A/N: I do not own any of the people mentioned. They are crazy. Nor do I own the actual club. I wouldn't want to!

The longing for Zion of the Babylonian Hebrews was adopted as a metaphor by Christianized Black slaves. Thus, Zion symbolizes a longing, by wandering peoples, for a safe homeland. For others, it has taken on a more spiritual meaning—a safe spiritual homeland, like in heaven, or a kind or peace of mind in one's present life.

Saturday

They had already began to congregate. Ample, young bodies merging one with another to the pulsating music. Lusty friction in a darkened room. The cadence, the pulse, the bass, the sultry rocking of these bodies was utterly intoxicating. The heat from the warehouse floor, rising almost as steam warmed the room. Swaying, dizzying beats filled the air with erotic meaning. There was blood in the air tonight.

Justin watched this scene with the utmost confidence that he would see her here tonight. This sort of encounter drew her kind, crazy lunatic, mellow kind. The wait was almost too much to bear, it was like a caffeine headache in ways, silent and creeping. Worth the wait to see these people disappear, couple by couple. Some predators, some allies, some friend, foe, yet all in this enchanting little game of his.

Round and round they would dance, most unaware of the present lurking danger. Some understood this air of warning, just enough to know that something was wrong. Something, but usually it was ignored as they inebriated themselves, slowly poisoning, hand in hand with death.

Now and then a cloud of smoke would dissipate enough for a nicotine and marijuana cloud to linger overhead. Periodically, the heavy warehouse door would open, the cold night air inviting as ever, and it would unveil a few mysterious uncertain guests, lacking in the intelligence department for the most part, unaware of exactly who or what brought them there. Not to mention what they were to do when they did get inside. By and by the music would take them over, and they would begin the ritualistic dance.

Justin had focused his attention away from the door, watching the trance-like movement. Rhythms of the body matched rhythms of the music booming from the speakers. With an air of gusto, the warehouse door swung open. A simply dressed young woman entered, her hips already swaying to the music. She was surrounded by a few lucky gentlemen. She walked gracefully, circling the crowd, sometimes mustering a smile of approval.

This was her. The pulse of the music seemed to deepen with her every step. Echoed appreciation rippled through the crowd, and occasionally, she would turn to purr something into one of her follower's ear, heeding a nod of approval. She was beautiful, with her long black hair softly curling to her mid back. Her hair set off the glow of her pale skin, and lightened her blue eyes. She was admired by everyone that had been dancing, and although everyone had stopped, the music continued on.

And that's when she saw Justin, his mouth slightly open, taking all of her in. Every curve, freckle, and perfect imperfection was memorized. He could tell you why he came to Zion every night. It was her.

Christina gave a slight nod in Justin's direction, gliding almost seamlessly toward him, until she was there, standing in front of him. She was shorter, he'd observed now, almost daring to reach out to see if she was real. The guys that had been with her disappeared like a fine mist, into the crowd. The music raged on, and everyone was dancing again in hushed silence. The queen was in the room.

And then she spoke, and it was like Justin completely understood what Shakespeare had meant when he said 'speak again, bright angel.' Her voice was as smooth as honey, rough as thunder, bright as lightning, and all she had said was, "Dance?"

Swallowing any words he had, Justin nodded. It was the only response he could give. Then, her body was pressed against his, and the rest of the night blurred.

That was the thing about Zion. No true questions, no talking, and only certain people had certain privileges. Only a select few knew the truth and the true horror of Zion. Justin, she would soon find out, was one of those people.

He'd never noticed the interior of the place. It was dark, and that was all that mattered. Four dark walls enclosed throbbing rhythms. Why he'd noticed that now was beyond him. He had no idea why he wasn't paying Christina the attention - and respect - she most definitely deserved. And she'd noticed, leaning forward to press her body tightly against his, she whispered into his ear, breath cool against the sweat on his neck. "Most people would kill to have this opportunity."

"I'm not most people," He replied back, whispering into her jaw as his fingers worked magic on the small of her back. Her body was throbbing, and he was throbbing, and it was good.

He was a good guy, Justin. He'd come from a pretty bad off family, but he knew the rules. Speak only when spoken to, arrive at the warehouse early for deployment to work, shy away from the daylight whenever his job allowed it. But he was in pretty deep. Weekends, it was Zion. That was all he knew; dancing, fighting, fucking, anything that kept his mind off of who he was, where he came from, and the apparent black hole he was becoming. They didn't call him Justin, nor did they call her Christina. Justin had lost his name early on when he was going on eighteen.

It was a street fight, winner take all. From then on, he was known as Angel, for his beaten-cherub face. Angel, J, or 'Stop that kid!' were some of the names he was known as. Why was he thinking of that while dancing with her? He felt like he could lose his mind at the flashbacks of everything. It was naked and pure but utterly obsolete. None of it had any structure, and the seemingly endless mindfuck wasn't something to relish. At all.

Then the seamless transition of music, and she was gone, replaced with an air that was still charged with her presence. He was charged with electric static, white noise. Ignoring his surroundings and pushing throw the crowd, he found his supplier, C.

"The fuck you give me?" Justin's harsh words fell to deaf ears as he stared the man down.

C came from a well-off family, but he pushed, and that was how he kept mouths fed. He had a family, a wife that was more understanding than most, and two beautiful little girls. Most of the people at Zion didn't know this about the drug dealer, or if they did, they just didn't care.

"The fuck'd you give me?" Justin demanded again, his bruised and scarred arm moving quickly so the calloused hand was on C's thin throat.

C just laughed. He had the nerve to laugh. "Angel, baby, calm down. Unless you're doing old shit, I haven't given you anything tonight." His voice was smooth and uncaring. Freeing Justin's now loosened hand from his own throat, he smiled. "But darling, I have this." He pulled out a thin sheet of acid. "Have you reeling for days. Or baby, I've got your usual. Your sticky-sweet nose candy. It's your choice."

Justin let his hand drift down with thoughts of knocking C out disappearing from his mind. He had a pocket full of cash, sticky and wet bills held together with a rubber band. The same rubber band that he often used to tie off before shooting some illicit drug into his veins.

Suddenly, being sober wasn't looking so good. He'd blown any chance he'd had with Christina, and the night was young. There were dances to dance, drugs to do, fights to cause, people to fuck. The never-ending cycle of Zion, where people never slept and the music never died, but when the sun came up, everything was lost.