Sunglasses At Night (Sniggle + Cherry)

Logan had been itching to get out of camp and back into the dancing groove again. It had been, what, a month since he'd last left camp? Thanks to the costume ball he'd been amused and preoccupied for at least a little while, spending his nights dancing under the colorful lights with a phantom of the opera mask on and any girl who wanted to be at his side. He'd enjoyed it, truly, but now that it was over, restlessness and boredom threatened to creep again.

So what had he done? Well, he did what anyone would've done. He found guidance on the internet. His guidance was a small online advertisement about the Sunglasses At Night event hosted by the Synergy Industries. The name had rung a bell, and upon further research he found that these guys were known for their wicked underground parties. Loud beats, bright lights, and enough booze to last him a century, assuming he had the money or the means of getting it. What else did Logan need? He had been sold at the idea of wearing sunglasses at night.

His car, an old, red, '95 honda civic, was waiting in a small clearing near the road adjacent to the camp half-blood forest. Kids didn't often venture out, and drivers didn't often venture in, so his car was in a relatively secure area that, to his knowledge, only he knew about. The sound of a low bass line poured out of his stereo and vibrated the car. He sat on the hood, leaning back, with a cigarette in hand. His blonde, practically white hair had been freshly striped with purple dye the night before, and he was in his freshest threads: a lime green zip-up hoodie over a white v-neck, purple skinny-jeans with a studded white belt accessory, and to finish it off a pair of white etnes and black aviator sunglasses that took up a third of his face. It was bright decor, to say the least, but that was Logan. Flamboyant and not afraid to leave his mark. He didn't necessarily mind being the center of attention, even if people were only looking at his clothes or oddly colored hair.

He parted his lips and brought the cigarette to them, sucking in a breath before raising his face to the sky and exhaling out the toxic puff of smoke in a ring. Birds flew over head and cawed in bunches, and he watched them go. Luckily the show was in New York, Brooklyn, specifically, so it wasn't all that far of a drive. He had some time to waste, and so he spent it poisoning himself with pack after packs of smokes, relaxing on the decrepit hunk of metal that he had named Roxy.

Taylor was sneaking out again. To her, this was no big deal. She was the ultimante party queen. If she was caught, all she would get was dish duty for a month. SHe didn't really care.

She kept tabs on parties around NYC. Other Hermes kids helped her. No big deal. The bright lights, the people, the energy. It all made her feel in place. Camp Half Blood was like a prison.

As she sped to the building in her 2010 Chevy Camaro. Her hair was done in curls and she had smokey, bold makeup on. The best for night scenes. She was wearing super skinny jeans and a semi-revealing top and pink 6 inch stilettos along with a gucci bag.

She apporached the building. She smiled as she got out of her car. Some drunken guys cat-whisled. Others stared at the party queen. She looked around, making her way to the booze. Personally, vodka was more of her thing, but it really didn't matter. She just wanted to get away for a while.

The loud WOMP, WOMP, WOMP of his stereo as MoChiChi played began to cut and freeze, and wrinkled his nose, his eyes squeezes tightly s*** in disapproval. He elbowed the hood of his car with a thud and the track skipped, going to the next song and starting up normally again. He sighed and sat forward, putting his arms on his legs, staring at the ground, before jumping off and moving around the side of Roxy. The door squeaked in protest as he unhinged the driver's side and slid in, matching up the curve of his bottom and back to the indentations in the cushioned seat. The car smelled of nachos and vanilla air fresheners and was littered with trash, but he didn't care. It was his home away from home, this car.

He retrieved the key and stabbed it into ignition, grinning as the car slowly purred to life. With ease the vehicle slid through the forest and emptied out onto the gravel road. He smashed the coordinate into the gps system he had positioned in the seat beside him because he couldn't be bothered to stick it on the dusty gray dashboard, and then with her guidance(the gps system also had the name, he had began calling it GLaDOS after the villain in the first portal game, when it brought him repeatedly to closed roads and dead ends one rainy night and he deemed the machine to be evil) and drove himself to Brooklyn.

