The Dancer

February 1, 2006

“He’s gorgeous,” whispered Secret Agent Number 1. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him, and barely paid attention to the crowd they were stuck in the middle of.

Secret Agent Number 2 stared with barely concealed contempt at the masses surrounding them, and then turned his gaze on his companion. “You might want to lower your awestruck gaze, Agent 1. You’re looking awfully like the rest of these dreamers.”

The object of their attention paid no heed to their presence, nor the presence of the many fans that crowded the arcade. His attention was entirely focused on the screen in front of him, and the pad beneath his feet.

Perched upon the dance pad, the pose he struck as the music began was met with a wave of sighs from the crowd. Long-legged, clad in tight-fitting jeans, and a stylishly torn t-shirt, with a wave of spiky blond hair and a pair of suave black shades, he was the very essence of cool. The music churned out from the Dance Dance Revolution machine, loud enough to overtop the noise of his fans, and he spun to its rhythm amidst flashing lights and a cheering crowd.

Agent 2 gave an exclamation of disgust. “Look at him! By the namesake, he didn’t even Double A that song!”

Agent 1 laughed. “It isn’t just about how good one is. There is more to being the Dancer than points alone.”

Her counterpart lowered his raybans and stared at her. “So you think he’s it? He’s the one we’re looking for?”

“I’m sure of it.”

Agent 2 sighed, and pushed his sunglasses back up with one delicate finger. He briefly dusted his suit off – a motion that jostled several bystanders who were standing a bit too close – and then he began forging his way towards the dance machine.

“Guess that’s it, then. Time to have a talk with our boy here, and show him what dancing is really all about.”

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