occasion?"

               She blinks, taken aback. I have a split second of oh no, this is something I was supposed to remember panic before she smiles again. "You don't remember, Sasha? We're taking Raz and Lilli out to the Cerebellum tonight."

               Oh joy.

                The Cerebellum is the local haunt for Psychonauts with more energy than decorum. It's as bright and musical as Milla's mindscape, but instead of her warm mental presence, it boasts dizzying strobe lights and far too many people, a large number embarrassingly inebriated. For some benighted reason, Lilli and Milla love it (as does Razputin, even though he grumbles about it every time we go), whereas I am hard-pressed to endure it. It is a testament to how much of a loving boyfriend to (read: sucker for) Milla I am that I attend these "date nights" at all, the pleasure of spending time with my young friends outside of work  notwithstanding.

                I open my mouth to make my excuses, but Milla anticipates my tactic and counters with her feared "disappointment pout." Checkmate. I lock up the lab and offer her my arm as we walk up the stairs to the ground floor of HQ.

                The walk to Cerebellum, located a few blocks from Headquarters, is pleasant. Milla rhapsodizes about her "fabulous" day and dissolves into giggles as I relate Sheegor's battle with Instant Messenger. I am more quiet, part of my mind still working on the problem I left in the lab and most of the rest simply watching her walk.

                The beat of the music throbs under our feet even before we see the neon sign over the doorway. Milla pulls the double doors open and pays the cover charge, and we enter Where Tacky and Loud Go To Die. My vision is filled with a mad kaleidoscope of colors, and the bass plays a tattoo on my skull. Milla, on the other hand, is in seventh heaven. She is itching to dance, but we wait for Razputin and Lilli to arrive.

                The pair enter after a few minutes. Milla's bright expression has a twin on Lilli's face, while Razputin and I wear nearly identical squinting grimaces. We say our greetings, and the women sweep themselves off into the crowd. I head straight for the bar, ignoring Raz's small what are you doing, don't get drunk, Sasha look. I know my limits, and I wouldn't be caught dead getting drunk in a place like this.

                Yes, thank you, bartender, I would like a martini. (Just because I'm German doesn't mean I like beer, especially not American beer, which, for some stupid reason, is all they serve here. Something about keeping costs down, I believe.) I sip my drink slowly and watch Milla dance.

                Around twenty minutes pass and I am mesmerized. Then, the music switches to a drum-machine instrumental. I hate drum machines. They are the wrong kind of dispassionate: inhuman rather than just controlled. Razputin and I have discussed how psychics interpret music. It's sort of an involuntary clairvoyance. We can pick up psychic impressions as if the musicians were performing within thought range, even if the recording is decades old. The beat of a drum machine, while more precise than any human could ever hope to be, leaves no psychic impression. There's a disconcerting "blank space" effect. (Technopaths may read this differently, but I tend to avoid socializing with them. Those people make me look positively warm and emotional.)

                But wait, there's something more disconcerting afoot—Milla is striding towards me, and I can tell that she wants me to dance with her. I protest, both verbally and mentally, but it is all for naught. She grabs my arm in a telekinetically-reinforced grip and drags me onto the dance floor. I stand frozen.

                Dance, darling! mindcalls Milla.

                The back of my neck heats up in embarrassment as I make my sad attempt at a coherent dance, even though it's unlikely anyone is looking at me. I couldn't be farther out of my element, but Milla gives me an encouraging smile. Is that the Robot, Sasha?

                It's not meant to be…

                Milla looks like she's about to say something else, but the abrupt song change cuts her off.

                Everybody dance now!

                At least it's a song I know. I take a few awkward steps before Milla takes pity on me and sends me a "step chart." A few bars later, I have it memorized and am ready to join her.

And I'm here to combine beats and lyrics
To make you shake your pants, take a chance
Come on and dance, guys grab a girl, don't wait make the twirl

                The beat carries me along. I know I still look unfortunately robotic, but at least I have a "program." I'm close to looking like an organic human being, hurrah!

It's your world and I'm just a squirrel
Trying to get a nut, to move your butt to the dance floor
So yo what's up, hands in the air, come on say yeah
Everybody over here, everybody over there
The crowd is live enough as I pursue this groove
Party people in the house, MOVE.