He found the Electric Warehouse and drove into the back, parking it in an alleyway beside it and squeezing out of the car. He nearly had to climb over his door because the alley was such a tight fit, but he managed. The car was locked and the keys returned to his pocket, and he made his way into the building, flashing the ticket he'd printed online in front of the steroid-injected guard with the orange glasses and muscle-t the rippled every time he moved.

When he entered, he smirked. It was like he'd pictured it to be, lasers bouncing off the walls, ceiling, and floors, girls in skimpy clothing and guys with colorful hair similar to his with their hands thrown up into the air swaying to the music, electro blasting from the DJ stationed on a raised plank stage, it was your typical local-rave. You had the dealers in the corner passing out candy-grams to all who inquired, those who decided to ingest what they had received shuffling in the center of the room, hot and sweaty but unwilling to quit moving until the music ended, the jumpers hovering around infront of the stage doing exactly what their name suggests, and the dudes and chicks lounging in the bar area looking for a hook-up or a strong drink. He sucked in a breath, taking in the mixed smell of body odor and strong alcohol, and yowled into the room. "Awww yeah!"

I made my way to the dance floor and ended up facing a guy that looked familiar. I remembered. Dionysus kid. I didn't know his name, but who the hell cared? I bet you after tonight he wouldn't remember what the hell happened.

"Having a good time?" I asked him.

The music was pulsing and everyone was partying their butts off.

Logan barely heard the girl over the sound of the music. He bent his head and screamed, "what?" before actually comprehending what she said. He hated doing that, asking what and then replying once their words had registered in his mind. "Always! This place is my jam." He grinned, his white teeth shining especially bright in the room's black light.

He looked back up again, not really knowing who the girl was, nor caring. There would be time for random hook-ups after the party. But during the party was for dancing and letting loose. Besides, she looked young for him, anyway. Like, 12 maybe. A tween or something. Who even let her in? She must've been like a snooky figure. Really tiny looking but actually in her 30s. He grabbed her hand suddenly and moved farther into the building, wading through the people until he was squished by dancers. He joined them in jumping to the beat. "Name's Logan." He said without looking at her, as his dark blue eyes were fixated on the lights dancing and sparkling in front of him.

"You?" Small talk. PLUR etiquette meant being kind to those around you. Besides, he wasn't particularly bothersome to him anyway. Usually he dragged a friend to house parties or dances, but this time he had gone alone, and so having someone to watch his back wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Maybe he could strike some deal with her that if he O.D.'d she could drag him out of there or something. And such a thing wasn't unlikely. At least one or two people were bound to drop from a little too much E.

"Taylor." I told him.

I moved along to the beat. Everyone was sandwiched against each other. He looked around 18, 19. Blue eyes, blone hair higlighted with purple. In the midst of the flashing lights, I saw hook-ups, dealings, and plain dancing. Everyone seemed to be having a good time in general.

I should've dragged someone else along. I dunno. Just someone. Being alone was always bo-ring.

"Nice to meet ya." Logan smiled casually at the girl, before turning his attention back to the dj. Havok started spinning beats and Logan grinned, being familiar wit,h the electro. He thrust his legs out, heel-toe, heel-toe, glide to the left, spin, heel-toe to the right, criss-cross, return glide, all to the rhythm. Logan was a shuffler, that was obvious enough, and he was good. Melbourne Shuffle was his gift, hard-style, of course. The music blared and he joined the crowd, eyes closed with arms swinging as he shuffled across the polished silver floor.

"Impressive. Too bad heels stop me from doing anything." I said.

Then, some girl threw up in the middle of the dance floor. Seriously, people with low alchol tolerance shouldn't be drinking so much. Some people ignored her, others left and stopped dancing. I rolled my eyes. This was wasting my time.

Logan looked down at her feet while he danced and then returned his eyes to her face. He raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Why would you wear shoes you know you can't dance to to a dance party?" It made no sense to him, honestly. He had come in a thick pair of van's. Comfortable, durable, and if some jump-stepper stomps down on his foot there is enough shoe to protect his toes from being crushed. The girl had worn... heels? Pretty heels, expensive looking, but... This was the wrong place. "I have an old pair of chucks in the car, but they'd be way big on you. Just take your shoes off? If she got her foot stepped on, regardless of barefoot or heeled her toes would throb; it was a lose-lose situation. She might as well go barefoot and be able to dance and have some fun.

