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Loud, bustling city sound snapped you out of whatever trance you’d been stuck in. Bodies pushed past you on the sidewalk. Bright lights flickered, signs boasting wares and events in shining LED.
….where the hell..?
It was all disorienting. The buildings seemed to stretch on forever to scrape the sky, cutting through low floating clouds. Lights danced in the windows of some parties, colors changing rapidly.
Bars and clubs lined the street, their respective signs and eager bouncers looking to lure customers in.
You look around the crowds with wide eyes, not recognizing the place, or the faces. Or, rather, the lack thereof.
Everything was normal, except for their heads. Reflective disco balls in all sorts of colors; billiard balls, candies, a melon, a tv- holy shit, does that one have wings?!
Tripping balls. That’s gotta be what’s wrong. You’ve got to be out of your mind.
But, when you shuffle into a nearby bar, you’re stumped. These patrons also have similar attributes. Fuck, even the bartender himself!
But… nobody’s freaking out. Nobody’s even acknowledging it.
Your head drops to your hands, only to feel smooth glass tiles.
You shoved down the unfamiliar (and, frankly, disturbing) feeling with a huff, dodging patrons to go sit at the bar.
“Just water,” you grumble as the barkeep cocks his head (discoball). A bottle of water is tossed to you before he leans back against the counter, cleaning a whiskey glass.
”You alright?” He asks after a few minutes. “You’re lookin’ a little ill…”
You just shake your head. “I’m fine,” you begin, then backpedal. “Well, I dunno- I dunno where I’m at, what I’m doing-“
He chuckles. “Ah. Another one. Well, let me be the first to officially welcome you to Discopolis.”
Discopolis? The name doesn’t ring any bells.
”What is this place?” You ask.
”Well,” he starts, “it’s a kind of safe spot. A place to hang out, relax, create. Music, art - that’s what the foundations of this place are built on. The freedom to create as you please.”
A hum. He set the glass down, fingers tapping against the countertop.
”Everyone’s welcome, if you’d like to stay.”
You looked around at the other patrons. The laughter and inside jokes, the music flowing through the speakers. A game of Twister ended in tangled laughter.
Your shoulders relaxed, and you turned back to the bartender.
”I think I’ll stay,” you nodded.
He straightened, taking your hand with a firm shake.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Disco.”