To her surprise, Arlen had to admit that the party did<em>not</em>suck. Sure, she'd been hit on like half a dozen times, but that was to be expected; she'd taken a few numbers for later, but folks had been cool with being told she wasn't looking tonight. And when folks asked her to dance, they meant<em> dance,</em>not strip. A few hands may have wandered a tiny bit, but a look and some body language got across whether or not they'd gone too far. Maybe it was because up close she was more intimidating than being seen on stage from a distance: her crop top and miniskirt showed off her washboard abs and arms and legs made hard through years of serious dance and martial arts practice, far more than when seen through colored lights and smoke and booze haze.  But probably, that was her being cynical- this was just a nicer bunch of people than the lowlife collection of pimps, gangbangers, pushers, losers and hookers she worked for and with, and who made up most of her audiences.<br/><br/>Still, the place was crowded, and loud, and hot, so she went looking for a place to ease down for a bit. After a few somewhat embarrassing attempts, she found a bedroom that was out of the quickie rotation, and sat down on the bed, tugging the damp cloth of her shirt away from her full breasts.<br/><br/>Almost immediately, the room started to spin, and she slumped down on the mattress.<em>Fuck, </em>she thought sourly, eyes closing to try to clear the sudden roaring out of her head.<em>Someone<strong> did</strong> roofie me. Bastards. </em>She figured she'd wake up naked, sloppy and sore, and have to file a police report, after administering a few epic ass-kickings.  That impression was reinforced when she felt someone plucking at her clothes, trying to tug them off her. Flailing a bit, she batted at the hands...<br/><br/>...and encountered nothing. Forcing her eyes open, she was startled to find she was, in fact, quite alone in the room.<em>Something</em>sure as hell was wrong, though. The noise she was hearing was wind, strong enough to be a hurricane, and she seemed to be sinking deeper into the mattress. It was the wind that was tugging at her top, twisting it this way and that, roughly enough that the fabric was starting to give. One shoe flew off, went somewhere...<br/><br/>...and she began to fall. Not the 'I'm so drunk the room is going away' sort of falling- actually falling,<strong> through</strong>the bed. She could see the covers bunching up, whipping in the impossible wind, then the sides of the box spring. Then, darkness, like a tunnel, the ceiling of the room she had been in dwindling away to a point of light, then nothing as she screamed unheard into the wind, and the rest of her clothes were wrenched away by its claws.<br/><br/>Until there was nothing but wind and blackness.