"No thanks. And look around you. Pretty much every single girl here is wearing heels." I pointed out.

He did have a point. But then I'd be even shorter if it wern't for the heels. I was only 5'4. It was messed up. Why can't I be taller? That would be really nice.

He looked at the other girls and broke out in laughter, then grinned at her playfully. "Yeah, I said why would you wear shoes you know you can't dance to?" He gestured to the other girls with his arm. "They can dance in them." He looked back at the girls, many slender and wearing colorful, skimpy clothing. He raised his eyebrows and his eyes twinkled with curiosity and amusement. "Mmm, they can certainly dance." One of his biggest turn-ons was a person who could dance smoothly. You needed to be energetic, flexible, be able to feel rhythm and motion and, well, you could guess where else that came in handy.

After satisfied with his analysis of the beautiful girls dancing across the room, he stopped spacing and brought his attention to the younger girl. "So, where you from?" More casual conversation, certainly not to be mistaken for flirting. He was way too old for her, and she looked more of a little sister than the girlfriend type. That would just be weird.

"California." I told him.

Crap. Wouldn't that sound suspicious? I mean, a 16 year old here by herself. Alone. From Cali. What would certainly raise a few eyebrows.

"Uh-huh." Logan nodded nonchalantly, still dancing. He didn't miss a beat. "So where are you really from?" Obviously the girl was not 18, and she did not get across the country by herself just to go to an underground party. If she was going to go all the way across the country, she'd go to another, bigger rave--like a festival. But all the good festivals were already out in California and Nevada, so she wouldn't even have to come out here. "I'm from California," He threw out on the table. "Moved here a couple years ago after an...unfortunate turn of events at a party. Not that I regret anything." He smiled at the thought. Yeah, getting crushed by dozens of people sucked, but, well, it had been a pretty killer party, literally. And he'd been drunk out of his mind, with his head high in the clouds so the pain didn't kick in too much until later. "You don't have much of a Cali accent," he snickered. "Not any accent I've heard, at least. I lived in So. Cal., Santa Ana of the good ol' Orange County."

"I moved here because my dad got a job here." I told him.

Technically, Hermes did 'work' here. I didn't have much of an accent I guess. But I was never one to have accents. I was always the one to use accents. Being a child of Hermes did that to you.

"That's cool." Logan smiled and shuffled, his feet moving with accuracy, speed and precision across the floor. His clothes were even brighter than usual, glowing beautifully in the black light. "So by here, what do you mean? Where do you live now?" If she returned the question, he'd tell her the truth. Well, half of it, anyway. He lives at a camp for special kids his age. He'd let her think whatever she wanted of him with that information. Most people just assumed he was psychotic after that, and suddenly all the things he did seemed to fit the stereotype. But being a laid-back stoner did not add up to being completely out of his mind. And if it did, well, he was fine with that too. Logan didn't much care for labels.

"I live with my brother in long island." I replied. If I continued the conversation, I'd eventaually slip my real location. Camp was... a rather boring place. Nothing really fun to do there. Preactice practice practice. Then there was that old dude whats-his-name. Never had anything 'fun' to do.

"Brother, huh? That's cool, I guess. So where is he?" Strange that such a young girl should go to a rave by herself if she had a brother who could take her. Things didn't really seem to add up about this girl, but Logan didn't mind. It was personal business, if she didn't care for sharing, then so be it. So long as she wasn't going to drug his drinks and he didn't have to be too responsible for the kid, it was fine if she stuck around. Speaking of drinks...

Logan waded his way through the mob of dancers, narrowly avoiding being tripped by dnb dancers swinging her legs out and kandi kids throwing their arms around unsuspecting guys to grind against. He made his way through to the bar and nodded a greeting to the tender, ordering two kamikazes. He turned to look back at the girl he'd been talking to and raised his arm in the air, fingers twitching to beckon her over. She drank, right?

I walked over. He ordered two kamikazes. I preferred vodka. But whatever. I took a sip from the drink. "Not here?" I said. I wasn't trying to be rude, but that was just awkward. I didn't like to tell people everything. Especially people I didn't know. I took another sip from my drink casually. I wasn't one to just shove all the stuff down my throat. You could get drunk easily that way.