               Milla, on the other hand, is all sass, flipping her hair and improvising freely. As we circle each other, I feel myself loosening up the tiniest bit.

               Move your hips, darling.

               I barely have hips, I reply, and I hear her laugh. I try it nevertheless.

               That's it! Go, baby, go!

               A rich, rough guitar calls out as the song changes.

               You got a reaction…

               Milla slows down and her energy changes from pure hyperactivity to something deeper and darker. Every line of her body flows with the pulse of the bass. I don't realize that I've stopped moving until she places her hands on my waist.

               What—

               Shh. Move with me.

                The song flows through us both and I find myself twisting with her. She tries to remove her hands as I pick up on the beat, but I don't let that happen.

               Something better than nothing…
Something better than nothing, it's giving up…

                My hands are at her waist now, and she's moving closer. We're breathing each other's air as we sway. She's close enough to kiss, but I resist: this is almost more intimate than a kiss, touching but not touching, vibration and resonance, dancing to that heartbeat bass.

                You took a white orchid…
You took a white orchid turned it blue...

                The song ends and I breathe deep. I have a split-second to recover before the next song starts.  It starts out as a slow fifties-esqe song, but it quickly speeds up and takes off.

                Well, I met you in the third grade
I didn't know that you liked lemonade
I met you another year later
You wore a red sweater with an alligator

               This song is all Razputin. I glimpse him lip-synching it to Lilli. It suits them.

               Milla is practically jumping, and her energy picks me up and fills me. I push analysis and anxiety to the background and focus on the innocent joy in the beat. My sunglasses slide down my nose and I can feel my shirt getting untucked, but I couldn't care less. I had no idea I could let myself go like this. Leave it to Milla to get me to let my hair down, so to speak.

               And this whole time
It blows my mind
Oh well whatever
We're so good together
When you marry me
You'll be my wife

               I grab her hand and she spins under my arm. We're dancing a few inches off the ground, but it's nothing anyone in this club hasn't seen before. I pick her up by the waist and twirl her around on the last chorus. Her delighted laugh rings in my ears.

               We touch down to the dance floor when the song ends, but I don't let go of her… that is, until the country-rock riff plays and I drop my arms in a spasm of disgust.

               Well, I walk into the room
Passing out hundred dollar bills
And it kills and it thrills like the horns on my Silverado grill

               Country. The epitome of tacky. My eye twitches. But then Milla grabs my hand, puts it on her waist, grabs my shoulder with her other hand, and begins some sort of hip-swishing two-step. Checkmate, again. I follow her lead, resolving to ignore the lyrics.

               Cause I saddle up my horse
and I ride into the city
I make a lot of noise
Cause the girls
They are so pretty

               Milla's sassy again, and her steps have just the right amount of funk. Razputin and Lilli are… square dancing? Whatever.

               Save a horse, ride a cowboy!

               Ja, I'm ignoring that.

               Finally, the song winds down. I silently plead for anything but another one like that one. It's a pleasant surprise when I hear the slow rock guitar. This, I know how to react to.

               In my eyes, indisposed
In disguise as no one knows
Hides the face, lies the snake
The sun in my disgrace…

               Not very romantic lyrics, but oh well. I open my arms and Milla links her hands behind my neck. We sway and turn slowly, my arms around her waist, her head on my shoulder.

               Black hole sun, won't you come
And wash away the rain
Black hole sun, won't you come
Won't you come…

                She's so beautiful, almost too amazing to be touched.  I feel her breath on my neck and her warmth around the edges of my mind. She's glowing, and it's not just the lights of the club reflecting off the sparkles in her dress. Her deep, intelligent eyes are half-closed, and it is this that makes me realize just how bone-tired I am.

                Hang my head, drown my fear
'Till you all just disappear…

                I lean forward and kiss the top of her head. This is heaven. This (in her arms, not in this club) is where I belong. Most of me never wants this to end, but part of me realizes that if I don't get home soon, I may fall asleep on my feet.

               Sasha? She whispers mentally.

               Yes?

               I love you.

               I love you too.

I can feel it, all of it, as she smiles.

                                                            ~FIN~